Kubrick's Game Read online

  Mascaro stared at Shawn in silence, waiting for him to speak.

  Shawn’s head spun. How much should he reveal? Was Mascaro to be trusted? Were his discoveries about Q’s identity even on the right track? The Spartacus film seemed to be a dead end.

  Mascaro broke the silence by asking, “Do you like Italian food?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What is your favorite?”

  An uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of Shawn’s stomach as Mascaro flashed his unconvincing smile at him. He furrowed his brow and replied, “Well, I certainly don’t like snails or oysters, sir.”

  Mascaro burst into laughter. “You still do not trust me, do you?”

  Shawn shrugged.

  “Perhaps I have not earned it yet,” said Mascaro. “Even though I saved you from the wrath of the Medusa who slithers in the dean’s office and have offered to pay for all the damages you have amassed.”

  “I didn’t ask you to pay for anything. How can you even afford to? Your films haven’t turned a profit in twenty years.”

  “It is no secret that I come from a wealthy family. You were not aware of this?”

  “No. What do they do?”

  “Oh, a little of this, a little of that, if you catch my meaning.”

  Shawn thought for a moment. “You mean the mafia?”

  Mascaro seemed taken aback by Shawn’s bluntness. “I mean construction, refineries, restaurants—many kinds of businesses. I have no need to work, but I teach for the passion of the art.”

  “How generous of you.”

  “I tell you because I see the same passion in you! But what you do not have are the connections in the film world, si? What someone like you needs is a producer with deep pockets who takes risks on new talent.”

  “You’re saying you want to be my producer?”

  “I suppose that all depends. I am anxious to hear what you have found. You bring up snails and oysters, so... perhaps something about Spartacus?”

  Shawn exhaled deeply, unsure if he had taken a single breath since he entered the office. Here he was being offered an amazing deal for a small bit of information, but his gut told him to keep his mouth shut. Mascaro had practically admitted being connected to the mafia, and Shawn had seen enough films to know it didn’t end well for those who associated in such circles.

  On the other hand, the trail had been a dead end, and Mascaro was offering to bail him out of a lot of trouble. Shawn’s family could never pay for the damages. They would likely pull him out of school and make him work it off. Could he let this chance slip away?

  He squeezed the arms of his chair and forced the words out. “The photo... was not the original. It was doctored.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. The news vendor is pointing to an image of the Gainsborough portrait from Lolita instead of a newspaper. That was the key to realizing Follow me to Q’s Identity was a reference to Lolita.”

  Mascaro pulled out the original photo and examined it. “That’s incredible!”

  “I assumed that Q was a reference to Clare Quilty in Lolita,” Shawn continued. “Quilty’s first line is ‘I am Spartacus,’ so I believe that the answer to the riddle of Q’s identity is Spartacus.”

  Shawn decided not to tell Mascaro that Wilson and Sami were helping him with the puzzle—not because he wanted sole credit, but to protect them.

  “Is that it?”

  “I watched Spartacus twice, but found nothing useful. I’ve reached a dead end. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “No, Shawn, you are not crazy at all. In fact, you are correct. I came up with the same answer as you. However, there is one detail you missed about the photo.”

  “What?”

  “Look closely.”

  Shawn looked over every inch of the image. He didn’t see anything else that was different.

  “You are searching too deeply,” said Mascaro. “Look to the surface.”

  That’s when Shawn saw it: two parallel grooves at the top. “There was something paper-clipped to the photo.”

  “Aha!” said Mascaro. “Now you are thinking like a detective.”

  “You held back the full message. Why?”

  “This was a test. I needed to know that you had the capacity for a puzzle of this nature. You have earned this next piece of information. It is the part I need help with. It seems to be a random message Kubrick left to an assistant, but I cannot determine the hidden meaning.”

  Mascaro reached into his desk and handed Shawn a small card with a handwritten message on it, which again appeared to be in Kubrick’s handwriting:

  Ivan, I loved my stay at the strange hotel in New York last summer. However, I believe I left a script behind. Please tell the concierge to hold it for me and to call you when it’s found.

  “I can’t believe you hid this from me,” Shawn said.

  “Well, perhaps you and your two friends can come up with something.”

  Shawn jerked his head up. “How did you know about my friends?”

  “What does it matter?” Mascaro reached over and snagged the card back from Shawn. “It seems we were both hiding something, yes?”

  Shawn got up to leave.

  “Before you go,” said Mascaro, “there is something else you should know. We were not the only film school to receive Kubrick’s package. I have been informed that the same package was received at NYU, AFI, and USC. Maybe others.”

  “That’s proof that the game is real!”

  “My sources tell me the schools are also investigating the photo’s meaning. This is why we must stay united.”

  An alarm beeped on Mascaro’s desk.

  “Ah, time for class.”

  Shawn entered the movie theater behind Mascaro. He found Wilson in the crowd and, without time to explain what had transpired, passed him a note to text Sami to meet up for lunch at The Bomb Shelter.

  “What? You broke the camera!” Sami fumed at Shawn as they set their lunch trays down on an outdoor table at The Bomb Shelter, the north campus cafeteria that required one to descend into an underground bunker to place an order.

  “I did,” said Shawn. “It slipped.”

  “Jesus, Shawn, it’s in my name! That means I’m financially responsible.”

  Shawn quickly explained that Mascaro was covering the costs.

  Sami calmed down, but still opened her purse and popped a pill. “Excuse me... this is so I don’t have a panic attack.”

  “If it makes you feel better, the footage looks amazing.” Shawn slid the SD card across the table to her.

  Wilson plopped down in the seat between them, already agitated. “Shawn! Where the hell have you been? I was texting you all night.”

  “UCLA jail. That’s where I’ve been.”

  “UCLA has a jail?”

  Shawn brought Wilson and Sami up to speed on the previous night’s events, leading to being bailed out by Mascaro, in exchange for continued help in solving Kubrick’s game.

  “Wow, so Mascaro really thinks there’s a game going too?”

  “He seems more sure of it than any of us. Plus, there’s a new piece of the puzzle we need to discuss as soon as possible.”

  Shawn noticed several students at surrounding tables giving him dirty looks.

  Wilson noticed as well, checked his iPad, and offered a deep sigh. “Looks like you’re public enemy number one. Check it.”

  Wilson showed Shawn the home page of the Daily Bruin on his tablet. The headline read, “Film student breaks nose off Joe Bruin.” Shawn’s student ID photo appeared beside the article.

  Shawn grew more uncomfortable as the whispers and points in his direction accumulated. “It was an accident!” he shouted, satisfying no one and startling many.

  “Calm down,” Wilson said. “Why don’t you tell us about the new piece of information?”

  “Before I get to that, you should know that Mascaro says other schools also received the package. We’re not the only ones trying to solve this puzzle.” He pul
led out a pen and paper and wrote down the note exactly as he recalled it from his photographic memory.

  Ivan, I loved my stay at the strange hotel in New York last summer. However, I believe I left a script behind. Please tell the concierge to hold it for me and to call you when it’s found.

  “First question,” said Wilson. “Who the heck is Ivan?”

  “Ivan is most likely referring to Ivan Letta, Kubrick’s long-time personal assistant, who also acted in several of his films.”

  Sami added, “If it was paper-clipped to the photo, that means it was on top. It comes first. Maybe that’s why we’re stuck on Spartacus.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Shawn. “Do you have any first impressions?”

  “I do,” said Sami. “The phrase ‘I loved staying at that strange hotel’ is an odd choice of words, particularly ‘loved’ and ‘strange,’ since that’s the title of one of his most famous films.”

  “Dr. Strangelove,” said Wilson.

  “Exactly,” said Sami. “He could be pointing us to that film. But the next part is even stranger. ‘I believe I left a script behind. Please tell the concierge to hold it for me and to call you when it’s found.’”

  Wilson scrunched up his eyes and nose. “What’s so strange about that?”

  Shawn answered. “The circumstance he is describing is so unlikely, it must be a clue. Kubrick was obsessive about the secrecy of his scripts. He was known to make studio chiefs and actors visit his estate in England to read his finished drafts, but they weren’t allowed to leave the grounds with the script and no copies were ever circulated. So when he nonchalantly says he left a script behind, that’s all but impossible.”

  Sami nodded. “I agree. My instinct says the answer to this riddle has something to do with Dr. Strangelove and a hotel in New York.”

  “Wasn’t Kubrick from New York?” asked Wilson.

  “Yes,” said Shawn. “He grew up in the Bronx, but also lived for a time in Greenwich Village, where he was a chess hustler in Washington Square Park.”

  “But he lived most of his life in England,” said Sami. “He was there since the early sixties and rarely traveled to the United States.”

  “It’s difficult when you’re afraid to fly,” said Shawn. “However, he did run an office in upstate New York, where a team of readers was charged with finding him new projects. They even operated under a fake name: Empyrean Films. The craziest part was that many of them didn’t know they were working for Kubrick. Only the top people in the company reported back to Stanley. The others were kept in the dark, lest they let any detail slip out about the next Kubrick project.”

  “Hold on. Let me check something.” Wilson did a quick Google search on his iPad. “Damn, no Strangelove Hotel in New York, and also no Spartacus Hotel. I thought Spartacus might be the answer to the strange hotel he referred to.”

  Sami lifted her head. “Do you guys think it’s an odd coincidence that this package was received at almost the same exact time that the Kubrick LACMA exhibit is opening?”

  “Mascaro thought the package was meant to be part of the exhibition,” said Shawn.

  “What exhibition?” asked Wilson.

  “LACMA is holding an exhibition on Stanley Kubrick,” said Sami. “Tomorrow is the grand opening.”

  “I got my ticket for the opening months ago,” said Shawn.

  Sami nodded. “So did I.”

  “What’s supposed to be exhibited?” asked Wilson. “Are they... like... screening his films or something?”

  “Most of the exhibits have been kept secret,” said Shawn. “All we know is that he is supposed to have saved certain props and memorabilia specifically for this exhibition.”

  “My guess,” said Sami, “is that we may find some clues there.”

  “Well, then, I’m definitely going with you,” said Wilson.

  “Sorry,” said Shawn. “It’s completely sold out.”

  “Excuse me,” said Wilson. “Do you not see this face? It is famous. In Los Angeles, it’s my ticket into anything.”

  “What do you mean I can’t get in? Do you not recognize me?”

  “No sir. Should I?”

  Shawn and Sami stood next to Wilson at the entrance, barely able to contain their laughter.

  “I’m Wilson Devereaux, from Slice of Cheese, Hold the Ghosts.”

  The ticket-taker shook his head.

  “Fiiine. I’ll do it. ‘Holy cheesy peperoni!’” Wilson grinned.

  “Sir, if you’re hungry, there’s a café across the concourse.”

  Shawn and Sami left Wilson, who was now demanding to speak with management, and entered the museum.

  The exhibit was even more spectacular than they had imagined. In the main hall, a wall thirty feet high and fifty feet long was covered with original movie posters in dozens of languages, from all of Kubrick’s films.

  Encased in glass was Kubrick’s personal collection of cameras and lenses.

  Shawn stared intently at those. What I wouldn’t give to shoot just a minute of film with one.

  He studied each lens, committing their makes and models to memory, and viewed the photograph collection behind them, many of which showed Kubrick’s earliest works as a photographer for Look magazine.

  Each room was dedicated to a different Kubrick film and held incredible treasures never before seen by the public—the original “Star Child” model from 2001, a miniaturized version of the “Jupiter room” from the same film, the original costumes from A Clockwork Orange, the typewriter from The Shining, the masks from Eyes Wide Shut, and even Stanley’s personal chessboard.

  Perhaps most fascinating to Shawn were the rooms dedicated to the films that Kubrick worked exhaustively on, sometimes for years, which never got made. There was a wall full of photographic research and script notes for a holocaust film that never was: The Aryan Papers AKA Wartime Lies.

  Then, the coup de grace: the Napoleon room. Kubrick had intended a biopic of Napoleon to be his follow-up to A Clockwork Orange. A bookshelf contained hundreds of books written about Napoleon—Kubrick claimed to have read all of them. There was a mountain of photographed locations all over Europe where scenes could be shot. Most astonishing was the card catalogue that his researchers had compiled detailing every single day of Napoleon’s life. Visitors were allowed to open the drawers and flip through each card, seeing with their own eyes this monument to obsession, passion, and loss.

  Kubrick claimed it would be “the greatest movie ever made,” but the studio had deemed it too risky and pulled the plug. The greatest movie ever made became known as “the greatest movie never made.”

  Kubrick instead made the more modestly budgeted period piece, Barry Lyndon. While some, like Martin Scorsese, deemed it their favorite of all Kubrick’s films, most had argued that his heart didn’t seem to be in it.

  “Shawn!” Sami beckoned, holding up her phone. “Wilson just texted. He still can’t get in.”

  “Text him back, ‘I told you so.’”

  “Don’t be rude. There must be another way in.”

  “Ah, Mr. Hagan and Ms. Singh. Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

  They turned just as Mascaro strolled over and inserted himself between them.

  “Hello, professor,” said Sami. “I could say the same for you.”

  “Wait,” said Shawn to Mascaro. “I thought you only taught undergrad classes. How do you two—”

  “Professor Mascaro is the advisor for my critical thesis.”

  “And I am anxiously awaiting some pages. Time is running short.”

  “As soon as I finish editing my film, professor.”

  “And, Mr. Hagan... found anything interesting?”

  “So far I haven’t found anything not interesting.”

  “Ha! Why am I not surprised to hear this? I personally enjoyed the framed shooting scripts. The handwritten notes in the margins reveal how he decided to shoot each scene to best convey the deeper meanings between the lines.” Mascaro pau
sed and glanced around. “Where is your other friend?”

  “He’s outside. Didn’t have a ticket.”

  “Che rabbia! I will take care of this. Arrivaderci.”

  “Are you leaving, professor?”

  “Si. I saw the sneak preview last night. I came back tonight for the paparazzi.” Mascaro sauntered away.

  Shawn turned to Sami. “Why didn’t you tell me he was your advisor?”

  “I didn’t want you to keep things from me because you thought I was a spy or something.”

  Sami’s trustworthiness was something he never thought he’d have to question. As her advisor, Mascaro could easily sway the faculty into giving a failing grade to Sami’s thesis. Would he hold that over her in exchange for information? Shawn was already essentially being blackmailed by Mascaro.

  “Hey, nerds, look who’s here!”

  “Wilson! Did Mascaro get you in?” said Sami.

  “He gave me his used ticket, so I went to the back entrance. The guard was about to turn me away since I had no hand stamp, but guess what? She recognized the face. I threw her the charm and here I am.”

  They took in the rest of the museum, looking for any clue related to the puzzle. Finally, they came to the Dr. Strangelove room.

  Based on the novel Red Alert, Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb was considered to be Kubrick’s first true masterpiece. It was one of the great comedies, one of the great suspense films, and one of the great war films all in one. Released in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the U.S. and Soviet Union teetered on the precipice of destruction, its satirical lampooning of the horror and insanity of nuclear war offered the catharsis the nation craved, and it was a huge hit.

  “Guys, get over here!” Wilson called out. “You have to see this.”

  Inside a glass display was the original shooting script of Dr. Strangelove.

  Shawn pulled Kubrick’s message from his pocket.

  Ivan, I loved my stay at the strange hotel in New York last summer. However, I believe I left a script behind. Please tell the concierge to hold it for me and to call you when it’s found.

  Sami postulated, “Do you think Kubrick was referring to an actual script of Dr. Strangelove?”