There are few directors in the history of film more versatile than Stanley Kubrick.
With a comparatively measly thirteen features to his name, his career was not as wide-spanning as a Hitchcock or a Kurosawa, nor did his films ever conjure enough crowd-pleasing, box-office success to trail the likes of Spielberg or Cameron. And as, 2001 aside, he never quite reached the intricacy and insufferable complexity of modern day Film Jesus Christopher Edward Nolan, he can’t be held on that pedestal, either. Regardless, almost every film in his filmography is still considered, today, to be among the greatest of their respective genres, whether that be The Shining for horror, Paths of Glory and Full Metal Jacket for war, or Eyes Wide Shut for steamy erotic thrillers, although to say even a single frame of that film is genuinely erotic would be to cause great concern.
He was a director ahead of his time – a man that effectively confirmed the “auteur” was a viable film snob term with his intense micromanaging of every single aspect of filmmaking, from the script to the costumes to the 127 different takes (a still-standing world record!) needed for Shelley Duvall to beat Jack Nicholson with a bat. Few who worked with him liked him – and even fewer agreed to work again, with the aforementioned Ms. Duvall’s time on set being infamous sh*tty – but his status and legacy as an all-time legend remains unshakeable even to this day, some seventy years after the release of his first feature and a mere 20 since the post-humous debut of his last.
#13 Fear and Desire (1953)
Kubrick tried to destroy every copy of this film in the years directly following its release, and that is not without just cause. As his first of three forays into the “hot war” genre, it follows a squadron of soldiers after they crash land in a nondescript super-evil country and must, from behind enemy lines, find a way to escape by any means necessary. There is some evidence littered throughout of the technical wizardry he would one day build his legend upon – an early house battle, for example, features some incredibly stylistic editing that actually feels jarring when compared to the mediocrity of everything else – but its nonetheless his only major disaster: a hammily-acted, emotionally-static foreshadow of greatness, one that, despite Kubrick’s infamously meticulous nature, just could not manage to stay buried.
#12. Killer’s Kiss (1955)
To quickly get both of the “non-canon” Kubrick films out of the way first (everything pre-Killing is just the mediocre pilot; the cinematic equivalent of Michaelangelo messing with playdough), Killer’s Kiss is by far his most relentlessly generic film – a tale of a boxer and his love desperately attempting to flee their violent pasts that neither floats with any grace nor stings with any fury. Not unlike with Fear and Desire, there is undoubtedly some talent lurking within the crisp cinematography and slight allusions to a grander style, but, even in spite of its technical competence, it nonetheless lacks the oomph and intrigue to be a truly satisfying film. It’s as “there” as Kubrick comes – not at all memorable, far too conventional, and a massively underwhelming sophomore feature to an otherwise illustrious career.
#11. Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Only in the filmography of Stanley Kubrick could Full Metal Jacket be less than two list-spots away from Fear and Desire yet 2001 lightyears ahead of it in quality. The first half of this film, in particular, is absolutely stellar – a visceral horror story that follows Vincent D’Onofrio’s Prvt. “Gomer Pyle” as he slowly succumbs to the psychological torture of R. Lee Ermey’s utterly brilliant Drill Sergeant Hartman. It’s a unique, merciless take on the war-story that uses brutal wit and an unflinching descent into madness to create a truly devastating modern-day tragedy. The second half, alas, becomes a lot more perfunctory and aimless, failing to recapture the magic of the first with its crass return to the tired war formula, existing largely just because the war movie (apparently) needed to actually go to war. If the second half has one thing, however, its the now infamous use of music over its closing scene – a marvellous reflection of American unity on one hand, and the single-worst advert for a cartoon character ever created on the other.
#10. Spartacus (1960)
Although perhaps the least Kubrick-y film on this list, Spartacus is an epic through-and-through, chronicling, across its aptly-epic three hour run-time, the rise and fall of its titular slave-turned-gladiator with ruthless resolve and humanity. The fight scenes are relentless and Kubrick, very clearly, relishes in the scope and grandeur of the sandbox provided for him, seemingly getting quite a taste for the freedom it allows given the beefy juggernauts that followed. To some extent, it lacks the “touch” that made his films so distinct and unique yet the rousing power of its storytelling – in particular his very forward-thinking adaptation of the #ImSpartacus trend that followed Douglas’s death, a scene that celebrates friendship and has made every so-called “macho” man since 1960 crumble under its weight – remains unshakeable even to this day.
#09. Barry Lyndon (1975)
Devised from the leftover scraps of a Napoleon biopic I want now, now, now, Barry Lyndon is, inexplicably, perhaps the most oft-forgotten entry to Kubrick’s “canon” pantheon. As a three-hour epic about the rise and fall of its eponymous Irish rogue, chronicling his journey through war and into aristocratic society, Barry Lyndon is an impossibly broad film, technically flawless (twas shot through the power of candles, presumably because Kubrick hated himself) and deviously dapper (winning four technical Oscars, including costumes). The emotional core of the film – erupting in a bitterly grim stand-off climax – is surprisingly profound given the Orange iciness that preceded it, and while every frame is an excruciatingly gorgeous reminder of what could have been, it’s also among the more thoughtfully elegant films he ever made… though I’m sure a man as thoughtful as Napoleon could have been even more elegant!
#08. Lolita (1962)
Although a certain film later one would definitely give Lolita a run for its money, there is a fair argument to be made that a grimly funny adaptation of Vladamir Nobakov’s paedophile-professor (who becomes increasingly infatuated with his underage step-daughter, don’t forget that bit) story is the most controversial film Kubrick ever made (the man has a lot of superlatives, yes, but they’re all justified to one extent or another). James Mason is perfectly gross and revolting as the professor while Peter Sellers, in true Sellerian form, steals the show with his unfortunately limited screentime. There is a sickeningly seductive allure embedded into the film that makes it uncomfortable to watch yet also fundamentally rewarding: gross and horrific, yet also essential to the grotesque character study at hand.
#07. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
There are few cuts more iconic in film history than when Stanley Kubrick and his ever obsessive God complex decided to skip several millennium of human evolution and cut straight from the first tools used by primates to the ones our great grandchildren will use to explore the stars. Beyond this, 2001 is certainly an experience – trippy, surreal, vaguely profound and yet not enjoyable under any traditional lens of plot, character or the concept of “things happening.” Douglas Rain’s icy delivery provides a truly terrifying villain in the form of HAL-9000 (the conversation scene he watches is utterly chilling, a mere handful of close-ups reflecting his sentience and threat) while the final twenty minutes, no matter how indescribably abstract, remain utterly hypnotic with their sheer spectacle and ambition. There are few films less traditionally entertaining than 2001 on a pure, fundamental level, yet it’s legacy as a towering achievement is simply unparalleled – no other film even comes close.
#06. Paths of Glory (1957)
Kubrick’s first encounter with Kirk Douglas – and the one that ultimately prompted his involvement in Spartacus – is by far the best “hot war” film he ever made: a sobering account of political corruption festering within the “French” (to use that word very loosely) military during WW1, tracking Douglas as a Colonel determined to clear the names of three soldiers wrongly prosecuted under his command. To some extent, this is actually Kubrick’s most poignantly melancholic film – a genuinely touching anti-War tragedy that uses the unparalleled screen presence of its leading star and the similarly unmatched eye for human suffering that Kubrick was cursed with to paint an appropriately contained yet thematically uncompromised assault on war and its underseen brutalities.
05. The Killing (1956)
Aside from Hitchcock and “thriller” or Scorsese and “crime,” there are few other director/genre pairing as immediately exciting as Kubrick and “heist.” The Killing, aptly, is deceptively simple – a racetrack heist film told, repeatedly, from the perspective of each conspirator involved, their mishmashed recollection of events collectively uniting to form one complete “heist” narrative. The subsequent film is lean, sharp, razor-focussed and, despite releasing just one year after Killer’s Kiss, thrillingly unique, using a specially convoluted structure and exciting cast of great characters to transform an otherwise simple heist film (while conceptually clever, its akin to a primate first wielding tools when compared to the spaceship-ingenuity of, say, Ocean’s Eleven) into a plainly entertaining masterpiece. Not his best ending, admittedly, but the absolute best start to the “canon” genius that followed.
#04. Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
One of my favourite cinematic conspiracy theories – albeit a very grim and disturbing one – is that Stanley Kubrick’s tragic death in 1999, shortly before the release of this, his final directorial effort, was prompted by Eyes Wide Shut being a supposed exposé on the Hollywood sex cults of the 80s and 90s. If true, then Eyes Wide Shut is actually the best horror film that Kubrick ever made: a grotesque, hideous and sadistically sexual dive down the rabbit hole into the direct antithesis of Wonderland as Tom Cruise’s Dr Bill Hartford investigates the seedy yet no less lavish and erotic sexual parties held by the rich and powerful. The dreamlike aesthetic (including Christmas lights that certainly don’t denote magic and elves) conjured is, like much of Kubrick’s work, oddly hypnotic and the centrepiece sequence – an eerie leisurely stroll through one of these aforementioned parties – is graphic and unflinching to the point of ruthlessness while nonetheless demanding your eyes remain firmly on it at all times.
#03. The Shining (1980)
It is not a well-hidden secret to say that Stephen King, for mostly justifiable reasons, absolutely despised Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, a project he deemed a complete betrayal of the book’s central themes, characters, and ideals. Yet regardless of its faithfulness to the source material or how mad Jack Nicholson clearly is from minute one (he’s the whole damn Cuckoo’s Nest), the film is a terrifying, detached ordeal. Jack Torrance (Nicholson)’s fall as the Overlook Hotel consumes him and his family is visceral and ruthless, the sheer number of interpretations since been superimposed onto it baffling in the best possible way (Rodney Ascher’s fascinating documentary Room 237 does a wonderful job dissecting this). Every single moment within – unlike most films that are defined, in retrospect, by a select one or two – is iconic for one reason or another, partly because the film itself is so good and partly because twelve-year olds “technically” are only old enough to see Ready Player One.
#02. Dr Strangelove Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
There is certainly an argument to be made that Dr Strangelove is the greatest film satire of all time: a piercing yet deliciously witty three-part story of the US President and his clearly-stable band of advisors (if they’re in the government, they must be normal, right?) desperately scrambling to avoid WW3 after a paranoid General goes rogue and, convinced his, quote, “precious bodily fluids” are under threat, attempts to unleash all hell on Mother Russia. Peter Sellers’ three-part performance is legendary for the sheer depth and nuance he ascribes to every character, with the titular Strangelove being the obvious icon but Group Captain Mandrake having some of the most humanity in his decidedly underrated role. The dialogue is sharp and oozing with ironic bite, whether that be the proclamation that “you can’t fight in here! This is the war room” or the, as stated, “precious bodily fluids” that Sterling Hayden is willing to wage war over, all culminating in an ending that was quite literally, in an alternate version, about 30 seconds away from escalating into Battle of the Custard Pies. What we got was decidedly “warmer” and sharper, though like Barry Lyndon there is certainly a missed opportunity of “what could have been.”
#01. A Clockwork Orange (1971)
It has been fifty whole sadomasochistic years since A Clockwork Orange first sang in the rain and it has yet to lose a single pep in its step. Alex DeLarge’s arc from remorseless psychopath (surrounded by his various droooooogs) to a broken, fractured individual – tormented by his past and allegedly “fixed” by an experimental new “rehabilitation” treatment – is barbaric yet compelling, rooted in universal themes of morality, psychology and justice yet by no means a conventional take on any of them. It singlehandedly ruined the reputation of Singin’ in the Rain for decades to come (so much so that Gene Kelly actually refused to talk to Malcolm McDowell when introduced at a party), made Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony a symbol of suffering for all would-be droooooogs around the world, and tainted the previous purity of milk as a vassal for some of the old ultraviolence. The genius of Kubrick lay less in his superficial intellectualism and more-so in the raw emotions he could conjure, rarely of the traditionally sappy variety but often with a rare brand of power and primality, whether that be awe in 2001, “this is awful” in Fear and Desire, pure, unabashed entertainment in The Killing or abject loathing, tainted by a morally ambiguous hint of uncomfortable sympathy and shock, two things Kubrick conjured better than anyone else, in A Clockwork Orange.
Film Scribe 