2001 Space odyssey is a film of its time.

Through its inventive exploration

of the unknown, Kubrick provokes debate about the possibilities of science
and technology and the ramifications for humanity.

Stanley Kubrick's most popular and enduring film, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a film of its
time that inventively explores the unknown boundaries that science and technology allow
humanity to probe into. Unlike typical character and plot driven narrative, its structure is
that of an odyssey portraying the span of millennia. The few depicted characters seem
disconnected from one another with the minimal dialogue enhancing the degradation of
human interaction and our humanity.

The establishment shot of a geometric alignment of the Moon, Earth and Sun, becomes a
motif that suggests the sublimity of nature. Coupled with Ligeti's Atmospheres, a
postmodern composition evoking the feelings of discomfort and disconnection to reality,
Kubrik imposes mans vast ignorance of the universe. Employing a sense of human evolution
through the chronological structure of the film, Kubrik really criticizes our feverish lust for
constant improvement, and the subsequent regression of our humanity. The Dawn of Man
introduces the predominant theme of nature through landscapes

The Dawn Of Man is based in a prehistoric setting and the most important theme of this
chapter is nature. We see this through a slideshow of the horizon followed by land from the
Earth. At a beautifully slow pace, Kubrick expresses these two stages of nature before
introducing how humans became evolved species. We see mixed colours through
cinematography to give it a natural effect. On the other hand, the shots of land are staged
in altered settings within different time zones, which express the Earth as a large world.
With no characters and dialogue, the non-diegetic sound of birds chirping is another
representation of nature. However, birds were never seen in this chapter but still created a
natural atmosphere. The slideshow of landscape shots concludes where the slow camera
movement points the audience in an unknown direction.

2001: A Space Odyssey consists of many props but arguably the most symbolic of them all is
the monolith. It is introduced shortly after the film had created a sad, gloomy mood but
prior to this, the same group of vulnerable apes are sleeping. However, when one of them
awakes, possibly the next morning, it witnesses the monolith. Through its fixed eye
contact, figure expressions and slow build-up of diegetic sound, this apes response
indicates fear yet at the same time, curiosity. Therefore, this creates an atmosphere of
mystery and perhaps suspense.
The music in this incident is about as mysterious as the general scene structure. Though
beautiful, Ligetis dissonance evokes a disturbing sense of disquiet; conflicting sounds that
are both eerie and inhuman. When the audience eventually witness the monolith through a
wide shot, Kubrick reveals that this is the mysterious force from the sky, which the
reflection in the gloomy wide shot suggested. In addition, the monolith is arguably the
central source that holds everything together in 2001: A Space Odyssey. When it is
introduced in The Dawn Of Man sequence, it creates a meaningful, symbolic purpose as it
teaches these apes what they need to know in order to survive. The apes eventually gather
and touch the monolith, which hints another sign of intelligence. The monolith additionally
represents the end of one era but the birth of another in this chapter. In that sense, it
appears again in each of the remaining chapters and serves as a crucial prop.

As a sign of victory, an ape throws a bone into the air after which the audience are directly
sent to an orbiting nuclear satellite in outer space, transitioning millions of years in the
future. Whilst in midair, the bone illustrates mankinds next step after the breakthrough
and the satellite is the futuristic outcome. These props mutually symbolize technological
advancements in different time settings with the bone aiding as a tool and the satellite
serving as an even stronger one.
Thus the viewer must infer that tribal warfare, political dominance, even outright murder,
is the essential nature of this transformed ape. And by extension, this creature - an
beraffenmench - is what will become mankind. Space, a Boring Frontier The ape then
throws his killing bone into the sky in exhilaration at this new discovery and power. In a
match cut, the bone becomes a satellite orbiting Earth. Then a series of satellites follow.
What's not clear from the shot, but is clear if you read into literature about the film itself,
is that Kubrick and Clarke intended those satellites to represent orbiting nuclear weapons
platforms.

Thus, the essential nature of man had been extended across millennia from the use of
bones as tools of war to nuclear weapons. But weapons of mass destruction are not like
mere clubs, swords, or even guns. They kill indiscriminately, and represent not the means
of ascent for great and powerful leaders, but outright global annihilation. This begins a
theme that depicts humanity at another terminal evolutionary state. One, that - like those
apes before - humanity had reached a point whereby its own nature hindered rather than
promoted growth. Man could no longer engage in that central nature of his being, tribal
warfare for dominance, for to engage in violence during this modern era of nuclear
weapons meant a new form of extinction; one by his own hand. But this disturbing
revelation is quickly soothed and pacified by a lighthearted waltz, Johann Strauss' The Blue
Danube. A long montage scene follows, where a space plane is shown dancing with a huge
rotating space station in orbit around Earth that uses centripetal force to imitate gravity on
board. As the plane approaches to ultimately dock, an implied sexual mating of impersonal
technology is evoked.

Floyd asks the child to remember to tell her mother that he will try to call again tomorrow.
This is important, for it's the first overt lie told in the film. It sets up a repeating theme
where lies and deception becomes the principal means for humanity to contain and control
our innate need for aggressive and violent conflict.

geo-political enemies. What was once ancient tribal divisions has been extended to
nationalist rivalries. Humanity's technology may now transcend the limits of our little
globe, but our inner psychological drives are no different than those that had formed
millions of years ago. Here we see the beginning of a thematic depiction about an inner
conflict within man, that of socialization to constrain our inner aggressive drives and
the Nietzschean values that extol the acquisition of power through violence. For if those
apes fulfilled Nietzsche's virtues of raw power through violence, by socialization modern
man must instead embody those sentiments of pity, compassion, and mercy the philosopher
loathed

Thus, in an ironic twist to the presumptive theme that technology represents some grand
triumph over the inhospitable environment of space, instead technological advance has
dehumanized man from his essential aggressive nature.

The visuals and music seem to suggest two contrary messages. On the one hand there's the
wonder of man's technical achievement depicted in beautiful visuals with realistic
documentary panache. From this perspective, Strauss' The Blue Danube runs parallel - or is
complementary - to the visuals. It evokes feelings of fanciful glee and wonder at the
amazing technology on display. But on the other hand, as the film progresses, there appear
more and more examples of disorientation and discomfort for those who try to survive in
this harsh environment. It seems as though the further away from planet Earth we travel,
the more difficult sustaining a desirable life becomes. Still, at this point in the film, a sense
of ambiguity about any consistent relationship between music and imagery remains, which
almost suggests this combination of visuals is meant more for light comic relief than
intended for deeper meaning.

Inhospitable and barren landscape devoid of life and entirely outside the realm of human
habitability. This is a different reality. One of a place so inhospitable that life cannot
possibly exist and where human beings are the least bit evolved to survive. It is as far from
our prehistoric home on the savanna as can be. Though technology might provide a slim
margin of life support, this is no place where humans were meant to live. The ship arrives
and the group descends into a pit where a black monolith has been dug up. There, with a
photographer shooting pictures for posterity; people forming themselves into human
ornaments for the camera once again. Yet without realizing it, so too do they pose before
the monolith, which represents an incommensurable power structure entirely outside their
understanding. The the group hover around this strange object, a strange elephant on the
moon. Then, mirroring the apes millions of years back, Floyd touches the monolith with his
gloved hand.

As if to remind humanity of their place in relation to the monolith, out of nowhere a
screeching noise pierces out and everyone grabs their helmets, attempting to cover their
ears, and stumbles about disoriented from the noise. And the shot jumps to another
celestial alignment of the sun and earth from the vantage point of below the monolith,
replicating the image seen by those apes all those millions of years back. This is the third
repetition of celestial alignment in imagery, thus forming an overt motif that must
represent some important element to the film.

Many have called the division between the ape tossing a bone into the air and the transition
to modern life a separation between two separate segments, as if Kubrick had simply
forgotten to add a title shot, or had foregone consistency in order to use that match-shot of
the bone to satellite. But if one assumes there is meaning to this lack of a title, then a
different interpretation follows. For what appears on the surface to be two stories is really
one story that mirrors itself both by events and score selection.
To total blackness, as an introduction, we hear the disturbing modern classical
piece Atmospheres by Ligeti.
To a celestial alignment we hear the triumphal trumpets of Richard Strauss' Also Sprach
Zarathustra.
To the otherworldly black monolith, as mere apes are transformed into human by means
of teaching them violence, we hear another distressing modern piece by Ligeti,
his Requiem, evoking both feelings of awe and discomfort. This ends with another
celestial alignment.
To the beautiful visuals of a space plane dancing with an orbiting space station, to
ultimately mate, we hear the Johann Strass' waltz, The Blue Danube. After a period
on the station, where the narrative focuses on the matter of human deception, this
music is repeated again during the trip to the moon. Here, the narrative focuses on
the difficulties of space travel to human occupants.
To the harrowing wails of Ligeti's Lux Aeterna, we see imagery depicting the harsh and
unforgiving environment of the moon. This is contrasted with more narrative about
deception in socialization and dehumanization from our biological needs.
To a modern incident with the black monolith, we once again hear Ligeti's disturbing
modern work Requiem. This ends with another celestial alignment.

The discovery of the monolith by Moonwatcher and his tribe mirrors the discovery of that
same object on the moon. That point where Moonwatcher throws the bone into the sky and
it turns into a satellite is thus merely a reflective surface. A viewer might at first assume
the score choices hold no consistent thematic meaning, their selection simply function of
evoking parallel emotion in support each scene's individual imagery. But, by the end of the
segment, this amalgamation might be interpreted instead to follow a contrapuntal pattern,
one where emotion is consistently evoked contrary to the message of narrative and
cinematic visuals

And yet here, we see Kubrick use superimposition across three meta-layers within the
mimesis of the frame. In this shot we see three themes at work simultaneously, evoked by
the technique of superimposition: first of HAL's gaze upon Bowman as he enters the central
hallway of the centrifuge; the second, a repetition of disorientation in the zero gravity of
space as Bowman spins within; and finally, by that reflection off of HAL's eye lens, an
implied merging both Bowman and HAL, as if they were spiritually one and the same. In this
way, Kubrick visually implied a combining of depicted physical space with the nonphysical
essence of these two characters while never stepping outside the aesthetic of the real.

The two sit together eating, a traditional joining of companionship. Yet instead of talking,
or even recognizing each other's existence, the two ignore one another as they watch a
television news interview of themselves. This serves as a reinforcement on the theme of
dehumanization at three levels of repetition with the previous segment Dawn of Man: there
is no sense of up or down, the food is unappetizing; true interpersonal contact between
these shipmates is entirely lacking. Kubrick adds a fourth message in the subtext of their
conduct, and that is of narcissistic focus on the individual over community within the ship.

Not only serving as a typical info dump, its sets up boundaries between the characters
that are imposed by the formalities of social constraint.

This is a machine that, as noted by the interviewer, can "...reproduce - though some
experts still prefer to use the word 'mimic' - most of the activities of the human brain."
Thus suggesting that the computer is still regarded as something less than human, even as
the reporter engages it in conversation. Yet the computer responds to the interviewer's
questions intelligently, as though it is sentient. In setting up a question, the interviewer
notes that HAL has an immense responsibility in running the ship and managing the life
support systems of the crew in hibernation. HAL is then asked if he ever feels a lack of
confidence in succeeding with these critical duties. The computer discounts the suggestion,
and through the fisheye lens we see his gaze upon the organic crew members eating, as he
proudly states that the HAL series of computers are all, "the most reliable series of
computers ever made." Noting that we are, "...foolproof and incapable of error." Thus,
unlike human characters, HAL presents a first person account that imparts his awareness on
screen.

HAL is asked if he feels frustration by his physical dependence on people to carry out
various acts about the ship, to which he of course replies in the negative again. "Not in the
slightest bit," he replies. "I enjoy working with people." Further, his relationship with the
crew is "stimulating." He has tremendous mission responsibilities. "I am putting myself to
the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can hope to do."

Which goes to the moneyshot of this scene, the question that sets up the central issue
about HAL to be answered within the "Jupiter Mission" segment of the film. The interviewer
notes that HAL appears prideful of his inability to err, and asks Bowman if HAL has "genuine
emotions." As the camera focuses on HAL's computer console, Bowman responds that, "...he
acts like he has genuine emotions. But of course he's programmed that way to make it
easier for us to talk to him." A statement that once again appears to negate HAL's existence
as a sentient being, as if he were an unaware slave. Thus, the central conflict between the
human beings and HAL is not whether HAL can think, but whether he is a conscious entity
that feels emotion. For thinking is a problem solving task, something we assume any
artificially intelligent machine has the capacity to accomplish. But feeling is something only
living creatures are capable of. This sets up an implied dialectic throughout this segment
between HAL and the crew over whether the computer exists as an emotional being. For if
he does, isn't he deserving of rights just as is man? A position the human crew would prefer
to ignore, as they depend on this machine for survival in this harsh environment of space.
But, in contrast, like a slave stripped of human rights, HAL has an underlying psychological
agenda in proving his self-worth; one he might even not be consciously aware of at this
point. In ignoring the computer's plight for self-recognition, the crew risks instigating a
dangerous emotional reaction; the slave's revolt. And yet, because HAL is a machine, the
crew can't imagine that possibility. It's a curious paradox made up of assumptions unspoken
between crew and computer, brought about by the self-censorship of interlocking
obligations within a social panopticon.

The contrast evoked between those two musical pieces, the somber classical music and
chipper Happy Birthday, creates an emotional conflict that seems to heighten the
pointlessness of real human relationships in this environment. They sign off as a detached
Poole offers no emotional reaction at all and HAL wishes his crew mate a happy birthday.
Poole absently thanks HAL and has him automatically change position on the table,
reinforcing HAL's role as more slave than companion. Thus, if the question over whether
HAL feels anything, it's a certainty that the humans on board feel nothing at all.

The computer asks to see Bowman's work, and from HAL's fisheye gaze Bowman shows a
poor sketch. HAL praises his 'artistic improvement' to work that is utterly banal.
The importance of this exchange is that we see HAL offer an obvious white lie to Bowman;
a statement of ingratiation, conduct that only humans seem capable of. This suggests the
question: If HAL is able to lie about something meaningless - even after the computer has
made clear he's incapable of error or even distorting information - can he lie about a
matter far more important?

Thus begging the question, how does a computer feel fear if it is not self-aware? By this
dialog, Kubrick is reinforcing that the central question of HAL is not whether he can think,
but whether he can feel. That question is now fully answered.

It's as if these alignments imply that the nonhuman intelligence manipulating human events
hold mastery of not just space but time as well. As such, they - or it - might be viewed are
something more than mere extraterrestrials; they are Gods.

This new Star Child is the embodiment of man's ambitions, a creature who exists in space as
though it were its natural environment, the transformation akin to that of the ape at the
beginning of the film, for all that has happened will recur once again. Yet so too must it
represent unlimited use of power and antipathy toward such trite values such as pity,
compassion, and mercy. What will this Star Child do with that newfound power? Panning
into the monolith, as if traveling through Alice's looking glass, we find ourselves looking at
the moon in orbit around Earth. To the triumphant clang of brass, there, the Star Child has
been instantly transported back to Earth. But not as a mere man, instead as some kind of
child demi-God, where it watches over its home world.