by MATTHEW HAYS

Is Steven Soderbergh a brilliant artiste or a nutjob? That question has loomed large, what with his stranger-than-strange evolutionary path as a director. From the Cannes-award-winning sex, lies, and videotape—a debut even the director felt was overrated—to pap like Erin Brockovich to the sublime but little-seen King of the Hill, it’s been a strange ride.

This past year things only seemed to get stranger. First there was Full Frontal, an actor’s exercise gone terribly wrong which translated into one truly rotten movie. Soderbergh, the auteur, decided it was time to experiment with the inexpensive medium of digital, and wound up with a dire, silly, largely unwatchable and downright-cheap-looking entry.

Here, with Solaris, he’s chosen something far more expensive, both in terms of medium and subject. Shot in gorgeous colours on expensive sets in sumptuous, good old-fashioned celluloid, Solaris looks pricey. The film is a second stab at bringing the Stanislaw Lem novel to big-screen life, the first time being the ’72 Andrei Tarkovsky classic. Comparisons to the Russian master will be inevitable—which makes Soderbergh either certifiably insane or overflowing with chutzpah, depending on how you look at it.

As it turns out, he’s probably a bit of both. The film, which stars heartthrob George Clooney in the lead, is enough of a departure from Tarkovsky’s work as to excuse Soderbergh from too many heavy comparisons. This is a different film, 80 minutes shorter—one of the elements that make it far more mass-consumer friendly—as well as star powered. Clooney plays the doctor at the centre of the film who is sent to a space station after mysterious behaviour is reported. He arrives to find bloodshed. There are bloody trails throughout the space station, some filled body bags, and surviving crew members who mutter on like intergalactic bag ladies.

It’s a surreal set-up, one Clooney is soon dragged into. He falls into a deep slumber, during which he dreams about his ex-wife (Streep-a-like Natascha McElhone). He awakens to find her sleeping next to him, on board the space station! Isn’t that weird? It’s like, she’s back, up there with him, even though she died a long time ago.

Thus Clooney is trapped in a quandary: is this really his wife or is something on board that space station playing nasty mindgames with him? Soderbergh has Clooney and wife relive many of their most difficult moments, the ups, downs, guilt trips, bad karma and lamentable interludes. Is Clooney losing his mind or is she actually back, presenting them both with a second chance at love?

While beautiful to look at, Solaris left me feeling detached for one primary reason. I don’t think Clooney is really an actor of enough depth to convey the emotional torment at the heart of this screenplay. It’s an intriguing thing to try to do—taking the inner emotional space to outer space—but Clooney’s great looks (Soderbergh manages to deliver a shot revealing his ass) don’t translate to deeply-felt emotional resonance. This movie didn’t really need a script doctor—but an acting coach sure wouldn’t have hurt. :

Solaris is now playing

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