The sparky, sarky love-child of Alan Bennett and David Foster Wallace, Dyer devotes a book to Tarkovsky's moodily enigmatic movie Stalker - and much else.
Scene by scene, Dyer stalks the film, and its mysterious loveliness stalks him. Meanwhile, often in downpage footnotes, snatches of memoir splice the art we adore with the lives we lead.
Poised between awe and cheek, this essay doesn't so much inject fun into the film's eerie Soviet glamour as find comedy in the gulf between us and our objects of desire.
Subscribe to Independent Premium to bookmark this article
Want to bookmark your favourite articles and stories to read or reference later? Start your Independent Premium subscription today.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies