The Harvard Crimson Review of 2001
by Tim Hunter,
As a film about progress -- physical, social, and technological --
Stanley Kubrick's huge and provocative 2001: A Space Odyssey remains
essentially linear until its extraordinary ending. In the final
transfiguration, director Kubrick and co-author Arthur Clarke
(Childhood's End) suggest that evolutionary progress may in fact be
cyclical, perhaps in the shape of a helix formation. Man progresses to
a certain point in evolution, then begins again from scratch on a
higher level. Much of 2001's conceptual originality derives from its
being both anti-Christian and antievolutionary in its theme of man's
progress controlled by an ambiguous extraterrestrial force, possibly
both capricious and destructive.
If the above seems a roundabout way to open a discussion of an eleven-
million-dollar Cinerama spectacular, it can only be said that Kubrick's
film is as personal as it is expensive, and as ambitious an attempt at
metaphysical philosophy as it is at creating a superb science-fiction
genre film. Consequently, 2001 is probable commercial poison.
A sure-fire audience baffler guaranteed to empty any theater of ten percent of
its audience, 2001 is even now being reedited by Kubrick to shorten the
165 minute length by 15-odd minutes. 2001, as it is being shown in
Boston now, is in a transitional stage, the theater currently
exhibiting a splice-ridden rough-cut while awaiting new prints from the
M-G-M labs. Although some sequences are gone, most of the cutting
consists of shortening lengthy shots that dwelled on slow and difficult
operation of space-age machinery. Kubrick probably regrets his current
job of attempting to satisfy future audiences: the trimming of two
sequences involving the mechanics of entering and controlling "space
pods," one-man spaceships launched from the larger craft, may emphasize
plot action but only at the expense of the eerie and important
continuity of technology that dominates most of the film. 2001 is,
among other things, a slow-paced intricate stab at creating an
aesthetic from natural and material things we have never seen before:
the film's opening, "The Dawn of Man," takes place four million years
ago (with a cast composed solely of australopithecines, tapirs, and a
prehistoric leopard), and a quick cut takes us past the history of man
into the future.
Kubrick's dilemma in terms of satisfying an audience is that his best
work in 2001 is plotless slow-paced material, an always successful
creation of often ritualistic behavior of apes, men, and machines with
whom we are totally unfamiliar. In the longer version, the opening of
Astronaut Poole's (Gary Lockwood) pod scene is shot identically to the
preceding pod scene with Astronaut Bowman (Keir Dullea), stressing
standardized operational method by duplicating camera setups. This
laborious preparation may appear initially repetitive until Poole's
computer-controlled pod turns on him and murders him in space, thus
justifying the prior duplication by undercutting it with a terrifyingly
different conclusion. Throughout 2001, Kubrick suggests a constantly
shifting balance between man and his tools, a dimension that largely
vanishes from this particular scene in cutting the first half and
making the murder more abrupt dramatically than any other single action
in the film.
Even compromised in order to placate audiences, Kubrick's handling of
the visual relationship between time and space is more than impressive.
He has discovered that slow movement (of spacecraft, for example) is as
impressive on a Cinerama screen as fast movement (the famous Cinerama
roller-coaster approach), also that properly timed sequences of slow
movement actually appear more real -- sometimes even faster -- than
equally long long sequences of fast motion shots. No film in history
achieves the degree of three-dimensional depth maintained consistently
in 2001 (and climaxed rhapsodically in a shot of a pulsating stellar
galaxy); Kubrick frequently focuses our attention to one side of the
wide screen, then introduces an element from the opposite corner,
forcing a reorientation which heightens our sense of personal
observation of spontaneous reality.
His triumph, both in terms of film technique and directorial approach,
is in the audience's almost immediate acceptance of special effects as
reality: after we have seen a stewardess walk up a wall and across the
ceiling early in the film, we no longer question similar amazements and
accept Kubrick's new world without question. The credibility of the
special effects established, we can suspend disbelief, to use a
justifiable cliche, and revel in the beauty and imagination of
Kubrick/Clarke's space. And turn to the challenging substance of the
excellent screenplay.
2001 begins with a shot of an eclipse condition: the Earth, moon, and
sun in orbital conjunction, shown on a single vertical plane in center
screen. The image is central and becomes one of three prerequisites for
each major progression made in the film.
The initial act of progress is evolutionary. A series of brief scenes
establishes the life cycle of the australopithecine before its division
into what became both ape and man -- they eat grass, are victimized by
carnivores, huddle together defensively. One morning they awake to find
in their midst a tall, thin, black rectangular monolith, its base
embedded in the ground, towering monumentally above them, plainly not a
natural formation. They touch it, and we note at that moment that the
moon and sun are in orbital conjunction.
In the following scene, an australopithecine discovers what we will
call the tool, a bone from a skeleton which, when used as an extension
of the arm, adds considerably to the creature's strength. The discovery
is executed in brilliant slow-motion montage of the pre-ape destroying
the skeleton with the bone, establishing Kubrick and Clarke's
subjective anthropological notion that the discovery of the tool was
identical to that of the weapon. The "dawn of man," then, is
represented by a coupling of progress and destruction; a theme of
murder runs through 2001 simultaneously with that of progress.
Ultimately, Kubrick shows an ambiguous spiritual growth through
physical death.
The transition from prehistory to future becomes a simple cut from the
bone descending in the air to a rocket preparing to land at a space
station midway between Earth and Moon. A classic example of Bazin's
"associative montage," the cut proves an effective, if simplistic,
method of bypassing history and setting up the link between bone and
rocket as the spectral tools of man, one primitive and one incredibly
sophisticated.
On the Moon, American scientists discover an identical black monolith,
apparently buried over four million years before, completely inert save
for the constant emission of a powerful radio signal directed toward
Jupiter. The scientists examine it (touching it tentatively as the apes
did) at a moment when the Earth and sun are in conjunctive orbit. They
conclude that some form of life on Jupiter may have placed the monolith
there and, fourteen months later, an expedition is sent to Jupiter to
investigate.
Two major progressions have been made: an evolutionary progression in
the discovery of the tool, and a technological progression inherent in
the trip to Jupiter. The discovery of the monolith has preceded each
advance, and with it the conjunction of the sun and moons of a given
planet, as well as the presence of ape or human at a stage of
development where they are ready to make the significant progression.
The monolith, then, begins to represent something of a deity; for our
own purposes, we will assume that, given the three conditions, the
inert monolith actually teaches or inspires ape and man to make the
crucial advance. Therefore, it becomes a major force in man's
evolution: man is not responsible for his own development, and perhaps
the monolith even brings the men to it at the precise moment of the
conjunctive orbits.
To Kubrick, this dehumanization is more than the result of the
undefined force exerted by the monolith and proves a direct consequence
of advanced technology. Kubrick is no stranger to the subject: The Killing
and Lolita both involve man's self-expression through the
automobile; Spartacus's defeat comes because he is not adequately
prepared to meet the advanced military technology of the Roman army;
Dr. Strangelove, of course, contains a running motif of machines
assuming human characteristics (the machine sexuality of its opening
titles) while humans become machinelike, a theme carried further in
2001. The central portion of 2001, the trip to Jupiter, can, as an
odyssey toward a final progression of man, concern itself largely with
Kubrick's persistent preoccupation of the relationship between man and
his tools.
Kubrick prepares us for the ultimate emotional detachment of Bowman and
Poole; his characterization of Dr. Floyd, the protagonist of the Moon
sequence and the initiator of the Jupiter expedition, stresses his
coldness, noticeably in a telephone conversation with his young
daughter, a dialogue which suggests a reliance on manipulating her more
than it demonstrates any love for her. These men, all professional, are
no longer excited by space travel: they sleep during flights and pay no
attention to what-we-consider-extraordinary phenomenon occuring
before their eyes (the rapid rotation of the Earth in the background
during the telephone scene).
Bowman and Poole are inhuman. Their faces register no emotion and they
show no tension; their few decisions are always logical and the two
always agree; Poole greets a televised birthday message from his gauche
middle-class parents on Earth with complete lack of interest -- he is,
for practical purposes, no longer their child. With subtle humor,
Kubrick separates one from the other only in their choice of food from
the dispensing machine: Poole chooses food with clashing colors and
Bowman selects a meal composed entirely within the ochre-to-dark brown
range. In a fascinating selection of material, Kubrick omits the actual
act of Poole's murder, cutting to his body in space directly after the
mechanical pod-hands sever his air hose, thus taking emphasis off any
identification we might suddenly feel and turning the murder into cold,
further dehumanized abstraction.
The only human in the film is HAL 9000, the super-computer which runs
the ship and exhibits all the emotional traits lacking in Bowman and
Poole. The script development is, again, linear: the accepted
relationship of man using machine is presented initially, then
discarded in favor of an equal balance between the two (HAL, for
example, asks Bowman to show him some sketches, then comments on them).
This equilibrium where men and machine perversely share characteristics
shatters only when HAL mistakenly detects a fault in the communications
system. The HAL computers cannot make mistakes and a confirmation of
the error would necessitate disconnection. At this point the balance
shifts again: Bowman asks HAL to explain his mistake and HAL denies it,
attributing it to "human error"; we are reminded of the maxim, "a bad
workman blames his tools," and realize HAL is acting from a distinctly
human point of view in trying to cover up his error.
As the only human in the film HAL proves a greater murderer than any of
the men. Returning 2001 to the theme of inherent destruction in social
and technological progress, Kubrick's chilling last-shot-before-the-
intermission (a shot from HAL's point-of-view, lip-reading a
conversation of Bowman and Poole deciding to dismantle him if the
mistake is confirmed) suggests the potential of machine to control man,
the ultimate reversal of roles in a situation where man makes machines
in his own image. HAL's success is partial; he murders Poole, and the
three doctors on the ship in a state of induced hibernation. The murder
of the sleeping doctors is filmed almost entirely as closeups of
electronically controlled charts, a pulsating coordination of
respiration regulators, cardiographs, and encephalographs. HAL shuts
his power off gradually and we experience the ultimate dehumanization
of watching men die not in their bed-coffins but in the diminished
activity of the lines on the charts.
In attempting to reenter the ship from the pod he has used to retrieve
Poole's corpse, Bowman must improvise -- for the first time -- ad-lib
emergency procedures to break in against HAL's wishes. His
determination is perhaps motivated by the first anger he has shown, and
is certainly indicative of a crucial reassertion of man over machine,
again shifting the film's balance concerning the relationship between
man and tool. In a brilliant and indescribable sequence, preceded by
some stunning low-angle camera gyrations as Bowman makes his way toward
HAL's controls, the man performs a 1obotomy on the computer,
dismantling all except its mechanical functions. Symbolically, it is
the murder of an equal, and HAL's "death" becomes the only empathy-
evoking scene in 2001. Unlike any of the humans, HAL dies a natural
human death at Bowman's hand, slowing down into senility and second
childhood, until he remembers only his first programmed memory, the
song "Daisy," which he sings until his final expiration.
Bowman's complex act parallels that of the australopithecus: his use of
the pod ejector to reenter the craft was improvisational, the mechanism
undoubtedly designed for a different purpose -- this referring to the
use of bone as weapon-tool. Finally in committing murder, Bowman has
essentially lost his dehumanization and become an archetypal new being:
one worthy of the transcendental experience that follows. For the last
part of the film, we must assume Bowman an individual by virtue of his
improvised triumph over the complex computer. Left alone in the
spaceship, Bowman sees the monolith slab floating in space in Jupiter's
atmosphere and takes off in a pod to follow it; knowing by now the
properties of the pod, we can conjure images of the mechanical arms
controlled by Bowman reaching to touch the monolith as did the
australopithecines and the humans. The nine moons of Jupiter are in
orbital conjunction (a near-impossible astronomical occurrence) and the
monolith floats into that orbit and disappears. Bowman follows it and
enters what Clarke calls the timespace warp, a zone "beyond the
infinite" conceived cinematically as a five-minute three-part light
show, and intercut with frozen details of Bowman's reactions.
If the monolith has previously guided man to major evolutionary and
technological progression, it leads Bowman now into a realm of
perception man cannot conceive, an experience unbearable for him to
endure while simultaneously marking a new level in his progress. The
frozen shots intercut with the light sequences show, debatably,
Bowman's horror in terms of perception and physical ordeal, and his
physical death: the last of many multicolored solarized close-ups of
his eye appears entirely flesh-colored, and, if we are justified in
creating a color metaphor, the eye is totally wasted, almost subsumed
into a pallid flesh. When man journeys far enough into time and space,
Kubrick and Clarke are saying, man will find things he has no right to
see.
But this is not, as Clarke suggests in Life, the end of an Ahab-like
quest on the part of men driven to seek the outer reaches of the
universe. Bowman is led into the time warp by the monolith. The Moon
monolith's radio signals directed toward Jupiter were not indicative of
life as we know it on Jupiter, but were a roadmap, in effect, to show
Bowman how to find his way to the monolith that guides him toward
transcendent experience.
At the end, Bowman, probably dead (if we are to interpret makeup in
conventional terms), finds himself in a room decorated with Louis XVI
period furniture with fluorescent-lighted floors. He sees himself at
different stages of old age and physical decay. Perhaps he is seeing
representative stages of what his life would have been had he not been
drawn into the infinite. As a bed-ridden dying man, the monolith
appears before him and he reaches out to it. He is replaced by a
glowing embryo on the bed and, presumably, reborn or transfigured into
an embryo-baby enclosed in a sphere in our own solar system, watching
Earth. He has plainly become an integral part of the cosmos, perhaps as
Life suggests, as a "star-child" or, as Penelope Gilliatt suggests, as
the first of a species of mutant that will inhabit the Earth and begin
to grow. What seemed a linear progression may ultimately be cyclical,
in that the final effect of the monolith on man can be interpreted as a
progress ending in the beginning of a new revolutionary cycle on a
vastly higher plane. But the intrinsic suggestiveness of the final
image is such that any consistent theory about the nature of 2001 can
be extended to apply to the last shot: there are no clear answers.
Several less-than-affirmative ideas can be advanced. The monolith is a
representation of an extraterrestrial force which keeps mankind (and
finally Bowman) under observation, and manipulates it at will. Man's
progress is not of his own making, but a function of the monolith --
man cannot predict, therefore, the ensuing stages of his own evolution.
That the initiation of man into higher stages of development involves
murder casts ambiguity as to the nature of the monolith force. In its
statement that man cannot control his destiny, 2001 is antihumanistic
-- this also in the concept that what we consider humanity is actually
a finite set of traits reproducible by machines.
The final appearance of the Louis XVI room suggests that Bowman was, in
fact, being observed as if he were a rat in a maze, perhaps to test his
readiness for a further progression, this time a transcendence. The
decor of the room is probably not significant, and is either an
arbitrary choice made by the observers, or else a projection of
Bowman's own personality (the floor and the food are specifically
within Bowman's immediate frame of reference).
If Kubrick's superb film has a problem, it may simply be that great
philosophical-metaphysical films about human progress and man's
relationship to the cosmos have one strike against them when they
attempt to be literally just that. Rossellini's radiant religious films
or Bresson's meditative asceticism ultimately say far more, I think,
than Kubrick's far-more-ambitious attempt at synthesizing genre and
meaning.
Nevertheless, 2001: A Space Odyssey cannot be easily judged if only
because of its dazzling technical perfection. To be able to see beyond
that may take a few years. When we have grown used to beautiful strange
machines, and the wonder of Kubrick's special effects wears off by
duplication in other Hollywood films, then we can probe confidently
beyond 2001's initial fascination and decide what kind of a film it
really is.
with Stephen Kaplan and Peter Jaszi