SOUND IN 2001:

DIALOGUE, MUSIC, AMBIENT

by: Steven Snyder

When 2001: A Space Odyssey reached the cinematic world in 1968, the majority of moviegoers did not know what to think of the spectacle. Critics scoffed and the mainstream curiously scratched its head, but there were those among the filmmaking community, and younger generations, who knew they had seen something groundbreaking and triumphant. 2001 marked a step forward for the world of cinema in several regards. Its story structure, which was comprised of three interrelated three-act stories, broke free of the limitations of traditional narrative structure. Its special effects, which were recognized by the Academy Awards and still look impressive today, marked the beginning of a science-fiction genre that would strive for realism rather than surrealism.

Equally impressive about 2001 is the way it manipulated the conventional aspects of cinema, such as color, lighting, and special orientation. The most dramatic aspect of the production, however, is the film’s use of sound. Some have said that 2001 is a purely visual experience, running more than 140 minutes long, but containing fewer than 50 minutes of dialogue. Upon further analysis, however, the film’s soundtrack is surprisingly rich and dense, and absolutely essential to the film’s impact on the viewer. More specifically, Kubrick consistently uses sound, in terms of dialogue, music and ambient noise, to augment the film’s four major themes: the separation of humanity, man’s dependency on technology, the mystery of the unknown and the next evolution of the human species.

A theme present in almost all of Kubrick’s work, one of 2001’s subtexts is that humanity is a species adrift and divided; that in reaching the stars, we have lost sight of each other. And in examining the use of sound in these three segments of the film, from the “Dawn of Man” to the “Jupiter Mission” and “Beyond the Infinite,” one can see the filmmaker constantly reaffirming this idea of separation and division.

The minimalist nature of the film’s dialogue is the clearest evidence of this theme. 2001 is not a movie in which people talk about their feelings or their ideas, and out of approximately 50 minutes of dialogue, most is dry, procedural, unemotional and useless. The film’s dialogue exists solely in the second act of the story, or in the near future (at the time the movie was made). The space station sequence can be summarized by an evasive conversation in which Heywood Floyd lies. On the moon, the words are those of deception and bland pleasantries. On board Discovery, dialogue is mostly confined to video transmissions, discussions of faulty equipment, and early preparations to disconnect HAL. Ironically, the most emotional words of the entire film are uttered by a computer as it pleads for its life, projecting more of a heart and soul than any human will provide. Dialogue in most films creates a connection between characters. In 2001, however, each conversation seems to distance characters further from one another, and strip them of their very humanity.

The music in 2001 furthers this theme of separation. By its very nature, most music in a film’s soundtrack is non-diegetic, and entices the viewer to process a scene differently than if it was presented as part of the filmic world. Kubrick takes this approach to the extreme, not only using music to dislocate the viewer from the on-screen happenings, but using extended segments of classical pieces that were unlike anything previously used in science fiction films and stood out for that very reason. Apart from accentuating the separation between viewer and film, many of the classical pieces affirm the lonely and unknowing nature of the human species. For example, the Adagio from Aram Khachaturian’s Gayane is used during two segments of Discovery’s flight, reflecting the isolation and loneliness of these astronauts, millions of miles from Earth. Similarly, Kubrick’s use of Gyorgy Ligeti’s Lux Aeterna on the moon, and Ligeti’s Atmospheres during David Bowman’s final trip through the “light show” clearly reflect the separation between the characters on the screen and the known universe. In both these moments, as the monolith appears and as an extra-terrestrial force takes control of Bowman’s spaceship, the music accentuates the mystery of this unknown force, and reminds the viewer of the character’s lack of control.

Even the film’s ambient sounds emphasize the insignificance and irrelevance of mankind. In the 2001’s first chapter, the apes are dwarfed by the silence of the vast world that surrounds them and later by the sounds of animals and predators that threaten their safety. On Discovery, the ambient hum of the ship is omnipresent, reminding the viewer of the reliance of these humans on machines to live. And even in several scenes where Bowman and Frank Poole talk to each other, their words are mediated through radios, space helmets and technology. Most obvious is the film’s last sequence, in the 18 th century room in which Bowman dies and is reborn, where the bizarre and absurd ambient sounds of outsiders looking in distinctly reduces Bowman to a lab rat, being scrutinized by both the viewer and those mysterious, off-screen captors.

Sound plays prominently in another of 2001’s primary themes – man’s dependence on technology. First, in terms of dialogue, a majority of the film’s words and conversations are held through some form of technological medium. On the space station, Floyd speaks directly to a video screen and to his daughter through a video telephone. On Discovery, Bowman and Poole watch television rather than interact, are only able to speak candidly when they deactivate the technology of the space pod, and at other times are only able to talk through radio communications. Of course, this analysis misses the far more obvious point that a significant portion of this film’s conversations occur between men in space suits, meaning that any sounds emitted have already been filtered and projected by a technological system. In one of Kubrick’s most interesting decisions, the film’s most emotional words of excitement, pride and fear are not omitted by a human, but by HAL, as he is interviewed by the BBC and as he is being deactivated by Bowman. Just as the Internet has allowed mankind to connect globally without getting out of bed, the characters in 2001 may feel freer and more mobile than ever, but they are at the mercies of the limitations and shortcomings of the technology on which they depend.

The film’s musical score adds to this equation by celebrating technology, and minimizing the interest of human interactions. Music is never used in the service of sympathizing or empathizing with human characters. Rather, The Blue Danube celebrates the marvel of the interstellar dance between spaceship and space station. The Adagio from Gayane projects the atmosphere of Discovery, not the moods of its passengers. And the surreal scenes of the unknown, using Ligeti’s Requiem, do not connect the viewer to the film’s humans, but distance the audience from them, reiterating their lack of knowledge and quest for understanding.

For a considerable portion of 2001, the ambient score is a symphony of technology. When music is not present, the perpetual hum of the ship’s navigation systems, the repetitive beeping that marks a craft’s approach to its destination, and the audible breath of astronauts in space suits are ever-present reminders of technology’s role in these people’s missions. Beeps, in addition to the ship’s low rumble, are the only sounds that mark the ruthless murders of the men in hibernation. And Kubrick intentionally focuses time and again on these men interacting with sounds and controls that make no sense to the viewer. Repeatedly, Bowman and Poole remain fixated on their controls, staring at computer screens and video monitors, controlled by the technology that surrounds them. Much as today’s world comes to a halt with the slightest computer or telecommunications problem, the characters of 2001 are the mercy of their technology, and this relationship is conveyed to us through the never-ending series of sounds that Kubrick assigned to this technological state.

Sound plays a pivotal role in 2001’s creation of the unknown. As mentioned previously, the film’s very lack of word or dialogue is noteworthy. Kubrick clearly went to great lengths to avoid dialogue at all costs, and its absence in the film’s key scenes is central to the story’s success. Upon discovering the first monolith in the “Dawn of Man” sequence, the apes initially scream, but soon become quiet as the haunting music builds and they approach the monolith in awe. Similarly on the moon, no one speaks among the humans, who timidly approach the uncovered monolith much like their ancestors. And from the light show to the Star Child, there is not a single world spoken in the film. These scenes are devoid of dialogue, and that may be part of 2001’s power. Any explanation limits the story’s implications. Silence expands the scope, and imagination of Kubrick’s vision.

What fills the void in these moments is music, but not just any music. Kubrick refused to use a traditional score, although one had been writing by Spartacus composer Alex North, and went instead with classical pieces and the experimental works of composer Ligeti. His Requiem scores the first and second appearance of the monolith, with overlapping and intensifying choral parts that are at once both haunting and inspiring. And the third appearance of the monolith occurs only after Bowman’s journey through the light show, scored by Ligeti’s disorienting Atmospheres, which truly provides the soundtrack for a journey into another dimension. The now-famous theme of 2001 is also noteworthy. Also Sprach Zarathustra, by Richard Strauss, was not a well-known piece prior to 2001, and using it not once, twice, but three times established it as a cultural landmark. A brief introduction to a complete orchestra celebrating Nietzsche’s story of the supermen, Kubrick repeated Zarathustra, as well as Ligeti’s atonal pieces time and again through the course of the film. An unrelenting perfectionist, this was not an accident, but an intentional decision to use the transcendent music of little-known and avant-garde composers to make the unknown elements of 2001 that much more bizarre, fantastic, and memorable.

There are times when the ambient sound of a scene can give the viewer a point of focus. For instance, hearing a person breathing, a clock ticking or even the wind outside can give the viewer a sense of space and dimension. Much like a horror film that tries to build tension within a viewer by using silence, Kubrick intentionally strips the film of extraneous ambient sounds when the unknown takes center stage. This creates a sense of unease and heightened awareness. As the apes calm down and approach the monolith, the sound fades into music, much like what happens on the moon a few scenes later. The evolution of Bowman into the Star Child - the climax of the film and one of the bolder moments of twentieth century cinema - is a completely silent moment, and more powerful as a result. In the only scene when the unknown appears imminent, when Bowman arrives at the 18 th century room and when his observers are audible in the background, Kubrick uses only sound to indicate this fact. Manipulating sounds from another Ligeti piece (which he was later be sued for doing by Ligeti), the results are distant, absurd sounds that are clearly not instruments, but voices. It is here where Kubrick uses sound to communicate the impending climax of the story, and the union of the human race with these unknown, unseen characters.

Above all else, 2001 is a story about humanity’s next step and next point of evolution. And Kubrick evokes this evolution as much through sound as he does through visuals or characterization. The film’s dialogue evolves from unanimity to obsolescence. Consider the “Dawn of Man” sequence. Yes, these creatures are primitive, but they are also community-driven, energetic and enterprising. They watch out for each other, defend their water hole together, and confront the monolith as a community. Their dialogue is in grunts, yes, but they are collective grunts. Then, in the space station and “Jupiter Mission” sequence, dialogue is much for sparse and reserved. Characters seem to talk around, rather than to each other, and the conversations are usually mediated through technology, devoid of importance and concerned primarily with lies, commercialism, processed foods, etc. The only real important conversation, between Bowman and Poole concerning the deactivation of HAL, must be done in secret. If the “Dawn of Man” sequence was one of raw emotion, the “Jupiter Mission” is one devoid of any sincere interaction, and when the computer appears to be the most emotional character of the story, Kubrick is clearly trying to make a point. In the final chapter, there is no dialogue to speak of, only breathing, footsteps and the mysterious sounds of unseen outsiders. The evolution of dialogue is one from loudness to silence, from camaraderie to complete isolation, and perhaps Kubrick was trying to say that, despite the fancy gadgets and wondrous adventures, it’s nearing the time when humans will have to start anew.

The film’s music, ignoring the repetitive use of Zarathustra and Requiem which serve as the film’s mantras, devolves from sophistication to chaos. Flashing forward from ancient man to future man, Johann Strauss’ The Blue Danube is the pinnacle of grace of elegance, elevating the interstellar journey into a dignified stellar dance. It is here where 2001 seems to celebrate how far the human species has come. But then, during Floyd’s low-level flight to the second monolith, the use of Ligeti’s Lux Aeterna gives the film a more wondrous and pensive mood, which shifts later into a mix of awe, fear and confusion, as it merges into Ligeti’s Requiem. The majesty and mysteriousness of these scenes, however, is immediately countered with the methodical Adagio from Gayane, which is the timid counterpoint to The Blue Danube’s euphoria. Here the crew is depicted in day-to-day behavior, and Kubrick repeats the music twice to emphasize the solitude of the mission and their lifestyles. Upon reaching Jupiter, the musical score deteriorates into abstract movement, using only Ligeti to augment Bowman’s journey “beyond the infinite” and to suggest the hidden observers of his 18 th century cage. The music of 2001 is an evolution from the past to the future, from the known to the unknown, the real to the surreal.

Unlike the dialogue and music of 2001, which both follow a linear trajectory from man’s past to future, the ambient sound prevalent in the film seems far more concerned with commenting on the present. In both the film’s beginning and end, ambient sound is unimportant. The “Dawn of Man” is vast, calm and quiet, and the ending is disturbingly sanitized, as Bowman is sent back to the 18 th century to live out the rest of days. But it is in the middle, between the classical pieces, that the ambient sound begins to intensify. It starts in the space station, as video monitors start to play a more prominent role, and then on the moon, as the journey to the second monolith foreshadows the lengthy Jupiter mission in its engine hums, computer beeps and bland dialogue. From the moon sequence to the light show, the majority of the sound is exclusively ambient, whether non-descript computer sounds, HAL’s voice or the breathing of space suits. In fact, in this segment, 2001 becomes more a movie about technology than humans, and these sounds peak during the wormhole sequence, when the ambient sounds of explosions and turbulence almost override all other music or noise. And if one reads 2001 as indeed a story about the ultimate evolution of the human species, it makes sense that the end of Bowman’s odyssey would end as reserved as the beginning, quietly setting the stage for the next big step.

Some movies could never work as audio books. Most of Stanley Kubrick’s films fall into this category. They are the great cinematic masterpieces that exist and thrill through their visuals, and through their mode of visual storytelling. What’s amazing about the extremely visual 2001: A Space Odyssey is how the meaning of the film could translate perfectly to an audio setting. Watching the film with one’s eyes closed, Bowman’s tedious spacewalk cannot be visualized, but the isolation, vulnerability and insignificance of these astronauts comes across loud and clear. A blind viewer would probably not be able to imagine the look of the monolith or Bowman’s fantastic trip through the wormhole, but in just hearing those segments he or she would be overwhelmed, knowing precisely what it signified.

So many things are impressive about 2001 that one must be careful about comparing one dimension to another, but Kubrick’s use of the soundtrack, from dialogue to musical score and ambient sound, is as remarkable as any other aspect of this cinematic milestone.