Kubrick, Stanley (Twentieth-Century Literary Criticism)
Stanley Kubrick 1928–-1999
American director and screenwriter.
Kubrick's films are among the most ambitious and original of the late twentieth century. A controversial director of outlandish subjects and eccentric cinematic styles, Kubrick derived an artistic identity from his natural bent for novelty and inventiveness. He was an idiosyncratic artist, yet his work has wide appeal. Perhaps his greatest strength as a filmmaker was in his ability to make films that were readily accessible to the viewer while providing abundant matter for critical speculation.
Kubrick was born on July 26, 1928, in Bronx, New York. The son of a prosperous doctor, he grew up interested in chess, photography, and movies. While in high school he sold some of his photographs to Look; after graduation, he became a staff photographer for that magazine. His first film short, Day of the Fight (1952), was originally a picture story in Look, and his increasing preoccupation with cinema led to a second short documentary entitled Flying Padre (1952). Kubrick sold these films to RKO at a slight profit and, after borrowing additional funds, made his first feature, Fear and Desire (1953). After the release of Lolita in 1962, Kubrick moved to England; where he lived and worked. His work in the 1960s and 1970s garnered much critical and commercial attention. In the last few decades of his life, he became an infamous recluse and was rarely seen in public. Right before the release of his final movie in 1999, Eyes Wide Shut, he died at his home in Hertfordshire, England.
Kubrick's first feature, Fear and Desire, is identified by its stylishly imaginative camerawork and a somewhat erratic structure. It received critical approval but failed commercially. Killer's Kiss (1955) is also characterized by an interesting visual style and structure supporting a conventional storyline. Less conventional is The Killing (1956), a crime caper distinctive for relating its story with impersonal and efficient objectivity. Of the early films, the most highly regarded is Paths of Glory (1957), Its favorable critical reception promoted Kubrick to the stature of an important American director. After directing Spartacus (1959), a project on which he considered himself only hired talent, Kubrick chose to make a film from Vladimir Nabokov's controversial novel Lolita. The sometimes grotesque farce in Lolita is amplified in Kubrick's next film, Dr. Strangelove; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964).
Kubrick's science-fiction film, 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) was alternately viewed as a work of cosmic prophecy and an attempt at gratuitous mystification. A Clockwork Orange (1971), based on the novel by Anthony Burgess, is the third Kubrick film concerned with a hypothetical reality. Some critics perceive this story of ultra-violence in a decaying society as further evidence of the pessimistic undercurrents present in all of this director's films. After his three scenarios of the future, Kubrick recreated William Thackeray's novel of romance and adventure in the eighteenth century, Barry Lyndon (1975). In 1980 he adapted Stephen King's gothic novel, The Shining, which chronicles the degeneration of a struggling writer into violence and hallucinations. The 1987 film Full Metal Jacket focuses on the Vietnam War and the dehumanizing and terrifying aspects of armed conflict. His final film, Eyes Wide Shut, depicts the effects of sexual fantasy and betrayal on an upper-class Manhattan couple.
Kubrick's films have received dramatically varied critical estimates and interpretations. Most reviewers have praised Kubrick's stunning visual style and camera technique, but have frequently derided the ambiguous endings of his movies and his puzzling narrative technique, which often results in audience alienation and dislocation. Thematically, critical discussion has focused on his treatment of apprehension, mortality, and the impact of social injustice. Controversy plagued his career, as much publicity concentrated on Kubrick's enigmatic personality and creative process as well as his depiction of sex and violence, misogyny, tyranny, and the sinister influence of technology in his films. Despite the mixed critical reaction to the body of his work, commentators concur that Kubrick's impact on filmmaking has been profound and far-reaching.
Day of the Fight (screenplay) 1952
The Flying Padre (screenplay) 1952
Fear and Desire (film) 1953
Killer's Kiss (screenplay) 1955
The Killing (screenplay) 1956
Paths of Glory [with Calder Willingham; adapted from a novel by Humphrey Cobb] (screenplay) 1957
Spartacus (film) 1959
Lolita [with James Harris and Vladimir Nabokov; adapted from a novel by Nabokov] (screenplay) 1962
Dr. Strangelove, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb [with Peter George and Terry Southern; adapted from a novel by Peter George] (screenplay) 1964
2001: A Space Odyssey [with Arthur C. Clarke] (screenplay) 1968
A Clockwork Orange [adapted from a novel by Anthony Burgess] (screenplay) 1971
Barry Lyndon [adapted from a novel by William Makepeace Thackeray] (screenplay) 1975
The Shining [with Diane Johnson; adapted from a novel by Stephen King] (screenplay) 1980
Full Metal Jacket [with Gustav Hasford and Michael Herr] (screenplay) 1987
Eyes Wide Shut [with Frederic Raphael; adapted from a novel by Arthur Schnitzler] (screenplay) 1999
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SOURCE: “Dr. Strangelove (1964): Nightmare Comedy and the Ideology of Liberal Consensus,” in American Quarterly, Vol. XXXI, No. 5, Winter, 1979, pp. 697-717.
[In the following essay, Maland discusses how Dr. Strangelove functions as a response to the American nuclear policy of the early 1960s.]
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (Stanley Kubrick, 1964) is one of the most fascinating and important American films of the 1960s. As a sensitive artistic response to its age, the film presents a moral protest of revulsion against the dominant cultural paradigm in America—what Geoffrey Hodgson has termed the Ideology of Liberal Consensus.1 Appearing at roughly the same time as other works critical of the dominant paradigm—Catch 22 is a good literary example of the stance—Dr. Strangelove presented an adversary view of society which was to become much more widely shared among some Americans in the late 1960s. This essay will examine the Ideology of Liberal Consensus, demonstrate how Dr. Strangelove serves as a response to it (especially to its approach to nuclear strategy and weapons), and look at how American culture responded to its radical reassessment of the American nuclear policy in the early 1960s.
The American consensus to which Dr. Strangelove responds was rooted in the late 1930s and...
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SOURCE: Reviews of Day of the Fight and Flying Padre, in Monthly Film Bulletin, Vol. 47, No. 563, December, 1980, pp. 248-49.
[In the following reviews, Combs offers positive assessments of Day of the Fight and Flying Padre.]
A commentator relates some facts and figures about the sport of boxing—nine million dollars are spent annually by fight fans in the U.S.; of the 6,000 professional boxers, only 600 make a living at it and only 60 a good living—and comments on the spectacle (“the primitive, vicarious, visceral thrill of seeing one animal overcome another”). One boxer, New York middleweight Walter Cartier, is then followed through a day of preparations for a fight. He wakes at 6.00 a.m. in the three-room apartment where he lives with an aunt; goes to communion with his identical twin Vincent (a lawyer who acts as his manager and spends the last days before a fight constantly at his side); eats a large meal, plays with his dog, and waits anxiously for night to fall. He is weighed in by the New Jersey Athletic Commission, and at 8.00 p.m. begins his dressing-room preparations with Vincent's help. At 10.00 p.m. he enters the ring and eventually emerges the victor (“… a man who literally has to fight for his very existence—for him it's the end of a working day”).
Day of the Fight, Kubrick's first venture as a film-maker, was made while he was...
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SOURCE: “The Black Maria Rides Again: Being a Reflection on the Present State of American Film with Special Respect to Stanley Kubrick's The Shining,” in MLN, Vol. 95, No. 5, December, 1980, pp. 1360-366.
[In the following essay, Miers asserts that “to understand Kubrick's achievement one must attempt a reading of the mass-market book on which it is based.”]
This orbe of starres fixed infinitely up extendeth it self in altitude sphericallye, and therefore immovable the pallace of foelicitye garnished with perpetuall shininge glorious lightes innumerable, farr excellinge our sonne both in quantitye and qualitye, the very court of caelestiall angelles devoid of greefe and replenished with perfite endlesse joye the habitacle for the elect.
—Thomas Digges, A Perfit Description of the Caelestiall Orbes (1576)
Cinema is the continuation of life by other means.
It is a truism of film criticism that the movies were a visionary dream even before there was an available technology. Perhaps we are all projected from some primordial cell by thirty-second commercials for catching the upperly mobile Hegelian spirit, but this pop cliché only distorts the real piece of work behind the history of film. It is one thing for...
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SOURCE: “Narrative and Discourse in Kubrick's Modern Tragedy,” in The English Novel and the Movies, edited by Michael Klein and Gillian Parker, Frederick Ungar Publishing, pp. 95-107.
[In the following essay, Klein elucidates the unique nature of Kubrick's modernist perspective, as evinced through his film Barry Lyndon.]
Even inept films sometimes carry with them a certain mesmerizing authority. Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon, a flawed work based upon a rather uninspiring novel, can be enjoyed, for instance, for its visual effects: sheer photography. And the background music is superb.1
The music offputtingly classical under the titles … might as well be embalming fluid. … Even the action sequences in Barry Lyndon aren't meant to be exciting; they're meant only to be visually exciting.2
The quotations are typical of a good deal that has been written about Kubrick's film, Barry Lyndon. Joyce Carol Oates, writing in TV Guide, liked the “visual effects” and found the music “superb.” Pauline Kael, in The New Yorker, more antagonistically found the classical background music “embalming” and “offputting,” the images merely “visually exciting” and hence meaningless. Both critics responded to the music and the images as...
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SOURCE: “Understanding Kubrick: The Shining,” in Journal of Popular Film and Television, Vol. IX, No. 2, Summer, 1981, pp. 93-5.
[In the following essay, Macklin elucidates the reasons for the commercial failure of The Shining and offers perceptions that will allow viewers to enjoy Kubrick's films.]
The Shining met the fate of several other Stanley Kubrick films when it came out; most viewers did not like it, so they rejected it. Most importantly, they did not understand it in any way which allowed them to deal with it constructively. Also, the criticism it received did not clarify the film. It remained obscure and confusing to its viewers.
It failed with most viewers for two basic reasons. It was not the same as Stephen King's novel, and it was not terrifying in the conventional way a horror film is supposed to be. So lacking the model of the novel or the conventional horror genre, viewers became disconcerted.
The Shining is a Stanley Kubrick film, satiric and abstract. It can be understood, perhaps not fully but enough for one to take pleasure and challenge from it. There are a few perceptions that one can use to help him deal with a Kubrick film.
First of all, Kubrick sees human beings as empty, their values shallow and vacuous. Everything about them suggests banality—their dress, their habits, their environment....
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SOURCE: “Décor as Theme: Literature/Film Quarterly, Vol. IX, No. 2, 1981, pp. 92-102.
[In the following essay, Sobchack explores Kubrick's use of décor to emphasize the theme of violence in A Clockwork Orange.]
… The film … manages to make poetry out of doorknobs, breakfasts, furniture. Trivial details, of which everyone's universe is made, can once again be transmuted into metaphor, contributing to the imaginative act.
… Emphasized or not, invited or not, the physical world through the intensifications of photography never stops insisting on its presence and relevance.
Because cinema visuals are intellectually clumsy (having no prepositions, conjunctions or grammer to speak of) the commercial cinema's natural tendency, at least in its present stage of development, is to disguise metaphors as props, decor, setting, plot-symbols, locale, and so on.
In his adaptation of the Anthony Burgess novel A Clockwork Orange, Stanley Kubrick has purposefully used the film's decor to cinematically say what the novel only suggests: Art and Violence are two sides of the same coin, both the expression of that anti-social urge toward self-definition...
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SOURCE: “The Perception of ‘History’ in Kubrick's Barry Lyndon,” in Literature/Film Quarterly, Vol. IX, No. 4, 1981, pp. 251-60.
[In the following essay, Stephenson deems Barry Lyndon “an experiment in cinematic form” because of the realistic way Kubrick perceives and portrays history.]
Stanley Kubrick's film Barry Lyndon, spectacular as it is, flies in the face of an audience's usual expectations about “costume drama” as a cinematic form of historical fiction. One cannot even say that the film is translating into cinematic form the style of its source, The Luck of Barry Lyndon by W. M. Thackeray. Thackeray's novel is much closer to the conventions of historical fiction, presenting a swaggering hero who undergoes a rapid series of adventures in high states of emotion. The film has a different style, which presents formidable obstacles to enjoyment by the viewer: a lethargic pace, a use of camera which forbids intimacy with the characters, a cold, terse style of dialogue, and an overall emotional barrenness in the storytelling which is in strong contrast to the film's visual splendor and compelling use of musical background. Why should these apparent flaws be present in the work of a skilled filmmaker?
A possible key to interpretation of the style of the work is to consider that Barry Lyndon is not simply a drama with historical...
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SOURCE: “Family Life and Leisure Culture in The Shining,” in Film Criticism, Vol. VII, No. 1, Fall, 1982, pp. 4-13.
[In the following essay, Snyder views The Shining as a satire of American middle-class values.]
The Essential American is hard, isolated, stoic and a killer.
—D. H. Lawrence1
A recent variation in the horror movie genre has been a series of films about middle class life in America in which the source of potential hazard is middle class life. Of course, middle class values have been impugned in every period of film (sometimes brutally, as in Alice Adams), but the notion of that life as tantamount to the world of horror has been mushrooming. This tendency suggests a growing sense in Americans that something almost too nebulous to define is gnawing at our vital organs. In film, this network of anxieties is often realized in terms of the troubling insatiateness which underlies the structure of American family life. In a film like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the family emerges as a predatory cell of capitalist consumer mentality which turns people into barbeque. In Poltergeist, the acquisition of the ultimate middle-class dream house becomes the purchase of a graveyard. And in Burnt Offerings, Karen Black and Oliver Reed obtain the house of their dreams—isolated,...
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SOURCE: “Star Wars vs. 2001: A Question of Identity,” in Extrapolation, Vol. 24, No. 2, Summer, 1983, pp. 143-55.
[In the following essay, Pielke surveys the defining characters of science fiction films by comparing the popular movies Star Wars and 2001.]
Those with even the barest knowledge about the “movies” (not as a business but as an art form, when the term “cinema” is used instead), know that science fiction films have only rarely achieved artistic respectability. More often than not, they're referred to as “flicks,” a term which does not exactly connote a quality product. This despite the most recent releases: Close Encounters of the Third Kind, The Empire Strikes Back, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, and (of course) E.T.: The Extra-terrestrial. Their acclaim, however, has most frequently been in terms of special effects or sheer, monster popularity. It Came From Hollywood, an anthology of some of the worst films ever made, even more recent, is pretty heavy on science fiction, for example. The genre hasn't fared much better in the other media either, so it's not something peculiar to the cinematic art form. For some reason, science fiction has almost always suffered an impugned lack of seriousness and/or creativity.1
To be sure, there have been some really terrible films perpetrated in the name of science fiction....
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SOURCE: “Pistols and Cherry Pies: Lolita from Page to Screen,” in Literature/Film Quarterly, Vol. 12, No. 4, 1984, pp. 245-50.
[In the following essay, Burns accounts for the positive critical reassessment of Kubrick's Lolita.]
It is a commonplace of criticism that good novels often make bad movies, and that cheap “action” books make good ones. The paradox derives from the contrast between pictures and words. “With the abandonment of language as its sole and primary element,” says George Bluestone, whose well-known study Novels Into Film is a springboard for this essay, “the film necessarily leaves behind those characteristic contents of thought which only language can approximate: hopes, dreams, memories, conceptual consciousness. In their stead, the film supplies endless spatial variation, photographic images of physical reality, and the principles of montage and editing. … That is why a comparative study which begins by finding resemblances between novel and film ends by loudly proclaiming their differences.”1
“How did they ever make a movie from Lolita?” screamed the posters. And the critics screamed back, “They didn't!”2 Many early reviews of the film range in tone from petulant to hysterical. The New York Times called the movie garbled,3Time magazine dismissed it as a victim of the...
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SOURCE: “The Uncanny and the Fairy Tale in Kubrick's The Shining,” in Literature/Film Quarterly, Vol. XII, No. 1, 1984, pp. 5-12.
[In the following essay, Hoile assesses the influence of the supernatural and fairy tales on The Shining.]
Most critics of Stanley Kubrick's latest film, The Shining, seem to feel that he has provided so much psychological motivation for the events in the movie that he has rendered unnecessary the presence of the supernatural and extrasensory perception, thereby draining the horror from what was heralded as “the ultimate horror film.” Jack Kroll says that “The sight of Torrance's endlessly repeated sentence chills you with its revelation of a man so clogged and aching with frustrated creativity that his desire to kill doesn't need to be explained by his seizure by sinister and suppurating creatures from a time warp of pure evil.”1 Pauline Kael asks, “Do the tensions between father, mother, and son create the ghosts, or do the ghosts serve as catalysts to make those tensions erupt? It appears to be an intertwined process. Kubrick seems to be saying that rage, uncontrollable violence, and ghosts spawn each other—that they are really the same thing.” She concludes that while the film's theme is “the timelessness of murder,” “the picture seems not to make any sense.”2
Both these critics go wrong in...
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SOURCE: “Ring Round the Moons,” in Monthly Film Bulletin, Vol. 52, No. 614, March, 1985, p. 96.
[In the following essay, Strick traces the origins and development of Kubrick's 2001.]
In March 1964, Arthur C. Clarke was contacted at his home in Sri Lanka by Stanley Kubrick, who wanted to make “the proverbial good science fiction movie” and was looking for stories. Kubrick already had his own idea of what such a project would have to contain: “(1) The reasons for believing in the existence of intelligent extra-terrestrial life. (2) The impact (perhaps even the lack of impact in some quarters) such a discovery would have on Earth in the near future”.
Clarke suggested “The Sentinel”, a short piece he had written in 1948 about the finding of an alien signalling device on the Moon. The story met the first of Kubrick's requirements, but not the second. Although Clarke had tackled the possible reactions to alien encounter a number of times (most notably in 1954 with Childhood's End, which had already been optioned and scripted by Abraham Polonsky, but remains unfilmed), “The Sentinel” simply builds up to a we-are-not-alone punch-line and leaves the reader to consider what kind of response the lunar ‘fire alarm’ might summon.
Kubrick's parallel interest in the response on Earth to hard evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligence seems to suggest an...
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SOURCE: “Stanley Kubrick's The Shining,” in Forum, Vol. XXVI, No. 3, Summer, 1985, pp. 21-38.
[In the following essay, Walters considers The Shining an “artistic fable” that explores the impotence of the modern artist.]
The more fearful the world becomes, the more art becomes abstract.
As carefully crafted as Edgar Allan Poe's “The Masque of The Red Death,” Stanley Kubrick's version of The Shining is a clever exercise in deception. On the most superficial level, The Shining functions as an epic film of modern terror that tells the story of Jack Torrance, a writer possessed by the forces of evil, who makes a vain attempt to destroy his wife and son. Kubrick's version of Stephen King's thriller, however, is much more than a simple illustration of popular literature. Embedded within the obligatory framework of the gothic novel lurks an artistic fable of decisive consequences. On the most crucial level, Kubrick's film narrates the tale of a middle-aged Werther who perishes, because the artistic impulse has been abstracted to the point of total uselessness. Trapped within an environment that he did not create, Jack Torrance is doomed to failure. As an artist stripped of his art, Jack has been written into a corner of impotent silence.
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SOURCE: “‘Come and Play with Us’: The Play Metaphor in Kubrick's Shining,” in Literature/Film Quarterly, Vol. 14, No. 2, 1986, pp. 106-11.
[In the following essay, Caldwell explores the way the metaphor of play undercuts form and content in Kubrick's The Shining.]
Critical interpretations of Stanley Kubrick The Shining (Warner Bros., 1980) have depended upon two putative assumptions: 1) that Kubrick “is the cinema's anthropologist: a hunter in the atavistic jungle of human nature …,” that Kubrick “is looking for human essentials” which reveal themselves “when the shell of society and manners … is broken,1 and 2) that the logo “A Stanley Kubrick Film” is a supra-generic imprint which predisposes one to expect this thematic predilection.2 Nonetheless, some critics have noted that an ironic principle is operating in the film and that it is presumably a “crazy comedy” of some kind.3
Thus, while the meaning of The Shining is seen as ultimately serious, indeed pessimistic, the presentation is conceded to be partly playful. Questioning the above two presuppositions, we contend that there is a cohesive metaphor of play which is far more significant than critics have been willing to acknowledge, and that Kubrick uses it not merely to undercut form—i.e., genre—but content—i.e., meaning—as well....
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SOURCE: “Admiring the Unpredictable Mr. Kubrick,” in NYT, June 21, 1987, pp. 34, 36.
[In the following essay, Babe reflects on Kubrick's career and anticipates the release of Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket.]
It was about eight months ago when I first heard that Stanley Kubrick was making a film dealing with Vietnam, called Full Metal Jacket. Holding Mr. Kubrick's work in the high esteem that I do—and having attempted to write about the war in a number of ways and from a number of angles—I was immediately intrigued. The fact that Michael Herr, who had written Dispatches, an amazing book about the war, was involved only increased my interest. The person to whom I was speaking said the movie was based on a novel, The Short-Timers, by Gustav Hasford, and that it contained one of the scariest scenes my friend had ever read. It sounded like this material was right up Mr. Kubrick's alley. Certainly he had shaken me up a number of times.
Though I cannot, without reference to a film almanac, recollect the date or where I was living at the time, the experience of first seeing Mr. Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove rushing to its conclusion is fixed in my mind. It was in a state of near hysteria that I watched the great white plumes of flowering nuclear devastation erupting in gyres one upon the other and heard the cerie, innocent music in the background, the tune being...
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SOURCE: “Rendezvous with HAL: 2001/2010,” in Extrapolation, Vol. 28, No. 3, Fall, 1987, pp. 255-68.
[In the following essay, Shelton maintains that Arthur C. Clarke's sequel to 2001—2010: Odyssey Two—is integral to understanding Kubrick's film as well as Peter Hyams's film 2010: The Year We Make Contact.]
Although some of 2001: A Space Odyssey's cinematic mysteries were addressed in Arthur C. Clarke's novel of the same title and year (1968), the more enigmatic ones—HAL's breakdown, Bowman's trip through the Star Gate, and the appearance of the Star Child—were not solved until the 1982 issuing of Clarke's 2010: Odyssey Two and, to a much lesser extent, the 1984 release of Peter Hyams's film 2010: The Year We Make Contact. Clarke's sequel is pivotal. Structurally and thematically, it tells us how to “read” both films—how to go back to his and Stanley Kubrick's classic to see it as a comedy of cosmic evolution, and forward to Hyams's 2010 to see it as an earnest, pro-West tract on cold war politics.
Clarke's Odyssey Two picks up just about where 2001 (film and book) left off, and then in its last chapter takes us back to when (the beginnings of intelligence), but not where (on Europa, not Earth), things all began. That is, in 2001 only the man-ape Moon Watcher seems triumphant; we, his descendants, are...
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SOURCE: “From Hasford's The Short-Timers to Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket: The Fracturing of Identification,” in Literature/Film Quarterly, Vol. 16, No. 4, 1988, pp. 232-37.
[In the following essay, Reaves contrasts Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket with the novel from which it is adapted, Gustav Hasford's The Short-Timers.]
Stanley Kubrick's film, Full Metal Jacket, unlike Gustav Hasford's The Short-Timers, the novel on which it is based, denies the spectator identification with a consistent point-of-view; rather, it establishes a serial, roaming identification that results in our panoramic point-of-view. Contrasting with the coherent point-of-view in the novel, Full Metal Jacket's identification is fractured, offering us a multiplicity of ideological reference points.1 In reading The Short-Timers, we immediately identify with the character Joker, for the novel's first-person, present-tense narration demands our participation solely through the filter of his consciousness; thus, we are easily funneled into his ideological stance that grounds us for the remainder of the novel. However, Kubrick allows the spectator of Full Metal Jacket to identify with characters in sequence, and subsequently undermines each attachment. Through this pattern of allowing our identification to take hold and then undercutting it, Kubrick creates a tension...
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SOURCE: “Kubrick and Crane in Full Metal Jacket,” in The Humanist, Vol. 48, No. 2, 1988, pp. 43-4.
[In the following essay, Stevenson perceives Full Metal Jacket as based on Stephen Crane's The Red Badge of Courage.]
There is one characteristic of Full Metal Jacket which virtually all film critics have overlooked. And, although they have touched on the realism beneath Stanley Kubrick's satire, they have not emphasized how completely realistic the boot camp scenes are. But, most importantly, what really eluded the critics was Kubrick's grand sense of the ironic. Kubrick did not just create a film with ironic scenes and flashes of the sardonic. He constructed a twentieth-century parody of a famous nineteenth-century novel, The Red Badge of Courage. Kubrick's film is a marvelous antidote to that classic book and subsequent film starring Audie Murphy.
In sequence after sequence, Kubrick's film parallels Stephen Crane's “realistic” war story. Indeed, Kubrick's satire makes his script more realistic than Crane's much acclaimed account. This is due to the fact that Kubrick's satire springs out of the very nature of recruit training and war. It is not satire to show marine recruits hugging their rifles and skipping the childhood prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep …” for a bedtime recitation of the Marine Rifle Creed. Verging on idolatry, that prayer is...
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SOURCE: “Full Metal Genre: Stanley Kubrick's Vietnam Combat Movie,” in Film Quarterly, Vol. XLII, No. 2, Winter, 1988-1989, pp. 24-30.
[In the following essay, Doherty places Full Metal Jacket within the context of the Vietnam War film, contending that it “exemplifies the Vietnam War film in its mature stage, a stage whose distinguishing quality is its reliance on cinematic, not historical, experience.”]
For over a decade now, Hollywood has been succeeding where Washington consistently failed: namely, in selling Vietnam to the American public. To be fair, the motion picture industry enjoys a crucial edge. If the military's classic mistake is to fight with the tactics of the last war, the moviemaker's decisive prerogative is the license to fight the same war over and over again. Whatever the historical uniqueness of what Time-Life Books calls “the Vietnam experience,” the conventions of the Hollywood combat film have proven flexible enough to accommodate America's outcast war even as Vietnam has in turn reinvigorated a moribund Hollywood genre.
Released in the wake of Oliver Stone's Platoon and sharing marquee space with Hamburger Hill and The Hanoi Hilton, Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket exemplifies the Vietnam War film in its mature stage, a stage whose distinguishing quality is its reliance on cinematic, not historical,...
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SOURCE: “Implied Metaphor in the Films of Stanley Kubrick,” in New Orleans Review, Vol. 16, No. 3, Fall, 1989, pp. 96-100.
[In the following essay, Collins investigates Kubrick's use of image and metaphor in his films.]
More than the average director of the current movie era, Stanley Kubrick relies on image and metaphor to underscore both the tone and overall significance of crucial scenes within his films. For Kubrick, the visual effects in film compose at least seventy-five percent of the narrative process. While camera angles, voice-over narration and musical accompaniment serve their traditional uses in his productions, Kubrick often strikes resonances by giving visual and aural devices new contexts and meanings.
The use of image and metaphor lends violence a curious pitch and hue in Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange. When Alex and his “droogs” call on the unwary novelist, his wife is shown sitting in a chair of round, “modish” design. The chair is white, and when the wife rises to answer the doorbell's lilt, we suddenly realize that this piece of furniture is in the shape of a huge eye. The lady is dressed in a red jump suit, and only when Alex begins slowly to cut the garment away with his switchblade do we fully understand that he intends to “core” the apple of the old novelist's eye. Throughout the scene Alex wears a harlequin mask with an eight-inch nose....
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SOURCE: “Born to Kill: S. Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket as Historical Representation of America's Experience in Vietnam,” in Film & History, Vol. XX, No. 3, September, 1990, pp. 62-70.
[In the following essay, Schweitzer asserts that Full Metal Jacket's “ability to convey a nuanced historical argument through an artistic medium—in effect, to address simultaneously the audience's hearts and minds—is unique and deserves attention.”]
The scholarly debate over the Vietnam War is, of course, political. “The Left” and “The Right” argue over the “lessons” of Vietnam in the belief that past is prologue. The stakes of the debate are high. To the victor goes the ideological ascendancy and the ability to shape the future by controlling the perception of the past. Beliefs about the war are held so deeply, however, that there is reason to think that neither side may be able to defeat its fiercely ideological opponent.1 As one of our ablest critics of war and culture notes, Vietnam continues to divide American society:
Probably the most awful class division in America, one that cuts deeply across the center of society and that will poison life here for generations, is the one separating those whose young people were killed or savaged in the Vietnam War and those who, thanks largely to the S-2 deferment for college students,...
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SOURCE: “Bringing the Holocaust Home: The Freudian Dynamics of Kubrick's The Shining,” in The Psychoanalytic Review, Vol. 78, No. 1, Spring, 1991, pp. 103-25.
[In the following essay, Cocks contends that Kubrick's aim in The Shining is to personalize the Holocaust for the viewer.]
World War II has relatively recently begun to take on a dark mythopoeic aspect for the artists of the postmodern age. Unlike World War I, whose horrors preoccupied European society and art right from the armistic of 1918, for a generation afterward the second “Great War” of the twentieth century was generally celebrated as a “good war” by the victorious Allied nations. The former Axis powers converted to the ideologies of their conquerors and, with them, concentrated on economic recovery, the rigors and responsibilities of the Cold War, and the repression of the horrors of the previous conflict. These preoccupations were challenged beginning in the sixties. The Holocaust was rediscovered as a subject for historians, artists, writers, and filmmakers who also integrated it into critical concerns about the nature of human society and its future on earth. Even Alain Resnais's classic 1955 short film on the Nazi concentration camps, Night and Fog, had ignored the centrality of Jewish victimage and shied away from depicting French collaboration in the Final Solution. Save for a few works like Albert...
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SOURCE: “The Fall & Rise of Spartacus,” in Film Comment, Vol. 27, No. 2, March-April, 1991, pp. 57-63.
[In the following essay, Sheehan relates some of the controversial stories surrounding the filming and release of Kubrick's Spartacus.]
Over the years, the stories surrounding the making of Spartacus have sometimes threatened to eclipse the movie itself. To be sure, this production exceeded the quota for behind-the-scenes complications and contrarieties: initial director Anthony Mann dismissed early in the filming by producer-star Kirk Douglas; ego-bruising battles between Douglas and replacement director Stanley Kubrick; maneuvering by screenwriter Dalton Trumbo and the producers to ensure Trumbo his first open credit since his blacklisting; rumblings of dissatisfaction from novelist Howard Fast (another blacklist victim, who had had to publish his ultimately bestselling novel himself) over Trumbo's screenplay; and so forth and so on.
But as the saga of offscreen squabbling grew in dimension over time, the film itself shrank. Filmed in Technicolor and widescreen Technirama, and scheduled for 1960 release at a running time of 197 minutes, the epic story of the slave revolt in Ancient Rome circa 75 B.C. began to diminish—in screen size, duration, and color range—even before its premiere.
“I worked on that picture 30 years ago,” recalls...
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SOURCE: “Roman Games,” in Sight and Sound, Vol. 1, No. 4, August, 1991, pp. 22-5.
[In the following essay, Sheehan determines Kubrick's role in the creation of the film Spartacus.]
“In Spartacus I tried with only limited success to make the film as real as possible but I was up against a pretty dumb script which was rarely faithful to what is known about Spartacus. History tells us he twice led his victorious slave army to the northern borders of Italy, and could quite easily have gotten out of the country. But he didn't, and instead he led his army back to pillage Roman cities. What the reasons were for this would have been the most interesting question the film might have pondered … If I ever needed any convincing of the limits of persuasion a director can have on a film where someone else is the producer and he is merely the highest-paid member of the crew, ‘Spartacus’ provided proof to last a lifetime”
Stanley Kubrick, quoted in ‘Kubrick’ by Michel Ciment
“Monday morning, the principals, in costume, were sitting in the balcony of the gladiator arena. Rumours were flying. I took Stanley into the middle of the arena. ‘This is your new director’. They looked down at this thirty-year-old youth, thought it was a joke. Then...
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SOURCE: “‘The Awful Power’: John Updike's Use of Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey in Rabbit Redux,” in Literature/Film Quarterly, Vol. 21, No. 3, 1993, pp. 209-17.
[In the following essay, DeBellis asserts that John Updike's references to 2001 in Rabbit Redux underlines the major thematic concerns in the novel.]
“The power of the cinema, the awful power of it.”
John Updike's dozens of references to films and allusions to screen actors and actresses reveal not just a passing knowledge of an important aspect of American popular culture but offer verisimilitude and nostalgia, while providing a clever disclosure of character and support for theme. So adept is Updike at using every element of film that even titles on marquees foreshadow and counterpoint his themes. Individual films reveal ironic relations to his images, plots and characters, most suggestively in the use of Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey in Rabbit Redux, where parallels focus attention on the growth of Rabbit's wife, Janice Springer, and the significance of the black messiah, Skeeter.
Certainly the idea of so consummate a literary stylist as Updike showing a passion for movies must strike some as an amusing irony, yet Updike's enthusiasm for film is well documented. He...
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SOURCE: “A Cold Descent,” in Sight and Sound, Vol. 4, No. 1, January, 1994, pp. 18-25.
[In the following essay, Miller surveys the major themes of 2001.]
2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY SYNOPSIS
The prehistoric past. A small tribe of apemen lives on a rocky hillside, in constant terror of neighbouring carnivores and quarrelling with a rival tribe for the possession of a water hole. One morning they wake to find before them a mysterious black monolith. When their initial terror has subsided, one of them, inspired by the slab, learns how to use bone clubs to hunt for food. Four million years later, space scientist Doctor Heywood R. Floyd arrives on the moon to investigate a similar black slab which has been found buried deep below the surface and is now emitting powerful signals in the direction of Jupiter. The giant spaceship ‘Discovery’ sets out on a nine-month voyage to Jupiter, manned by astronauts Bowman and Poole, with three colleagues kept in a state of hibernation and a new and infallible computer, HAL 9000, in overall control. In deep space HAL deliberately causes a minor failure, and when Poole ventures outside the ship in his space pod to repair the fault, HAL terminates the life functions of the hibernating crewmen and maroons him in space. Bowman reduces a contrite and fear-stricken HAL to impotence by disconnecting his memory banks, and continues his journey...
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SOURCE: “What about Jack? Another Perspective on Family Relationships in Stanley Kubrick's The Shining,”1 in Literature/Film Quarterly Vol. 23, No. 1, 1995, pp. 68-78.
[In the following essay, Manchel examines the protagonist of The Shining, Jack Torrance, contending that “there are mitigating circumstances for his diabolical role in the disintegration of his family.”]
In the end we all come to be cured of our sentiments. Those whom life does not cure death will. The world is quite ruthless in selecting between dream and reality, even where we will not. Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.
—Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
If anyone back in 1980 wanted to see a modern dysfunctional household being demolished by violence, they could watch Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, a screen adaptation of Stephen King's 1977 best-selling novel. This horror story of a family in crisis ends with Jack Torrance, an insane husband, first terrorizing his wife and next murdering the man who had come to save their five-year-old son, Danny. Then, calling himself the “Big Bad Wolf,” the beastly, limping father madly pursues the boy through the snow-covered maze of the Overlook Hotel. Cleverly, however, Danny retraces his steps, and not only escapes from his axe-wielding father, but...
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SOURCE: “‘Real Horrorshow’: The Juxtaposition of Subtext, Satire, and Audience Implication in Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, in Literature and Film Quarterly, Vol. 25, No. 4, 1997, pp. 300-06.
[In the following essay, Smith views The Shining as an indictment of American values and culture.]
It may not be too much of a stretch to claim that Stanley Kubrick's The Shining (1980) is the most underappreciated film of his career. This neglect is undoubtedly attributable to the fact that as the cinematic adaptation of a Stephen King novel which is equally under-rated, The Shining may be categorized as a horror film—and it is, but it is also one which exists on a much more profound level than the garden-variety pulp flicks that give the genre its widespread disrepute. Interestingly, popular film critics in America tended to rake The Shining over the coals upon its release because it did not adequately fulfill expectations based on Hollyood convention (some critics complained that the film was too complicated and didn't make sense, others that it was too slow, still others that it was not scary enough), while academic film critics apparently steered clear of it because it was a horror film and as such not worth paying attention to. But what all of these critics failed to realize was that with The Shining Stanley Kubrick has created a film that is unnerving...
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SOURCE: “Kubrick's 2001 and the Possibility of a Science-Fiction Cinema,” in Science-Fiction Studies, Vol. 25, No. 2, July, 1998, pp. 300-18.
[In the following essay, Freedman situates The Shining within the tradition of science-fiction films and addresses the ways Kubrick challenges the genre of science fiction.]
If Stanley Kubrick enjoys an artistic authority unmatched, perhaps, by any other English-language filmmaker, not the least reason is his unique generic mastery of film as an aesthetic form. What is crucial here is not merely Kubrick's versatility, though his capacity to craft major films across a wide range of different genres is certainly impressive in itself. The further point, however, is that the typical Kubrick film tends to remake or redefine the genre to which it belongs, taking apart the inherited conventions of the particular filmic kind in order to display their formal and ideological complexity, but also in order to put them back together, so to speak, in better working condition than ever. The relationship of Barry Lyndon (1975) to the historical romance, or of The Shining (1980) to the horror film, or of Full Metal Jacket (1987) to the war movie, is by no means only that of example to type. Each of these films offers a critical reflection on its respective generic framework, working to lay bare the absolute presuppositions of the...
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SOURCE: “The Kubrick Mystique,” in Commentary, Vol. 108, No. 2, September, 1999, pp. 52-5.
[In the following review, Decter derides Eyes Wide Shut as callow, insensible, and pretentious.]
In response to an unbearably stuffy declaration by her husband, a woman, high on pot, details for him her sexual fantasy concerning a certain naval officer she once had a fleeting glance of. A little later, she tells him about a dream she has had of being handed from man to man in one big bath of sex. This sends the husband on a long night's journey in search of sexual adventure, including an unconsummated encounter with a hooker and an elaborately ceremonial orgy from which he is evicted. Thus chastened, he tells his wife all. Whereupon they know themselves to be in a serious marital crisis but determine to overcome it. All ends soberly but happily in a shopping excursion to FAO Schwarz.
So goes the plot of Eyes Wide Shut, the much-anticipated and posthumously screened last work of Stanley Kubrick, titular genius of filmmaking. In the myriad tributes to Kubrick after his death last March that were published in the form of interviews or memoirs—as well as in a little book about the making of this movie by its screenwriter, Frederic Raphael—we learn that considerations of plot were never uppermost in this director's mind; for him, all was subordinate to the camera. Watching Eyes...
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SOURCE: “Too Late the Hero,” in Sight and Sound, Vol. 9, No. 9, September, 1999, pp. 20-5.
[In the following essay, Gross discusses the major motifs of Eyes Wide Shut and places the film in context with several classic movies from the 1960s.]
“Art treats appearance as appearance, its aim is precisely not to deceive. It is therefore true.”
Stanley Kubrick's final film Eyes Wide Shut is a surprisingly faithful adaptation of Arthur Schnitzler's turn-of-the-century short novel Dream Story. Kubrick, as we've lately been learning, was always seriously respectful of the mechanisms of the texts he adapted. So dream and story will be of peculiar importance in thinking about this film.
The first dreamlike thing that happens in Eyes Wide Shut occurs in the midst of a long sequence depicting an opulent Manhattan Christmas party. Dr Bill Harford (Tom Cruise) is summoned by threateningly authoritarian manservants. We see him being interrupted but have no idea where he's heading. Then we cut, somewhat disconcertingly, to the image of a naked female body sprawled on the floor of a huge bathroom. We can't at first be sure if she's asleep, unconscious or dead. Standing over her, pulling up his pants, is the perpetrator of some unseemly erotic act, whom we recognise as the...
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SOURCE: “Kubrick: A Sadness,” in The New Republic, Vol. 413, No. 4, August 16, 1999, pp. 30-1.
[In the following negative assessment, Kauffmann deems Eyes Wide Shut “a catastrophe—in both the popular sense and the classical sense of the end of a tragedy.”]
In the spring, of 1967, Robert Brustein, then dean of the Yale School of Drama, asked me to do a film course in the following academic year. I was to co-teach: I would meet the class one afternoon a week to deal with history and style, and on another day they would meet a filmmaker who would explore techniques. Brustein and I, both keen on the relatively recent Dr. Strangelove, decided to aim high and invite Stanley Kubrick for the filmmaking post. I agreed to approach Kubrick because I knew him slightly.
I had lunched with Kubrick in New York two years earlier. (One remark lingers. I praised Peter Sellers's three roles in Dr. Strangelove, and Kubrick said dryly, “Yes, three performances for the price of six.”) We had lunched because I was inviting Kubrick to appear on a series about film that I was then doing on PBS in New York; he had seen some of the programs and was sufficiently interested to meet and talk about it, though eventually he declined. A year later, when I went to The New York Times as their theater critic—a brief sojourn, as it turned out—I had a warm note of...
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SOURCE: “The Last Emperor,” in The New Yorker, Vol. LXXV, No. 4, March 22, 1999, pp. 120-23.
[In the following essay, Lake reflects on Kubrick's life and career.]
It read like Agatha Christie: “The police were summoned to Mr. Kubrick's rural home in Hertfordshire, north of London, yesterday afternoon, when he was pronounced dead.” Thus ran the Times report on Monday, March 8th, confirming that the foremost man of mystery in modern cinema—the Howard Hughes of Hertfordshire—had retained the patent on his secrecy to the end. The myth of Stanley Kubrick is now intact, unlikely to be broken, and it can only add to the agonies of expectation that will attend the delivery of Eyes Wide Shut. Twelve years we've been waiting for a new Kubrick picture, and this psychodrama, with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, was set for release on July 16th. One wonders whether Warner Bros., out of respect for the deceased, will now move the release date forward.
Kubrick was born on July 26, 1928, at a time when his parents were living on Clinton Avenue in the Bronx. His assiduous biographer, Vincent LoBrutto, has dug through the school records at P.S. 90 and unearthed the fact that in matters of Personality, Works and Plays Well with Others, Completes Work, Is Generally Careful, Respects Rights of Others, and Speaks Clearly the young Stanley was deemed to be unsatisfactory. It's hard to...
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SOURCE: “Strangelove,” in New York, Vol. 32, No. 28, July 26, 1999, pp. 49-50.
[In the following review of Eyes Wide Shut, Rainer offers a mixed assessment of Kubrick's movie.]
Eyes Wide Shut is being billed as more than a movie, more than even a Tom Cruise-and-Nicole Kidman movie: It's a Stanley Kubrick movie, which means, if his rep holds, that it's supposed to somehow intuit what's going on in our innermost lives and divine a millennial mood we may not yet even be aware of. The film is poised to be an epochal pop-cultural event, an art block-buster. And since it's Kubrick's last, the genius-visionary mystique machine has been turned on by the media full-blast. Eyes Wide Shut is going to be read or, more to the point, misread as some kind of valedictory. But Kubrick never intended for this film to be his last—he was, for example, famously caught up in preparations for a movie about artificial intelligence. Besides, for a director whose themes were as churningly repetitive as Kubrick's, there can be no proper valedictory because the moment of serene repose never arrives.
It is this quality of personal obession that makes Eyes Wide Shut such a hammerlock of an experience. It's a powerful movie without always, or often, being a very good one; watching it is a bit like being inside the twistings and conniptions of a control freak who longs to lose...
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SOURCE: “Resident Phantoms,” in Sight and Sound, Vol. 9, No. 9, September, 1999, pp. 8-11.
[In the following essay, Romney examines the defining themes of The Shining.]
The best place to enter a labyrinth is through its exit. So let's start with the famous final shot of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining (1980). Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson), the ill-fated winter caretaker of the Overlook Hotel-Sits statuefied in the snow, having met his frozen fate at the heart of the Overlook's maze, while his wife Wendy and son Danny (Shelley Duvall and Danny Lloyd) are long gone in the snow-mobile. The Overlook is quite empty now, apart from its resident phantoms and, in case we've forgotten, the corpse of chef Hallorann (Scatman Crothers), the only person Jack has succeeded in killing during his Big Bad Wolf rampage (but then, that's for the management to worry about when the hotel re-opens the following spring—and, presumably, for the next caretaker to worry about too).
So, amid the quiet—broken only by ghostly strains of a 20s dance tune—the camera tracks slowly towards a wall of photographs from the Overlook's illustrious history. It closes in on the central picture, showing a group of revellers smiling at the camera, and then, in two dissolves, reveals first the person at the centre of the group—Jack himself, smiling and youthful in evening dress—and then the inscription,...
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SOURCE: “Eyes Wide Shut: What the Critics Failed to See in Kubrick's Last Film,” in Harper's Magazine, Vol. 299, October, 1999, pp. 76-82.
[In the following positive assessment of Eyes Wide Shut, Siegel denounces the overwhelming negative reaction to Kubrick's final film, maintaining that “our official arbiters of culture have lost the gift of being able to comprehend a work of art that does not reflect their immediate experience; they have become afraid of genuine art.”]
Eyes Wide Shut is one of the most moving, playful, and complex movies I have ever seen. I love the way Stanley Kubrick expresses the film's theme of social and psychological doubleness through a double entendre in the film's very title—“I's Wide Shut”—and through his choice, for the title song, of a waltz by Dmitry Shostakovich, a guileful composer famous for writing music whose subtle motifs seemed to celebrate Stalin but actually undermined him. I love the film's spare, almost allegorical portrait of the tension and complexity at the heart of a marriage. So imagine my alarm when, picking up one magazine and newspaper after another, I read reviews calling Kubrick's film a disaster and a titanic error, trite and self-important, one of the worst movies the critics had ever seen.
“I can state unequivocally that the late Stanley Kubrick, in his final film, Eyes...
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SOURCE: “Imperfect Love: Stanley Kubrick's Last Film,” in Film Comment, Vol. 35, No. 5, September-October, 1999, pp. 25-33.
[In the following review, Taubin addresses the flaws of Eyes Wide Shut, maintaining that the movie was unfinished, but compelling on several levels.]
To be blunt about it, it's impossible at this moment to separate thoughts and feelings about Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut from the fact of his death. Or to put it another way, Kubrick's death is the closure that his final film, for better or worse, resists to the last. The ultimate Kubrick irony is that the director died while making a film that sides with Eros in the eternal struggle between, as Freud termed it, Eros and Thanatos, Eros and the death instinct. Kubrick's great subject—the subject that each of his films confronts—is mortality, and he presents it sometimes as tragedy, sometimes as farce, sometimes as both within the same work. Is there any American movie with a more powerful sense of mortality than Barry Lyndon?
Forget good and evil, too burdened in the popular imagination with religious concepts of heaven and hell. As a secular Jew (like David Cronenberg, whose films often make common cause with Kubrick's), he was resistant to religious metaphysics, although, like Freud, he was attracted to parapsychological phenomena. (Eyes Wide Shut involves the possible...
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SOURCE: “Eyes without a Face,” in Sight and Sound, Vol. 9, No. 9, September, 1999, pp. 38-9.
[In the following negative review, Whitehouse considers Eyes Wide Shut staid and dated.]
The dream interpreter is a kind of detective, and given the orgy of opinion about Eyes Wide Shut currently being enjoyed, let's use the detective's dictum and stick to the facts. The most shocking aspect of Eyes Wide Shut is not its long-anticipated sex scenes, but its fidelity to literature. No one expected such a faithful plot adaptation of Arthur Schnitzler's Dream Story (Schnitzler was a friend of Freud's)
Kubrick and screenwriter Frederic Raphael have changed the story's setting from fin de siécle Vienna to present day New York and added two major scenes. The first, near the beginning, is at a black-tie party where Tom Cruise's Dr William Harford gets his pal Ziegler (Sydney Pollack) out of a sticky situation with a naked girl in a drug coma. The second is near the end, where a pool playing Ziegler explains (or seems to) the fate of an anonymous woman who sacrificed herself for Harford when he was caught trespassing at a private orgy. Otheriwse, the film strictly follows Schnitzler's curve: Harford is a man so jealous of a phantom—a naval officer his wife Alice (Nicole Kidman) confesses she was once passingly captivated by—that he can't go home again until he had...
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Coyle, Wallace. Stanley Kubrick: A Guide to References and Resources. Boston: G. K. Hall, 1980, 155 p.
Provides a bibliography of Kubrick's career before 1980.
Allen, Thomas. Kubrick: Inside a Film Artist's Maze. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1982, 268 p.
Offers critical interpretations of Kubrick's films.
Clines, Francis X. “Stanley Kubrick's Vietnam.” NYT (21 June 1987): 1, 34.
Profile of Kubrick on the eve of the release of Full Metal Jacket.
Combs, Richard. “Kubrick Talks!” Film Comment 32, No. 5 (September-October 1996): 81-4.
Discusses a documentary focusing on Kubrick and the making of The Shining.
Crowdus, Gary and Robert Harris. “Resurrecting Spartacus.” Cineaste XVIII, No. 3 (1991): 28-9.
Considers the restoration and reissue of Spartacus.
Herr, Michael. “Kubrick.” Vanity Fair (August 1999): 139-50, 184-89.
Personal recollections of Kubrick from the co-screenwriter of Full Metal Jacket.
Houston, Penelope. “Barry Lyndon.” Sight and Sound 43, No. 2 (Spring 1974): 88-9.
Anticipates the opening of Kubrick's film...
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