Andre Tarkovsky's The Mirror is at once a personal recollection of a lifetime of sorrows and a remembrance of wartime emotions perhaps long forgotten by most. The filmmaker's autobiographical cinematic expedition is without form, which is both captivating and frustrating. Pleasing large audiences with a non-linear narrative is a more taunting task in the current day than it was in 1975 when the film was first released. The hyperactive visual style of most films aims to satisfy increasingly short attention spans; narratives are given predictable deliverances and little is left to the imagination. None of these qualities speak on behalf of contemporary films in comparison to abstract, subjective works however it is apparent that such films are less likely to 'succeed' today.
Tarkovsky's film is a stream of consciousness display of memories ranging from moments in Russian history to the most precise personal anecdotes. Some are conveyed through archival footage shot during World War II while others are simply retold as they are remembered; others still are so highly subjective that their context can only be assumed. The viewer must infer so much that any hope of interpreting a single strand of the film's interwoven story is next to impossible. The film's framework is structured around the divorce of a young boy's parents, a subplot that invokes a sense of emptiness and lost direction; these emotions are rampant in each of the film's stories within a story and yet the connection is often lost between narratives. Since the same actors carry over into various other microcosms of the film is it sometimes difficult to forge a division between numerous story lines. Regardless, whether or not their meaning is clear, the images on screen are marked by a sense of haunting beauty that evokes within the viewer an almost visceral reaction.
One scene lingers long after the film ends for it leaves a truly ghostly chill in its wake. As the boy is being carted from one parent to the other he finds himself alone in an unfamiliar apartment. He is told to await his father's return from work and yet when he enters a sparse room he finds a woman sitting at a desk. She asks the boy to answer the door and when he returns she is gone. At first the sequence of events appears to be simple transition between two memories happening in the same place. But instead of switching over to a new narrative, the scene takes a haunting turn: on the glass table where the woman sipped her tea remains a ring of condensation in the shape and size of her cup. As the boy approaches the table, seemingly aware of the sudden change, the ring of steam slowly evaporates, indicating that what had once existed is now gone. This image is reminiscent of the film's thematic undertone since it is can be read as a metaphor for memories: something that once was real that leaves only an imprint of itself before slowly fading out of sight and eventually mind. While this moment is effectively eerie it sets a standard that the rest of the film fails to live up to in its disoriented retelling of memories too subjective to be of much importance to anyone beside the filmmaker himself.
Tarkovsky's film is a stream of consciousness display of memories ranging from moments in Russian history to the most precise personal anecdotes. Some are conveyed through archival footage shot during World War II while others are simply retold as they are remembered; others still are so highly subjective that their context can only be assumed. The viewer must infer so much that any hope of interpreting a single strand of the film's interwoven story is next to impossible. The film's framework is structured around the divorce of a young boy's parents, a subplot that invokes a sense of emptiness and lost direction; these emotions are rampant in each of the film's stories within a story and yet the connection is often lost between narratives. Since the same actors carry over into various other microcosms of the film is it sometimes difficult to forge a division between numerous story lines. Regardless, whether or not their meaning is clear, the images on screen are marked by a sense of haunting beauty that evokes within the viewer an almost visceral reaction.
One scene lingers long after the film ends for it leaves a truly ghostly chill in its wake. As the boy is being carted from one parent to the other he finds himself alone in an unfamiliar apartment. He is told to await his father's return from work and yet when he enters a sparse room he finds a woman sitting at a desk. She asks the boy to answer the door and when he returns she is gone. At first the sequence of events appears to be simple transition between two memories happening in the same place. But instead of switching over to a new narrative, the scene takes a haunting turn: on the glass table where the woman sipped her tea remains a ring of condensation in the shape and size of her cup. As the boy approaches the table, seemingly aware of the sudden change, the ring of steam slowly evaporates, indicating that what had once existed is now gone. This image is reminiscent of the film's thematic undertone since it is can be read as a metaphor for memories: something that once was real that leaves only an imprint of itself before slowly fading out of sight and eventually mind. While this moment is effectively eerie it sets a standard that the rest of the film fails to live up to in its disoriented retelling of memories too subjective to be of much importance to anyone beside the filmmaker himself.