put
in the care
of a well-known Parisian
oncologist, Schwartzenberg,
who undertook to cure
his lung cancer.
Tarkovsky after
the first treatment,
which seemed successful
at the time.
We in Russia...
...knew almost nothing
about his health.
The Swedish director
of photography Sven Nykvist,
with whom Tarkovsky worked
on The Sacrifice.
...with colour,
to break this long sequence...
- When he goes to see Maria?
- Yes.
He will show you.
- l see.
- You can show him.
- Yes.
We'll see. l understand
the danger...
of being too long
without colour.
lt will be too long.
That's my feeling.
l understand you
very well.
We should make a decision.
Would you think it over?
We need a decision,
perhaps you'll think it over.
l've been thinking
already.
lndeed.
Perhaps there aren't...
such mathematically perfect
correlations between shadows...
But there is, you know...
...such an atmosphere!
This is magnificent.
lt's rare, there's
no other film waiting for him.
He has nothing
at present.
Something will surface
within a week.
l've just refused
to work for a production.
At that time, in his
diary
Tarkovsky wrote
he was dying...
of the same illness
as his actor Solonitsyn.
French Television,
January 5, 1 987.
Tarkovsky moved to Paris
in 1 984.
His numerous friends
came here today
to pay him
their last respects.
At the Russian church,
the Tarkovsky family
and their compatriots,
and French filmmakers.
The Russian
funeral rites.
His wife...
...and his two sons
do not hide their grief.
The youngest came to the West
only a year ago.
ln 1 984, Andrei Tarkovsky
chose exile.
He was neither
an official artist,
nor a dissident.
His way was
that of a mystic director,
a Russian one,
above all.
...their compatriot,
who lived in exile
and died from cancer
at the age of 54.
This afternoon,
the funeral took place
in the Russian church,
8th arrondissement of Paris.
90 km from Ryazan,
there is this house
in a small village.
The house where...
the Tarkovsky family
lived.
They used to come here
in summer and in spring.
This house has had
several alterations,
even a fire.
The house is empty
now.
lt's very cold
inside.
We couldn't get warm
even with the fire.
We didn't open
the shutters
and didn't touch
anything.
This is his tomb.
He lies here,
at a Paris cemetery.
Here is a tree.
Andrei Tarkovsky
planted it some years ago.
l was a child, and l fell ill
from hunger and fear.
l would take the crust
off my lips, and lick them.
l remembered that
cool and salty taste,
and l kept on walking.
l went in the entrance
to get warm.
l walked, as if
to the Pied Piper's tune,
into the river.
l'd warm myself
in the entrance.
Yet l'd still shiver.
My mother beckons me.
She's close,
l can't approach.
When l draw near,
she's seven steps away.
Come closer, she's moved away
and beckons me.
Then l felt hot,
undid my collar and lay down.
Then trumpets sounded,
and light struck my eyelids.
The horses dashed.
Above the street
my mother beckons.
She flew away.
Now, what l see in my dream:
a hospital
with apple-trees,
white sheets,
a white doctor
looks at me
and a white sister
at my feet,
flapping her wings in the air.
She came to stay.
My mother came, beckoned me
and flew away.
Written and directed by
Alexander Sokurov
Archive research:
Maria Chugunova
Photography: Alexander Burov,
Alexei Naidenov,
Liudmila Krasnova
Sound: Vladimir Persov,
Alexei Pugachev,
Mikhail Podtakuy
Editors:
Liudmila Feiguinova,
Tatiana Beloussova,
Alexandra Zhikhareva,
Leda Semionova, Lida Volkova
Production supervisor:
Anatoly Nikiforov
Production