Stalker As Liturgy
I was thinking the other day about Tarkovsky’s Zone in the movie Stalker. The scientist and the writer both of whom seeking to fulfill their deepest desire: the latter the next great Russian novel, the former seeking a scientific breakthrough. Then there’s the Stalker himself: the guide who takes them through a very definitive routine to reach the Zone.
The whole thing is a liturgy: there is a clear and poignant Way, but the object, the destination, is a mystery.
The Stalker serves as a kind of priest who has the ability, somehow, to lead people to the Zone.
And what of the Zone? It is the place of the heart. To see one’s desires and fulfill them is the journey of the heart. But what do these great men of intellect do–the writer, the scientist, what do they do? They resist! They turn back. They refuse to go farther into the Zone out of fear.
“Here,” says the novelist, “you discover the essence of your true nature, but what lies hidden inside you. Better to drink myself to death in my writer’s villa. I will not go into that room,” he says.
The Stalker is perceived as some kind of eccentric character, almost primitive, and childishly naive. But when he returns him with his wife and daughter, he collapses on the floor in front of a huge wall of books, and laments …
God knows how tired I am! They call themselves intellectuals! Scientists, artists! They don’t believe in anything! Their capacity for faith has atrophied! … through lack of use.
Stalker’s Lament
His wife urges him to lie down in bed. The Stalker continues …
My God! What kind of people are they!
They should be pitied, not reproached, his wife says.
Stalker again …
My God … what kind of people are they! The look of their eyes is blank. They’re thinking of how not to sell themselves cheap, how to earn more, how to get paid for every breath they take. They know they were born to ‘be someone’ special! They say, ‘You only live once.’ How can such people believe in anything at all? Nobody believes. Not only those two. Nobody. Who shall I take there? Oh God, the most terrible thing is that nobeody needs it, nobody needs that room and all my efforts are in vain.
His wife continues to try to console him …
“Why do you say that … Don’t.
“I’ll never go there again with anyone.”
“Do you want me to go there with you,” his wife asks, “Do you?”
“Where?”
“Do you think,” she contends, “I have nothing to ask for?” But the Stalker is adamant.
“No … you can’t.
“Why?” A reasonable retort. Then the truth comes out–
“No … What if you fail too?”
The wife then turns away, sits down, and faces the camera, her face radiant in daylight. She draws out a cigarette, and begins her soliloquy through which we see who this Stalker really is …
You know, my mother was opposed to it … He’s a holy fool. Everyone around here used to laugh at him. … My mother used to say, “He’s a stalker, a marked man, an eternal jail bird.’ Remember the kind of children stalkers have.” I didn’t even argue. I knew it … Only what could I do? I was sure I’d be happy with him … I knew there’d be a lot of sorrow, but I’d rather know bitter-sweet happiness than a grey uneventful life … But when he came up to me and said, “come iwth me,” I went. And I’ve never regretted it. Never. There was a lot of grief, fear, pain, but I’ve never regretted it, nor envied anyone. It’s just fate. It’s life. It’s us. And if there were no sorrow in our lives, it wouldn’t be better. It would bde worse. Because then there’d be no happiness either, and there would be no hope …
Then the movie cuts to the final scene where the daughter performs psychokinesis on a set of glasses on the table. She is able to tap into the unseen world–just like her father.
The Stalker as Holy Fool … Am I A Holy Fool? No …
The Stalker is a holy fool who asks the people on a journey of the heart to see God. But they’re too choked by their ambitions and cares of the world to have the faith and hope to do so. The passions then become amplified through pride and vainglory rather than the deep humility and awe approaching such a Mystery should inspire.
I like to see myself as the Stalker. But I’m not crazy like him. I’m not a holy fool. And in fact being a holy fool is terrifying. It breaks the social order and throws it into chaos. It takes the wisdom of the world and reveals it as the dung heap that it is. It calls a spade a spade–and no one has the time for that kind of truth. I’d like to think I’m the Stalker lamenting the foolishness of so-called intelligent successful men. But no. I’m the writer–but I’m not as honest as the writer in the movie. He had the honesty to realize that he could not enter the mystery, knowing what was in his heart.
To Enter the Zone
But that’s the whole point of liturgy anyway, no? To enter with all the ambition and all the foolishness–knowing that it is foolishness, and there’s nothing I can do of myself to solve it. And to not enter would be akin to drinking myself to death in my writer’s villa, as the writer said in the movie.
I enter the Zone, the holy of holies.
I partake of God Himself.
To not approach Him would be the ultimate pride–that somehow I know better than Him my own unworthiness.
I approach … with Faith, with Hope, with awe …
I love Him–in my broken way, yet …
nevertheless, I love Him.
I enter.
I partake.
Then I leave the Zone hoping I am closer to becoming the fool …
But knowing I will need to return again, get real with myself again, repent … again,
and partake again.
The Mystery …
