Stanley Kubrick's movie is very different from the book--why is that? This is one of those rare instances where both the movie and the book are enjoyable in their own ways and for different reasons. King's book is, like most of his writing, very 'human'--it's driven by its characters and our sympathy, as readers, to their plight. Kubrick's movie is more nihilistic. It is surreal and irrational and very creepy. I've wonder, every time I watch the movie, how Kubrick was able to create such a vision from King's text. I find this image of Kubrick's notes in King's book very interesting... What do you think?
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“I had that dream again last night,” he told his grandmother.
“That’s nice,” she mumbled from the couch. He paced the living room jaggedly, one end to the other and back again. “The door creaks open and...there’s something inside...” He sniffed, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what it is. I’m terrified. I can’t see a thing.” He clenched and unclenched his hands before him. His grandmother’s head began to nod forward; she began to breathe shallowly, a slow series of snorts. “I am sleeping in the spare bedroom at the end of the hall...and it’s dark and the shadows slither and pool amongst the crevasses and corners like swamp water...” His grandmother snores, disinterested, beginning to sleep. “Like most nightmares, I’m completely petrified, unable to do anything other than watch the vine-tentacle-thing emerge from the dark...creeping towards me...and I can’t move...something glistens...I’m feverish...closer and closer...” Another snort, and his grandmother began to make a strange choking sound, full of phlegm, that Garty began to realize, only slowly, was laughter. For the first time, there was silence in the car as Hector floored the car through the neighborhood. When he pulled in front of Garty’s grandmother’s house, he killed the engine and turned to Garty. His eyes were watery and serious. “We had a good time, didn’t we? Keep your eyes open. I’ll call you as soon as I can. Take these, don’t worry about the money.” He pushed a small baggy of pills into Garty’s hands.
“Wow, uh, thanks,” Garty said, stepping out of the car. “Eyes open,” Hector said and the car roared away. Garty stood watching the battered little car grind around the corner and out of sight, leaving a hanging cloud of exhaust at the end of the street. Garty shook his head. He looked at the baggie of white pills in his hand: he counted eleven of them. He looked around, blinking. His grandmother’s house was at the dead end of the street; beyond that, there were trees and shrubs and the street descended into a drainage ditch. There was no one in sight. Somewhere distantly birds cawed, flailing in the trees. His friend was losing it. Whatever Hector had intended to show him, Garty thought, probably didn’t exist. He sighed and turned towards his grandmother’s house. He dug the key from his pocket and began up the cobblestone walkway through the yard. To his right, the bushes were overgrown, spilling over and around the crumbling cinderblock wall. The cat jumped up, appearing at the top of wall, and sat staring at him. He remembered Hector asking him if he’d seen a cat as his face twitched and his lip bled. He walked up to the front door, slipped the key into the lock, and turned the knob. He looked behind him and the cat had swiveled to track his progress, its eyes intelligent, its mouth half-open as if panting, showing him its pointed teeth. I'm happy where my writing is taking me. This one is going to be a crazy, hellish ride to the end! Read a little right here: What's in the Jar? He had, of course, dropped acid many times since then and knew he had nothing to fear. He knew what he was getting himself into. He’d planned to leave the rave, but would stay one more night. He stood in the center of the tent and could feel the canvas walls breathing in and out. The flaps of the tent opened with a sudden gust of breath, then flopped to the ground like etherized tongues, leaving a gaping crevasse into a churning blackness. This was different. Somewhere outside the tent, a wailing melody like wind whipping through a pipe organ droned. He felt, suddenly, on the threshold of a new world, one hidden at an infinite distance; yet now, only steps away. The thought made Garty’s heart begin to race. Had the rumors been true? Could this really and truly be a gateway he now stood before? Could he pass through it and stand in the dark jungle on the other side? But something was wrong. As the wailing melody grew louder--and he began to question what sort of trouble he’d stumbled into--a deep, unsettling fear grew inside him. What had he been told? There’d been admonishments. Talk of dangers, of sights best left unseen. The melody was behind him now and he turned and the tent was a vast open expanse; he could no longer see the canvas flap that was the back of his tent, only dirt and dimness. He felt very small. The light outside seemed to flicker, like candlelight, and there were large things moving, casting shadows on the canvas wall closest to him. He bent and picked up the jar sitting in the sand, instinctively aware it was somehow important to what was now happening--to where he was--that if the world began to bend and grow, he might lose it, and in doing so lose his way home. “It once belonged to my grandfather.” Garty spun around, just as a figure emerged from the shadows of the tent opening. It stood, looking at him calmly--draped in robes like wriggling mist, hairless head brushing the tent’s ceiling; skin pale, bluish. Its voice was wise and level, and seemed, to Garty, somehow ominous, like a judge who, without emotion or remorse, might pass a death sentence on a horrified and innocent man. “A collectable, that’s all it really is now. Nothing but another trinket to mark the passing of history.” The observer smiled. “A simple vessel for the last of the Etho, which I finally have within my grasp.” “The what?” “The shadow. The Etho. The bubbling muck dredged from the depths, from the first ages of my world.” Garty looked down at the jar; the liquid within seemed to writhe, tinged an iridescent green; the polished interior shimmered; for a moment, he thought he could see faces--half-formed and wailing--sloshing about in the bottom. “It has some amazing properties. One of which is to break the surface of the real, to allow members of The Order, of which I am a member, to reach your world. It is not the only means we have, of course, but most of our methods are lost to us now, their purveyors either dead or dying. There were once those with innate abilities, if they could be trained properly, if they had the discipline...” “What do you want with me?” Garty interrupted. The observer stopped, turning his eyes to Garty. He smiled again. “My apologies. I forget where I am sometimes. Are you ready?” “For what?” “You did it in ignorance?” the observer asked. “Using the Etho?” “I guess.” “It’s happened before,” the observer sighed. “But you’ll have to come with me. We have places for people like you.” “What sort of places?” “Oh, it’ll be dark, but there’s no point resisting.” The observer stepped aside. The opening in the tent gaped, the darkness filled with movement, things that wriggled just outside the feeble reach of the light. “And you can’t be allowed to keep the jar, I’m afraid.” The observer stepped forward, reaching his hand out. “I’ve waited too long to finally hold my grandfather’s jar, to have the power of the Etho at my disposal.” Garty took a step backwards. “Wait--” He tried to think what to do. His mind was a dull sludge inside his skull. This was a nightmare. There had to be a way to wake himself, to sober himself from this horrible trip. The observer grinned at him. “It’ll be hard for you at first, but once your sanity breaks, once the fragile shell of your skull cracks and the gray yolk leaks between your ears..." He shrugged. "You’ll find a way to cope; they always do.” “No,” Garty said. “Please.” He glanced behind him, but there was nothing back that way. There was nowhere for him to run. He was backed into a corner. He shook his head, blinked furiously, trying to awaken. |
"Unrelenting Horror"- FREE!An award-winning author known for blending elements of fantasy with horror in his surreal, literary style. Author of WITHIN, A GAME FOR GODS and VIOLENT HEARTS.
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