Eyes Wide Shut

Neither Nicole Kidman’s tits nor countless scads of other gratuitous nudity are worth the price or time it takes to sit through Eyes Wide Shut. This poorly written excuse for movie in all its surrealistic non-glory plays more like a bad Saturday Night Live skit or a Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman episode.

Tom Cruise takes an ambiguous statement made by his wife (played by Kidman… big stretch, eh), to mean that she had a torrid one-nighter with GI Joe. Thrown aback, Cruise decides to even things up by taking a day or two out of his busy schedule to chase some tail. Tom meanders his way through an almost-but- not-quite eerie sequence of events that contain elements of Mardi Gras, The Shining and Pretty Woman while being stalked by fog and a laughably inane piano. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG.

I have three theories. One: Stanley Kubrick was turning finally into a dirty old man and just wanted to make a movie where he could stand around surrounded by some young quiff all day, so he did. Two: Stanley Kubrick said to his producers, “let’s make the stupidest movie in the world and then sit back and laugh our asses off at how seriously some dumbass pretentious bastards will take it.” Three: Stanley Kubrick got half way through the edit of this movie, saw how bad it was and killed himself. I am leaning toward the latter.

I have had more than one person try to explain to me how “brilliant” Eyes Wide Shut is and how I’d grasp all its intricacies if I’d read the book. I’ll just say this: if a movie can’t stand on its own, it probably shouldn’t be made. If a piano chases Tom Cruise down the street but he doesn’t hear it… aghh… nevermind. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG.

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