Number 2: 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

The shape of things to come.

Among its approximately 18,904,867 layers of subtlety and brilliance is 2001’s dramatic use of shapes. There are straight edges and there are curved surfaces. There are rectangles and spheres. There are parallel lines in Euclidean space, and the curving parallels of the cinematic equivalent of non-Euclidean space—the wide-angle lens. And since it is The Greatest Movie Ever Made, it all means something.

It is no surprise that in Kubrick’s magnum opus, humanity has lost itself. Yet 2001 shows not what we might become but rather the constant struggle. There is an ebb and a flow, and 2001 shows the ebb of human creativity, and more importantly, human activity. Machines have become the thinkers and doers. They are safer, more reliable, more comfortable, less prone to “human error.” And they are all very round. The space station, the Moon vessel, the Discovery, HAL’s eye, the pods—all share in common a lack of edges. There are no sharp cuts. There is no right and wrong. It’s all just a slippery slope of gray and banality.

On the other hand, the Monolith has nothing but edges. It refuses to provide comfort. One must decide when one looks upon it. It brings the cutting edge, and with it, responsibility. It brings progress, and with it, hardship. It brings knowledge, and with it, sorrow.

As Dave Bowman needs to overcome the computer HAL, what does he have to do? He has to somehow transfer from his round pod into the Discovery through means of a not-round door.

In the final sequence, as Dave lives a lifetime before our eyes, we see numerous lines—on the ground, in the walls, etc. At first, they are all shot in wide-angle, bending and curving and providing no edges or breaks. Then the monolith shows up, and in a violent, wrenching shift of perspective, the wide-angle is gone. Every line in the room is straight, every edge is sharp, and Dave Bowman’s mind is ready to take a giant leap for mankind.

Watch 2001 sometime, just looking for the use of shapes, and what is shaped like what. You will not be disappointed.

42.

2001 is 42 years old. This seems important, as the funniest sci-fi story of all time and the greatest converge into a weird synergy for a year. Just thought I’d point that out.

42.

2001 is forty-two years old. It is almost as old as the Super Bowl. It is older than Disney World. It is almost as old as our President. And it looks gorgeous. Only one shot in the entire film appears dated: one of the satellites in the early exposition shots. The rest not only have aged well, they have improved relatively as the quality of special effects everywhere else continues to plummet. While movies like The Matrix, Independence Day, Titanic (this list could go on forever, I’ll just stop it there) were forgotten mere moments after they became famous, 2001 looks as stunning as it did yesterday and the day before that. 2001 would have survived even had its effects aged poorly, because the movie does not rely on its effects in the same grotesque manner that many of today’s “science-fiction” films do. But the fact that its effects have aged so well is a stunning testament to the ability of visionary directors to achieve a lasting product that won’t simply make $700 million dollars and then be forgotten.

And there is more to that than mere technological innovation. If the effects serve the film, you tend to take them as part of a whole and your mind fills in what it needs to fill in. If the movie serves the effects, the effects are all you notice. The moment that they aren’t the hippest, newest, most garish technology around, they stick out like Sophia Coppola in the Godfather Part III.

Food.

One of the reasons 2001 is impossible to explain succinctly (I gave up trying a long time ago) is because it deals with everything. Everything important to mankind is treated in some way. God, nature, exploration, murder, identity, and of course, man’s physical needs—more specifically, food. The apes are dying for lack of it and kill to defend it. The men at Clavius eat sandwiches on their way to observe the excavated monolith. Frank and Dave are constantly eating. Dave is even eating in the bedroom Beyond the Infinite. Even more fundamentally, we require oxygen. The men on the Moon require spacesuits to observe the Monolith. The astronauts in hibernation need it even in their suppressed state. Frank certainly needs it when his supply is cut by HAL. Dave needs it when he forgets his helmet and must innovate in order to outwit HAL.

The Star Child, on the other hand, doesn’t. After all, Man does not live by bread alone.

The Narrative. My God, the Narrative.

Man falls, is sent prophets, and finally, a Redeemer. I could be talking about the Bible. I could be talking about 2001.

For a movie with about 73 spoken words (I exaggerate, but not by much), it weaves a narrative that can be understood both in the personal, literal, individual sense and in the cosmic, metaphorical, human sense. The fact that it so adeptly meshes the two should not be a surprise. Each of us lives a life every bit as important as Dave Bowman’s. We just forget somewhere between waking up and the first cup of coffee.

Up Next: What Missed The Cut And Why

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