The Transcendence of 2001: A Space Odyssey

I’ve watched this film I don’t know how many times. I was probably nine or ten years old when I saw it first, most likely nine. My father took me; and 2001 gave me a life-long love of classical music. Among other things.

I’m prompted to write this piece by a mention of 2001 in the New Yorker profile of Arthur Jafa. “The lights go down, the movie begins, and it’s like being buried alive. … Even now, I’m still searching for an art experience capable of matching the effect this film had on me.” (https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/12/21/arthur-jafas-radical-alienation) Jafa must have seen the movie right around the time I did, and just a few hundred miles away from where I was. Geographically, that is.

2001 is still my favorite movie. I know every bit of it by heart, and yet it still surprises. There’s nothing like it. What does it mean? That’s kind of a silly question. No one knows. That’s why Kubrick directed the movie in the first place. He had something to say that couldn’t just be said. Only making 2001: A Space Odyssey would do.

There is something inexpressibly exhilarating about 2001. It’s quiet, slow, creepy, and you can’t look away.

Stanley Kubrick is that way. A lot like Andrei Tarkovsky, whom I discussed two weeks ago.