“The longer this fog lasts, the worse it will be for you in the end.”

When we first see a horse trotting through the field outside of psychologist Kris Kelvin’s home, neither its hooves nor neighing make an audible sound. Shortly after, we hear the sound of paper brushing against wood as Kris places his book upon a stump, but do not hear the swirling of water between his hands as he washes them in a nearby stream.

The archival videos that feature Burton, a pilot, testifying what he saw on the planet Solaris to a panel of scientists and military personnel are black-and-white, as are later videos recorded by a scientist named Dr. Gibarian. But the home videos that Kelvin watches on the space station above Solaris during his stay there, as well as the archival footage recorded by Burton of the clouds of Solaris, are in full color.

Some framed photographs seen in Solaris are in black-and-white. Others are in color. Though the majority of the film is in full color, certain sequences play out in black-and-white. One is in sepia. Another is almost fully tinted blue.

Typically, there are strict rules that govern these kinds of aesthetic shifts. But in Solaris, Andrei Tarkovsky abandons consistency in his visual wayfinding conventions. Rules and visual systems are established, then broken, in an effort to disorient us.

A conversation between Kris and his father the night before Kris departs for space — during which Kris drops old research notes and photographs into a fire — is filmed in black-and-white.

It could be posited that the black-and-white in this scene indicates that this moment is akin to a flashback, as Kris is reflecting on memories as he burns their remnants — but there seems to be little to no rhyme or reason for some of the other aesthetic shifts in the rest of the film.

Tarkovsky reveals this unconventional methodology in a transitional sequence early in the film, during which we follow Burton and his son as they are driven through a city’s highway system. For nearly five minutes, the sequence cuts between shots inside and outside the car. No one speaks; nothing substantial happens. Black-and-white footage is intercut with color footage. Near the end of the sequence, the footage — and the cars in it — speed up. Burton’s vehicle is lost in the visual chaos.

As the film goes on, because of the seeming randomness of these aesthetic changes, we begin to question what is “real” and what is imaginary — just as the characters aboard the Solaris space station do.

By breaking expected stylistic “rules,” Tarkovsky creates an unpredictable aesthetic language that gives us insight into the mindset of the characters in the film.

The protagonist of Solaris, Kris Kelvin, doesn’t talk much. There is a deep, stoic sadness that rests across his face from the first moment we see him. Tarkovsky reveals small details about his past throughout the film, mostly through conversations between him and the manifestation of his long dead wife, who appears on the station above Solaris. We catch glimpses of what his life was like when she was alive via the home movies that he and “she” watch together on the ship. But Kelvin is mostly reserved, especially with his fellow scientists.

His character development is subtle. Tarkovsky spends a significant amount of time at the beginning of the film following him as he washes his hands in a stream and strolls through fields of flowers. Later, with the context that he is about to depart for a long mission into space, we assume that he is a sentimental man. Later, when he burns paper records of his past in a fire, his actions run counter to this assumption.

We watch him stand in the rain, staring at a tea cup as drops of water fall into it and a bug tries in vain to escape. It is unclear if he is taking in the feeling of the rain for what could be the last time, or if his depression has made him numb to stimuli.

There aren’t many scenes between Kris and his father, but they are among the film’s most important.

During one scene, his father insults him: “The Earth has somehow become adjusted to people like you, although at what sacrifice!” Kris does not reply. His silence in the face of a verbally abusive father tells us much about his character — and makes the ending of the film emotionally poignant — but Tarkovsky does not dwell on it for long.

In general, Tarkovsky presents the bare minimum interaction that we need to understand the characters’ context, then forces us to process it over time, in our own time, without spoon-feeding more exposition to us.

What bits of context and characterization we do get explain volumes: why Kris is not assertive, why his marriage failed, and why he clings on so tightly to the promise of second chances to get relationships right.

Tarkovsky’s minimalistic approach to context and character development is admirable; Solaris, in all of its narrative complexity, never feels weighed down by exposition (except, perhaps, at the start while we first learn about the far-off planet). However, because context — especially in regards to characters’ backstories — is generally so focused and calculated, we need time to process it to connect the dots and have it feel emotionally resonant.

That, more than anything, is why the slow pace of Solaris is essential. Tarkovsky cuts away to lengthy shots of the swirling oceans of the planet Solaris not only to remind us of its presence as a “character” within scenes, but to give us time to think about and emotionally reflect on what we’ve seen and heard before new events occur.

Solaris is, first and foremost, an examination of grief. It tells a story about how the comfort and familiarity of the past — even when it was not good — prevents us from moving on to the future, and how our guilt about transgressions we make against the people we love can cause us to wish that we had a second chance to treat them right (or, at least, speak our honest truth to them).

Psychological drama aside, however, Solaris is also a science fiction film. The story may be predominantly interested in the human psyche, but there is no lack of curiosity about our motives for space exploration in here, too.

Kris spends a long time at the start of the film admiring the plants and water on Earth before leaving for space; when he arrives at Solaris, the space station is cold and lonely, with reclusive staff and clinical, mostly empty corridors and bedrooms devoid of personality. The planet itself is harsh and uninviting — a gaseous sphere filled with tumultuous fog and seas.

Only one room on the space shuttle is decorated as if it was a room in a home on Earth; it is no coincidence that the scene in which Kris and Hari are most at peace takes place within that room.

Another scientist on the ship tells us why, in no uncertain terms: “We don’t want to conquer space at all. We want to expand Earth endlessly. We don’t want other worlds; we want a mirror.”

Just as we are inclined to reach for second chances to get our interpersonal relationships right and to retain the familiar and comfortable in our personal lives — so too may it be human nature to want to colonize new planets not out of a desire for exploration, but to understand and get a second chance at life on Earth.