Kubrick's Game Read online

  “Possibly,” said Shawn. “But how can we be sure this is the script he was referring to?”

  The script was covered in different titles. It must have been an early draft because there were dozens of hilarious brainstorms, including Dr. Doomsday or How to Start World War Three Without Really Trying, Don’t Knock the Bomb, and most humorously, Dr. Strangelove’s Secret Uses of Uranus, which Kubrick must have found especially amusing because it was the only title he circled.

  Then Shawn saw something beneath the circled title. “Wait... what does that say?”

  It was an address written in red ink: 150 E 50th St.

  “That looks like a New York address,” said Sami. “Wilson, can you—”

  “I’m way ahead of you.” Wilson searched for the address on his phone. “Here it is. The San Carlos Hotel in New York City!”

  They looked at one another.

  “That’s a bingo!” said Wilson in a thick German accent.

  “Inglorious Basterds,” Shawn and Sami said immediately.

  Sami gazed up in thought. “Are we sure this is the answer? He might have jotted down that address because he stayed there on a trip.”

  “True,” said Wilson. “But what’s the fun in that? You gotta admit it does fit.”

  “Well, if we do go to New York,” said Shawn, turning to Sami, “we might as well bring some film equipment and shoot the rest of your movie on location.”

  “But what about the Spartacus puzzle?” said Sami. “How does that play in?”

  “That was the second part of the puzzle,” said Shawn. “I have a feeling whatever we find at the San Carlos Hotel will give us our answer.”

  That night, Shawn walked into his dorm room and found his roommate already asleep in bed. He wasn’t sure if he’d seen him conscious at any time in weeks.

  He quietly opened his laptop and found a chat box open in his email, with a message from someone he didn’t recognize, using the screen name “Djacks.”

  Djacks: How was LACMA?

  Moonwatcher: Who is this?

  Djacks: You were there tonight. Am I right?

  Moonwatcher: Yes.

  Djacks: So were we.

  Moonwatcher: Who is this?

  Djacks: I have a feeling that we’ll meet again. Don’t know how. Don’t know when.

  Djacks was referencing the song, “We’ll Meet Again,” which plays over the final nuclear explosions in Dr. Strangelove. Did he know about the game? Had he found the same clue?

  Moonwatcher: In a NY state of mind?

  Djacks: I’m there right now. Hope you’ve booked your flight.

  Moonwatcher: How do you know who I am?

  Djacks: Curiosity killed the cat! : ) If I may offer one last hint... book yourself a Kinoton or a Christies.

  Moonwatcher: Why are you giving me hints?

  Djacks: All work and no play makes Djacks a dull boy. Have a nice night.

  The chat box closed.

  Shawn immediately emailed Sami and Wilson.

  To:/Wilson Devereaux, Samira Singh

  From:/Shawn Hagan

  We have to go to New York ASAP.

  Shawn gazed out the window of the 737, marveling at the sprawling California desert below. The bird’s-eye view of the world was stunning to him. He wondered how the others on the plane could sit so indifferently.

  Wilson sat beside Shawn in coach, streaming Dr. Strangelove on his iPad, listening with top-of-the-line headphones. He would occasionally giggle at something, drawing looks from the passengers with his distinctive high-pitched laugh.

  Sami sat in business class, creating a shot plan for The Confession in her notebook.

  Wilson had generously offered to fund the trip, buying three plane tickets—two in coach and one in business were all that remained—plus reserving an Airbnb in Greenwich Village.

  “What did you think?” asked Shawn when Wilson finished watching Dr. Strangelove and removed his headphones.

  “It was funny, but weird. I don’t get why people think it was one of the best movies ever made.”

  “I could explain to you why, but I might be talking the rest of the flight.”

  “Please don’t.”

  The long-haired man sitting next to Shawn and Wilson stood up and walked toward the bathroom.

  As soon as the guy entered the bathroom, Sami jogged down the aisle and plopped down in his seat. “Here, guys, I brought you some mixed nuts and a hot towel. You finish the movie?”

  “Yes,” said Wilson, rolling his eyes. “Overrated much?”

  Sami laughed. “In my experience, one must view Kubrick movies at least three times before they can truly appreciate them.”

  “If you say so. You know what I like? Movies that are good the first time you see them.”

  Shawn interjected, “Now that we’ve all seen the film, is there anything we think Kubrick might have incorporated into the puzzle?”

  “Well, what about CRM-114?” said Sami.

  Shawn groaned. “That is one of the most dubious Kubrick conspiracy theories out there.”

  “CRM-114?” said Wilson. “Wasn’t that the communication device in the plane that fed them the nuclear codes?”

  “That’s right,” said Sami. “The thing is, CRM-114 keeps popping up in Kubrick’s other movies, and nobody can seem to figure out why.”

  Shawn snickered. “Nobody can figure out why because there is no solid evidence showing he did it for any reason other than as a joking nod to Strangelove.”

  “But you said yourself Kubrick wasn’t a prankster,” said Wilson.

  Shawn felt agitated. “For whatever reason, Kubrick liked referencing his previous films in his new ones. He did it all the time.”

  “True,” said Sami, “but Kubrick went to great lengths to achieve authenticity in the plane. However, the CRM-114 is an imaginary device. Sure, they had comm devices to receive codes, but it wasn’t called a CRM-114. Why then did Kubrick choose that particular sequence?”

  Shawn shook his head. “You know your problem, Sami? You’re obsessed with answering ‘why.’ The ‘why’ question is, by its nature, unknowable because the only one who could answer it is Kubrick, and he’s dead.”

  “Is he?” Sami smiled mischievously, slipped out of the seat, and headed back to business class just as the long-haired man came up the aisle.

  “Can you believe that?” said Shawn. “She actually thinks this puzzle is going to end up revealing that Kubrick is still alive. She’s lucky she’s so pretty or I would really be merciless in shutting down her fanciful notions.”

  Wilson gaped at Shawn. “You think Sami is pretty?”

  “I mean... objectively speaking, it’s undeniable.”

  Wilson laughed. “If you say so!”

  “It’s not my opinion. It’s a fact! Her face has near-perfect symmetry.”

  “Excuse me,” said the long-haired man, “could you let me know now if I have any hope of falling back to sleep, or are you two going to be gossiping for the next three hours?”

  “Here,” said Wilson. “They’re noise-canceling. Invest in them.” He placed his headphones over the man’s head and turned back to Shawn.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” said Shawn, fidgeting.

  “Tell me more about Sami’s symmetry, you poet.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You remember she’s our TA, right? You dirty dog.”

  “I am not!”

  “Hey, love knows no boundaries. I ain’t judging. My advice would be to bust a move on that before someone else beats you to it.”

  “She’s our friend. I don’t want to mess that up. Besides, girls like that don’t like me. In fact, I don’t think a girl has ever liked me.”

  Wilson’s face turned serious. He put his hand on the back of Shawn’s neck and pulled him in nose-to-nose.

  “Brother, I’m gonna ask you something, and you need to be honest with me. Are you still a virgin?”

  “Yes,” said Shawn without hesitati
on. “Is it so hard to believe?”

  “You’re how old? Twenty?”

  “Yes.”

  “When do you turn twenty-one?”

  “Next week.”

  “Next week!” Wilson released his grip, leaned back, and nodded his head slowly. “My friend, I have good news. I am going to get you laid on your twenty-first birthday.”

  “But I—”

  “Shh! Not another word.”

  “Wilson, look at me. What chance do I have with anybody? I’m a hundred twenty pounds and I only talk about movies.”

  “Sami likes to talk about movies.”

  “Yeah, she does.”

  “And so do lots of girls. Just don’t freak them out with mundane facts.”

  “But the facts are what are most interesting.”

  “No, they’re not! I will mold you into a ladykiller if it kills me!”

  “You sounded just like Drill Sergeant Hartman from Full Metal Jacket just then.”

  “Stop it! None of that flies any longer.”

  The long-haired man tossed the headphones back into Wilson’s lap. “Noise-canceling, my ass.”

  The trio split a cab into the city, the rush hour traffic making it a ninety-minute drive from JFK to their room on Sixth and Bleecker. They used the time to finalize their strategy.

  “Before we speak to the concierge at the San Carlos Hotel, we need to be absolutely sure of what we’re doing,” said Shawn. “One wrong move could end our whole pursuit.”

  “If the pursuit is even real,” said Wilson.

  “Enough with the negativity,” said Sami. “That’s an order from your director.”

  “You think what we’re doing is off base?” said Shawn.

  “I sense a classic bait-and-switch coming,” said Wilson. “As soon as it seems we’re about to stumble on the answer, someone is going to say: All you have to do is wire five hundred dollars to this account number and Kubrick’s prize will be yours! Odds are it’s a scam. You watch.”

  Shawn had to admit Wilson’s theory was plausible. What was more likely: that Stanley Kubrick created a game to be played by his most devoted fans fifteen years after his death, or that a scammer, perhaps a brilliant, obsessed geek, created the whole thing to play off the hopeful optimism of naïve students like Shawn?

  They had the entire Friday afternoon and evening to investigate the Kubrick puzzle, but they set aside Saturday for prepping and shooting The Confession. Raul was flying in the next day on Sami’s dime, which was possible thanks to Shawn’s lighting shortcuts and because they were shooting no-permit, guerilla-style, avoiding the usual location fees.

  They dropped off their film equipment and luggage inside the Airbnb, and zipped uptown in a cab to the San Carlos Hotel in the heart of Midtown.

  “Let’s go through the plan one last time,” said Shawn. “Kubrick’s message said: 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.” He paused. “So we all agree that we go straight to the concierge, yes?”

  Sami and Wilson nodded.

  “And then what?” said Shawn.

  “We ask the concierge for the package,” said Sami.

  “Okay,” said Wilson, “but under whose name would it be? The message seems to indicate that it would be under Kubrick’s name, right?”

  Sami seemed unconvinced. “But that’s not really like Kubrick, is it? If a script were left behind, Kubrick wouldn’t want it to be obvious that it was one of his projects. He would have used a fake name.”

  “You’re right,” said Shawn. “I think the second part of the puzzle is the solution. It was left under the name Spartacus.”

  They arrived at the San Carlos Hotel and dashed into the lobby, wasting no time to admire the golden décor or the gleaming marble floor.

  The concierge was a thin, pale man with closely cropped hair. His nametag read Scott. “Welcome to the San Carlos Hotel. Are you checking in?” He spoke with an eloquent British accent, as almost like an actor preparing for a role.

  Shawn took the initiative and stepped forward. “No, we’re not checking in. We’re here to pick up a package.”

  “Certainly. Under what name?”

  “Spar—” Shawn stopped himself as a thought raced through his head. Kubrick had disavowed Spartacus as a directing credit. It was Universal’s movie, not his. He thought back to the script at LACMA. The title that was circled above the hotel’s address was Dr. Strangelove’s Secret of Uranus.

  Shawn looked up and said confidently, “Is there a package for a Dr. Strangelove?”

  Sami grimaced and punched him in the arm.

  The concierge smirked. “Yes, we do have a package for a Dr. Strangelove. Once again.”

  Shawn beamed.

  Wilson high-fived him. “Yes! I knew it!”

  But then Shawn asked, “Why did you say ‘once again’?”

  “Well, we’d been holding this package in our storage room for over fifteen years under strict orders, but nobody ever came to pick it up. Now you’re the third group to ask for it this week.”

  “The third group?” Sami blurted.

  “That’s right,” said the concierge. “But if I may say so, you’re by far the best-looking group of them all.”

  “Wait,” said Shawn, ignoring the strange comment. “If we’re the third group, why do you still have the package?”

  “I’m afraid that’s all the information I am authorized to divulge at this time. Just a moment.”

  Scott went into the back room and returned with a heavily-taped rectangular cardboard box, about two feet long and three feet wide. The words Fragile and This Way Up were stamped in red all over it.

  Shawn examined the package. While the cardboard seemed old and the stamps were fading, the thick tape that held it together appeared new.

  They carried the light box to a sofa in the lobby.

  Sami rubbed Shawn’s arm where she had punched him. “Sorry about that. Good call changing the name.”

  “Well,” said Shawn. “What should we do with it?”

  “What do you mean, what should we do with it?” said Wilson. “Tear it open right now!”

  Using borrowed scissors from the front desk, Shawn carefully cut along the edge of the box.

  “It looks like a canister,” said Sami.

  Shawn pulled out what appeared to be a tin film reel canister with a piece of masking tape on the face labeled: Q’s Project.

  The canister wasn’t sealed shut.

  “Should I?” said Shawn.

  “Go for it,” said Sami.

  Shawn twisted off the lid. Inside was what Shawn estimated to be about five minutes of 35mm film footage containing both visual and audio track.

  Shawn held the first foot of film to the light as Wilson and Sami stood close and looked with him.

  It was all black. He went through the next few feet. Also black.

  “Hmm,” said Shawn. “You think this is three minutes of blackness?”

  “If it were, it would be one funny hoax,” said Wilson. “Just like I said. I bet the audio is nothing but laughter.”

  “I think Kubrick was just being smart. If someone found the film and looked at it and saw something they weren’t meant to see, it could ruin everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of this footage is black, and the clue comes in at the end. Now we just need to find a projector.”

  With the package in hand, they rushed outside. None of them knew the subway system well, so they hailed a cab.

  Shawn had planned ahead from the clue Djacks gave to him about booking a Kinoton or Christies—each a brand of projectors. He had wanted to make sure the hint was accurate before telling Wilson and Sami.

  “Take us to the Museum of the Moving Image in Astoria,” said Shawn to the cabbie. Then he turned to Sami and Wilson. “They have every projector ever made, and more importantly, people who know how to use them. One wro
ng move and the film could get damaged or even burn up. Sami, would you please call the museum and reserve a projection room? A female voice will sound more trustworthy for a last-minute request at this hour.”

  “Man, you have thought this out way more than I have,” said Wilson.

  After some consideration about what to say, Sami called the museum. She spoke urgently and was able to get the curator of the museum on the phone. She explained that she’d found what she believed to be an important piece of film history that would be of great interest for him to see. She tried to be as vague as possible to pique his interest.

  The curator eventually agreed that they could bring it to the museum, and if it looked like something interesting, he would consider projecting it for them that night.

  Success!

  “This is clearly a test from Kubrick,” said Shawn. “He didn’t want to make it easy by enclosing a DVD. He wanted to impart his passion for the purity of film.”

  The museum was just three miles away in Astoria. Unfortunately, they had to battle Friday rush hour. Crossing the Queensboro Bridge took over an hour, and the museum would close at 8:00 p.m. Despite the driver’s efforts, they arrived at the modern white complex at 8:33 p.m.

  Each of the glass entry doors was locked.

  They tried calling again, but the museum’s phone line went to a recorded after-hours message. They banged on the glass and called out, “Hello! Anybody in there?” No answer.

  “Now what?” said Wilson.

  “Try again tomorrow,” said Shawn.

  “No,” said Sami. “This has to happen tonight. We need the full day tomorrow to finish shooting.”

  Then, a tall man in a charcoal suit with gray hair and sharp features walked down the hallway inside the museum. They started banging on the glass again, and the man stopped and approached them with a harsh look on his face.

  “We’re closed. Come back during the hours posted.”

  “Are you Herbert Greenwald?” asked Sami.

  “Yes.”

  “We spoke earlier.” She held up the film canister. “We just need a few minutes to watch this footage.”

  “A few minutes? Do you have any idea how long it will take just to warm up the projector?”