2001: A Human Odyssey
SPOILER ALERT - In this essay, I reveal key plot elements of 2001: A Space Odyssey. If you haven't seen the film, you should go watch it, it's fantastic! Make sure you're in a patient, open-minded mood, though.
How would one describe Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey after the first viewing? "Well, there were some apes, some spacemen, an evil computer, and after that I have no idea what happened." However, after multiple viewings, a deeper meaning may emerge, one that transcends time, space, and the film itself. Through unique audio and visual imagery, 2001 derails audiences from their daily tracks and asks them what it means to be human. Through its untraditional plot and characters, 2001 portrays the narrative of humanity's own odyssey toward perfection.
Immediately, the music of 2001 readies the audience for an intellectually deep and powerfully epic film. The three-minute atonal introduction over black reflects prehistory: aimless, primal, and unseen by the higher-level consciousness of the human brain. In the "Dawn of Man" sequence, the choral tone-clusters are both eerily foreign and innately human, coercing the apes to approach the monolith. The music is especially vital in these visually-startling scenes, because as Timothy Corrigan and Nancy White write in The Film Experience, "film music encourages us to be receptive to the information being conveyed by the visual [and] . . . encourages us to let our barriers down" (Corrigan/White 191). Next, the triumphant music signals the ape's transformation into human, just as it later signal's Dave's transformation into star child. The fact that the score is based "around themes provides built-in unity through its structure of repetition and variation" (Corrigan/White 194). The film's music is also critical in setting the tone of the emotionally-sterile space scenes, because "music is subjective, whereas the image is perceived as objective" (Corrigan/White 193). Imagine these long takes of the spaceships without music. Apart from possible boredom or impatience, one would experience no emotion. Because "sounds can interact with images in infinite ways" (Corrigan/White 167), the difference in tone of the spaceship scenes is drastically altered as the lighthearted Strauss' waltz of the beginning is replaced by an ominously dark string piece during the Jupiter mission.
The sound is just as important and artfully crafted as the music in 2001. From the camerawork and locations, one could expect a National Geographic-type narration. But in much of the film we are only given stark diegetic sound. Throughout 2001, sound is carefully placed or omitted to achieve certain reactions from the audience. The minimal use of sound in the Dawn of Man scene accentuates each startling ape noise. In the HAL 9000 segment, a constant white noise suddenly ceases as we enter HAL's perspective, creating a disturbing focus on the visual of his lip-reading. The sound perspective inside Frank's spacesuit reveals panicked breathing in an otherwise emotionally-unreadable space scene. The soothingly consistent radar beeps of the beginning become increasingly erratic as Dave nears Frank's dead body. And finally, the once trustworthy voice-off of HAL becomes frightening as his omnipotence is revealed, and the "regularity of its volume makes it seem to pervade the spaceship even as it retains its intimate quality" (Corrigan/White 186).
The sound montage in 2001's final sequence deserves an essay in itself. Each diegetic sound in the alien house is amplified by echoes and contrasted with utter silence, creating a feeling of surreal isolation. Sporadically-placed, ambiguous noises make "the borders between the nondiegetic and the diegetic . . . difficult to establish" (Corrigan/White 203). Indiscernible voices, whose source is never revealed, create a ghostly effect in these empty rooms. A clever sound transition morphs a sourceless water drip in the bathroom into silverware tapping on a plate in the dining area. Dave's breathing is hauntingly reminiscent of the man-ape grunts of the beginning. Perhaps the sound of breathing, which is prominent throughout the film, serves as a reminder that each of us has the same fundamental structure and primal needs as every human being living, dead, and yet to come.
The sounds of the final sequence cannot be pinpointed as either diegetic or nondiegetic, because we do not know what type of location this house is. The possibility exists that all these nondiegetic sounds are merely in Dave's mind, if it is a purely psychological location, which "suggests an important correlation between a character's state of mind and the place he or she inhabits at that moment in the story" (Corrigan/White 238). On the other hand, this mysterious house could be the aliens' attempt at recreating an Earthly home. Are these voices meant to comfort Dave? The answer depends on the viewer's understanding of this space.
Narrative location is clearly central to 2001. It seems almost half the film is dedicated to long takes of the environment. From the establishing shots of the desert to the polarized landscapes of the other dimension, Kubrick saturates the film with vast, unexplored locales. Their extraordinary depth often serves to humble humanity. For example, Dave is rendered nearly helpless as HAL traps him out in space. At the same time, these immensely open places become ideological and "inscribed with [the] distinctive social [value]" (Corrigan/White 238) of exploration. Even the seams of this dimension become subject to human curiosity. The water hole is another example of an ideological location, as it promotes the social values of competition and dominance. Also a symbolic space, this ape battleground represents the larger battleground of Earth; those with the best weapons win, and they stand tall and proud of a violent victory. Though the locations in 2001 are vastly different, they each produce similar feelings, including confusion, isolation, and wonder. Because humanity shapes each location's meaning, the fragmentation of the narrative setting becomes less abrupt.
2001's fragmented narrative structure itself may be a key to the film's message. Though it is chronologically linear, the actions and events are separated by hundreds of thousands of years. They are still logically connected by the viewer, though, because linear chronology in a film assumes that "past actions generate present situations and decisions made in the present will create future events" (Corrigan/White 234). The implication is that the man-apes' moment of discovery instigated humanity and all its scientific progress. By omitting all of human history in the famous graphic match "cut from a prehistoric bone tossed in the air towards a spaceship" (Corrigan/White 137), Kubrick may be suggesting that all of humanity can be defined by its desire for knowledge and power through technology. Though the heart of the "traditional" story is in the HAL 9000 segment, neither the "Dawn of Man" sequence nor the "Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite" sequence can be dismissed, because "how a movie begins and ends and the relationship between these two poles explain much about a film" (Corrigan/White 234). Only after analyzing the film as a whole do these seemingly distant scenes become intrinsically connected.
Perhaps the best way to understand the significance of the film's monumental timespan is to study that which is consistent throughout: the monolith. Because it "is shown more than once, its value and meaning to the story increase" (Corrigan/White 237). The monolith's narrative frequency and book-end placement reinforce its significance as a major motif of the film. As a metaphorical prop, it is "used to express characters' thoughts and feelings, their powers and abilities in the world, [and] even the primary themes of the film" (Corrigan/White 51). In the Dawn of Man scene, the monolith seems to bestow the apes with an intelligence that sparks humanity as we know it. This is gathered solely from the quick flashback to the monolith inserted in the bone-tool scene. How much humanity owes to this monolith is up to the viewer, as it can be interpreted in a number of ways. From a literal viewpoint, the monolith might be of an alien race that can telepathically push the apes to learn, as in the novel. On the other hand, the monolith might be merely symbolic of the beginning of rationality. In either case, all the apes are drawn to and eventually touch it in these mesmerizing long takes. This suggests an instinctual curiosity that drives human learning and self-improvement.
Unfortunately, humanity's desire for knowledge comes at a high price, like "the Faustian myth of selling one's soul for knowledge and power or the story of Adam and Eve's eating from the tree of knowledge and their subsequent punishment" (Corrigan/White 292). In 2001, the negative consequences of the man-apes' new knowledge are violence, selfishness, and pride. These sins are perpetual and often go hand in hand with technological advancement. From a bone club to the atomic bomb, much of technology has been used for evil purposes. However, as we enter space in 2001, we see a more peaceful side of technology, as the spaceships float gracefully to Strauss' "Blue Danube." Perhaps this signifies a new era of humanity unbound by war. On the other hand, we cannot jump to conclusions, because we never experience life on Earth in this era, other than through the limited scope of the television.
Science fiction consistently reminds us that with each new technological advancement, our world has, as J.P. Telotte writes in Science Fiction Film, "increasingly replaced thought, consideration, and the human weighing of values with a mechanic computing of choices, with the prediction of profits and losses, with bottom-line thinking" (Telotte 178). The ultra-rational HAL 9000 computer is a great example. He is deemed "errorless" by mission control, and he alone is entrusted with the mission plans. But is being free from error equivalent to perfection? Dave's human instinct eventually triumphs over HAL's cold rationality, so perhaps flawless calculation cannot be regarded as perfection in a being. And though human motivation is shifting away from natural instinct and towards reasoned thought, HAL's descent into villainy suggests that pure rationality is a goal we should never achieve. We must keep this in mind as science threatens to "begin the process of remaking, reshaping, perhaps even perfecting the self, while at the same time germinating the technology that could eventuate in these same technological creations finally replacing the self" (Telotte 161).
Is HAL a true replacement of the self? In terms of piloting the ship, HAL performs far beyond human capacity. But can he really "feel it" when his mind is shutting down? Is he ever really "afraid"? Whether or not HAL feels emotion depends on its definition. If emotion is nothing more than neurons firing and chemicals responding, as a scientific view of the body holds, then yes, HAL experiences a stripped-down version through his emotional programming. This is why artificial intelligence can be threatening; if HAL's programming perfectly emulates human emotion, how is our own "programming" any different? Isaac Asimov, in The Thinking Machine, writes that "the difference between a brain and a computer can be expressed in a single word: complexity . . . if a computer can be made complex enough, it can be as creative as we." The religious belief that humanity was created uniquely in God's image is put into question by our own re-creation of the human mind. We are confronted with a disturbing, materialistic view in which a human is merely "one more construct within a world of artifice" (Telotte 163). The idea that the universe is nothing more than physical matter challenges our spiritual definition of the human soul.
However, 2001 seems to imply that our understanding of the universe is simply limited by our physical nature. The film's visual symbolism provides a glimpse into the world which we cannot fully comprehend. The monolith's unnaturally-perfect rectangular shape and the spherical sun and moon suggest transcendent forms that the man-apes may one day understand and even manipulate. Indeed, humanity has attempted to duplicate this transcendence through technology, as the sun-like eye of HAL, surrounded by a monolith-proportioned rectangle, suggests. We often put technology on a sacred pedestal, and allow it to dominate our lives. The utter pervasiveness of it is shown in the character blocking of the secret pod conversation, where HAL is centered between Dave and Frank in one long take. What happens when our material technology, which defines humanity in 2001, becomes our demise? We must then step out of our artificial shells, just as Dave steps out of the pod, which could only bring him so far in his quest for knowledge. Why was the spaceman not transformed earlier when he touched the monolith on the moon? Perhaps his gloved hand signaled a reluctance to abandon the material world he has based his life around. Only Dave, who learns of the world beyond our fleeting and materialistic one, is given the ultimate privilege to be reborn in a transcendent form.
Dave's development as a character may provide insight into the nature of the odyssey. He undergoes multiple types of character development: "external and internal changes and progressive and regressive developments" (229). We see a startling external regression in the final sequence as Dave's body ages by decades in a few minutes of film. This bizarre shot/reverse shot with himself suggests that this alien house is unbound by our world's limited understanding of time and space. Dave's shocked confrontation with himself in the mirror makes us question whether his external change parallels his internal change. During this unbelievable journey through alter dimensions, Dave has probably internally "aged" beyond any earthbound human, to a point where the material body becomes nothing more than this blurred image. The mirror and the multiple images of Dave challenge "our usual sense of the individual as a whole and unique subject" (Telotte 170). This fragmentation is experienced by all of us at one point or another as we confront our own multiple identities. Because Dave's personal identity is not deeply defined in the narrative, he becomes representative of all of us. His odyssey is our own, as are his struggles and triumphs. We see the broken glass through our own eyes, and wonder, just like Dave, whether our own bodies are as useless after they break. However, Dave's rebirth is uplifting, because it suggests the possibility of a unifying and progressive transformation for all of us.
Timothy Corrigan and Patricia White confront us with a question about narrative intent: does 2001 "assume a position of divine wonder at the span of human development? Or could that narrative stance be better described as a satirical vision, quietly mocking that history of human desire" (Corrigan/White 240)? In the end, it seems that neither one fully describes the film's statement. From the violent early humans to the darkly rational creation of HAL, it is clear humanity's progress is far from perfect. However, the end of the film inspires hope that eventually we may transcend the state of being we experience from day to day. As the reborn star child turns to confront Earth, it challenges us to envision life beyond our own materialistic needs and wants.