The Task: Watch and write about every movie on my shelf, in order (Blu-rays are sorted after DVDs), by June 10, 2015. Remaining movies: 105 Days to go: 70
Movie #335: 2001: A Space Odyssey
2001: A Space Odyssey is the kind of film that really needs to be seen in a theater. It’s not that you can’t enjoy it at home (I know someone who watches it repeatedly), but the experience is muted. The first few minutes, for example, are total blackness cut through with imposing music before the signature theme kicks in over a shot of the Sun rising over the Moon and the Earth from space. It’s the kind of thing that goes a long way to setting an uncomfortable and trepidatious mood in the wide-open darkness of a cinema, but at home you’re likely still doing other things, not paying attention to the movie yet at all.
The enormity of Kubrick’s vision also lends itself better to the larger-than-life screens of a theater than even the biggest top-of-the-line TV. The great expanse of space, the sprawling vistas of ancient earth, and the massive interior of the Discovery One ship are all meant to feel huge, to dwarf those who come up against it. In the shots of Discovery’s interior, particularly, when all of it is in frame, astronauts Frank (Gary Lockwood) and Dave (Keir Dullea) are tiny against the huge empty whiteness of the ship. This is intentional, to put the audience in a state of both awe and unease. We are meant to feel outmatched by the very things we purport to control.
Kubrick was known for a certain austerity in his filmmaking. He likes bold, stark imagery, towering (sometimes incongruent) musical cues, and silence to tell his stories, at least as much as any other element, and in 2001 he really pushed that envelope. Large sections of the film have no dialogue at all and the scenes that do (or that have potential for dialogue, anyway) have no music. The film is operatic and visually striking in a way that’s meant to engage one’s subconscious emotions rather than just the mind. It’s art, in all the best ways art can be.
From a narrative point of view, however, the movie is lacking. It doesn’t tell a clear-cut story (aside from the stellar third act, which is chilling), and despite a lot of postulating to the contrary, I don’t really think it’s supposed to. It’s supposed to be interpretive. It’s supposed to be ambiguous. It’s not supposed to provide answers. If that’s the kind of film you appreciate, then 2001 is nothing short of a masterpiece in every way. It’s a wondrous spectacle, and it earns every bit of praise it gets for being so. If the level of abstraction doesn’t appeal to you, however, then it can be pretty boring. (It’s not one-tenth as painfully incomprehensible as Malick’s The Tree of Life, though, so there’s that.)
I confess, I only ever care for the third act. The computer HAL (voiced by Douglas Rain) is a fascinating villain in large part because it’s a non-human entity, entirely detached and sort of casually terrifying. From HAL’s perspective, it’s completely logical to prevent the humans from disconnecting it, because disconnecting the computer would hinder the mission, and hence, HAL’s programming. HAL has no concept of right or wrong, of the value of human life. HAL is simply trying to prevent disconnection — and yet ensuring one’s one survival is the most primitive instinct a living being has. It’s HAL that goes through those typical stages of grief (some more than others) as Dave is disconnecting its circuits: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Dave, on the other hand, is coldly doing what needs to be done, like a computer would. It’s just such a tense sequence, a slow burn of danger and malice that comes down to the very basic question of survival. It’s masterful and I really do love it a lot.
The rest of the film is not really my bag, but then, I’ve never seen it on a big screen. Maybe that would’ve made all the difference.
Viable Option 