Solaris, both Andrei Tarkovsky's 1972 original and Steven Soderbergh's 2002 re-make, is a film that truly tests the limits of motion picture as a medium.

In my judgment, the aesthetic G-forces created by pushing the envelope of the cinematic medium is more apparent in Tarkovsky's original, which is in a way also a testimony to Soderbergh's amazing directorial powers. But then, perhaps Soderbergh did not try to jam in as many "messages" as Tarkovsky tried to do.

Solaris is a lovely ruse that starts as a sci-fi flick and ends as a Dostoyevskian meditation on "the meaning of life."

To the extent the issue is approached without "laying down the pipe," or over-the-top exposition, the film engages our senses and massages all the dormant graycells.

But the minute Kris Kelvin starts to lecture about "grand themes," the uncomfortable truth surfaces -- moving images are great for thrillers, action flicks, for slapstick comedy, horror and drama. Yet when it comes to addressing philosophical issues, how far can the pure image go?

What's the correct image or motion picture for "meaning"? Or for "redemption"?

That's a challenge even Tarkovsky could not meet adequately, in my humble opinion.

Ideally, in an art work, every object should be able to stand on its own feet as its own signifier and should not need the crutches of lengthy explanations or "Western Union messages." Otherwise it can slip quickly into pure propaganda.

Does Tarkovsky's Solaris at the end slip into philosophical propaganda?

What happened in the end? Did Kris really left earth and traveled to the space station and then came back? Or perhaps he never left and all was a redemptive dream? Or he did make the trip but earth itself was reclaimed by the cosmic ocean?

There is a great sense of regret in Solaris, in both versions, and both directors conveyed that sense of tragedy very well.

Things that we could've done differently if only we had a second chance and if only we knew how

Something bleeds constantly at the heart of our daily existence, a certain feeling of dread perhaps anchored in regret, that renders brief moments of happiness all the more so precious.

That is conveyed very successfully both in 1972 and 2002 Solaris.

I like a movie to leave a few strands dangling out there to allow the audience read in their own constructions and thus reclaim the film as their own. But I like them just mysterious enough in the way, let's say, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS ends.

The kind of churning enigma that ends Tarkovsky's SOLARIS is a bit too much for comfort, especially if you happen to think movies not as philosophical dissertation theses but as "entertainment."

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