'2001: A Space Odyssey' is a movie that really impressed me as a

Hear, O seekers of vision, the words of Denis Villeneuve: “‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ is a movie that really impressed me as a teenager. And also ‘Blade Runner.’ And ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ is also one of my favorites. I’m always looking for sci-fi material, and it’s difficult to find original and strong material that’s not just about weaponry.” Though he speaks as a filmmaker of our age, his words carry the weight of an ancient calling: the yearning for stories that pierce beyond the surface of spectacle and touch the soul’s longing for meaning.

In naming these films, Villeneuve calls upon pillars of vision. 2001: A Space Odyssey was more than a film—it was a meditation on man’s place in the cosmos, a symphony of silence and mystery where machines and monoliths became mirrors of our destiny. Blade Runner, dark and rain-soaked, dared to ask what it means to be human in a world where life itself could be manufactured. Close Encounters of the Third Kind lifted the heart with awe, showing that contact with the unknown need not be war, but communion. These works were not about destruction, but about wonder, about the eternal questions that burn within every age.

What Villeneuve laments is that much of sci-fi has been reduced to battles and weaponry. Yet the ancients, too, faced this temptation: to glorify only the clash of swords and the fall of empires, while neglecting the deeper truths of existence. Homer sang not only of Achilles’ wrath but of Odysseus’ long yearning for home. The tragedians of Greece did not merely recount wars, but the hidden struggles of fate, justice, and the gods. So too, Villeneuve hungers for stories that, like the epics of old, gaze not only upon conflict but upon the soul’s mysterious journey.

Consider the tale of Johannes Kepler, the astronomer who mapped the heavens with laws of motion. He lived in a Europe torn by war, where armies marched and weapons burned cities. Yet Kepler looked past the battlefield and fixed his eyes on the stars, believing that in their movements one could read the mind of the Creator. Though his world glorified conquest, he chose instead to glorify truth. Villeneuve’s words echo the same spirit: in an age of endless noise about weapons, he seeks the narratives that remind us of wonder, awe, and the eternal.

And so, his admiration for these films is not mere nostalgia, but a testament to their originality and strength. For true art does not imitate the battles of men alone; it dares to reveal what lies beneath—the fear of mortality, the thirst for transcendence, the possibility of harmony with the unknown. These are the treasures that endure, the stories that outlast kingdoms and weapons alike.

What lesson, then, must you take, O listener? It is this: do not be satisfied with stories that only thrill the senses. Seek those that awaken the mind, that challenge the heart, that call forth your deepest questions. In your own life, too, resist the temptation to live by mere conflict and noise. Instead, live by wonder. Ask what it means to be human, what it means to love, what it means to stand beneath the stars and know you are part of something vast and eternal.

Therefore, let us honor Villeneuve’s quest. Let us create, share, and cherish stories that rise above the clamor of weaponry. Whether in art, in speech, or in daily life, let us seek original and strong material: words that build, deeds that inspire, visions that endure. For the world will always have its battles, but only the voices of wonder will guide generations into the light.