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A review by frumpleton
Kubrick by Michael Herr
5.0
Written I suspect as a defense of his good friend Stanley Kubrick in light of character assassinations from critics who were drunk on the 'myth' of a megalomaniacal, reclusive, perfectionist director who was basically every cliche in the eccentric movie director playbook, and also as a response to the critical hammering Eyes Wide Shut received upon release, Michael Herr pens this affectionate memoir about his time with Kubrick.
He dispels many of the more over-the-top tales about Kubrick's eccentricity to get down to who he was: just a guy who really loved filmmaking. There's sweet, affectionate recalling of moments chatting to his friend over the phone (Kubrick had phone calls with people that ran on for hours, that one still rings true here) and about his jokes, his worries about money, his devil-may-care treatment of actors, monk-like discipline and restraint in lifestyle. Kubrick had it all, but he didn't want to make a big deal of it, so the entertainment press, hungry for stories on one of the world-famous directors, made up his choice for privacy into a monstrous tale of bizarre isolation and social anxiety, mixed in with your usual 'crazy genius' guff. Herr throws out the window the idea that Kubrick drove around with a helmet on his head. He did indeed have a fear of flying though, gained from when he observed air traffic controllers one day in the sixties.
Then the final portion of the book, once Herr has ruminated on his twenty-year friendship with Kubrick, is his reflection on the state of affairs surrounding the press's unsavoury reaction to Kubrick's death, and a brief analysis of what was missed by critics with Eyes Wide Shut. I especially found it interesting to read his personal reaction to the closing of Eyes Wide Shut, how the credits signified, for Herr at least, an end to a generation of filmmakers, from Ingmar Bergman to Hitchcock, the auteurs of the forties, fifties and sixties. The ones who were willing to experiment with film and throw themselves wholly into their work, unimpeded by studios.
While I don't agree that the film auteur is dead necessarily, this memoir was a beautiful send-off to one of the greatest filmmakers.
He dispels many of the more over-the-top tales about Kubrick's eccentricity to get down to who he was: just a guy who really loved filmmaking. There's sweet, affectionate recalling of moments chatting to his friend over the phone (Kubrick had phone calls with people that ran on for hours, that one still rings true here) and about his jokes, his worries about money, his devil-may-care treatment of actors, monk-like discipline and restraint in lifestyle. Kubrick had it all, but he didn't want to make a big deal of it, so the entertainment press, hungry for stories on one of the world-famous directors, made up his choice for privacy into a monstrous tale of bizarre isolation and social anxiety, mixed in with your usual 'crazy genius' guff. Herr throws out the window the idea that Kubrick drove around with a helmet on his head. He did indeed have a fear of flying though, gained from when he observed air traffic controllers one day in the sixties.
Then the final portion of the book, once Herr has ruminated on his twenty-year friendship with Kubrick, is his reflection on the state of affairs surrounding the press's unsavoury reaction to Kubrick's death, and a brief analysis of what was missed by critics with Eyes Wide Shut. I especially found it interesting to read his personal reaction to the closing of Eyes Wide Shut, how the credits signified, for Herr at least, an end to a generation of filmmakers, from Ingmar Bergman to Hitchcock, the auteurs of the forties, fifties and sixties. The ones who were willing to experiment with film and throw themselves wholly into their work, unimpeded by studios.
While I don't agree that the film auteur is dead necessarily, this memoir was a beautiful send-off to one of the greatest filmmakers.