The Dawn of Man
For all too many film directors — and not a few viewers — cinema is mere entertainment. But Kubrick regarded film as the most powerful art form ever invented, and acknowledged the duty of art to elevate. Combining these perspectives with his intellect and knowledge, it is not an exaggeration to label Kubrick as a philosopher, a “conceptual illustrator of the human condition”, as Spielberg described him. As such, 2001 can be seen as a work of philosophy, not just because of its musings, but also for the manner in which it ponders. By creating a non-verbal experience that deliberately contravened traditional narrative structures, the film challenged the very nature of communication and of art. With its thoughtful use of the technological to convey the spiritual and induce the emotional, 2001 is itself a conflation of the Dionysian and the Apollonian.
In this the film bears resemblance to Thus Spoke Zarathustra. In the introduction to his translation of that book, Graham Parkes has highlighted the book’s resistance to simple categorisation as either art or philosophy: “whereas a treatise that articulates ideas or theories in terms of concepts asks that the reader assent to (or refute) their validity, a text like Zarathustra invites the reader to follow a train of thought through fields of imagery, and to participate in a play of imagination that engages the whole psyche rather than the intellect alone.”
As much could be said about Kubrick’s films, a philosophical body of work that few Hollywood directors would dare to match in its ambiguity. Consequently, 2001 is not easy to digest, especially for modern film-goers routinely subjected to busy, swiftly-paced films with fast-cutting techniques and uncomplicated conclusions. Filmmaker Terry Gilliam, in an interview with Turner Classic Movies, observed the differences between Kubrick and a director like Steven Spielberg; the latter’s films “are comforting — they give you answers […] and I don’t think they’re very clever answers”, whereas a director like Kubrick and a film like 2001 generates discussion and makes one think.
This gulf between Kubrick and other directors may partly be due to Kubrick’s power: he was relatively unique in that he had full artistic control over his films. The rise of digital technology may also help to explain why there are no filmmakers like Kubrick today: with the ability to digitally insert or alter scenes with comparative ease, few directors are as fastidious or as technically creative as Kubrick was. But one suspects that his commitment to film as an art form was also a significant factor, for he often took years to develop a project, and involved himself in every stage of a film’s production, from the script and editing, to poster design and theatre projection.
2001’s impact on culture is too vast to adequately summarise. In terms of its influence on the film form, it ranks with works such as D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation (1915) and Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane (1941). Welles thought Kubrick to be a giant. George Lucas regarded 2001 as the greatest sci-fi film ever made. In the documentary A Personal Journey with Martin Scorsese Through American Movies, Scorsese said, “Every frame of 2001 made you aware that the possibilities for cinematic manipulations are indeed infinite […] it was at once a super-production, an experimental film, and a visionary poem.”
In Michael Herr’s short book Kubrick, there is an anecdote in which John Calley, a friend of Kubrick’s, was pressed by the great director to read the unabridged edition of Sir James George Frazer’s monumental The Golden Bough. Calley said that he didn’t have time for mythology. Kubrick’s response could equally apply to his own films, and to 2001 in particular. “It isn’t mythology, John,” said Kubrick. “It’s your life.”
The author is an antiquarian and freelance writer
Published in Dawn, ICON, December 23rd, 2018