Raining Teeth

by Jared Woods

It’s always my favourite part of the journey; the hot concrete introducing itself to my aching feet, a burn as uncomfortable as it is one of welcomed relief. It symbolised the end of the hours spent silently slipping through the ever watching oaks of Treason Forest. The giant robot capsules scanning the area for any movement to eradicate instantaneously—they had missed me. The endless supply of goblin or troll con-artists ready to reveal my position just for the slightest bit of recognition—they never got the opportunity. The almost guaranteed death for the uninitiated—it had casually wafted through me once again.

Naturally, I have it easier. Not many could survive such a task, very few reaching the second hour before some circumstance interrupted their plans and ultimately ended them in one horrific conclusion or another. I, personally, have become so efficient at this quest that I can complete it in under seven hours even at my ripe young age of 12 years old. My success can be partially attributed to practice—God knows I've travelled these roads many a time before, following my darling mother to her day job. But beyond this, it is my special ability of camouflage which grants me the edge to now confidently complete the mission all by my lonesome—more often than not, without permission from mommy dearest, of course. She’d never agree to her little child embarking on something so dangerous alone.

I personally find this hypocritical. My mom (the Mustard Witch of Treason Forest, as she's come to be known) has travelled the distance from our protective straw hut towards the busy Goat’s Nest streets on an almost weekly basis to sell her sexual vodoo to the idiot men who were cursed by her spells—achieving the mission relatively unscathed by means of a rudimentary form of cloaking magic, if I ever did see one; lengthy to prepare and never as reliable as she’d like to think, all too often reaching her destination with a few cuts and bruises and close calls to tell.

As for me, I never learned a damn thing. I was born with abilities any witch would sell their name for. Granted, some of my mother’s magic genes which have passed down from generation to generation surely played a role, but I was convinced there was something extraordinary about my father’s sperm which allowed me to rise above the realms of spells and concoctions, because I was able to produce my invisibility au natural. I’ve pried as best I could to find answers, but mother would never reveal details, and I left it at that. I could see by her face that the very mention of my father figure caused her pain, and no man who wasn't around was worthy of such an expression.

But the point still stood: I was special, and I was informed as such by my loving mother herself since before I can recall. “Everything comes with a price,” she’d explain to me. “The better you starve yourself, the less you exist.” And this is true. Even if I skip one meal and don’t eat for five hours, I began to fade—gradually becoming transparent. I turn sick and I feel faint, sure, but you can see right through me—quite a unique skill, I have come to discover. And so as you can imagine, if I resist food for, let's say, 24 hours, I am all but gone, making the usually very dangerous trek through Treason Forest a relatively painlessly process, once I learned to ignore the pangs of stomach cramps and overwhelming sensation that my soul was escaping from my physical form. But look at the alternative: almost every case of a character roaming through Treason Forest ends with their demise, whilst I've done it a hundred times with no more than a bit of pesky starvation. A small trade-off. Inarguably so.

Regardless, once through the final pathway (which, by now, I knew how to navigate with my eyes closed) and onto Orbit Street, my priority was always one of food. A quick duck into a small corner shop, a pack of nuts stolen undetected, and I sit on the sidewalk munching them down until my skin gains some shade of colour while my headache disappears. It’s a tradition of mine, peanuts somehow nourishing me faster without lasting too long to affect my journey home, and I always eat them across the street from the Deep Thoughts building. That shitty piece of capitalist architecture, dominating the town with its bully tactics and land ownership. It’s a goddamn conspiracy, I tell you, a complete machine of lies generated within those very walls. I hate it, and feel a sense of pride as I stare it down during these moments of consuming my salted nuts back to health.

One day. One day another force will rise up and challenge its dictatorship type of control. Perhaps it will even be me, leading the Treason Forest Army, although my home area is in such shambles that these dreams are just that: dreams. Silly. Impossible. Ridiculous to everyone involved. We don’t even register on the Challenger Stats. But I’d jump on board with whoever accomplishes the feat, whether be it the Oracle, Bergie Town, Practice Beach—you name it. I’d like to see that bloody Deep Thoughts crumble.

But this is not the mission for today, how could it be? Sneaking away from mommy to take on the biggest superpower in the Goat’s Nest? That would be a faster way to die than getting caught in Treason Forest. No, instead my mission for today is much simpler, far more achievable. I am here to kill Palama Willow.

Once my pack of nuts is done and I’ve swirled my finger around the bottom to get as much salt as I can reach, I breathe deeply as the sensations of dizziness ease up and I stand to my feet, much more cheerful than before. I turn my back on the dreaded Deep Thoughts building and make my way down one of these nameless alleyways. And I think about Palama.

I met Palama during one of my days escorting my mom to her hooker job. Prostitution has been illegal for decades in the Goat’s Nest, but much like any town, there are men, and with men comes an excessive sex drive which demands to be exploited. In one of their better moves, the powers in charge sought to control (and tax) such activities, by granting these sellable ladies and perverse men one street in the Goat's Nest where such a practice could be regulated, kept safe, kept clean, and most importantly, kept quarantined. And that’s where my mother came in.

As a witch, mom’s appearance can take one of any youthfulness with the right potion and prayers, her clients unaware of her 200 plus age tag. So when said street (now known as Red Teeth (Av. J)), opened for business, she was quick to purchase a room, sometimes for her to please the gentlemen herself, other times to rent out to other such desperate good-looking females.

One could argue this is no lifestyle to raise a child, but personally, I appreciated the upbringing. Sex was never taboo for me, and as a result, my interest in the subject has never been one of curious urges, but rather one of education. I found it fascinating, the differences between genders when it came to the art and manipulation of sexual intercourse, especially how empowering sex could be for women, and how pathetically weak it made men. It was hilarious, really, and my mom and I have had many a laugh over the ludicrous nature of our alluring vaginas—not that mine had been used in such a way, mind you, despite the financial offers from boys and encouragement from the other working girls.

Which brings us to Palama, I suppose, as I walk down alley after alley, passing the surrounding seedy strip joints, a natural by product of the filth that is Red Teeth. I began to fume over the very thought of her. She too is a hooker, six doors down from my mom’s room, and my initial hatred for her was one of pure superficial factors. Certainly, her body was something to marvel over: perky tits, flat stomach with hardly any stretch marks, desirable length of legs, toes in a perfect straight line—quite textbook beauty, to be fair. But it was her head that truly irked me, as it was far from human. It could only be described as a crayfish: long whiskers, chunky pincers, and a set of slimy jaws which had to be wet on an hourly basis just to keep her alive. Her entire head was not covered in skin but rather a hard shell, and when she spoke, it sounded like squeaks more than English words—and that repulsed me. But, of course, she made her money. Some guys were into that sort of freaky shit.

Disfigurements make me cringe, that’s a character flaw of my own, but this in itself is not enough for me to discriminate against a person (or thing) alone. If anything, her "disability" or whatever, was enough for me to try and put some effort in, and when my mom was busy pleasing a man and Palama wasn't, I made my best attempts to get to know her. I wish I could say I learned to look past her ghastly crustacean features and grow as an individual because of it, but the reality is simply that the personality behind the mutation was far uglier.

As it is with the prostitution occupation, the whole service revolves around men, and based solely upon my mom’s opinion vs. Palama’s opinion, I've come to conclude there are two schools of thought. Take my mother, for example. She sees men as our slaves, who we fool into thinking they are in control. They are willing to pay extortionate amounts of money just to see how our nipples look or to put their willys in our vaginas, generally ejaculating within minutes while hundreds of bucks fly from their pockets and into our bank accounts. Men are tools, complete slobbering idiots who are under the control of our pussies—they base everything they do on getting one or getting a new one, even if they have a wife or a girlfriend at home. Boys are stupid, and us girls are in control of their every move. That’s what my mom taught me, and that's what makes the most sense too.

Palama, on the other hand, believes the complete opposite—it's all she ever fucking talks about. I have sat and listened to her stance time and time again, and it sounds completely ignorant to me. First of all, she doesn't feel in control. She reckons that the general female population is still living in the residue of past oppressions—that we as a gender are continuously being undermined and controlled by our male counterparts. She considers herself a victim of circumstance, and rather than viewing men as an easy outlet to exploit and take money from, she thinks women are under threat and are forced into sex work because of how society enslaved us in the first place. And maybe she’s right, on some points. But who can't see straight through her double standards? What it all really came down to was her deep rooted hatred for men, for the way they called at her on the streets, and for the way they treated her like a piece of meat; and yet she's still happy to shove a bit of cleavage in their faces to get what she wants and obtain their cash. It’s contradictory, and I lose sleep over it, without a word of exaggeration.

You see, I've woken up in cold sweats multiple times because of Palama’s involvement in a recurring nightmare I have. It’s the one where I receive a package at my straw hut, which is an impossible occurrence, but there it is. I open it and it’s a box of sweets with only one heart shaped chocolate left inside, complete with a note from Palama. As I chew furiously on the below-average candy, I am ecstatic to find the note appears to be an apology of some sort. For what, I am never quite sure, perhaps the way she has treated me or her attitude towards life in general, but a heartfelt round-about apology all the same. Which (accompanied with the chocolate), is the sweetest satisfaction I've ever felt.

However, as I read on, the letter's contents take a turn for the worst, slowly accusing me of some shameful deed I never committed which changes from night to night. And as I read, her handwriting gets smaller and smaller as the candy turns more and more sour until I have to squint just to read the confusing text, eventually unable to even read it at all. This is usually when I wake up.

And so, as I finally make it to her door, I hope my speech somewhat accurately illustrates as to why I hold onto these thoughts so intensely. She haunts me and she is wrong about everything and that is why I am here, double checking the red light is on, indicating she is not currently active, and then knocking on the entrance, now more convinced than ever that this crayfish abomination must die.

I stand here, awaiting her answer, carefully analysing the shuffling inside whilst all too aware how completely out of place I look surrounded by rows of identical buildings, some with single doors, others with staircases leading to cage-like rooms stacked above for the cheaper, less lucrative girls for hire. Some of the pricier doors are open due to the heat, revealing the scantily dressed specimens of different attraction variations; while other doors are closed shut with blinking lights potentially flickering in unison with each pathetic thrust of the genitals inside. And as I study this, I become aware of how badly I have explained myself. My intentions of murder cannot be justified nor summarised by means of only an ugly face, or a misguided perception of the male vs. female imbalances according to one vile hooker’s opinion (or even some silly 12 year old girl’s nightmare, for that matter). It runs much deeper than that—it would have to, because this street is surrounded by many security men who provide the 24 hour protection for their 50 odd women cash machines. Which means that a Palama homicide getaway would require the victim to die quickly and silently as to not cause any suspicion, as well as for that light pack of peanuts to digest fast enough to allow me to slip out of here transparent and undetected. It’s a tough mission, is what I'm saying, and it’s difficult for me to justify why a tramp like Palama is worthy of such a risk.

I wish I had a more straightforward answer for you. I'm sure some would blame all of this on the absence of a father figure. A man who was more than likely a client of my mom's. A man whose ejaculate summoned me whilst he was oblivious to my sudden activation, skipping along his merry way while my darling mother, bless her, perpetually filled her womb with countless other strangers' semen who were willing to pay such a price (to the point that any attempt of locating my initial sperm figure would be next to impossible). However, I hardly feel like this little misfortune has bothered me in the slightest. I have two older brothers, more than likely born under similar circumstances, and both of whom are as fucked up as I am—in a good way. What I'm getting at is that I like to believe they fulfilled any lacking male influence I may have had in my life, if even such a thing was ever a factor.

People would also likely blame my homicidal thoughts on my mother, the Mustard Witch herself, for she not only distorted my views on what was supposed to be “right” or “wrong” (a concept I don’t subscribe to anyway), but even more so, opting to raise us three children in the horrors of Treason Forest. I’ll be the first to admit you witness some traumas in the thick of the area, for just to be seen can be fatally dangerous, and to survive requires one to lead quite a secluded and lonely existence. A squirrel may offer your starving belly some corn which is laced with poison, rendering you paralysed while its family gnaw your skin away until only your bones are left for the marshes to grind into its own nutrition. A simple flower may grab your ankle if you get too close and grow at an alarming rate until it finds the nearest entry point into your intestines and morphing you into a plant yourself, unrecognisable to your loved ones within mere minutes. But the worst are ultimately those goddamn Mechanical Squids who roam around the forest at all hours, shining their spotlights down to eradicate any movement they come across, originally designed to turn Treason Forest into a place of peace, but instead malfunctioning into the grandest threat of all. Simply put, the forest is a mess of evil, the darkest area surrounding the oh-so mighty and special Goat’s Nest Town, and leaving no easy way for anyone to climb out of the rut.

I have asked my mother several times as to why we reside in such a treacherous place, and her vague answers are always spat in anger towards the fake-democratic borderline-dictatorship system in which the Goat’s Nest is run with. Her hatred has blinded her despite the money she takes in with her body from the city on a daily basis, which always confused me a little. But living with a witch mom does come with its advantages, as our little hut is a completely undetectable residency by any outside source, and so as long as we stay put, we are out of harm's way, and a cautious day's walk from the city for a normal person (if they were fortunate enough to survive).

None of this, as far as I can tell, contributes towards my desire to murder Palama. I guess if I had to, I'd try break it down into the following simple analogy: it’s like a dark seed was buried into my core since the day I was born. My life didn't feel like my life, but rather a life built to remove another life, as if a duty—an instinct. I had no intention of mass murdering a bunch of innocent people or anything like that, the idea repulses me even if (let's face it) with my special abilities, it wouldn't be that difficult whatsoever. No, instead, I merely wanted to remove one specific life from this world. The black seed demanded it from me, it needed this in order to raise me up to the next level of my person. I don’t expect you to understand this, because neither do I, but I do expect you to at least accept that this uncomfortable frustration within me was always on the lookout for a victim. And when I first met Palama during one of my mother’s job days, with her godawful face and her weak attitude towards her own gender, I just fucking knew it would be her. I became obsessed with the idea. I couldn't fathom why anyone would miss something so wasteful.

These thoughts were finally interrupted when Palama began to unlock her door, and just in time too, as the sky had begun to rain teeth again. They were only milk teeth molars at this point, which meant they could clear up smoothly or turn bad into seven inch fangs at a moment’s notice. 'One of the Ten Wonders of the Goat’s Nest', apparently, mainly because it only happened on this street, just further proof that "God" himself had turned his back on this hole.

The door opened, and there stood Palama, rubbing sleep from her tiny black eyes, dressed in a pink see-through nightie which left very little to the imagination. That was her thing. She always pretended she had been sleeping when a client knocked. She got pleasure from the guilt of a man.

Of course, when she saw it was me, she broke the act.
“Oh, it’s you,” she squeak-mumbled. “Yeah, I guess you can come in for a bit.”
She turned her back on me which already granted the perfect angle to pounce on her right there and then. I guess I’d try to strangle her, my little arms sliding under her stupid crayfish face and preventing her from stealing anybody else's oxygen, but I quickly decided against it. Too hasty. Patience. The door was still open. I had to do this right.

I entered the small room which stank of the ocean, and closed the door behind me, sickened by the plainness of it all; one single dirty mattress on the floor, a small kitchenette to my right, and an exposed toilet to my left, all beige and nauseating.
“Well?” she turned to face me. “Aren’t you going to greet Mr Waters?”

Oh, of course! Mr Waters! I should have mentioned him before! Yet another one of the many factors as to how batfish crazy Palama was—how much she deserved to die. Mr Waters was her teapot of all things, a crusty little utensil with a face painted on, and as far as Palama was concerned, her husband. The only decent man in the world. She spoke to him like a lover, she probably even fucked him like a lover, and always ensured his face was freshly painted on with a smile. But it’s a fucking teapot! An inanimate object designed to boil hot water. I mean, is that not the definition of stupidity? Is that not enough evidence as to how little a contribution this lady was to the genepool?

However, as begrudgingly as ever, I greeted Mr Waters with as much conviction as I could muster, and Palama seemed satisfied, sitting on her bed, quickly wetting her monstrous face with a towel and then awkwardly shoving a cigarette into her mandibles, somehow drawing smoke that way into her human lungs. I sat myself down on the floor as per usual to minimise any suspicion, and right on cue, she began her ranting.

“You can’t stay long,” she informed. “I’m expecting most of my regular repulsive clients to show up today. Looking to have sex with me just to feel powerful, just to dominate a woman—because that’s all sex is to men. Power and domination.”

Oh God, here we go. Wrong. I knew this to be wrong. In the sex industry, men came here to escape their lives, like a drug. It was to live out a fantasy their real pathetic existence couldn’t provide, as my mother told me. And whether they preferred it a little rougher or a little dirtier or a little weirder, this was all part of that. It did not mean they were bad people, and if anything gave them less power, made them weak, only able to find this release with the trade of money. But, as always, I dared not disagree and just nodded robotically. If I argued, this conversation would only go one way.

“That’s why I hate all men,” she continued her scripted speech. “They use us like we are toys, and discard us once they’ve had their fun. We're just objects to them, objects with only one function: to make them ejaculate.”

Wrong again. My mother and I have had many a conversation on this point, and the fact of the matter is that men are not smart enough to even purposefully contemplate life in such a simplified manner. We are not the objects, they are. They are tools which we, as women, can manipulate with our bodies to do pretty much whatever we want them to. I shouldn't be, but once again, I'm surprised by the lunacy of Palama, her very profession one of harnessing her vagina like a weapon to take money from these idiot’s pockets—you’d think a hooker would know better. But, no, of course she didn't, and I bit my lip as I mimicked the body language of agreement, anxiously awaiting my moment. Which, thankfully, came shortly after.

“It’s what makes me feel so degraded in my own profession,” she sighed as she stood up, turning her back to me once again, staring longingly out of her one tiny window. “Us ladies, we have had our control taken away from us. We are all victims, and prostitution is the ultimate proof that we are forced to exploit ourselves just to get ahead. We are slaves to men and we need to fight back.”

So wrong, but at this stage I hardly had the patience to point out the obvious hypocrisy of how her clients came at her mercy every day and how she honestly could pick another avenue of financial stability if she so wanted to. Rather, I had stopped listening, already on my feet, quietly opening her kitchen drawer to remove the largest blade I could find. I managed to lift out a massive steak knife without making much noise and slowly began to approach Palama’s back as she continued to ramble her sob hooker story filled with contradictions about male power and female powerlessness. My heart beat so hard that blood distorted my vision whilst anticipation sent fire to the tip of the knifepoint, as my little arched feet tiptoed closer to this foul woman, my brain playing out the scenario like a preview a couple of seconds before it was about to take place.

I was going to stab her right in the nape of her neck. I was going to stab her so fucking hard that with a bit of luck, it should push straight through to her vocal chords and render any high-pitched screaming impossible. If not, I’d stab again and again as fast as my hands would let me until she fell to the floor, and then I would continue stabbing just to be sure. Hell, I’d continue stabbing even after I was sure. I’d stab her well past her death because that’s what she deserves and that’s what I deserve. Then I would wash my hands and the weapon, and turn on her flashing light to indicate she was occupied, ensuring optimal time before she was discovered. And then I’d wait, standing in front of the mirror until I was invisible again, escaping undetected, back home to mama’s stew, holding a secret she would only find out a few days later without any connection to me. The perfect crime.

As I'm sure you gathered, I would have never needed to explain this to you if it all went according to plan. Because it didn't, and this makes no sense, not even now. There I was, closing in, knife handle wet from my sweat and my mouth mothball dry as if these body parts had swapped places, when the moment was frozen by a piercing whistle. I got such a fright I squealed and turned towards the sound. My God, I couldn't believe it! It was Mr Waters. It was her fucking husband teapot. Steam was pouring out of his nozzle furiously, as he vibrated all over the counter, screaming the only way a teapot knows how to scream. This fucker was ratting me out! Impossible! Even his painted features appeared to have distorted, now more vigorous, more desperate, more focused upon me.

From here it all happened far too quickly. Palama spun around to shush Mr Waters, but instead noticed the knife I was wielding as well as my unsafe distance from her, and she leaned back in confusion.
“What do you think you are doing?” were the last words I ever heard. I lunged forward. I didn’t know what else to do. I panicked. I even gave out a little embarrassing war cry as I clumsily jabbed at the air towards her face, but it was too late. It was ruined and I knew it even then.

Palama struck with confidence, knocking the knife out of my hand with one shot. She must have cut herself in the process—God, I hope she did—but I never found out. Instead, her godawful monstrosity of a face closed in on mine. Her antenna-like whiskers wrapped around my head as her mandibles tore into my cheeks and her left claw clipped my ear. I tried to beat her with my fists as her fishy stench suffocated me, but when my mouth began to bloat up from a thick foamy liquid, I knew it was over. This bitch was pumping me full of poison as it forced its way down my throat and tasted like the colour white. I attempted to scream and vomit but within a few seconds, I felt my life slipping away in a feverish haze, and, let me tell you, I was so relieved. After all those times of threatening my soul with starvation, it finally got its release, with a belly stuffed to the brim for a change. The hunter had now become the victim, and things were better this way.

They gave me the name Macy Dull. And this is how I died the first time.


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Worst To Best: Stanley Kubrick

Have you ever tried to watch all of Kubrick’s films within a very short duration of time? It’s no easy task, take my word for it. It’s kind of like an episode of Will it Blend?, where your brain gets overstuffed with so much detailed data that your processor has to work at three times the strength just to remember to breathe, and eventually you kinda fizzle out and die.

I completed the assignment though, and as I reached the conclusion, I demanded my mindcomputer produced a summary of what it had learned. It whirred for a bit, then spluttered, and eventually shat out one plain and simple sentence:

“Kubrick is the greatest director that ever lived”.

Debatable! But that’s what my brain said! And even if we can shout other names (Hitchcock comes to mind), no film connoisseur could argue that Stanley Kubrick is one of the most influential directors of all time. Perhaps you have a different favourite, but I still doubt you’d kick up too much of a fuss when someone drops this genius’ name in such high regard. Because he changed everything! With his controversial topics, revolutionary cinematography, borderline torture of his actors, and complete disregard to what the viewer might have wanted, he managed to lead one of the most perfect careers in movie history, truly without a bad film, and with some very good ones. And so my only hope is that I do the man some justice here by gushing my fanboy juices all over this page, and I also want you to enjoy it, whoever you are.

Note: Short documentaries and AI were not included for obvious reasons.

13. Killer's Kiss (1955)

Only a list about Kubrick would dare to feature a movie as decent as Killer’s Kiss to be this low, but something had to be here, and so here it is. For, as the director’s second feature film, you could already feel the man gazing in the right direction, even if the budget was so constrictive that Stanley was reportedly forced onto welfare during the shooting, and a lot of the scenes had to be shot in secret, hidden from the police due to the lack of permits. However, the absence of money wasn’t the issue, as all the style and odd surrealistic moments in the world could not save this film from the one thing that burdened it the worst: a painfully ordinary storyline. It flashed back upon the thin love tale between a boxer and a private dancer, portrayed by some of the stiffest acting I’ve ever seen in my whole life, complete with dialogue so bland that it’s rumoured to have been dubbed into the film during post production. True or not, that's a pretty severe rumour. Now blend this with the fact that United Artists changed the ending of the script against Kubrick’s wishes, and I reckon the man himself would understand why we are leaving this right here.

12. Spartacus (1960)

I am Spartacus! Winning four Academy Awards, becoming the biggest moneymaker in Universal Studios’ history for a decade, and having been subjected to countless parodies ever since; it is no wonder as to why this historical epic drama has received more than its fair share of worship in latter days. But that means shit to me. Because even while the mighty title character (portrayed perfectly by Kirk Douglas) impressively leads this powerful rebellion against Christianity, slavery, race discrimination, gender discrimination, and the Roman Empire ... the film itself simply feels less “Kubrick” than anything else on this list. The reasons are obvious, as the director was employed as a replacement, forced into the pilot seat within two days of signing his contract without any creative control over the script, design, or the actors. As a result, even our hero labeled this three hour long drag as “too moralising”, distancing his name from the project and refusing to be a hired gun ever again because of it. And I understand. I mean, sure, I have to respect that many groupies do praise this flick's existence most highly, but I am just not one of them, and this is my blog, so.

11. Fear and Desire (1953)

By creeping around the net, you will find almost every similar Worst to Best Kubrick list cold-heartedly elbows this short military film to the very bottom, and who can blame them? As Stanley’s first feature (funded by borrowed money from family and friends), critics have disregarded Fear and Desire as a clunky, sloppy, and unsteady introduction to the director. Hell, even the master himself denounced the film, calling it a “bumbling, amateur exercise,” comparing it to a “child’s drawing on a fridge,” and then personally attempting to buy all the prints himself to destroy them from all of existence (and he nearly succeeded too). Thankfully, some copies survived, and now anyone can enjoy these four soldiers stuck behind enemy lines as they deal with their fear and mental illness, one cliché tale delivered by acting and dialogue which leaves much to be desired (see what I did there?). However, such a bad reputation has served it well by dropping the expectation bar so drastically low that I myself was pleasantly surprised, finding the effort relatively charming with some really memorable scenes, and naturally blessed with the unavoidable scent of Kubrick’s genius firmly in tact. So, yes, maybe it’s not all that great, but it’s definitely not as bad as everyone says it is.

10. Barry Lyndon (1975)

Despite this pitiful position, there has to be a reason as to why Barry Lyndon won four production Oscars; why Scorsese named it his favourite Kubrick in the world; and why it is often rated one of the greatest films ever made, right? Right. And this is because the 1700s period drama is a technological feat and an aesthetic landmark of note, as we witness our unlikeable protagonist elegantly manipulating his way through the most visually appealing scenery one could envision, surrounded by historically accurate costumes and a certain minimal lighting which achieved exactly what Kubrick set out to create: a movie which looked like a painting. But, be honest now, would you stare at a painting for three hours? Because that’s what this is like: one slow, uneventful experience, presented via characters as dull as the storyline itself, a prime example of style over substance. Which might be why the bloated offering didn’t quite hit the commercial success everyone had hoped for, yet is still defended vigorously by many, claiming it takes multiple viewings to fully appreciate, but that's a lot of hours, man! I don't really have time for that, sorry. I mean, in all fairness, it is untouchable for what it is, but as far as entertainment goes, it simply falls too short for my liking (or, rather, way too fucking long).

09. The Killing (1956)

Even if this hopeless love story/heist gone wrong isn't exactly the most unique of plotlines, it does mark the point where Kubrick started to realise who he wasn’t (by judging his former failures), and working out where he needed to go (which is evident in what followed). Unfortunately, not everyone was too convinced, as United Artists still had no faith in the man, refusing to put up much money for the project (leaving the director to once again rely on loans), as well as insisting on a narrator (which Kubrick hated, and is often noted as a big flaw of the film). However, our director got the last laugh, as when this movie was released, the box office ... performed poorly at best :( But it did do wonders for his reputation; the non-linear, fast-paced flick praised as Stanley’s most mature to date, critically acclaimed then, and a cult favourite now, many applauding its humorous commentary on morality—not to mention the trademark camera work Mr Kubrick quickly became famous for. Yet perhaps even more significant than all of this, was when Quentin Tarantino openly labeled The Killing as a major influence on Reservoir Dogs, which is not only very easy to see, but also, very cool.

08. Eyes Wide Shut (1999)

As Kubrick died six days after showing the final cut of Eyes Wide Shut to Warner Brothers, the rumours surrounding his own opinion of the film reflected that of the general public. Some say he considered it his best work, others claimed he loathed it, and I sympathise, as even I cannot tell whether I enjoy this “erotic thriller” or not. Featuring the awkward on screen romance/jealousy between the (then) real life lovers Cruise and Kidman, the whole script felt as though it was lost in its own dream, stumbling through excessively sexual scenes, so far detached from itself that even the challenging surrealistic mindfuck resulted in one overall unsatisfactory dull stroll. But as slow and indulgent as it turned out, the seedy mood lingers long after the credits, and much like all of Kubrick’s latter work, was so unsettlingly detailed that the symbolism debates have often outweighed the plot. Which is why I could talk about this film forever, as undoubtedly his most psychologically creepy and dangerous offering, either my favourite of his lesser films, or my least favourite of his better ones, I can never tell which one. But a curious leaving gift regardless.

07. Paths of Glory (1957)

You may have noticed that "anti-war" is a common theme in Kubrick’s tank, but none hit the mark as sincerely as Paths of Glory, which tackled the issue of cowardice in the face of a suicide mission, and the horrific consequences a platoon may be subjected to as punishment. Set in World War 1, there is no comedic value in here, rather a very truthful account of the dark sadness one may be exposed to within these tragic circumstances, although the true tragedy lay wherein (once again) an early Kubrick was so easily disregarded, barely breaking even and receiving heavy censorship and opposition from Spain and France due to the portrayal of their countries. But all's well that ends well, and it ended well, as the movie continues to be critically worshipped to this very day, partially for the outstanding acting (in particular from Kirk Douglas), but mostly for the director finally coming into his own style with his perfect choices of locations and methods of lighting, reportedly a key influence on “one of the greatest TV dramas of all time,” The Wire. Kubrick also met his future wife on the set of this film, and they stayed married forever, so that’s lovely too ::heart emoji::

06. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

This film is so epic that I’m scared to even talk about it. It’s basically four movies in one, with hardly any dialogue, purposefully bland acting, and a slow pace to really accentuate the atmosphere of space, cryptically exploring complex philosophies such as artificial intelligence, extraterrestrial life, and (most importantly) the evolution of man. If such an overly-intellectual premise didn’t exhaust you already, then the execution will, as this is one of the most influential films ever made, leaping over the special effects of its era, and pioneering techniques which other directors steal to this very day. And yet, it still divided audiences on either side of the ground it broke: the Academy adored it (earning Kubrick his only personal Oscar) and kids on drugs found God in the Star Gate sequence; while others once again called another Kubrick “too long” and “a drag”, 241 people reportedly walking out of the premier alone. What’s worse is that it aimed to ask questions rather than solve them, leaving the obscure art piece frustratingly open to interpretation, all of which abandons me on the fence, watching me die while I try to make my mind up. But what I do know is that it changed the game, was ahead of its time (even now), and will be furiously analysed until mankind’s very end (or perhaps even more so then). It's kinda beyond a movie, really.

05. Lolita (1962)

Taking on Vladimir Naboko’s naughty novel about an anxious 40 year old man’s irrational infatuation towards a barely teenage girl, one would inevitably expect to clash with some share of opposition, and yet even Kubrick had no idea as to the extent of this. Naturally, the film was plagued with censorship issues from the get-go, nobody daring to touch it, forcing the director to rely on innuendos and subtle suggestions to get the intense subject matter across, toning it down to such a degree that the man admitted he would have never made the movie if he knew what the limitations were going to be. Due to this, groupies of the original book were appalled by the tame adaptation, taking it in turns to disregard the butchery of their classic “love story”, and I can only imagine this hurt Mr Kubrick even further. However, it did make money, and the reviews have always been consistently high, with a particular focus on the actors themselves. And I guess that’s why I love it so much. Which is to say, I am in love with Sue Lyon, I don't care if she was only 14 years old at the time, her performance seduced me as intended and now I'm probably going to jail. Thanks a lot, Stanley.

04. Full Metal Jacket (1987)

Ok, and now we’ve hit the real big boys, starting with Full Metal Jacket, based on Hasford’s novel The Short-Timers, and coming in as Kubrick’s first feature after a seven year hiatus. The story itself was set in the Vietnam War and is split down into two segments: the first being undoubtedly the most memorable as our volunteer marines endure strenuous bootcamp sessions which challenge their masculinity, owed above all else to the infinitely applauded role of R. Lee Ermey as the vulgar drill sergeant—one truly genuine and considerably quotable performance (reportedly a result of him improvising most of his lines). Unfortunately, as we set off into real battle, the second segment does not quite hit the same mark as the first, but the message still screams loud and clear, exposing the effect of war by granting no hope and dehumanising the characters to point of numbness, whilst somehow maintaining the imaginative spark of humour and unconventional dialogue throughout. So, naturally, it grossed high, was instantaneously critically acclaimed, and everyone still loves it long time.

03. Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)

There is no topic in the world more serious than an atomic missile attack between the USSR and the US, so why not make a completely ridiculous piss-take of the people’s concerns while it was still fresh on their minds? Which, of course, is exactly what this black and white satire did, telling the tale of various politicians trying their best to prevent a nuclear holocaust in the face of world wide doom. It's a tough situation only aggravated by the fact that every character is a little bit stupid and a little bit insane—a weight carried almost exclusively by Peter Sellers (who performs three of the most memorable roles), granting us permission to laugh in the face of one legitimately scary topic. And this is what makes Dr. Strangelove the film which really cemented Kubrick’s genius; a cynical piece which hasn’t dated whatsoever, effortlessly topping many similar lists, boasting the longest title for a Best Picture nominee (at 13 words), and was so relevant to the time’s greatest fears that the government reportedly changed some of their procedures because of its content. Without a doubt, the most hilarious work Kubrick had to offer, especially once you learn that the whole plot's delivery was actually some metaphor for sexual intercourse. That's not a joke either.

02. A Clockwork Orange (1971)

Even if a person hasn't seen A Clockwork Orange, there is a good chance they will be aware of how disturbing it is, and I’m here to explain why. It’s because this dystopian crime landmark shoves violent images into your face whilst asking you to sympathise with the sadistic nature of the main character, Alex. He was created as wicked as they come, yet is still sold as one likeable chap, with his funny words and love for Beethoven and interesting attire and tendency to rape women—he’s almost adorable. Furthermore, his antisocial antics serve a greater purpose, requesting that the viewer contemplates some serious topics to the likes of free will, juvenile delinquency, crime, pornography, and other such problematic political subjects. We, as the witnesses, are expected to identify with evil, and reevaluate who the real victims of our cruel society are. Naturally, such a controversial request was an immediate success everywhere, to the point that many misunderstood the message, and (like any good film) was the catalyst for various real life murders and rapes, generating massive debates in the media and tormenting Kubrick until he completely withdrew the film's release in the UK. But with all the parodies and accolades, no one could escape A Clockwork Orange as one explicitly brutal classic, managing to make violence seem like just a bit of fun, really.

01. The Shining (1980)

Based on but far removed from Stephen King’s novel, this is a film that some of us understand as Kubrick’s greatest work, while others do not. But we who are in the know, view this haunted house as a character itself, allowing ample space without any breathing room, isolating then rejecting all horror clichés, and abusing the actors until their hair began to fall out (note: this actually happened to Shelley Duvall). It’s one long build up of symbolic paradoxes and fleeting inconsistencies, details easily missed by the untrained eye, almost another movie hidden within the movie, so easy to get lost in once you find the key. And yet you never truly find out what it’s about. Is this some paranormal tale? Or one of insanity? We must never know, hence why it still divides opinion to this very day, some calling it “too long” and others calling it “overrated”, which are the type of comments that make me a dull boy. Rather, I consider this film to be the scariest horror I have ever seen (and I’ve seen them all), but so stylish in its attack that you don’t realise how freaked out you were until the film is over and it’s time for bed.

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Worst to Best: Wes Anderson

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