Remember The Shining?!

The release of Doctor Sleep was a revealing social experiment of sorts. Cinephiles and movie critics were forced to finally articulate why they consider The Shining to be a great movie after decades of never having to. Back in 1980 it was met with pretty unanimous derision, then in standard Kubrick fashion the pendulum swung in the extreme opposite direction and everyone declared the movie brilliant and nobody asked why. And that was that; everyone just agreed that Kubrick was granted immunity from hot takes. I’ve personally seen the movie in theaters multiple times - as part of various ‘anniversary’ and Halloween screenings - and after watching it with a sizable portion of the general moviegoing public I can tell you, definitively, that the verdict is anything but unanimous. Based on those screenings, I’d say a more apt description of the movie’s reception is... *drumroll*... mixed. 

Obviously, the task of reviewing a sequel (especially if it’s a sequel to a classic film) requires the reviewer to explain why the original was so awesome (or not so awesome) to begin with. This, it turns out, was a challenge many people were unprepared for when it came time to explain why The Shining was awesome (and why Doctor Sleep maybe wasn’t).

Before 2019, the idea of nitpicking The Shining seemed laughably irrelevant because... well, c’mon. That’s not to say I never had problems with it. There just never arose a scenario which called for me to air them out. 

Now, thanks to Mike Flanagan, I have to. 

In talking to people about Sleep, you get essentially two impressions: some were disappointed that the movie couldn’t live up to Kubrick’s direction, and others were pleasantly surprised that it improved upon Kubrick’s and Johnson’s (and King’s) writing. I reside in both camps.

As effective as The Shining is, I’ve never felt any connection to its characters, and that’s okay! I’m not the first person to describe the film - and a number of Kubrick’s others - as emotionally ‘cold,’ but I probably am one of the few who doesn’t use that descriptor derogatorily. Some movies don’t need a warm, mushy center - horror movies least of all. It’s a visually-driven film (it’s a Kubrick film) and that’s a hard argument to beat -- we are talking about cinema, after all. But the thing is: that argument doesn’t necessarily have to be “beat” because this isn’t about whether or not one movie is better than the other. Rather, this is about whether or not Doctor Sleep earns the right to call itself a necessary sequel to Kubrick’s classic, and that can’t just be based on one thing. 

While the original novel is dense with melodrama and mawkishness, Kubrick’s adaptation is more of a reserved, cerebral labyrinth in which the characters are sort of incidental (Stephen King considers this to be the fundamental flaw in the film). With that incongruity in mind, a sequel that intends to honor both visions has to be looked at through two lenses.

 It’s true: Doctor Sleep is, indeed, a far cry from the visual prowess of the original. It’s too reliant on less-than-exceptional CGI and the whole movie has a completely baffling blueish-green filter over it. It was shot with one of those digital ‘imitation 35mm’ cameras and you can really tell. 

That part of this debate can’t (and shouldn’t!) be ignored.

But on the ‘story’ side of things, who can’t appreciate what secrets Flanagan doesn’t give away? That is, any of them.  On the list of things I’d normally predict to see in a Shining sequel, at the very top would be: questions answered. “Why was Jack in that picture?” “Who is Delbert Grady?” “Who is Charles Grady?” “What happened in room 237?” Et al.  My prediction, it turns out, would’ve been wrong.

And as far as King’s original vision is concerned: who knew that Danny, Wendy, and Dick Hallorann could actually be...interesting?  I’ve read the novel of The Shining - a couple times actually, because a lot of it is quite forgettable - and whine as King might about Kubrick’s interpretation of the material, even a faithful adaptation wouldn’t’ve gotten me invested in the interior lives of its characters. Now, to be fair to King, I haven’t read Doctor Sleep, so I don’t know if he got better at character development since 1977 (it’s possible) or if Mike Flanagan is simply blessed with the ability to faithfully adapt him without falling victim to his weaknesses (this seems more likely). 

I consider Sleep to be a sibling of the original more than a traditional sequel. It may not be as handsome as its older brother, but it makes better conversation. This is simultaneously its biggest strength and its biggest weakness: the most necessary sequels are ones that reimagine their source material, and consequently, Sleep might not appeal to many who dug the original.  

But Flanagan isn’t just adapting King here - he’s also adapting Kubrick. And that’s where things get...weird. But also great! 

I don’t know how anyone else felt about the heartbeat SFX from the room 237 scene being turned into the “shining sound” but for me, speaking in purely subjective terms, there are few things in art as evocative as a disembodied heartbeat - the decision to incorporate one into Jacob’s Ladder, Predator, The Dark Side of the Moon, and, indeed, The Shining contributes to my love for each. Whose is it? Is it somebody’s or is it the figurative (or literal?) beating heart of this mysterious, extradimensional force?  If we’re dealing in fan service here then this is exactly what I want: Mike Flanagan appropriated my favorite component of my favorite scene of the original film and utilized it the way I wish Stanley had: as an integral structural device (and, by extension, a retrofitted addition to the mythology) rather than merely a one-off stylistic choice. There’s no such thing as too much frosting. 

And speaking of Flanagan overstepping Stanley:

I prefer every single one of Flanagan’s re-casting choices over the originals.

The original cast is considered iconic and aside from Nicholson I don’t really know why. I guess if the movie you’re in is iconic then so are you (?). But some of the performances in the original are pretty lame - namely, Danny Lloyd and Scatman Crothers. The worst scene in the movie is the two of them fumblingly trying to hype up room 237. Contrast that with Carl Lumbly, who is utterly magnetic as the new Obi-Wan Hallorann (insert your own Ewan/Obi-Wan joke here). Similarly (and impressively), Roger Dale Floyd manages to both give added dimension to Danny Lloyd’s original performance as well as serve as a convincing ‘young Ewan.’ 

As for Shelley, I think the initially harsh dismissal of her performance prompted one of the aforementioned pendulum swings in public opinion. Pair that with on-set controversies and it’s not hard to see why people come to her defense so staunchly. Personally, I’ve never felt strongly about her performance one way or the other, and I think Alex Essoe does a better job. Sorry, Shelley.

That leaves Elliott...  Well, I won’t defend Henry Thomas’s ‘Nicholson impersonation,’ and that’s sorta where I’m at with this whole thing: the moments in which the film tries to resemble its predecessor are its weakest (though, nobody can tell me Essoe didn’t kill that Duvall impression). Paradoxically, however, one of the film’s highest high points is just that: a faithful riff on the original film and on Nicholson’s performance -- in fact, arguably the most recognizable Nicholson scene.

And it’s more than just a faithful riff, too. And that’s the point.

This scene is important to note because it encapsulates a lot right and a lot wrong about the movie, with a big asterisk: Flanagan’s precise mimicry of Kubrick’s direction distracts from what this scene is really about, which is his ability as a writer to bridge the gap between King and Kubrick. If there was ever a singular moment in the film where the two sensibilities merge it’s this one. This, perhaps, is the closest we’ll ever get to a faithful Kubrick adaptation of King’s source material. All the pieces are in place, from King’s pathos to Kubrick’s compositions (even the green-blue tint is given a rest). Though, what’s most pivotally spotlighted in this scene is not pathos, but rather ethos - the ethos of the entire picture: to return (literally) to The Shining and imbue it with a new and unexpected humanity. And Henry Thomas is a big part of that. Or, he should have been... 

On its face, the casting of Thomas is the most inspired choice for Jack Torrance I’ve ever seen or heard. His ‘Nicholson voice’ is hard on the ears, no doubt, but that’s because what’s being suppressed in the facade is his own subdued paternity (which barely shines through in this scene) - the kind of unspoken fatherly qualities that King thought Nicholson lacked; the kind that, when turned sour, become unnerving. If Gerald’s Game was proof of anything, in retrospect, it’s that Jack Torrance was exactly who Thomas was born to play, if only he’d been given the room to interpret the character his own way.  

And the same applies to the rest of the movie: my biggest complaint about Sleep is that, in its third act especially, it doesn’t go far enough in reinventing the source material. But that’s also where I’m at odds with a lotta other viewers who were left scratching their heads at just how much of a departure this blockbuster was from the slowburn arthouse sensibilities of Kubrick’s. This wasn’t your garden variety nostalgia; this wasn’t Star Wars... or was it?

The Force ghosts and Jedi mind tricks and Light vs. Dark postulating sprinkled along the Yellow Brick Road to the Overlook Hotel ultimately culminate in the least expected climax to a Shining sequel I could’ve imagined: a Duel of the Fates in the hedge maze. 

It was weird.

But was it good? Honestly, I’m still not sure. One thing I can say is that, as audacious and borderline hokey as it is, the scene doesn’t come out of nowhere: indeed, it’s a fitting crescendo for the film’s X-Men approach to ‘shining.’ A Palpatine-esque enchantress like Rose deserves a ‘boss fight’ finale and Wicked Witch-style comeuppance (though, admittedly, hers isn’t as satisfying as the campsite firefight that closes out the second act). I’d love to debate this with somebody, but unfortunately, nobody talks about this aspect of the movie. The only thing anyone ever focused on in this nearly 3 hour picture was the lump of nostalgia relegated to the final 30 minutes. We live in the age of cynical fan service, so if the worst sins were dodged then how can you throw out the baby when there’s so little bathwater? I think people hold Kubrick’s work in such high regard that they’re more sensitive about modern filmmakers besmirching his legacy with a reboot than they would be with other properties or franchises. But on the other hand, I also think that the screenwriting in the first two-thirds of Sleep is so good and self-contained that people were more jarred when nostalgia reared its head into the plot. Countless commentators pointed out that the movie could have been - and maybe should have been - “its own thing.” 

I don’t agree. 

See, for me, this is about more than just creepy twins or bloody elevators. Doctor Sleep isn’t my favorite King adaptation (that would be The Shining), but it is my favorite “Stephen King movie.” It is, for all intents and purposes, a culmination of Stephen King’s entire cinematic body of work: it marries the crowd-pleasing warmth of Shawshank with the brutality of Misery, the sprawling lore of It, the psychic witchery of Carrie, the coming-of-age pathos of Stand By Me, the high-concept globetrotting of The Dead Zone, and the ambitious breadth of Green Mile. 

It can’t be “its own thing” because it’s everything.

Still, while I’m ceding the battlefield to critics of cheap nostalgia (like I always will), there’s something to be said for the Overlook specifically... 

We can agree that the movie takes a turn for the worse once the characters step foot inside the hotel, but the precursory drive up the mountain - the crescendo-before-the-crescendo - hits a little differently. This is partly because of the imperious remix of the main title theme, but it’s also because of the hotel itself - the physical structure. I have to wonder: when was the last time we were here?  When I look at other pop culture monuments - the Mos Eisley cantina, the Nostromo, Tech Noir, Elm Street, Camp Crystal Lake, Jurassic Park - I see exactly that: monuments; permanent installations; places that we will not only continuously revisit for the foreseeable future in sequels, prequels, remakes, and reboots, but places that we won’t even need movies to revisit due to their bottomless supplemental material: merchandise, television spin-offs, comic book tie-ins, videogames, toys, commercials, ringtones. We can’t “return” to any of these places because they move with us. There’s nobody to “bring back” because no one’s ever really gone. Hell, you don’t even have to seek this shit out because most of it will find you. I don’t mean to shame anyone for being passionate, but when people’s eyes widen at the sight of a Velociraptor I wanna ask them, “weren’t you just fed?” Purchasing a ticket to Ghostbusters: Afterlife will feel about as special as taking a selfie with the Bronze Fonz. 

But what about the Overlook? What’s so “cheap” about that piece of nostalgia? I can usually identify the cheapness of nostalgia by my own degree of numbness to it, which is why I felt nothing when I saw Vader again for the umpteenth time, and which is why my eyes widened when I saw the Overlook again for the first time since The Shining. The hotel’s lasting mysteries have occupied more real estate in the minds and imaginations of moviegoers than any other piece of horror history due in large part to the lack of supplemental media. Four decades and not a single tie-in or spin-off for us to indulge; nothing to scratch the itch for more more more. For this reason, Doctor Sleep is a true return; something that’s actually special. We haven’t seen these faces or these places since 1980, and we’ll likely never see them again after 2019 (for reasons which lie largely outside of Mike Flanagan’s and Stephen King’s control). 

I’ll happily join in on any critiques of shallow fan service when they’re warranted, but this isn’t one of those situations; this nostalgia comes at a price, and the film’s reception is evidence of that: if you wanna invoke Stanley you have to pay your dues -- Spielberg learned that the hard way. After all, expectations couldn’t be higher: the years since 1980 have been characterized by widespread obsession, both in academia and among consumers, ultimately serving as the basis for an entire documentary on the subject. So despite our allegiance to Stanley, haven’t we always kinda been waiting to go back? Just to put this damn thing to sleep? We don’t want answers - because that ruins the fun - but we do want a reason to finally close the book. 

Doctor Sleep gives us that reason without giving us any answers. 

The original novel ends with the Overlook perishing in a fiery explosion, but it’s still standing at the end of Kubrick’s adaptation. Indeed, the original film never really ended at all.

Until now.

I mentioned earlier that I consider Doctor Sleep to be more of a sibling to The Shining than a sequel, but that’s not accurate either. In effect, Doctor Sleep is where The Shining finally ends. If the question is, “was it necessary?” then the answer is: as necessary as any ending. Doctor Sleep is, if nothing else, closure. 

Yet we still have those mysteries to cling to - once maddening, now comforting, because when it’s all said and done, the scariest thought is that it’s over. Even the poor schmucks who didn’t ‘get it’ can appreciate that.