Sometimes, you need an epic, something truly larger-than-life to capture the incredible, jaw-dropping scale that our universe boasts of.
And I am not talking just about space operas that spawn so many sequels, prequels and spin-offs, overarching albums by Pink Floyd or mesmerising ballads sung by David Bowie and Elton John; I am talking about something so awe-inspiring, and not just awesome, that it takes your breath away, leaving you floating in the not-so-star studded inky black expanses of space and marvelling at every stunning sight and sound, or rather the shattering absence of sound.
Five decades ago, long before tycoons envisioned setting controls for the heart of the Sun, a visionary named Stanley Kubrick plunged us into that first, utterly seminal and sensational experience of the universe and beyond. A space odyssey, then, in the most literal space.
And yet while '2001' also has something of a side reputation as a film whose grasp of the science of gravity in those weightless, disorienting depths can rival decades of study done by NASA scientists, it would have only been a literal documentary on the exploration of the frontiers of space had it not been a terrific, almost thrilling cinematic experience in its own way.
We begin with the Dawn Of Man. Scraggly apes scavenge to thrive in a bleak, desolate milieu even as they have to squabble among themselves over a water hole. One morning, something mysterious and mind-numbing pops up in their midst; moments later, set to the majestic, immortal swells of Richard Strauss' 'Also sprach Zarathustra', we see an ape smashing the skeletal remains of their new prey and while weaponry is used first for survival, it soon becomes a means to thwart those contending for the same. Even before evolution, war has begun.
Millions of years ago, with us being shuttled through that ingeniously conceived match cut, we find ourselves sailing across the galaxy, astounded by the very incredible nature of advanced technology and our conquest of this uncharted territory but also skeptical, coolly cynical. American scientists are hushing up some truth about a discovery on the Moon with some flaky cover story that the Russians cannot help but be suspicious about. The film's main narrative has not even kicked in hitherto and yet Kubrick and co-writer British science fiction great Arthur C. Clarke have already set up a brilliant parable: apes fighting over the water hole and spacemen stashing away their intentions and other secrets underneath elaborate lies.
One of the common complaints that most uninitiated viewers make of '2001' is that almost a chunk of it is slow, almost to the point of being glacial, and nothing much happens in the first hour, until that breathless, terse tale of moral wrangling and cold-blooded evil kicks in. It is easy to see why people would think that; Kubrick strips his waltzing, sweeping frames of dialogue and plot and instead compels us, with even maddening obsession, to go with the flow without ever telling us where we are headed. What those people miss is the beautiful, wholly organic process of his storytelling, building up note by note a labyrinth of suspense and subtext, the mood shifting effortlessly from wide-eyed wonder and even whimsy to an uncanny sense of uncertainty and even fear.
'2001' is also filled to the brim with delicious nuance, which is unexpectedly subversive for a film mounted on such a mammoth scale. For all the narrative leisure that Kubrick lends to the film, there is just so much to observe at, so much to savour and enjoy. '2001' lingers, not only on those rotating spaceships and ethereal vistas of the Earth and the Moon, but on the smallest of details, from stewardesses struggling to walk down aisles in space airships with their grip shoes to scientists video-calling their daughters right down to unexpectedly hilarious bits in which they try to figure out zeo-gravity toilets and out of nowhere, a fountain pen floats weightlessly, reiterating the sight of a rudimentary bone descending unforgettably from the sky. It is also extremely, almost forcefully poetic, the always absorbing silent scenes reminding us of the not-so-uncanny similarities between the African wilderness of the prehistoric past and the pitted, disgruntled surface of the Moon itself, something that is more than just a coincidence.
So much in '2001', in fact, is more than just coincidence. As the film's latter hour tugs us into the water-tight atmosphere of two unsmiling, almost disillusioned astronauts (one sunbathes and plays virtual chess while the other makes sketches of astronauts hibernating) pitted together in the film's literal odyssey and then hurtled into danger, we are plunged from wistful admiration and observation to almost sweaty, perspiring tension. I would hate to reveal the film's arch villain here to the uninitiated but when even the same has his moment of comeuppance, it is still hard to shake off the feeling of that almost claustrophobic, utterly eerie dread that precedes it.
Yet, all that would be only mental masturbation if the film did not deliver so splendidly, so subversively on the spectacle. That much-touted visual wizardry and that sublime use of symphony are really worth the praise and stand up remarkably even today. Working in tandem with legendary cinematographer Geoffrey Unsworth (who also shot 'Superman') and special effects veteran Douglas Trumbull, the director unleashed also all his scientific knowledge, unrivalled technical prowess and obsessive taste for perfection in crafting the marvels that feel so iconic today and must have felt audaciously revolutionary back in 1968. From gigantic centrifuges to recreate the gravity, or rather the lack of it, in space (a technique that Christopher Nolan would use for 'Inception') to the meticulously conceived plethora of lights and colours in the famous 'Star Gate' sequence right down to the ingenious use of front-projection, everything feels as fresh and vivid as it was back then and the sheer marvellous quality of '2001' refuses to age or fade away. The use of music is beautiful, so stirring in its elegance and poetry that it lends a throbbing heart to even the merely contemplative moments in the narrative.
It is a film that begs every time for revisionism. My first feelings on watching '2001' were, like for any other first-time viewer, those of sheer incredulity and disappointment. It was less to do with the minimal exposition and the symbolic enigma of the orchestral finale and more of Kubrick's frequently misunderstood coldness in approaching the human characters populating his overarching canvas. But subsequent viewings, as I can vouch, will present truly the miracles of the film and also explain the essence of his deliberate formality of tone. By making his characters helpless against both predestined doom and discovery, he also proves that it is only the worthy who deserve the enlightenment and progress that the universe holds for us.
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