By TJ GIBSON
Contributing Writer
In the modern cinematic age of cheap thrills and hackneyed plotlines, where every major studio is too busy striving to be the next this or the next that to worry about making anything genuinely original, one has to wonder if there could ever again be another truly great piece of cinematic art awaiting us. There are certainly recent directors who’ve attempted to make one — Guillermo del Toro’s “The Shape of Water” being a strong example — but very few, if any, have indisputably succeeded. Thus, I contend that it’s worth taking a moment to look back on one classic example of a now-legendary director’s success at exactly that: Stanley Kubrick and his seminal 1968 sci-fi escapade, “2001: A Space Odyssey.”
Perhaps one of the greatest technical achievements ever committed to celluloid, Kubrick’s film is virtually perfect and still holds up half a century after its theatrical release. That’s not only in its near-flawless practical effects (which preceded Star Wars by nearly a decade) that still pass as realistic enough in a now CG-dominated art form, but even more so in its absolutely unorthodox approach to nearly every established film convention of its time and ours. It’s these differences, far more than the effects or anything else, that really make “2001: A Space Odyssey” special.
Don’t get me wrong, the effects are fantastic, groundbreaking, and light years beyond their time, but they are ultimately designed more to assist the narrative in inspiring our imaginations — to make us really think about what we’re seeing — than they are to stimulate our senses or excite us on a purely superficial level. This is the case with far too many of today’s cinematic spectacles.
Where a standard contemporary blockbuster is meant to function as a distraction
from our lives and the troubling nature of the human condition, 2001 does the opposite. It forces us to think deeply about our existence, to philosophize in earnest on the meaning of life itself. And because Kubrick stays so uncompromisingly focused to this end, the film never loses its contemplative moxie by trying too hard to also be a blockbuster, much like Ridley Scott’s divisive Prometheus did.
Likewise, the film’s soundtrack also stands in stark contrast to anything we experience in today’s big-ticket films. As opposed to the rousing scores presented to us by composers such as John Williams, Danny Elfman, Hans Zimmer, and the like, Kubrick envelops his film within a bouquet of classical pieces, imbuing the proceedings with an unusual combination of intimacy and majesty.
Thus, when we see a larger-than-life spacecraft floating through the void in 2001, it feels far more like some pirouetting dancer in a cosmic ballet than it does some cold and imposing behemoth. Even with all of the film’s other elements notwithstanding, this alone elevates “2001” beyond the others of its ilk — that is, while other films have surely claimed themselves space operas, this is one of the few films that actually proves it, in all of its sublime, mythic glory.
Though, perhaps the film’s most unique departure from its peers is its thoroughly unconventional and deeply perplexing narrative. As a film that is technically seated in a genre known today for over-explaining every single part of itself in a long series of failed attempts to avoid convolution, “2001” seems far more content to simply let you forge your own path to understanding it in its paradoxically dense sparsity than almost any other film ever made (much less any other science fiction film) would even dare to be.
Granted, one can forgive other filmmakers for their trepidation; after all, the film’s unusual narrative form did earn it more than a little bit of negative press upon its initial release. Reviewers, it seemed, begrudged the film for its infrequent and emotionless dialogue, it’s (at times) painfully slow pacing, the confusing and open-ended closing, and of course, it’s utter unwillingness to spoon-feed its audience anything.
Over time, these elements have become recognized as some of the film’s greatest strengths. For example: the characters’ cold dialogue serves to reinforce the suggestion that the murderous AI system HAL is ironically more “alive” than the technology-dependent human characters. The slow pacing helps the audience to digest every gorgeous shot instead of being ripped away before they can take it all in. The deliberately ambiguous ending leaves the film and its characters’ journeys up to interpretation by the viewer, and the ambiguity of the rest of the film does likewise, which inherently boosts the film’s rewatchability by forcing a need for a few additional sittings to fully grasp it.
Thus, what “2001” really proves, at the end of the day, is that some art simply needs time to soak in the cultural consciousness before it can be truly appreciated. That, along with unconventionality is not just often an indicator of great art, but also an essential precursor to wider shift in the tides for works of art that were once shunned for possessing that very same characteristic. It would seem, ultimately, that directors and studios alike could learn a lot from a closer study of this film, now fifty long years into its illustrious life cycle.
From the stunning practical effects to the deep philosophical implications, “2001: A Space Odyssey” shows that a film doesn’t need to dumb itself down or stick to a proven formula in order to be successful, as evidenced by the fact that it is still very worth looking back on an entire half a century after it was made. Simply put, “2001” is more than just a science fiction film. It is a truly transcendent, revolutionary work of art, which continues to serve dutifully as a timeless masterclass in visual storytelling.
