One morning as I stepped off the Bathurst streetcar I noticed posters all over the Big Bop (a former concert venue in Toronto) advertising 2001: A Spacey Odyssey would be played at Bell Lightbox. Now I'm the consummate imbiber of SF film, but I hadn't actually seen this masterpiece until the summer before last. My parents were in Cuba and I was still living in the house in between apartments and making sure my brother wasn't having parties every night. It was a pretty good night and my friend was surprised that I was a) patient enough and b) I understood (which I found funny). I'd been meaning to take friends to see it with me this time around but I find myself feeling rather solitary as of late and I hemmed and hawed and finally made the decision to go tonight.
This was only my second time seeing it. It's somewhat akin to the experience of re reading a favourite book. You notice things that you maybe didn't notice before. On top of that, who wouldn't jump to see this masterpiece on the big screen? I specifically remember thinking that I was cursed for not being around when it was in theatres. The colours alone (so damn warm) were enough to warrant a $12 entry fee. It is, as always, a complete assault on the senses. I may be spoiled by the fact that my parents have THX surround sound but this was a whole other animal. Every part of me was immersed in Kubrick. I had forgotten that it began with the Dawn of Man. The first time I saw it I remember musing out loud to Theo that I wasn't sure if the apes were real or actors. (professional mimes it turns out) And then the monolith. This time around, as the apes were crowding around the monolith trying to touch it, I was thinking just how much it looked like worship. I mean they were only trying to ascertain whether it was safe to touch, etc., but once they were all around it with their hands on it, it looked religious. Absolutely fascinating. How is the monolith responsible for evolution? Why? What is it? What does it mean? I've never really looked into it but I have this huge "Collected Stories of Arthur C. Clarke" tome sitting on my shelf so...
After the apes came the part with Heywood (giggle) Floyd. This is why Kubrick is a genius, his visual effects still hold up. The cut between the bone and the satellite which spans 4 million years is the epitome of the "less is more" ethos. It works, and it doesn't feel schmaltzy 40 years later. I could watch this film for set and costume design alone. The attention paid to the most minute detail makes me giddy. Actually, stylistically, it reminds me a lot of Truffaut's Fahrenheit 451. Both directors were incredibly attuned to design. From the PanAm flight attendant suits, to the packaged space food, the design of the spaceships, the placards with information, etc. The iPad wasn't out when I first watched it, but don't the screens Dave and the other guy watch their interview on remind you of them? Normally I'm really good at spotting errors so I'm either in love with this film or there are none. (Wes Anderson anyone?) So finally Heywood shows up on a PanAm spaceflight (Hey Richard Branson, you ripped off Kubrick!) and before continuing to his rendezvous on the moon hangs out in a sexy lounge with some Russian allies (pictured above). This time around I noticed something I hadn't before -- the women had these really awesome bags, and damned if I wasn't sure they said "Aeroflot" on them in Cyrillic! I can't find any pictures of this but I want one of those bags, they were sexy. And wouldn't you know there was another monolith on the moon.
Then we got to my favourite part. Hal and Dave.
Keir Dullea is probably one of the most underused, underestimated, subtle actors out there. The other night while we were watching Battlestar Galactica I made the remark that unlike so many other characters, Kara Thrace (Starbuck) actually had the facial features for acting through a goddamn helmet. Privately to myself I couldn't help but think that she had really expressive eyes. Same goes for Keir Dullea. He must have been chosen specifically because he looked so incredibly sympathetic. My theory has always been that HAL didn't kill Dave first because Dave had always treated HAL with more respect than the other guy. (See how important the other guy was? I don't even remember his damn name) So much of the film is centered on Dave's face. The constant sound of breathing in the space suit already provides an underlying sense of claustrophobia. Add the helmet and the pod to this and you would think that a man could go crazy, but Dave has a graceful resolve. Most of Dullea's acting is done through his eyes (and face). The concentration when he's retrieving Frank (I had to look that up), the pain and regret when he realizes he has to let Frank go. The calculated refusal of panic when he can't get through to HAL, the slowly dawning realization that HAL will not open the pod bay door. The set of his jaw and the anger when HAL cuts off communications. Another great effect is the reflection of colour on Dave's face in the pod, the blinking of the lights following his commands being punched into the pod's computer interface. It all adds so much.
There's such a world of hurt and incomprehension and then the dawning of acceptance after Dave goes through the stargate and ends up in that gorgeous room where he is to die. And then the monolith. Always the monolith. I feel like I'm skipping so many things but this is what stands out in my mind. The part I find hard to reconcile is HAL. I still love HAL, despite the problematic nature of his dissent. There seems to be a relationship between HAL and Dave and when Dave is finally cutting HAL's head off (so to speak) he looks upset. (I may be imagining that) HAL's decommissioning is one of the sadder parts of the film for me. While I don't particularly care that the other four people have died as I'm not invested in them, I still find that getting rid of them was so easy surreal.
Dave going through the stargate is the pinnacle for me, especially in terms of how it makes me feel and what it makes me think about. It's a beautiful sequence, and I wonder how Kubrick did it, but that's when I start questioning my own mortality. I know Dave's death is imminent, and suddenly he's thrust out into this void where he can see thousands of galaxies and nebulae swarming around him. You can tell he's in frightened awe. And while on a 52 inch tv screen that can be fun and pretty, in a movie theatre it's ominous and terrifying because it makes you realize how insignificant you are compared to the universe. And I think that's the point.
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