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I believe that in my original piece, On Stanley Kubrick Pt. 1, my intention was entirely selfish: I wanted only to understand why I felt the way I did about Kubrick's films; and to explore this in as much detail as possible. The result was a piece that I'm essentially happy with, but also something I feel was a bit limited in its scope regarding alternative forms of media to illustrate my feelings. The attempt here will be to join together those efforts in something perhaps equally as pleasing for the reader/viewer as it is me to put this together. My thanks go out to Dennis Cooper for allowing me this opportunity to share Part 2 first and foremost here on the blog, and to everyone who partakes in this blog on a daily basis. I've come to love this place and I trust the lot of us feel the same way. Think of this not simply as an essay (writing, film, images, music will be used and thought of as inextricable from one another; obviously I don't own these things and have done what I can to select the less commonplace sights you're likely to see when merely Googling the man) but as an attempt to stir up the very muddled pot of thought regarding one Stanley Kubrick. There are things still to be pillaged in that great oeuvre he left behind, and my hope is that by presenting this in the very human and stimulating environment that is the DC blog; a newer discussion might arise.
As a sort of further preamble (I promise to fuck off soon enough) here's the beginning of that aforementioned piece at Delphian Inc., which can be read in its entirety here.
Always the prospect existed in the back of my mind like some incessant and nagging nerve. The work put forth into the Pasolini writing and the Cocteau writing and even the books that shaped my life bit is all essentially some mutated derivation of this subtle and ever-present urge: an urge steeped in a sincere love and admiration for the works of one man, Stanley Kubrick.
You see, though the artist in general would have the public believe his influences are as vast and sincere as any massive library, that his youth was spent only reading the most brilliant things, seeing the most brilliant films, painting the most brilliant pictures on the undersides of his desk, this is a fallacy. It’s more like five or ten. Five or ten individuals for which you naturally come to learn the biography, the bibliography, and if you’re lucky the autobiography of their existence.
One of these men—man of letters, per se, or not—for me is Kubrick. The man who when I was younger showed me a stark human darkness I hadn’t previously believed existed through films like Full Metal Jacket and A Clockwork Orange. His personification of evil and absolute human debauchery at times reaching such highs and lows that for months if not years afterward there were certain pictures I simply could not screen yet, the effects had been too deeply ingrained.
A key reason — and hence template for any true influence one could hope for — that Kubrick has remained so entirely at the forefront of my mental faculties is the simple fact that as he grows, as his death becomes more and more widely felt and hence his legacy that much more profound on the world of cinema, his work actually changes. No easy task, to be sure, to have one’s work change when in fact nothing on the screen moves differently, no sounds come out that went previously unheard, and yet I tell you this in the strictest and utmost sincerity: the rendition of Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange was not the same film I watched when I was thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, or twenty-two; and I do not mean to bring this up as a personal phenomenon, for I don’t reckon that’s what it is. It’s a directorial phenomenon, where Kubrick has buried his films under so many layers, drawn so many connections to other works with the use of music and certain actors and visual imagery, that he could quite ostensibly be torn apart day-in day-out for the next five hundred years without so much as a glint of dust to mark up any of his masterpieces. The work is so adaptable that it is as much like real experience as any one thing could possibly be: the perception of one person—nay, even the same person at a different age—can be entirely foreign and undiscernible to the mind of another, and that’s what makes a true genius, what proves that a true artist is at work; that the merits of his output cannot be turned into any one genre, but spread so widely over the reach of human consciousness that depending one might detect a new genre with each flicker of light
This will be Part 2, and there's no telling how many parts there'll be further on down the road. Kubrick has proven an endless curiosity for me be it through strange criticism surrounding his work; a quotation picked up about his love of Jim Thompson; or Bret Easton Ellis tweeting about whether or not Kubrick's being 'gay' would have any interesting bearing over his oeuvre. Whatever it is, I'm drawn to it. I think most of us are drawn to his work at some point perhaps to such a degree that liking him now might seem banal; but I shudder at the thought of this. Kubrick is, for me, an undying resource of inspiration, confusion, vexation, happiness, interest, intellect, whatever-the-hell-else, and hence what follows will be a sort of love letter to the man.
In my previous entry I did what I could to make the bulk of the material shown my own writings and reflections upon numerous screenings of the film. This time, however, considering I'm under that pleasant umbrella of the 'transgressive blog,' I'll not hold back from sharing any material which you might find interesting, that which might in turn serve to enrich our understanding of one of the world's great cinematic practitioners.
Recently a free copy of that documentary Room 237 (Since writing this the original version I watched was taken down, both a shame and an illustration in the boundless interest we all have in his work)was made available on the internet and I spent the evening watching it, almost immediately deciding I'd spend the rest of that night watching every single Kubrick film I own. The documentary is, in sum, a conspiracy theorist's wet dream--rather nightmare--of the wide range of interpretations surrounding Kubrick's film, The Shining. The most important thing about this film, in my opinion, is its success in separating Kubrick's final achievement with the novel that laid the groundwork. Stephen King has made no qualm with expressing his artlessness in this arena regarding the adaptation and hence the sooner it can be pushed from the public memory that these two products are desperately connected, the better.
This is basically what the conspiracy theorists--the more sane ones, anyway--accomplish almost from the outset. The Shining, in its many interpretations, is at least first and foremost acknowledged as a film hinting at themes of the genocide of the American Indian and the eventual enslavement of Africans. The King novel, though expansive and lending itself to no shortage of interpretations, is certainly less a political thing than an attempt to explore the 'character' that is Jack Torrance as he relates to his family and the world around him as it closes in.
This is another common misconception among fans of the film who think of it as an achievement for horror cinema and not cinema on the whole. The tendency in public circles is to immediately reference the 'here's Johnny!' moment and a few choice blows with an ax to move on to discuss the Millennium Trilogy, or whatever; but this seems the greatest folly one could commit with regards to Kubrick's accomplishments as director.
A brief way to sum up Kubrick's relationship with the texts he chose to adapt for the screen is through a quote by Diane Johnson, the coauthor of The Shining's script; who said something like he 'chose a work that isn't a masterpiece so he could improve on it,' which rang true for everything--as far as Kubrick himself was concerned--except for Lolita.
Bearing in mind that simple bit of insight, and suddenly all falls in line. The Luck of Barry Lyndon is far from Thackeray's greatest work; and with something like 2001 Kubrick actually edged along Art Clarke in his writing of the novel just to have something fuller to riff off of while making the film. Any viewer of that movie, however, can in a moment understand that it would be nearly impossible to translate to the printed page. 2001 is likely Kubrick's best film because it's the closest thing the world might ever get to a fully-realized Stanley Kubrick picture. We have the psychoanalytical curiosity put forth in Eyes Wide Shut and yet we lack the labyrinthine set work of The Shining or the historical emphasis of Barry Lyndon; so I feel fairly comfortable in saying that with 2001 Kubrick achieved the one thing he'd set out to do his entire career, and the films prior to and following that masterpiece are variations on similar themes, with perhaps disparate sub-themes--i.e. man's sense of purpose in Full Metal Jacket, or violence and relationships in A Clockwork Orange -- explored deeper, though never with the sense of entirety as with his Odyssey.
Anyway, christ, I'm losing myself every time I begin typing. My apologies. I thought it might be ideal to follow a tendency Dennis often has of splitting up interests re anything into subcategories to give them each their due. Hence, I'd like to explore favorite images, sounds, and texts within or pertaining to any and all of Stanley Kubrick's films. This will essentially be the rest of the post, pleasant/jarring sounds, excerpts, interviews, and whatever else I can get my hands on to encourage a discussion of this bastard's works.
Faces/Images:
Peter Sellers. Of all the collaborators in Kubrick’s films it’s Sellers that leaves the strongest impression with me. His incomparable sincerity in Dr. Strangelove and his Brando-esque shapeshifting in Lolita are undoubtedly some of the best comedic performances of that, or any, time. Kubrick seems to have seen something in Sellers that transcended The Pink Panther and mere audience-pleasing hijinks; as in each of these films he’s completely elusive and remains impossible to pin down. I’ve come to think of him as a sort of Woody Allen-extension to the director’s potential psyche when approaching a film. If there’s something that transcends explanation and his name is anywhere to be seen in the credits, chances are he’ll be involved and hundreds of kids will model their cool precisely after him.
The Kubrick Face/Stare (If such a thing exists, though I tend to abjure this sort of thing I have to admit there’s something to this ‘thousand-yard stare’ inherent to so many of the man’s films). When a person feels impelled to call a work ‘psychological’ or references anything like the ‘human condition’ my skin grows hard and my eyes see red. If I believed Dostoyevsky wanted first to be a student of the human condition I’d have no interest in picking up Devils/Demons/Whatever they’re calling it now because the book would have no narrative pull. However, Dostoyevsky and countless other artists who’ve been charged with having their finger on the button of human psychosis retain a great deal of narrative pull; and hence my only conclusion can be they-don’t-fucking-care-about-critiquing-our-stupid-fucking-minds. If Kubrick thought some nameless thing lurked within the angered (male) face and hence had Vincent D’Onofrio, Jack Nicholson, and Malcolm McDowell stare into the camera like pissed off teenagers, I’d probably lose interest, but I don’t think that’s what happens here. Here we have the mere recurrence of a similar visage due to a maniacal cinematographer/director and hours upon hours of footage. Kubrick chose that fucking stare because it illustrated something visual and emotional that a wink or a shot of Jack Torrance clearing his throat—he has them, obviously—simply couldn’t accomplish. Is he carrying Freud along with him to the sets? I have my doubts. Are these stares akin to marble statues for our celluloid-addled brains? Probably. I’ll shut up. Just look at these fucking goons.
In order of the most immediately stirring (for me) to the least, here are several key examples:
Vincent D’Onofrio in Full Metal Jacket
Ryan O’neal in Barry Lyndon
Jack Nicholson in The Shining
Joe Turkel as Lloyd the Bartender in The Shining
Kirk Douglas in Spartacus
Children. Danny Torrance and the brothers Lyndon stand out as the most blatant example of Kubrick’s fascination with trauma/death as it effects the very young, however there are absolutely more—Alex DeLarge is essentially meant to be seen as pre-grownup/young man, the Harford’s kid in Eyes Wide Shut, et al.
Beginning at birth:
The Starchild as ‘The Starchild’ in 2001, a Space Odyssey
Danny Lloyd as Danny Torrance in The Shining
David Morley as Bryan Patrick Lyndon in Barry Lyndon
A fucking human child as Bryan Patrick Lyndon in Barry Lyndon
Sounds
Kubrick is, obviously, a master—perhaps the master—of using various pieces of music to emphasize the diffuse nature of his films—I’m thinking especially of Thus Spake Zarathustra with 2001; the uses of Schubert and Irish folk tunes in Barry Lyndon; the synthesized Beethoven for Clockwork; Johnny Wright and the Rolling Stones for Full Metal Jacket. Kubrick didn’t intend for his films to be read as completely self-sufficient entities with no room to stretch out and reevaluate themselves as time goes on. I like to think he placed certain sounds in certain places much in the way, say, Socrates would seek out ways of pushing conversation further to reach some philosophical understanding as opposed to finding the exact sentence; or scene; or song to make a film an end unto itself. This will also just be some of my favorites. Please do not hesitate to choose yours below!
In absolutely no order at all!!!! (in the interest of paring down the amount of goddamn videos in this post I highly recommend posting yr favorites in the comments!)
(Can’t find part 1, sorry...still find this beautiful)
Texts:
Here I will obviously not address every book Kubrick liked or adapted, but rather those I feel haven’t been brought up in discussion of his work quite enough. For instance, A Clockwork Orange has been talked to death for all intents and purposes, yet The Luck of Barry Lyndon remains a relatively fresh and novel discussion point even if the novel itself hasn’t much stood the test of time. It’s an odyssey of sorts, which is interesting I suppose. Its style’s rather dry and yet Redwood Barry’s narration does lend it a certain palatability. That just for example, however; I have zero fucking interest in discussing William Makepeace Thackeray ever again.
Dream Story by Arthur Schnitzler. Although it’s frankly quite difficult to reconcile the Americanized/ contemporary take on this story with the original, I feel it’s important if only to acknowledge Schnitzler’s merit as a writer of strange philosophical weight and occasionally fascinating sexual substance. Admittedly I’d never have read Schnitzler’s work had it not been for this film, all the same I feel as if when I finally sat down to read Dream Story there was almost nothing marring or warping the experience resulting from having seen the film.
Re Kubrick and Schnitzler’s book (quoted from NOTES ON ARTHUR SCHNITZLER’S DREAM NOVELLA AND STANLEY KUBRICK’S FILM EYES WIDE SHUT, by Rainer J. Kaus, University of Cologne. Available here)
“For a long time, Stanley Kubrick had the intention of filming Arthur Schnitzler's Dream Novella. He purchased the film rights already in 1971. Schnitzler himself had also written a film script in 1930. At the invitation of the director, Georg Wilhelm Pabst, who wanted to take advantage of the success of other films based on Schnitzler's works, he wrote the manuscript for a silent movie version. In this he envisaged a real attendance at the ball which in the novella is transposed into a shared memory and which will crop up again in Kubrick later on as a party at Victor Ziegler's, a friend of the couple. But the film script remained unfinished. Pabst turned it down and it was not realized. It would be interesting to be able to compare both film versions. But we cannot do this. For a long time it was also not certain whether Kubrick himself had access to Schnitzler's script.
That Kubrick's analogous way of proceeding was probably immediately inspired by Schnitzler's own preliminary work has been demonstrated by research in the meantime, for Kubrick had asked Schnitzler's heirs for permission to read the draft script during his own preliminary work.
In Kubrick's film, Schnitzler's protagonists, Fridolin and Albertine, become Bill and Alice Harford. Kubrick's film composition employs cuts, supplements and changes to the novella in order to integrate it better into the film. The sequence of events in the whole story and also most of the dialogue are essentially similar to Schnitzler's.
Entire dialogue passages are adopted as well as the sequence of events. All the more significant are the smaller and larger deviations.
One of the most significant differences is that at the end of the film Victor Ziegler, obviously a friend of the Harfords, gives his commentary on the entire story to Bill. Victor confesses that he, too, was at the orgy. "If you knew about all those who took part in it, you wouldn"t be able to sleep at night," he says. Bill asks hesitantly about the beautiful woman who warned him. She was only a hooker, Victor replies. The whole thing was nothing but a staging, a "fake" to keep him from talking. He says the woman had been a drug addict, and the orgy did not have anything to do with her death. This conversation to make the background to the mysterious happenings explicable is not to be found in Schnitzler.
A further difference is the time of year at which the novella is set. In Schnitzler it is the carnival season in which people like to get dressed up and wear masks anyway. Apart from that, the choice of this time means that the story takes place at the end of winter. In Kubrick's version, the events take place in the time before Christmas, a sign of domestic family togetherness.
The password for admission to the secret society in Schnitzler is "Denmark" and refers to an experienced seductive erotic situation, whereas in Kubrick, the password is "Fidelio", a symbol for fidelity. This is a counterposition par excellence.
Also missing in Kubrick's version is the recollection which Albertine has in Schnitzler of the time shortly before her engagement when Fridolin was more reticent than she would have liked him to be. Whereas in Schnitzler, in the end, so to speak, all the threads run together in the dream, in Kubrick the climax of the film is Bill's visit to the orgy of the secret society.
Kubrick also takes the liberty of transposing the story in his own way. For him, film is a narrative artistic genre. The filmic narrative thus overlaps with the literary narrative. Kubrick's understanding of himself as an artist derives from the nineteenth century, even though the film is set in present-day New York.
Kubrick says in an early commentary on the subjects of his first films,
The representation of reality has no bite. It does not transcend. Nowadays I am more interested in taking up a fantastic and improbable story.
And he adds,
I always enjoyed representing a slightly surreal situation in a realistic way. I have always had a penchant for fairy-tales, myths and magical stories. They seem to me to come closer to our present-day experience of reality than realistic stories, which are basically just as stylized.
In his film, Kubrick knows how to refuse in a subtle way, precisely by apparently fulfilling the norms of the bourgeois art industry.
There are musical and typological allusions in Eyes Wide Shut in descriptive names such as "Restaurant Verona", "Café Sonata" and "Gillespie's Coffee Shop". Other symbols include the many texts in newspapers, advertisements and on posters. While Bill is being driven in a taxi to the location of the Bacchanalian society, a neon sign appears along the way with the enticing message "Happy Holiday". Kubrick makes further ironic and even cynical allusions with the name of the newspaper, "Holiday Special", in which Bill reads of the drug death of the mysterious woman. The headline on the front page, "Lucky to be alive", also seems to be very dramatic. In the jazz bar where he wants to meet Nightingale, a poster can be seen behind his back with the text, "All exits are final".
The places, architecture, interiors and their furnishings also have decisive significance in Kubrick's films. For Bill, the protagonist in Kubrick's film, the place of the orgy and the secret society signifies a counter-pole to his marital home. This is the site of the narcissistic affront to both marital partners.
Jim Thompson in general. I’m just such a fucking huge Thompson fan and when I first read of Kubrick’s experience working with him on Spartacus etc. nothing could’ve made me happier. Kubrick saw the genius of Thompson when America had stopped printing him and the world had deemed him so unfit as to render him a useless drunk until his last days. If ever I chose to entertain anything like spirituality, it would be the sort of being that arbitrarily brings together minds like Jim Thompson, and Stanley Kubrick.
Re Thompson and Kubrick (quoted from THE NOTHING MAN, Bevan, Joseph. Sight and Sound Vol. 20, Issue 6. Available here.)
“Central to Jim Thompson's failure was his alcoholism. His proper career in Hollywood began in 1955, when he was 49 years old. This was one of many desperate times in his life. The company that published his classic paperbacks, Lion, had shut down. He faced a return to writing true crime and other hack work in order to survive. He was also falling back into hard drinking. Stanley Kubrick suggested Thompson to his producer lames B. Harris-Kubrick was a fan of Thompson's dialogue and his classic novel The Killer Inside Me (1952) in particular. The pair wanted Thompson to adapt Lionel White's heist novel Clean Break into The Killing. The offer arrived not a moment too soon for Thompson, who had been working and writing hard since his mid-teens with only sporadic success. Yet Thompson's own 'clean break' in Hollywood would turn out to be only the postponement of a seemingly inevitable dissolution.
It's easy to see what attracted Kubrick and other directors and producers to Thompson's oeuvre: his dialogue was lively and acerbic; despite constant wayward digressions and pedantry his plots were inherently cinematic, filled with cliffhangers and danglers, honed by years of writing true crime and the strictures of pulp editors. His time working in seedy hotels and consorting with minor criminals and bent psychiatrists had given his work a unique character. Beginning his career as the author of proletarian Depression-era fiction, Thompson was a great admirer of Willa Cather's 'unfurnished' style, shorn of excessive description. The prose of Lion-era Thompson offered a space in which a film-maker could impose his own visual impression.
The mirror cracked.
However, there was also a helpless waywardness to Thompson's writing that reflected his personality. He tended towards extremism and squalor. The warped nature of his characters was far from ideal for Hollywood: Thompson wasn't so much hardboiled as cracked. His closest contemporary approximation is James Ellroy, another flawed but brilliant crime writer with a penchant for self-revelation. One of the reasons Ellroy has enjoyed more success -- as a writer, and at having his work adapted -- is that he beat alcoholism and turned his psychos into romantic, history-making Übermenschen. Thompson never did conquer his alcoholism, and his characters, without obvious exceptions, are natural-born losers. Hollywood could bear nihilism, extremism and tragedy. What it couldn't bear was an overload of plaintive empathy with the inadequate, from a fellow inadequate. It couldn't bear Thompson's vision of failure, nor the lacerating flippancy he used to mask it.
Thompson would go on to have a complicated relationship with Kubrick and Harris, defined by wrangling over proper accreditation and a sense of exploitation, worsened by his personal insecurities -- "I should probably be ashamed of my suspicions…" he confessed, "(but) I can never quite see these boys as philanthropists." Despite having his fingerprints all over the script for The Killing (1956), he only received a screen credit for having supplied dialogue. He disputed this with Kubrick, complained to the Writers Guild and had the credit changed.
In an ambiguous move Kubrick then rehired him for Paths of Glory (1957). It might be thought that Thompson, whose milieu was the 'concrete pasture', was an anachronistic choice for an adaptation of a novel about the French military in World War I; the French soldiers in his initial script sounded oddly Texan. Kubrick had novelist Calder Willingham do a rework, and on the strength of his version Kirk Douglas became involved. When Kubrick suggested returning to Thompson's script, Douglas angrily refused. Again there was an argument over credits. Willingham went on to claim it as all his work; Kubrick took primary credit and Thompson ended up being credited third. Ron Polito, author of the impeccable Thompson biography Savage Art, has since found evidence that Thompson's original script still accounts for much of the film. This holds up in close viewing -- his pessimistic touches are evident in Paths of Glory in the catty back-and-forth rhythms of the dialogue; in the rank-pulling of the colonels; and in the sour desperation of the condemned.
Whatever his involvement, Thompson made little from either of his films with Kubrick. He was left bitter, if unsurprised, possessing as he did a severe pessimistic streak. In Thompson's 1954 masterpiece A Hell of a Woman, hapless salesman Dolly Dillon, who is destined both to be castrated and to castrate, looks back on his wasted youth and protests his lot: "I've been knocking myself out for people almost from the time I began to walk, and all I got for it was a royal screwing."
Part of the power of Thompson's fiction lies in his own bitter experience of misuse. He lived in permanent apprehension of the worst happening and went some way to ensuring that it did. The sense of vulnerability and worried bonhomie that permeates his work was very much part of his character. He was a recidivist alcoholic, and while this was far from a unique trait in Hollywood, let alone amongst writers, he would prove to be the wrong sort of drunk to succeed. Shy, nervous and sensitive, he didn't enjoy meeting strangers, devolving in company to near silence or drunken rambling. He hated script meetings and having his work torn apart. Yet his talent still drew interest, even when he was in a bad way. His best novels have the drunk's terrible blend of dishonesty and honesty, being both sympathetic and repellent. They are just sick and sour enough to taste like life.
At other times his stories have a repulsive brio more suggestive of one of Thompson's other pastimes: injecting himself with amphetaminelaced vitamin shots. He was plagued by a list of neuroses: his disgraced sheriff father's cruelty to him; the heartlessness of the people he'd met all his life; the race issue (Thompson was allegedly one eighth Cherokee Indian) that he explored in one of his most messy, monstrous novels, Child of Rage (1972); and the issue of his infertility, his wife having suggested a vasectomy after their children were born. Asked which of his books most reflected her father's personality, his daughter chose his most self-negating, The Nothing Man (1954). Worsened by alcoholism, the triumvirate of self-pity, self-loathing and desperation was hardly ideal for a man hoping to make it big in Hollywood.
Kubrick and Harris would be Thompson's major contractors, commissioning two more scripts from him and paying him fairly good money, even when he was in hospital after having his first stroke at 52. Neither project (Lunatic at Large and I Stole $16,000,000) was ever completed. Kubrick moved on to that more patrician purveyor of murderous dysfunction, Vladimir Nabokov. Thompson would spend the rest of his life saying that Kubrick, initially so friendly and generous, had betrayed him. He liked to sit in his favourite Tinseltown spot, Musso & Frank's Grill, drinking and complaining. The man so apprehensive of being mistaken for "some old country boy" remained an isolated tourist in Hollywood; he was certainly far from an industry insider. One could view Thompson's dealings with Kubrick as those of an east coast sophisticate exploiting a faux-naif good-old boy, or simply as a self-loathing drunk engaged in self-sabotage. In signature Thompson fashion, it was probably something of both. Kubrick was more confident and successful, and Thompson's human vision, full of indiscriminate sympathies, was an inexact fit with the director's own more impersonal detachment. There is a postscript. In Kubrick's The Shining (1980), Jack Nicholson tells his wife, "I'm not going to hurt you Wendy…I'm just going to bash your brains in." This subtle and sadistic distinction is a paraphrase from The Killer Inside Me and the director's last filmic reference to his one-time collaborator.
The good-looking deals and their correspondent failure continued throughout the 1960s and early '70s. Thompson's best writing drew the attention of successful artists, but he was too convinced he would fail, or was too drunk or too compromised by fiscal problems to fully capitalise on his relationships. His writing had become all he had besides his family and his alcohol addiction. The remainder of Thompson's career in Hollywood resembled an elucidation of Sod's Law.”
NOTES, COMPARISONS, AND EFFLUVIA:
Comparisons:
The fight scene from Barry Lyndon being filmed…
The fight scene from P.T. Anderson’s The Master…
A scene from the recent adaptation of Jim Thompson’s novel The Killer Inside Me…
A scene from A Clockwork Orange…
Toy Story 3’s eerie nods to The Shining…
Notes/Effluvia:
http://www.fastcodesign.com/1664907/animated-gifs-capture-stanley-kubricks-most-immortal-shots
THANKS I’M GOING TO BED.
*
p.s. Hey. Master writer and d.l. Grant Maierhofer has a pretty amazing post here on Stanley Kubrick for you, and I hope it makes your brains percolate and gives you big pleasure. Please share your thoughts with Grant in the usual commenting arena, thank you, and thank you so much, Grant! I'm on my way to Switzerland for the aforementioned several days-long away-time, and, although you will be getting two more posts between now and Tuesday, I and my p.s. thing will be ensconced in that away-time until then. The blog will see you tomorrow.