Because You Never Asked

     Although I've been quite harsh in assessing our contemporary motion picture industry (see essay "The Movies"), my rueful disdain for what passes as "cinema" these days should not be seen as an attack on the art form itself. When someone with the talent and intellect (one without the other does not work) puts these capacities to work in a positive way, the motion picture will always be one of the most powerful, enlightening experiences to touch our lives.

     With the approach of the year 2001 now at hand, National Public Radio recently did a piece on the milestone film this essay's title refers to. The mere mention of the number 2001 immediately conjures up images of this extraordinary artistic accomplishment and is an elegant testament to its lasting grandeur and intellectual impact.

     In this writer's perhaps not humble enough opinion, its director, Stanley Kubrick, is on any short list of candidates for "finest film maker of all time". As with any specially gifted, creative person, there is a singular quality to his work that seems not to exist anywhere else. What separates it from the rest, like all great works of art, is often subtle enough to be difficult to explain . and yet, it is there, hovering metaphysically behind everything he does, turning something that might be merely very good into immortal greatness. (I consider the difference between "very bad" and "very good" to be much less than that of the torturous road to travel between "very good" and "immortal greatness", or, if you'd like, something "special" or "transcendental".)

     One evening, while waiting to get tired enough to go to bed, I found myself watching one of the seemingly endless array of basketball games which now abound, in all genders, on cable and not so cable TV. When the advertisers responsible for this presentation tried to get into my wallet with yet another "television time out", I picked up the zapper and began to "surf". This decision turned into a windfall of good fortune when I stumbled upon the movie in question, "2001, A Space Odyssey", lurking amidst the infinite galaxy of television options that now infest my home.

     I was to watch no more basketball that evening.

     One must remember this film is somewhere around 30 years old. With the "Future Shock" world of computers and information highways now having become a reality, the 30 years ago of today is much further in the past than 30 years past has ever been before. We are currently streaking-screaming-screeching into the future, separating ourselves from what was before with unprecedented speed.

     With this in mind, I was curious to see how this movie, which has always been a cinema icon for me, would hold up. Would it seem outdated, unsophisticated, simple-minded, perhaps even laughably corny? Would its fondly remembered visual excitement now feel run of the mill or ho-hum in the face of today's "Terminator" techno massive extravaganzas?

     It took very little time for the jury to come back; "2001" is as good a film today as it was 30 years ago, and certainly more intellectually powerful than anything I've seen recently. It is as futuristic as it was as a first run movie, and one is astounded with the realization that it is still ahead of our time! There is a subtle quality to it, a perhaps inexplicable "feel" that might never be duplicated (I'm trying to explain it as best I can, but it might not be enough). Although there are various universal themes being examined here --- evolutionary matters, violence, technological use --- this is not a film to be understood, but, more properly, to be "experienced".

     Kubrick's genius permeates the work, most particularly when he breaks all the rules. Some of the scenes are remarkably long stretches where almost nothing happens, a theoretically mortal sin in today's short attention dogma put forth in the Hollywood Handbook of Movie Making Shtick. Interminable interludes of seemingly inconsequential acts --- an astronaut eating or exercising, a screw being removed, a spaceship docking, primates examining a bone-to-be-tool, etc, --- go on endlessly and, unbelievable, mesmerize the viewer. At times, the pure absence of sound and action are hypnotically overwhelming.

     And then there is Kubrick's use of music.

     In this writer's perhaps not humble enough estimation, the way in which the usual LA filmmaker uses music in their creations is one of the generic aspects of its predictable intellectual failure. Most films are saturated with music that nobody hears or specifically listens to. It is something that subconsciously creeps into play as a mood setter, something that should be far less necessary if the actors, writers, directors, cinematographers and the army of personnel involved in wasting the resources needed to make these movies, were doing their jobs. There's music for the scary part, music for the action chase, music for falling in love, music for triumph and defeat, heartbreak and joy . schmaltz.

     The mind of a Stanley Kubrick does not work so predictably. The visual aspects of his films do not need to be enhanced or artificially supported with background music. Kubrick does not use music as a crutch, but as another star player given equal billing with the visual experience. When he decides to use it, he brings it to the forefront; we listen to it, recognize it, and never forget it. It becomes an important cog in the complete cinematic experience, even when used sparingly. (Or maybe because it is used sparingly.) Who could forget the powerful theme or the magic carpet ride of Strauss waltzes with which he took us through "2001", or the "Ludwig Von" of a "Clockwork Orange", or the tragic comic strains of "We'll Meet Again" from "Dr. Strangelove", which kept us glued to our seats as the credits rolled?

     As alluded to above, it is very difficult to explain the difference between very good and something "special" or "transcendental". I am still fearful that in trying to define what separates Kubrick from the merely "very good", I've fallen short of the mark. In an attempt to rectify this insecurity, I will try to explain why the most successful box office director of all time and undisputed deity of Hollywood filmmakers, Steven Speilberg, is still just a backup quarterback to the likes of Stanley Kubrick.

     Speilberg is worthy of respect, not only for his material success, but for his work as well. He doesn't do stupid movies for purely mercenary reasons . and yet, there is a Kellogg's box top kind of commercialism which his work frequently lends itself to --- dinosaur toys and the like --- that cheapens it. He seems trapped in a yuppie mentality that doesn't keep him from being "very good", but also keeps him within the walls of an acceptable conformity that Kubrick's genius goes beyond. Speilberg is a very smart guy who knows what he is doing; Kubrick is a visionary operating on a different plain than the rest of us.    

       Speilberg, like Kubrick, has dabbled extensively in futuristic themes with high tech, scientific backdrops. Quite coincidentally, I recently saw his "Juraissic Park", the financially most successful film of all time, on TV. The strength of the movie is its theme. There is some remarkable scientific information bandied about in a way lay people can understand, and the whole theoretical idea of the work is fascinating.

     I found it entertaining for a while, but in the end, it did not keep me from going back to whatever slam-dunking acrobatics were available on the sports channels. The movie vehicle used to convey the few pearls of scientific material was predictably familiar. There was the obligatory blond trailing along with the other scientists. There were good guys and bad guys, dumb guys and smart guys, heroes and cowards, all patently recognizable from the film's first moments. The impending disaster hovering over everything was never in doubt. At times I felt as if I were watching a high-tech version of the King Kong story; what was lurking out there? When would the arrogance of the human mind reap its tragic results? 

     Could a Kubrick film ever be accused of the things I've just said? Did a Kubrick film ever seem reminiscent of anything that had come before? The few bits of scientific data contained in "Juraissac Park" could easily be gotten from other sources, including the book it was adapted from. Could the same be said for "2001", which was also taken from a book?

     I think not. Kubrick's movie is the experience and could not be incorporated into one's life in any other way. In trying to explain Kubrick's "greatness" as compared to Speilberg's high degree of competency, perhaps the following will express it better than all else already said in this essay: Speilberg has an uncanny ability to tap into exactly what appeals to the masses,

     but Kubrick has done something far more difficult and far more valuable; he has managed to take the masses with him to a higher level. Amen.