FADE IN INT. THE PEARLY GATES
A pair of dark Semitic EYES
stare up at us past heavy lids.
We TRACK BACK and reveal a
short chunky man who clearly sleeps in his clothes. It is STANLEY KUBRICK,
freshly dead and covered with wood splinters and sawdust. Under a shredded
straitjacket he is in the process of wriggling out of, he wears rumpled
khakis, last year's soiled Reeboks, and, around his neck, a 185-pound
millstone personally autographed by Ryan O'Neal.
The Pearly Gates look a lot
like the lobby of Radio City, endlessly extended and curved up in a
gentle arc, disappearing into the mist both fore and aft. Every dozen
yards or so are double doors labeled Aisle A, Aisle B, etc., each guarded
by a husky uniformed usher armed with a dangerous-looking flashlight.
KUBRICK begins to jog, looking
for Aisle K. He jogs and jogs, but, in some odd Serlingian trick of
time and space, never seems to make much progress.
Round and round he jogs, past
door after door, oblivious to earthly logic and gravity. We listen carefully
to the contrasting textures of his footsteps as he jogs on the carpet,
off the carpet, on the carpet, off the carpet.
He begins to overtake other
LOST AUTEURS. He jogs past AKIRA KUROSAWA.
(flat Bronx accent)
He TRIPS Kurosawa,
who falls and rolls like ball lightning up into the mist.
That's for Pearl Harbor, Yojimbo.
He jogs on, aisle after aisle,
always uphill. He passes DAVID LEAN.
(over his shoulder)
Too bad about RYAN'S DAUGHTER.
He jogs on.
The curved walls
slide past, slowly, maddeningly. Ahead, up in the mist, we become
aware of a red glow, flashing, flashing, flashing. An ALARM BUZZER
honks in unison.
a sleek white HIBERNACULUM built into the wall. Above it a computer
screen screams --
LIFE FUNCTIONS IRRELEVANT
LIFE FUNCTIONS IRRELEVANT
Inside the hibernaculum,
a terrified KEN RUSSELL claws at the walls and howls.
But I'm not dead! I'M NOT DEAD!
(a slight smile)
Yes you are.
He jogs on. And
on. His labored, amplified breathing takes over the soundtrack.
K appears. Hallelujah. But euphoria quickly yields to puzzlement, as
the burly usher consults a clipboard and waves Kubrick on, gesturing
aisle, with wrought-iron doors, labeled "FOR S.K. ONLY."
by this special welcome, smooths his beard, more or less straightens
his ensemble, and prepares to enter his private eternity, when...
The doors SLAM
OPEN and out storms...
SAM KINISON, mad
as hell and stuffed into Marine fatigues that might have fit him twenty
years ago. With one hand he brandishes an M-16; with the other he is
dragging STANLEY KRAMER, who is trying to maintain dignity. Kinison
flings him out into the lobby and screams.
Get out of my aisle and stay out, you
hack. R-Peee-M. OKLAHOMA CRUD.
GUESS WHO'S COMING TO
FUCKING DINNER.My god, what crap!
Like a happy Beirut
teenager on Allah's birthday, KINISON empties an entire ammo clip into
THUDDD. The bullet-riddled
corpse of CHARLTON HESTON falls out of the rafters.
(his dying breath)
... a... well... regulated... militia...
over and drags Heston off. Kinison spots Kubrick. His eyes bug.
I did NOT give you PERMISSION TO DIE!!
up and flings his M-16 toward heaven... up... and up...
AND UP... and
up... it PAUSES at the top of its arc...
Then DOWN... and
NOW IT IS
A MARK-28 FUSED
AIRBURST 1.1 MEGATON THERMONUCLEAR BOMB hurtling down, down, through
the ionosphere, stratosphere, troposphere...
it like a bronco, frowning.
Damn. No wonder Peter turned this part down.
A deafening EXPLOSION
blinds us momentarily, then FADES TO BLACK.
SLOW FADE IN
INT. A LARGE NONDESCRIPT
for murmuring silhouettes in back, and a lone figure in the center of
the front row.
It is Kubrick,
immobilized by a straitjacket. To his left and right are Altec-Lansing
2200-watt Drum-Buster speaker systems, each the size of a refrigerator,
inches from Kubrick's nearest ear.
(glottal, fruity, Teutonic.)
Und now, Herr Kew-brick, ve zhall continue zis evening's program.
The curtain rises,
revealing a huge Bechstein concert grand piano. Standing next to it
is KIRK DOUGLAS, grinning.
Our next selection, like the last one, is from the score of EYES WIDE
an arm dramatically, pauses, and brings one finger down hard on F# above
The single note,
grotesquely amplified, causes a visible shimmer as it leaves the speakers
and squeezes Kubrick's head in a sonic vise.
the same key again. PLONK.
And again, and
PLONK. PLONK PLONK.
PLONK PLONK PLONK. PLONK. PLONK PLONK. PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK.
PLONK PLONK PLONK. PLONK. PLONK PLONK.
grinds his teeth, loses bladder control, tries not to scream.
I'm cured! Praise god, I'm cured!
Like hell you are. I've been waiting forty years for this, you shit.
PLONK PLONK PLONK
PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK. PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK
PLONK PLONK PLONK. PLONK. PLONK. PLONK.
The last straw.
Frothing and oozing strange fluids, Kubrick breaks free, his mind gone.
As if possessed simultaneously by Jerry Lewis and the Archangel Gabriel,
he bounds around the room gesticulating and pleading.
Host du bie mir an avleh.
Gantseh megilleh! Hak
mir nit in farblodzhet kop!
Me ken brechen. Fardrai zich
dem finster un glitshik kop!
PLONK PLONK! PLONK
PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONK.
Shtup es in feinshmeker toches, shtik drek!
(Say goodnight, Gracie)
Kish mir in baitsim. Oy!
to, and hurls himself through, the nearest door, landing in a shower
of wood chips. He collects himself, looks around, and finds himself
INT. THE PEARLY
A pair of dark Semitic EYES stare up at us past heavy lids.
We TRACK BACK
and reveal a short chunky man who clearly sleeps in his clothes... it
is STANLEY KUBRICK.