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A trip down arcane lane

> The inner workings of ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’

Benjamin Howard
Columnist

 

poiler alert: if you haven't
seen the sci-fi epic, Stanley

Kubrick’s 2001: A Space
Odyssey, then go watch it
before reading this article.

Almost 50 years since
2001 was released, it is still
being discussed today. Beyond
simply being a great film, what
makes it so memorable and
thought-provoking? For most,
the only way to answer that
question is private reflection
on the film’s themes. I hope to
bring a different perspective on
2001, and perhaps film in general,
by discussing Kubrick’s secret
sauce: “non-submersible units.”

In his own words, Kubrick
was always trying to “change
the form” of movies. As Steven
Spielberg put it, “the way he
told stories was sometimes
antithetical to the way we are
accustomed to receiving stories.”
In 1960, Kubrick said “I think the
best plot is no apparent plot. I
like a slow start—the start gets
under the audience’s skin and
involves them so that they can
appreciate the grace notes and
soft tones and don’t have to be
pounded over the head with
plot points and suspense hooks.”
According to Brian Aldiss, former
collaborator with Kubrick, “He
had a contempt for narrative [...]
that is to say, cause and effect.”

Kubrick was trying to
extricate 2001 from the shackles
of plot. His solution was the
non-submersible unit—a
fundamental story sequence
untethered by extraneous plot
details. This sequence would be
so robust and interesting that

it would be enough to captivate
the audience on its own. Kubrick
believed that all a movie required
was six to eight of these units.
From what I could
discern, 2001 contains five such
sequences, The first is “The
Dawn of Man,” in which our
primitive ancestors first meet
the Monolith. A jump-cut takes
the scene from a bone thrown
victoriously in the air toa
man-made spaceship. This begins
the second sequence, which
accompanies Dr. Floyd through
the delights of space travel, covert
committee meetings, and then
to the lunar Monolith site.
The third sequence is
the crux of the film, “Jupiter
Mission: 18 Months Later.” It
introduces David Bowman
and the HAL gooo0 computer.
Following Bowman’s victory
over HAL comes the fourth
sequence: “Jupiter—And Beyond
the Infinite.” After 15 minutes
of hypnotic interstellar travel,
the fifth and final sequence
begins: Bowman goes from
his mid-30s to his gos in 5
minutes, after which he is
reborn as a planet-sized baby.
What did these units do for
2001? They render every sequence
in a vivid and unique way. This
is because they are not weighed
down by uninteresting scenes
that so often plague films reliant
upon a chain-of-events narrative.
This unorthodox approach makes
the film naturally unpredictable.
A traditional narrative
is constrained by set-ups
and resolutions. This means
resolutions are often played out,
or just plain tedious. These are a
common issues in film, and the
non-submersible unit is a great

way to avoid them completely.

As non-submersible units are
largely separate from each other,
2001 explores an uncommonly
wide range of themes. 2001 is
so thought-provoking precisely
because the units don’t quite link
up. They are self-contained in
nature, and therefore relate to
each other only vaguely. Brian
Aldiss said that this makes for
“something that our intellects
cant quite resolve, and that’s
an attraction in a movie.”

The only constant in the
film—the thread through the
units—is the Monolith, the
most mysterious element of the
whole story. Nothing related
to the Monolith is properly
explained. Only hints are given
as to what it might be. This forces
the viewer to ponder their own
interpretation of the Monolith
and the film as a whole.

In a 1987 Rolling Stone
interview about Full Metal Jacket,
Kubrick said: “Some people
demand a five-line capsule
summary. Something youd
read in a magazine. They want
you to say, ‘This is the story
of the duality of man and the
duplicity of governments.’ I hear
people try to do it—give the
five-line summary—but if a film
has any substance or subtlety,
whatever you say is never
complete, it’s usually wrong,
and it’s necessarily simplistic:
truth is too multifaceted to be
contained in a five-line summary.
If the work is good, what you say
about it is usually irrelevant.”

Perhaps this truth is what led
Kubrick to throw away the final
puzzle-piece—because to provide
a conclusive answer or message
to the film would cheapen it.

(¥Y This means war
(Y Heart, humour, and sex

(¥ Chairman of the Board: Land of the lost

And more!

Mush into muscle

> The art of the lift

Adam Tatelman
Arts Editor

 

hen people talk about

bodybuilding, they
usually mention larger-
than-life figures like Arnold
Schwarzenegger and Lou
Ferrigno. Although these
men were huge stars in
their prime, almost solely
responsible for the gym craze
of the 1980s, their charismatic
public personas did little to
dispel the popular idea that
bodybuilders are brainless
beauties obsessed with “the
pump.” But there is more to
muscle than meets the eye.

Strength training has

existed since humankind
recognized the need for
strength. Soldiers, hunters,
and craftsmen have all relied
upon the strength of their
own bodies to protect and
provide for their families,
and only the strongest among
them could survive the harsh
conditions of the wild. For
the same reason that packs
of animals reject the weak
and ill, so too do humans
instinctively gravitate towards
strength: it is the strong
who lead, who accomplish,
even if that strength is not
necessarily physical.

Even the earliest cultures
known to man had a healthy
appreciation for the power
of the human body. This is
why ancient Greek art so
often presents men with
herculean physiques. Such
statues are not necessarily
meant to represent the men
they were sculptured after,
but rather to venerate their
Olympian deeds. Socrates, for
instance, was an upper-class
philosopher. It is unlikely
he was a muscular athlete.
Perhaps sculptures idealize
his body so as to to symbolize
the power of his contribution
to logical thought.

Strength of
accomplishment has always
been a popular focus of the
arts, often shown as the
result of physical strength.
This is further reflected by
the representation of men
who abuse their strength.
They are uniformly viewed
as pathetic, spiteful, morally

weak. Essentially, they are not
true men. This is because,
as Spider-Man is quick to
remind us, “with great power
comes great responsibility.”
So, strength can be the
subject of art, and because
of its historical utility, it
is usually shown as a force
for good. But can the act
of bodybuilding be an art
in itself? It is certainly a
sport. There are athletes,
admired for their incredible
size and strength. There
are competitions like Mr.
Olympia, with massive
crowds and bigger prizes.
There are stars so bright
that they cast a shadow over
all future competitors.
This is all par for the
course. Every art has its
great masters—painting its
Da Vinci, film its Fellini.
Every glitzy clique has its
answer to the Oscars. What
matters most is not the
trappings. It is the work.
Were bodybuilding art, it
would most closely resemble
sculpture. Indeed, exercises
which shape muscles are even
referred to as “sculpting.”
However, there is one
important difference between
sculpture and bodybuilding.
It is the same reason why
one does not call a live
sporting event a documentary.
Bodybuilding is presentative.
It is what it is. Sculpture is
representative. It shows what
might be. And while both can
be admired for the dedication
necessary on the worker’s
behalf, art always exists in
the realm of possibility.
Bodybuilding is as concrete
as it gets. It only symbolizes
its own accomplishment.
Some might interpret
that as vanity, but
vanity comes only from
undeserved adulation. In
the bodybuilder’s case,
every fiber of muscle is
earned through sweat. That
is why strength exists not
as art, but as the subject
of art—it exists to inspire
others towards their own
accomplishments. Like Alexis
Carrell said, “Man cannot
remake himself without
suffering, for he is both the
marble and the sculptor.”