Disease and prophecy

1.

In the latter half of Eyes Wide Shut Bill returns to Domino's apartment. On the wall in the lobby area is a "for sale" sign with the name "Keith Haring" in all-caps. 

 

Keith Haring is the name of a New York City-based artist whose rise to fame in the 1980s was cut short by his death from HIV/AIDS. I realize this detail has been noted before, so I'll try to shed light on other less-touched-upon connections in relation to it.

Haring enjoyed acquaintanceships with Basquiat, Warhol, and countless other esteemed artists and counter-cultural figures, and was an advocate for gay rights. Some of Haring's inspirations include Dr. Seuss and Walt Disney cartoons, pop art, and graffiti. He was 31 when he died in 1990 from complications from HIV/AIDS. "31" may be the first obvious connection less talked about: it is a visual mirror of "13." 

This crafted sign is a subtle but literal, tongue-in-cheek example of "writing on the wall" that Bill is (tragically) unable to see. Haring, as a symbol, foreshadows the next scene: Domino is gone, but Sally, her roommate, is home. This reversal from the first visit, when Domino is home and Sally is away, might suggest the difference between Domino and Sally. The Introducing Sociology textbook seen on the dresser below the mirror when Bill answers Alice's phone call might point to Domino or Sally's status as a student. I think it also points to the tense relation between Bill and Alice. Bill is obviously hiding things from Alice, and we almost suspect that Alice knows it. 

Sally appears younger, maybe more studious, in comparison to Domino. But, both are smart and careful. Sally seems to be assuming that Bill and Domino had relations, and she holds back. She turns down Bill's flirtatious advances, explaining that Domino has tested HIV positive. The diagnosis foreshadows the newspaper line "Lucky to be alive," as in, HIV is the harbinger of death, and Bill has managed to evade it. Luckily. The smile on Bill's face when he speaks with Sally is disturbing - unlike Domino who relies on sex for an income, Bill dabbles freely in prostitution but escapes unscathed. 

Bill didn't anticipate Domino's absence, or her disease. But again, the layers: Domino's unfortunate absence is a suggestion of her looming death, if not a literal placement of death-as-human-absence. Also, Domino's salacious presence earlier in the film can actually signal Bill's descent towards the nadir that is Somerton at the half-way point of the film. It has been noted that there are no Christmas trees or decorations at the mansion. Many of the Christmas lights being multi-colored, resembling a rainbow, it could be suggested that Somerton is "where the rainbow ends," i.e., the supposed place where Nuala and Gayle want to take Bill at Victor's annual ball. Bill is hesitant, saying it "depends where that is." Nuala and Gayle press on, saying "let's find out." Bill exercises caution then, but later, with Nick, he exercises no caution. Even when it is a man, and not two women, who is luring him. This just goes into another thesis about the representation of women and how Bill's pursuit stems more from a masculine(?) drive to prove himself than from a feminine drive for pleasure. The women at Somerton are obviously stripped of personality and authentic being, reduced to idols or objects. The irony being that the many female roles are deeply personable, authentic, and seemingly a threat to Bill's masculinity: Alice and daughter Helena - Bill has no sons and apparently no doctor buddies. Nick says he's married with four boys - five men and one woman suggests a more masculine identity. Ziegler is married but obviously a philanderer whose masculine identity exists only through his wealth. He wouldn't personally lay a hand on Bill, but his secret guards might. 

Anyways, speaking of guards, one of Victor's guards interrupts Bill's conversation with the two models, leading Bill up the twisting staircase. The fact that Mandy appears in the next scene might suggest that Somerton is indeed where Nuala and Gayle want to take Bill, since Mandy will also be there. Ziegler's bathroom, if I recall, is not festive - it is cold and echoey. 

Domino has been discarded along the way, just like Mandy Curran and Nick Nightingale. Regarding Nick, one very overlooked deception occurs when an unnamed masked guard at Somerton alerts Bill that his taxi driver wants a word with him. The two begin walking, but the camera cuts to a different guard leading blindfolded Nick Nightingale through a ballroom with partially-clothed couples dancing, and down a corridor. The camera cuts back to the Bill and the other guard, who arrive not at the "door," but back in the great hall, where Red Cloak and the masked attendees/observers are assembled, just like when Bill first entered, except that there is no music or obvious "ritual," and they are specifically awaiting his arrival. Although it could be argued that Bill's unmasking is a ritual in itself of which he is not aware. This may be a ritual of humiliation. There's something medieval and sinister about Bill's "trial" and eventual unmasking. The crowds whisper violently, like a theater audience, as the trial proceeds. 

We don't see Nick seated at his keyboard back in the apse, so it seems Ligeti's theme is non-diegetic. The music is imaginary, perhaps playing in Bill's mind. This is somewhat interesting given that Pook's "Masked Ball" feels entirely non-diegetic, meaning, overlaid upon the film, and not coming from within the film itself. But, we see Nick, and take it that he is maybe playing along to a pre-recorded track. This feels cheap and phony, but it's certainly realistic. On the other hand, Ligeti's theme music is so subtle and fitting that it functions as a character in itself. I've often read it as the presence of fear, suspense, panic, or anxiety. The notes also mimic the stalker's footsteps when he follows Bill. So, the music, again, is a presence, like the sound of footsteps which insinuate a character. Ligeti's theme may even point to Nick's exit from Somerton, in which he, the piano player, is being followed out of the mansion - footsteps. 

2. 

Though effective treatments for HIV/AIDS were discovered in the late 1990s, the epidemic had been politicized for nearly two decades prior, causing widespread public panic. The word "paranoia" could also be used in place of "panic:" though the disease disproportionately affected (and affects) homosexual men, sex workers, and heroin abusers, key aspects of detection and prevention were thwarted on behalf of AIDS activists who lobbied to prevent the FDA from approving a home-use HIV test. HIV/AIDS testing had become politicized - a result of identity politics and fear - leading to it's stigmatization, while condoms were hailed as a new cure-all. In the defense of sufferers, however, involuntary quarantine was seen as a possible threat with draconian undertones: deportation, indefinite isolation, and in effect, imprisonment, all seemed to be on the table. Fear of the consequences of being infected accelerated the fear of being tested. In fact, Communist Cuba enacted a forced quarantine of all HIV/AIDS sufferers that lasted at least eight years, or until the USSR dissolved along with its Cuba funds. Supposedly, this wasn't the full extent of terror: the totalitarian Cuban government targeted "effeminate" men, and those suspected of being homosexual, and deported them to labor camps against their will. Strangely, or not, it was not until 2012 that the ban on home-HIV tests was dropped in the US. Many lives could have been saved, and lifespans extended. 

After Bill leaves Sally's apartment, he realizes he is being followed by the bald man in the tan coat. It has been noted that the same man - or his double - appears earlier in the film, at a table right-front of stage at the Sonata Cafe where Nick Nightingale is playing. Here's a problem: if the spy is at the Sonata Cafe long before Bill makes the potentially-fatal error of appearing at Somerton, is the bald man's presence considered fate or chance? At a symbolic level, the spy and spied-upon being in the same place suggests foreshadowing. Bill is seated higher than the spy, suggesting that Bill is the one in a position to spy on others. His appearance at the Sonata is in itself a suggestion that he is spying on his old friend, Nick. And certainly, Bill overtly peeks at a secret password intended only for Nick and other invited party-goers. Regardless, Bill is not the greatest spy.

It could be that the spy has been sent to follow Bill before Bill makes his clumsy appearance at Somerton. Why? Victor admits he had Bill followed, but he doesn't say when he gave this order. He says he had Bill followed after admitting he knew he showed up at Nick's hotel. Victor certainly seems to have an issue with Nick Nightingale - he calls him a "prick" and "cocksucker." It seems likely the stalker was also tracking Nick's movements. It could be that Victor's private intelligence had been given the go ahead to follow Bill once he approached Nick at Ziegler's party. Their short conversation is interrupted by a bodyguard who leads Nick away. Bill is interrupted twice at Ziegler's party, and at least two times at Somerton (the Columbus-masked man, and the guard). It could be a sort of contractual arrangement between Nick and Victor which prohibits Nick from conversing or socializing. Later, at the Sonata, Nick says to Bill, "I just play the piano," when referring to the secret performance. Indeed, this could indicate that the spy is primarily watching Nick, not Bill. Perhaps, when Nick walks away at Ziegler's party, he confesses to Victor and his personal KGB what he and Bill discussed. Of course, maybe Ziegler made a phone call first thing upon learning Bill was at Somerton - send a guy out and watch his movements as he leaves the mansion. This is believable enough and leads us back to the idea that the spy was following Nick, initially. 

The notion of the "panopticon" comes into play, as does the connotation of the Stasi or KGB (Soviet secret police). Bill is virtually imprisoned by Ziegler's omnipresence (like HAL). The simplest reading is that Bill is being watched in the beginning, and at the end - he is always being watched. I also read this is a way of hinting at another duality: heaven and earth. The camera on the gates of Somerton (hell) is high above Bill but represents something very sinister and dark. 

Maybe the spy is watching Nick, or maybe he's watching Bill, too. If Bill is paranoid, imagine Victor's evil reality - he can't trust his friends, his pianist, or himself. For example, when Bill enters the bathroom, he is confident and cool. Victor is the one who looks nervous and fearful ("scared child" before the painting of the pregnant woman). By the end, the tables have turned, and Bill is doubtful, while Ziegler is in charge. 

3. 

I wanted to keep this post short, but I find Eyes Wide Shut far too fascinating to attempt to gloss over. One very unsettling but seemingly innocuous fact is that Bill's long night of adventures (or misadventures) rests on the assumption that he is at the Nathanson apartment until four in the morning. 

Is it possible that Alice knows about the blonde Marion Nathanson, the daughter of Bill's elderly patient? The more unsettling thing is that by the time Bill gets home and discovers Alice laughing violently in her sleep, he maybe realizes that he hasn't fooled her. Of course, she is laughing at Bill in her dream, but the situation is different. If Bill doesn't realize she's asleep, then it seems Alice is laughing at his attempts not only to fabricate a story, but to pursue infidelities. Again, it seems Alice is not fooled by his story, nor by any suggestion that he has truly achieved any infidelities. This, in a moment, crystallizes the idea of Bill's emasculation. Even if he could have an affair, which he can, he can't commit to the act. There's a cruelty there that Alice seems to be more familiar with, and which Bill is more afraid of. 

We see this in Alice's dream: the orgy she describes mirrors what Bill has just witnessed at the mansion, playing a cruel game with Bill's mind. The question is: was Alice there? What if it had been Alice, wearing only a mask, in one of the libraries, or dining rooms, or parlors at the Somerton mansion, having relations with countless unknown men? So in fact she was there, because Bill can't determine whether Alice's dream was a Freudian example of "wish fulfillment," or whether it was an absurd nightmare. Maybe her tears are only an act of shame, and her dream is a representation of what she truly desires. Perhaps her dream is honest, but she unconsciously reacts with shame upon waking. In an inverse manner, Bill has witnessed an actual massive orgy but has also been unmasked, humiliated, and made to feel guilt or shame over his actions. 

Alice's indiscretions are insidious in that they are one step ahead of Bill's. If Bill is hurt by Alice's first confession, this is understandable. But he should be reassured by her call which serves as a hindrance to any precoital passions experienced with Domino. Had it not been for house-wife Alice calling him, perhaps Bill and Domino would have consummated their chance meeting, and Bill would likely have contracted HIV. In this way, it is practically suggested that Alice has some sort of omniscient power. 

Her dream (after Bill arrives home) suggests that she saw what Bill saw. Her call suggests that she is acting not only in Bill's best interest, but in her own, in that, we can figure that if Bill slept with Domino, he would eventually make love to Alice, passing on the disease to her. Alice not only wants to protect Bill, but herself, and Bill is something of a conduit of herself - sadly, it could be argued that she owns him, that she truly controls him. But, if this is so, does not this represent love absolute - laying down one's life for another? True, except that Alice may be cunning enough to hide her selfishness. The problem with all of this is that Bill and Alice are walking an extremely thin line between safety and danger, and they don't see it - or at least, Bill doesn't. This fact supports the disturbing theory that Alice is the true puppet master, and not Victor. Regardless, the newspaper headline seems to be a central truth of the story: Bill (and Alice, and perhaps Helena too) are "lucky to be alive."

The newspaper headline "Lucky to be Alive" symbolizes at least two instances in which Bill escapes fate: by abstaining from relations with Domino, and, by being pardoned for his trespassing at Somerton. 

But that's not all: the caption below the image in the newspaper tells of a bank robber named Anthony Norman who staged a hostage crisis at the Wyandanch Station of the Long Island Rail Road. 

The name "Anthony Norman" seems oddly familiar. One possibility follows: the name of actor Anthony Perkins can be conjoined with the first name of oedipal-complex killer, Norman Bates, the character whom the former played in Alfred Hitchcock's classic 1960 horror film, Psycho. The name in the newspaper is formed of the two first names of the actor and character, respectively. This may be pure coincidence, but there are more interesting cinematic connections. Perkins, who could pass for Kafka's dark Irish double, in fact played Josef K in Orson Welles' 1962 adaptation of Kafka's The Trial. Only two years after Psycho, and Perkins embodies another victim in a very different horror. Bill Harford's "trial" is at times similar to K's. The bakery next to Domino's apartment, named Josef Kreibich Knish Bakery, is a veiled reference to Josef K, and Kafka, as well a veiled reference to Jewishness. The latter film obviously has a Jewish connotation, while the former is less known. Nathan Abrams writes that Psycho was based on the 1959 novel of the same name by Robert Bloch. The story is based on Ed Gein, the real-life serial killer inspired partly by heinous Nazi crimes (ex: furniture or clothing made from human body parts). Bloch himself and many key figures involved in the production of the film were Jews, and the Freudian aspects obviously owe much to the contentious Jewish-Viennese psychoanalyst. Vienna takes us back to Schnitzler, Freud's supposed double. 

The name, Anthony Norman, seemed oddly familiar the first time I looked closely at the newspaper story. So, I read further: in real life, Perkins spent much of his life in homosexual relationships, though he married Berinthia Berenson, the model and photographer, in 1973 at age 41. Berenson claimed patrilineal Jewish heritage. Abrams also writes that "Norman" was an Anglo name adopted by immigrant Jews in America, the reason being it sounded neutral and normal, and not Jewish. In the semi-fictional news story, Anthony Norman is the name of a bank robber. So, there's a connotation of criminality. Again, being a Jew was borderline criminal for a very long time in Europe; being homosexual is still and was taboo and illegal in many places in the west. "Anthony Norman," at some level, plays at some taboo notion of ultra-criminality - a bank robber, possibly a Jew, possibly gay. Bill is paranoid when he realizes he is being followed - he doesn't know why he is being followed, and he doesn't know which aspect of his character or behavior is being scrutinized, hence the paranoia. 

Perkins was diagnosed HIV positive in 1990 and died two years later, or seven years before the release of Eyes Wide Shut. Berenson died aboard American Airlines Flight 11 during the September 11 terror attacks in New York, 2001, two years after the release of Eyes Wide Shut. 

R.I.P., L.W.

Not too long ago, somewhat bored, watching The Shining (or, not watching, but, rather, trying to "see"), I happened to notice something rather surprising. Having spent the long winter months reading various theological texts in conjunction (and in their own right) with the philosophical writings of L. Wittgenstein, some of the philosopher's questions have stuck in my mind (like mold, or, no, more like a pleasant lichen). Needless to say, entering into the Kubrickian universe, this isn't necessarily a bad thing. To the contrary, Kubrick's films - The Shining in particular - deal heavily in the promulgation of powerful imagery. I only hope my findings are not ordinary and underwhelming.

Let's consider the encounter with Danny and Tony in the mirror. The dialogue happens thus:

Danny: Tony, why don't you want to go to the hotel?

Tony: I don't know.

Danny: You do to know, now, come on, tell me.

Tony: I don't want to.

Danny: Please? ...

Tony: No.

Danny: Now Tony, tell me.

This dialogue ends somewhat abruptly, followed by a montage that Danny "shines." Below is the sequence of shots (1. Danny transfixed; 2. Blood comes through elevator doors; 3. Shot of the Grady twins; 4. Blood floods room and covers camera; 5. fade to black; 6. Psychologist examining Danny's eyes [or mouth?] after he evidently passes out. 

The camera zooms in to Danny in the mirror's image speaking to "Tony," the imaginary friend who lives in Danny's mouth for the duration of the dialogue. We should draw attention to the detail that Tony lives in Danny's mouth if we want to make full use of any references to Wittgenstein. Danny's eyes grow wide with fear (or wonder) after the last line and the scene cuts to a slow-motion shot of the elevator doors being flooded with what is a blood-like substance (the script, I think, says "blood," but, whatever). It occurs to me the ingenuity of this cut when I seem to recall something Wittgenstein said about what can be shown or told. The actual line is this, from his early "logical positivist" work, Tractatus:

    4.1212 What can be shown cannot be said.

So, what? Tony shows Danny his reason for not wanting to go to the hotel. He doesn't tell Danny. Showing is not the same as telling. We can't really describe what happens when we see Danny's vision. There is far too much happening, and far too much developed in the story thus far to provide a frame of reference, besides. This is the power of what can be "shown." 

Literally, Tony disobeys Danny by showing him why he doesn't want to go to the hotel. Danny wants to be told an ostensibly simple answer, but instead, receives a complex and frightening vision. This in itself proves that "showing" and "telling" are not the same. Notably - and I love this, on more reflection - we do not see foreshadowing of later events via literal re-cutting of the same film. We don't see Jack chasing Danny, or killing Dick, etc. We see creative, abstract, symbolic imagery that never "occurs" outside of the context of Danny's mind. Arguably, we say the images are all "true," or at least, semblances of what is true. Blood is spilled, the daughters "were" killed (or, "are" killed in the context of the telling of The Shining story itself in real time), Danny is terrified, etc. Yet, we never see these images actually take place. Obviously, some of these events are past, which makes sense. This must mean that Tony is worried or upset about what has already happened. This is very interesting, and supports the theory that the Overlook is timeless, or outside of time. 

Again, consider L.W.'s observations when thinking about Danny's expression. "Danny is terrified," we might say, but, we can't be satisfied with this. It looks as if Danny has seen Satan himself, or pure evil - something he has never seen. The look is not merely "terror." At the same time, the fact that Danny's face mirrors the elevator doors is a detail too disturbing to put into words: is Danny going to be "sacrificed?" Is the blood Danny's? Is it a coincidence? Does Danny understand this? Is he still looking into the mirror? Etc. Furthermore, contrasted with the well-lit bathroom scene, in which Danny almost seems hypnotized or "seduced" (which is creepy enough), the following shot of Danny's shrieking face is worth far too many words. 

It is interesting that Tony chooses to "reveal" to Danny why he does not want to come to the hotel. I admit I've never read King's novel, so I can't comment on the degree to which this scene is faithful to the events in the novel (if at all). Regardless, Kubrick's film is a creative work in its own right. And, we must consider that, at least in the filmic version of this encounter, Danny is speaking to Tony, who, mysteriously, lives in Danny's mouth. Tony lives in Danny's mouth. When Danny speaks to Tony, though, Danny also voices Tony. Again, I haven't read the novel, but from the film alone we can imagine notions like demonic possession - a demon overtaking Danny's speech and thought. Danny's voice is Tony speaking: Tony has taken control of Danny's body. Maybe. If this were the case, then Tony's home in Danny's mouth could be significant: Tony may be conscious of all of Danny's language. He may listen to Danny's words, and thoughts, for that matter. 

Another consideration: Tony lives in Danny's mouth, yes, just as speech lives in the body. We then must ask: who is speaking? Later in the movie, it is obvious that "Tony" overtakes Danny - most memorably in the "Redrum" scene. But, then this duality is one that we've already learned is problematic for Danny, Tony having been created only after the first time Jack abused him physically. Tony is an escape - a separate entity that eventually is given power over Danny's true identity - and this is evident in his speech. 

The twins (who are arguably the "true" victims in relation to the image of the bleeding elevator) flash for a second or near-second amid the bloody-elevator, followed by a shot of Danny in agony. The shot of Danny ties back pareidolically to the elevator, but also thematically, arguably, to Dave Bowman in the space-pod in 2001. This may be a bit of a coincidence, an intertextual similarity, or, it may be, as some have argued, a thematic similarity in the hypothetical seven-part series of 20th century life on earth that was Kubrick's last seven films. The theme would be: the modern, isolated individual. But more on this later.

It is especially funny given that these stills "randomly" inserted into the psychedelic star-gate sequence were not really "random," but were functional, serving the purpose of connecting the star-gate film strips. Yet, even if it was functional, the still shot obviously creates a break in the action, and offers a sort of hyper-meditative glimpse into Dave's cosmic exile. Clearly, Kubrick intentionally repeated this method with Danny's visions in The Shining, offering shots of the twins, or of the bleeding elevator, and more, to condense (or expand) the visual narrative. It seems these stills were not functional, but were/are indeed, powerful symbolic images advancing a narrative. Danny "shines" several times, and if I'm not mistaken, each time features the same still-shot "flashes" which fragment the montage. Not to go too deep down a rabbit-hole, but, these breaks in some ways are far more powerful at asserting a character's presence than by speech/dialogue alone. In other words, the fear or agony or terror Danny feels because of his ability to "shine" is best explained by showing us what he sees. This is an incredible and maybe banal tool in filmmaking that we could never hope to possess on earth - to actually see what/how someone else sees. 

Arguably, the images Danny sees aren't ordinary images, or scenes which we would readily imagine. Hence these images strengthen the idea of the individual, before they tell us about the supernatural, or other-worldly. In other words, the individual is whoever experiences the world as it is. It happens that, where words (and images) would often fail a character like Danny, a child, Kubrick sees this separation as an opportunity to show the actuality of Danny's seemingly childish fits and moods (it follows that there are images and scenes Danny witnesses which we, the audience, do not see, and we can only imagine what he might be seeing - not that we'd want to).

To the extent that we can say Danny's cut-screen and Dave's cut-screen are similar, we should also note the differences. One theory on the difference in positioning may be that Danny's horror is real/psychological whereas Dave's horror is cosmological/technological. There's also the sense that Danny's face is what the mirror sees, what "Tony" sees, and this is why he is seen full frontal. Dave Bowman's face is contorted due to the technological shortcomings of the pod on its mission to Jupiter, or at least, I think, this, in conjunction with travel in deep-space. I think it is said that Keir Dullea actually forced his body to shake under pressure when being filmed, with no outside-agitation present. And finally, there's something different here given the nature of the source of the horror: in The Shining, we know that the "former" caretaker murdered his family with an axe and shot himself. We might form an image of this if we thought about it.

But, in 2001 we have no reference for the horrors of space travel, let alone, to a planet as distant as Jupiter. These horrors are shown to us in the final segment, just as the horrors of the Outlook Hotel are revealed in real-time throughout the film. These horrors are imaginable, cognizable, not psychedelic; Kubrick leaves the horrors of space speculative. Light, color, form, stand in place for what is un-sayable, or, un-showable. And this is fine. What is showable, here, is equated with what is indescribable. Surely unsurprising to readers of his work, Wittgenstein made many remarks on color. Consider the excerpt from On Certainty:

    126. I am not more certain of the meaning of my words than I am of certain judgments. Can I doubt   that this colour is called "blue"? (My) doubts form a system.

[I think] what L.W. is saying is that I judge the perception of "blue" things by referring to them by their name, i.e., "blue." Now, this point is not really about color, but, we could say that there is no "explaining" a sensation like "blue" beyond the fact that whatever "blue" is, it is represented by the word-name "blue." This agrees with the sensation, unless someone has eyes that see more teal than blue, or more blue than green, and then we find it curious that someone says a blue t-shirt is teal. Since color-blindness is not color anarchy, we are surprised by these minor disagreements between judgment and word-meaning. But, assuming we are not color-blind, we do not ask a person what color their eyes are as we look into them. 

Dave Bowman's experience of horror reads as a horror which is interior and abstract. The problem is that we know it isn't - for he is likely the first and last person traveling through deep space alone. But, because we know this is an unknown, something about which we can only speculate, this creates an opportunity for the filmmaker and/or audience to "imagine" this horror. That this horror is "unimaginable" or "unconscionable" is arguably plausible: we lose sense of scale with the star-gate sequence - where are we? Who are we? The strange baroque room is our "saving grace" for human intelligibility. To be continued.

The horrors of The Shining, whether it be the axe-killings, or, the allusions to the Holocaust, Native American genocide, etc., are all "of this world." They are known, they are present, or past, but they are fleshy and "ordinary." The horrors of space remain abstract, matters for which we have no reference. It is quite interesting how we, the viewer, become a surrogate of Danny, the innocent viewer or passenger, whose clairvoyance affords us the vision of "things to come." This is clear, given that Danny is a child, that he cannot really choose to be somewhere else but with his parents, etc. In a similar way, Kubrick subordinates us to be the mere viewers or witnesses of a particular apocalyptic vision. But then again, what is film worth if not viewed, not critiqued, not discussed? An exegesis of Kubrick's work is an exegesis of our world - and that is what makes our task so difficult, yet so satisfying.