Eight Maids a-Milking--Eyes Wide Shut

There are enough Christmas trees, twinkling lights, ornaments and decorations to qualify this blog entry as a holiday film. But it's grim as all get out and the festivities tend to lean towards the darker side. To be sure, the number of maids a-milking in Stanley Kubrick's grand finale is far greater than eight but we'll leave it at that for now. Yes, today we're getting into the spirit of the season with Stanley Kubrick's controversial 1999 (alleged) erotic thriller, Eyes Wide Shut. Both revered and reviled by critics and moviegoers, the highly controversial film was released four months after Kubrick's death from a heart attack--a shame, really, since the late director would almost certainly have enjoyed seeing talking heads exploding from sea to shining sea.  

Adapted from Arthur Schnitzler's 1926 novella, Traumnovelle, the plot of the story has been transferred from fin-de-siecle Vienna to end-of-the-millennium Manhattan but remains, essentially, unchanged. To wit: an insecure, cluelessly entitled doctor has an emotional meltdown after his beautiful wife informs him that she had sexual fantasies about a fellow hotel guest while on vacation the previous summer. She recalls that she was willing to give up everything--husband, child and home--to spend just one night with the guy. This revelation rocks the doctor's world, and not in a good way. His ego in shreds, he takes to the streets to see what kind of mischief he can get into, preferably with some hot babe who can break a hundred-dollar bill. Things spiral out of control, and he eventually winds up amongst some uber-rich unsavory sorts who indulge in all sorts of devilment--rituals, orgies, perhaps even human sacrifice--at a secluded mansion outside the city. 

To call Eyes Wide Shut a thriller sort of misses the point. In some ways, it is a thriller, but in other ways, it's got way more on its mind, much of it being tits. Yes, that's TITS in all caps. The movie also includes copious shots of female buttocks and more than one lady part peaking out from beneath the bush. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a prude, but if we're going to have this much female nudity on display, why can't there be an equal amount of manly business? 

I saw Eyes Wide Shut when it first opened and recall thinking that it was an overlong, pretentious bore. Some time later, I had the opportunity to watch it again and deemed it somewhat less tedious. Then, about 5 years ago, I watched it again on DVD and realized that I actually enjoyed the movie. Kind of. After viewing the Blu-ray I recently purchased from the Criterion Collection, I can now safely say that I'm not sure how I feel about it. There are some really nice moments in the movie, and it is beautifully filmed and painstakingly put together. Stanley Kubrick was, above all else, a master craftsman. The problem is with the stately pace of the dialogue and Kubrick's over-deliberate direction. For example, if one character asks another if they enjoy eating turnips, the subject will wrinkle their forehead, pause, and respond thusly: "Do I enjoy eating turnips?  (long pause) Do I enjoy eating turnips? (long pause) Do I enjoy eating turnips?" After another long--extra long--pause, in which the character must agonize over the question, the inquisitor may at last be rewarded with an answer accompanied by a fit of the giggles. Or a crying jag. Or sometimes both. By the time an answer is forthcoming, most viewers will have forgotten what the goddamn question was in the first place. But that's how this movie rolls. Literally 75% of the dialogue is uttered in a stoned, uncomprehending fashion. (Granted, some of the characters actually are stoned when giving their responses, but, seriously, was Nicole Kidman high during the entire shoot?) There is no scene so long that it can't be stretched out for another 5-10 minutes. This soon becomes exceedingly taxing but even so, somewhere, deep within the bowels of Eyes Wide Shut, there is a tantalizing, engrossing psychological puzzle struggling to rise to the surface.

Eyes Wide Shut isn't a bad movie, and while I can't say exactly how I feel about the film, it stays with me every time I watch it. Therein are mysteries within mysteries. One thing for sure, the movie feels very timely in our current political climate, perhaps even more so than when it was first released. 

Tom Cruise--at his late 90's cruisiest--plays the outwardly collected, superficially charming Dr. Bill Harford, physician to the uptown crowd, and well-meaning--or maybe not--family guy. As the film opens, we see Harford adjusting his bowtie in the bathroom mirror while wife, Alice (Nicole Kidman) urinates in the toilet behind him. After some mundane conversation, Alice flushes the toilet, fluffs her hair, rubs around on Bill, kisses the kid goodnight, and then heads out the door to a high-end holiday party. But hold on there, partner, wait just a minute. Alice never bothered to wash her hands after flushing the toilet! Eeek! Now she, Bill, the kid, the door knobs, and eventually everyone she comes into contact with will all be crawling with the microbial contaminants from the Harford's toilet. (FYI: I am a committed germophobe so the Alice character and I did not get off to a good start.)

The pair winds up at Mar-a--oops, I mean the splendid uptown mansion of zillionaire Victor Ziegler (Sydney Pollack). There's a lot of cooing and kissing amongst the hoity-toities, and then Bill wanders off with two aspiring young MAGettes who have conspired to lure him to a private chamber for a quick menage a trois. In the ballroom, Alice, who has managed to get astonishingly drunk in record time, is whisked off to the dance floor by a slick slice of Hungarian bratwurst who whispers sweet nothings into her mouth while she giggles giddily and purrs up against him like a cat teasing the legs of an admirer. Of course, just when Mr. Budapest 1949 thinks he has his cat in the bag, Alice wrinkles up her face and protests that she is a MARRIED WOMAN and how dare you! Her horned-up dance partner isn't fooled: he knows she's not seriously offended, and she knows it too. So, their pas de deux continues. Meanwhile, Bill, with a hottie on each arm, is cock-blocked on the Christmas tree-festooned grand staircase by one of Victor's "associates". You must come with me at once, Mr. Ziegler needs you upstairs! he insists.

Reluctantly abandoning his mission, Bill hurries up to Victor's double-car-garage-size bathroom--yes, another bathroom--and finds Victor clad only in a robe, frantically trying to find the pulse of a very naked brunette who is unconscious and spreadeagled in an armchair. Bill tries to revive the woman by slapping her about the face, while Victor squeezes himself back into his trousers. At last there is a pulse. She's alive! The woman recovers immediately after signs of life are detected. Bill and Victor pat each other on the backs, no harm, no foul, don't ever breathe a word about this to anyone. No problem. Deciding he's had just about enough excitement for one night, Bill heads downstairs to collect Alice, who has, by this time, dislodged herself from her luckless suitor. In transit, Bill spots a former college chum banging away on the piano. Nick Nightingale--surely the nom-de-plume of some urban 70's deejay--has fallen on hard times. Having dropped out of medical school long ago to test his luck at the piano, he's recently left his inconvenient wife and four kids back in Seattle so he can pursue his dreams. After Nick invites Bill to his regular gig at a nearby jazz club, they get all Phi Delta Eppy and pat each other down before Bill grins like a Christmas goose and leaves. Bill is actually pretty vapid when you stop and think about it. Also, as you will notice, if you haven't already, there is a lot of patting and giggling going on in this movie. 

Back at home, after they've shared a spliff, Alice, now both drunk and high, confesses that she thought about fucking a young naval officer they saw during their trip to Newport last summer (Alice says fuck a whole lot in this movie, just so you know). Just a fantasy, mind you, but obvs not one Bill can get on board with. The convo sends Bill into contortions of disbelief. How could Alice even consider cheating on him (his double-standard doesn't quite register)? Bill manages to maintain a cool demeanor as he stares, bewildered, at the wallpaper that apparently needs replacing. This betrayal will not stand! His ego must be avenged! An opportune phone call from an elderly patient's daughter sends Bill scurrying into the night. His presence is required at the dead man's bedside. And, as it happens, on the grieving daughter's face. The second act of a very long night is about to begin.

 

Without getting into all the what's and wherefores--of which there are legion--Bill's nocturnal escapades continue to escalate. He wanders the streets looking for some action, of which he gets plenty--just not the kind he's counting on. There are women, of course: women in mourning, women lurking 'neath streetlamps, underaged women, befurred women, bare-naked women, all willing women wishing to be boned by Bill. For a variety of reasons, all this preliminary hanky-panky comes to nought. Bill continues to prowl aimlessly until he finds himself in the jazz club where Nick Nightingale and his backup band are just wrapping up their last set. Nick explains that he can't stay and hang with Bill because he's got yet another gig out in the plushy environs of Long Island's Gold Coast. Nick confides that he is always blindfolded before being admitted to these events. Once, while playing for one of these private events, he managed to sneak a peek beneath his blindfold and yowza! Lots and lots of naked women, orgies. Bill decides he wants to tag along because of course he does. Suddenly, Nick gets weird and evasive and advises Bill to forget everything he was just told. Nick says doesn't even know the hosts or attendees but he's pretty sure they don't want to be found out. They aren't the sort of people one wishes to antagonize. Just then, Nick's phone rings and he quickly writes down the word Fidelio on a cocktail napkin. With a quick nod he's outa there, leaving Bill wondering what the fuck just happened. Bill is way too curious (and horny and vengeful) and decides that he must get to this party. He's still mad as hell at Alice for her lascivious reverie so why doesn't he just actually do the deed with a stranger? That'll show her!   

In the middle of the night, Bill rents a tux and Carnival-style mask from a shady costumier and hails a taxi. He's going to the ball! Quick question: how does he know the address of the party? Nick never revealed this information so I guess Bill must have divined it?  For some reason, this irritates me almost as much as Alice not washing her hands after flushing the toilet. 

Thus begins the third act of Bill's endless night. 

Arriving at Jeffrey Epstein's private--oops, I mean the spooky Downton Abbey-esque castle outside New York City, Bill is asked for the password at the massive iron gates that separates the rich folk from the hoi polloi. Fidelio, chirps Bill, and the goons guarding the premises allow him to enter. Mask fixed firmly in place, Bill promptly finds himself in the middle of a creepy spectacle, as masked figures in cloaks perform some sort of ritual with incense, chants, and mostly naked women kneeling in a circle surrounding a grotesque individual who exudes an aura of evil. He is soon accosted by one of the mostly naked women--Mandy--who advises him to get the hell out of there since he's not "a part of this". Unbeknownst to Bill, someone has been watching his every move, so he is immediately recognized as an interloper by the (satanic?) powers that be. Nevertheless, he is allowed to wander the cavernous digs and observe copious amounts of coitus, whilst the band (Nick) plays on downstairs. 

Eventually, the mostly naked woman from downstairs catches up with Bill and confesses that she remembers him from the Christmas party at Ziegler's house: she's Mandy, the woman Bill rescued from the drug overdose. You in danger, girl, Mandy murmurs. Run for your life! Before Mandy can escort Bill out the back door, she's led away by one of the revelers in disguise, at which point we feel reasonably certain that Mandy, shortly, will be buying the farm. However, rather than heeding her warning, Bill sticks around to watch the group action. Regarding this infamous action: it's not at all sexy. Eyes Wide Shut is often billed as an erotic thriller but that's just hooey. Even if I were heterosexual, there's nothing shown that might get me all hot and bothered. This Criterion edition is purported to be the ultimate cut that restored all the orgiastic action that was either blurred or entirely removed from the movie's original version. True, there is a lot of Penthouse-era female flesh on display but, disappointingly, there's ne'er a peen in sight, at least none that are particularly memorable. That's not the point, of course, but come on, who wouldn't like to see the 1999 Tom Cruise buck naked and going at it with a Pet of the Year? Anyhow, Bill is finally exposed (not in the way we'd like) and must now face the wrath of the party. When his mask comes off, he finds himself in deep, DEEP SHIT. They threaten Bill with grave bodily harm. They threaten to go after his family. They threaten to shave his ass and make him run backwards. 

Out of the blue, the formerly mostly naked--but now fully naked Mandy--shows up and persuades the sinister toffs to allow Bill to leave after she offers to "take his place". These guys aren't so sure. If he is spared, he can never mention, or follow up on, anything he has observed in that house.  Bill gets the picture. Well, not quite. He still thinks he has bargaining power. I'm not leaving without Mandy, he proclaims. After being quickly dissuaded of that idea, a forlorn and stricken Bill leaves Mandy to whatever fate awaits her. Walking the walk of shame through this murderer's row of cutthroats and degenerates, Bill is hustled back to the city.  

But are Bill's troubles over? I don't think so.

Back in his rambling apartment, Bill is horrified to discover his mask from the party lying on the pillow next to the sleeping Alice. What the fuck!? Realizing that someone is reiterating the dire warning he received earlier, Bill breaks down. His wife and daughter might have been harmed because of his shenanigans, Bill has his road to Damascus moment. As he sobs, Alice begins giggling maniacally--and annoyingly. Soon thereafter, said laughter turns into a prolonged mewl. Bill awakens Alice, who decides it's a good idea to share her dream with Bill. The wisdom of sharing this is arguable, but Alice has already demonstrated that she has no filter. Unsurprisingly, the dream involves her fantasy man, the young naval officer, with whom she is fucking all over hell and back. (Did I mention Alice's proclivity for saying fuck?). Suddenly, the action segues to a large house where people in masks are indulging in all sorts of heated goings-on. After being hosed by numerous men, Alice find herself bereft and alone. She cries for Bill, who is forthwith stripped naked and hung upside down on a cross. Which somehow tickles Alice's funny bone. This revelation further devastates Bill, who lays down beside Alice and cries some more. There, there, she says, patting him, I never loved you more than when those creeps beat the shit out of you, tore off your clothes and hung you upside down on that cross. Unfortunately, we are not treated to even a glimpse of this portion of Alice's dream so, as Alice would undoubtedly say, fuck it.  

Against all sane advice and common sense, Bill begins his own covert investigation into the strange gathering from the night before. It turns out that this is not one of Bill's more intelligent undertakings, although I can't think of anything he does in this movie that screams MENSA. A mysterious disappearance and a "suicide" instill a further sense of dread in Bill, especially after he notices the baleful figure stalking him through the darkening streets. The more Bill pursues the truth--which Victor Ziegler assures him he can't handle--the more it dawns on him that, regardless of what he discovers, no one will ever be held accountable. Can anyone be trusted? 

Probably not. About Alice: it seems very convenient that, in her dream she was able to recall certain details of Bill's experience at the orgy, allegedly without having been there herself. And the mask on the pillow? If someone picked the lock and slipped into her bedroom, would Alice not have heard something? Granted, she may be a sound sleeper, especially with all the booze and ganja, but I'm not convinced. Pay attention to the only scene Alice has with Victor, back at the beginning of the film (if you can remember that far back). Is there some sort of frisson between them or am I imagining it? For the record, most viewers have not regarded Alice's behavior as suspect. 

Some view the film as partly a dream. The New York depicted certainly seems like a place in an alternate universe, and, what with the lead characters walking around in a trance and situations not quite blending with reality, it does have a dreamlike. quality, Anyway, it's an interesting theory, although not one I necessarily agree with. 

It is widely rumored that Eyes Wide Shut was a major factor in the dissolution of Cruise and Kidman's marriage. Kidman certainly eyes Cruise with studied disdain. Maybe she's simply acting, but inquiring minds want to know. What is clear is that Kidman has been used to better advantage since she appeared in this movie. Cruise, himself, is utterly wooden in his portrayal of Bill, but it actually works here. He's a man accustomed to being objectified by women and praised by the movers and shakers of high society. Oblivious to the world outside his bubble, he's a callow, self-absorbed Narcissus whose understanding of women, and the workings of the real world, are rooted in trickery and self-deception. He walks through life with eyes wide shut until Alice breaks through his wall of denial. Thanks to Victor, Bill is a member of the club, but he'll never be in the same league as the real muckety-mucks--he'll always be an employee at their beck and call, much like Nick Nightingale. It's not a mediocre performance--it's hardly a performance at all. Cruise moves through the paces with his confident grin and makes us wonder if this is just Cruise playing himself: surely Kubrick considered this when casting the film. I will give him kudos for crying real tears during the final bedroom scene with Kidman. I certainly can't cry on command. (On a side note, I've often thought Tom Cruise would have made a perfect Patrick Bateman, albeit with a director other than Mary Harron. He's got the looks and style. In fact, he was never more gorgeous than he was in this movie.) 

Next to Cruise, Nicole Kidman seems like a gangly teenager. She acts like one, too: her Alice is an immature mess. She may look like a gazelle but Kidman--in this movie, anyway--is too silly and off-putting for us to warm up to her. Watching this, it's hard to believe that, in 3 short years, she'd win an Oscar for her portrayal of Virginia Woolf in The Hours. Of course, Alice is crucial to the film's finale, and Kidman adds a bit of irony to her delivery of the last line, when she and Bill are out shopping with their daughter. Alice tells Bill there's one thing they need to do immediately. When he asks what that is, she simply replies Fuck. But, is she saying this is what she and Bill need to do or because she just spotted her fantasy fella gliding by with a new lady on his arm? I opt for the latter. The look on Kidman's face is telling. There's no way that these two people--Tom and Nicole, Bill and Alice, whoever--were ever going to stay together. 

I've always liked Sydney Pollack as both a director and an actor. He's performative, loud, fun and very, very physical even when he's playing a pig like Victor. He's a perfect cad because he seems so nice and everyday, like someone you'd like for an uncle. He can also be a very naughty man, as he proves here.

It's interesting that all of Stanley Kubrick's films after Lolita (1961) were filmed in the U.K. According to Kubrick, England provided a more favorable climate for his filmmaking than Hollywood (remember when Hollywood actually meant something?). The apartments, buildings and streets of New York (save for establishing shots) were entirely constructed on sets according to Kubrick's specifications, while a couple of country manors (Elvedon Hall, Mentmore Towers) stood in for the forbidding Long Island estate.

After this latest viewing, I've come to the conclusion that Eyes Wide Shut works best as a commentary on the toxic legacy of a patriarchy that has reigned, barely constrained, since the earliest stages of human civilization. Since Kubrick was certainly not known for his feminism, this was probably not his intention. Or maybe it was. The movie features (mostly) powerful men blithely tearing a path through life, either heedless of (Bill), or without regard (Victor) for, the consequences of their actions. As I pointed out earlier in this post, this film could not be more timely. If you want to take a deep dive into the psychopathology of the burgeoning oligarchy and MAGA elite--and why wouldn't you?--look no further than Eyes Wide Shut.