When You Look in the Mirror, Do You See Yourself as You Really Are or Only Your Appearance?

Rating: 8/10 (12 October 2010)

Viewed by some as a psychosexual thriller, some as a bitter comedy about how Tom Cruise falls short of getting laid, this is most likely neither, a cerebral film that works on various planes, imaginary, physical, transcendental and everything that falls in between. A hypnotic, thematically perceptive, sumptuously atmospheric, merely every so often bothersome piece, an intensely challenging consideration of the limits of faith, certainty and shared understanding possible between man and woman, Cruise's scenes with Nicole Kidman provide an intimacy hitherto absent from Kubrick's work. From the mirror love scene, played with a carnal sweetness rare for the screen, to the vulnerability and apprehension of their ultimate talk, Cruise and Kidman are frank, emotive, despite that the movie definitely follows Kubrick's thread of mysterious films with emotionally remote characters.
Actors are in an remorseless existential whirl. A good performance only tends to happen if they let go. Ironically the yearning to perform well and feel this free expression can trap them into holding on, reserving a corner of their focus so they can monitor and direct their performance, which makes all likelihood for a vibrant, natural performance recede. That's why many actors don't communicate their methods, superstitious about exposing such cavernous ideas to the outside. I think Kubrick was the same way with his technique. And that's why I feel that Cruise and Kidman don't seem like Maverick and Nicola; they mesh in Kubrick's world. They are in synch.
Yet the real star of this movie is Kubrick himself, who, precisely in character, gives meticulous heed to each self-contained scene. He makes a conscious decision not to weave them into a progressing narrative, but to make each one an objective in itself, giving each confrontation the ferment of a dream in which the present is lucid but it's difficult to recall where we've come from, project what could come next. It's as close as many films ever come to being pure: It's so intent on what it's about that even logical narrative form isn't allowed to take precedence over what it's about, which is something as basic and universal as a confession of sexual longing. It's purely, yes, a stream of fidelity, jealousy, and dream logic channeled through an array of sub-Freudian motifs.
No one acquainted with the distant meticulousness of Kubrick's work will be surprised that this isn't the steamy erotic thriller a synopsis might convey. The eerily stately air of sexual melancholy and claustrophobia which permeates the film finds its focal point during an elaborate masked orgy, which may or may not place Cruise in mortal danger. Yet there's an underlying subtlety to the film which takes care to provide all manner of visual and thematic echoes, accommodating the blurring of perceptual distinctions hinted in the title.
Each of these scenes is like an interior monologue-heavy chapter in a novel. They move at a slower pace to allow a more intimate look into Cruise's inner life, for him to digest actions, events and epiphanies, he interacts with himself and the settings more than with other characters, and they never feel time-based. They're thoughts, basically. They're free-floating. Everything's a projection of a feeling or notion. It's a beguiling metaphysical experience of overhearing a person's private thoughts, as they're alternately externalized and internalized.
Throughout the shooting of all Kubrick's most important works, he constantly sought the most authentic ambiance or "feel" for each, and this personally controlled, visually enticing enterprise has a thriller's framework, with the prospects of intrigue and murder. It also strikes one like an infernal delusion; a sequence of odd characters flicker in and out of the limelight, baffling the hero with obscure fine points of their lives. The compromise at the end of the film is the one scene that doesn't quite come off; a film that captivates us owing to its undecided issues shouldn't attempt to bring in the bubble wrap. But that's why Eyes Wide Shut is a consummate film in its famously headstrong director's canon, because it both classically exemplifies his power as a filmmaker and showcases his weaknesses, which compared to most filmmakers in history are showcases of pure talent.
I don't think the point is to be able to pass a test on it when it's over, but to nonetheless become completely absorbed. Implicating the audience in the act of coveting, Kubrick's accomplishment here is sustaining a weird, off-putting, somehow sensual pitch for the doctor's oddball confrontations. Shooting with a grainy high-contrast approach, lots of back-lighting, underlighting and intense primary colors, setting the film at Christmastime to benefit from the lights, he makes it all rather ornate, like an urban festival. Cruise isn't exactly the protagonist but the character being compelled, tilting from one scenario to another.
The grace, appearance of impulsiveness continually surprise, invigorate, and the horizontalization of space, emotion cement this banquet of technique, Freudian incisiveness and personal audacity as---despite minor but uncharacteristic compromises by Kubrick to secure a mainstream release---an affront to the Hollywood game, a declaration of its maker's independence. When this came out a few months after Kubrick's death, it was seriously misread, which should've come as no shock. If you retread, examine the initial responses to any Kubrick film, except the earliest ones, you'll see that all of them were. Then, after five, ten years came the dawning that 2001, A Clockwork Orange, Barry Lyndon were each like nothing else before or since. So is Eyes Wide Shut.