Kubrick's Game

By Derek Taylor Kent

• GOLD MEDAL WINNER: Readers' Favorite Book Awards 2017: Best Fiction Audiobook
• WINNER: 11th Annual National Indie Excellence Awards – Movies & TV Category

What if Stanley Kubrick left behind more than just his classic films? What if he also left behind an elaborate puzzle cleverly buried within his films, which would lead the player toward a treasure that could change the course of human history?

"A thrilling page-turner, thrilled with mystery and puzzles designed by a cinematic genius." ~ Jennifer Bosworth, Author of "Struck" and "The Killing Jar"

Fifteen years after his death in March 1999, it appears Stanley Kubrick arranged a hand-selected announcement that his films are far more than they appear to be. As UCLA's resident Kubrick expert, Professor Mascaro was one recipient of Kubrick's package.

Inside is a reproduction of the famous photo Kubrick took for the cover of Look Magazine following the death of FDR. The image to the right has become emblazoned in the American zeitgeist. On the back of the photo is a message written by Kubrick that reads: "Follow me to Q's identity." Mascaro is stumped and asks Shawn Hagan, his brilliant but socially awkward film student, what he thinks that might mean.

And so begins a wild adventure.... By the end, Kubrick will have proven his genius to be unmatched, when the game takes the player far beyond the boundaries of reality and sends him into the darkest realms of the human mind in order to make it to the final stage. This climactic set piece is surely the most difficult and diabolical puzzle ever created by man.

Shawn will have to face his own demons and reconnect with those who care about him in order to receive the great treasure that is Kubrick's final legacy and gift to humanity.

"Like Kubrick's films, this book dazzles. A fascinating mind-bender that any movie fan will geek out for." ~ EJ Altbacker, Author of "Shark Wars" and "Handy Andy Saves the World"

EVOLVED PUBLISHING PRESENTS a mind-blowing, often comedic, sometimes tragic, always entertaining look at an extraordinary "What if?" adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evolved Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781622534500

Derek Taylor Kent

Derek Taylor Kent is an author, screenwriter, and performer based out of Los Angeles, California. He graduated from UCLA with a degree in theater and playwriting. After realizing a career as a theater actor in LA wasn’t possible, he launched his writing career, penning the hit musical King Kalimari. The success of Harry Potter inspired him to rediscover his early love of book writing. After his first novel was soundly rejected, he found success with his second, receiving a three-book deal from HarperCollins for his series Scary School (written under pen name Derek the Ghost). The first book won an award for “Funniest Chapter Book of the Year” by Children’s Literature Network, and the series went on to become one of the most popular for middle-grade readers. His bi-lingual picture book El Perro con Sombrero was released August 2015 through Holt/Macmillan, and quickly became a best-selling new picture book. Other available books include the award-winning educational picture book Simon and the Solar System and the magical adventure Rudy and the Beast.

Book preview

There’s nothing like the smell of two billion meters of historic film mingled with Soltrol cleaning solution in the morning.

Tony Strauss considered himself the luckiest man alive to enter his office to that one-of-a-kind aroma each day for the past thirty-two years.

As the curator of the newly opened UCLA Film and Television archive in Valencia, a monumental complex six years in construction, he personally oversaw the cataloguing, storage, preservation and restoration of over 220,000 film and television reels, and the 27 million feet of newsreel footage, spanning over one hundred years. He presided over one of the largest archives of media in the world, second only to the Library of Congress.

Most would consider Strauss’s daily routine tedious beyond all reason, but to him, each repetitive hour restoring precious frames of a forgotten classic might as well have been a day at the carnival.

An added bonus: he could work all day in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. With his unkempt graying-black hair, glasses and pudgy frame, he looked like a certain famous director. You’re an old-school Peter Jackson! people would exclaim. Strauss would shake his head, thinking he looked more like another director who didn’t make as many talk show appearances.

He lived for the moments each week when a lost reel of footage found in a dusty attic, or unearthed in a studio warehouse, showed up in his mailbox. Each delivery held a potential holy grail.

Thousands of curious packages had come to him over the years, offering a tantalizing prize inside like little Cracker Jack boxes, or sometimes that rare pot of gold. But nothing could have prepared him for the package that had arrived this morning.

The envelope was rectangular and black, except for the thin white scribble of the archive’s address and the sender’s name. When he read the name of the sender, his hands began trembling.

This can’t be, he said.

Bold instructions on the front read:

NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL MARCH 7.

The day had arrived. He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and delicately unclasped the large envelope, painstakingly unsticking the edges.

He removed the contents, then ran to the phone.

Hello, Professor, this is Tony Strauss. I’m sorry to call you so early, but just like you predicted, something strange has arrived. Yes, I know it’s five in the morning, but I didn’t think it could wait. You see, it’s impossible that we could have received a package from this person, because.... Professor, the sender has been dead for more than fifteen years.

As Tony spoke the sender’s name, he heard a thud as if the phone had been dropped to the floor.

After a moment, the professor said, I’m on the way. Tell no one else of this.

The package had been sent by Stanley Kubrick.

April 4

I can’t believe this is a classroom, Shawn Hagan thought as he entered the movie theater. Red curtains hung loosely like a billowy dress. The lights were dimmed to a level just bright enough to find a seat. The speakers were positioned to create the ideal balance of echo and audial symmetry, as one might hear God should He speak.

The movie theater is a temple of dreams. Today, it is a cathedral of learning.

Shawn had waited patiently outside the James Bridges Theater at UCLA’s Melnitz Hall for fifteen minutes before it was unlocked to the public. Seat selection mattered more than most realized, as sound designers calibrated their music and sound effects to be optimally experienced by those closest to the center of the theater.

For this reason, the advent of reserved seating was convenient, but Shawn had fond memories of camping out in front of the theater a week in advance of the big summer blockbuster. He missed the bonding experience of the line—the trivia, the arguments, and of course being mocked by passersby. The snarky insults were like badges of honor earned toward becoming a troop leader of film geeks.

Shawn stood at the back of the theater, taking his time to scan the three hundred empty seats, study the speaker locations, and approximate the screen distance until it was clear which seat was the one.

His outfit looked strangely formal compared to the shorts and T-shirts most students wore in the southern California sunshine, but modes of fashion were utterly lost on him. He might fit in better if he untucked his white dress shirt from his brown khaki pants, but why give a false impression that he was slovenly?

Shoes. Now those are important. His gray New Balance sneakers were mismatched with his dress shirt, but light and cushy. It gave him peace of mind knowing he could shift into full sprint at a moment’s notice—a remainder of being chased by bullies every day in grade school.

The oversized glasses were hand-me-downs from his maternal grandfather, who also passed along his stigmatism. He hadn’t bothered to look in a mirror that morning, but knew his brown hair was just as scraggly as ever. His boyish face didn’t require shaving more than once a month—kind of embarrassing at twenty. He always kept shaving cream next to the sink so his roommates wouldn’t have more ammo to tease him.

Shawn stressed-out less about such things now that he was officially a student of the UCLA School of Film and Television, one of the most exclusive and prestigious in the nation. In high school, he couldn’t escape his label as the weird kid, but in film school, he could be deemed an eccentric genius.

Shawn had high hopes for Cinema of the 60s and its professor. Antonio Mascaro’s film La Festa Cattiva had won the Golden Lion at the Venice International Film Festival twenty-five years ago. Though he never broke through in Hollywood, Mascaro was one of those European auteurs whom UCLA loved to bring in as visiting professors.

Today’s film: Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita.

Leave it to an Italian to open a film history class with that one.

He strolled down the aisle toward his seat, stopping to remove his backpack and pull out his laptop for note-taking. Just as he was about to sit down, someone jumped the row behind him and snagged his seat.

Sorry, man, too slow.

Please move, said Shawn. I want this seat.

You gonna make me?

Shawn felt a wave of adrenalin rush through his torso. That phrase: You gonna make me? How often was it the preamble to being shoved to the ground and spat upon?

Wilson busted out laughing. Come on, Shawn, you know I’m just messing with you. It’s my new favorite pastime.

Wilson hoisted himself up and plopped down in the seat to the left.

Of course. I knew that, Shawn covered.

Shawn and Wilson had become friends during the fall quarter, when they were matched together for the Intro to Filmmaking lab. Wilson had bragged to Shawn about his eye for talent. Growing up, his own acting prowess made him a household name before the age of twelve. Then came the spectacular, tabloid-riddled burnout. He wanted to direct, but even his agents would scoff when he brought it up. Who would possibly trust their project in the hands of the kid from Slice of Cheese, Hold the Ghosts?

Watching the show on Saturday mornings was one of Shawn’s fondest childhood memories. Wilson had played Billy, who thought he was the luckiest kid alive when his parents bought an old pizza parlor. Just one problem: it was haunted by the ghosts of its past patrons, and much to Billy’s chagrin, only he could see them. His catchphrase—Holy cheesy pepperoni!—garnered canned applause on all one hundred twenty-two episodes, and it haunted him to this day. Not even a BET award for Best Actor in a TV series earned him respect from the mainstream.

Thus, film school had become his last chance for career salvation.

Wilson had once told Shawn that the best directors were the alphas of their creative packs. Once they found a winning combination, they worked with the same crews on all their projects. Wilson believed he had found the perfect counterpart in Shawn: someone more skilled than he was, but who lacked the charisma to direct.

Shawn had to agree with the assessment. He felt his place was behind the scenes as a screenwriter or cinematographer, something that wouldn’t require schmoozing or interpreting the emotions of volatile actors.

Fifteen minutes later, as more than two hundred students filled the theater, Shawn’s enthusiasm for the class waned. It was packed with jocks, and clusters of fraternity and sorority types, who clearly thought a class where they got to watch movies would be an easy A.

Lolita had begun after a brief introduction by Professor Mascaro. This was Shawn’s first time seeing the film on a large screen, and he did his best to drown out the giggling and hooting and soak it in.

When the film ended with the frame frozen on the bullet hole beneath the eye of the Gainsborough portrait, Mascaro appeared behind the podium. He wore a burgundy button down with a diagonally striped blue tie and a corduroy tan blazer. Shawn thought he resembled Tony Bennet with his long nose and thick helmet of graying curly hair.

Aided by his Italian accent, the first thing the professor said got the biggest laugh of the day, Well, whatta you think?

An athlete in the front row blurted, Awesome. I didn’t think a black and white movie could be funny.

"Yes. Mr. Kubrick was a master of commedia nera, or ‘black comedy,’ where he shows us the darkest, ugliest side of human nature, but allows us to laugh at it. Mr. Kubrick made four movies in the 1960s: Spartacus, then after Lolita came Dr. Strangelove, and then 2001: A Space Odyssey." He accentuated 2001: A Space Odyssey with a dramatic twirl of his wrist, which had everyone laughing again.

He continued. These four films would forever change the history of cinema, and that is why we will study each one in this class. So who can tell me how Mr. Kubrick achieved the light tone of the film?

Shawn stopped taking notes. This was obviously going to be Kubrick for Dummies, as he should have expected for a class open to the general student population. As Professor Mascaro lectured, Shawn found himself getting more and more aggravated. Every time Mascaro said Kubrick, he pronounced it Koo-brick instead of Kyu-brick. When discussing the motifs, he failed to connect the themes of deception and entrapment with any of the film’s chess imagery or symbolism. Worst of all was how Mascaro decided to conclude the lecture.

In conclusion, I will point out two things that require a sharp eye to notice. When Humbert first enters Quilty’s mansion, the large painting of the woman is lying on its side at the front entrance. But then later, what is this?... Mascaro jumped forward to the closing scene, when Quilty ascends a stairwell and hides behind the same painting before being shot. It’s the same painting! Somehow it grew legs and walked up the stairs? Continuity error-issimo!

Shawn stuck a pencil between his teeth to prevent them from grinding.

And here is something even worse! Mascaro rewound to the beginning of the film, where Humbert drives toward the mansion.

As the scenes crossfaded, Mascaro paused the film exactly where Shawn knew he would.

It is there only for a few frames, but watch the crossfade and you can see the figure of a man quickly exiting the frame. Who could it be? The image cut to a grainy blow-up of the figure. It is Kubrick himself! He forgot that the camera started rolling! As you can see, even the greatest directors make the bonehead mistakes.

The pencil snapped loudly in Shawn’s mouth, echoing throughout the theater.

Is everything okay out there? Mascaro asked, looking to where the sound originated.

No, Shawn responded, not hiding the contempt in his voice.

What’s wrong, young man?

Shawn stood up so the professor could see him. Perhaps you could explain your assertion that the mistakes you referred to are in fact mistakes.

Wilson tugged Shawn’s shirt and urged under his breath, Sit back down, dude.

Shawn swiped Wilson’s hand away without breaking his glare.

Scusi... what is your name? said Mascaro.

Shawn Hagan.

Mascaro quickly glanced at his notebook and chuckled to himself. Ah yes, Shawn Hagan. The other professors informed me about you. They say you have a... unique brain function. Yes?

Unique brain function? Exactly what is that supposed to mean?

The exchange shifted to the politically incorrect and the other student’s were loving every second of it.

It means, how do you say?

Autism? Is that the word you’re searching for?

I am no expert.

Clearly. I’m non-neural-typical, but my ‘brain function’ is not the question here. I’d like you to please explain how you know those are mistakes.

I am a filmmaker. When you make a film, sometimes props get moved from here to there and nobody notices. Later, in editing, you say, ‘Oh no! Those flowers were on that table in the last shot!’ But you have to live with it.

So your evidence is that you made mistakes on your films, therefore Stanley Kubrick also did?

Mascaro was speechless.

Shawn turned from Mascaro and addressed the class. "Beginning with Lolita, Kubrick had full control and final cut on all his films. He planned and designed every frame he shot down to the smallest detail. The painting was the most important prop in the whole scene, so he would have kept a close eye on it. If it moved, it’s because that’s what Kubrick wanted it to do. And as for the editing mistake, Lolita was Kubrick’s sixth feature film. He was a master editor. Professor, are you really contending that Kubrick didn’t know how a crossfade worked?"

Wilson muttered under his breath, Slow your roll, man. They get it.

Mascaro broke out laughing. "Maybe you should teach this class, eh?"

Shawn didn’t understand that Mascaro was joking. Do you have the authority to offer me the position?

Wilson slunk down into his seat.

Young man, I can see that you are a fan of Mr. Kubrick.

Stop saying his name wrong! It’s pronounced Kyu-brick. Not Koo-brick. Every time you say Koo-brick it makes my skin crawl.

Mascaro stepped out from behind the podium. Perhaps you don’t realize that Kubrick was of Hungarian descent. I have visited Hungary, where everyone pronounces it Koo-brick.

Without missing a beat, Shawn raised his laptop and read from it. Kubrick wasn’t from Hungary. He was born and raised in the Bronx. I quote from his IMDB page, ‘According to Stanley’s daughters, the family last name is pronounced Kyu-brick. Not Koo-brick. You see? This is called evidence.

Shawn closed the laptop and awaited a response.

"Very well, professore," Mascaro said rolling his eyes, "perhaps you can tell us why Kyu-brick moved the painting and why Kyu-brick edited himself into his movie?"

Why indeed, replied Shawn. That’s what I was hoping we would get to discuss in a film analysis class, but why should we be so lucky?

Mascaro lowered his head in a mock smile, laughed to himself again, then looked up to the class. Well, time is up. Mr. Hagan, perhaps we will discuss this subject, and your behavior, further.

The students avoided Shawn as they exited the theater. With the country’s history of school shootings, students with mental issues were not taken lightly. Wilson stuck by his side regardless, and Shawn felt shielded from any insensitive comments.

Why you gotta go off like that in class? said Wilson.

I thought he’d want to know that he was wrong.

No, no, no, bro. Look, whenever you feel the need to give a sermon, how about you look to me? If I shake my head, that means it’s quiet time. Okay?

Shawn wasn’t great at social cues, but he knew when he was being patronized. Still, he appreciated Wilson’s concern for him.

Mascaro, still a little dumfounded, watched Shawn exit the building. They were right, he said to himself in Italian. He is the one I need.

Within an hour of the "Lolita incident," word of Shawn’s outburst had spread across campus. Someone had even recorded it, and it gained over 20,000 views on YouTube in its first hour.

Shawn found his favorite table in the back corner of the north campus cafeteria.

Wilson plopped down at the table with a pre-made Chinese chicken salad. What’s up, wild man?

Shawn didn’t look up from reading a film review in the Daily Bruin. He had applied to be the newspaper’s film critic that year, but had been turned down because his sample reviews were too scathing. The current film review raved about the new G.I. Joe film, causing him to take vicious, tearing bites from his bagel sandwich.

Hello? Earth to Shawn. Do you read me?

Shawn lowered the paper and gave Wilson his attention.

Bad news. Damon dropped out of the race, said Wilson.

Explain.

He decided to pledge a frat, so he’s out the whole weekend. That means we have a spot to fill.

The annual Fantastic Race, a citywide scavenger hunt where participants followed a series of clues, puzzles, and riddles around the city, would occur that weekend. Wilson had explained to Shawn that he’d participated the past five years, but never cracked the winner’s circle. This year’s theme was movies, so he thought Shawn’s encyclopedic knowledge would be the key to victory.

I wish Damon hadn’t dropped out. Sometimes clues can only be solved using teamwork, said Wilson.

Should we ask someone from our film class? said Shawn.

Who you thinking?

On second thought, nobody has really impressed me.

Including me?

Do you want an honest answer?

Wilson nodded.

Including you.

What? How have I failed to impress you?

Your camera technique is lacking in many areas, the pacing of your editing isn’t crisp, and your lighting is—

Okay, I get it. Wilson shook his head. "Do you always gotta be so brutally honest? You wanna make it in this town? Learn to blow smoke up everyone’s ass."

I don’t smoke.

It’s an expression! Ah, forget it.

Shawn could see Wilson was agitated. To point out your positives, you direct actors effectively. Much better than I could.

Thanks, man, that means a lot coming from Honest Abe.

Or I could just be blowing smoke. Shawn giggled to himself.

Glad you find yourself so funny.

Shawn squinted at something over Wilson’s shoulder: a laptop screen facing him on the fireplace tabletop. A girl was watching a movie with headphones on, scribbling notes.

Shawn bolted out of his seat.

Wilson called out to him, Hey! Another lesson! You don’t just get up and leave without warning!

Shawn zeroed in on his target. He was pleasantly surprised to recognize the watcher as his T.A. from Intro to Filmmaking.

He tapped her on the shoulder. Sami?

She paused the video and removed her headphones. Hello, Shawn. How’s it going?

When Shawn said earlier that nobody impressed him at film school, he hadn’t been entirely truthful. If there was one person he respected, it was Samira Singh.

She more than held her own with him in debating lenses, Steadicam harnesses, and editing programs. She had shown him tricks he never knew for creating realistic sunlight on a soundstage. She even hooked him up with a job as a camera assistant on several grad-student films.

For a moment he became lost in her bright green eyes and smooth olive skin.

"I um... noticed you were watching my favorite scene from 2001. The four-million year jump-cut from animal bone to space missile blew my mind when I first saw it."

"Mine too. I’m writing my master’s critique on 2001. You know anything about it?"

So many thoughts rushed through Shawn’s head he had to force himself from erupting into a monologue. Where to even begin? Thousands of obsessed fans had spent years breaking down every frame of 2001, hoping to uncover the hidden meanings. Some contend Kubrick was trying to send us a message through this film that our brains are simply not advanced enough to understand—the audience like those naïve ape-men, marveling at the black monolith, completely unaware of what it represents.

Most interesting to Shawn was how the film was made, rather than why. Why appeared to be anyone’s guess, but knowing how was equivalent to understanding the Egyptians’ construction of the pyramids. Kubrick had to invent modern special effects in order to realistically portray outer space and weightlessness.

Shawn bit his lip and restrained himself from going into all that.

If you’d like, I can email you some interesting articles I’ve come across.

That would be great.

He paused. The conversation was probably over, but he didn’t want it to end. Why are you watching this scene?

I just noticed that when the bone flies into the air, it starts off spinning clockwise, but after it rises out of frame, it drops back spinning counter-clockwise. Most think it’s an error in editing, but I’m not sure I believe that.

You’re right, said Shawn, bursting into a smile. It’s not an error.

Oh? How do you know?

Because it’s not the same camera angle. The background changes. Kubrick turned the camera 180 degrees. Our brain doesn’t even consider that possibility because he’s breaking one of the most common rules of filmmaking.

The 180-degree line, said Sami.

That’s right. In one of the most iconic shots of all time, Kubrick does something that every film student is taught they must never, ever do.

Why do you think he did that?

I think it’s a setup for the jump-cut to outer space, where direction has no meaning. This jarring misdirection will continue to happen within the spaceships, where astronauts walk on the walls and ceilings. It also foreshadows the final scene in the Jupiter room, when Kubrick systematically breaks one filmmaking rule after another in order to convey the boundless nature of an alien dimension.

Sami furrowed her brow, considering.

Shawn blurted, Either that or it was a dumb mistake.

Sami laughed again.

I like your theory, but I think it’s symbolic of Kubrick’s main message of the film.

Which is?

The bone was a tool for violence against their prey and rival ape groups, and in that split second the bone evolves over four million years into a nuclear warhead circling Earth. When it reverses rotation, the message is that in order to take our next major evolutionary step, humans must reverse course and overcome our thirst for violence.

You might be right, but your theory is subjective. There’s no way to prove or disprove it.

That’s the beauty of art. It emerges from the spirit of its creator, passes through the filter of an observer, and is reborn as something entirely unexpected.

Shawn was speechless. He’d been analyzing films his whole life trying to unravel the intent of their creators. Should he have been more focused on how films affected him personally?

Well, thanks for the input, said Sami. I should get back to this.

Okay, said Shawn. He turned to leave.

Wait a second, said Sami. What are you doing this weekend?

I’m, um, just doing this race thing around the city on Saturday.

You mean Fantastic Race? I’ve always wanted to try that. I’m shooting my thesis film project this weekend, but my D.P. had to bail. I remember how good you were from class. The job is yours if you want it. Can’t pay you anything, but you can start building your reel.

I would like to very much, but I committed to this race. We had a player bail on us too. We still need to fill his spot.

Come on. Isn’t getting a cinematography credit on a grad thesis film more enticing than a silly race?

I really, really want to... but I promised.

You know what? I like that. Shows you’re not flaky. Tell you what. I’ll join your team and move the shoot to Sunday, but you’re mine all this week for prep. Deal?

A moment later, Shawn walked back to the table where Wilson was leaning back, arms crossed with a wry smile on his face.

I can’t believe I’m going to ask this, but... were you macking on our T.A.?

Macking?

Hitting on her? Spitting game?

No. I don’t think I spat any game, but I got us another teammate for Saturday.

Shawn’s phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and checked his email.

From Professor Mascaro: Meet me in my office as soon as you can. Tell no one where you are going. A matter of utmost urgency. – Antonio Mascaro

At five after four, Shawn entered Mascaro’s closet-sized office. Mascaro had decorated the walls with posters of his most famous films—La Festa Cattiva, Il Ragazzo Scimmio, and Carnevale di Viareggio.

Good afternoon, Mr. Hagan. Thank you for coming so quickly.

Shawn eyed the posters.

Have you seen my films?

I’ve seen all of them.

"Ah? And what do you think?

They were shot adequately.

Mascaro chuckled to himself, then looked at Shawn. About today’s incident... I like your passion, Mr. Hagan. Used wisely it can produce great things, but it must be harnessed. I have received a call from the Dean’s office. They asked if I would like to request a disciplinary investigation into you, but I don’t think that will be necessary. Will it?

I would hope not.

Good. I tell them there is no need. But another outburst like before, you will not be so lucky.

Mascaro rose from the chair and sat on the edge of the desk in front of Shawn. "I think you are right that the mistakes in Lolita are not mistakes, but I must take into account the other students of the class. I do not want the films of Kyu-Brick, ha, to intimidate those who have never been exposed. So you see why I choose to do in this way?"

Yes sir.

Molto bene. I am curious. How did you come to know so much about the films of Kubrick? You must be only... eighteen?

I’m twenty.

You have a young face.

I know. Kubrick is my favorite director. When I like something, I study it.

So you learn all on your own? No classes?

That’s correct.

How marvelous! What would you say is the extent of your knowledge?

I’ve read every book and article written about him, every interview with his casts, his crewmembers and himself­. Not to mention internet analysts and theorists. And, of course, I’ve seen every film multiple times.

Multiple? I have a feeling you know exactly how many.

None fewer than ten.

Well, any grade less than an A-plus will be a grand disappointment for you, yes?

Shawn replied, I would be more angered than disappointed by your inaccurate assessment.

Mascaro laughed and slapped Shawn on his knee.

Shawn couldn’t help but correlate the gesture to the scene in A Clockwork Orange when guidance counselor P.R. Deltoid gets touchy-feely with Alex while trying to ascertain what nastiness he was up to the night before.

Moments like this frustrated Shawn more than any other. The lines of social boundaries seemed variable from time to time and person to person. His first instinct was usually to keep his mouth shut and ask his parents later, but now that he was on his own, it was difficult to make these decisions for himself.

Mascaro continued. I was only joking! I want you to feel comfortable with me. He reached over and squeezed Shawn’s bony shoulder. Think of me as a colleague, not your professor.

Shawn stiffened. What for?

You must be wondering why I told you not to tell anybody that you were coming here. You heeded my request, yes?

"I didn’t tell anyone," Shawn answered.

Mascaro leaned in. I want to show you something that nobody else can know about. Can I trust you?

Mascaro placed his hand on Shawn’s other shoulder, but Shawn turned swiftly and swatted it away.

Mascaro jumped back in surprise.

Don’t touch me again.

My boy, this is a gesture of friendship. There is no other meaning. But I respect your wishes, of course. Mascaro circled back around his desk and sat in his chair. Have a look here. This is what I want to show you.

He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a large black envelope. The address seemed to have been painted in white with a fine brush. It was addressed to:

The UCLA Film School and Archive

c/o A Worthy Opponent

Go ahead, said Mascaro. Open it.

Shawn pulled out a black-and-white photograph the size of a sheet of paper. Shawn recognized the image immediately.

This was the famous Look Magazine photograph published after the death of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. The sadness of the newsstand vendor, who might normally be upbeat at the sales potential of such a momentous event, encapsulated the melancholy of the entire nation in one stunning image. The photographer was sixteen-year-old Stanley Kubrick.

The photo landed teenage Stanley a job as a photographer, which would hone his eye and mold his expertise in camera operation.

You are familiar with the photo? inquired Mascaro.

Very, replied Shawn. Something about the photo seemed off to him, but he couldn’t tell what. Who sent it?

Mascaro took out a shipping label and placed it on the desk. The sender was Stanley Kubrick, from a post office box in England.

Shawn raised an eyebrow.

Reviews for Kubrick's Game

[Z Shihab · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Essential reading for the Kubrick obsessed. It's not only about Stanley Kubrick's films, but moreso about the people who can't stop marveling at the puzzles Kubrick left behind. Even though this is a work of fiction, it has some important clues for the real-life intertextual labyrinth that Kubrick constructed for our ongoing enjoyment. Good book!