Jonathan Morrison
Stanley Kubrick at the Design Museum
This retrospective of the director’s work presents a cinematic odyssey that is out of this world
Think of the most powerful moments in cinema history — Jack Nicholson limping down a corridor with an axe, Dr Strangelove rising from his wheelchair as Armageddon commences, or Private Pyle crouching over his rifle in the bathroom — and it’s likely that many of them came from the films of Stanley Kubrick, one of the greatest directors ever to work in this country. OK, he may have been born in the Bronx, but England was his home, and once he got here, he rarely wanted to move.
Which makes it all the stranger that there’s never been a retrospective in this country until now. After all, what would A Clockwork Orange be without the dystopian Brutalist landscape of Thamesmead? Or Full Metal Jacket without the savage denouement in the derelict Beckton gasworks, temporarily planted up with 2,000 palm trees to resemble Vietnam? (One of the more amusing artefacts on show is a letter from Kubrick to the demolition crew, stating “extra debris would be helpful”.)
This exhibition, then, is not only timely, given it’s now 20 years since Kubrick’s death, but is able to make use of a lot of hitherto unseen material, which has been lent by the family estate near St Albans. Along with the usual posters and costumes — including the masks from Eyes Wide Shut, his last feature of the 13, and Joker’s iconic “Born to Kill” helmet — there are telling insights into his obsessive work habits, such as the card index used to track the daily activities and even meals of Napoleon, the subject of an unfinished biopic (the French Emperor was to be played by Nicholson — imagine that!).
It’s a feast for anyone remotely interested in the movies: we get to see the erotic furniture from the Korova Milk Bar, and the letters of protest sent afterwards, the editing machine from Kubrick’s house and the camera he used to film Barry Lyndon by three-wick candlelight.
Perhaps the most unusual item is a photograph of some extras on Spartacus playing dead in a field and carefully numbered — you can imagine him yelling: “Number 163, stop twitching!”
But the best room is reserved for 2001: a Space Odyssey and shows just how far ahead of the pack Kubrick was, and how widely he investigated and inveigled to perfect his sets. In an era before CGI, the hard work had to be done by models and costumes (and a choreographer who studied apes), but my goodness, hasn’t it stood the test of time? And the opportunity to interact with Hal itself, perhaps the model for all subsequent user-unfriendly computers, is one that shouldn’t be missed. Of course, that’s if Hal finds you sufficiently interesting to talk to.
There’s just one problem with an exhibition like this: it may add an additional dimension to your appreciation of Kubrick and his craft, but after a short while you itch to watch the films themselves. And for that you’ll need to set aside a few days more.
∗ ∗ ∗