In Cocteau’s film Orpheus, the poet asks what he should do. “Astonish me,” he is told. Very little of modern art does that—certainly not in the sense that a great work of art can make you wonder how its creation was accomplished by a mere mortal.
—STANLEY KUBRICK
As one might expect given its manifest astonishments, many writers have shared my fascination with 2001: A Space Odyssey. Less predictable is the sense of fraternity that prevails among those who’ve examined how the film was realized, and I couldn’t be more grateful for their support as I strove to understand how 2001 came about.
No person was more indispensable in this regard than Dave Larson, who signed on officially as my consultant and sounding board. Having spent the better part of two decades researching 2001 in granular detail, Dave is probably the most knowledgeable person alive today concerning the film. That’s not my observation but Doug Trumbull’s, categorically stated even as he advised me to get in touch with the man. (I’ve since had many opportunities to confirm Doug’s opinion.) A gent and a scholar, Dave graciously agreed to provide me with access to his voluminous archive of all things 2001—a formidable nested set of matryoshka folders containing innumerable photographs and contact-sheet scans, not to mention rare correspondence and other documents unavailable elsewhere. Dave also uncomplainingly transcribed dozens of taped interviews that he’d conducted between 2001 and 2006 with people who’d worked on the film, most of whom are no longer alive. After fielding an endless barrage of emailed queries from me, he then read Space Odyssey in manuscript, checking facts and offering valuable suggestions. Happily his own book about 2001 is in the works, and promises to be a memorable tome indeed.
No less important to this project was Don Shay, the founder and publisher of the industry’s leading visual effects magazine, Cinefex. Even before its first edition in 1980, Don had embarked on an effort to interview veterans of 2001 with an eye to writing a book focusing on its visual effects. Instead he founded the magazine—but meanwhile continued taping discussions with the film’s principals. The results ultimately materialized in April 2001 within a Cinefex issue dominated by a long-form oral-history masterpiece, “2001: A Time Capsule.” On reading it with blinking astonishment in early 2017, I sought out Don, who not only gave me access to his full-length interviews, but sent them to me as precious original transcripts in hard copy. Being pre–personal computer, they’d never been digitized.
As expected, they contained a gold mine of material that Don and his coauthor, Jody Duncan, hadn’t quite managed to squeeze into their 2001 issue. And I would be eternally grateful for his collegiality in this regard alone, but there’s more. That March, Don—a highly experienced editor with more than forty years of experience translating the language of film into that of prose—offered to read my draft chapters as they emerged. His subsequent suggestions were always direct, substantive, and to the point. Don’s contribution to this book was significant, and I thank him for it.
Also standing in solidarity throughout was Arthur C. Clarke’s authorized biographer, Neil McAleer. The very definition of a mensch, Neil not only emailed me transcripts of his many interviews with Arthur’s friends and associates conducted between 1988 and 1990, he also sent me a priceless package of original tapes, since not everything had been transcribed. Neil’s labors as he assembled his magisterial four-hundred-page biography in the early 1990s inevitably encompassed matters he felt he couldn’t use in a book officially sanctioned by its subject, and it says much about his integrity that he unhesitatingly trusted me with these materials, which enabled me to understand much that had previously been opaque. He followed up by checking in regularly to find out how I was faring, always answering my many email queries promptly and with brimming good humor. Look for his revised, reissued biography, Arthur C. Clarke: Odyssey of a Visionary.
As if this wasn’t already an embarrassment of riches, in 1999 American mime Dan Richter—who didn’t play so much as he incarnated 2001’s lead man-ape, Moonwatcher—conducted upward of thirty discussions with key people involved in the production. They helped inform his 2002 book, Moonwatcher’s Memoir—an excellent and entertaining read—and when I spent a couple of revelatory days interviewing him in Provincetown in August 2016, I asked if he’d kept the transcripts. Well, he had—and like Don and Neil, immediately transferred them to me. I soon discovered that veterans of 2001 had opened up to this manifest insider in ways they probably wouldn’t have to an outside researcher, and Dan’s interviews, handed to me with unconditional generosity, were a substantial boon.
Other irreplaceable supporters of this project include Christiane Kubrick, Stanley’s irrepressibly witty wife; her thoughtful and forthcoming brother Jan Harlan; and Stanley’s long-serving personal assistant, the inimitable Tony Frewin. Each judged me worthy of their confidence, and for that I’m very grateful. This book is no hagiography, but luckily all three appreciate the intrinsic truth that projects of this kind are worth nothing if not honest, and they trusted me to be fair. I believe I have, and thank them for their friendship and faith.
As for Doug Trumbull, whom I first met more than a decade ago while both of us were working with Terrence Malick to help him realize cosmological sequences for his film The Tree of Life, he’s been an unwavering supporter and advocate of my work in general and of this project in particular, and I’m honored by his fellowship. My invaluable agent, Sarah Lazin, helped me channel an initially inchoate concept toward something I’d like to think is far more focused and precise, then took my final proposal to the best publishers in the field with excellent results. Her erstwhile assistant, Julia Conrad, provided candid and incisive reader’s notes to my initial pitch, and this book is certainly better for her input. Prior to all this, my friend and mentor of many years, Eric Himmel, encouraged me to pursue this project. As did another good friend, the writer and cultural showman extraordinaire Ren Weschler. I thank them all.
Scrupulously fair and open-minded throughout, my editor at Simon & Schuster, Bob Bender, tolerated a certain brinksmanship on my part regarding deadlines, then patiently saved me from myself many times as we negotiated multiple editing phases together. His judicious suggestions and unerring instinct for pacing and tone benefited this book in countless ways. His assistant, Johanna Li, was a model of imperturbable professionalism throughout. Art Director Alison Forner likewise fielded my various design suggestions with forbearance and flexibility. And Manager of Copyediting Jonathan Evans patiently accepted late-breaking revisions and saw to it that the writing was given every chance to speak clearly and concisely. I’m grateful for their expertise and tact.
Sri Lanka–based writer Richard Boyle kindly gave me access to his personal archive of materials connected to his friend Mike Wilson, and I’m grateful also to Mike’s daughter Damani for her kindness and insights. I also want to thank Ashley Ratnavibhushana, the distinguished Sri Lankan film critic and historian, for his invaluable help in connecting me to key players in that nation’s film industry during my fourth trip there in February 2016. Additionally, I am indebted to longtime Clarke assistants Nalaka Gunawardene and Rohan de Silva, as well as noted Colombo astrophysicist Kavan Ratnatunga, Arthur’s friend, and finally Angie Edwards, his niece, for their insights.
The Stanley Kubrick Archive at the University of the Arts London was an essential resource throughout the writing of this book. Senior Archivist Richard Daniels and Assistant Archivist Georgina Orgill steered me to relevant materials, went well beyond the call of duty in forwarding important information my way, and did everything possible to ensure that my experience at the archive was a positive one. I’m grateful to them and their colleagues for their kindness and professionalism.
Likewise Arthur C. Clarke’s Papers at the National Air and Space Museum’s Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center provided a crucial window into Clarke’s meditations and methods as he worked for four years to help realize 2001’s narrative in both the film and novel. NASM Space History Curator Martin Collins deserves particular praise for his achievement in bringing these documents from tropical Colombo to climate-controlled storage near Dulles, where they will be preserved for researchers.
Ex–Kubrick assistant—and later award-winning film director in his own right—Andrew Birkin, aka the Kokerboom Bandit, provided particularly incisive insights into 2001’s production, checked in regularly, and transferred important images from his personal archive. Piers Bizony, author of two pioneering and authoritative books on the film, has been an invaluable supporter throughout, providing information, encouragement, ideas, and image scans. A leading writer in the aerospace field, Piers arrived at the subject long before I did, illuminating it with probing intelligence. The author of the best biography of Stanley Kubrick, Vincent LoBrutto, likewise gave me the benefit of his insights and helped me understand his sourcing. Toronto-based writer Gerry Flahive kindly forwarded useful gleanings from his research into Canadian actor Douglas Rain, the voice of HAL. And Christopher Frayling, author of an excellent monograph on production designer Harry Lange, responded to my queries with collegial patience.
Writer Andy Chaikin, my longtime space-geek coconspirator and the preeminent Apollo historian, provided encouragement along the way. Andy helped me get the manuscript to Tom Hanks, with gratifying results, and I’m indebted to both. Likewise my old friend Jill Golden and the talented film editor David Tedeschi kindly worked to bring the book to Martin Scorsese’s attention; I thank all three. And Carter Emmart, the wizard of the Hayden Planetarium dome, is a keen student of Kubrick and Clarke’s masterpiece, which we saw together in December 2012, each for the umpteenth time. Carter’s extraordinary free-form image-slinging at the Hayden, which amounts to a kind of guitar improvisation with the universe, represents the first time since my initial exposure to 2001 that I truly felt transported out there—among the galaxies. And yet his dome projections also provide a reminder that our planet remains the most beautiful destination in known space.
My friend and exhibitions agent, Jernej Gregoricˇ, and his talented wife, Natalie, unhesitatingly put me up in their London townhouse as I researched this book, despite the distractions associated with raising two beautiful children. Ljubljana film theorist Nace Zavrl steered me to film historian Billy Brooks, who conducted additional research for me on a tight deadline at the Kubrick archive; I thank them all. And my London gallerist, Matthew Flowers, helped me connect with Christiane Kubrick, among other favors that I gratefully acknowledge.
Top journalist Diane McWhorter, my filmgoing buddy from a year spent at MIT, provided collegial research tips and advice as I set to work in Dulles. Her upcoming book on Wernher von Braun will undoubtedly rewrite our understanding of that controversial figure. David Mikics weighed in late in the game with some useful suggestions; look for his upcoming book on Kubrick. And my longtime crony Stuart Swanson tossed me the keys to a clean, well-lighted office at his regional corporate HQ, requesting only a few planetary prints as compensation. Accordingly I wrote this book comfortably ensconced at Amicus Pharma in Ljubljana, and hereby thank general manager Zeljko Cˇacˇic´—whose regular wine runs to Belgrade helped take the edge off long writing days—as well as the singularly good-humored Amicus team for their friendship and tolerance.
When it comes to good-humored tolerance, however, nobody exceeds my top supporter in all things for well over two decades, my extraordinary wife, Melita Gabricˇ, who gives new meaning to that English-derived yet somehow entirely indigenous Slovenian phrase, “da best.” She is.
Finally, in my corner for a lifetime has been my father, Ray Benson, who even as his body began yielding to the gravitational pull of ninety-three orbits around the Sun, retained the keen, outgoing intelligence for which he was renowned. When I asked about his health, he always switched the subject immediately to my writing progress. His stoic courage and perennial faith in me took none of the sting out of losing him on November 12, 2017. These pages are dedicated to his memory.
MICHAEL BENSON
LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA
JANUARY 2018