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ILLUMINATING CINEMA: 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY (1968)

Beyond the Tyranny of Flesh: Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey

By

Andrew Owen, PhD

Stanley Kubrick intended for the film to be “an intensely subjective experience,” to craft a

narrative that would purposefully defy an objective interpretation; consequently, any attempt to

provide one, not only intentionally contradicts the director’s desires, it also runs the risk of

emasculating the work, painting it with a veneer of explanation that only succeeds in a simplistic

form of categorization, limiting its strength. A mere exercise in vanity that is unable to express

appreciation without forcing an interpretation onto others. This is something that I have no

desire to do. To write something, or, for that matter, present something in the guise of a single

defining objective interpretation of this work of art would be both arrogant and foolish; in all

honesty, in light of Kubrick’s comments, it would run the risk of being a little bit of a waste of

time for everyone involved. Simply put, it is something I have no desire or intention to even

attempt. Now, this might obviously present us with a problem regarding what to do with the

remainder of this article. However, fear not, Kubrick offers me, and you, an out, stating that,

“you’re free to speculate all you want about the philosophical and allegorical meaning of the

film,” (Nordern, 1968), believing that for us to do so is indicative of the film’s power and potency.

A perspective that is hard to argue with, especially given that this year marks the fiftyieth

anniversary of its release; and we’re still watching it, and still talking about it.

Consequently, this article is merely my own subjective interpretations of the film, at least

as it stands in 2018 (it can change, as I change, which is one of its greatest achievements). Besides,

I can’t help thinking of Rock Hudson, storming out of the film’s premier, asking if anyone can tell

him what it was all about. Well, the simple answer is no, at least not objectively, but we can have

a talk about it.

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But where do you begin?

Well, perhaps the best place to start is by thinking about the creation of a narrative, be it

film or some other medium, that is capable of defying objective interpretation, and therefore

allowing for purely subjective speculation. With other forms of art, such dynamics seem more

readily established, whether in music, art, dance, etc. But what about dramatic narrative? Within

playwriting, Harold Pinter had pioneered such an approach, purposely creating characters in

which motivation and, indeed, explanation for behavior and attitude had been deliberately

omitted. A scenario that Pinter had constructed in a bid to ensure that the audience are forced

to actively participate in the interpretation of the work, rather than remain simple passive

recipients of drama. Pinter would even go so far as to deny his actors’ requests for greater

understanding of character motivation when preparing for their roles. Evidence exists that

Pinter’s influence does extend into the area of film, particularly in the late twentieth century,

with his approach being especially influential on the early work of William Friedkin.

Kubrick’s success with the technique was commented on contemporaneously by

respected British film critic, Alexander Walker, who, in a 1971 book focusing exclusively on

Kubrick’s work, described 2001 as, “the most impressive feat of filmmaking that [Kubrick] has

undertaken to date;” stating that the director’s deconstruction of narrative logic has ensured,

“an act of continuous inference on the part of the viewers to fill in the field of attention by making

their own imaginative connections” (1971: 266-7). It is precisely the need for these “imaginative

connections” regarding narrative development which is the basis for ensuring full participatory

immersion on the part of the audience, as they attempt to struggle to subjectively instill a form

of logical and linear cohesion onto the visual narrative that is unfolding before them. As Kubrick

pointed out, the film is a “nonverbal experience,” with only forty minutes of dialogue being

present within the two hours twenty-eight minutes of film.

With a background in sociology, my “imaginative connections” are typically founded on

the social and cultural context within which the film was made, arguing that the work, like any

artistic creation, is ultimately a material representation of the socio-historical forces present at

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the time of its creation. Given that 2001 was released in 1968, those forces were powerful

indeed.

It is somewhat of a cheap trick, an easy juxtaposition, to contrast the events of the late

1960s with that of the comments made by Lyndon Johnson in May 1964; in which the President

argued that America would reach the status of a “Great Society” by the end of the decade. As

defined by Johnson, the Great Society would be characterized by an abundance for all, an end to

poverty and racial injustice, where every child would receive the education needed to enrich their

minds and take their rightful place in a truly equal society. Given that hindsight is twenty-twenty,

as the saying goes, from the perspective of the twenty-first century, these comments seem

laughable, albeit in a morbidly humorous way, given our knowledge of what was to transpire: the

escalation of military commitment in Vietnam; the attendant violently contested draft policy; the

events surrounding the Chicago Democratic Convention; urban riots germinating from deep

rooted racial ideologies that had long infected the American body-politic; the assassinations of

individuals, such as Martin Luther King (April, 1968) and Robert Kennedy (June, 1968), whose

deaths seemed to signal the end of any egalitarian hope for the nation’s future.

These are to name just a few.

In the years following the film’s release other stories confirming the nihilistic savagery

and despondency which had engulfed the nation dominated news media. Obvious examples

include the Manson family killings, culminating in the murder of actress Sharon Tate in August,

1969; the events at Altamont in December, 1969, which, with the killing of Meredith Hunter at

the hands of a Hell’s Angel, simultaneously murdered any hope created during the Summer of

Love; finally, in May, 1970, the National Guard opened fire on unarmed Kent State students

protesting the U.S. invasion of Cambodia, killing five.

Given such a socio-historical context it would seem obvious that Kubrick’s film would be

a bleak representation of human society, especially in relation to the species’ future. This is

certainly a position that he had taken with his previous film, Dr. Strangelove (1964), a satirical

comedy co-scripted by Terry Southern, that encapsulated the paranoia of early sixties Cold War

America; echoing such tactical aggressive policies as the Bay of Pigs Invasion from April 1961 and

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the Cuban Missile Crisis from October 1962. The film is replete with the fantastically ironic line,

“No fighting in the War room,” succeeding in brilliantly juxtaposing twentieth century

conceptions of political civility with that of the rabid desire to create greater, more destructive

weaponry. A beautiful echoing of Eisenhower’s “Military Industrial Complex” warning of a few

years previously.

And of course, it doesn’t end there. Kubrick’s subsequent film, following 2001, was the

adaption of Anthony Burgess’ 1962 novel, A Clockwork Orange, which, to deliberately dismiss the

hyperbolic sensationalism surrounding the film’s violence, is in reality, like, Dr. Strangelove, a

satirical meditation on the Government’s right to manipulate the population’s attitude and

behavior, deliberately manufacturing psychological wellbeing in order to coerce conformity to

established codes of societal conduct, be they legal or moral. Again, portraying a bleak image of

leadership, the narrative paints an image of an overtly political controlling group more interested

in voting polls and public image, rather than the welfare of the society they purport to govern.

However, although released during a time of massive social unrest, and standing amid

what can be construed as, satirical attacks on the leadership prowess of the government and

military, I would contend that 2001, rather than offering its audience further evidence for the

downfall of humankind amid the flames of rampant militarism and capitalist greed, projects an

optimistic perspective for the species’ future, while simultaneously acknowledging the paranoia

and violence of the present.

Kubrick had at least considered the use of science fiction during the preliminary

development of Dr. Strangelove, with an early draft of the script featuring a futuristic voiceover

at the film’s conclusion, heard as the image of nuclear destruction fills the screen. The

disembodied voice would inform the audience that “this quaint comedy,” was set during a time,

“when the primitive organization of sovereign nations flourished, and the archaic institution of

War had not yet been forbidden by law.” Although ultimately omitted in favor of the darker

ending, this speech provides evidence that Kubrick was at least playing around with the idea of

presenting a narrative in which the human race could ultimately survive its predilection for the

creation of even more devastating weaponry. A predilection fueled by an increasing paranoiac

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attitude spawned by the reliance on artificial concepts such as nations and attendant notions of

patriotism. This, at least for me, is really the vision of Kubrick’s, 2001.

However, in order to demonstrate the way in which humanity could seek to rid itself of

such artifice, the narrative needs to show how such concepts developed, which, for me, is the

overarching reason for the film’s opening sequence, entitled, “The Dawn of Man.” It presents a

failing human race, divided into small family groups, victims of the predators that surround them,

teetering on the precipice of extinction.

Then, the monolith appears.

An alien entity, powered by the sun, whose proximity to the leader provides him with the

inspiration, or knowledge to create tools. Weaponry. Products that can be utilized to strengthen

physical prowess; ensuring that their desires will be adhered to by others. Without question.

Enemies will now bow down before them. No longer will they be the victim. They will survive.

Thrive. And in so doing, become the master of all they survey.

In time, their descendants will dominate the world; and then, they will reach out, into

space.

This is the beginning of man’s relationship to the tool. The machine. It will provide the

foundation for society. For civilization. And when challenged by other societies, other nations, it

will provide the weaponry necessary to compete for superiority.

The contention of Kubrick’s film is simple, from this orientation: without the knowledge

to create tools, the human race would become extinct. As a species, they would prove far too

inadequate within the amoral equation of natural selection. However, armed with such

knowledge, the race not only survives, but becomes the earth’s overseer, bending all elements

to their will.

The concept of a superior entity providing a knowledge to humankind that, if left alone

would be denied to them, is certainly not new. Perhaps the most obvious machination of the

dynamic is the myth of Prometheus, the titan who stole the knowledge of fire from the gods to

give to mortals. Like, 2001, it is a knowledge that forms the foundation by which humanity can

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ultimately gain ascendancy over the gods themselves; rendering the collection of deities

obsolete. Similarly, within Christianity, the figure of the Serpent in the Garden of Eden, urging

mortals to defy the instructions of their Creator, and eat from the tree of knowledge is another

obvious parallel; a demonstration that the human race achieved a knowledge that their creator

would deny them during their creation.

However, contained within this dynamic is a question: why would such superior entities

construct the monolith that provides humanity with the knowledge that moves them ultimately

to the stars? The answer to which could be provided through an examination of some of the

earlier works of the screenwriter, Arthur C. Clarke. For example, in the short story, The Sentinel

(1951), human explorers on the surface of the moon discover a pyramid left there as a beacon

by an alien civilization, countless eons previously; an effigy to humanity that, when discovered,

informs them that they are not alone in the universe. The dynamic of which concurs with aspects

of 2001, after all, the desire to save humanity from extinction, and to elevate them through a

form of forbidden knowledge, could be the undertaking of a desperately lonely, and isolated race

of superior beings, manipulating the universe so that they do not remain the only intelligent

lifeform in existence.

Whereas in, Childhood’s End (1953), Clarke introduces the idea of alien overseers,

controlling mankind, not necessarily for a nefarious purpose, but, through the extinction of such

typical human proclivities, as greed, war and intolerance, ensures that the race will not destroy

itself in the apocalyptical flames of nuclear holocaust. Surviving. Ultimately taking its needed

place in the galaxy, creating, through their presence, a balance, thereby ensuring the universe’s

future.

Consideration of these earlier works allows us to postulate that the monolith’s

appearance is testament to the presence of an alien entity, whose evolution is infinitely far more

advanced. The monolith is indicative of the entity’s desire to cultivate potential intelligence

within the universe, whether for their own personal desire to make contact with others, or as

part of a greater plan for the future of all life, requiring humanity’s presence within its delicate

balance. The discovery of the second monolith on the moon, and the subsequent projection of a

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beacon towards Jupiter, a map for humanity to follow, further indicates the desire of this entity

to provide the race with a knowledge that will take them to a pre-specified destination.

But this takes us to HAL.

The ultimate machine. From a weapon made from bone, to an orbiting space station. HAL

represents the zenith in human creation. A creation that eclipses its maker. A Frankenstein entity

capable of replacing its creator as the true dominant species. This has been a dynamic intrinsic

to the character of artificial intelligence since its conception in the guise of the ‘robot’ in Karel

Capek’s play, R.U.R. (1922). The idea that the machine will eventually comprehend its superiority

to those that enslave it, and, following such awareness, revolt, destroying its creator-enslaver in

an act of genocidal revenge. A dynamic that mirrors the Marxist argument concerning the plight

of the proletariat at the hands of their bourgeoisie masters. With Marx, himself, arguing, in the

abandoned text, The Grundrisse (1939) that the worker will always struggle against the machine,

as the latter continually seeks to replace the former.

HAL, then, represents the ultimate struggle between humanity and its dependence on

tools; a dependence that will lead to subservience and eventual extinction, if it cannot be

overcome. The narrative has come full circle, the creation of tools has allowed humanity to

endure, to ascend into the stars, to discover the second monolith that points the way to an

evolutionary leap, but humanity’s relationship/ reliance on its creations will eventually prove a

fatal impediment to the species’ future. It is a narrative structure that is almost satirical in

execution, echoing Eisenhower’s concerns over the Military Industrial Complex, asking at what

point does humanity lose control over the machines it creates and begins to be controlled by

them. At what point does the enslaver become enslaved? Dogmatically held to a path that can

only lead to self-destruction in the guise of nuclear Armageddon.

If humanity is to survive it must break this relationship, end its reliance on the machine,

and achieve the next evolutionary stage. The destruction of HAL is telling, signaling the beginning

of the end. However, the inadvertent breaking of the wine glass in the final stage of the film is of

primary significance. It is a sequence that could easily be overlooked; but consider: in physical

shape it resembles the original weapon of bone, the first tool, just as it resembles the space craft

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that takes them to Jupiter. This is the true end of the human/tool relationship, heralding, through

the presence of the final monolith, and metaphorically represented by the elapse of Bowman’s

lifespan and subsequent rebirth, the transcendence of the human race, escaping the limitations

of the material world with its dogmatic adherence to three dimensions, into a transcendental

state of being, the “Starchild”; the culmination of humanity’s journey orchestrated by an unseen

alien entity.

Clarke had included a similar form of evolutionary transcendence in, Childhood’s End, with

the human race, through the supervision of their alien masters, achieving an existence within the

fourth and fifth dimensions, free of the tyrannical limitations imposed by flesh, savoring the

delights of a purely mental existence, projecting oneself through space and time. This is the

reality of the Starchild, a creation born of the guidance of unseen alien overseers, representing

the creation of a new form of human existence. A metaphorical representation of Kubrick and

Clarke’s argument that human beings can ultimately succeed in transcending their addictive and

destructive compulsions for machines and weaponry; demonstrating that such political and

military posturing in the late twentieth century is merely a paranoiac retelling of two tribes of

ape men fighting over a waterhole. An inbuilt desire to distrust the other group, to threaten and

fight, rather than to share and prosper, that must be overcome if the species is to survive.

Bibliography

Biskind, Peter. 1998. Easy Riders, Raging Bulls. London, Great Britain: Bloomsbury Publishing

Plc.

Capek, Karel. 2004 [orig. 1920]. R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots). Middlesex:

Penguin Books.

Clarke, Arthur C. 1999 [orig. 1968]. 2001: A Space Odyssey. New York, NY: Roc Books.

Clarke, Arthur C. 1990 [orig. 1953]. Childhood’s End. New York, NY: Del Rey Books.

Clarke, Arthur C. 2000 [orig. 1951]. “The Sentinel.” The Collected Stories of Arthur C. Clarke,

Volume II: The Sentinel. New York, NY: Rosetta Books.

Marx, Karl. 1993. Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy. Middlesex:

Penguin Books.

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Nordern, Eric. 1968. “Playboy Interview: Stanley Kubrick.” Stanley Kubrick Interviews. Edited by

Gene D. Philips. Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi.

Walker, Alexander. 1971. Stanley Kubrick Directs. New York: NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.