Filmography Worship: Ranking Every Andrei Tarkovsky Film
Written by Andreas Babiolakis
Filmography Worship is a series where we review every single feature of filmmakers that have made our Wall of Directors
Before Stanley Kubrick, Béla Tarr, and the like, there was Andrei Tarkovsky: the master of slow cinema. Believe me when I tell you that the Russian master has a filmography that gets as close to perfection as any possibly can. In fact, all of his official feature narrative films (seven of them in total) made my best-of lists: a feat that almost no other filmmaker has achieved. To say he is one of my favourite directors of all time is an understatement because I think — even to this day — no one has the same eye as Tarkovsky ever did. A perfectionist with his body of work, you can sense spiritual elation, societal dread, existential ambiguity, and abstract beauty in all of his major works. You simply cannot go wrong with blindly watching any of Tarkovsky’s feature-length films.
Don’t believe me? Solaris remains one of the greatest blind buys I’ve ever made. A local HMV — the very one that I spent hours at weekly as a youth — was closing nearly two decades ago, and everything was discounted. I had just discovered what the Criterion Collection was (my first official purchase, Charade, was made a week or two earlier) and I knew what special treats now came with these releases. I was transfixed by their box art for one Solaris (credit goes to Criterion on this front) and picked it up for less than twenty dollars (!). At home that evening, I had no clue what I had just watched regarding the conventions of science fiction, but sixteen-year-old me was blown away. There was a four-minute-long shot of highway driving that suddenly smashes into a jumpcut that sends us into space, a curtain blocking a majority of the mysteriousness of the film until Tarkovsky wants to bowl us over (bit by bit), and that zero-gravity sequence that will forever nestle rent-free in my mind for the rest of my life. I was an instant convert.
The greatest discovery is that I couldn’t really detail why I loved Solaris so much. I just knew that I had never seen anything like it. You’ll find below that Solaris isn’t even the highest-ranked film on this list (considering how short the list is, it actually isn’t even really that close to being number one), which is not a slight on a sci-fi masterwork but rather an indication of how highly I think of Tarkovsky’s films overall. After many years of viewing these films, facing life and growing up, and having my own psychological, spiritual, and biological battles, dilemmas, and discoveries, I perhaps understand Tarkovsky’s quest to identify the unidentifiable. Then again, maybe I only think that I do. I’ve likely ascertained my own identity in these films, but I think that’s what Tarkovsky wanted the most. He can take us to other realities, realms, countries, or mindsets, but the ending point that he always had in his films was to arrive at a new version of ourselves. Sometimes, this is the only comfort available when his films get as challenging as they can (and, believe me, he did make one of the most cryptic films ever created).
In order to understand fulfilment, one has to know struggle. With this in mind, I’d love to limit this list just to the well-known, narrative motion pictures Tarkovsky released so his career can look free of blemishes, but this isn’t accurate nor is it sincere. Instead, I will be including Tarkovsky’s student films (most of which don’t come anywhere near the heights of his prime, but you’ll likely find that they are fairly strong for being student films, especially the one exception that does compare with his full-length releases). Furthermore, because it’s just one extra film and so it can’t hurt, I’m tossing in Voyage of Time, which was co-directed by screenwriter Tonino Guerra; for the curious, this may be the best way to tap into who Tarkovsky was as a person more explicitly than anything else can. Otherwise, I’d rather jump into the works of an absolute cinematic legend whose body of work feels untouchable by most. Here are the films of Andrei Tarkovsky ranked from worst to best.
11. There Will Be No Leave Today
The second student film by Tarkovsky and fellow pupil Aleksandr Gordon, There Will Be No Leave Today is a decent film for what it is: an antiwar sentiment that echoes the lingering effects of battle even years after “resolution”. As a construction crew finds buried bombs from World War II that could go off at any second, the film becomes a test of will, caution, and morality. There are some interesting shots and ideas in this featurette, and I can imagine this feeling like a project that would be graded quite highly in an academic setting, but There Will Be No Leave Today is otherwise just an okay release that showcases mere hints of what the auteur would be capable of in the future. Consider this, though: a student film like this, ranked the lowest of all of Tarkovsky’s films, is still watchable and at least slightly redeeming. This is a promising sign of what’s to come both in Tarkovsky’s career and on this list.
10. The Killers
Tarkovsky’s first film ever is a twenty-minute short co-directed by Aleksandr Gordon and Marika Beiku titled The Killers. Perhaps the most literal adaptation that Tarkovsky ever took on (as it is based on the 1927 story by one Ernest Hemingway), The Killers simply possesses three sequences that feel exceptionally rudimentary when you think about their narrative purpose (exposition, predicament, and resolution). Even though There Will Be No Leave Today is far more thorough, its duration leaves it more susceptible to blunders, and this is what The Killers gets away with considering its brief runtime. You won’t find much here either unless you want to complete watching every Tarkovsky film, but, like the featurette that would follow, watching The Killers is quite harmless as it is a decent release, all things considered. It’s tough to feel Tarkovsky’s artistic voice here considering the number of filmmakers cooperating on the same short, but you may find snippets of the moral tugs-of-war that Tarkovsky would be enveloped by during his artistic prime.
9. Voyage in Time
The last film that feels like a must only for Tarkovsky obsessives, the reason why the documentary, Voyage in Time, should be left for last isn’t because it is a bad watch. If anything, it is actually quite a beautiful display of artistic strategizing by Tarkovsky and screenwriter Tonino Guerra, who co-directed the film. Both filmmakers were location scouting for what would be Tarkovsky’s penultimate feature film, Nostalghia. To hear ideas and questions straight from the artist himself is truly something; as much as Tarkovsky’s films felt like his own, we barely got to know the artist as a person through watching them (outside of recognizing his faith, his paranoia, and what he considers to be beautiful). Predating the concept of audio commentaries, a film like Voyage in Time feels like essential viewing for fans of the director who want to have at least some sort of a connection with the late great; this is as close as we’ll ever get, folks.
8. The Steamroller and the Violin
Believe me when I say that The Steamroller and the Violin may be one of the greatest student films of all time. I guarantee that you wouldn’t have even known that it was one if I showed you it and never told you its provenance. This featurette takes the concept of moral consciousness that Tarkovsky was exploring in his previous student works but dials it up to the kind of visual, surreal allegories that Tarkovsky would become synonymous with. In vibrant colour, Tarkovsky’s soul searching through narrative minimalism and — paradoxically — photographic maximalism is quite bare. Who are these people living in this world that is mid-repair? Are we as broken as our habitat? If you want to see a film student ace so many basic concepts (like objects being used as symbolism, character development, and the like) while never losing sight of what these Film 101 concepts are (unlike Tarkovsky’s best-known works, The Steamroller and the Violin doesn’t disguise much in terms of how it is pieced together), you must watch this featurette. It’s stunning, and watching it back in 1961 would have made you certain that Tarkovsky had a career ahead of him.
7. Ivan’s Childhood
We have now reached the coveted seven feature films by Tarkovsky, and every single one is masterful. Does it feel cheap to have his debut feature film, Ivan’s Childhood, last? Partially, but that’s only because of how strongly I feel about what Tarkovsky would release later. Make no mistake, Ivan’s Childhood is a favourite of many and it could be yours as well. It almost feels like all of his student films led up to this moment; the adaptation of a short story by a beloved author like The Killers (Vladimir Bogomolov’s Ivan is the source material in this case); the antiwar sentiments of There Will Be No Leave Today; the observation of adult conflicts and anxiety through a child’s eyes like The Steamroller and the Violin. A fable-like experience, Ivan’s Childhood is a painfully gorgeous, bittersweet look at the wake we leave for the generations to come. If you want something a bit more transparent and narratively direct by Tarkovsky, Ivan’s Childhood is as upfront as he ever was.
6. Nostalghia
We’ve reached what I think is the most underrated film in Tarkovsky’s career. Nostalghia is slowly getting discussed more and more as a masterpiece, and for good reason. It feels like a direct answer to the many critics and cinephiles who beat their heads against a wall trying to decipher some of Tarkovsky’s earlier works. As a poet goes in search of a composer, we see a world either in ruin or frozen in time (the film leaves the interpretation up to you); additionally, what is beautiful feels like a race to out-speed time and explore the extents of the human artistic experience. How can we die before we become connected to all that life has to offer? Can art truly save our souls when the world won’t protect us? Like any other Tarkovsky film, Nostalghia is full of soul searching but in a more philosophical sense regarding the merits — or lack thereof — of artistry. It’s Tarkovsky questioning himself more than ever, and you must see a director turn the lens on himself like this; there’s not much like it.
5. The Sacrifice
Tarkovsky’s swansong, The Sacrifice, feels like one of the greatest Bergman films that Ingmar Bergman never made (this is thanks to the amount of Bergman alumni, including cinematographer Sven Nykvist, associated with this film, alongside the themes of religious questioning and devastation). How much faith do we put into God when we face annihilation? As a nuclear holocaust threatens to wipe out civilization, one husband/father named Alexander grows delirious looking for answers, ultimately listening to God’s words (otherwise known as his own delusions) and putting himself and his family in grave danger. It’s a tricky film that leaves you out in the cold regarding your own faith; sometimes, it can feel like there’s no one listening to us even in our darkest hours. Tarkovsky was diagnosed with cancer after production was completed and couldn’t partake in any of the festival tours of The Sacrifice, nor could he see what an impact his film would leave on audiences everywhere (especially the iconic, climactic inferno). The Sacrifice is as existential as cinema gets. It oddly feels cathartic as our own world feels like it is going up in flames and dissolving itself.
4. Solaris
How do you use the conventions of science fiction to depict grief? By experiencing complete isolation on both Earth and in space. Solaris makes us feel so alone that we will imagine what is not actually there; the film knowingly toys with our hallucinations as well. With occasional blips and instances where visual cues pop out unexpectedly, you will feel like your mind is going crazy. That’s precisely how protagonist Kris Kelvin feels as he is sent out into space to discover why a crew went mad while conducting planetary research. As our nightmares, dreams, and desires begin to come to fruition, Solaris begins to battle against us: are we really living out our wishes if we can fully accept that what we see is not real? Solaris pretends to be a sci-fi film, but it’s really a commentary on memory and thought more than anything, as daydreams converge with nostalgia. As Tarkovsky gives you very few answers to work with, he rewards you with moments of bliss; the zero-gravity sequence brings tears to my eyes every time it arrives. Sometimes, our quest to find answers only gives us more questions, and a mission like Solaris lets us know that it’s okay to be lost amidst the uncertainty; our purpose is what we give ourselves, and it’s not out there for the world — or the universe — to grant us.
3. Andrei Rublev
What’s the best way to explore the aesthetics and purpose of an artist’s work? Tarkovsky finds the definitive answers with Andrei Rublev: one of the most inventive approaches to the biographical picture in all of cinema. As we live through portions of the titular religious painter’s life via vignettes (more like parables, in the way that Tarkovsky depicts them), we learn about the turning points that prepared the artist for his purpose in life: to be a messenger of God via his paintings. That’s all well and good, but does the work speak for itself? After much time of spiritual preparation, Tarkovsky saves a fully colourful, documentative approach to Rublev’s iconography so that his works can tell the rest of the story; after following black-and-white spiritual awakenings, this ending hits you like a ton of bricks and has to be seen to be believed. Andrei Rublev is a glorious epic that even the hardest of atheists will be shaken and moved by; if you don’t want to view the film as a quest of a Christian messenger, then view it as the tribulations and circumstances of an artist trying to discover his vision (Tarkovsky was arguably going through both missions while making Andrei Rublev, and his heart and soul can be found in every single shot).
2. Stalker
How much control does a director need in order to make a science fiction masterpiece that barely shows anything from the genre? Stalker is fully a sci-fi epic even though much of what seemingly transpires is in our minds: fear of the unknown and what is to come. As three hopefuls trek closer and closer to a mysterious location known as the Zone (a spot that can allegedly grant any wish that one desires), we feel the anticipation and expectations weigh down on well-wishers, with the gravity of society’s destruction and philosophical qualms antagonizing our protagonists more and more. Stalker is often considered one of Tarkovsky’s greatest works because of how powerful he is with next to nothing: we even believe that there’s something to come when, for hours, there hasn’t really been much to cling onto (outside of the impeccable character structuring and the stealthy crawl of the film’s brooding pacing). We still feel every ounce of the existential damnation that drives our leads to destruction, and it’s at this moment that Tarkovsky finally grants us something magical to work with (so we aren’t lost once we leave the theatre; this is a merciful director). A major inspiration for many films, particularly Alex Garland’s Annihilation, Stalker is a masterclass in how to approach the world building, philosophies, and mindsets of science fiction even without the stars, effects, and glitz.
1. Mirror
Andrei Tarkovsky’s magnum opus just so happens to be one of the most challenging films ever made. That work is Mirror: the appropriately titled arthouse, experimental drama that forces us to find ourselves within the cryptic puzzles found within. Structured around the potential dying thoughts and dreams of a poet (inspired by the works of Tarkovsky’s father, renown writer Arseny Tarkovsky, who provides the narration here), Mirror is an avant-garde look at an artist’s perspective on life, religion, politics, and wellbeing. It is impossible to fully understand on one’s first watch, and I’d argue that it never becomes fully decipherable even on the fiftieth watch. That’s part of what makes Mirror so special, though. It is a rare film that cannot be properly, fully described by anybody from esteemed film scholars to Letterboxd cinephiles. It encourages you to create your own meaning within the spellbinding, jaw-dropping visuals. It very much is a visual poem, which feels like the goal Tarkovsky had in mind given the film’s nature and premise. Whether you love Mirror or are befuddled by it, I promise you that you leave the film a completely new person with a different perspective on art, life, faith, and yourself. There aren’t many films that leave me speechless or have my mind chasing for answers (or, sometimes, I just allow my brain to enjoy the ride and not work overtime) in the ways that Mirror does. It is unquestionably one of the greatest films I’ve ever seen, a celebration of enigmatic art, philosophy, and prose, and Andrei Tarkovsky’s best film.
Andreas Babiolakis has a Masters degree in Film and Photography Preservation and Collections Management from Ryerson University, as well as a Bachelors degree in Cinema Studies from York University. His favourite times of year are the Criterion Collection flash sales and the annual Toronto International Film Festival.