“You Guys Have Really Come Up With Somethin’…” — 2001: A Space Odyssey
You guys have really come up with somethin’.
Dr Floyd
In 1968, man had not yet landed on the moon. The NASA space programme was in full flow, stellar travel seemed just out of reach. Science-fiction was seen as the non-serious side to what was happening in real life: men blasting into space, maybe even to the moon. Next to these real-life heroes, aliens from other planets zapping us with rayguns were written off as silly, or superfluous. Stanley Kubrick wanted to change this and create a serious science fiction film. His efforts would be consolidated four years later by Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris. With author Arthur C. Clarke, Kubrick began work on a film that would describe, not a simple tale of humans, aliens, and spaceships, but a film that transcribed the heart of our existence, our evolution, and our very selves.
Note: this article will refer to themes and scenes throughout the film. As such it is impossible to avoid spoilers, insofar as there can be spoilers for a film that is as much down to personal interpretation as anything else.
Spanning three distinct time frames, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a meditative look at human evolution. Starting at “The Dawn of Man”, 23 minutes fall before a single word is spoken. This wordless opening emphasises image over language, and in doing so seems to state that image is language. Communication is frame by frame, and no words are necessary. Indeed, relatively little dialogue is spoken in the film as a whole, and that which is spoken is commonplace, ordinary, functional. Greater importance is placed on what we see, rather than what we speak.
The film begins with a black screen, over which an overture of music by Gyorgy Ligeti can be heard. This is significant, and will be returned to later. Over the title sequence is heard the now-indelibly-connected-with-this-film Also Sprach Zarathustra, by Richard Strauss. In the titles we see Earth, the Moon, and the Sun in perfect alignment. Celestial bodies resonating with the monolith. Near the end of the wordless Dawn of Man sequence, the first black monolith appears. Once more we hear music by Ligeti. Like a giant black bar of chocolate it appears without fanfare and whether by its presence, or by some unseen force, exerts influence on the proto-humans gathered around it, howling and yelping. From this inspiration the creatures learn the use of tools and, significantly, of weapons. And again we hear Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra. As a bone is wielded violently to destroy a skeleton, the well-documented match cut (not jump cut, film students) cuts between the bone, flipping through the air in slow motion, and an object orbiting earth, some millennia later. The object, while never specified as such in the film is revealed in interviews and documentaries to be a weapon, either missile or bomb. It creates a greater resonance to cut between the first weapon, to the latest. Is mankind evolving through violence, or despite it? The pinnacles of human achievement, its nadirs of destruction, the best and worst of humanity is passed over in a single frame. In the existence of the unnamed, unspecified, unmentioned extra-terrestrial life force which seems to be affecting our evolution, all that has happened either side of this match cut is unworthy of comment. It is merely in reaching a new point — the discovery of the Moon monolith — that significance is found. It is a humbling moment that places the several thousand years of recorded human history in the proper universal context — as inconsequential and fleeting as the blinking of an eye.
Passing by the orbiting weapon is the space shuttle taking Dr Heywood Floyd (William Sylvester) to a space station, and then onto the Moon. Johann Strauss’ (no relation) Blue Danube Waltz plays as Kubrick creates a mesmerising, balletic vision of space objects in motion. It is scenes like this that both distance people but which also draw me in. The beauty of the scene outweighs any perceived lack of narrative drive: To desire a faster pace is to miss the point. We are to revel in the precise beauty of the action. Kubrick is so often accused of being emotionally cold and distant, but the dedication is palpable here. Space is not of hot passion, but of sublime beauty and, in showing the joy of human endeavour, seeks to include us in this.
The Moon section of the film serves as “plot development”. In it we discover that a further monolith has been discovered on the Moon, buried millions of years ago. In finding the monolith, once more Ligeti is played, and we are moved onto the next stage: unspoken (onscreen at least) instructions to travel onwards to Jupiter. 18 months pass, and we join Dave Bowman (Keir Dullea), Frank Poole (Gary Lockwood) and HAL (voiced by Douglas Rain). Perhaps the best known of the sections of the film, it is also the most interesting, narrative-wise. Travelling for unknown reasons, the crew rotate through hyper-sleep while HAL oversees the ship’s running. When HAL malfunctions — something which is never fully explained — it turns against the crew, and Bowman must outsmart it to survive. That HAL is the only sentient being to know about the true mission and, perhaps, what it might mean for humanity — another evolutionary leap — might explain its need for the mission to fail, lest it be overtaken in intelligence. For it is clear that HAL is of superior intellect — any errors it attributes to “human error”, and it is something we take for granted. That it can reason and argue gives way to some fascinating logic exchanges.
Upon reaching Jupiter, Bowman encounters another monolith in orbit — again, Ligeti is played — and those individuals predisposed to partake of certain substances do so here, so as to “enhance” the “stargate” sequence: Kubrick’s visual kaleidoscope of colour, as Bowman moves through time, space, and possibly dimensions. Like many things in the film, little is explained absolutely, but sufficient is given to enable one’s own interpretations to come forth. When he emerges from the other side of the “stargate”, Bowman is in a room that can only be described as “Kubrickian”: one part futuristic glowing flooring; one part 19th century stately home. In turn Bowman observes himself at ever increasing stages in his life, before becoming that stage, eventually leading to himself as an old man in bed. This short series of scenes shows progressive stages in his life, the more easily to see what happens next as being the next stage in his life. For, at the foot of his bed appears the monolith, for the final time. Ligeti plays once more. The camera zooms directly into the monolith until the screen is entirely black before cutting to the “starchild” who is seen in space. Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra plays.
So what does it all mean?
My interpretation is of the film as a visual and aural representative look at evolution, destiny, freewill, and human choice. The monolith is clearly an alien artefact, its placing either signals or inspires evolutionary leaps within mankind. That Ligeti’s music is used to signal this leap makes the very start of the film significant. The black screen is the monolith, just as the screen is filled with the monolith right at the very end of the film, before the birth of the starchild. Either the film itself, Kubrick seems to be saying, is the start of our evolutionary journey, or that creation itself is the work of the monolith-bearing aliens. Are the monoliths, then, from God? Visually, it cannot be a coincidence that the monolith bears a passing resemblance to the stone tablets on which were written the Ten Commandments. Vague religious imagery aside, the idea that the unseen aliens are actually God — or what we comprehend as a creator — is an appealing one. Why would a distant alien become so directly involved with the evolutionary course of humanity, if it didn’t have some vested interest in us? I.e., it created us. The monoliths as signposts, left as alarm signals to indicate humanity has reached each stage set out for them works if one considers the monoliths as having been left by a creator.
This is a more positive interpretation than the one that notes the use of weapons as the point of evolution. This is only true of the first monolith, as encountered by the ape-humans. And even that could easily be construed as use as a tool, rather than a weapon. Use of tools is a well-documented stage within our actual evolutionary past, and its inclusion here indicates a far more potent notifier of evolution than an arbitrary weapon. The orbiting object to which it match cuts is never specified as a weapon in the film, and as such for the purposes of film consideration, is irrelevant. Including the opening black screen, we can consider the five monolithic appearances as denoting the achievement of the following: sentience; use of tools; space travel; interstellar travel; and, post-stargate sequence, inter-dimensional travel.
Which rather begs the question of what happens to free-will, and the truth of human error? If our evolutionary path is laid down, with milestones to be achieved on our way to a new existence, where does this leave our own free-will in the path of our destiny? The idea of free-will, and its alter-ego “human error” is explored with reference to HAL. All problems with the mission are attributed to human error by HAL who, being machine, considers himself faultless. This, despite being man-made and, presumably therefore, also subject to human error. This apparent faultlessness directly informs HAL’s decision to sabotage the mission. If the error that HAL makes — sensing a faulty part that is fully functional — is attributable to human error, then HAL’s logic structure remains intact. If it is actually his own mistake, then he is also subject to human error. The idea of free-will, or human error, combined with evolutionary monoliths (which only HAL knew about on that mission) is such that it is entirely possible that stopping the mission was what HAL considered the only option. All of which is purely speculative. It does however provide a solid thematic basis for a film criticised for a devoid of story. The monoliths are points on a journey, but not necessarily points on the journey. Nor are they temporally-bound. They simply are, and have been, and will be. There may be others — at the bottom of the ocean, in other impossible-to-reach places — simply waiting to be discovered that might send humanity’s journey in other directions. What it means is that humanity has the free-will to make its own choices and, if those choices lead to a monolith, then evolution leaps forward. A sort of, “well done lad, you’re going in the direction”. It makes room for free-will and pre-destination within the same theory.
When one is absorbing a film like 2001, there is plenty of time for contemplation of ideas, philosophies, concepts. What enables this meditative look at the film is the wealth of visual and aural stimuli. One of the significant factors in the film is the design. Kubrick’s microscopic approach to the macroscopic brings a huge amount of satisfaction to the simple act of seeing the film. From the beautiful contrast of the arid, dusty terrain and the hard, black monolith, to the bleach-white space station against the insect-black vastness of space, we have a beauty of design unequalled. Certainly much of the design aesthetic is distinctly drawn from 60s ideas, but as a whole, as a single entity, they work absolutely. The cleanliness of the space station is a direct counterpoint to the dirty, aged future we have come to see as more “authentic”. Nevertheless, that sparkling future meets Kubrick’s aesthetic perfectly. The visual impact of the film, however, is not down to design alone, but by sheer mind-blowing effects work. In today’s CGI-rich film world, we have become complacent about seemingly impossible scenarios or situations. In 1968, everything on the film was created on film. This only goes to make the film more remarkable still. Factor in that sequence as Bowman travels beyond infinity (as amazing today as it was 43 years ago, and I don’t even do drugs), and the Special Effects Oscar is hugely deserved, even if the film was notably absent from winning any other Oscars.
For those unfamiliar with my cinematic tastes, if this article has not implied as much thus far, 2001 is my favourite film of all time. Yet it was not always the case. When I first watched the film, aged 14 or so, I was mystified, understandably. A friend helpfully suggested I read the book which he said “explains everything”. It didn’t. I was left annoyed and I channelled that annoyance into an active hatred of the film. I liked Kubrick’s films, I would say to people, but that 2001 is a load of pretentious twaddle. Avoid. Quite how it made such an absolute about face to become my all-time favourite film, I’m not quite sure. It does give me a certain point of view: I can fully understand why it distances so many people. Consider the film as an experience, not a narrative story, but a visual and aural thematic exploration, and it pays off in myriad ways. My mistake was in attempting to find a narrative through-line, a traditional story. 2001 is anything but traditional, even if the themes it explores are about the root of the very existence that has created tradition.
A film which reveals all its secrets upon the first viewing will not last. The joy of film is upon repeat viewings that continue to yield nuances, themes, ideas, perspectives, or concepts that had previously gone unnoticed. 2001 continues, after dozens of viewings, to throw up new ideas which, as one changes as one ages, impact one in a range of different ways. The precision for which Kubrick is criticised as making his films “too cold” is here responsible for some of the most breath-taking cinema ever. I feel I can only end, as I started, with a quote from the film.
“This conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye.”
HAL-9000
Tim Popple works is the editor ofThe 24th Frame, and can also be found on Twitter.
Hashtag - #kubrickprojectFor more Kubrick, check out the launch page for the project here.
