2001: A Spaced Out Ordeal.

There’s a certain reverence that clings to 2001: A Space Odyssey like lunar dust – undisturbed, unchallenged, and just as stubborn to shift. It’s the kind of film you’re required to revere, in hushed tones and with citations at the ready. But once you peel away the decades of academic orthodoxy and fossilised critical genuflection, what you’re left with is less a cinematic odyssey and more a sleep study with a killer sound system.

If Kubrick had a mission in making 2001: A Space Odyssey, it was clearly to capture the thrilling monotony of interplanetary travel – and then to subject us to every single frame of it. The film stretches out every sequence like an ambitious astronaut reaching for the infinite, only to realize, well, the infinite is just mostly really, really dull.

The pacing is infamous, and for good reason. Scenes of docking, space travel, and even banal tasks like eating seem to go on forever, as if Kubrick was daring the audience to either fall asleep or ascend to some higher plane of patience. The film is packed with sequences that test the limits of our endurance, as if meticulously crafted to evoke the true tedium of a journey across the stars. It’s almost admirable in a way – few directors would be so committed to the bit of space ennui – but it doesn’t make for a compelling watch. Kubrick’s fascination with capturing the smallest, most mundane aspects of interplanetary life results in an experience that is less a thrilling odyssey and more a particularly artful PowerPoint on the theme of boredom.

2001 may have set the tone for cinematic sci-fi for a decade, but it took a monolith called Star Wars to show that space could be interesting. Here we get to enjoy all the technological wonders we were meant to have by 2001: Hilton hotels on the moon, Pan-Am flights to space – a very empty space, though, because apparently nobody actually bought tickets. You’d almost think Kubrick was trolling us with all that commercial sponsorship. Pan-Am, Hilton, Howard Johnson – these brands are sprinkled throughout like an advertisement for a future that we’ve already outgrown. It feels like a half-hearted stab at grounding the futuristic setting in the familiar, but ends up being more amusing in hindsight given the fate of those once-iconic brands. Instead of a vision of tomorrow, it reads like a retro-futurist fever dream – an alternate universe where we’re all flying to the moon in style, presumably to have a conference call at the Hilton Lunar Suite.

HAL is the one character in the film who has any personality at all. HAL’s low-key shade towards Dave and Frank is the closest thing to human warmth we get, and honestly, it’s the best part of the movie. When Frank Poole floats away to his doom, it’s telling that not even the film cares enough to show what happens. HAL’s chillingly calm demeanor as he turns against the crew is the one narrative thread that injects some much-needed tension into the otherwise glacial pacing. It’s ironic that a disembodied AI is the most relatable, emotionally engaging character here, but given how Kubrick treats his human actors – like pieces in an elaborate, sterile chess game – it’s hardly surprising. HAL’s breakdown is an unnervingly intimate moment in a film otherwise devoid of intimacy, and it leaves you wondering if Kubrick himself felt more kinship with the cold logic of the computer than the messy, flawed humans.

Who edited this? The most famous match cut in film history – from a bone to a spaceship – is impressive, sure, but if you watch it closely, it’s far from flawless. It’s almost as if Kubrick thought the idea was so brilliant that execution became secondary. The infamous match cut is emblematic of the film’s overall philosophy: dazzling genius in concept, but frequently lacking in execution, like a reverse JJ Abrams. The jump from bone to orbiting spacecraft is undeniably ambitious, a leap through time that captures humanity’s entire technological journey in an instant. But for all its grand ambition, there’s a certain clunkiness that feels impossible to ignore once you’re looking for it.

Every shot is too long, every silence deafening, every attempt at storytelling obscured behind a massive obelisk of pretension. The ending, in particular, seems to want to mash together Doctor Who opening credits and a particularly avant-garde Superman montage. It’s a kaleidoscope of lights, colors, and abstract imagery that’s equal parts mesmerizing and baffling. The infamous ‘star gate’ sequence feels like Kubrick throwing everything he’s got at the screen – helicopter shots of familiar Earth landscapes processed through filters that would make Instagram influencers wince, a bizarre mashup of neon lights, swirling shapes, and nonsensical imagery. And what’s the monolith? Who cares? Have some technicolor mush while we cut to BBC12 explaining what the plot is – because the movie certainly won’t. Kubrick’s obsession with ambiguity reaches its peak here, as we’re left to grasp at meaning in a swirling sea of visual nonsense. The monolith, a sleek black enigma, is supposed to be mysterious, but the more you think about it, the less there is to actually grasp.

Sure, there are one or two powerful moments, but they’re so buried in the vast, sterile vacuum of the rest of the movie that it’s hard to care. The opening ‘Dawn of Man’ sequence, for instance, is genuinely striking – a primal scene of humanity’s first steps towards technological advancement. But even here, the pacing undercuts the impact. We’re treated to endless shots of apes banging bones, evolving at the pace of a snail. It’s as if Kubrick found something profoundly meaningful in watching actors in ape costumes mime their way through proto-human frustrations with the all the artistry and authenticity of a Doctor Who monster performer. Even the discovery of the monolith – a moment that should be awe-inspiring – feels oddly flat, as we watch the chimps puzzle over it without any real sense of tension or wonder.

Ultimately, 2001: A Space Odyssey is an audacious exercise in cinematic indulgence. Kubrick’s ambition is admirable, and its influence on subsequent sci-fi undeniable (it would effectively ossify the genre for the next few years until George Lucas cut through the arrested momentum accuracy with a lightsabre), but the result is a film that feels more like a series of impressive vignettes than a cohesive narrative. For all its striking imagery and technical mastery, it lacks the emotional core that would make the journey worth taking. It’s a spectacle that demands to be admired, but never invites us in. In the end, the film’s legacy and reputation seems rooted more in what it aspired to be than in what it actually achieves. There’s no denying Kubrick’s prowess behind the camera – the shots are composed meticulously, the special effects groundbreaking for their time, and the vision undeniable. But without compelling human characters or an engaging narrative, it’s all just spectacle for spectacle’s sake. 2001: A Space Odyssey is a monolith in the history of cinema, all right. Big, black, and devoid of meaning. It’s all technical brilliance without a soul, like a Gerry Anderson set built for a script that forgot to show up.