Deadly stunts, an obsessed Beatle, and a game-changing mission to Mars — this is the incredible
story of 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Throughout his career, Stanley Kubrick clearly enjoyed adapting novels into movies.
He drew on source material ranging from pop-fiction, such as Stephen King's The Shining, to more
serious literary fare, like Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita.
Like many of Kubrick's other works, 2001 is based on a book.
Unlike the other adaptations, however, the novelization of 2001 was written alongside
the film's production.
Inspired to write a movie about space travel and all its possibilities, Kubrick decided
to work with the legendary sci-fi author Arthur C. Clarke.
The two men agreed to work together on a story which Clarke would turn into a novel while
Kubrick made it into a movie.
While both Clarke and Kubrick were creative geniuses in their own right, they had a hard
time actually finishing the film's official screenplay.
According to a 1966 New Yorker profile on the making of 2001, Kubrick estimated that
he and Clarke spent "an average of four hours a day, six days a week," writing the script.
However, the film's release was delayed until 1968 as some of the plot's finer details had
to be worked out on set.
Whether or not there was a definitive method to their madness, Kubrick, Clarke, and company
wound up with one of cinema's most enduring sci-fi stories.
The narrative thrust behind 2001 is the idea that, sooner or later, humans are going to
have a close encounter of the third kind.
It was a timely concept to explore, as during the movie's early production stages in 1964,
a NASA space probe named the Mariner 4 was on its way past Mars.
Kubrick was so confident the discovery of extraterrestrial life was imminent, he began
to fret that NASA would encounter something on the Red Planet before his movie was finished.
Worried at the possibility of losing creative license on a story about NASA pilots meeting
alien intelligence in deep space, Kubrick decided to check if he could take out an insurance
policy on his own story.
Somehow, Kubrick actually found a company that would offer him insurance, and so he
bought the policy despite its galactic price tag.
While the human race is apparently yet to meet extraterrestrials, it's safe to say that
Kubrick was most definitely a believer.
Kubrick found his first hit directing 1960's historical epic Spartacus.
He followed that success with a black comedy about the existential threat born from the
nuclear arms race: Dr. Strangelove.
The nihilist classic is a hilarious yet devastating satire that's often imitated, but has never
been truly matched.
"Gentlemen, you can't fight in here, this is the War Room!"
Kubrick had been inspired to make Dr. Strangelove after researching nuclear defense policies
and taking them to their logical extremes.
In his 1966 New Yorker profile on Kubrick, Jeremy Bernstein quotes the director as saying:
"The nuclear strategists who make up all those war scenarios are never as inventive as reality,
and political and military leaders are never as sophisticated as they think they are."
Bleak stuff for sure, but it's entirely in line with the central thesis of Dr. Strangelove.
However, Bernstein argued that Kubrick found what he referred to as "limited optimism"
in the space race.
Kubrick apparently felt that the opportunities presented by space exploration and alien contact
just might save the human species from itself.
His belief in the power of space exploration is all over 2001.
From its beautiful soundtrack to its depiction of man's divorce from earthbound technology,
Kubrick clearly thought that mankind's ventures into space were full of potential.
Depicting the future on screen is no easy feat.
In order to create a future audiences may find plausible, Kubrick formed a think tank
consisting of 35 artists and designers, a special effects team more than 20 strong,
and several consulting scientific advisers.
This platoon of forward thinkers worked to ensure the designs of everything felt futuristic
in a believable way.
By most accounts,It's fair to say they succeeded.
The film's aesthetic is stunning, and some of the choices made by Kubrick and his design
crew are still popular to this day.
Take, for example, the movie's use of Arne Jacobson flatware, a brand made famous by
2001 that is still bought and sold today.
Clearly, Kubrick's attention to detail paid dividends.
While many filmgoers may not remember a full, detailed play-by-play of the movie's sprawling
plot, they'll likely remember the innovative aesthetic Kubrick curated to bring his vision
to life.
One of the most iconic designs in 2001 is the Discovery One, the NASA exploratory vessel
headed to Jupiter in search of an alien radio signal.
In the film, Kubrick handles the spacecraft's introduction with a level of care usually
reserved for human protagonists.
Its grand design fills the screen as it drifts slowly into frame.
Then the movie shows off the ship's distinctive interior: a centrifuge decorated with beds,
work stations, a dining table, computers, and more.
Kubrick and his advisers felt that long voyages through space would require artificial gravity
to keep astronauts healthy.
Many, including Kubrick, also agreed that gravity could be easily created in space with
the aid of a centrifuge.
So, the director hired an engineering company to build one.
"Inside the giant centrifuge, the technology of spaceflight is seen at close range."
The finished product could spin up to three miles an hour, cost $300,000, and came in
at about 38 feet in diameter.
The end result is not only one of the most innovative sets ever designed, but a wonderful
symbol for Kubrick's ultimate vision: Like 2001 itself, the centrifuge set is large,
expensive, and very hard to forget.
In one of the film's most thrilling sequences, Dave Bowman finds himself locked outside of
the Discovery One in a small maintenance pod.
Bowman considers leaving his pod, spacewalking to the main ship, and climbing back inside,
but he doesn't have his helmet.
To get back into the ship without suffocating in space, Bowman fires himself through the
pod's escape hatch into an open airlock.
It's an ingenious scene that only runs about 90 seconds in total.
In fact, the shot of Bowman launching into the open airlock is even shorter — but that
single shot was extremely dangerous.
Actor Keir Dullea had to dive headfirst through breakaway boards from a platform two stories
above the airlock set, falling down toward an upward-tilted camera to convincingly create
the illusion that he was launching through weightless space.
For safety, he was secured with a single rope connected to a pulley.
An enormous film camera was positioned at the bottom of the airlock set to capture the
image in a single take.
If something had gone wrong, Dullea would have crashed directly into the camera — and
likely been killed in the process.
Dullea later told Vanity Fair:
The "Dawn of Man" sequence that kicks off 2001 may be one of the boldest openings ever
depicted in a science fiction movie.
In a wordless, ten-minute sequence, Kubrick and company recreate primordial Earth to present
the concept of extraterrestrial beings jumpstarting the evolution from ape to human.
Famously, the end of the sequence sees an ape tossing a bone into the air, which slowly
transforms into a satellite orbiting earth.
Kubrick originally tried to film the sequence on location in Africa, but eventually wound
up creating the set in a soundstage in Britain with a technique known as front projection.
The burgeoning camera system allowed creatives to project photographic vistas directly into
their shot.
However, new cameras weren't the only trick up Kubrick's sleeve; the design team were
also tasked with designing costumes for the apes.
Despite their best efforts, the sequence went largely ignored come awards season.
Somewhat ironically, the Best Costume Design Oscar went to Planet of the Apes.
"Damn you!
God damn you all to hell!"
While 2001 became the biggest box office earner of the year when it was released in 1968,
MGM took quite a leap of faith when they originally decided to back Kubrick's project.
Kubrick first sent MGM Arthur Clarke's 250 page draft narrative, rather than a finished
screenplay, and yet studio President Robert O'Brien still agreed to back the filmmaker's vision.
Given the film's many delays, it's safe to assume O'Brien's confidence may have been
tested along the way.
MGM's original press release for the film claimed that 2001 was to be ready for release
by 1966.
The movie was delayed until 1968, and in '66 the movie's budget increased from $6 million
to $7 million.
In the end, the film cost MGM around $10 million, almost double its initial budget.
Even though the film eventually found success over the course of its release year, the saga
concluded with a shareholder revolt.
According to The New York Times, MGM was also making another expensive film, Dr. Zhivago,
around the same time.
With the company facing such a financially uncertain future, O'Brien wound up resigning
as president in 1969.
Even though 2001 is widely regarded as a stone cold classic today, initial reactions from
movie critics were not particularly kind.
Legendary movie critic Pauline Kael said the film was "ponderous" and "blurry" in her review
for Harper's.
In The New York Times, critic Renata Adler said the movie's "uncompromising slowness"
rendered the film "hard to sit through without talking."
"Well, I don't think there is any question about it.
It can only be attributable to human error."
Kubrick was clearly bothered by the early negative press.
In a 1968 interview with Playboy, the director expressed his annoyance, insisting that only
New York had really been hostile to the movie.
He went on to blame the sensibilities of a cohort he referred to as New York City's "lumpen
literati" for their own aversion to his movie's sincere expression of grandeur and cosmic wonder.
While 2001 certainly marches to its own deliberate pace, it's safe to say that the movie has
aged much better than its initial reviews.
Today, for example, it holds a top 20 spot on the American Film Institute's "100 Greatest
American Films of All Time" list.
2001 may not have been an immediate hit with the critics, but it very quickly gained cult
status with hippies.
In fact, the movie was so popular with pillars of the '60s counter culture community that
The New Yorker's 50th anniversary retrospective argues that it may have been a hippie audience
that saved the film from obscurity.
Supposedly, fans of the film consumed psychedelic drugs in sync with Dave Bowman's trip through
the colorful, chaotic wormhole at the climax of the film.
MGM's marketing gurus eventually got wind of the phenomenon and added a new tagline
to posters: "The Ultimate Trip."
But word of mouth and "ultimate trips" weren't the only things bolstering the film's popularity.
It also received endorsement from rock legends such as David Bowie and John Lennon.
Lennon, specifically, liked it so much that he claimed to have seen it every week during
its initial theatrical run.
2001 didn't just inspire a generation of filmgoers to look up to the stars and wonder about the
future — it also inspired tons of today's best filmmakers.
For the movie's 50th anniversary, IndieWire collected thoughts from a collection of famous
filmmakers on Kubrick's master entry to the sci-fi canon.
The list featured praise from directors including Steven Spielberg, Claire Denis, Christopher
Nolan, James Cameron, George Lucas, Ridley Scott, and Alfonso Cuarón.
Film fans may not be particularly surprised by this collection of acolytes, as Kubrick's
lasting impact on the industry cannot be undersold.
However, the impact of 2001 lives on outside of the elite of blockbuster filmmakers.
A 50th anniversary retrospective in Vulture credits the film for opening up possibilities
for headier, more complex sci-fi in the indie realm.
On top of that, any sci-fi movie about nefarious artificial intelligence made since 1968 owes
a serious debt to the original murderous computer, HAL 9000.
"Open the pod bay doors, Hal."
"I'm sorry, Dave.
I'm afraid I can't do that."
Clearly, Kubrick went on an odyssey of his own to get 2001 made and perfect his vision.
In the end, though, he introduced audiences to whole new cosmic possibilities — at the
movies and beyond.