Silent Run­ning remains a ten­der riposte to Stan­ley Kubrick’s 2001

When pro­duc­tion final­ly wrapped on Stan­ley Kubrick’s sci-fi opus 2001: A Space Odyssey in ear­ly 1968, $4.5m over bud­get and 16 months behind sched­ule, the mood was less than cel­e­bra­to­ry, with many of the crew mem­bers leav­ing with bit­ter feel­ings and low morale. Accord­ing to Spe­cial Pho­to­graph­ic Effects Super­vi­sor Dou­glas Trum­bull, ​“every­body was depart­ing the movie like rats from a sink­ing ship… every­one was wiped out and tired of it.”

Trum­bull, for his part, had every rea­son to jump over­board. Although the then 26-year-old was large­ly respon­si­ble for the film’s stun­ning visu­al effects, it was Kubrick who took sole cred­it, ensur­ing that 2001’s only Acad­e­my Award was received by him alone. Far from dent­ing his enthu­si­asm, the expe­ri­ence con­vinced Trum­bull that if he was going to invest his tal­ents into a project again, he would need to be at the helm. His sub­se­quent direc­to­r­i­al debut, Silent Run­ning, launched audi­ences beyond the stars once more – but where Kubrick explored the out­er reach­es of the mind, Trum­bull was shoot­ing for the heart.

The dif­fer­ence in approach is high­light­ed from the get-go. As if to direct­ly counter 2001’s grand open­ing, which plays host to a cos­mic bal­let fit for the gods, Trum­bull brings us back down to earth – way down. It’s among snails and shrubs that we first meet Free­man Low­ell (Bruce Dern), one of four crew­men aboard the Val­ley Forge space­ship, though you’re more like­ly to find him pick­ing daisies than count­ing the stars.

As res­i­dent botanist and all-round eco-enthu­si­ast, Low­ell tends the ship’s enor­mous green­hous­es con­tain­ing Earth’s last remain­ing flo­ra. How­ev­er, when com­mand calls for the team to destroy their car­go and return home, Low­ell can’t go through with it. He snaps. Find­ing no luck per­suad­ing his col­leagues through peace­ful means, Low­ell toss­es out the bad apples and steers his ship into the deep waters of space. 

But this rene­gade isn’t fly­ing solo. Close by are three stub­by drones named Huey, Dewey and Louie, and unlike Kubrick’s rogue com­put­er, HAL-9000, these bots make good com­pa­ny rather than devi­ous schemes. Sure, they’re prone to mis­chief and melan­choly, but behind their bolt­ed exte­ri­ors rests a pow­er far greater than HAL’s hard-wired intel­lect: a soul. Impos­si­ble? Then find your­self some­one who looks at you the way Dewey looks at Huey, watch­ing help­less­ly as his com­pan­ion under­goes a risky oper­a­tion in one heart-ren­der­ing scene. More affect­ing still is Dewey’s refusal to leave his side after Low­ell, play­ing doc­tor, orders him to fetch a wrench – like his mas­ter, this drone fol­lows his con­science over command.

Ill-tem­pered A.I. like HAL aren’t entire­ly to blame: 2001’s whole visu­al style is designed to alien­ate the view­er. Inte­ri­ors are clean, cool, yet total­ly lack­ing in char­ac­ter; as if pack­aged inside a space­craft designed by Apple, we’re des­per­ate to be unboxed. If you’re look­ing for signs of life, you’re bet­ter off onboard the Val­ley Forge. It may be rough around the edges, but here we feel an envi­ron­ment lived-in and loved.

Part of Silent Running’s home­spun charm stems from the production’s thrifti­ness. Though reach­ing for the stars would prove dif­fi­cult on a $1million bud­get, in the end, lim­i­ta­tion pro­vid­ed Trum­bull all the inspi­ra­tion he need­ed. In cre­at­ing the spaceship’s inte­ri­ors, the direc­tor found a decom­mis­sioned Navy air­craft car­ri­er at a cut price. And rather than waste time and mon­ey in post-pro­duc­tion, most of the SFX used were com­plet­ed on set through com­plex mod­el work and inno­v­a­tive front projection.

Trumbull’s knack for turn­ing the ordi­nary into the extra­or­di­nary is a thrill in itself. Yet, as the crit­ic Mark Ker­mode right­ly observes, ​“for all the impres­sive spe­cial effects employed in Silent Run­ning, none are more arrest­ing than the spec­ta­cle of Dern mak­ing a moment his own.” While Kubrick pri­ori­tis­es lofty galac­tic vis­tas, mak­ing the most of the Cin­era­ma widescreen for­mat, Trumbull’s frame is per­fect­ly fit for the human face. 

It says a lot that 2001’s most mem­o­rable char­ac­ter is a psy­chot­ic com­put­er. Its actors are more akin to lab-rats than peo­ple: indis­tin­guish­able and kept at a safe dis­tance. Hell, even Silent Running’s mute drones have more per­son­al­i­ty than 2001’s com­man­der Bow­man (Keir Dul­lea). A tri­umph no doubt due to the four dou­ble amputees who oper­at­ed them: Mark Per­sons, Cheryl Sparks, Steven Brown and Lar­ry Whisen­hunt. Togeth­er they breathe life into those wad­dling dust­bins, a con­tri­bu­tion so great, in fact, that their names appear first in the clos­ing credits. 

Approach­ing from oppo­site ends, both films explore the capac­i­ty of human poten­tial. 2001 looks up, search­ing for a high­er-pow­er inhab­it­ing the heav­ens, be it divine or extrater­res­tri­al, while for Trum­bull – in keep­ing with the film’s ecophi­los­o­phy – it’s only by look­ing with­in our­selves can we tru­ly expect to evolve. Kubrick’s dream for the future remains a cul­tur­al touch­stone of sci-fi cin­e­ma, but as Silent Running’s hero so elo­quent­ly asks, ​“don’t you think it’s time some­body cared enough to dream again?”