COLOUR ME KUBRICK
Directed by Brian Cook
Written by Anthony Fewin
Starring John Malkovich
Released in 2005
Directed by Brian Cook
Written by Anthony Fewin
Starring John Malkovich
Released in 2005
One of the funniest lines I've heard in some time was uttered in a strangely touching comedy called Color Me Kubrick (2005). The line is delivered by one Alan Conway, a fellow who is impersonating director Stanley Kubrick. The fellow is bemoaning the insipidness of which he imagines Hollywood to be rife and says "The studio didn't think John Malkovich could carry the film." The reason this line evokes such a gut-warbling guffaw is that the actor saying the line is Mr. Malkovich himself.
Part of the irony spins on the fact that chances are pretty good you've not heard of this excellent film, just as chances are excellent that you do not know the story behind it, a condition that says very little about you personally but which speaks with terrible clarity about the condition of the popular media itself. Even the metal-heads and roustabouts in this movie know who Stanley Kubrick is--or was, now. Indeed, they know a great deal more about him than does Mr. Conway, the man who in real life went about during the filming of Kubrick's final film, Eyes Wide Shut, impersonating the director in order to get the believers to pay for his lifestyle, one that includes substantial amounts of vodka, a contributing factor to Conway's ultimate demise.
Written by Anthony Frewin and directed by Brian W. Cook, Color Me Kubrick utilizes many of Kubrick's own devices to give us the giggles, although the laughter is probably reserved for those in the crowd familiar with the man's work. So, for instance, in the opening scene, we have a couple punk boys in the employ of a bar rounding a corner to the strains of music we recall from A Clockwork Orange, a music which has conditioned us to expect trouble. Sure enough, the boys are headed off to potentially commit some horrible ultra violence against an upper class couple. "I wonder who that could be?" the society man inquires of his wife at the ring of the doorbell. In other words, this devilish little comedy is simply chock full of self-referential bits that, again, will squeeze laughing fits from fans of the late auteur and should even woo the novices into checking out some of the director's great film. You know, like The Shining, Lolita, Spartacus, Judgment at Nuremberg. Pardon me? What's that? You say Kubrick did not direct Judgment at Nuremberg? You say that was Stanley Kramer who did it? Well, one can't be expected to know everything, now can one, especially since Conway didn't know it either and blew a gig when he was hitting on a gay young man who actually did know it.
Is Conway crazy? I don't think so. He did manage to get himself locked up in lieu of going to jail for his fraudulent activities. Indeed, he left the mental institution to go dry out at a nice resort-like facility frequented by the likes of actors and rock stars. He tells his boyfriend it's all an act to stay out of the slams. But we aren't certain. We remain unconvinced in part because Malkovich does carry the film so well that the ambiguity trembles on the vine. By the time we near the end, we're not even certain the man is gay, much less that he didn't have the whole thing planned from the start. Still, we don't want any harm coming to this phony because we keep getting hints that the real Conway does not much like himself and has adopted his felonious lifestyle for just that reason. If his masquerade comes undone, the reality of his life may be a bit more than he can bear and his tentative hold on reality may tumble and crash.
We would not like that.
Funny enough, about eight years ago I found myself in a similar situation. I had gone through a tremendous amount of money in an attempt to avoid coming to grips with the death of my loved ones and one day found myself with two nostrils filled with dried cocaine residue, a liver throbbing from alcohol abuse, and skin that more than anything else needed a touch of a suntan. I drove a car I had reported stolen to get the insurance money from Arizona to Ohio where I ingratiated myself among a group of people who believed me to be a psychiatrist. Fooling them was easy because they were actual psychiatrists themselves and they found my narcissistic personality to be quite appropriate to the occupation. I maintained this little masquerade for six weeks and was only revealed for a liar due to my unfortunate habit of talking in my sleep, no doubt the remnants of a guilty conscience. I share this bit of personal experience because (a) I think it's time to come clean about it, lo these many years, and (b) because even though I admit I took matters to more than an extreme, I certainly conned no one out of any money but rather simply occupied myself with the intellectual discussions that I probably would have never encountered had I actually been what I pretended to be.
I think Alan Conway may have been after something similar. Granted, he knew very little about the real Kubrick and looked almost nothing like the man. However, I suspect he was simply lonely and figured that people would like him if he were famous, which they did.
I told you it was a touching comedy.
Part of the irony spins on the fact that chances are pretty good you've not heard of this excellent film, just as chances are excellent that you do not know the story behind it, a condition that says very little about you personally but which speaks with terrible clarity about the condition of the popular media itself. Even the metal-heads and roustabouts in this movie know who Stanley Kubrick is--or was, now. Indeed, they know a great deal more about him than does Mr. Conway, the man who in real life went about during the filming of Kubrick's final film, Eyes Wide Shut, impersonating the director in order to get the believers to pay for his lifestyle, one that includes substantial amounts of vodka, a contributing factor to Conway's ultimate demise.
Written by Anthony Frewin and directed by Brian W. Cook, Color Me Kubrick utilizes many of Kubrick's own devices to give us the giggles, although the laughter is probably reserved for those in the crowd familiar with the man's work. So, for instance, in the opening scene, we have a couple punk boys in the employ of a bar rounding a corner to the strains of music we recall from A Clockwork Orange, a music which has conditioned us to expect trouble. Sure enough, the boys are headed off to potentially commit some horrible ultra violence against an upper class couple. "I wonder who that could be?" the society man inquires of his wife at the ring of the doorbell. In other words, this devilish little comedy is simply chock full of self-referential bits that, again, will squeeze laughing fits from fans of the late auteur and should even woo the novices into checking out some of the director's great film. You know, like The Shining, Lolita, Spartacus, Judgment at Nuremberg. Pardon me? What's that? You say Kubrick did not direct Judgment at Nuremberg? You say that was Stanley Kramer who did it? Well, one can't be expected to know everything, now can one, especially since Conway didn't know it either and blew a gig when he was hitting on a gay young man who actually did know it.
Is Conway crazy? I don't think so. He did manage to get himself locked up in lieu of going to jail for his fraudulent activities. Indeed, he left the mental institution to go dry out at a nice resort-like facility frequented by the likes of actors and rock stars. He tells his boyfriend it's all an act to stay out of the slams. But we aren't certain. We remain unconvinced in part because Malkovich does carry the film so well that the ambiguity trembles on the vine. By the time we near the end, we're not even certain the man is gay, much less that he didn't have the whole thing planned from the start. Still, we don't want any harm coming to this phony because we keep getting hints that the real Conway does not much like himself and has adopted his felonious lifestyle for just that reason. If his masquerade comes undone, the reality of his life may be a bit more than he can bear and his tentative hold on reality may tumble and crash.
We would not like that.
Funny enough, about eight years ago I found myself in a similar situation. I had gone through a tremendous amount of money in an attempt to avoid coming to grips with the death of my loved ones and one day found myself with two nostrils filled with dried cocaine residue, a liver throbbing from alcohol abuse, and skin that more than anything else needed a touch of a suntan. I drove a car I had reported stolen to get the insurance money from Arizona to Ohio where I ingratiated myself among a group of people who believed me to be a psychiatrist. Fooling them was easy because they were actual psychiatrists themselves and they found my narcissistic personality to be quite appropriate to the occupation. I maintained this little masquerade for six weeks and was only revealed for a liar due to my unfortunate habit of talking in my sleep, no doubt the remnants of a guilty conscience. I share this bit of personal experience because (a) I think it's time to come clean about it, lo these many years, and (b) because even though I admit I took matters to more than an extreme, I certainly conned no one out of any money but rather simply occupied myself with the intellectual discussions that I probably would have never encountered had I actually been what I pretended to be.
I think Alan Conway may have been after something similar. Granted, he knew very little about the real Kubrick and looked almost nothing like the man. However, I suspect he was simply lonely and figured that people would like him if he were famous, which they did.
I told you it was a touching comedy.
