Question
What is the significance of copies and reflections as a theme in Tarkovsky's Solaris?
A look at how Tarkovsky builds Solaris out of copies within copies, and what that structure suggests about art, memory, and love.
Updated
The short answer
In Solaris, Tarkovsky builds a chain of copies within copies: a rebuilt ancestral house, a recreated dacha on the space station, faked sounds of rustling leaves, and a simulated version of Kris's dead wife. Discussed on Very Bad Wizards, this structure is read as Platonic, pointing to a real truth about love and connection that cannot be stated directly, only approached through successively imperfect copies. The film's suggestion is that these copies are not therefore worthless. Art and representation can still function as genuine, even superior, ways of reaching toward a real that resists direct statement.
Key points
- Solaris repeats a pattern of an original replaced by a degraded copy across houses, sounds, and people.
- The rebuilt family dacha, the recreated dacha on Solaris, and Hari are all versions of this same pattern.
- A conversation on Very Bad Wizards reads this structure as Platonic: a real that cannot be stated directly, approached only through imperfect copies.
- The film resists treating this as a simple warning that copies are fake and originals are real.
- Hari's presence does real emotional and moral work for Kris even though she is not the original woman.
- The takeaway is to ask what a copy still carries of its original rather than dismissing it outright.
The longer answer
Tarkovsky does not use the copy motif once. He repeats it, so that the repetition itself becomes the argument.
A film built from copies
In a conversation on Very Bad Wizards, the hosts trace the pattern across the film: the family dacha we see at the start is already a rebuilt replica of an earlier ancestral house, the station's simulated dacha on Solaris is a further copy of that copy, and even the sound of leaves rustling in the wind turns out to be artificial, made by paper strips placed in an air vent. The most charged version of this pattern is Hari, the visitor who appears to Kris in the likeness of his dead wife. She is not a memory and not a person. She is something the planet's ocean has generated out of his mind, a copy of a woman who is herself already gone.
The hosts read this repetition as Platonic in structure. There is a real, something like love or genuine spiritual connection, that cannot be stated directly. What we get instead are successive copies of it: in memory, in art, in simulation, each one imperfect, each one once removed from the thing itself. The film's claim, on this reading, is not that the copies are worthless because they are copies. It is that art and representation can still function as a real and sometimes even superior way of pointing toward a truth that resists direct statement.
The common misreading
The easy way to watch this motif is as a warning: copies are fake, originals are real, and Kris is a fool for loving a simulation instead of grieving a real woman honestly. That reading treats the film as a cautionary tale about mistaking appearance for reality.
The film resists that reading. It does not let Kris's love for Hari collapse into simple delusion, and it does not let the rebuilt dacha or the recreated sounds of home register as mere fakes. Instead the copies keep doing real emotional and moral work. Hari's presence forces Kris to confront guilt he had buried. The recreated house lets him and us feel something like home even though the original house behind it is already gone. The copy is degraded relative to its original, but it is not therefore empty.
What changes if you take this seriously
If copies can carry a genuine trace of the real, then the question to ask of any copy, whether it is a memory, a photograph, a rebuilt house, or a simulated person, is not simply is this real or fake. It is what of the original does this still carry, and what does engaging with it honestly require of me.
For Kris, engaging with Hari honestly does not mean deciding whether she counts as real. It means facing what her presence reveals about how he treated the original woman, and what he owes to that truth regardless of what Hari technically is.
One way to use this
Notice the copies already in your own life: an old photograph, a story you tell about someone gone, a place you return to that has been rebuilt since you last saw it. Ask what those copies still carry of the original, rather than dismissing them because they are not the thing itself. The value may not survive the comparison to the original. But it does not automatically vanish either.
Important distinctions
A copy versus a fake
A fake is meant to deceive you into thinking it is the original. A copy, as Solaris treats it, can be openly known as a copy and still carry real emotional or moral weight. Hari is never mistaken by Kris for the literal, resurrected woman. She is something else that nonetheless forces something real out of him.
Nostalgia versus engagement with a copy
Simply enjoying a copy for the comfort of resemblance is not the same as what the film asks of Kris. Nostalgia stops at the pleasant feeling of resemblance. Tarkovsky's structure asks the viewer to use the copy as a way toward something true about the original, in Kris's case his own guilt, not to rest in the copy's comfort.
Objections and replies
Isn't this just a metaphor for grief, not a real philosophical claim?
A skeptical viewer might say the copy motif is simply Tarkovsky's way of dramatizing grief and guilt, and that reading it as a Platonic claim about copies and an inarticulable real imports more philosophy than the film supports.
The film's own construction makes the stronger reading available: the copies are nested and repeated with unusual deliberateness, from the architecture down to the sound design. That density of repetition is what invites the discussion on Very Bad Wizards to treat it as a structural claim about representation itself, not just a mood.
Doesn't loving a copy of a dead person mean you're refusing to grieve honestly?
One could object that Kris's attachment to Hari is a form of avoidance, a way of refusing to accept that his wife is gone, rather than a legitimate path to a real truth.
The film does not deny that this attachment is dangerous or that it costs Kris something. What it resists is the flatter judgment that the attachment is therefore meaningless. Hari's presence is what finally makes Kris face the guilt he had avoided facing when his wife was alive, which is a real change, not simply an escape.
Related questions
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How should the ambiguous ending of Tarkovsky's Solaris be interpreted?
A look at why the film's final image resists a single reading, and what that ambiguity is doing philosophically.
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Does the character Hari in Solaris achieve genuine personhood?
You will learn how the podcast conversation on Tarkovsky's Solaris frames Hari's arc from a limited copy to a being with something like moral standing.
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How does Tarkovsky's view of humanity contrast with Stanley Kubrick's in 2001: A Space Odyssey?
A look at how a conversation on Solaris frames Tarkovsky's faith in human striving against Kubrick's more cynical, externally dependent vision of transcendence.
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How does Tarkovsky's Solaris differ thematically from Stanislaw Lem's novel?
A look at how a film about human guilt grew out of a novel about the limits of understanding a truly alien mind.
Podcast discussions
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Tarkovsky's Solaris: Copies, Guilt, and Real Contact
Tamler Sommers and David Pizarro discuss how Tarkovsky's Solaris turns Lem's novel about an alien ocean into a meditation on guilt, memory, and whether love for a copy can be real.