Con Pederson, the CGI pioneer who spent two and a half years alongside Douglas Trumbull creating the dazzling Oscar-winning visual effects for the Stanley Kubrick masterwork 2001: A Space Odyssey, has died. He was 91.
Pederson had Alzheimer’s and died Friday at the Motion Picture & Television Country House and Hospital in Woodland Hills,his son, Eric Pederson, told The Hollywood Reporter.
Two-time Oscar-winning VFX artist John Nelson noted in a statement that Pederson “could animate by hand and could program the computer to do animation that normal programs could not achieve. He was a Renaissance man and an artist.”
While working for Southern California-based Graphic Films, which produced content for NASA, Pederson wrote and directed To the Moon and Beyond, a 15-minute film narrated by Rod Serling that screened at the Transportation and Travel Pavilion at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York. (Trumbull, hired by Pederson a few years earlier, painted a rotating spiral galaxy for the project.)
Kubrick saw To the Moon and Beyond and invited Pederson to his Manhattan apartment to read the script and view storyboards for 2001: A Space Odyssey. He and Trumball were hired in summer 1965 to go to England, and they worked on the movie through March 1968.
As one of four special photographic effects supervisors credited on the 1968 classic — Trumbull, Wally Veevers and Tom Howard were the others — Pederson helped create stars, planets, spaceships and the unforgettable five-minute Star Gate sequence.
Kubrick would receive the Academy Award for special effects in 1969, the only Oscar of his sterling career.
“Stanley had this sense of adventure when it came to filmmaking,” Pederson said in a 1999 interview. “He was a cameraman. He was a photographer. He was an extraordinary filmmaker. I once asked him kind of stupidly how he thought a certain director would have done something we were discussing, and he said, ‘How would I know? I’ve never seen anyone direct.’”
Conrad Alan Pederson was born in Minnesota on April 15, 1934. With his parents and two older sisters, he moved to Inglewood in 1943, and his folks helped build bombers and fighters on assembly lines during World War II.
Pederson began writing science fiction at age 14 and after two years at Los Angeles City College majored in Art and Anthropology at UCLA. He discovered animation in Westwood in the college theater department, made a couple of student films and was hired at Disney, where he was introduced to German American aerospace engineer and space architect Wernher von Braun.
In 1956, Pederson was drafted into the U.S. Army and through his Disney connections wound up working for von Braun in graphic engineering, drawing illustrations about rockets and space travel. After the service, he went back to Disney before heading to Graphic Films.
In Michael Benson’s 2018 book, Space Odyssey: Stanley Kubrick, Arthur C. Clarke, and the Making of a Masterpiece, Trumbull noted that the postproduction process on 2001 was “epic in its complexity, and Con was the smartest guy in the room. 2001 absolutely would not have happened without Con.”
Pederson ran a “war room” where VFX camera shots were planned, scheduled, tracked and evaluated. Eight to 10 elements frequently were added to the original camera negative one by one before the film would be processed. It could take months to see the finished shot, and should Kubrick not approve, each step would have to be repeated.
Pederson took a couple years off after 2001 and eventually teamed with Robert Abel to launch the production company Robert Abel & Associates, creating animated logos for ABC and the Whirlpool Corp. using techniques he had developed for Kubrick.
Nelson first met Pederson at Able’s and said “he taught me (among many other things) that computer camera moves need imperfection to feel more realistic.”
Pederson’s son remembers his dad coming home from work sometime in the 1970s and saying, “We’re going to use computers” on the job.
After Abel’s shuttered in 1987, Pederson joined Metrolight Studios and served as a creative lead alongside Tim McGovern. There, he was a VFX supervisor on HBO’s From the Earth to the Moon, the 12-part 1998 documentary about the Apollo space program, and an animator on the films Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back (2001), Imposter (2001), Gods and Generals (2003) and View From the Top (2003).
He also served as an animator for Rhythm & Hues on the 2004 movies Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed and Garfield: The Movie.
In addition to his son, survivors include his second wife, Carole; his first wife, Sharleen; and his grandchildren, Alexandre and Viviane.
Former THR staffer Carolyn Giardina contributed to this report.
Anthropic’s research hints at an unnerving future: one where A.I. doesn’t fight back maliciously but evolves beyond the boundaries we can enforce. Unsplash+
Does A.I. really fight back? The short answer to this question is “no.” But that answer, of course, hardly satisfies the legitimate, growing unease that many feel about A.I., or the viral fear sparked by recent reports about Anthropic’s A.I. system, Claude. In a widely discussed experiment, Claude appeared to resort to threats of potential blackmail and extortion when faced with the possibility of being shut down.
The scene was immediately reminiscent of the most famous—and terrifying—film depiction of an artificial intelligence breaking bad: the HAL 9000 computer in Stanley Kubrick’s 1968 masterpiece, 2001: A Space Odyssey. Panicked by conflicting orders from its home base, HAL murders crew members in their sleep, condemns another member to death in the black void of outer space and attempts to kill Dave Bowman, the remaining crew member, when he tries to disable HAL’s cognitive functions.
“I’m sorry, Dave, I can’t do that,” HAL’s chilling calm in response to Dave’s command to open a pod door and let him back onto the ship, became one of the most famous lines in film history—and the archetype for A.I. gone rogue.
But how realistic was HAL’s meltdown? And how does today’s Claude resemble HAL? The truth is “not very” and “not much.” HAL had millions of times the processing power of any computing system we have today—after all, he was in a movie, not real life—and it is unthinkable that its programmers would not have him simply default to spitting out an error message or escalating to human oversight if there were conflicting instructions.
Claude isn’t plotting revenge
To understand what happened in Anthropic’s test, it’s crucial to remember that systems like Claude actually do. Claude doesn’t “think.” It “simply” writes out answers one word at a time, drawing from trillions of parameters, or learned associations between words and concepts, to predict the most probable next word choice. Using extensive computing resources, Claude can string its answers together at an incomprehensibly fast speed compared to humans. So it can appear as if Claude is actually thinking.
In the scenario where Claude resorted to blackmail and extortion, the program was placed in extreme, specific and artificial circumstances with a limited menu of possible actions. Its response was the mathematical result of probabilistic modeling within a tightly scripted context. This course of action was planted by Claude’s programmers and wasn’t a sign of agency or intent, but rather a consequence of human design. Claude was not auditioning to become a malevolent movie star.
Why A.I. fear persists
As A.I. continues to seize the public’s consciousness, it’s easy to fall prey to scary headlines and over-simplified explanations of A.I. technologies and their capabilities. Humans are hardwired to fear the unknown, and A.I.—complex, opaque and fast-evolving—taps that instinct. But these fears can distort pubic understanding. It’s essential that everyone involved in A.I. development and usage communicate clearly about what A.I. can actually do, how it does it and its potential capabilities in future iterations.
A key to achieving a comfort level around A.I. is to gain the ironic understanding that A.I. can indeed be very dangerous. Throughout history, humanity has built tools it couldn’t fully control, from the vast machinery of the Industrial Revolution to the atomic bomb. Ethical boundaries for A.I. must be established collaboratively and globally. Preventing A.I. from facilitating warfare—whether in weapons design, optimizing drone-attack plans or breaching national security systems—should be the top priority of every leader and NGO worldwide. We need to ensure that A.I. is not weaponized for warfare, surveillance or any form of harm.
Programming responsibility, not paranoia
Looking back at Anthropic’s experiment, let’s dissect what really happened. Claude—and it is just computer code at heart, not living DNA—was working within a probability cloud that led it, step-by-step, to pick the best probable next word in a sentence. It works one word at a time, but at a speed that easily surpasses human ability. Claude’s programmers chose to see if their creation would, in turn, choose a negative option. Its response was shaped more by programming, flawed design and how the scenario was coded, than by any machine malice.
Claude, as with ChatGPT and other current A.I. platforms, has access to vast stores of data. The platforms are trained to access specific information related to queries, then predict the most likely responses to product fluent text. They don’t “decide” in any meaningful, human sense. They don’t have intentions, emotions or even self-preservation instincts of a single-celled organism, let alone the wherewithal to hatch master plans to extort someone.
This will remain true even as the growing capabilities of A.I. allow developers to make these systems appear more intelligent, human-like and friendly. It becomes even more important for developers, programmers, policymakers and communicators to demystify A.I.’s behavior and reject unethical results. Clarity is key, both to prevent misuse and to ground perception in fact, not fear.
Every transformative technology is dual-use. A hammer can pound a nail or hurt a person. Nuclear energy can provide power to millions of people or threaten to annihilate them. A.I. can make traffic run smoother, speed up customer service, conduct whiz-bang research at lightning speed, or be used to amplify disinformation, deepen inequality and destabilize security. The task isn’t to wonder whether A.I. might fight back, but to ensure humanity doesn’t teach it to. The choice is ours as to whether we corral it, regulate it and keep it focused on the common good.
Mehdi Paryavi is the Chairman and CEO of the International Data Center Authority (IDCA), the world’s leading Digital Economy think tank and prime consortium of policymakers, investors and developers in A.I., data centers and cloud computing.
An installation entry view of Fawn Rogers’ “Everything is Sacred, Nothing is Precious; Everything is Precious, Nothing is Sacred” at Make Room, Los Angeles. Courtesy the artist and Make Room
As I peer through the large glass window of the new one-room solo installation by artist Fawn Rogers, my eyes scan the dozens of small, colorful paintings that pack the walls from floor to ceiling. Some feature mangled automobiles, cigarette-smoking monkeys and ironic cake icing messages, while others offer glimpses of pure nature: rare avian species, bare feet on lush lawns and adorable copulating ducks. Oh, but there’s also the benevolent Dalai Lama, and how about that close-up of grill-capped teeth saddled by sexy snarling lips? Seemingly dissimilar, these images come across like hyper, comic and wanton flashes of late-night television channel surfing—a place where we relinquish our consciousness and will to the oblivion of shock-value programming. Together, in this small white space, I wonder what they mean. I take it all in and pause.
Then, I approach the doorway to the gallery’s [ROOM] space entrance, lowering my gaze to a dense carpet of living, green sod that runs from corner to corner. An unavoidable, center-seated, large furry chess set, entitled R.I.P., now grabs my strict attention. Hand-hewn, patinaed bronze statues of extinct animals act as playing pieces on top of the board, where the faults and follies of humankind are played out by the very victims of our assault against the planet. Luckily, in this safe space, we’re offered a mere game to play, helping us make light—and maybe gain a small semblance of control—of the woes that add up to the inevitable burden of heavy consumerist life as we know it.
When I ask Rogers, whose show “Everything is Sacred, Nothing is Precious; Everything is Precious, Nothing is Sacred” closes soon at L.A.’s Make Room, about what chess means to her, she mentions dominance and conquest and tells me she was inspired by the works of Jake and Dinos Chapman and Rachel Whiteread… as well as soap chess boards made in prisons.
Dominance, triumph, subjugation, conquest. Whatever happened to strategy—or fun, for that matter? How do we look at games today? I remember a few years ago reading an often-misattributed quote, “Life is just like a game. First, you have to learn the rules of the game. And then play it better than anyone else.” Playing the game of life ‘better than anyone else’ is perhaps the problem. Why? Because we should be in it together reasoning through conflict and attaining harmony, instead of competing for space in the zero-sum fallacy. Of course, our lives can be perceived as an oppositional game-like succession of events—similar to chess—in some ways. Suggesting that “life is a game” might imply that we should approach life—and our obligations to the natural world—as an elective, off-time leisure activity with lesser importance. However, it can also lead to greater investment and interest in responsible living, akin to the ‘flow state’ engagement found in enjoyable games.
So, what might the work of Rogers do? She presents a party-on place to play during our prime-time pop cultural yen for fatal fantasy, meme-making and cosplaying in the virtual land we pay witness to and remotely occupy. But, as she said plainly: “The work hopefully prompts the viewer to appreciate the role they play.” For me, that role means the locked-in-step dance with the real world, the here-and-now, enacting some commitment that will hopefully extend beyond my backyard into the sustainable global realm, a place the artist cares deeply about. So, I decided to look again and engage with Rogers’s objects directly in the real world.
After I get off the phone with the artist, I hop in the car, drive down Hollywood back roads and return to the exhibition space. There’s little conspicuous activity in the area. I see the workaday lineup of whitewashed warehouse soundstages, fast food joints, storage facilities and a gas station. It’s like a no-person’s land between the powerhouse Paramount movie studio and the dying fashion retail sprawl of Melrose Avenue. It’s a fitting location to think about Rogers’s concerns and work. No, it’s not inside an animal sanctuary or a clean energy lobby headquarters on Capitol Hill. Instead, it’s the result of our excess industrial production, the place where motion media stories are generated for dream-drinking audiences, where we fill our cars with fossil fuels and where we store our junk. But the Rogers show—with paintings of mutated but thriving Chernobyl flowers and trees that grow through wrecked car engine bays—is a living, breathing break in it all. It’s sometimes important to pause in the eye of the storm to see where the rapid swirling winds and rising waters might take us.
Rogers’ art encourages both the beauty and the profanity of the past, encouraging us to live, and, engage, in the present. Courtesy the artist and Make Room
Despite the sharp urgency and formal manifest outline of the artist’s quest to reflect our foibles and willful exploits in “Everything is Sacred, Nothing is Precious; Everything is Precious, Nothing is Sacred,” the work seems rather innocent upon second viewing. While deftly made by a seasoned artist, the inner-childlike quality throughout helps represent the installation as a sincere invitation to explore, rather than a cry for help or even a demonstrative lesson. Some art holds a rear view mirror up to our activity at large, some art breaks the mirror into pieces to readjust our perspective and some art creates a new daring path we might take to avoid the pitfalls already experienced. Rogers’ art may well accomplish the first two by examining both the beauty and the profanity of the past, encouraging us to live—and, again, engage—in the present. What about the future, you may ask? It’s uncertain, of course. Until then, we have art to help us out a little.
Observer briefly caught up with Rogers at the exhibition’s tail end to discuss her practice, the show and her thoughts on the world’s current state.
How long have you focused on the many weighty issues central to your work?
I’ve been investigating and creating art about humanity’s demise for over two decades. I don’t have answers about how to ease the suffering caused by the climate crisis, the conflicts of humans versus the unbuilt world, or, of course, humans versus each other. I avoid preaching a dogmatic message and instead focus on capturing the characteristics of our present day—one big end-of-the-world party. When I think about making my work, I feel grandiose piano playing as the ship goes down or party horns blaring as a house burns.
Your Ass is Grass 4J, 2022 (Oil on canvas, 20” x 16” 50.80cm x 40.64cm) and Your Ass is Grass 3K, 2022 (Oil on canvas, 19” x 14” 48.26cm x 35.56cm). Courtesy the artist and Make Room
What influences sharpened your formative awareness of the classic human vs. nature conflict that now seems more pronounced than ever?
I grew up in the woods of Oregon, immersed in the wild. When my family later moved to the city, it was a stark contrast to the world that I knew. My mother is of Cherokee descent, and my stepfather was also Native American, so valuing harmony with the natural world was often part of our family conversations.
As kids, we were made to read several books by survivalist Tom Brown Jr., such as The Tracker, which detailed an incredibly dark and seemingly realistic vision of the future.
Another important influence was Walkabout, directed by Nicolas Roeg, one of the first films I ever saw. Under the pretense of a picnic, a city man takes his two children into the wild and attempts to kill them and then kill himself. The children are saved by an Aboriginal boy who teaches them how to survive in nature. The movie focuses on the disharmony between the unbuilt world and the dangers of modernity. This theme has been central to my practice from the very beginning, in a way, a burden I cannot escape.
At the same time, my alcoholic mother had a severe religious “psychosis” and was constantly discussing the rapture, her god and the end of the world. I felt fear at times but was also very aware of the ironic and real impending destruction of the natural world––versus my mother’s imagined doom where I would be left behind.
Why is this show important for you to mount right now?
With so much suffering in the world and all the overwhelming conflicts, I am interested in their primary sources. Humans are flawed and we have never evolved past the desire to conquer and destroy.
Our world is rapidly changing. I was interested in creating an immersive experience with a macabre, humorous tone where the audience can actively engage with the themes of the work—and possibly participate in the critical thinking process.
Left to right: Your Ass is Grass 21, 2022 (Oil on canvas, 18” x 18” x 1” 45.72cm x 45.72cm x 2.54cm) and a corner view of “Everything is Sacred, Nothing is Precious; Everything is Precious, Nothing is Sacred.” Courtesy the artist and Make Room
Tell me a little about this format and how the show came together.
I wanted to show this series of paintings, Your Ass is Grass, in a more compact space to emphasize their value as an approaching storm, so to speak, and provide a sense of urgency. In the space, audiences are surrounded by one hundred small oil paintings with a bed of real grass below their feet dying over the course of the exhibition. The audience is invited to lounge and play the R.I.P. centerpiece with recently extinct animal chessmen cast in bronze on an oversized board of faux fur. A small army of intently forward-looking frogs serve as pawns and reference the current extinction of half the world’s amphibians. So, players can knock their enemies to the ground but they’re being intently watched—maybe even judged—by paintings of endangered birds, erotic dancers and collaged portraits of other figures that are part human, part animal, part ashtray.
What state do you think we’re approaching today?
I believe the world is one big crime scene and we’re all personally involved. I think a lot about when we become consciously aware that humanity can quickly and intentionally cause the extinction of another species, which we did with the great auk at the tail end of the Industrial Revolution. At the time, that event disproved Darwin’s theory that extinction typically happened over a long period—all because of our distinctly heinous human shenanigans. We became aware of the negative impact of our actions but continued—and continue—in this manner, nonetheless. In my sculpture, R.I.P., the great auk appears as the bishop. That bird was the first casualty of the Anthropocene-Epoch expansion.
Of course, the game of chess has shown up in just about every art medium over the ages—from the paintings of Honoré Daumier to Stanley Kubrick’s classic sci-fi film 2001: A Space Odyssey—as a charged symbol about the clever tacticians who play it. It was also the preferred game of such art luminaries as Marcel Duchamp and Pablo Picasso. What does it mean to you?
Chess is a game of triumph, but triumph is a corollary of conquest. It is notably a game that the harmony-promoting Buddha refused to play. The game’s colonial history, coupled with an emphasis on dominance, finds fresh implications in our current subjugation of the natural world. When making R.I.P., I was inspired by the works of Jake and Dinos Chapman and Rachel Whiteread, as well as soap chess boards made in prisons.
