The Classic Sci-Fi Film That May Have Killed Its Director

In 1979, Andrei Tarkovsky released one of the most admired works in the history of cinema. Stalker is an atmospheric meditation on spiritual and moral integrity: It follows three characters (“The Writer,” “The Professor,” and “The Stalker”) as they venture into a mysterious area known only as “The Zone,” where a hidden room is said to grant a visitor their deepest desires. The philosophical journey at the heart of the film is slow and haunting, less interested in traditional plot and more focused on dissecting the nature of longing, faith, and despair. Its themes continue to influence filmmakers across the globe, but Stalker also carries a more unsettling legacy—the idea that it may have cost Tarkovsky his life.

1. A Troubled Production
2. The Cost Of Pursuit
3. Stalker’s Legacy

A Troubled Production

The production of Stalker was plagued with obstacles from the start. Tarkovsky had initially intended to shoot in a remote mining area in Tajikistan’s Tian Shan foothills. But an unexpected earthquake struck the region before filming began, forcing him to abandon the location altogether. This setback pushed the production to Estonia instead—a move that would bring its own series of unforeseen difficulties.

The locations were almost certainly chosen for their eerie desolation, but many of them were real industrial sites with serious environmental hazards. Early scenes were shot in and around the city of Tallinn; abandoned factories and industrial quarters helped create a bleak, decaying atmosphere before the characters entered The Zone. Tarkovsky chose locations like a bombed-out hydroelectric power plant damaged during World War II for The Zone; some of the most haunting sequences were filmed along the Jägala River, downstream from a chemical plant suspected of dumping toxic waste into the water.

Vladimir Sharun, the film’s sound designer, later claimed the set was visibly contaminated. He said that poisonous liquids were being poured into the river and foam drifted along the surface—evidence, he believed, of chemical pollution. Crew members reportedly suffered allergic reactions. One scene featuring a violent, hurricane-like storm was filmed near hazardous materials, with little regard for the crew’s safety. The sequence added yet another layer of real danger to an already treacherous set, but production pushed forward; Tarkovsky was determined to see the film through.

See it through he did, but as the grueling shoot ended, disaster struck: The original footage was destroyed due to a lab mishap. (One theory is that the production used a new type of film, Kodak 5247, that Soviet developers were unfamiliar with at the time.) The film would need to be almost entirely reshot.

Tarkovsky was devastated. His relationship with longtime collaborator and cinematographer Georgy Rerberg had begun to sour during production, partly due to creative disagreements and differing visions for the film; after the footage was destroyed, Rerberg was dismissed from the project.

It would have been easy, at that point, for Tarkovsky to throw in the towel. But even in the midst of all the chaos, he seemed to hold fast to his belief in the transformative power of art. As he would later write in the 1985 book Sculpting in Time, “The artist is always the servant, and is perpetually trying to pay for the gift that has been given to him as if by a miracle.”

Determined to salvage his vision, Tarkovsky hired a new cinematographer and began again from scratch. But the reshoot pushed the production so far over schedule and budget that Tarkovsky was forced to beg the Soviet Film Board to let him continue. He was eventually allowed to resume and he, along with the crew, returned to the same toxic sites for a second go-around, which was apparently just as cursed as the first: Tarkovsky’s replacement cinematographer quit, and a new one, Alexander Knyazhinsky, was brought on board; filming was delayed when Tarkovsky had a heart attack, and then by a summer snowfall; and Tarkovsky fired several members of the crew for drinking too much.

The Cost Of Pursuit

Stalker was finally released on October 20, 1979, to mixed reviews. It would garner appreciation as time went along, but its most unsettling chapter began well after the credits stopped rolling.

In the years that followed Stalker’s release, an alarming pattern emerged. Within a decade, both Tarkovsky and lead actor Anatoly Solonitsyn had died of lung cancer, and in 1998, Tarkovsky’s wife and assistant director, Larisa Tarkovskaya, passed away from the same sickness.

Though no official link was ever established between their illnesses and the Stalker shoot, the eerie chain of events that affected the film’s inner circle remains one of cinema’s most chilling coincidences. And while the idea of someone sacrificing a piece of themselves for their art isn’t a new concept, rarely is the price as literal as it was in this case. Stalker stands out because of how closely the film’s story mirrors its reality: It’s a movie obsessed with the costs of knowledge and desire. The Zone is as much a reflection of the characters’ subconscious as it is a physical location, ever-changing and always mysterious. It tests those who enter it, and the people who leave are fundamentally changed forever. In real life, The Zone may have tested Tarkovsky as well.

Stalker’s Legacy

Today, many cinephiles regard Stalker as Tarkovsky’s finest film in an iconic body of work that includes Solaris (1972) and Nostalgia (1983), and it remains a major influence on filmmakers. Alex Garland’s 2018 film Annihilation took immense influence from Stalker—in fact, it was the only movie included in the research library for the cast and crew to study to shape the tone and aesthetic of his film. Others, like director John Hillcoat (The Road), Jonathan Nolan (co-creator of HBO’s Westworld), and the creators of the video game series S.T.A.L.K.E.R. have drawn inspiration from the film. Stalker also played a role in the creation of Burning Man.

But while its influence is vast, Stalker’s production serves as a bleak reminder of the hidden costs of artistic obsession.

In the end, the legacy of Stalker is both cinematic and corporeal. It demands to be felt as much as understood, and its beauty is inextricably tied to the story of its creation. Whether or not the production directly caused the deaths of Tarkovsky and his colleagues, the events surrounding the making of the film have become part of its legend. Stalker stands as a monument to passion, hubris, and the dangerous places we can end up in our pursuit of excellence.

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