Stalker

Koko: One phantom dog, two distorted measures of Beethoven, and three bald Russians: how is that not the best movie ever? But seriously, even in Soviet Union, where cars drive you, it takes elephantine nuts to lead Writer and Scientist to the middle of nowhere, show them a room in which all questions will be answered, and then lie down to sleep, knowing that whatever truth they discover will be a memory, a desire, a death--something they themselves constructed, when all they ever wanted was God. Maybe the noblest thing to do is let people get lost in their illusions, or better still, to lead them to the center of the lie, abandon them to its logic, and then disappear. A heartbreaking work with no real answers, no real questions, and no real movement . . . which is precisely why an imaginary dog is prancing through some muddy water just above you.