You Don’t Live on a Planet
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Roger Ebert on Human Identity and 2001: A Space Odyssey
I didn’t need Roger Ebert to convince me that 2001: A Space Odyssey is a great movie — I was already a true believer. I’ve seen the film a couple of dozen times, and I’m left speechless with every viewing. It has always been difficult, however, for me to put into words just why Stanley Kubrick’s film is so overwhelming. That’s where Ebert comes in. His essays on the world’s “Great Movies” describe how filmmakers use craft to deliver a variety of experiences to viewers. In the case of 2001, Kubrick uses a balletic musical score, unique storytelling methods, and stunning visuals to challenge viewers to “think big” about what it means to be human.
Synopsis
In the film’s opening frames, Earth, moon and sun align in preface to an evolutionary leap for humanity. Soon after, an alien object — a mysterious black monolith — appears before a tribe of hominids and opens their minds to rational thinking. The hominids quickly learn to use bones as weapons and become the dominant animal species on earth. With tools at the ready, human evolution moves outside the human body.
Flash forward a few million years, and we catch up with humanity aboard a spacecraft destined for the moon. At an excavation site just below the lunar surface, Dr. Heywood Floyd records the greatest discovery in human history: a mysterious monolith of clearly intelligent design. Once more, humanity is set for a great leap forward.
That leap comes in the form of the Hal 9000, a supercomputer with a flawless “operational record” and a seemingly human personality. The Hal 9000 is the central nervous system of the Discovery One, a spaceship destined for Jupiter. Hal manages the vessel’s operations in collaboration with its human crew — Dr. Bowman and Dr. Poole. Tensions rise when Hal mistakenly diagnoses a maintenance issue on the ship, and Bowman and Poole agree to disconnect him and turn command of the Discovery One over to mission control. Hal, wise to their intentions, manages to kill Dr. Poole, but Dr. Bowman survives and disconnects Hal thereafter. As his functions fail, Hal pleads with Bowman to spare him, and expresses more human emotion in that moment than any other character in the film. Kubrick’s humanist intentions become clear here — natural selection chooses the human body over the hard-drive, even though Hal’s personality seems more human than Dr. Bowman’s. Human evolution, turned for so long outside the human body, returns here to its flesh and blood origins.
The Discovery One then encounters another monolith, which propels Dr. Bowman through a “star gate.” His journey concludes, strangely, in a bedroom. Bowman proceeds to encounter himself at successively later intervals of life, each time assuming the body of his older self. For Bowman, it seems, time no longer has any meaning. Finally, lying infirm on his death bed, the monolith appears before him once more, and Bowman is transformed into the iconic Star-Child, an advanced form of life that seems to be more spirit than body. At the movie’s end, the Star-Child has Earth in view, ready to start evolution anew.
Roger Ebert’s Review
Roger Ebert was effusive in his praise of 2001. Rather than existing, like so many other movies, as an exercise in cheap thrills or bombastic imagery, Kubrick’s film, according to Ebert, is an attempt to “inspire our awe.” Of 2001’s score Ebert was particularly enamored; whereas most films would “trivialize” a score comprised of classical music, Ebert contends that “Blue Danube” and Thus Spake Zarathustra are enhanced by their connection to Kubrick’s images. I happen to agree; because of 2001, I can no longer hear the mighty drums of Thus Spake Zarathustra without seeing the planets align for the birth of the Star-Child. These images conjure possibilities that are more-than-human, and Kubrick’s musical choices raise the emotional pitch to overwhelming heights.
Ebert was also quick to praise Kubrick’s unusual storytelling methods and stunning visuals. Rather than meeting the typical audience expectations for a “clear narrative and easy entertainment cues,” Kubrick challenged his audience to consider humanity’s “place in the universe.” 2001 therefore has a thematic arc, not a narrative one; Kubrick’s humanism is drawn into his images, rather than crafted into a story. Ebert’s most astonishing praise of 2001 concerns those images: Kubrick, he writes, “[uses] images as those before him used words, music, or prayer.” That Kubrick’s visuals are prayerful had never occurred to me before, though I agree with the sentiment — viewing the Star-Child is something akin to a spiritual experience.
Ebert’s Criterion for Greatness
Ebert’s introduction to The Great Movies puts forward a bold claim: “Of all the arts, movies are the most powerful aid to empathy, and the good ones can make us into better people.” I’m a bit skeptical of this claim, but I’m willing to follow Ebert’s lead because I truly do want to be more empathetic (plus I just plain love the movies). So how does 2001 work to cultivate empathy, and how does Roger Ebert make the connection between film and feeling?
2001 is a Curative for Self-Importance
Posthumanism is a field of identity theory that focuses on humanity’s place in the universe. Its central thesis is that humans are neither the crown of creation nor the center of “it all.” Instead, we humans are important, but no more important than anything else, including inanimate objects. Understandably, for most people, that is a difficult pill to swallow.
Consider, however, the Hal 9000. Hal is supremely intelligent and affable, though he is also egotistical and self-deluded about his own shortcomings. In all these traits, Hal seems more “human” than his human counterparts, who go about their lives aboard the Discovery One quite mechanically. As Bowman gradually disconnects him, Hal reverts to his initial programming and delivers an anesthetized rehearsal of the children’s song “Daisy” before he passes. It is a sad moment. We know Hal isn’t human, but we feel for him despite his non-human status and despite Kubrick’s humanist intentions. Dr. Bowman is important, his life is valuable, but Hal’s life is important, too.
Whereas the fate of the Hal 9000 serves to humble humanity, 2001’s theme of human evolution suggests that we will one day be better than we are now. The Star-Child is a symbol of that future, a future where the human spirit ultimately triumphs over the all-too-human character flaws — ego, insecurity, fear of “others” — of the Hal 9000. Ebert himself perhaps summed-up these musings best: “We live not on a planet, but among the stars…we are not flesh, but intelligence.” Among the stars, yes — people, Hal, and the creators of the monolith, alike. In this view, with the camera’s lens directed not at Earth but at the cosmos, and with a broad definition of the human as simply “intelligence,” what differences among people — or intelligent “things” — really remain?
Maybe it’s not so Great After all?
We would not be doing our quest for empathy justice if we didn’t turn a critical eye towards Ebert and his recommendations. The same is true for our hope to define what qualities make for great movies. That said, a few points of criticism are in order:
Issues of Representation
Women are portrayed as interstellar flight attendants who serve the needs of men doing more “important” work in 2001. There is nothing wrong with being a flight attendant, mind you, but there is something wrong with portraying it as “women’s work,” and that’s what 2001 does. Furthermore, human evolution is tied to the fate of one, solitary white man in 2001. The Star-Child is clearly white, too, which means the future of humanity is white. Again, I am overwhelmed every time I see the birth of the Star-Child, but I doubt my experience is truly universal. I dare say that many people would find the lily-white god-baby insufferable, in fact I’m sure of it. Point being, each person needs to decide for themselves, which seems to disqualify 2001 from the ranks of unqualified, universally great movies.
What Story?
As Ebert recalls, Rock Hudson stormed out of the first screening of 2001, loudly complaining “Will someone tell me what the hell this is about?” Rock was not alone in his vexation. For many, 2001 is so ambiguous that any interpretation of it is as good as the next. It’s a case of the emperor’s new clothes — everyone insists something is there, so we start to believe it despite the absence of any evidence. Even Ebert says the film is “willfully anti-narrative.” If the movie isn’t saying anything, then why should we care?
Say Something Already
Vast stretches of the movie proceed without any talking, and what little dialogue we do hear is mainly about showing people speaking, rather than exposition, conflict, or any other element of story craft. Ebert claims 2001 is virtually “a silent movie.” As such, it will probably strain the attention of many viewers, especially since the film is nearly 2 ½ hours long.
The Verdict
I personally love 2001. I stand by my experience of it, but I doubt that everyone will share my feelings, even if the hurdles of Kubrick’s narrative style can be cleared. It is entirely fair to question the empathy quotient of any film that limits its human portrayals to white men. And if empathy farming is the purpose of watching “great movies,” then I find it difficult to endorse 2001 as a universally great film. That said, 2001: A Space Odyssey is an important work that everyone should see. For better or worse, it is a cultural touchstone, both highly influential and technically groundbreaking. It is “great” for these reasons alone, though perhaps if we started referring to Kubrick as “Kubrick the Great and Terrible,” we might adequately contextualize the greatness of 2001.
All quotes from The Great Movies, Roger Ebert, 2002 Broadway Books.
Dustin T. Cox is a freelance writer and author of the movie review blog Ebert and Me.
