Eternal Light and Persistent Madness : My Stanley Kubrick Odyssey

Like most people of a certain age, I think, I was aware of The Shining first. I say "aware" because I was probably 2 years old and I specifically remember not being able to grasp exactly what was going on, but also never really watching it in one linear sitting. But in the mid 1980s it was always on the air, so in my home it was always in the air. Saw it on the television. Yet somehow now, at whatever my current age is and however many times I've seen it and thought about it and read about it and watched the documentaries, the movie still very much feels the way it did as I stood in front of my living room TV set, watching Jack stare out those big windows with eyes full of bad thoughts, probably with a similar look on my own face. I was only sure of one thing: I wasn't sure of anything, except that it was scary - the slow zoom, the Ligeti strings, the cold light, Jack's performance. The feeling was conveyed without actually having to comprehend the plot function of the scene. 

I could argue that The Shining is a Kid's Movie, but what does that even really mean? It's a Fantasy Adventure story told through Danny's eyes, and any young audience would be fully engrossed and adequately frightened, so I've no argument against that superficial approach. Mostly what I'm declaring is that perhaps this movie (and maybe all his movies, or all movies ever, or the entire culture of art) may be best enjoyed and maybe even understood in the mind of a child. Kubrick felt films were to be experienced on an emotional level rather than an intellectual one, and so as a kid I can attest that I was less concerned with the How and the Why and more with the Wow. 

There's much to be said about the power of The Shining as a Horror Film in particular. Throughout the 1980s I didn't see most of the mainstream Horror headliners that defined the decade, but they fascinated me in an almost obsessive way. You're all familiar with the tired truism of scanning the shelves of the Horror aisle at the video store and slipping into the abyss of curiosity regarding the morbid content contained within each unnerving box. The mystique of their unknown terrors was possibly put in place by those very early memories of that serious, abstract mood I witnessed and felt from The Shining. (Eventually I would come to realize that none of these films matched that feeling, subjectively nor objectively.) In hindsight, maybe it wasn't a reaction to the film's scariness but rather its invasiveness; in the years that followed I'd seen many movies that captivated me and dominated my interests for long periods of time, but that conceptual quality that The Shining has, managed to stay with me like a recurring dream. 

By the time I was 13, my only real impression of Stanley Kubrick was that he was an old director from an old era who made important black & white pictures and transitioned into the 70s with an important Costume Drama. This impression came solely from my parents' Film reference library consisting of books copyrighted 1978 or earlier. Concurrently I was slowly beginning to seek out older Cinema, roughly a century of stuff I'd missed - not blindly or without prejudice, I'd research and hunt the stuff I wanted to see and not necessarily the stuff I was supposed to. Consequently Kubrick wasn't entirely on my radar -- and yet, in a shining circumstance of irony, the very existence of one specific movie that had still gone unseen was haunting my thoughts for a long time before I'd even known anything about it. 

I knew the title A Clockwork Orange, and that was all I knew for the longest time. And then, coincidentally but predictably, it was the VHS cover in the video store that began to pull me into its subtle but forward allure. That stark white canvas with its centered cartoon coat of arms was already culturally iconic, but upon first glance, it became personally iconic. Even more morbidly enticing was the film's tagline, shamelessly printed on the box: Being the adventures of a young man whose principal interests are rape, ultra-violence, and Beethoven. Seems awfully gleeful and flagrant for such a disgusting marketing tool. Rape?! It was like mean spirited bathroom graffiti right in the middle of a public setting; clearly I must be misinterpreting something, either about Warner Brothers or about life. I needed answers, and so I needed to see this movie. 

13 was the precise age when I began to rent and watch movies on my own without feeling like I was cheating on my mother and father, but it was an inevitable transition; eventually my interests were going to drift into unconventional territories that held no amusement or merit to a couple of old people. So while it would be sad to not share these experiences with anyone, it was also quite freeing to immerse myself in something so provocative without the aura of some unspoken discomfort or disapproval. Before finally viewing A Clockwork Orange I'd become aware of some of the imagery and the supposed "plot" but really I went in naked and unarmed; for whatever prestige and cult status it had, I'd created my own hype in my own head, so it had much to live up to. 

Once again I found that what I felt was indescribable, and decades of distance from that first viewing doesn't make it easier. I will say that for all its graphic and upsetting content it wasn't as repulsive as I'd built it up to be, but it never could've been, and there was a soft disappointment in that but also a relief - the horrors weren't so overpowering that I couldn't enjoy it on any causal level. Had it just been entirely routed in shock value then I would've dismissed it as a solitary endurance test and moved on, but instead I embraced it as one of my new favorite films. 

I got my own video copy pretty quickly and proceeded to wear it out; having it on in my own room every Friday night after my week of school is on my very short list of happy memories to come out of 8th grade. It became a bit of a ritual, not unlike Alex retiring to his own bedroom and blasting Beethoven. And that analogy is entirely accurate; once a deep familiarity set in, I'd simply have it on as I went about whatever other projects I had going, much as anyone does with a "comfort movie." And through that the connection was made: this movie is very much like The Shining in the respect of just being in close proximity to its colors and music is the experience. I'm not here to give an in-depth critique of this or any of these films, that's not what this is about, but beyond the abstractions I was taken aback by the humor of the movie - a shade of comedy so black that I thought my reactions must be a mistake, but at the same time felt completely intentional. There are punchlines and sight gags and slapstick throughout, but even all of that amounted to the true nature of what the funniness is - it reaches beyond satire and into absurdity; this was an artist who was telling me that he did not take the subject matter as seriously as the methods with which he presented it. I'd seen and enjoyed broad Comedies before, but this was specific comedy for a specific audience, and slowly it became apparent that I wasn't, in fact, sharing this experience with no one. 

I bought the soundtrack (on used record and CD), I drew art, I bought a t-shirt, I even dressed as Alex for my very last participation in trick-or-treating. At the time this was about the extent to which I could openly celebrate a then-25-year-old cult movie, but there was a much more internalized celebration that was taking place: I felt I was securing a grasp on movie directing - what the job is, how to detect styles and motifs, recognizing movement and composition and cutting, what are the contributions and how does it translate onto the screen. Before then the most important elements of movies to me were acting, writing, music composing, and maybe special effects, but all of that stuff suddenly seemed noticeably negligible in the shadow of their sum; every ship clearly had a captain and henceforth I'd be looking to them for rights and wrongs. If you're gonna maneuver yourself into this mentality, Kubrick is a good place to start. 

You ask most people who their favorite Film Director is and they can't tell you because they don't really know about that stuff, and that's fine. You ask people who have "movies" at the forefront of their hobbies and they'll have an answer or maybe even a list of favorite directors, and if you ask them why, it's typically because it correlates to their list of favorite movies: Jaws = Steven Spielberg, Beetlejuice = Tim Burton, etc. Kubrick (amongst few others I'd agree) presents the most explicit examples of what a director can accomplish with this art form beyond set dress and casting choices, consciously never repeating himself while maintaining a familiar distinction. (For better or worse, all notable artists achieve this balance.) But clearly (as I was learning) it goes even farther beyond that. 

The circumstances under which I first saw 2001 were all wrong: it was a videotape rental on a smallish 10-year-old analog Magnavox in the middle of a bright Summer day. I was 14 and home alone and had been made aware of a Tornado Watch in my area, so I was sufficiently distracted. Also having spent 14 years on this planet I'd been subjected to every montage, homage, reference, and parody of and to this Classic of Cinema, so the blow was even further softened - but only to a point. I hate the conditions of how I was introduced to this film, but its messages and moods and madness and just untainted gravitas were not lost on me. 

The Dawn of Man sequence felt derivative only because I'd seen it satirized a million times already, but of course no one had ever done it with the ominous precision (that is, to say, precisely ominous) of the original. But as aware of it as I was, I was still blissfully ignorant to whatever purpose it served to this outer space movie - and it didn't matter because, for its duration, I admittedly got caught up in the plot of the monkey movie, so the 5 million year flash forward was jarring not just in context but also content. And once the theatrical introduction to the futuristic life amongst the stars and The Blue Danube stuff calms down and we move into the Dr. Floyd sequence I'd already kinda began to forget about the prologue on a superficial level, but intellectually I still knew how the film began, so there was this tension regarding its relevance that carried me through what's arguably the boring part of the picture (not dissimilar to the Stuart Ullman setup of The Shining). 

I was aware of HAL as a malfunctioning computer that puts astronauts in jeopardy, and I suppose that's entirely true, that is what happens, but the way it unfolds was not only masterful in its metaphors and pacing and plot devices, but also how traditional and pedestrian the story becomes for a very short time which, at the end of the day (and the film), is the bait that draws a mainstream audience while also tying together all the free floating themes and moods. And because I found myself watching it in this analytical way I became aware of a mild irritation that I wasn't enjoying it, or at least not in the way I wanted to.

And then, Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite. 

In 15 minutes of film, I understood, for lack of a better phrase, what all the hype was about, in regards to this movie, to this sequence, and to Stanley Kubrick. It reached me emotionally as intended, yes, and they were predictable emotions involving awe and excitement and confusion and wonderment surrounding birth and death and movies and the vastness of the universe - I fell for the whole gag. However, though it may've not been the desired effect, I was overcome with joy much more on the intellectual level; outside the parameters of the "for its time" bullshit, I was immersed in the idea of "how does a mainstream movie get away with this?" It felt free of any outside compromises or encumbrances - it's so unapologetically confrontational and yet feels so casual, because for however mystifying and surprising it is (particularly the last 5 minutes) it's not any kinda sneak attack or twist; it feels entirely organic to the film that precedes it and it couldn't have ended any other way.

People talk about revisiting his films to "better understand them" - not in terms of plot I don't think, but to fully absorb the scope and grandeur of even the smallest details. Subsequent viewings of 2001 are so important (for me at least) - being able to stand back from it and weigh and contrast all the different elements of the movie, like you would a painting, recognizing and appreciating the way shapes and colors play off of one another, potential balance or chaos within the composition, etc. Any portions of the film that I initially found uninteresting or too showy or superfluous suddenly had all this baggage and subtext, and I think it's through this that Kubrick is able to defy any traditional structure or pace (in any of his movies) and still somehow maintain a piece of art that's more cohesive than any other typical three act story. 

Scholars will often point out that 2001 and The Shining are closely related for a multitude of cerebral, overblown reasons - mostly thematically and structurally which, at a glance, holds some truth I suppose. Though initially, outside of his seemingly fixed aesthetic, the tone of these two movies is very different - most notably the sense of humor. 2001 is Serious Stanley -- that is, to say, I find it to be his most humorless film; all of the futuristic gimmickry of the first half provide some cutesy sight gags and the movie as a whole rests on a foundation of irony, but it's not for laughs. And rightly so, the movie wouldn't have worked the same with some unneeded extra flavor, but more than that, I think Stanley may've found this particular topic to be a bit sacred and just beyond the reach of satire - very much unlike haunted houses, war, sexual obsession, criminal rehabilitation, or nuclear holocaust. 

The whole time I was obsessively juggling these movies, my father kept pushing Dr. Strangelove on me, insisting that was his favorite of Kubrick's and that if I was gonna "get into him" then this was essential viewing. I was dubious for the longest time; even at this young age I was already weary of early unsophisticated black & white efforts from Masters in their Apprentice phase. I imagined it as an experimental curiosity; the novelty of saying "I'm such a fan that I've even seen the lesser works." Once again the VHS cover played a critical role, which was a godawful lopsided collage featuring Peter Sellers (as Strangelove) hovering over an image of the War Room. Its sloppiness was off-putting, I can't deny that, but precise, mesmerizing composition was my singular standard, so at best I'd humor dad and perhaps spark a conversation. 

Coincidentally (or is it ironically) our mutual adoration for this movie and its humor and one-liners and even certain shots became a major and ongoing bonding experience between my father and myself. I can't say it's subtle humor, it's a Comedy with a capital "C" and is universally recognized as such, but at that point in my movie watching career it just felt like business as usual; the laughs are as sharp and consistent as A Clockwork Orange but global annihilation is a more dated and disconnected backdrop than gang violence, so there's more fun to be had from a safe distance. Roughly a year after indulging in Clockwork, this was my new meditation movie - like all of his films I could pick apart the similarities in shots and light and pace and motif, but even still it was that same je ne sais quoi that was reaching me on some emotional level. In primitive terms, it had his "stamp" on it and I felt at home, but it's arguably one of his talkiest movies and I found myself learning and eventually reciting lines and speeches and just integrating them into casual exchanges like I did and do with any favorite, well written film. 

It's exciting to get on a bandwagon of a popular movie and be all caught up and part of the group, but it's even more exciting to discover a new Comedy that I actually connect with and enjoy; a Comedy that fits in with your specific sense of humor can be tough for anyone to stumble across or even seek out, and here I'd found yet another one with all the fixins from the same filmmaker who seemed to do no wrong. So right around this very time that I began to more strongly consider Directors as a prevalent area of interest, I'd already nominated a favorite, and as luck would have it I still had undiscovered country to explore. 

Around this time, Warner Bros. miraculously began releasing The Stanley Kubrick Collection on videocassette: "remastered" updates of most of his movies (up to that point) were released in sleek Kubrickian packaging and I acquired what I knew and blind bought the rest. Concurrently MGM and Universal released fancy tapes of Paths of Glory and Spartacus respectively, and through this I amassed and absorbed an entire filmography over the course of the last few years of the 20th century in anticipation of what would ultimately be the final film. In that time I became caught up and well versed in the aforementioned Kirk Douglas movies, along with The Killing, Lolita, Barry Lyndon, and Full Metal Jacket (along with a significantly more mature look at The Shining which included the very rare Home Video "Special Feature" of Vivian Kubrick's Making Of). I admired some more than others, some I liked more over time, with others the relationship grew tired, but my Top 3 has consistently been Clockwork Orange, Dr. Strangelove, and 2001, in that order. I've long since struggled with settling on the more numerically pleasing Top 5, and if you've been reading along then it's not surprising that it often changes. However, I've been pretty firm on my Number 4 pick for a long time...

Gene Siskel and Stanley Kubrick died within weeks of each other, both at a time when I couldn't have felt it more personally. Gene was a big defender of Full Metal Jacket (specifically against Roger) and I certainly woulda loved to've heard his opinion on Eyes Wide Shut (as well as the rest of the movies of 1999), but my truly selfish take was that this was the last Kubrick movie we were ever gonna get - and I was not alone in that anxiety; I read every retrospective, every poetic obituary, every analysis regarding the current and future state of Cinema. I even clipped the articles from my local newspapers, all lamenting that the King had died and what were we to do now that we'd lost the only living artist with an immaculate body of work. 

And then Eyes Wide Shut came out. 

I remember most release dates by year, usually by season, sometimes by month. July 16, 1999 is burned into my memory in Futura Extra Bold. I was there for the matinee showing - I paused in the halls of the multiplex to study the Coming Soon posters as usual while an employee kept a sharp eye on this 16-year-old, and when I finally went into the theater where the dirty movie was about to play and I turned to sit in my seat, the employee had followed me in and approached me and asked to see my stub. I produced it with cautious confidence, and I was granted admittance. I can't recall the demographic of the sparse and scattered audience but I'd imagine on a Friday afternoon in mid July of '99 that the kids were all at American Pie or seeing Phantom Menace for a fifth time. Whatever, this was less about the shared theater experience or even the traditional theater experience (I didn't even purchase a beverage), I was here for the movie - the last movie, a fact I wasn't unaware of for a single frame. And for as much as I watched it with a HAL-like scrutiny, my eyes and brain were foggy and overwhelmed with my own hype and excitement and baggage full of knowledge and fandom, to the point that it was tough to determine if the colors and dreaminess and surrealism were actually there on the screen or in my own head. Have I been staring at this red pool table for 20 minutes or have I fallen into the void? I saw it 2 more times that month to be sure, but also to fully absorb what was, to reiterate, the last fresh theater release of a Stanley Kubrick Film. 

In hindsight the real novelty of seeing it in the theater was witnessing the now-lesser-known edited version, in which the more explicit sex acts were obscured by CGI voyeurs - it didn't seem to make a difference then but now it clearly does. The orgy scene is arguably the only major set piece in the whole show, and initially that's where I focused all of my attention and accolades; as much of an analytical fan as I was, I was still only a teenager and more in the market for the absurd, the bizarre. Where are the milk dispensing naked lady statues? Where's the giant celestial fetus? Where's the ocean of blood and the nuclear armageddon? The provocative ritual and the creepy masks and the Jocelyn Pook music all fit in with the content I was seeking, and so of course this superficial approach to the entire movie left me only partially satisfied. 

Lo and behold, like every other critic that lambasted this and all of his previous films, I needed more time, more viewings; even with my accumulative experience I was paying attention to the wrong things like plot and dialogue and general plausibility as though this were just some normal movie. Seems foolish of me now but this was a time when I was just consuming Cinema at a gluttonous rate (like a professional film critic) and I was in that very contemporary headspace of binge and purge, hot-taking a steady stream of entertainment. Kubrick needs space, some breathing room - he's not just a clip in the movie montage or even a painting in the gallery, he requires more contemplation and respect than a pop song on the radio. And therein lies the greatest joy and also the greatest defeat. The latter is derived from the collective bellyache that no movie is worth that kinda time or consideration. How incredibly pretentious! That's forgivable -- probably not from people who are paid to watch and critique films, but for your coworker who seeks 100 minutes of escapism "to turn their brain off", it's easy to determine that their input is hindered by interests that lie elsewhere. Same for me, same for anyone - people get passionate about stuff I don't understand or care about. But I care about movies, and very few of them offer the deep mystical odyssey that a Stanley Kubrick movie has to offer. 

Ever since I consumed those striking sounds and images of The Shining before I was even really able to speak, these movies have occupied my mind. I could simply feel them in an intangible way or I could ponder their intentions, their messages, their mysteries, or whether or not there is a mystery; one could approach them from any angle, and that's how Kubrick is able to remain above the label of mere Cult Director. Regardless of spanning genres, all his movies had his mood, his vibe; the compositions were similar, the pace was similar, they were all dramatic, they were all dark, they were all funny, they were all weird. And you can take that shopping list to the store and find someone like David Lynch or Jodorowsky, but the real skill of Stanley's stuff is that, on the surface, his films are entirely accessible and relatable and sit in the square like a Trojan Horse to be enjoyed by Horror fans and War Movie buffs and Science Fiction nerds and no one need be bothered by the supposed pomp and circumstance that the pseudointellectuals either celebrate or renounce. Me, I responded to the sense of humor first and foremost, that's what drew me in and kept me coming back. And as far as that subterranean realm that perhaps is sometimes too thinky or heavy-handed for some folks, I make merry of that too - never so much in the obvious terms of "What does it mean?" or "Are ghosts real?" or "Do aliens exist?" or "Was it all a dream?" but rather the ambition and construction and meticulous attention to detail shown plainly on the screen by the artist posing those otherwise straightforward questions. Pauline Kael hated everything about 2001 (including the cosmic mysteries) but she particularly singled out Kubrick's ego and self-indulgence, stating "It's a bad, bad sign when a movie director begins to think of himself as a myth-maker..." I certainly agree with that sentiment when applied to any talentless hack - there's nothing worse than a bad comedian who think's they're funny. But when you find an artist that speaks to you in a loud and articulate way, you want them to give you everything they have. Stanley only ever did that.

- Paul