In hypothetical 2001 auteur-duo Stanley Kubrick and sci-fi master Arthur C. Clarke take us on a unique journey into the unknown, leading us far out into the vast reaches of space, where man is all alone with himself. Or is he? For an ominous artifact excavated on Earth's single natural satellite, the moon, seems to suggest otherwise. The enigma of the monolith beckons - and points further out there. What hides behind the glassy slab composed of the inkiest blackness imaginable? Is the monolith a relic from a long-lost cosmic culture? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it serves as a sentinel, an extraterrestrial guardian to evaluate intelligent life, an alien yardstick to measure civilization, to supervise its genesis and progress. Or is it closer to a teacher, providing man with the missing link to what lies beyond, a rung to hold on to, so that a sometimes floundering race may evolve beyond? Have we come across a gateway to a first encounter, to - who could know? - even something... divine? - Questions abound: Who created this inscrutable object? And why, after so many years of resting buried, has it been activated, signaling... where to? The answer might transcend comprehension and thus mankind as we know it. We have arrived in hypothetical 2001, the year when everything is about to change.
Ambiguity is not "2001's" liability, but its forte. It is the main and heady ingredient Kubrick allowed to dominate Clarke's potent sci-fi cocktail of ultimate questions. Whereas the grand mysteries of life's origin and destiny are gradually diminished in Clarke's accompanying novel and even more so in the three succeeding books, Kubrick opts for a pure philosophical angle, studding it with iconic imagery. Ultimately, the viewer is left with facing the sublime alone; dropped right into the majesty that is the universe, on his way towards infinity. Visuals reign. Visuals supplemented by such diverse, seemingly contradictory soundscapes as György Ligeti's eerie "Requiem", Richard Strauss's epic "Thus Spoke Zarathustra", Johann Strauss's unforgettable "Blue Danube" waltz, and the sheer intensity of universe-wide eternal silence.
Almost unfathomable that we have to remind ourselves that Kubrick put this masterpiece on celluloid based on pre-moon landing data. So accurate is his dedication to scientific accuracy that the conspiracy theories about him having staged the actual moon landing haven't let up till this day. Then again, how disappointing that post-Kubrick filmmakers have mostly given up on taking a leaf out of his book where space is married with science in supreme beauty; instead, they deliver lackadaisical CGI-infested crowd-pleasing imitations and, if they have to say something at all, they drench them in pseudo-intellectualism. Looking back, one has to grant at least the follow-up to the mother of all space operas, "2010: The Year We Make Contact" (Peter Hyams/Arthur C. Clarke), that it is not a bad film. And yet, for what it's worth, it already looked dated upon conception. While full of monoliths, it lacks all things Kubrick, which condemns it to a mere footnote to the seminal original. "2001" is more than a movie. It's an epiphany. Mankind's third millennium starts with "2001", date and film, and with good reason.
Ambiguity is not "2001's" liability, but its forte. It is the main and heady ingredient Kubrick allowed to dominate Clarke's potent sci-fi cocktail of ultimate questions. Whereas the grand mysteries of life's origin and destiny are gradually diminished in Clarke's accompanying novel and even more so in the three succeeding books, Kubrick opts for a pure philosophical angle, studding it with iconic imagery. Ultimately, the viewer is left with facing the sublime alone; dropped right into the majesty that is the universe, on his way towards infinity. Visuals reign. Visuals supplemented by such diverse, seemingly contradictory soundscapes as György Ligeti's eerie "Requiem", Richard Strauss's epic "Thus Spoke Zarathustra", Johann Strauss's unforgettable "Blue Danube" waltz, and the sheer intensity of universe-wide eternal silence.
Almost unfathomable that we have to remind ourselves that Kubrick put this masterpiece on celluloid based on pre-moon landing data. So accurate is his dedication to scientific accuracy that the conspiracy theories about him having staged the actual moon landing haven't let up till this day. Then again, how disappointing that post-Kubrick filmmakers have mostly given up on taking a leaf out of his book where space is married with science in supreme beauty; instead, they deliver lackadaisical CGI-infested crowd-pleasing imitations and, if they have to say something at all, they drench them in pseudo-intellectualism. Looking back, one has to grant at least the follow-up to the mother of all space operas, "2010: The Year We Make Contact" (Peter Hyams/Arthur C. Clarke), that it is not a bad film. And yet, for what it's worth, it already looked dated upon conception. While full of monoliths, it lacks all things Kubrick, which condemns it to a mere footnote to the seminal original. "2001" is more than a movie. It's an epiphany. Mankind's third millennium starts with "2001", date and film, and with good reason.