Reviews by flyflyfly

Stark, impressionistic photography and a suspenseful, decidedly baroque plot combine to elevate this horror-tinged thriller above the commonplace potboiler fare of the time. "Diabolique" is tonally reminiscent of Hitchcock, albeit more effectively woven with an unmistakable noirish streak. Henri-Georges Clouzot's ingenious direction is conversely realistic and expressionistic, catalysing its drama and tension from the conspiring females at the core of the story, spurred by a cool Simone Signoret and an agitated Vera Clouzet.

Loaded with peril, histrionics and disquiet from the outset, "Diabolique" executes a conspiratorial, sinuous storyline without registering as calculated artifice merely for entertainment purposes; the winding narrative course leads to an expected yet satisfying climax that only serves to heighten its then-revolutionary plot-driven complexity, but it is the film's visual tenebrosity pregnant with portent that entices one to view it more than once.

"The Exorcist" is undoubtedly one of the most influential and innovative horror films of all time. Permeated by a diffused, emanating haziness and febrile intensity reminiscent of the most harrowing of documentaries, the film is one of two of its genre nominated for a Best Picture Academy Award, which goes some way in explaining its impact on cinema as a whole. Audiences in their droves secured the film’s box-office success, and with the passage of time its notoriety shifted into popularity, even ubiquity; the film's disquieting imagery is even seared in the minds of those not entirely acquainted with their context. Borne of author William Peter Blatty’s source material, the film improves on the book immeasurably despite being more or less faithful to its theological subject matter; capitalising on risk-averse and highly sophisticated 1970s production techniques, experimenting with an episodic narrative structure and stark, muted visuals meticulously framed, harshly lit and purely lensed to achieve the desired effect of chilly desolation and simmering suspense. Based on true events, Blatty is armed with unique insight into a hidden practice of his own religion, and the result is, for the most part, a story that is acutely informative, edifying and matter-of-factly communicated. William Friedkin’s unappeasable direction exploits seamlessly and collectively brilliant work from his actors – the cast are uniformly exemplary, and although nothing short of astonishing in their indelible characterisations, their methodical delivery is elevated by the brutal measures employed by Friedkin to elicit such convincing reactions that acting was not even necessary. However, it is the mature, potent performance courtesy of Linda Blair as the tormented Regan that has remained a harrowing imprint on the public consciousness; even when distilled in the form an ineradicable image on the back of a DVD, there is something innately stirring and ominous about the incongruous adjacency of a little girl wearing the evil grin of a demon, complete with facial lacerations and a green vomit-stained nightdress.

Friedkin charts unknown genre terrain effortlessly, injecting the “less is more” supernatural horror formula with an adult frankness and no-holds-barred approach, largely succeeding through his fully developed characters and their dealing with unprecedented on-screen situations and reacting with authentic fright. He expertly crafts a story that remains a pop culture touchstone; most people are now familiar with possessed, head-spinning Regan and the silhouetted beam of ominous light from her bedroom window as Father Merrin arrives to reconnect with a foe from the distant past. Beginning in Iraq with a foreshadowing scene – intercut with two dogs battling to the death – the aforementioned ageing priest and palaeontologist Father Merrin, confronts a statue of his old adversary, an ancient demon. Discharging the trappings of horror with gusto, Friedkin galvanises William Peter Blatty's dream-like story with new-style realism and sexual radicalism, envisioning an unabashedly diabolical entity who desecrates a statue of the Virgin before inhabiting the body of a 12-year-old girl, thereafter projecting vile obscenities and green fluid, masturbating violently with a crucifix, sexually assaulting strangers, and even killing a man, the reverberations of which attract the attentions of a sceptical police detective. Regan MacNeil is a 12-year-old girl living on location with her actress mother in Georgetown, Washington DC, when the aforementioned demon spirit, known only to her as imaginary friend Captain Howdy, gradually physically manifests within her, resulting in somnambulism, seizures and incontinence. However, when her behaviour turns increasingly violent and erratic, her concerned mother naturally consults medical experts and Regan is subjected to gruesome medical examinations, but the origin of her aberrations are not found to be organic or somatic, leading to the involvement of a beleaguered, grief-stricken psychiatric counsellor and priest, Father Karras, whom the demon seems to know personally and taunts over his late mother, even quoting her verbatim in one of the film's most memorably profane lines ("Your mother sucks cocks in hell"). As the development of Regan's demonic transformation becomes more visible in terms of her changing appearance and actions, her indelible outbursts and the subsequent reactions to them from all observers are deftly lingered upon by the director, inducing a general wave of anxiety as the camera enters the site of the possession, i.e. her bedroom, which in itself becomes a veritable hub of evil. In provoking the audience's post-Watergate anxieties by registering the domestic setting as a domain of evil, Friedkin's depiction of an agent of Satan being a sweet young girl in such a sleepy suburban town deeply resonates and perturbs in a universal sense, since the event occurs off-screen and affects a naïve, unsuspecting and not particularly deserving victim, who often sincerely pleads for help.

Within the fabric of the film and its underpinned Catholic sensibilities is the plight of Regan and the doubt-ridden Karras. The spirituality at the film’s core is deeply felt and cognisant, but also reflective of the audience’s insecurities. Though the film never lets us doubt that Regan has been possessed, we do trust in what is being presented to us impressionistically. "The Exorcist" is overt in its attack of the audience in a psychological and theological sense, but in its depiction of manifest evil, you would be inclined to assume that the film is directly horrific, but it isn't. It actually makes you think more positively about the existence of a benevolent force overcoming evil. a mother and daughter creates a stark, credible human drama. Friedkin taps into the mundane, banal aspects of life and pits a group of identifiable, infallible protagonists against an ancient force of evil, which ensnares them all incrementally. Partly functioning as a stark, credible human drama, the film also channels. Now synonymous with the film is the image of a visibly dishevelled Regan's levitation and rotating head, as well as the misty, silhouetted nocturnal arrival of Father Merrin, but fundamentally, the film disregards demonstrative spectacle or gory details. Friedkin studies his flawed characters whilst communicating a sobering directive of renewed fidelity in a higher power, but the film is less interested in preaching about religion in general, it is more concerned with the relevance of faith as a concept to a morally and ethically broken modern society.

"The Exorcist" is denotative of an era of film-making that broke new ground, and in an arcane, subtle fashion. Playing out akin to a documentation of an ill child undergoing an invasive procedure constructed as an unbridled exorcism, with its director amorphously observing the subject from different perspectives rather than gazing at it longingly, this is a film that viscerally explores the pulpy nature of the possession without ever resorting to jump scare tactics and gore that is now the norm, thus diminishing the more humanistic, emotionally resonant aspects of the story. At its core, the film is a carefully orchestrated unravelling of a mother and daughter's middle-class, reasonably charmed life, and it is only evangelical means that can save them. Still smouldering and unnerving with rigorously examined ideas and artful imagery nearly five decades on from its original release, nothing feels superfluous, with the cast and crew abiding by an unwritten rule to incorporate humanism and spirituality into a relentless, relentless horror of the highest calibre. An epochal achievement for everyone involved, this horror classic is a true masterpiece on every level that should be appreciated less for its pop culture aspects and more for its technical merits. Such is the proficiency of the film, the effusion of slow, detached imagery capturing the pervading dread, nervous, pained interactions between characters, the sporadic interstitial shocks and assaults endured by them, all culminate in a singular cinematic experience whereby the audience’s ordeal is gradual, then consistent throughout until abruptly grinding to a halt minutes before the credits roll. We are fully complicit in the occurrences and incidents, uncomfortably privy to an escalating series of events that ties together in the third half, grips tightly and veers into full-scale vitriolic territory, relative to a disturbing nightmare of vividly imagined, fully realised proportions.

"The Night of the Hunter" is now rightfully considered a bona fide classic of post-war Hollywood, but its evocative cinematography and offbeat touches received a cool response from the critics and audiences of 1955. Its intentionally anomalous rejection of the rigidity and strictures of cinematic visual storytelling were woefully misunderstood, and due to its esoteric unconventionality, it was perceived as melodramatic and stilted. Indefinable and defiant, the film was viewed as a failure of its time, unfairly maligned until a resurgence of new Hollywood auteurs universally recognised it as an influence; the contemporaneous critical analysis was even more positive, further renewing interest in the film as a wrongly scorned masterpiece deserving of veneration. In 1992, the film's reappraisal led to its induction into the National Film Registry as a culturally and artistically significant landmark, securing its revived status for future generations.

Ostensibly a fairy-tale remixed with elements of Film Noir and Southern Gothic, the film recalls the silent era with its lyrical, expressionistic style. Robert Mitchum's self-appointed preacher and serial killer Harry Powell terrorises West Virginia in the pursuit of his hanged former cellmate's ill-gotten gains, threatening his wily children and brutally murdering his widow in the process. In his exemplification of true evil, Robert Mitchum's performance is as icy and stark as the film's complex lighting arrangements, of which illuminate his character rather than envelope him in darkness, circumventing the conception of light representing goodness. Harry Powell is diabolical, but he is not indestructible and impervious as villains in cinema would later become; outwitted by a child and overwhelmed by an elderly woman, both of whom are invulnerable to his superficial charm, contrary to the gullible majority, and accordingly, he fails in his mercenary quest. Laughton's express intention was to bewitch audiences, and with certain shots, including the unforgettable stillness of a bound Shelley Winters in the car underneath the lake, he achieves his aim. Shot entirely in black and white in the styles and motifs of German Expressionism (strange shadows, stylised dialogue, distorted perspectives, surrealistic sets, irregular camera angles, and complex lighting techniques) the film is emblematic of a bygone era in which directors were able to design a unique look without locations or CGI.

Curiously simplistic in its depiction of two children overcoming evil aided by an unlikely saviour, the nightmarish quality of West Virginia, reimagined as a vast place of beauty menaced by hidden peril elevates it into realms of magical terror only suitable for adults. Oozing danger in every scene, the film's exploration of evil in the form of a sonorous male black widow, albeit misogynistic and entirely without care for anything other than money, is particularly unsettling in its accuracy. Dream-like and magnetic in a way that most horror films are not and visually reflective of its characters, "The Night of the Hunter" instead operates as a disturbingly beautiful mythic tale saturated by the misty folklore and enchanting yet dread-laden wildness of the Brothers Grimm universe.

Released at a time when the portmanteau was an unknown concept, "Dead of Night" was the first British horror film, a genre banned from being produced during the war, to adopt the unprecedented format. Featuring individual sequences of a mysterious or supernatural bent, a framing device established the circular plot with each segment seamlessly seguing into the next. Neatly connecting each of the stories depicted as anecdotes to make for an indispensable, nightmarish whole, the film must be viewed in its entirety, but that is not to say each story is equivalent in terms of quality. It should be said that the various tales are bizarre and unique, one is even comical in its light-hearted tone, but looping them together as if they are collectively of doom-laden, parallel importance is what renders the film as an influential setup of the horror genre, implementing the convention of the recurring nightmare that eternally circles on itself.

"Dead of Night" innervated the horror genre in the UK, arousing more interest in the scene and enabling more productions to be commissioned, although none had quite the same impact. Perhaps the spasmodic effectiveness and eeriness of the compendium arrangement is wholly attributable to its multiple directorial contributions, excellent camerawork, smooth editing and accomplished special effects, but the final story is in itself a standalone spooky classic that lingers in the mind long after the film has ended.

Fully representative of the uncommon idea that a sequel can surpass its predecessor on every level, "The Bride of Frankenstein" is a groundbreaking feature, casting an inexplicable spell over audiences that remains entirely undiminished by the passage of time, cinematic technologies and styles. Despite the genre transforming beyond recognition in terms of the Universal era's creaky Gothic sets and content restrictions, James Whale's subtext-laden films have preserved his legacy for further generations, securing his continued relevance as a figurehead of the first wave of classic horror cinema almost a century on.

Inexorably more refined and adventurous, Whale's innovative overhaul of the first film's drawbacks, such as the underdevelopment of the main characters, their motivations and weak, stilted dialogue and performances, is notably present from the opening scene, which depicts Mary Shelley regaling her husband and Lord Byron with an oral continuation of her greatest work; it is this daring departure from the original story that ensures a more dynamic, technically superior experience, far improving on its source material. Commencing from the climax of the previous film, the villagers are resigned to the belief that the Monster is dead, having supposedly engulfed in flames along with the windmill, however, he is very much alive, although now badly scarred, escalating and accentuating his intimidating physical form and grisly visage even further. Upon emerging from a flooded pit, the Monster proceeds to terrify Dr. Frankenstein's hilariously shrill, screeching maid and kill two of the villagers whose daughter he drowned in the original. It is at this point that the film evolves from a generic Universal horror, establishing a macabre jocularity, eccentric overtones and gallows humour which differentiates it from the formulaic, passable first outing.

It is with the introduction of Dr. Frankenstein's equally mad old colleague, the cunning and highly flamboyant Dr. Pretorious, who endeavours to revert the reformed scientist back to his previous God complex antics, that decipherable codes of homo-eroticism are implemented, also evidenced by the Monster's budding relationship with a blind hermit, cruelly circumvented by passing members of the lynch mob baying for blood. Once the Monster learns to speak, his sense of loneliness becomes more pronounced, and as such, our sympathy for him extends further than simply his plight as a persecuted aberration; we discern that the creature has developed human traits and now curiously hopes to be afforded the unalienable right to love and be loved in return. Aided by the desperate, desolate Monster, the Machiavellian, devious Pretorious takes credit for the Monster's education, ensnaring him for his own ends to coerce the guilt-ridden, disenchanted Victor Frankenstein into assisting the construction of a female mate for his own rejected abomination. Pretorious and his more artificial creation, The Bride, a twitching swan-like beauty who screams wildly at the sight of her betrothed, are ancillary, even minor characters, but once they appear, their respectively bizarre appearance, camp theatricality and gestural nuances dominate the screen and threaten to overshadow the film itself, symbolising its ubiquitous iconography. Pretorious's urge for dangerous knowledge and power is ultimately his downfall, as the dejected Monster deems them both equally monstrous, selfish and thus wholly undeserving of love. In educating and humanising the creature as to the sins, vices and evils of man, Pretorious brings about his own demise, therein completing the Monster's tragic story arc, registering him as cinema's ultimate unnatural outsider, too grotesque and hulking to ever be considered normal by society's deeply hypocritical, prejudiced standards.

James Whale's magnum opus serves as a prime example of how much he had grown in confidence since directing "Frankenstein", influenced by his own rebellion and outsider status in Hollywood, "The Bride of Frankenstein" remains a sublime exploration of the unacceptable outcast and humankind's instinctive disdain for their very existence.

1985, a bumper year for the horror genre nonetheless, heralded the release of three disparate zombie films: "Day of the Dead", the bleak conclusion to Romero's seminal trilogy, Stuart Gordon's gore-laden "Re-Animator", and "Alien" scribe Dan O'Bannon's directorial debut, "The Return of the Living Dead". In terms of ranking the individualistic merits and themes of each film, "The Return of the Living Dead" is the least clinical, unconcerned with the human condition or science, herein the cause of the zombie plague is bureaucratic error. However, similarly to Romero's trilogy, the bulk of the story centres on a vicinity: a medical supplies warehouse, the cemetery and its adjacent mortuary. A warehouse foreman shows around a new hire, and in doing so, shares with him that the film "Night of the Living Dead" was in fact based on a true life case: a military chemical spill which caused widespread reanimation. Although controlled and concealed from the public domain, the original zombies affected by the chemical were contained in drums and as a result of a clerical blunder, sent to the medical supplies warehouse, where they have remained for fifteen years. Unfortunately, during the revelation and subsequent idiotic gesticulation, the drum is accidentally pierced, allowing toxic gas to escape; the foremen are poisoned and the cadavers in the warehouse are reanimated, setting in motion a series of events defying all logic and rationale, but somehow utterly convincing.

"The Return of the Living Dead" pastiches the hardcore punk rock movement of the 1980s, and in turn, reverses the genre's usual teenage character composite of bimbos and dullards; despite being bedecked in piercings and leather, the punks are surprisingly unaware of and largely blameless in what is about to unfold, and crucially, no more asinine than their elder counterparts, thus creating an unlikely camaraderie within the besieged group. In the quest for survival, the harried, incompetent warehouse operators and kooky mortician next door overshadow the droll teenagers in terms of sheer histrionics and comic value, and the dire consequences of their nonsensical irresponsibility and resulting meltdowns are compelling to say the least. Suitably gross and surprisingly droll, the titular living dead and their all-consuming desire for brains are deftly executed and performed, with particular credence given to their new abilities: they cannot be destroyed in the traditional sense, and are much faster on their feet. Even incinerating these zombies culminates in unintended chaos, and as such, acid rain and ashes become equally dangerous as being bitten by the undead in Romero's universe. Radically different from Romero's films, O'Bannon's rewrite of an intended sequel to "Night of the Living Dead" includes an undertone of black comedy that never overshadows the horror elements, striking the perfect balance of farcical and corporeal to sustain its entertaining qualities and healthy dose of morbid humour throughout the breezy run time. A punk edit of the zombie formula, establishing new rules and tropes, "The Return of the Living Dead" is a sensational, hidden gory gem that deserves to be reappraised for its technical assets, thematic innovation and mordant edginess.

Oftentimes, films require emotional heft and topicality to be considered valid cinema. However, there are occasions that such self-indulgent celebration of artifice lacks a substratum of relevance to real issues, social or political, and, in the magnification of viscera and superficiality, functions as an experience laden with mood and atmosphere to the extent that it exceeds all expectations and registers as pure cinematic pleasure.

All the ingenuity in terms of its neon-drenched aesthetic, highly apt and synonymous synth-saturated soundtrack and inexplicably mesmeric ambience provides an opportunity for serious reflection on hypnotic retro cinema. "Drive" updates 1970s action and B-movie film-making styles, utilizing 1980s effulgent lighting and imagery, echoing preceding genres and reimagining them for a new generation to rediscover vicariously through the radiant, dream-like prism of Nicolas Winding Refn's dexterous, utterly enthralling neo noir. Not a single frame, word or moment feels inappreciably superfluous, and therein lies its sagacity: the director's fastidious execution daringly walks the precarious tightrope of cognate and formulaic, implementing a distinctive visual and aural world inhabited by a character as immediately captivating and enigmatic as The Man With No Name.

Despite its overarching mainstream appeal in the form of its laconic, pulchritudinous protagonist, lush LA setting and gratuitous violence, this is a meticulously constructed, orchestrated and designed homage to the past with revivifying art-house sensibilities. Brutal and bittersweet in equal measure, the story centres on a varsity jacket-wearing getaway driver and stuntman who becomes the target of the criminal underworld. Such outright escapism could have appeared gratifying and decadent from a less subjective, centralised directorial perspective, yet the essence of its source material and litany of influences are formatted into the vacuum of the film. Refn's thematic preoccupation and recognizable visual style are indicative of his newfound position as an independent auteur operating within the Hollywood model. Unfortunately, due to the elusive nature of most breakout indie hits and the law of diminishing returns, "Drive" may end up being considered the premature peak of Refn's career... then again, lightning can strike twice.

Deftly directed and laden with cartoonish characters performed with a seemingly intentional stilted weirdness, "Sleepaway Camp" is surprisingly distinguishable from its more blood-soaked contemporaries. Outlandishly comical due to the laughably contrasting era-specific acting styles within cliched yet incongruously heightened and dramatic juvenile situations delivered by the mostly adolescent cast whose hilariously campy dialogue is interspersed with varying methods of killing executed with decent practical effects, from knife, bee and curling tong attacks to drowning and scalding.

Despite its cult status, "Sleepaway Camp" is not meant to be taken seriously as a classic of the horror genre; a curio with a loose plot hinged on convolution and misdirection, the story takes a backseat to the gloriously atypical absurdity created by the oddball characters and their interactions. Every character behaves like a 1980s caricature rather than a stereotype, blending sexual confusion, teenage mayhem and crises with broad, overplayed strokes of obscenity and perversion, and it is these merits that set it apart from the litany of teen slashers released in its wake. It has its weaknesses, namely its dated elements and lack of topicality or context, but the twisted climax and disturbing flashbacks elevate it beyond standard slasher territory. Unpacking all of the hints and artfully concealed subversiveness is an enjoyable experience, and the strikingly epiphanous ending is decidedly trashy in its shock value, but adds a new dimension to the ambiguous relationships and indecipherable details established in the opening scene.

Not just your average "unseen killer on a vengeful rampage at a summer camp", the inapropos and (presumably) designedly bad performances, lack of film-making sophistication and outre psychosexual verve at the core of "Sleepaway Camp" pushes it past the bland, uninteresting measuring stick of "Friday the 13th", viewed as the better film when in fact it is far less creative and entertaining than this hidden gem.

Herk Harvey’s ‘Carnival of Souls’ is not an unequivocal, sanguinary horror as is the contemporary norm, it does not feature a tangible, monstrous entity or knife-wielding maniac and its existential core principles are indirectly conveyed, manifested in the form of an inexplicable evil. There is an insidiously creeping corniness and awkwardness at play akin to 1950s drive-in movies preceding the appearance of the ubiquitous soul, amplifying the notion of the film being a subconscious projection. Dreams in general are improbable or germane, they are decidedly perplexing and elaborate, perhaps even shabby and amiss, however, this surreal suffusion is a paradox; Harvey used newsreel cameras to meet budgetary restraints, and in doing so, inadvertently intensified the film’s spectral qualities and edgy realism. Regarding the story though, it could not be more fictional: focusing on a Kansas woman who is the sole survivor of a fatal car accident in which she was the passenger and emerging from the river with no memory of what transpired, the film is propelled into a heady dichotomous puzzle of banality and absurdity as she starts a new life in Salt Lake City as a church organist. Slowly dismantling any semblance of the intrinsic despite its kitchen sink verisimilitude, Harvey climatically veers the audience into a purgatorial dead-end of doom within the dance hall of a disused lakeside pavilion. In the process, he set the industrial, extemporaneous cinematic template for ‘Eraserhead’ among other experimental, inexpensive midnight movie creepshows that capture the incongruous, abstruse and recondite modulation of nightmares more so than mainstream film. 
"Carnival of Souls" is a remarkably condensed, darkly humorous film not quite assured of its legitimacy and brilliance, and yet, by virtue of its gritty look, oddball characters and constructed plot, it is evocative and influential enough to be considered a cult classic. It is an exemplary piece of art that should be reappraised and celebrated, more so for its stark beauty, prevailing mood and the success of it’s authorial, workmanlike intent. In terms of visual palette and caustic cinematography, the dread-laden atmosphere pervading each frame from the outset, all captured with stylistic camera movements and crisp monochromatic photography, but it is the distinctly incoherent, dizzying tonality that truly overwhelms and envelops the viewer within its unprecedented web of existential angst. Raw, haunting and visionary, Harvey’s mesmeric chiller is deeply immersive and lingers in the mind, surrounding the viewer with bizarre apparitions within an incomprehensible narrative that is more effective and indelible if it is deferred from the mind and the strikingly moody visuals, spooky musical score, and appropriately strange locations are resigned to.

Open-ended and inconclusive yet coherent and sweeping in its execution, Stanley Kubrick's ubiquitous horror opus harnesses and utilises perfectionism, perplexity and spatial awareness to achieve a hypnotic, deeply immersive cinematic puzzle. Implementing the distinctive, spacious, clinical visual style characteristic with Kubrick's oeuvre, "The Shining" exploits it to chilling effect. The ominous, dominating presence of the Overlook Hotel, where Jack Torrance is hired as caretaker over the winter months to reduce depreciation costs only to find he is somehow inextricably linked to it, is a composite of American hotels, albeit replete with anachronistic Native American motifs, incongruous modern touches, garish colour schemes and patterns; such exacting artistry and attention to detail generates misdirection, with the intentional layout discrepancies, anomalies and continuity errors in the hotel's interior construction functioning to disorient and deceive the viewer. Kubrick's technical mastery, complex narrative structure and exhaustively detailed production design are largely impenetrable, forging a deliberate sense of claustrophobia and foreboding that accelerates in pace and tension until the story itself reaches its seemingly predetermined and decidedly logical conclusion.

"The Shining" is a plethora of contradictions, from its agoraphobic and claustrophobic efficacy to the sheer expanse of the hotel despite its intricacy and confined, oppressive atmosphere. Kubrick's use of space and airless expressiveness impel dread and accentuate the more mundane aspects of the film, from the domestic simplicity and inert family dynamics, only examined focally once winter manifests in the form of an utterly treacherous snowstorm. Coincidental it may be, but Kubrick's positing of the storm being somehow serendipitous with Jack's descent into madness is highly suggestive of the true malevolent power of the Overlook Hotel, and serves to compound the viewer's discombobulation and dysphoria. Jack's inability to secure the collective fates of his family in line with his predecessor is also hampered by the storm, as he outsmarts them by removing their methods of escape, but is eventually circumvented by his wife and son's resourceful ingenuity and outside forces aware of the hotel's violent past. By elevating the elusive quality of the narrative, it is possible to scan its allusions, symbols and imagery; the subliminal is open for interpretation, however, it is viewing the film singularly whereby sections of it befuddle, especially its final shot. On the surface, the film resembles a ghost story with its baroque setting and malignant overtones, but its languorous framework and subtext force the viewer to surrender to its mood rather than its connotations and codes. And to truly experience the nuances and textures of the film in the correct perspective, it is advisable to fully succumb to the vivid, graphic imagery and performances on display; the so-called hidden meanings are so distant and intangible that its potent ambience is in danger of not being yielded to. Allow your intuition to take over; the story depicted by the astonishing cast members is simple, but what isn't is what lies beneath. Watch closely, but not too closely so as not to fall for the sinewy, sumptuous indirect genius of it all. Kubrick's inversion of Stephen King's novel decorates the film with subliminal messaging intended to layer the film with portents and inchoate exposition, but no amount of decoding will unlock any part of the puzzle. Heed my directive: the film is at once far less suspenseful if watched with an analytical mindset. It is in provoking the audience's baser impulses with his artful compositions that Kubrick succeeds, procuring the theatrical conventions of horror and injecting a dose of depth and substance for good measure. "The Shining" is a rare horror film that transcends its Gothic trappings.


Such suspense is maintained from the outset, from the Steadicam tracking of the labyrinth corridors and frozen hedge maze, Jack Nicholson's axe-wielding powerhouse performance, to the precise, jarring use of sound, all are now synonymous with film's vigorous impact, contributing to its continued popularity and reverence. However, the film does not require cultural genuflection to be considered a horror classic, and Kubrick's work is a testament to this, as most of his oeuvre has been reappraised rather than immediately acclaimed. "The Shining" terrorises its audience on a psychological level, even if the source of the evil manifestation is uncertain, specific images (or visions) that explicitly somehow possess a fragment of clarity and truth within the context of the story: the slow-motion elevator blood spill, Ursidae sex act, bludgeoned Grady sisters, Jack's face leering through the axed door, the endless typed reams of "All Work And No Play Makes Jack A Dull Boy", and most inscrutably, the beautiful woman transforming into a cackling old hag in Room 237. Driven to homicidal tendencies similarly to his predecessor, Jack is visited by him with the menacing suggestion that he has always been the caretaker and must reinforce this position by "correcting" his family due to their negative response to the malevolent forces entwined with the hotel. Jack's visitation in the luridly red bathroom is the dark heart of the story, brimming with peril, hostility and unease, intimating the theory that all men possess evil ready to be awakened, but the Overlook Hotel connecting with particularly damaged men already on the verge of insanity. Jack's soul is absorbed by the Overlook in 1921, ensuring the audience that the answers to this mystery are out of reach, and therein lies Kubrick's brilliance: he deftly unfurls a series of puzzle pieces, but never connects the dots or offers any kind of cogent explanation. Evidently, this is a haunted house with sinister inducements, but beyond the surface opulence and grandeur, the cold, imposing environs, disquieting metaphysical visions and occurrences experienced by its inhabitants conjure an incomprehensible world, aggregated and manifold to such an extent that even its embellishments and undertones adopt inexplicable significance, rendering the film entirely autonomous and mesmeric.

Unsettling and frighteningly surreal in its heightened aesthetic and unnerving tone, the paradoxical vastness and confinement of the interiors and exteriors entice the viewer, but the superficial elements interact with the implicit, culminating in a film that is as strangely disturbing and powerful in divisions as it is in its entirety. In accentuating the mundane and extraordinary, the different ways that the film can be interpreted are multitudinous. Kubrick's vision is ripe with alternately divisible, converging ideas and imagery, accentuated by the unique character perspectives composed with immaculate, innovative camera techniques; every inch of the frame retains a wealth of information, and with each viewing there are new details to examine and marvel at. Pedantically, the only discernible caveats herein indicate the time period, from politically incorrect dialogue and costume design, but on the basis of its addendum, facets and cognitive principles woven into a tapestry of emotional extremes and the unseen activity within its sphere, the film secures its unassailable position as an enduring work of meticulous artistry, a haunting masterpiece magnified by visual panache, ambiguities and an eerily impassive tone. In one fell swoop, Kubrick's underscoring of the thematic denotation of the film traces the distinctive set designs, evocative music and arresting imagery demonstrated in "A Clockwork Orange" and "Barry Lyndon", thus crafting a precision-made exercise in playing on the audience's fears until what is being presented to them materialises into a fluid series of episodes akin to a nightmare experienced differently according the individual and their specific insecurities.