Kubrick on The Shining

An interview with Michel Ciment

Michel Ciment: In several of your previous films you seem to have had a prior
interest in the facts and problems which surround the story -- the nuclear
threat, space travel, the relationship between violence and the state -- which
led you to Dr. Strangelove, 2001: A Space Odyssey, A Clockwork Orange. In
the case of The Shining, were you attracted first by the subject of ESP, or just
by Stephen King's novel?

Stanley Kubrick: I've always been interested in ESP and the paranormal. In
addition to the scientific experiments which have been conducted suggesting
that we are just short of conclusive proof of its existence, I'm sure we've all
had the experience of opening a book at the exact page we're looking for, or
thinking of a friend a moment before they ring on the telephone. But The
Shining didn't originate from any particular desire to do a film about this. The
manuscript of the novel was sent to me by John Calley, of Warner Bros. I
thought it was one of the most ingenious and exciting stories of the genre I
had read. It seemed to strike an extraordinary balance between the
psychological and the supernatural in such a way as to lead you to think that
the supernatural would eventually be explained by the psychological: "Jack
must be imagining these things because he's crazy". This allowed you to
suspend your doubt of the supernatural until you were so thoroughly into the
story that you could accept it almost without noticing.

Do you think this was an important factor in the success of the novel?

Yes, I do. It's what I found so particularly clever about the way the novel was
written. As the supernatural events occurred you searched for an explanation,
and the most likely one seemed to be that the strange things that were
happening would finally be explained as the products of Jack's imagination.
It's not until Grady, the ghost of the former caretaker who axed to death his
family, slides open the bolt of the larder door, allowing Jack to escape, that
you are left with no other explanation but the supernatural. The novel is by no
means a serious literary work, but the plot is for the most part extremely well
worked out, and for a film that is often all that really matters.

Don't you think that today it is in this sort of popular literature that you find
strong archetypes, symbolic images which have vanished somehow from the
more highbrow literary works?

Yes, I do, and I think that it's part of their often phenomenal success. There is
no doubt that a good story has always mattered, and the great novelists have
generally built their work around strong plots. But I've never been able to
decide whether the plot is just a way of keeping people's attention while you
do everything else, or whether the plot is really more important than anything
else, perhaps communicating with us on an unconscious level which affects
us in the way that myths once did. I think, in some ways, the conventions of
realistic fiction and drama may impose serious limitations on a story. For one
thing, if you play by the rules and respect the preparation and pace required
to establish realism, it takes a lot longer to make a point than it does, say, in
fantasy. At the same time, it is possible that this very work that contributes to
a story's realism may weaken its grip on the unconscious. Realism is probably
the best way to dramatize argument and ideas. Fantasy may deal best with
themes which lie primarily in the unconscious. I think the unconscious appeal
of a ghost story, for instance, lies in its promise of immortality. If you can be
frightened by a ghost story, then you must accept the possibility that
supernatural beings exist. If they do, then there is more than just oblivion
waiting beyond the grave.

This kind of implication is present in much of the fantastic literature.

I believe fantasy stories at their best serve the same function for us that fairy
tales and mythology formerly did. The current popularity of fantasy,
particularly in films, suggests that popular culture, at least, isn't getting what it
wants from realism. The nineteenth century was the golden age of realistic
fiction. The twentieth century may be the golden age of fantasy.

After Barry Lyndon did you begin work straight away on The Shining?

When I finished Barry Lyndon I spent most of my time reading. Months went
by and I hadn't found anything very exciting. It's intimidating, especially at a
time like this, to think of how many books you should read and never will.
Because of this, I try to avoid any systematic approach to reading, pursuing
instead a random method, one which depends as much on luck and accident
as on design. I find this is also the only way to deal with the newspapers and
magazines which proliferate in great piles around the house -- some of the
most interesting articles turn up on the reverse side of pages I've torn out for
something else.

Did you do research on ESP?

There really wasn't any research that was necessary to do. The story didn't
require any and, since I have always been interested in the topic, I think I was
as well informed as I needed to be. I hope that ESP and related psychic
phenomena will eventually find general scientific proof of their existence.
There are certainly a fair number of scientists who are sufficiently impressed
with the evidence to spend their time working in the field. If conclusive proof is
ever found it won't be quite as exciting as, say, the discovery of alien
intelligence in the universe, but it will definitely be a mind expander. In
addition to the great variety of unexplainable psychic experiences we can all
probably recount, I think I can see behaviour in animals which strongly
suggests something like ESP. I have a long-haired cat, named Polly, who
regularly gets knots in her coat which I have to comb or scissor out. She hates
this, and on dozens of occasions while I have been stroking her and thinking
that the knots have got bad enough to do something about them, she has
suddenly dived under the bed before I have made the slightest move to get a
comb or scissors. I have obviously considered the possibility that she can tell
when I plan to use the comb because of some special way I feel the knots
when I have decided to comb them, but I'm quite sure that isn't how she does
it. She almost always has knots, and I stroke her innumerable times every
day, but it's only when I have actually decided to do something about them
that she ever runs away and hides. Ever since I have become aware of this
possibility, I am particularly careful not to feel the knots any differently whether
or not I think they need combing. But most of the time she still seems to know
the difference.

Who is Diane Johnson who wrote the screenplay with you?

Diane is an American novelist who has published a number of extremely good

novels which have received serious and important attention. I was interested
in several of her books and in talking to her about them I was surprised to
learn that she was giving a course at the University of California at Berkeley
on the Gothic novel. When The Shining came up she seemed to be the ideal
collaborator, which, indeed, she proved to be. I had already been working on
the treatment of the book, prior to her starting, but I hadn't actually begun the
screenplay. With "The Shining," the problem was to extract the essential plot
and to re-invent the sections of the story that were weak. The characters
needed to be developed a bit differently than they were in the novel. It is in the
pruning down phase that the undoing of great novels usually occurs because
so much of what is good about them has to do with the fineness of the writing,
the insight of the author and often the density of the story. But The Shining
was a different matter. Its virtues lay almost entirely in the plot, and it didn't
prove to be very much of a problem to adapt it into the screenplay form. Diane
and I talked a lot about the book and then we made an outline of the scenes
we thought should be included in the film. This list of scenes was shuffled and
reshuffled until we thought it was right, and then we began to write. We did
several drafts of the screenplay, which was subsequently revised at different
stages before and during shooting.

It is strange that you emphasize the supernatural aspect since one could say
that in the film you give a lot of weight to an apparently rational explanation of
Jack's behaviour: altitude, claustrophobia, solitude, lack of booze.

Stephen Crane wrote a story called "The Blue Hotel." In it you quickly learn
that the central character is a paranoid. He gets involved in a poker game,
decides someone is cheating him, makes an accusation, starts a fight and
gets killed. You think the point of the story is that his death was inevitable
because a paranoid poker player would ultimately get involved in a fatal
gunfight. But, in the end, you find out that the man he accused was actually
cheating him. I think The Shining uses a similar kind of psychological
misdirection to forestall the realization that the supernatural events are
actually happening.

Why did you change the end and dispense with the destruction of the hotel?

To be honest, the end of the book seemed a bit hackneyed to me and not
very interesting. I wanted an ending which the audience could not anticipate.
In the film, they think Hallorann is going to save Wendy and Danny. When he
is killed they fear the worst. Surely, they fear, there is no way now for Wendy
and Danny to escape. The maze ending may have suggested itself from the
animal topiary scenes in the novel. I don't actually remember how the idea
first came about.

Why did the room number switch from 217 in the novel to 237 in the film?

The exterior of the hotel was filmed at the Timberline Lodge, near Mount
Hood, in Oregon. It had a room 217 but no room 237, so the hotel
management asked me to change the room number because they were afraid
their guests might not want to stay in room 217 after seeing the film. There is,
however, a genuinely frightening thing about this hotel which nestles high up
on the slopes of Mount Hood. Mount Hood, as it happens, is a dormant
volcano, but it has quite recently experienced pre-eruption seismic rumbles
similar to the ones that a few months earlier preceded the gigantic eruption of
Mount St. Helens, less than sixty miles away. If Mount Hood should ever erupt
like Mount St. Helens, then the Timberline Hotel may indeed share the fiery
fate of the novel's Overlook Hotel.

How did you conceive the hotel with your art director, Roy Walker?

The first step was for Roy to go around America photographing hotels which
might be suitable for the story. Then we spent weeks going through his
photographs making selections for the different rooms. Using the details in the
photographs, our draughtsmen did proper working drawings. From these,
small models of all the sets were built. We wanted the hotel to look authentic
rather than like a traditionally spooky movie hotel. The hotel's labyrinthine
layout and huge rooms, I believed, would alone provide an eerie enough
atmosphere. This realistic approach was also followed in the lighting, and in
every aspect of the decor it seemed to me that the perfect guide for this
approach could be found in Kafka's writing style. His stories are fantastic and
allegorical, but his writing is simple and straightforward, almost journalistic. On
the other hand, all the films that have been made of his work seem to have
ignored this completely, making everything look as weird and dreamlike as
possible. The final details for the different rooms of the hotel came from a
number of different hotels. The red men's room, for example, where Jack
meets Grady, the ghost of the former caretaker, was inspired by a Frank Lloyd
Wright men's room in an hotel in Arizona. The models of the different sets
were lit, photographed, tinkered with and revised. This process continued,
altering and adding elements to each room, until we were all happy with what
we had.

There are similar movie cliches about apparitions.

From the more convincing accounts I have read of people who have reported
seeing ghosts, they were invariably described as being as solid and as real as
someone actually standing in the room. The movie convention of the see-
through ghost, shrouded in white, seems to exist only in the province of art.

You have not included the scene from the novel which took place in the
elevator, but have only used it for the recurring shot of blood coming out of
the doors.

The length of a movie imposes considerable restrictions on how much story

you can put into it, especially if the story is told in a conventional way.

Which conventions are you referring to?

The convention of telling the story primarily through a series of dialogue

scenes. Most films are really little more than stage plays with more
atmosphere and action. I think that the scope and flexibility of movie stories
would be greatly enhanced by borrowing something from the structure of
silent movies where points that didn't require dialog could be presented by a
shot and a title card. Something like: Title: Billy's uncle. Picture: Uncle giving
Billy ice cream. In a few seconds, you could introduce Billy's uncle and say
something about him without being burdened with a scene. This economy of
statement gives silent movies a much greater narrative scope and flexibility
than we have today. In my view, there are very few sound films, including
those regarded as masterpieces, which could not be presented almost as
effectively on the stage, assuming a good set, the same cast and quality of
performances. You couldn't do that with a great silent movie.

But surely you could not put 2001: A Space Odyssey on the stage?

True enough. I know I've tried to move in this direction in all of my films but
never to an extent which has satisfied me. By the way, I should include the
best TV commercials along with silent films, as another example of how you
might better tell a film story. In thirty seconds, characters are introduced, and
sometimes a surprisingly involved situation is set up and resolved.

When you shoot these scenes which you find theatrical, you do it in a way
that emphasizes their ordinariness. The scenes with Ullman or the visit of the
doctor in The Shining, like the conference with the astronauts in 2001, are
characterized by their social conventions, their mechanical aspect.

Well, as I've said, in fantasy you want things to have the appearance of being
as realistic as possible. People should behave in the mundane way they
normally do. You have to be especially careful about this in the scenes which
deal with the bizarre or fantastic details of the story.

You also decided to show few visions and make them very short.

If Danny had perfect ESP, there could be no story. He would anticipate

everything, warn everybody and solve every problem. So his perception of the
paranormal must be imperfect and fragmentary. This also happens to be
consistent with most of the reports of telepathic experiences. The same
applies to Hallorann. One of the ironies in the story is that you have people
who can see the past and the future and have telepathic contact, but the
telephone and the short-wave radio don't work, and the snowbound mountain
roads are impassable. Failure of communication is a theme which runs
through a number of my films.

You use technology a lot but seem to be afraid of it.

I'm not afraid of technology. I am afraid of aeroplanes. I've been able to avoid
flying for some time but, I suppose, if I had to I would. Perhaps it's a case of a
little knowledge being a dangerous thing. At one time, I had a pilot's license
and 160 hours of solo time on single-engine light aircraft. Unfortunately, all
that seemed to do was make me mistrust large airplanes.

Did you think right away of Jack Nicholson for the role?

Yes, I did. I believe that Jack is one of the best actors in Hollywood, perhaps
on a par with the greatest stars of the past like Spencer Tracy and Jimmy
Cagney. I should think that he is on almost everyone's first-choice list for any
role which suits him. His work is always interesting, clearly conceived and has
the X-factor, magic. Jack is particularly suited for roles which require
intelligence. He is an intelligent and literate man, and these are qualities
almost impossible to act. In The Shining, you believe he's a writer, failed or
otherwise.

Did the scene where he fights with Shelley Duvall on the stairs require many
rehearsals?

Yes, it did. It was only with the greatest difficulty that Shelley was able to
create and sustain for the length of the scene an authentic sense of hysteria.
It took her a long time to achieve this and when she did we didn't shoot the
scene too many times. I think there were five takes favouring Shelley, and
only the last two were really good. When I have to shoot a very large number
of takes it's invariably because the actors don't know their lines, or don't know
them well enough. An actor can only do one thing at a time, and when he has
learned his lines only well enough to say them while he's thinking about them,
he will always have trouble as soon as he has to work on the emotions of the
scene or find camera marks. In a strong emotional scene, it is always best to
be able to shoot in complete takes to allow the actor a continuity of emotion,
and it is rare for most actors to reach their peak more than once or twice.
There are, occasionally, scenes which benefit from extra takes, but even then,
I'm not sure that the early takes aren't just glorified rehearsals with the added
adrenalin of film running through the camera. In The Shining, the scene in the
ballroom where Jack talks to Lloyd, the sinister apparition of a former
bartender, belongs to this category. Jack's performance here is incredibly
intricate, with sudden changes of thought and mood -- all grace notes. It's a
very difficult scene to do because the emotion flow is so mercurial. It demands
knife-edged changes of direction and a tremendous concentration to keep
things sharp and economical. In this particular scene Jack produced his best
takes near the highest numbers.

He is just as good when he walks down the corridor making wild movements
before meeting the barman.

I asked Jack to remember the rumpled characters you see lunging down the
streets of New York, waving their arms about and hissing to themselves.

Did you choose Shelley Duvall after seeing her in Three Women?

I had seen all of her films and greatly admired her work. I think she brought an
instantly believable characterization to her part. The novel pictures her as a
much more self-reliant and attractive woman, but these qualities make you
wonder why she has put up with Jack for so long. Shelley seemed to be
exactly the kind of woman that would marry Jack and be stuck with him. The
wonderful thing about Shelley is her eccentric quality -- the way she talks, the
way she moves, the way her nervous system is put together. I think that most
interesting actors have physical eccentricities about them which make their
performances more interesting and, if they don't, they work hard to find them.

How did you find the boy?

About 5000 boys were interviewed in America over a period of six months.
This number eventually narrowed down to five boys who could have played
the part. That worked out to about one child in a thousand who could act --
actually not a bad average. The interviews were done in Chicago, Denver and
Cincinnati, by my assistant, Leon Vitali, the actor who played the older Lord
Bullingdon in Barry Lyndon, and his wife, Kersti. I chose those three cities
because I wanted the child to have an accent which would fall somewhere
between the way Jack and Shelley speak. The local Warner Bros. office
placed newspaper ads inviting parents to make applications with photographs
for the part. From the photographs a list was made of the boys who looked
right. Leon interviewed everyone in this group, subsequently doing small
acting improvisations which he recorded on video tape with those who
seemed to have a little something. Further video work was done with the boys
who were good. I looked at the tapes.

Where does Danny Lloyd come from?

He comes from a small town in Illinois. His father is a railway engineer. Danny
was about five-and-a-half when we cast him. We had certain problems
shooting with him in England because children are only allowed to work for
three hours a day, and may only work a certain number of days in a calendar
year. But, fortunately, rehearsal days on which you do not shoot are not
counted in this total. So we rehearsed with him one day and shot on the next.
I think his performance was wonderful -- everything you could want from the
role. He was a terrific boy. He had instinctive taste. He was very smart, very
talented and very sensible. His parents, Jim and Ann, were very sensitive to
his problems and very supportive, and he had a great time. Danny always
knew his lines, and despite the inevitable pampering which occurred on the
set, he was always reasonable and well-behaved.

What did the Steadicam achieve for you in the film?

The Steadicam allows one man to move the camera any place he can walk --
into small spaces where a dolly won't fit, and up and down staircases. We
used an Arriflex BL camera, which is silent and allows you to shoot sound.
You can walk or run with the camera, and the Steadicam smooths out any
unsteadiness. It's like a magic carpet. The fast, flowing camera movements in
the maze would have been impossible to do without the Steadicam. You
couldn't lay down dolly tracks without the camera seeing them and, in any
case, a dolly couldn't go around the right-angled corners of the maze
pathways. Without a Steadicam you could have done your best with the
normal hand-held camera but the running movements would have made it
extremely unsteady. The only problem with the Steadicam is that it requires
training, skill and a certain amount of fitness on the part of the operator. You
can't just pick it up and use it. But any good camera operator can do useful
work even after a few days' training. He won't be an ace but he'll still be able
to do much more than he could without it. I used Garrett Brown as the
Steadicam operator. He probably has more experience than anyone with the
Steadicam because he also happened to invent it. The camera is mounted on
to a spring-loaded arm, which is attached to a frame, which is in turn strapped
to the operator's shoulders, chest and hips. This, in effect, makes the camera
weightless. The tricky part is that the operator has to control the camera
movements in every axis with his wrist. He watches the framing on a very
small television monitor which is mounted on his rig. It takes skill while you
are walking or running to keep the horizon of the camera frame parallel to the
ground, and pan and tilt just using your wrist. A further problem is caused by
inertia, which makes it difficult to stop a movement smoothly and exactly
where you want it. In order to stop on a predetermined composition you have
to anticipate the stop and keep your fingers crossed.

The Steadicam allowed you to do even more of those long-tracking shots you
have done in all your films.

Most of the hotel set was built as a composite, so that you could go up a flight
of stairs, turn down a corridor, travel its length and find your way to still
another part of the hotel. It mirrored the kind of camera movements which
took place in the maze. In order to fully exploit this layout it was necessary to
have moving camera shots without cuts, and of course the Steadicam made
that much easier to do.

In the normal scenes you used dissolves and many camera movements. On
the other hand, the paranormal visions are static and the cuts abrupt.

I don't particularly like dissolves and I try not to use them, but when one scene
follows another in the same place, and you want to make it clear that time has
passed, a dissolve is often the simplest way to convey this. On the other
hand, the paranormal visions are momentary glimpses into the past and the
future, and must be short, even abrupt. With respect to the camera
movements, I've always liked moving the camera. It's one of the basic
elements of film grammar. When you have the means to do it and the set to
do it in, it not only adds visual interest but it also permits the actors to work in
longer, possibly complete, takes. This makes it easier for them to maintain
their concentration and emotional level in the scene.

Did you always plan to use the helicopter shots of the mountains as the main-
title background?

Yes I did. But the location, in Glacier National Park, Montana, wasn't chosen
until very near the end of principal shooting. It was important to establish an
ominous mood during Jack's first drive up to the hotel -- the vast isolation and
eerie splendour of high mountains, and the narrow, winding roads which
would become impassable after heavy snow. In fact, the roads we filmed for
the title sequence are closed throughout the winter and only negotiable by
tracked vehicles. I sent a second-unit camera crew to Glacier National Park to
shoot the title backgrounds but they reported that the place wasn't interesting.
When we saw the test shots they sent back we were staggered. It was plain
that the location was perfect but the crew had to be replaced. I hired Greg
McGillivray, who is noted for his helicopter work, and he spent several weeks
filming some of the most beautiful mountain helicopter shots I've seen.

Did you have all those extras pose for the last shot?
No, they were in a photograph taken in 1921 which we found in a picture
library. I originally planned to use extras, but it proved impossible to make
them look as good as the people in the photograph. So I very carefully
photographed Jack, matching the angle and the lighting of the 1921
photograph, and shooting him from different distances too, so that his face
would be larger and smaller on the negative. This allowed the choice of an
image size which when enlarged would match the grain structure in the
original photograph. The photograph of Jack's face was then airbrushed in to
the main photograph, and I think the result looked perfect. Every face around
Jack is an archetype of the period.

What type of music did you use?

The title music was based on the Dies Irae theme which has been used by
many composers since the Middle Ages. It was re-orchestrated for
synthesizer and voices by Wendy Carlos and Rachel Elkind, who did most of
the synthesizer music for A Clockwork Orange. Bartok's Music for Strings,
Percussion and Celesta was used for several other scenes. One composition
by Ligeti was used. But most of the music in the film came from the Polish
composer Krystof Penderecki. One work titled Jakob's Dream was used in the
scene when Jack wakes up from his nightmare, a strange coincidence.
Actually there were a number of other coincidences, particularly with names.
The character that Jack Nicholson plays is called Jack in the novel. His son is
called Danny in the novel and is played by Danny Lloyd. The ghost bartender
in the book is called Lloyd.

What music did you use at the end?

It is a popular English dance tune of the twenties, "Midnight, the Stars and
You", played by Ray Noble's band with an Al Bowly vocal.

How do you see the character of Hallorann?

Hallorann is a simple, rustic type who talks about telepathy in a disarmingly

unscientific way. His folksy character and naive attempts to explain telepathy
to Danny make what he has to say dramatically more acceptable than a
standard pseudo-scientific explanation. He and Danny make a good pair.

The child creates a double to protect himself, whereas his father conjures up
beings from the past who are also anticipations of his death.

A story of the supernatural cannot be taken apart and analysed too closely.
The ultimate test of its rationale is whether it is good enough to raise the hairs
on the back of your neck. If you submit it to a completely logical and detailed
analysis it will eventually appear absurd. In his essay on the uncanny,Das
Unheimliche, Freud said that the uncanny is the only feeling which is more
powerfully experienced in art than in life. If the genre required any justification,
I should think this alone would serve as its credentials.

How do you see Danny's evolution?

Danny has had a frightening and disturbing childhood. Brutalized by his father
and haunted by his paranormal visions, he has had to find some
psychological mechanism within himself to manage these powerful and
dangerous forces. To do this, he creates his imaginary friend, Tony, through
whom Danny can rationalize his visions and survive.

Some people criticized you a few years ago because you were making films
that did not deal with the private problems of characters. With Barry Lyndon
and now withThe Shining, you seem to be dealing more with personal
relationships.

If this is true it is certainly not as a result of any deliberate effort on my part.

There is no useful way to explain how you decide what film to make. In
addition to the initial problem of finding an exciting story which fulfills the
elusively intangible requirements for a film, you have the added problem of its
being sufficiently different from the films you have already done. Obviously the
more films you make, the more this choice is narrowed down. If you read a
story which someone else has written you have the irreplacable experience of
reading it for the first time. This is something which you obviously cannot have
if you write an original story. Reading someone else's story for the first time
allows you a more accurate judgement of the narrative and helps you to be
more objective than you might otherwise be with an original story. Another
important thing is that while you're making a film, and you get deeper and
deeper into it, you find that in a certain sense you know less and less about it.
You get too close to it. When you reach that point, it's essential to rely on your
original feelings about the story. Of course, at the same time, because you
know so much more about it, you can also make a great many other
judgements far better than you could have after the first reading. But, not to
put too fine a point on it, you can never again have that first, virginal
experience with the plot.

It seems that you want to achieve a balance between rationality and

irrationality, that for you man should acknowledge the presence of irrational
forces in him rather than trying to repress them.

I think we tend to be a bit hypocritical about ourselves. We find it very easy

not to see our own faults, and I don't just mean minor faults. I suspect there
have been very few people who have done serious wrong who have not
rationalized away what they've done, shifting the blame to those they have
injured. We are capable of the greatest good and the greatest evil, and the
problem is that we often can't distinguish between them when it suits our
purpose.
Failing to understand this leads to some misunderstanding of A Clockwork
Orange.

I have always found it difficult to understand how anyone could decide that the
film presented violence sympathetically. I can only explain this as a view
which arises from a prejudiced assessment of the film, ignoring everything
else in the story but a few scenes. The distinguished film director Luis Bunuel
suggested this in a way when he said in the New York Times: 'A Clockwork
Orange is my current favourite. I was very predisposed against the film. After
seeing it, I realized it is the only movie about what the modern world really
means.' A Clockwork Orange has been widely acclaimed throughout the world
as an important work of art. I don't believe that anyone really sympathizes with
Alex, and there is absolutely no evidence that anyone does. Alex clashes with
some authority figures in the story who seem as bad as he is, if not worse in a
different way. But this doesn't excuse him. The story is satirical, and it is in the
nature of satire to state the opposite of the truth as if it were the truth. I
suppose you could misinterpret the film on this count, if you were determined
to do so.

How do you see the main character of Jack in The Shining?

Jack comes to the hotel psychologically prepared to do its murderous bidding.

He doesn't have very much further to go for his anger and frustration to
become completely uncontrollable. He is bitter about his failure as a writer. He
is married to a woman for whom he has only contempt. He hates his son. In
the hotel, at the mercy of its powerful evil, he is quickly ready to fulfill his dark
role.

So you don't regard the apparitions as merely a projection of his mental

state?

For the purposes of telling the story, my view is that the paranormal is
genuine. Jack's mental state serves only to prepare him for the murder, and to
temporarily mislead the audience.

And when the film has finished? What then?

I hope the audience has had a good fright, has believed the film while they
were watching it, and retains some sense of it. The ballroom photograph at
the very end suggests the reincarnation of Jack.

You are a person who uses his rationality, who enjoys understanding things,
but in2001: A Space Odyssey and The Shining you demonstrate the limits of
intellectual knowledge. Is this an acknowledgement of what William James
called the unexplained residues of human experience?
Obviously, science-fiction and the supernatural bring you very quickly to the
limits of knowledge and rational explanation. But from a dramatic point of
view, you must ask yourself: 'If all of this were unquestionably true, how would
it really happen?' You can't go much further than that. I like the regions of
fantasy where reason is used primarily to undermine incredulity. Reason can
take you to the border of these areas, but from there on you can be guided
only by your imagination. I think we strain at the limits of reason and enjoy the
temporary sense of freedom which we gain by such exercises of our
imagination.

Of course there is a danger that some audiences may misunderstand what

you say and think that one can dispense altogether with reason, falling into
the clouded mysticism which is currently so popular in America.

People can misinterpret almost anything so that it coincides with views they
already hold. They take from art what they already believe, and I wonder how
many people have ever had their views about anything important changed by
a work of art?

Did you have a religious upbringing?

No, not at all.

You are a chess-player and I wonder if chess-playing and its logic have
parallels with what you are saying?

First of all, even the greatest International Grandmasters, however deeply

they analyse a position, can seldom see to the end of the game. So their
decision about each move is partly based on intuition. I was a pretty good
chess-player but, of course, not in that class. Before I had anything better to
do (making movies) I played in chess tournaments at the Marshall and
Manhattan Chess Clubs in New York, and for money in parks and elsewhere.
Among a great many other things that chess teaches you is to control the
initial excitement you feel when you see something that looks good. It trains
you to think before grabbing, and to think just as objectively when you're in
trouble. When you're making a film you have to make most of your decisions
on the run, and there is a tendency to always shoot from the hip. It takes more
discipline than you might imagine to think, even for thirty seconds, in the
noisy, confusing, high-pressure atmosphere of a film set. But a few seconds'
thought can often prevent a serious mistake being made about something that
looks good at first glance. With respect to films, chess is more useful
preventing you from making mistakes than giving you ideas. Ideas come
spontaneously and the discipline required to evaluate and put them to use
tends to be the real work.

Did you play chess on the set of The Shining as you did on Dr. Strangelove
(with George C. Scott) and on 2001?
I played a few games with Tony Burton, one of the actors in the film. He's a
very good chess-player. It was very near the end of the picture and things had
gotten to a fairly simple stage. I played quite a lot with George C. Scott during
the making of Dr. Strangelove. George is a good player, too, but if I recall
correctly he didn't win many games from me. This gave me a certain edge
with him on everything else. If you fancy yourself as a good chess-player, you
have an inordinate respect for people who can beat you.

You also used to be a very good photographer. How do you think this helped
you as a film-maker?

There is a much quoted aphorism that when a director dies he becomes a

photographer. It's a clever remark but it's a bit glib, and usually comes from
the kind of critic who will complain that a film has been too beautifully
photographed. Anyway, I started out as a photographer. I worked for Look
magazine from the age of seventeen to twenty-one. It was a miraculous break
for me to get this job after graduation from high-school. I owe a lot to the then
picture editor, Helen O'Brian, and the managing editor, Jack Guenther. This
experience was invaluable to me, not only because I learned a lot about
photography, but also because it gave me a quick education in how things
happened in the world. To have been a professional photographer was
obviously a great advantage for me, though not everyone I subsequently
worked with thought so. When I was directing Spartacus, Russel Metty, the
cameraman, found it very amusing that I picked the camera set-ups myself
and told him what I wanted in the way of lighting. When he was in particularly
high-spirits, he would crouch behind me as I looked through my viewfinder,
holding his Zippo cigarette lighter up to his eye, as if it were a viewfinder. He
also volunteered that the top directors just pointed in the direction of the shot,
said something like, "Russ, a tight 3-shot," and went back to their trailer.

What kind of photography were you doing at Look?

The normal kind of photo-journalism. It was tremendous fun for me at that age
but eventually it began to wear thin, especially since my ultimate ambition had
always been to make movies. The subject matter of my Look assignments
was generally pretty dumb. I would do stories like: "Is an Athlete Stronger
Than a Baby?", photographing a college football player emulating the 'cute'
positions an 18-month-old child would get into. Occasionally, I had a chance
to do an interesting personality story. One of these was about Montgomery
Clift, who was at the start of his brilliant career. Photography certainly gave
me the first step up to movies. To make a film entirely by yourself, which
initially I did, you may not have to know very much about anything else, but
you must know about photography.

Do you have a preference for shooting in a studio or in real locations?

If the real locations exist, and if it's practical getting your crew there, it is a lot
easier and cheaper to work on location. But sometimes going away on
location is more expensive than building sets. It costs a lot of money today to
keep a crew away from home.

Why did you do The Killing in a studio?

Because the sets were fairly cheap to build and the script let you spend a
good chunk of time in each of them. Also, at that time, it was much more
difficult to shoot in location interiors. There were no neck mikes or radio
transmitters, and the cameras were big and the film slow. Things have
changed a lot since then. But I remember having an argument at the time with
a cameraman who refused to shoot a scene with a 25mm lens, insisting that
the lens was too wide-angled to pan or move the camera without distorting
everything. Today, people think of a 25mm almost as a normal lens, and a
wide-angle lens goes down to 9.8mm, which gives you about a 90x horizontal
viewing angle. The Shining could not have had the same lighting if it had been
filmed on location, and because of the snow effects it would have been
extremely impractical to do it that way. We would have been far too much of a
nuisance in a real hotel, and in the case of those which were shut in the
winter, they were closed because they really were inaccessible.

What kind of horror films did you like? Did you see Rosemary's Baby?

It was one of the best of the genre. I liked The Exorcist too.

And John Boorman's The Heretic?

I haven't seen it, but I like his work. Deliverance is an extremely good film.
One of the things that amazes me about some directors (not Boorman) who
have had great financial successes, is that they seem eager to give up
directing to become film moguls. If you care about films, I don't see how you
could want someone else to direct for you.

Perhaps they don't like the actual shooting.

It's true -- shooting isn't always fun. But if you care about the film it doesn't
matter. It's a little like changing your baby's diapers. It is true that while you're
filming you are almost always in conflict with someone. Woody Allen, talking
about directing Interiors, said that no matter how pleasant and relaxed
everything seemed on the surface he felt his actors always resented being
told anything. There are actors, however, with whom communication and co-
operation is so good that the work really becomes exciting and satisfying. I
find writing and editing very enjoyable, and almost completely lacking in this
kind of tension.
Today it is more and more difficult for a film to get its money back. The film
rental can be three times the cost of the film.

Much more than that. Take a film that costs $10 million. Today it's not unusual
to spend $8 million on USA advertising, and $4 million on international
advertising. On a big film, add $2 million for release-prints. Say there is a 20%
studio overhead on the budget; that's $2 million more. Interest on the $10
million production cost, currently at 20% a year, would add an additional $2
million a year, say, for two years -- that's another $4 million. So a $10 million
film already costs $30 million. Now you have to get it back. Let's say an actor
takes 10% of the gross, and the distributor takes a world-wide average of a
35% distribution fee. To roughly calculate the break-even figure, you have to
divide the $30 million by 55%, the percentage left after the actor's 10% and
the 35% distribution fee. That comes to $54 million of distributor's film rental.
So a $10 million film may not break even, as far as the producer's share of the
profits is concerned, until 5.4 times its negative cost. Obviously the actual
break-even figure for the distributor is lower since he is taking a 35%
distribution fee and has charged overheads.

But you came to realise very early in your career that if you didn't have the
control of the production you couldn't have the artistic freedom.

There is no doubt that the more legal control you have over things, the less
interference you have. This, in itself, doesn't guarantee you're going to get it
right, but it gives you your best chance. But the more freedom you have the
greater is your responsibility, and this includes the logistical side of film-
making. I suppose you could make some kind of military analogy here.
Napoleon, about whom I still intend to do a film, personally worked out the
laborious arithmetic of the complicated timetables which were necessary for
the coordinated arrival on the battlefield of the different elements of his army,
which sometimes were scattered all over Europe. His genius on the battlefield
might have been of little use if large formations of his army failed to arrive on
the day. Of course, I'm not making a serious comparison between the burdens
and the genius of L'Empereur and any film director, but the point is that if
Napoleon believed it was necessary to go to all that trouble, then a
comparative involvement in the logistical side of film-making should be a
normal responsibility for any director who wants to ensure he gets what he
wants when he wants it. In a more fanciful vein, and perhaps stretching the
analogy a bit, I suspect that for Napoleon, his military campaigns provided him
with at least all of the excitement and satisfaction of making a film and,
equally so, I would imagine everything in between must have seemed pretty
dull by comparison. Of course this is not an explanation of the Napoleonic
wars, but perhaps it suggests some part of the explanation for Napoleon's
apparently irrepressible desire for still one more campaign. What must it be
like to realize that you are perhaps the greatest military commander in history,
have marshals like Ney, Murat, Davout, the finest army in Europe, and have
no place to go and nothing to do? Then, continuing with this by now
overstretched analogy, there is the big-budgeted disaster -- the Russian
Campaign, in which, from the start, Napoleon ignored the evidence which
suggested the campaign would be such a costly disaster. And, finally, before
his first exile, after fighting a series of brilliant battles against the Allies'
superior numbers, Napoleon still had a final opportunity for compromise, but
he over-negotiated, gambled on his military magic, and lost.

In your screenplay about Napoleon, did you adopt a chronological approach?

Yes, I did. Napoleon, himself, once remarked what a great novel his life would
be. I'm sure he would have said 'movie' if he had known about them. His
entire life is the story, and it works perfectly well in the order it happened. It
would also be nice to do it as a twenty hour TV series, but there is, as yet, not
enough money available in TV to properly budget such a venture. Of course,
there is the tremendous problem of the actor to play Napoleon. Al Pacino
comes quickly to mind. And there is always the possibility of shooting the
twenty episodes in such a way that he would be fifty by the time he got to St.
Helena....

Al, I'm joking! I'm joking!