"What is a normal man? A man who has never committed a disgraceful act? Maybe, but has he never had uncontrollable thoughts? Perhaps he hasn't. But perhaps something, a phantasm, rose up from somewhere within him, ten or thirty years ago, something which he suppressed and then forgot about, which he doesn't fear since he knows he will never allow it to develop and so lead to any action on his part. And now, suddenly, in broad daylight, he comes across this thing…this thought, embodied, riveted to him, indestructible. He wonders where he is…Do you know where he is?

"Where?"

"Here," whispered Snow, "on Solaris." (1) (71)

---

"…. the structure of the archive is spectral. It is spectral a priori: neither present nor absent "in the flesh," neither visible nor invisible, a trace always referring to another whose eyes can never be met…" (2) (84)

As I write this , the question of how it all began returns to my mind. How did the phrases 'literary work' and 'film adaptation' learn to live side by side so well? How did the mediums become so united, married almost?

Nowadays film and literature not only live in familiar terms, but have established a routine of modern entertainment: to transform books into film versions as soon as they hit the press. But what are the reasons for this adaptation fever?

To place film beside literature is nothing new; literary books have been adapted into films ever since the establishment of cinema in the early 20th century. However, I propose a closer examination into this union, this marriage of terms: film and literature, books and adaptations. Beginning with Derrida's book Archive Fever and its relation to the novel Solaris, one can see how Lem's novel addresses the question of knowledge as the question of the archive. Tracing a parallel between the book Solaris and its two film adaptations - by Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky (1972) and by American director Steven Soderbergh (2002) - one can argue that the fever of these adaptations lies in the revelation, in the answering of a secret hidden within the text.

I would like to make an aside in regards to Jacques Derrida's writings. When one speaks of his work, one can't solely reduce it to the margins of pure interpretation, specially because of its 'various and heterogeneous manifestations,' as Julian Wolfrey's puts it. (3) My purpose here, thus, is not necessarily to scrutinize Derrida's book Archive Fever, but rather to place film under new lenses: that of the trace, the secret, and mainly, of the archive.

The very term adaptation fever, for instance, derives from Derrida's title Archive Fever and the impression left by Freud on the 'concept' or 'notion' of the archive. Though the word archive is quite important in the analysis of film as a type of archive, it was primarily the word fever that inspired me to start this research.

Fever as an abnormal condition or temperature, associated with weakness and intense emotion. Fever as a symptom of something that can be felt through the body of the text but not necessarily manifested outside it. Fever as the need to interpret the secret within words and which cannot be placed outside it.

As Derrida affirms in Of Grammatology, (4) there is nothing outside the text, there is nothing but writing as supplement - an endless chain of substitutive signification with differential references. It is in relation to the supplement, to this need to 'fill the void,' that I would like to address the question of film adaptation. As a supplement which 'adds only to replace…to insinuate itself in-the-place-of.' (5) The problem of film adaptation includes not only the question of the archive, but also the fever to decipher the secret behind the words, the trace.

"The trace is in fact the absolute origin of sense in general. Which amounts to saying that there is no absolute origin of sense in general. The trace is difference which opens appearance and signification." (65)

I am not affirming - and it's necessary to point out - that all film adaptations are feverish in their intention, or aiming only to reveal a secret. What I am saying, though, is that there are a number of them who do (and I will present two), and which should be looked at in this way, through this feverish, almost compulsive symptom. A need to reveal the secret, to present a definitive version of the unsaid, well exemplified in Solaris and its two film versions.

I thus begin with Derrida's book Archive Fever and his investigation on 'concept' or 'notion' of the archive as a Freudian impression. Derrida looks at Freud's works, especially Beyond the Pleasure Principle and Civilization and its Discontents, and his writings on the concept of the death drive - the impulse to destroy everything, even its own archive.

"…there is no archive without the threat of this death drive, this aggression and destruction drive." (6)

According to Derrida, the fear of destruction is intrinsically connected with the concept of the archive as well as the notion of the outside, which, for him, represents the demand of psychoanalysis. Without this concept of an exterior, there would be no archive.

"This model also integrates the necessity, inside the psychic itself, of a certain outside, of certain borders between insides and outsides. And with this domestic outside, that is to say also with the hypothesis of a internal substrate, surface, or space without which there is neither consignation, registration, impression nor suppression…it prepares the idea of a psychic archive distinct from spontaneous memory." (7)

Starting with the root of the word archive, Arkhe, Derrida arrives at the two principles imbedded in the word: a place where things begin and where social order, or the law, is exercised. His analysis goes further back, to the Greek word Arkheion, which means house or residence of the superior magistrates - the archons.

With this information in hands, Derrida concludes that the archives can only take place, speak the law, when entrusted by the archons, when placed in this 'domiciliation.' Which means to say that the archives only exist as documents in the house of those with power to interpret and represent it as the law.

"The first archivist institutes the archive as it should be, that is to say, not only in exhibiting the document but in establishing it. He reads it, interprets it, classes it." (8)

In the novel Solaris the notion of the archive plays an important role in the scientific explorations of the planet and the compilation of its 'history' in the station's library. Most of the book's new information is presented through a type of archive: documents, books, recorded tapes, videoconferences, or the visitors themselves. Even the very narration typifies an archive, as the main character Kris Kelvin looks back into his arrival in Solaris and his attempt to establish contact.

Narrated in the past tense, (9) Kris' story begins as he lands on Solaris and gets familiarized with the station, the planet, and its surroundings. Kris meets Snow, a cybernetic scientist, who informs him on the death of another scientist, Gibrarian. Snow is evasive and scared about the circumstances involving this death, refusing to talk further about the 'situation.' We are still to meet the next inhabitant of the station, the scientist Sartorius. It is evident from the initial pages of the book, however, that the planet itself is one of the strongest characters to be introduced.

The descriptions of Solaris' ocean-like surface and low-lying islands, "the colossal rollers rising and falling in slow-motion," (10) when Kris finds an empty room and fears to encounter someone inside, perhaps an alien, and only meets Solaris.

"There was no one. Another wide panoramic window, almost as large as the one in the cabin where I had found Snow, overhung the ocean, which, sunlit on this side, shone with an oleaginous gleam, as thought the waves, secreted a reddish oil. A crimson glow pervaded the whole room…" (12)

The irony of this narrative lies precisely in the juxtaposition of the excessive amount of data - scientific information on the history of Solaris stored in images and boxes - and what stays in the mind of the reader as an impression of the planet. At the beginning of the story, Kris adopts a 'scientific' method of interpretation, which means to say that he uses knowledge as a way to answer his questions and build his impression of the planet, never observing the planet purely through his eyes, always with the help of data. Kris is surrounded by places of knowledge, laboratories and libraries, which represent resources - and archive.

"The sensation of an empty space behind me became unbearable. In an attempt to pull myself together, I took a chair over the bookshelves and chose a book familiar to me…. Historia Solaris." (15)

Anything outside his control becomes a question, especially if it is unknown to him: Solaris, its waves, its history, and its origin. Kris' search in the library books demonstrates the endless battle between scientific fields - physicists versus biologists versus mathematicians, etc - and accounts what many expeditions have documented in their attempt to discover the mystery of the planet Solaris.

"I felt at ease in my egg among the rows of cabinets crammed with tape and microfilm." (110)

The library is described as a room no windows situated at the center of the station - which brings to mind another Derridarian statement, 'the center is not the center.' (11) Among other things, this passage refers to the Western tradition concept of 'structure' as a centered unity, with a positioned of a center which limits the 'play' of this very structure. The geographic position of the library is not coincidental. Long passages of the novel are dedicated to the history of Solaris, the many theories, the discussions, and the scientific battles, confirming, and at the same time criticizing, the misconception of knowledge as its totality, its center - when in truth, 'the center is elsewhere.'

The novel explores Kris' metaphysical search for truth and origin, the question of the archive as history and knowledge connected with deciphering the mystery of Solaris. Just like Kris, the further you read about Solaris, the more data you know and the less secure you feel to what the planet truly represents. The text itself maintains its secret well kept, and is unaware of it.

From its the outset, the planet veils and reveals itself through its visitors. As Stanislaw Lem points out, (12) the active Ocean can't be interpreted as a 'thinking' or 'non-thinking' Ocean, but something capable of doing things entirely alien to human domain. Its actions not only affect the minds of the people in Solaris but also reveal hidden feelings from their past - guilt, 'shameful desires' - suppressed by memory. In some cases, the reader is unaware of what has been revealed, only knowing that the incarnated visitor is directly connected with the secret it carries within, as well as the person it comes to visit.

The first glimpse Kris has of his visitor Rheya, a 'double' of his deceased wife, doesn't scare him. His first thought is reassuring, he thinks he is dreaming. Once he realizes her presence is irreversible - even after trying to 'get rid of her' - Kris searches for some explanation in the library but fails to find any that will 'solve the mystery.' He can't differentiate reality from dream, visitors from real people, and often finds himself alone with the ocean and its "unbearable glare extended along the horizon, chasing before it an army of spectral shadows…" (13)

Kris feels responsible for his wife's death, and his guilt is reflected in Rheya's suicidal tendencies. However he tries to protect her from killing herself, the urge is there, in her, for that's how he remembers her, how he placed, archived her, in his memory. As Derrida states in Archive Fever, "what is no longer archived in the same way is no longer lived in the same way." (18) In this passage, Derrida speaks on the technology that makes the archive possible, which archives the archive.

"…the technical structure of the archiving archive also determines the structure of the archivable content even in its very coming into existence and in its relationship to the future." (15-20)

On this note, we can make the transition from literature to film, more specifically, of looking at film as a type of archive. As I've mentioned before, the claim is not general, although the investigation wouldn't lack evidence, given the current discussion between film purists and high-definition users.

What is the best technology to shoot a film, they ask. To reformulate the question in terms of the archive is to ask what does it mean, shooting a film in film or in digital, for the archive? The debate is pertinent and refers directly to Derrida's argument on the archivable meaning being codetermined by the structure that archives it. A quick overview on the two mediums and we see how different the archive can be when archived in digital or film media.

For instance, the digital media stores information in binary code (combination of zeros (0) and ones (1)) and has a limited storage space (bit rate) of memory. The more space, the more expensive. As for the film media, chemical, it allows unlimited combinations in its developing. More sensitive - offering blacker blacks and a higher contrast - it is exposed to the effects of time and deteriorates rapidly.

Shooting in high definition media (HD) is not necessarily cheaper, on the contrary. It requires the same equipment on the set, lights and cameras, plus an extra cost for the transferring of data back to film - since most movie theaters still carry film projectors, as opposed to high definition projectors. An important point in relation to the archive is that, when transferred to film, the digital image does not lose generations. The quality of the copy, or transfer, is exactly the same as the original. Lastly, the digital technology facilitates the manufacture of the image through special effects.

In his version of Solaris, Tarkovsky used film, black and white, and color stock. He was deeply criticized in his portrayal of the 'city of the future,' which was shot in Tokyo and many considered antiquated, nothing like what they would expect to see 'in the future.' As for Soderbergh's version, shot in HD technology, Solaris gains a new feel with the help of special effects. Solaris' atmosphere, its purple and pink rays, is visually explored, coming very close to what Lem's depiction of Solaris in the novel.

While the film purists argue that the medium is still more sensitive, with higher contrast, the same can be said for the digital media, since it claims to have the ability to 'mimic' the film effect or sensitivity. The theories favoring both fields are endless, and my task here is neither to defend nor accuse either field. My point, rather, is to concentrate on the question of the archive and its relation to the image. More specifically, on film adaptation as a type of archive, as an attempt to interpret and classify the secret of a story, claiming a signature, supplementing it.

When Jacques Derrida writes about the trace and how it exists only to claim presence, to add another layer to a previous 'sign,' we can say the same about the adaptations of the novel Solaris to the screen. Andrei Tarkovisky's, strongly interested in claiming its own signature, its own interpretation on the mystery of Solaris, Steven Soderbergh's, also attempting to answer the secret but also carrying within itself the previous trace of a previous director, while claiming its new signature at the same time.

In Solaris' film adaptations, the trace resides not only in the signature of that one who claims a literary work and adapts it to the screen, but also in the ghost, the remnants, of the 'original' writer and story. This question is even more aggravating in the story of the planet Solaris, which is characterized by the secret it carries within.

While the mystery of the planet resides in the text, its two movie adaptations attempt to reveal it outside. Both Tarkovsky and Sodebergh's versions attempt to explain the secret and reveal a truth, signing it, claiming it.

The case of Solaris' secret brings to mind Edgar Allan Poe's story The Purloined Letter, also discussed by Jacques Derrida in an essay (14) where he emphasizes the tendency of scholars or psychoanalysts in 'analyze' or 'interpret' unresolved secrets contained within texts, as opposed to looking at text itself. The comparison is relevant to the search for secret of Solaris, which is presented to the reader in the text and as a text.

In the novel, the characters themselves are surrounded by secret and lack of knowledge, reflected in planet itself and the in visitors. The situation aggravates when the visitors become conscious of their condition, of their 'lapses of memory.' Rheya doesn't know who she is but feels like human being, and she knows nothing. Her fate can't be predicted. "I can only remember you," Rheya says to Kris. "I…I can't remember anything else" (58).

In both movie versions, the secret of the planet is not a characteristic of the story, but a motivation to reveal what seems 'unreasonable' to us. In that sense, we become part of the Solaris station, and along with Kris, we are the problem solving individuals trying to 'discover' the secret. While the novel focus on the data and the methods of archiving information, and how useless it becomes in Kris' attempt to understand the planet, the film versions make use of the knowledge just as Kris would: in search of the truth, of the secret of Solaris.

We watch the movies and experience, along with the astronauts and the film directors, the mystery of Solaris and its very morality happening before us. We need to know, just as Kris needs to know at the beginning of his journey, the answers to his questions: who are the visitors? Where do they come from? We need to know - we need to classify the answers, we need to see it recorded, archived in film.

In the novel, Kris urge to know decreases as his access to knowledge overwhelms him with its uselessness, when he can't use it as a source to the visitors. His need to know doesn't disappear entirely, but it ceases to be the central question. In fact, the question as a center ceases to exist. The end doesn't necessarily end anything but, instead, asserts a condition, the uncertain state of mind of the character Kris before the future and his origins. He is a less scientific Kris, in transition to the outside of the station Solaris, flying around the unknown boundaries of the planet.

Both film adaptations fail to capture the 'secret' of the text, concentrating their efforts in portraying knowledge as the only possible ending. Opposite to the book narrative, which questions the very accumulation of knowledge to our interaction as human beings, both film versions direct the audience towards one final ending, a totality not necessarily established in the literary text. Which is to say that in both film versions choices are made, supplemented, for us. As Derrida writes in Of Grammatology:

"One goes from blindness to the supplement. But the blind person cannot see, in its origin, the very thing he produces to supplement his sight. Blindness to the supplement is the law." (15)

The desire to discover the secret of Solaris increases the abyss of supplements, of film adaptations as a type of archive. The directors themselves select and interpret Kris destiny. At the end of Tarkovisky's film, Kris returns to a house that resembles a house on earth, reconnecting with his father. We are not sure where he is, only that he is "going back to his source," again reinforcing the metaphysical tendency of interpreting the secret as the origin.
It's also interesting to mention that, when adapting the novel, Tarkovsky made considerable changes to the story, despite Lem's efforts to maintain its integrity. Tarkovsky ended being unsatisfied with his movie version and kept neither the literary script nor the shooting script in his archives, as Natasha Synessios points out in the introduction of Tarkovsky Collected Screenplays. (16)

According to Tarkovsky, one of the reasons why he felt uneasy when adapting the novel to the screen was precisely the story's technological aspect. In his book Sculpting in Time, (17) he writes how the science fiction element "was distracting," and that he had to struggle to make his point through without changing this very concept of the novel, of the knowledge and science, which Lem was adamant in not letting go.

Tarkovsky's dissatisfaction, though, didn't seem to affect many movie viewers - Soderbergh included. His 2002 adaptation of Solaris shows how the director was deeply influenced by Tarkovsky 'visual signature,' with its choreographic staging, long takes, and 'time oriented' editing. Regardless of being closer to Lem's novel, except for its portrait of Rheya and Kris' relationship in a true Hollywood fashion, Soderbergh's film seems to have been marked by the trace, or the ghost' and signature of Tarkovsky.

The ending, however, is also different in this version. Kris returns to where the movie begins - an apartment - yet something is different. As he cuts his finger and it is healed immediately, we can assume that he may be, after all, a visitor, or that his existence is related not to the unknown but to the certainty of an earth-like planet, still ignoring the posing of the question of knowledge as meaning.

'We need mirrors, we don't know what to do with other worlds.'

The above line, said by Snow, one of the cybernetic scientists - or perhaps a visitor disguised as Snow - summarizes the 'morality' of the story. Snow is one of the few characters in the novel that, in his detached attitude, sees the situation in Solaris matter-of-factly. While Kris sees the problem of Solaris through a metaphysical and scientific eye, rating the question of the planet in polarities, evil versus god, good versus bad, love versus guilt, Snow refuses to look at the situation through a moral code. He argues that the standards are different and traditional concepts can't be applied in Solaris. Instead, he suggests they use the situation to 'learn more about themselves.'

According to the novel, the creation of the visitors may be directly associated with x-ray experiments made by the scientists in the planet, causing a chemical reaction of the ocean of Solaris. Once the visitor arrives and learns about its present situation of a double, a copy of an original that once existed, it can't accept his lack of 'identity.' The visitor wants to have a "uniqueness," it wants to be able to print its own version, yet it has been placed in a body which is not theirs. Which links us to what Derrida writes in Archive Fever about the impossibility of finding this very uniqueness, this one origin, which resumes not only what the visitors in Solaris search, but also Kris.

"This uniqueness does not resist. Its price is infinite…The possibility of the archiving trace, this simple possibility, can only divide the uniqueness. Separating the impression from the imprint." (100)

And this fever, this doubling of movements, beginning with the visitors themselves and later with the film adaptations, reinforces the 'secret' placed in the novel Solaris. Our inevitable search for answers, for truth, through the accumulation and the archival of knowledge. As though Solaris, a planet from fiction, were creating doubles not only inside its fiction but also outside it - through every film. As though these film adaptations - doubles or archives aiming solely to decipher the secret - were created by the very mystery of Solaris. As in Derrida's words (18):

"The concept of origin or nature is nothing but the myth of addition, of supplementarity annulled by being purely additive." (167)

My attempt in this essay was not only to address the question of film as a type of archiving, but of film adaptations as a feverish symptom. A symptom perhaps directly related to a lack of 'identity' referred by Tarkovsky in his book Sculpting in Time. He writes on how the definition of cinema varies according to each director or the writer's point of view, all searching for a sense of 'uniqueness' in the medium, also related to the question of film as an 'independent' art, 'still trying to define its 'language.' For Tarkovsky, cinema narrative is more than plot points and recorded dialogue. Its image truly becomes cinematic when 'not only it lives within time, but time also lives within it, even within each separate frame."

The fever of literary adaptations is symptomatic of this very temptation to define mediums through ranks, the battle of supremacy between spoken versus written words, literary versus the cinematic. This transferring, this recording of words into another medium is particularly problematic in the case of cinema, which, as we mentioned above, is a medium in search of an identity turning to literature to further explore its essence. Dialogues are 'doubled' from literary texts, 'pasted' into the screen.

And if such a claim is true, if cinema is, indeed, in lack of, or in search of an identity, it's always relevant to recall Derrida's words:

"What is intolerable and fascinating is indeed the intimacy intertwining image and thing, graph, i.e., and phonè, to the point where by a mirroring, inverting, and perverting effect, speech seems in turn the speculum of writing, which 'manages to usurp the main role.' Representation mingles with what it represents, to the point where one speaks as one writes, one thinks as if the represented were nothing more that the shadow or reflection of the representer." (30-36)

As I watched both movie versions of the novel Solaris, I had the impression something terribly wrong happened when the narrative was adapted, pasted into the screen format. At first I couldn't see exactly what bothered me. Only after returning to the book and reading it again, that I finally understood.

As the narrative in the novel reaches the end, we know Kris has sent his report to Earth and is waiting for a response to be able to return. When or, if he, indeed, will ever return, we don't know. We are left suspended, travelling over the oceans of Solaris, questioning about our - Kris'- condition at that present moment.

"Since she had gone, that was all that remained. I did not know what achievements, what mockery, even what tortures still awaited me. I knew nothing, and I persisted in the faith that the time of cruel miracles was not past." (204)

What bothered me in the adaptations was precisely the misplacement of this feeling, this lacking that the novel offers, which was filed and 'justified' by the movies with possible endings. The sense of lack and incompleteness that, in fact, mirrors Kris' very dilemma, his endless search for truth and origin through knowledge in Solaris. Unfortunately, the films opted otherwise - twice. And they answered to Kris' lack, filling the gap with signatures. And what's worst, failed to 'reveal' the secret, placed in the very text.

Perhaps it all goes back to the 'idea of the civilization of the book,' the idea of a totality alien to the sense of writing, as Derrida affirms in Of Grammatology. And to our need tendency to place faith and truth in the word, guarding it as an archive.

"But of the secret itself, there can be no archive, by definition. The secret is the very ash of the archive…" (100) (19)

Notes

1. Lem, Stanislaw. Solaris. Joanna Kilmartin and Stevie Cox, tr. Hacourt Inc, 1961.
2. Derrida, Jacques. Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression. Eric Prenowitz, tr. University of Chicago Press, 1996.
3. The Derrida Reader. Edited by Julian Wolfrey's. University of Nebraska Press.
4. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, tr. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976. Translation of: De la grammatologie.
5. Ibid. See Pg.145.
6. Derrida, Jacques. Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression. Eric Prenowitz, tr. University of Chicago Press, 1996 Pg. 19.
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid. See Pg. 55.
9. For the purposes of this paper, I will be using the translated version from French to English of the original novel Solaris, in Polish. Lem, Stanislaw. Solaris. Joanna Kilmartin and Stevie Cox, tr. Hacourt Inc, 1961.
10. Ibid. See Pg.8.
11. Derrida, Jacques. Writing and Difference. Structure, Sign and Play. Alan Bass, tr. Chicago: University of Chicago Press; London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978. Translation of L'Ecriture et la différence. Pg. 279.
12. For more on the interview, see Lem's official web site and his reaction to both movies and the book.
13. Lem, Stanislaw. Solaris. Joanna Kilmartin and Stevie Cox, tr. Hacourt Inc, 1961. Pg. 27
14. Derrida, Jacques. The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond. Translation, Annotation and Introduction by Alan Bass. Chicago: University of Chicago, 1987.
15. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, tr. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976. Translation of: De la grammatologie. Pg. 149.
16. Andrei Tarkovsky Collected Screenplays. William Powell and Natasha Synessios, tr. Published by Faber and Faber.
17. Tarkovsky, Andrei. Sculpting in time. Kitty Hunter-Blair, tr. Published by Bodley Head, London.
18. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, tr. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976. Translation of: De la grammatologie. Pg. 149
19. Derrida, Jacques. Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression. Eric Prenowitz, tr. University of Chicago Press, 1996.

Bibliography

1. Lem, Stanislaw. Solaris. Joanna Kilmartin and Stevie Cox, tr. Hacourt Inc, 1961.

2. The Derrida Reader. Edited by Julian Wolfrey's. University of Nebraska Press.

3. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, tr. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976. Translation of: De la grammatologie.

--. Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression. Eric Prenowitz, tr. University of Chicago Press, 1996.
--. Writing and Difference. Structure, Sign and Play. Alan Bass, tr. Chicago: University of Chicago Press; London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978. Translation of L'Ecriture et la différence.
--. The Post Card: From Socrates to Freud and Beyond. Translation, Annotation and Introduction by Alan Bass. Chicago: University of Chicago, 1987.

4. Andrei Tarkovsky Collected Screenplays. William Powell and Natasha Synessios, tr. Published by Faber and Faber.

5. Tarkovsky, Andrei. Sculpting in time. Kitty Hunter-Blair, tr. Published by Bodley Head, London.

Additional Reading

1. About Andrei Tarkovsky. Selection of texts compiled by Marina Tarkovskaya. Published by Progress Publishers, 1990.

2. Tarkovsky, Andrei. Time within Time: The diaries 1970 - 1986. Kitty Huter-Blair, tr. Published by Seagull Books, Calcutta, 1991.

3. Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 2, the time-image. Hugh Tomlinson and Robert Galeta, tr. University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 1989

4. Freud, Sigmund. O mal estar na civilização. José Octávio de Aguiar Abreu, tr. Published by Imago, 1997.

5. Pincus, Edward and Ascher, Steven. The Filmmakers handbook. Published by Penguin Group, 1984.

Internet Sources

1. Soderbergh, Steven. Solaris Script. October 4th, 2001.

2. Stanislaw Lem Official Site.

3. Internet Movie Database.

Movie Credits

1. Solaris. Dir. by Steven Soderbergh. With George Clooney. Fox Films, 2002.

2. Solaris (Solyaris) Dir. by Andrei Tarkovsky. Fridrikh Gorenshtein and Andrei Tarkovsky, screenplay. Criterion Collection, 1972.

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