Wednesday, October 12, 2005
STAN THE MAN
Long time, no see. As the two of you who read this blog may have noticed, the Exterminating Angel was on a bit of a hiatus, preparing for and running the Chicago Marathon. Well, I finished the race, although not with a very good time. However, on the upside, I did get to see more women urinating in public than I ever thought I'd see in my life.
Anyway, on to the review.
Saw Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey at the Music Box last night. It was a 70 millimeter print, shown on the big screen. Which was nice. Since, I'm sure most of you have seen the film, or are familiar with it, I'm not going to do a regular review, but will just provide some thoughts, Larry King-style:
Kubrick's use of Strauss's Also Sprach Zarathrustra sets the tone for the film. The music is stately and impressive, but also cold and bombastic. It has a bullying self-importance that practically dares you to not be intimidated by it...like the film itself.
I've always liked the opening sequence, The Dawn of Man. Who were those actors who played the apes? They were fantastic. Whenever I watch this sequence, I always find myself believing that I'm watching real apes. Really good use of sound here. The ape grunts are thick and primal. A soundtrack in their own right.
And then the monolith showed up...and I found myself supressing the urge to giggle. I've probably seen 2001 too many times, so it's lost its ability to surprise me, but I just can't understand how anyone ever took that piece of black cardboard seriously. I mean, yes, I suppose it does look eerie, just being there, doing nothin', but it is kind of silly. And then we get that creepy, choral bee-hive music, just to underline that we're seeing something really weird. Together, the monolith and the music do create a sense of the uncanny, but it's all slightly ridiculous.
Well, we know what happens next, don't we? That's no ordinary monolith, but the Monolith of Knowledge that precipitates the fall of the apes. They quickly figure out how to use bones as weapons and go from generally peaceful herbivores to murderous meat-eaters. Yep, that's right, the birth of the Republican party. Ha, ha! Take that Dubya!
So that one ape throws his bone up into the air and it becomes a spaceship and it's on to the dreaded middle section of the film. It's not that this part of the film is bad, but it's pretty dull. Just a lot of ships and people floating around to waltz music. This was probably a lot more impressive in 1968. I don't mean to be condescending when I write that. I just think that these visual effects were a lot more surprising back then.
The monolith reappears at the moon base and lets out a burst of radio energy as the American scientists are attempting to take a see-what-I-found-on-my-trip-to-the-moon group photo. You can almost hear a pissed off monolith shouting, "Hey, I'm the monolith here, goddamit! This isn't a joke! Put that fucking camera down!"
So then we jump to Jupiter and the best part of the film. How great is HAL? He's got to be one of the most memorable characters in film history. Is HAL a conscious being? Is he more human or more machine? He certainly acts more human than the two astronauts, Dave and Frank. Talk amongst yourselves.
As I've noted before, one of my favorite film moments is Dave Bowman shutting down HAL. Hearing HAL sing "A Bicycle Built For Two" is funny, chilling, and sad.
Then it's on to the groovy, far-out, mind trip. This part of the film is exciting and embarassing at the same time. I've gotta give Kubrick some credit for his guts. Can you imagine him telling studio execs in the late 60s that he was going to end the film with a special effects light show? This sequence is visually stunning, but it's also empty. Yeah, yeah, I suppose the monolith is showing Dave the beginning of the universe or something like that, but so what? The film has nothing to say about why Dave is being shown all of this or what it all means. I don't expect to be told the meaning of a work of art, but I get the feeling that the emperor has no clothes here.
And then the three different Daves in the overlit Louis XIV room. And let's not even talk about that giant space-fetus.
Overall, I felt curiously nostalgic and sad while watching 2001. Nostalgic for the recent past, for that time just before my birth. When Kubrick made this film there were no cell phones, or fax machines, or internet, or SUVs. I kept thinking that a lot of other people back in the 60s thought that something interesting or wonderful could happen to mankind in the future. That man would gain some sort of knowledge or insight about his position in the universe. Well, I've lived through 2001 and beyond and, as I'm sure a lot of you will agree, we haven't learned anything. ¶ 6:40 AM
Anyway, on to the review.
Saw Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey at the Music Box last night. It was a 70 millimeter print, shown on the big screen. Which was nice. Since, I'm sure most of you have seen the film, or are familiar with it, I'm not going to do a regular review, but will just provide some thoughts, Larry King-style:
Kubrick's use of Strauss's Also Sprach Zarathrustra sets the tone for the film. The music is stately and impressive, but also cold and bombastic. It has a bullying self-importance that practically dares you to not be intimidated by it...like the film itself.
I've always liked the opening sequence, The Dawn of Man. Who were those actors who played the apes? They were fantastic. Whenever I watch this sequence, I always find myself believing that I'm watching real apes. Really good use of sound here. The ape grunts are thick and primal. A soundtrack in their own right.
And then the monolith showed up...and I found myself supressing the urge to giggle. I've probably seen 2001 too many times, so it's lost its ability to surprise me, but I just can't understand how anyone ever took that piece of black cardboard seriously. I mean, yes, I suppose it does look eerie, just being there, doing nothin', but it is kind of silly. And then we get that creepy, choral bee-hive music, just to underline that we're seeing something really weird. Together, the monolith and the music do create a sense of the uncanny, but it's all slightly ridiculous.
Well, we know what happens next, don't we? That's no ordinary monolith, but the Monolith of Knowledge that precipitates the fall of the apes. They quickly figure out how to use bones as weapons and go from generally peaceful herbivores to murderous meat-eaters. Yep, that's right, the birth of the Republican party. Ha, ha! Take that Dubya!
So that one ape throws his bone up into the air and it becomes a spaceship and it's on to the dreaded middle section of the film. It's not that this part of the film is bad, but it's pretty dull. Just a lot of ships and people floating around to waltz music. This was probably a lot more impressive in 1968. I don't mean to be condescending when I write that. I just think that these visual effects were a lot more surprising back then.
The monolith reappears at the moon base and lets out a burst of radio energy as the American scientists are attempting to take a see-what-I-found-on-my-trip-to-the-moon group photo. You can almost hear a pissed off monolith shouting, "Hey, I'm the monolith here, goddamit! This isn't a joke! Put that fucking camera down!"
So then we jump to Jupiter and the best part of the film. How great is HAL? He's got to be one of the most memorable characters in film history. Is HAL a conscious being? Is he more human or more machine? He certainly acts more human than the two astronauts, Dave and Frank. Talk amongst yourselves.
As I've noted before, one of my favorite film moments is Dave Bowman shutting down HAL. Hearing HAL sing "A Bicycle Built For Two" is funny, chilling, and sad.
Then it's on to the groovy, far-out, mind trip. This part of the film is exciting and embarassing at the same time. I've gotta give Kubrick some credit for his guts. Can you imagine him telling studio execs in the late 60s that he was going to end the film with a special effects light show? This sequence is visually stunning, but it's also empty. Yeah, yeah, I suppose the monolith is showing Dave the beginning of the universe or something like that, but so what? The film has nothing to say about why Dave is being shown all of this or what it all means. I don't expect to be told the meaning of a work of art, but I get the feeling that the emperor has no clothes here.
And then the three different Daves in the overlit Louis XIV room. And let's not even talk about that giant space-fetus.
Overall, I felt curiously nostalgic and sad while watching 2001. Nostalgic for the recent past, for that time just before my birth. When Kubrick made this film there were no cell phones, or fax machines, or internet, or SUVs. I kept thinking that a lot of other people back in the 60s thought that something interesting or wonderful could happen to mankind in the future. That man would gain some sort of knowledge or insight about his position in the universe. Well, I've lived through 2001 and beyond and, as I'm sure a lot of you will agree, we haven't learned anything. ¶ 6:40 AM
