100 Movies Every Catholic Should See #136: 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) & Solaris (1972)

Directed by Stanley Kubrick and Andrei Tarkovsky.

In a short four-year period, two films pushed the envelope of what was possible for philosophical science fiction. Tackling head-on mankind’s encounters with the unknown, his evolutionary trajectory, and ultimately his anthropology, they remain searingly relevant to this day, though through entirely different approaches. Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey exploded onto the scene in 1968 as the wave of enthusiasm around the moon landings began to swell, dazzling audiences with its groundbreaking visuals while leaving them confused by its enigmatic conclusion. Epic in every sense, it is among the very few films that scholars have argued truly satisfy the classical conception of the epic.

In 1972, a far quieter film emerged from across the Iron Curtain: Soviet auteur Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris, an adaptation of Stanisław Lem’s introspective novel of the same name. Many have seen it as a humanist response to Kubrick’s technologically centered fare, often painting a reductionist picture of Cold War dynamics. And certainly, while each film draws differing conclusions through completely different approaches, they ultimately grapple with many of the same questions, making for fascinating counterparts in study.

With a reputation that dwarfs most others, Kubrick’s 2001 has been the subject of obsessive hyperanalysis ranging from frame-by-frame dissections to the farthest-flung fan theories. It resists easy interpretation, lending to its appeal to casual filmgoers and scholars alike. This post won’t attempt to tread any new ground or rehash many of the popular theories floating around the internet. It will seek to touch on some of the main questions the film poses and examine them in contrast to Solaris’s differing approach.

2001 begins at the dawn of time, with the appearance of a mysterious ancient monolith that seems to prompt a gathering of ape-like humanoids to turn to violence. In one of the most iconic transitions in cinema history, the timeline jettisons into the far future, as the image of a blood-stained bone flying through the air switches to that of a weaponized megaship reaching the moon’s orbit. Humanity has evolved drastically, but how? Events are set in motion once more by the appearance of another mysterious monolith upon the lunar surface. Emanating a strange signal, the Discovery One mission is dispatched toward Jupiter in search of the signal’s target. En route, the ship’s AI supercomputer, HAL 9000, malfunctions, murdering most of the crew to protect the mission’s objective. Astronaut Dave Bowman is able to deactivate it before encountering another strange monolith. He is then jettisoned through a psychedelic stargate, awakening in a room that feels ornate in its neoclassical architecture, yet unsettling.

Much of 2001 is imbued with a machine-like sterility. Human characters are generally viewed from a distance, reacting to the larger forces of technology and the unseen influences of the monoliths. The few close-ups Kubrick offers are often of faces with little expression or emotion. A sense of cold logic pervades, where reason is supreme and the human experience is largely consigned to the intellect. The action takes place primarily within the clean confines of the spaceship or against the stark backdrop of outer space. There is hardly an image of organic matter. In Kubrick’s view, the future lies in transcending material limitation through the primacy of reason.

Tarkovsky’s Solaris begins with an image of water, slowly panning through seaweed and mist to rest upon the face of a man sitting upon the bank. He slowly turns and, with an air of melancholy, walks back to his family’s house. He is introduced as psychologist Kris Kelvin, who reluctantly accepts a mission to be sent to a troubled space station orbiting a mysterious ocean planet, Solaris. The space station’s purpose had been to investigate an unexplained supernatural phenomenon by which the planet had been plaguing the crew with mysterious apparitions, figures taking on the likeness of members of their past, often causing feelings of grief and guilt. Kelvin begins to be haunted by the appearance of his dead wife, Hari, who committed suicide. Kelvin and the crew attempt desperate scientific measures to stop Solaris’s visitations. Along the way, he is plunged into psychological turmoil as he tries to dissociate Hari’s apparition from his actual memory of her. Like 2001’s monolith, Solaris’s apparitions operate as mysterious unseen forces that seem to drive the human characters toward something beyond themselves. It is this struggle with the unknowable that leads to the ultimate transformation of both Kelvin and Bowman.

Solaris and 2001 present an image of humanity’s longing for transcendence. Each offers a different glimpse of characteristics of the divine through their mysterious entities. The alien monoliths of 2001 embody the cosmic “other,” impersonal and beyond the human. In Christian theological language, this evokes the incomprehensibility of God. With Kubrick’s known inclination toward a scientific or pantheistic worldview (with a rejection of monotheistic belief), 2001 does not present a Christian view of God in the proper sense, yet it cannot escape the yearning deep within the heart of whether there is something beyond comprehension guiding the universe. It is the sense of awe one has when looking at the stars or observing the smallest microscopic organisms operating in perfect harmony. The monoliths operate with a mysterious agency, something the film invites to be approached with an air of mystery rather than logical explanation.

While 2001’s encounter with the “divine” remains impersonal, drawing man beyond himself through a detached transcendence, Solaris provides the opposite, with a presence that forces its way into man’s soul through his emotions, bringing about transformation through the exploration and ultimate healing of a painful past. Solaris’s apparitions are highly personal, as the entity clearly seeks to understand each human onboard. The ambiguity hangs over whether it is seeking to understand humans or transform them. But it forces an encounter, something that echoes the truth of the Gospels. An encounter with the divine is what ultimately lends itself to a better understanding of oneself. As the psalmist praises, “O Lord, you have searched me and known me” (Psalm 139:1). Solaris suggests that genuine transformation and progress depend not upon outward discovery, but upon a look within. “We don’t need other worlds. We need a mirror.”

One of the central questions of the modern age, especially with the rapid adoption of AI, revolves around mankind’s trajectory, particularly in relation to technology. Will fully embracing technological advancements bring about a drastic positive change, or is part of humanity being lost in the process? 2001 offers an optimistic view. Evolution will happen because of technology. Ape-like humanoids are launched into the future, to the point of transcending the limitations of human nature. While 2001 offers a warning of mechanization gone awry through the HAL 9000 supercomputer, the final frame presents a startlingly clear image of man transformed into a god-like specimen thanks to the marvels of a mysterious technology. Solaris’s view is far more pessimistic. The scientific study of the planet’s anomalies is presented as a failure from the outset. Tarkovsky’s imagery paints a stark contrast between the lush world of Earth and its familial structures, and that of the cold, dilapidated spaceship. While 2001 is full of breathtaking shots showcasing the wondrous innovations of space exploration and computer circuitry, Solaris’s cinematography focuses primarily on human faces, limiting sequences (such as the rocket launch) to the abstract. In short, Solaris asks again and again to consider the human cost of such technology. Has anything been gained through such exploration? What is being lost? Tarkovsky uses imagery from the past, juxtaposed against the coldness of the space station, to draw the mind backward. One such example involves the remarkable zero-gravity sequence, where candelabras and statues float amidst the ship’s wood-paneled library.

Tarkovsky, of course, isn’t interested in science. He’s focused on what makes one human, from art to emotion. While Kubrick studied the latest technology to paint a masterful picture of what could be, Tarkovsky asks what could be lost if we abandon our roots.

When studied together, Solaris and 2001 make for a fascinating dialogue. Rather than embracing an entirely reductionist view in which one film simply refutes the other, seeing them as a mutually enriching conversation can give a fuller appreciation not only of the genre, but also of the existential questions they ask. There is more than one way to approach the unknowable. 2001 and Solaris are masterpieces in their own right and essential milestones in the study of the science fiction genre.