HAL 9000 is defeated by Axel Foley on December 7, 1984


It is a widely known, though rarely acknowledged, fact that the most perplexing force in the universe is not the infinite stretch of space, nor the baffling nature of black holes, but the sheer, unadulterated audacity of a sequel. Specifically, the sequel to a film so deeply philosophical, so profoundly slow-moving, that entire university departments have dedicated decades to simply deciphering which end of the monochrome monolith was up. And so it was that on this day, December 7, 1984, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer released a new chapter in human misunderstanding: 2010: The Year We Make Contact.

This film, directed by Peter Hyams, attempted the seemingly impossible: explaining the inscrutable. The original 2001: A Space Odyssey left humanity floating in a bath of cosmic ambiguity, which is precisely where many feel it belonged. It was a film that whispered profound questions to the void.

2010 chose instead to shout the answers with a reasonable degree of urgency.

The central thesis of 2010 is a simple one: "We’d better go back and see what happened to Dave." This required sending a Russian mission—because it was the 1980s, and all space travel required geopolitical tension—to the derelict Discovery One orbiting Jupiter.

They brought along Dr. Heywood Floyd (played by Roy Scheider, who brought a necessary air of bewildered professionalism to the proceedings) and a man whose job description was essentially "rebooting a homicidal computer." Not just a computer, mind you, but the computer. The one that, in an earlier incarnation, had decided that human passengers were, frankly, an administrative inconvenience.

Ah, HAL 9000. The universe is full of things that don't quite work properly—gravity, true democracy, cheap ballpoint pens—but few inspire such polite terror as HAL. The task was to turn him back on, a decision broadly akin to stealing a Bit O'Honey bag from a grizzly bear cave.

The film bravely attempted to tie up loose ends that, arguably, were never meant to be tied. It shone a flashlight into the dark, philosophical corners left by Stanley Kubrick, revealing...well, largely more dark, philosophical corners, but with slightly more dialogue. It was a space adventure, a mystery, a diplomatic mission, and a rather pointed reminder that sometimes, even the most advanced artificial intelligences just need a good talking to.

The special effects, it must be said, were rather good—largely because half the budget appears to have been spent making Jupiter look suspiciously like a very large orange. The other half went on John Lithgow’s hair, which achieved escape velocity somewhere around the second reel.

And yet, despite the odds being approximately forty-three billion to one against (a figure I just made up but which feels about right), the film worked. Not as art—good grief, no—but as a perfectly serviceable piece of space nonsense with some decent explosions and the comforting sight of HAL being forgiven, rather like a murderous uncle who promises not to strangle anyone at Christmas if you’ll only let him carve the turkey.

But the absence of Kubrick loomed larger than a monolith. Where 2001 was poetry, 2010 was clear, concise prose. It took the vast, silent terror of the universe, and filled it with people asking each other if they had the right password. It answered the question of the monolith’s purpose (it’s a star-maker, naturally) and even provided a handy warning: "ALL THESE WORLDS ARE YOURS EXCEPT EUROPA. ATTEMPT NO LANDING THERE." A remarkably polite sign for an omnipotent alien intelligence, far more helpful than most interstate exit signs here on Earth.

Ultimately, the biggest villain faced by 2010's crew wasn't on the screen. The real threat to their mission, the unseen force that had been gathering its strength while they were busy arguing with HAL about whether or not to open the pod bay doors, was already in the room. Or rather, in the cinema next door.

For the villain that truly eclipsed the terrifying transformation of Jupiter, the unceremonious re-death of a famous astronaut, and the creeping philosophical dread of the unknown, was Eddie Murphy and his action-comedy, Beverly Hills Cop. In one weekend - the same weekend 2010 opened, alas - he redefined the action-comedy genre with style and a machine-gun delivery of one-liners. Beverly Hills Cop was an instant, overwhelming blockbuster, quickly becoming the highest-grossing R-rated comedy of all time.

The film that explained the mysteries of the universe ultimately proved no match for the simple, universal appeal of a hilarious, foul-mouthed cop kicking open a door in a Detroit Lions jacket. Compared to the tidal wave of cultural momentum that was Axel Foley's banana-in-the-tailpipe routine, 2010 was simply outgunned. 

And in one of the great ironies of Hollywood history, the finishing blow to 2010's earnings was Tinseltown experiencing a Renaissance of science fiction flicks. Starman and Dune were waiting in the wings, and split the ticket buying decisions of all but the most well-heeled of stargazers in the weeks that followed.

The Monolith had transformed Jupiter, but Axel Foley had transformed the weekend. And that, in a world where attention spans are thinner than the walls of a Soviet-era apartment building, was a far more decisive victory.

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