7 Best Andrei Tarkovsky Movies, Ranked

Exploring Andrei Tarkovsky's filmography is like stepping into a surreal dream, where time moves more slowly, images don’t just imprint but are branded on your brain, and with every frame, you feel like a faceless someone is whispering a secret into your ear.

Even Ingmar Bergman, a great auteur himself, called Tarkovsky “the greatest of them all.”

If you plan to watch a Tarkovsky film, first of all, great decision, but be mindful that these films are not your run-of-the-mill blockbusters and don’t go well with popcorn. These films need your full attention, they mess with your head, and they might leave you staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m., asking yourself, “What does it all mean?”

Andrei Tarkovsky made only 11 movies in his lifetime—seven features, three student films, and one documentary—yet his influence on cinema is enormous.

While most directors played by the rules, he rewrote them. His movies might as well be synonymous with philosophical puzzles. If you are up for a cinematic journey that will shake you to your core, you have come to the right place.

From haunting sci-fi to soul-stirring historical epics, here is the (kinda pointless) ranking of the Tarkovsky filmography, each a masterpiece that will stick with you long after the credits roll.

Andrei Tarkovsky Filmography: The 7 Greatest

7. The Sacrifice (1986)

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When retired actor Alexander (Erland Josephson) learns nuclear war is imminent, he strikes a desperate bargain with god, sacrificing everything to save the world. What unfolds is a hypnotic meditation on faith, madness, and mortality, dripping with Tarkovsky’s signature slow-burn intensity.

During the production of The Sacrifice, Tarkovsky was diagnosed with lung cancer. He spent most of 1984 preparing the film, which was shot in 1985 in Sweden. He died on December 29, 1986.

Despite these grim circumstances, the movie is not sloppy and is, in fact, a gut punch of apocalyptic dread and raw humanity. Visually stunning and emotionally devastating, the film builds to an unforgettable climax—a house burning in one unbroken shot. It’s a shining example of cinematic poetry, leaving you wrestling with life’s biggest questions long after the screen fades to black.

The movie shows how personal conviction and artistic clarity can triumph even in the face of death, reminding us that true cinema is as much about spiritual urgency as it is about technical brilliance.

6. Nostalghia (1983)

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A Russian poet in Italy, drowning in homesickness while a local madman preaches salvation through blind faith. It’s a slow-burn take on exile, art, and the quiet torment of being stuck between worlds. Every frame oozes longing, from fog-drenched ruins to that unforgettable candle scene, where a trembling frame becomes the ultimate test of stubborn hope.

Nostalghia might be Tarkovsky’s most achingly poetic creation. "Our 'nostalghia' is not your 'nostalgia,'” he once said. “It is not an individual emotion but something much more complex and profound that Russians experience when they are abroad.”

Tarkovsky turns a simple walk across a pool into a seven-minute epic of human grit. No explosions, no cheap tricks—just raw, lingering beauty.

Nostalghia reminds us that cinema can speak volumes through stillness, that sometimes, the most powerful stories are the ones told between the lines, in shadows, echoes, and unanswered questions.

5. Solaris (1972)

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This is a sci-fi film, less about starships and more about star-crossed souls. Psychologist Kris Kelvin (Donatas Banionis) arrives on a space station orbiting an eerie planet called Solaris and is haunted by his past, including his dead wife. Is she a manifestation of his guilt-ridden mind?

If you ever wanted to find a 2001: A Space Odyssey of the heart, Solaris is the answer. What sets it apart is how Tarkovsky turns sci-fi inside out. Instead of flashy tech, we get lingering hypnotic scenes that pull us into Kelvin’s unraveling reality. The film’s slow burn is a trapdoor into big questions: Can we outrun our memories? Does love outlast death?

Through Solaris, Tarkovsky proves how restraint, atmosphere, and emotional depth can transform genre filmmaking into timeless art. He reminds us that the most powerful tales in science fiction don’t always have to be about the future—they can be about the soul, too.

4. Andrei Rublev (1966)

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Set in brutal 15th-century Russia, the movie follows the medieval Russian painter Andrei Rublev’s (Anatoliy Solonitsyn) spiritual and artistic journey through periods of violence, political turmoil, and profound personal transformation. Each film segment becomes a powerful allegory about art’s role in preserving human dignity.

This might be a monumental biographical epic, but it isn’t one of your regular biopics. It’s a raw, sprawling journey through chaos, where war and faith collide. The film packs jaw-dropping moments, including a Tatar raid, a mesmerizing bell-forging scene, and deep musings on art’s power during dark times.

Tarkovsky’s stunning black-and-white visuals feel like moving paintings, pulling you into Rublev’s world. And when those final frames burst into colors, revealing his actual icons, it’s pure cinematic magic.

The movie is a testament to how bold choices in structure, imagery, and silence can carve a lasting emotional impact without ever needing to explain themselves.

3. Stalker (1979)

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In the world of Stalker, a “Zone” exists—a surreal wasteland that grants people’s deepest desires. The film follows a “Stalker” who guides two men, a writer and a scientist, through this dangerous, unpredictable terrain.

However, their true journey is internal, confronting their fears and desires. Tarkovsky ditches flashy effects for daunting silence, dripping water, and lingering shots that pull you deeper into the mystery.

Stalker is a sci-fi film, but a philosophical one. It is stripped to its bones: no lasers, just raw atmosphere and pressing questions. Every frame feels deliberate, turning crumbling ruins into mirrors for the soul.

As the movie ends, you no longer feel like you are watching it but sitting inside it, unsettled and awestruck. Stalker tells us that the deepest mysteries aren’t out in space but inside us.

Through Stalker, Tarkovsky practically insists that cinema can be just as much about what isn’t shown and what isn’t said, where absence becomes the most haunting presence.

2. Ivan’s Childhood (1962)

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This is a heartbreaking story of a 12-year-old Ivan (Nikolai Burlyayev), who becomes a reconnaissance scout for the Soviet army during World War II. Ivan doesn’t come across as a heroic figure but as a traumatized child consumed by revenge and loss. Through his eyes, war isn’t just violence; it’s stolen innocence. The haunting dream sequences show happier times crashing into grim reality.

In his directorial debut, Tarkovsky made this war movie. Instead of taking the same route as other war movies—i.e., really loud and brutal—he weaves reality with dreams. Tarkovsky turns war into a lyrical tragedy, blending painterly visuals with raw emotion. It’s a masterclass even for a debut film.

Ivan’s Childhood teaches a vital lesson in portraying complex human experiences with subtlety and depth. It underscores the power of visual storytelling and the importance of blending emotion with imagery to convey the true weight of a moment.

1. Mirror (1975)

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Mirror follows a dying man’s memories, jumping between different periods and emotional states. The movie neither has a clear plot nor a linear narrative. It’s just a dreamlike exploration of memory, family history, and personal identity. And yet this is Tarkovsky’s most personal, almost autobiographical, work.

Forget linear plots, he throws us into a swirling mix of childhood recollections, fleeting regrets, and haunting imagery that feels pulled straight from the subconscious. It’s deeply personal yet universal, like flipping through someone else’s photo album and seeing flashes of your own life.

Why do I think Mirror might be his masterpiece? The visuals feel like memory itself. This is Tarkovsky at his most daring, breaking every rule to create something that rewires how you see a film, time, and even your past.

For anyone looking to explore the art of filmmaking, the challenge lies not in following conventions but in shaping the medium to express something deeper and more personal. Mirror invites a different connection with the audience, transcending time and structure.

Conclusion

Whether it be a sci-fi like Stalker or an aching nostalgia like Mirror, the raw beauty of each Tarkovsky film leaves its mark in a way few ever do. So, if you are ready to trade jump-cuts for jaw-dropping poetry, dive in.

And just because I don’t want you to say I didn’t warn you, these masterpieces might raise your cinematic expectations, and you might have to wait for another Tarkovsky to satisfy you.