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system\nclassify the user's feedback by responding with only a single number: 1 for positive or 0 for negative
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user\nKubrick meets King. It sounded so promising back in the spring of 1980, I remember. Then the movie came out, and the Kubrick cultists have been bickering with the King cultists ever since.
The King cultists say Stanley Kubrick took a great horror tale and ruined it. The Kubrick cultists don't give a damn about King's story. They talk about Steadicams, tracking shots, camera angles.This is a film, they insist: It should be considered on its own. As it happens, both camps are correct. Unfortunately.
If one views it purely as an adaptation of King's novel, \"The Shining\" is indeed a failure, a wasted opportunity, a series of botched narrative gambits.
I used to blame that on Kubrick's screenwriter. The writer Diane Johnson (author of Le Marriage, L'Affaire, Le Divorce, etc.) has a reputation as an novelist of social manners. Maybe she was chosen for her subtle grasp of conjugal relations or family dynamics. But the little blue-collar town of Sidewinder, Colorado doesn't exist on any map in her Francophile universe.
Kubrick the Anglophile probably found her congenial, however. He, of course, is the real auteur. And considered on its own merits, his screenplay for \"The Shining\" -- with its mishmash of abnormal psychology, rationalism, supernaturalism, and implied reincarnation -- just doesn't stand up to logical analysis.
I'm willing to consider Kubrick's \"Shining\" on its own terms. I'm even willing to take it as something other than a conventional horror-genre movie. But it doesn't succeed as a naturalistic study of isolation, alienation, and madness either. Parsed either way, the film pretty much falls apart.
Are the horrors of the Overlook Hotel real? Or do they exist only in the mind -- first as prescient nightmares suffered by little Danny Torrance, then as the hallucinations of his father? One notes how whenever Jack Torrance is seen talking to a \"ghost\" he is in fact looking into a mirror. One notes how the hotel's frozen topiary-hedge maze appears to symbolize Jack's stunted, convoluted psyche. Very deep stuff.
But if indeed the Overlook's \"ghosts\" are purely manifestations of Jack Torrance's growing insanity, then who exactly lets the trapped Jack out of the hotel kitchen's dead-bolted walk- in closet, so that he can go on his climactic ax-wielding rampage?
And can ANYONE explain, with a straight face, that black-and-white photograph (helpfully labelled \"1921\") of Nicholson as a tuxedoed party-goer that pops up out of left field and onto a hotel-ballroom wall during the film's closing seconds? Are we to seriously conclude that Jack Torrance's Bad Craziness stems from a some sort of \"past life\" experience? (And if you swallow that, since when are reincarnated people supposed to be exact physical replicas their past selves?)
Maybe Kubrick didn't care about his storyline. Maybe only wanted to evoke a mood of horror. Whatever the case, the film tries to hedge its narrative bets -- to have it both ways, rational and supernatural. As a result, the story is a mess. This movie hasn't improved with age, and it certainly doesn't improve with repeated viewings.
I don't deny that a few moments of fear, claustrophobia, and general creepiness are scattered throughout this long, long film. But those gushing Elevators o' Blood, seen repeatedly in little Danny's visions, are absurd and laughable. And Jack Torrance's infamous tag lines (\"Wendy, I'm home!\" and \"Heeeeeere's JOHNNY!\") merely puncture the movie's dramatic tension and dissipate its narrative energy. (I know: I sat in the theater and heard the audience laugh in comic relief: \"Whew! Glad we don't have to take this stuff seriously!\") Finally, Kubrick is completely at sea -- or else utterly cynical -- during those scenes in which Wendy wanders around the empty hotel while her husband tries to puree their son. A foyer full of mummified guests, all sitting there dead in their party hats? Yikes, now I really am afraid.
Given Jack Nicholson's brilliance over the years, one can only assume that he gave just the sort of eyeball-rolling, eyebrow-wiggling, scenery-chomping performance that the director wanted. The performance of Shelley Duvall, as a sort of female version of Don Knotts in \"The Ghost and Mr. Chicken,\" is best passed over in silence.
This movie simply doesn't succeed -- not as an adaptation, not on its own terms. It probably merits a 3 out of 10, but I'm giving it a 1 because it has been so GROTESQUELY over-rated in this forum.
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