Nostalgia

By the early 1980s, Andrei Tarkovsky’s life stood at a crossroads. Despite his monumental cinematic achievements, his visions for future projects were repeatedly curtailed or heavily revised by Soviet authorities and film studios. Much of this resistance stemmed from the government’s discomfort with Tarkovsky’s filmic lens, one that subtly criticized Soviet ideology and openly revered the Christian God, whom the USSR had worked tirelessly to erase from public memory and worship. While in Italy writing the script for Nostalgia, Tarkovsky encountered even more complications due to Soviet interference. Eventually, he made the painful decision to leave his homeland and family behind, becoming a political and spiritual exile in Italy. In the midst of this emotional upheaval, and with the full support of his Italian collaborators, Tarkovsky realized a deeply personal vision -- Nostalgia, perhaps his most intimate and spiritually searching film. Nostalgia is the very definition of slow cinema. Don’t get me wrong, I love arthouse and slow films, especially Tarkovsky’s, but this one is particularly difficult to get through. Its minimalistic, bare-bones approach leaves little in terms of plot or traditional character development. The two-hour runtime feels like four. And yet, this is entirely intentional. Nostalgia is an immense achievement precisely because of its slowness. The pacing draws the viewer into the protagonist’s inner world, mirroring the desolate rhythm of exile and spiritual dislocation. Days seem to stretch into months. Events feel inconsequential. The narrative meanders with apparent aimlessness, a reflection of Andrei Gorchakov’s fractured psyche. The lack of meaningful relationships intensifies his isolation. Alone in a foreign land, Gorchakov knows no one, trusts no one, and confides in no one. Or so he believes. About ninety minutes into the film, there is a haunting moment: Gorchakov wanders the grounds of a religious convent. A female voice narrates, “Lord, do you see how he’s asking? Say something to him.” A deep male voice, presumably God, responds, “But what would happen if he heard my voice?” The woman replies, “Let him feel your presence.” And then God concludes, “I always do, but he’s not aware of it.” This moment encapsulates the film’s central theme: the spiritual blindness that plagues modern life. Gorchakov believes himself utterly alone, but in truth, he is accompanied and guided by the Holy Spirit. Nostalgia asks us to consider that perhaps the fulfillment we seek lies not in grand gestures or worldly success, but in the quiet realization that God is always with us. In a world driven by group conformity and religious atheism, Gorchakov is an outcast, not just in Italy, but in Russia, and perhaps the world at large. He is reserved but devoutly religious. He dismisses material goods and superficial concerns, instead prioritizing spiritual purity and reflection. Though he longs to return home, he understands that his memories of Russia are romanticized; the reality is far from ideal. He yearns not for a literal homeland, but for a spiritual one, a place unspoiled by greed, appearances, and superficial constructs. In this yearning, this nostalgia, Gorchakov finds his life diverted onto a new, uncertain path. He meets Domenico, a so-called madman who once locked his family in their home for years, believing the Final Judgment to be near. Domenico is ridiculed by the villagers, but Gorchakov sees him as a kindred spirit. Both men are misunderstood. Both see the world through a spiritual lens. Both long for a return to a time when God’s laws governed human behavior. Domenico entrusts Gorchakov with a strange and symbolic task: to carry a lit candle across the length of St. Catherine’s drained mineral pool, an act meant to symbolize spiritual devotion and self-sacrifice. Gorchakov accepts, just as Domenico performs his own physical act of sacrifice. The moment Gorchakov walks that candle across the pool, he is, in a sense, reborn. His depression lifts. His indifference fades. For the first time, he feels alive again. Many critics have compared Nostalgia to Tarkovsky’s earlier film Mirror, noting that both are semi-autobiographical and incorporate dream sequences, memories, and the poetry of Tarkovsky’s father. Both films explore the search for identity and life’s purpose. Yet I believe the two diverge significantly. Mirror is rooted in memory; it finds meaning in the past, in childhood innocence and trauma, and in the pain of what was lost. Its narrator seeks self-understanding by looking backward. Nostalgia, by contrast, focuses more on the journey of discovering one’s purpose in the present, through religious struggle and spiritual awakening. While both the past and the future appear in Nostalgia, Tarkovsky seems most concerned with how they distort our experience of the present. We spend so much time reminiscing about past joy or anticipating future peace that we neglect the one timeline that matters: the present, where our true path must be found. Where does God fit into all of this? Christianity teaches that God has a purpose for each of us. Personally, I believe that while God does provide a purpose, it is up to us to discover it with His guidance. The journey is rarely straightforward. Life’s detours and roadblocks often obscure our path. But perhaps this, too, is part of God’s plan. In Nostalgia, Gorchakov’s purpose is not to finish his biography of the Russian composer. His true purpose is something simpler and more profound: to have faith. To carry a flame across a pool. To follow through on a symbolic act of spiritual obedience. Even though Domenico’s methods are extreme, both he and Gorchakov ultimately recognize and respond to God’s presence. Through this act of devotion, Gorchakov becomes a vessel for God’s message. His purpose is salvation, of himself, and symbolically, of humanity. Tarkovsky is a master of endings, and the conclusion of Nostalgia may be his greatest. On paper, it sounds absurd -- a nine-minute walk with a candle across an empty pool -- but it is far more than that. It is a testament to human perseverance, faith, and the quiet grace of redemption. The flame flickers but never dies. Like a soul walking the path God laid out, the candle endures. In the film’s final moments, Gorchakov collapses and dies from an unnamed illness. Yet his last act is to shield the flame with his hand. Faith survives. His purpose is fulfilled. In the afterlife, or perhaps a vision of divine peace, snow falls gently. Gorchakov sits beside a dog near a small pond in the courtyard of the convent. The world is vast, but not too vast to be devoid of meaning. Free at last. 94 Story & Pacing: 15/20 Characters & Acting: 18/20 Themes: 50/50 Cinematography & Editing: 5/5 Soundtrack & Sound: 5/5 Memorability: 1/1