Kubrick, Pynchon, Room 237, etc, ...

There is certainly a shade of eerie Collective Subconscious going on at "room" 223 in Walnut Creek right now.  Is it Halloween? (A holiday I could not give two hoots about.) Is it something in the stars? A Mercury fucking retrograde; that my lover, my life, the fire of my loins; an amateur astrologer herself, might predict with her ephemeris?

The facts are these:  He (MDS) finally posted about The Master, a film made by PT Anderson, a supine adorer of Kubrick's work, which resembled, in parts, some of Pynchon's great novel, Gravity's Rainbow.  Moreover, there were set-ups in Mr Anderson's film that also reminded him (MDS) of Kubrick's work, as well.  (Lolita, Barry Lyndon, etc, ... )

And, the Lonely Boie, I, MDS, discovered through research that PT Anderson's next film would be an adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's latest (comic) novel, Inherent Vice.

(Right now, can I say:  My largest problem with PT Anderson is that he is just not fucking funny.  One of the greatest play productions I have ever seen was in college, The Bacchae, which ain't no fucking comedy, but was absolutely hilarious -- presented in an absolutely truthful manner to the period, NOW and THEN -- and was still amusing and tragic at the same time.  Pynchon is, at the heart of it, a comic novelist, perhaps the greatest American novelist of that genre ever.  Pynchon's great play is:  I can do everything, anything.  He is as Prince, or Hendrix; I cover all; I am absolute.)

So, there is your Pynchon connection.

So, then I, Lonely Boy, MDS, was taking a shower, thinking of Halloween, and that I would love to watch The Shining.

(No, MDS was thinking about something else in the shower.  What is up with the bear and the oral sex scene? What is up with Nicholson's over the top performance?)

Kubrick, The Shining consumed my brain.  And, then I fell asleep.

For a couple of days.  I woke up about seventy-two hours ago, early early these things mean something, I went to the porch, and smoked.  High on that, checked out the intertubes, Grantland, Klosterman, his take, on all this.

I do not believe that Kubrick faked the Apollo 11 landing.  I believe that Kubrick gutted The Shining by Stephen King, gutted it to reveal that the moon landing was a fraud.  (The moon landing was NOT faked.)

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Kubrick and Pynchon, amongst the greatest American artists in history, share the same belief: There is a club of folks really rolling the dice and ruling over us.  You are not a member.  You might mingle with those that are the deciders.  To join the cult, you must pass a test in public, and even that may not be enough to grant you entree.  

Humbert refuses to declaim his love for Lolita.  He is excluded from Qulilty's private, decadent world.  And he suffers by executing his ultimate expression of true love.

Jack Torrence passes the test, yet attempts to kill his family.  Tom Cruise appears to meet the standard, but is brought down by crazy, silly rules.

You may play with us, yet, you are NOT one of us, for sure.

If that is not an allegory for our modern times, I do not know what is.

mds