Latest news with #Kubrick
New York Post
23-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Post
The English manor where Stanley Kubrick lived during ‘The Shining' production lists for $9M
Here's a property that's straight out of central casting. Stanley Kubrick's former Hertfordshire home — the very place where he masterminded the likes of 'The Shining,' '2001: A Space Odyssey,' and 'A Clockwork Orange' among others — has just hit the market for a blockbuster price: nearly $9 million. The eight-bedroom English estate, known as Abbots Mead, is located on Barnet Lane in Elstree, just outside London. It's being marketed by Savills, according to a brokerage release sent Friday. 14 Stanley Kubrick's former home in Hertfordshire, England, has hit the market for nearly $8.9 million. Justin Paget Photography 14 Kubrick worked on 'The Shining' while living here. Everett Collection / Everett Collection And for serious film buffs, this isn't just any country manor — it's a shrine to cinematic history. The late Kubrick, born in New York, bought the property in 1965 and spent 14 intensely productive years there. He died in 1999. Thanks to its close proximity to Elstree Studios, the reclusive auteur was able to manage everything from production and editing to pioneering special effects — all without leaving his leafy 2-acre compound. 14 Kubrick purchased the Abbots Mead estate in 1965. Justin Paget Photography 14 The grand staircase. Justin Paget Photography 14 Kubrik lived there for 14 years, using it as a creative hub near Elstree Studios. Everett Collection / Everett Collection 14 The country home occupies 7,700 square feet. Justin Paget Photography 'We're very fortunate to have the privilege of selling many great houses that have a rich and varied history. However, it's rare for somewhere to have such a direct link to filmmaking unless it's been used as a location for shoots,' Steven Spencer, head of office at Savills Rickmansworth, said in a statement. Spencer added, 'The close proximity to Elstree Studios made it the perfect base for Kubrick and his family, but he also worked a lot from home — carefully managing all aspects of four films from his extraordinary body of work from within its four walls.' Nestled behind wrought iron gates and marked with a commemorative blue plaque, the 7,700-square-foot manor exudes stately charm and old-school opulence. Think ornate cornices, soaring ceilings, marble fireplaces, a carved staircase and a drawing room that opens to a sun-drenched conservatory. 14 The home has been modernized across three floors, according to the listing. Justin Paget Photography 14 The estate features grand living spaces including a drawing room, a conservatory and a spacious kitchen. Justin Paget Photography 14 The home boasts period details like ornate cornices and original fireplaces. Justin Paget Photography 14 The first floor hosts luxurious suites and a studio. Justin Paget Photography The main suite comes complete with a bay window, a dressing room, and his-and-hers bathrooms. There are also five more bedrooms on the top floor, plus a studio for any film buffs hoping to follow in Kubrick's footsteps. But the estate doesn't end there: a detached lodge with its own four bedrooms and private garden sits on the grounds, along with a two-bedroom apartment perched above a separate garage. Outside, manicured gardens give way to a wisteria-covered pergola, a pool, a pool house with a sauna and even a small orchard. 'Quite apart from its history, Abbots Mead is a handsome period house in its own right,' said Spencer. 14 A formal living room. Justin Paget Photography 14 One of eight bedrooms. Justin Paget Photography 14 An ensuite bedroom. Justin Paget Photography 14 The great lawn. Justin Paget Photography 'Well-proportioned rooms provide generous family space with a sense of grandeur, while mature trees at the garden boundaries ensure plenty of privacy and are the perfect backdrop to a beautiful setting.' And while it may feel like a world away, the property is a quick commute to London thanks to nearby Elstree and Borehamwood Station.
Mint
15-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Mint
‘Dr Strangelove' remains the essential anti-war film
By all accounts, Stanley Kubrick was an obsessive. The kind of maniac who would put an actor through 97 takes because his smile wasn't smug enough. Considered both sadistic and clinical, the director was described by various collaborators as cold, manipulative, machine-like. Yet it took this famously impassive artist to make the most scorching, uproarious, goddamned hilarious anti-war film in cinema history. In the 1964 masterpiece Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb—available for rent on Amazon Prime and Apple TV—Kubrick doesn't just take apart military arrogance and political impotence, he makes them dance. The film isn't a screed or a sermon, but a ballet of buffoons set on the brink of Armageddon. It is without question the funniest film about the end of the world—which is precisely what makes it so terrifying. Released in the throes of the Cold War, Dr. Strangelove made audiences laugh while they looked over their shoulders for mushroom clouds. Today, its punches land even harder. What was once satire now feels like premonition. The hair-triggers are still cocked. The men in suits are still playing God. This is where Kubrick's genius lies: in taking a scenario so absurd—where a rogue US general launches a nuclear attack on the Soviet Union because he believes fluoridation is a communist plot to sap our 'precious bodily fluids"—and treating it with the straightest of faces. No mugging. No wink to the audience. Just a slow, methodical spiral into the kind of bureaucratic horror that would make Kafka giddy. The film is packed with characters whose names alone feel like punchlines: General Buck Turgidson, Colonel Bat Guano, President Merkin Muffley. Then there's the titular Doctor Strangelove, a wheelchair-bound ex-Nazi scientist with a mind of pure mayhem and a hand that keeps sieg-heil-ing against his will. These are caricatures sculpted to expose the rot beneath the rhetoric. These people who hold our fate in their trembling, chewing-gum-unwrapping fingers. Oh, what fingers they are. Let us bow, deeply and reverently, to Peter Sellers, who delivers not one, not two, but three peerless performances, playing Muffley, Strangelove and Air Force Group Captain Lionel Mandrake with such elastic comic timing and tonal control that he manages to tap-dance around the apocalypse. The actor is straight-man, bumbler and lunatic all rolled into one yet Kubrick never lets the film collapse under this triple-helix presence. Sellers' performances orbit each other like rogue satellites, each threatening collision. Opposite him, George C. Scott—playing the bellicose General Turgidson—gives a performance that's so manic, so perfectly pitched, it reportedly annoyed him to no end. Kubrick tricked him into it, asking him to do a few 'wild takes" for fun, and then using only those. The result is a portrait of military masculinity that's all chest-puffing and lip-quivering—the face of a man who wants to win a nuclear war because he's sure we'd lose 'only 10 or 20 million, tops". Kubrick lingers long enough to show us the cost beneath the farce. This can be seen in the sterile geometry of the War Room, that giant table looming like a sacrificial altar under the coldest lights in cinema. It's in the jingoistic anthem We'll Meet Again playing over images of nuclear devastation. It's in the way Dr. Strangelove rises from his wheelchair, shrieking 'Mein Führer! I can walk!"—a punchline that doubles as a death knell. Dr. Strangelove is a horror film. A satire, yes, but also a scream. Its terror lies in how plausible its absurdities feel. How quickly we accept the insanity because the men spouting it wear ties. The film's most devastating insight is that destruction doesn't come with fangs and fire—it comes with protocol and paperwork, and it's signed in triplicate. Kubrick shows how the systems built to protect us are riddled with paradox. That the logic of mutually assured destruction is the sort of chess game where everyone agrees the best move is to blow up the board. That nuclear deterrence is not strategy, but theology. And that war, no matter how cleanly it's strategised, is always—always—a failure of imagination. Dr. Strangelove, unforgettably, asks us not to fight in the War Room. That Cold War may be over, but rooms remain. New wars, new doctrines, new men with access codes. We live in an era where drone strikes are debated over lunch, and where world leaders can threaten annihilation—or promise ceasefires—in 280 characters or less. The war rooms are no longer underground bunkers; they're apps, algorithms, dashboards. The madness has gone digital. The absurdity persists. Across the globe, political discourse has calcified into nationalism's ugliest edge. Jingoism isn't just tolerated, but trending. World leaders channel their inner Buck Turgidsons, barking threats with the confidence of those who will never have to visit a battlefield. The idea of war has been flattened into meme and metaphor, something to cheer, share, repost. Satire is not about cynicism, but clarity. Comedy, when sharpened that much, can reveal truths too grotesque for drama. Dr. Strangelove is a reminder that art—real, dangerous, uncompromising art—is still our best weapon against war. Stop the bombing, love the worry. Kubrick saw this coming. A world where war is theatre and theatre is policy. Where destruction is not avoided but auditioned for. Where leaders speak only in binaries like victory and defeat, reducing a ruinous and potentially world-altering battle to something akin to a sporting score. This helps nobody. The blood of innocents, spilt on the ground and accounted for by none, is the only bodily fluid that matters. Raja Sen is a screenwriter and critic. He has co-written Chup, a film about killing critics, and is now creating an absurd comedy series. He posts @rajasen. Also read: Punk rockers Viagra Boys mix bizarro humour, nihilism and empathy
Sydney Morning Herald
13-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
What do these shows have in common? They don't mind getting it wrong
The story goes that Stanley Kubrick, infamous for his perfectionism, was determined to shoot the interior sequences of 1975's Barry Lyndon using only candlelight to imbue the film with a greater sense of 18th-century authenticity. The problem was that film stock in the 1970s still required an enormous amount of light to achieve proper exposure. So Kubrick cooked up a typically galaxy-brained solution: in addition to using specially made triple-wicked beeswax candles that let off an abnormal amount of light (and had to be replaced at the start of each new take), he borrowed super-wide-aperture camera lenses from NASA. Originally designed for use during the Apollo missions, they were hypersensitive enough that they allowed cinematographer John Alcott to shoot entire nighttime scenes by the glow of a candelabra. This feels like a deeply Kubrickian contradiction: using space-age technology to recreate 'authentic' 1700s imagery. But it's also a dilemma filmmakers face to this day: how far should you go for the sake of period authenticity? And even if you bend over backwards to make your film or TV show look like a pixel-perfect reproduction of the past, do audiences actually care? They certainly do when it's a goof. Since the earliest days of cinema, eagle-eyed viewers have gleefully called out filmmakers not just for errant boom mics and camera reflections, but for anachronistic bloopers. Consider the Casio wristwatch worn by a Civil War soldier in Edward Zwick's 1989 Glory, or the Starbucks cup on a banquet table in the final season of Game of Thrones which briefly threatened to break the internet in 2019 (simpler times). The pair of pastel blue Converse sneakers in the background of Sofia Coppola's 1780s-set Marie Antoinette, though? That's no accident. Nor is the fact that they appear in the middle of a montage set to Bow Wow Wow's cover of the Strangeloves' I Want Candy. This was Coppola's expressionistic way of drawing a direct comparison between her ennui-riddled royal protagonist and everyday teenage moviegoers in 2006. For some directors, the past is a sandbox where you get to make your own rules. This approach makes full use of the suspension of disbelief that has always been the cornerstone of the unspoken agreement between filmmakers and audiences. As we watch Mr Darcy saunter across the misty moors in Pride and Prejudice, dressed in a period-accurate long coat, we're more than willing to overlook his perfect Hollywood veneers; nobody wants their Regency-era heartthrob with a mouth full of rotting dentures any more than they want the marble statues in Gladiator to be repainted their original, gaudy colours (with beady eyes that follow you around the room). Unless, perhaps, you're Robert Eggers, a modern acolyte of the Kubrick school of fastidiousness as renowned for his dogged attention to period detail as he is for his complete rejection of modernity. 'The idea of having to photograph a car makes me ill,' he said on the promotional trail for last year's Nosferatu, 'and the idea of photographing a cell phone is just death.' All the sets and furniture in Eggers' 2015 New England horror The Witch were constructed using 17th-century Puritan carpentry techniques; the costumes in 2022's 10th-century revenge saga The Northman were hand-made using reindeer leather and Icelandic sheep wool. Eggers' goal appears to be nothing less than his audience's complete and total immersion in a bygone era – a tactic that benefits his actors, too. Anya Taylor-Joy, star of The Witch, recalls working on Eggers' ruthlessly well-researched and painstakingly detailed sets: 'You show up and exist. You don't have to imagine it.' While Eggers has built his reputation on a strict adherence to period accuracy, others like Baz Luhrmann have forged their own creative mythos from doing exactly the opposite – particularly when it comes to music. The soundtrack to Luhrmann's 1996 Romeo + Juliet is the stuff of legend (going triple platinum in Australia and reaching No. 2 on the US charts), and his follow-ups for Moulin Rouge, The Great Gatsby and Elvis similarly threw historical fidelity out the window, incorporating music by Elton John, Sting, Jay-Z and Kacey Musgraves to name but a few. Loading Luhrmann's quasi-modern mixtapes bridge the gap between his characters' emotional experience and their audience's cultural context. Much like Sofia Coppola's young queen swooning through the Palace of Versailles to the Strokes' What Ever Happened?, Leo DiCaprio moping about on a beach to the strains of Radiohead's Talk Show Host was the perfect way to help angsty '90s teens relate to his Romeo – just as mixing Hound Dog with Doja Cat on the Elvis soundtrack tidily conveys the King's stratospheric popularity to listeners of his time. While this kind of musical juxtapositioning has been common in film for decades (see also: Leonard Cohen scoring Robert Altman's 1971 Western McCabe & Mrs. Miller, Queen's We Will Rock You as the opening them to 2001's medieval A Knight's Tale, and David Bowie's Cat People (Putting Out Fire) popping up in Quentin Tarantino's World War II caper I nglourious Basterds), we've now entered a golden age of historical revisionism in television, too. Were he alive today, I can absolutely see Tommy Shelby (Peaky Blinders) being a diehard Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds fan (possibly even Dirty Three?), just as I can imagine a young Emily Dickinson being as obsessed with Billie Eilish as any other twenty-something in 2025. This year's Dope Girls, billed as a 'spiritual successor' to Peaky Blinders, explores the birth of London's drug underworld in the post-World War I nightclub scene – all scored by modern British experimental electronic collective NYX. And who could forget the very first episode of Netflix's Bridgerton, which proudly announced its anachronistic bona fides by having its young socialites arrive at the Danbury House debutante ball to an orchestral arrangement of Ariana Grande's thank u, next? Using modern music in these historical settings compresses our sense of time. It creates common ground between characters and audiences otherwise separated by centuries, and makes the past feel like a less alien place. Bridgerton is a leading example of yet another form of wilful anachronism: race-blind casting, which feels like a fitting karmic corrective to a hundred years of on-screen blackface, yellowface, and everything in between. Without this calculated departure from the historical record, we never would have had Regé-Jean Page's breakout turn as the Duke of Hastings in Bridgerton, or Sacha Dhawan as Russian royal adviser Count Orlo in The Great, or Dev Patel and Rosalind Eleazar as David Copperfield and Agnes Wickfield in Armando Iannucci's 2019 reimagining of the Charles Dickens classic. Unshackling these stories from period accuracy has been a boon for casting directors and audiences alike. At its most powerful, race-blind casting subverts and re-interrogates history (as in Hamilton) – while even in its most minor application, it offers brilliantly talented actors of colour a proper and well-overdue turn in the sandbox. Loading There will always be purists who believe a director's duty is to create a flawlessly accurate facsimile of the past. And while there's no doubt considerable artistry in the efforts of those like Robert Eggers, choosing to play a little bit fast-and-loose with period detail allows even more modern-day viewers to see themselves reflected in history. More than that: it makes us feel less alone. It reminds us that even though fashion changes and film stock evolves, the human experience remains remarkably consistent. Whatever you're going through right now – workplace drama or star-cross'd passion or fiery rebellion – people have been going through it for centuries. And should you find yourself unable or simply unwilling to suspend your disbelief – if the sight of Marie Antoinette's Chucks or the thought of Regency-era teenagers dancing to Taylor Swift is anathema to your filmic sensibilities – there's always the History Channel.
The Age
13-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
What do these shows have in common? They don't mind getting it wrong
The story goes that Stanley Kubrick, infamous for his perfectionism, was determined to shoot the interior sequences of 1975's Barry Lyndon using only candlelight to imbue the film with a greater sense of 18th-century authenticity. The problem was that film stock in the 1970s still required an enormous amount of light to achieve proper exposure. So Kubrick cooked up a typically galaxy-brained solution: in addition to using specially made triple-wicked beeswax candles that let off an abnormal amount of light (and had to be replaced at the start of each new take), he borrowed super-wide-aperture camera lenses from NASA. Originally designed for use during the Apollo missions, they were hypersensitive enough that they allowed cinematographer John Alcott to shoot entire nighttime scenes by the glow of a candelabra. This feels like a deeply Kubrickian contradiction: using space-age technology to recreate 'authentic' 1700s imagery. But it's also a dilemma filmmakers face to this day: how far should you go for the sake of period authenticity? And even if you bend over backwards to make your film or TV show look like a pixel-perfect reproduction of the past, do audiences actually care? They certainly do when it's a goof. Since the earliest days of cinema, eagle-eyed viewers have gleefully called out filmmakers not just for errant boom mics and camera reflections, but for anachronistic bloopers. Consider the Casio wristwatch worn by a Civil War soldier in Edward Zwick's 1989 Glory, or the Starbucks cup on a banquet table in the final season of Game of Thrones which briefly threatened to break the internet in 2019 (simpler times). The pair of pastel blue Converse sneakers in the background of Sofia Coppola's 1780s-set Marie Antoinette, though? That's no accident. Nor is the fact that they appear in the middle of a montage set to Bow Wow Wow's cover of the Strangeloves' I Want Candy. This was Coppola's expressionistic way of drawing a direct comparison between her ennui-riddled royal protagonist and everyday teenage moviegoers in 2006. For some directors, the past is a sandbox where you get to make your own rules. This approach makes full use of the suspension of disbelief that has always been the cornerstone of the unspoken agreement between filmmakers and audiences. As we watch Mr Darcy saunter across the misty moors in Pride and Prejudice, dressed in a period-accurate long coat, we're more than willing to overlook his perfect Hollywood veneers; nobody wants their Regency-era heartthrob with a mouth full of rotting dentures any more than they want the marble statues in Gladiator to be repainted their original, gaudy colours (with beady eyes that follow you around the room). Unless, perhaps, you're Robert Eggers, a modern acolyte of the Kubrick school of fastidiousness as renowned for his dogged attention to period detail as he is for his complete rejection of modernity. 'The idea of having to photograph a car makes me ill,' he said on the promotional trail for last year's Nosferatu, 'and the idea of photographing a cell phone is just death.' All the sets and furniture in Eggers' 2015 New England horror The Witch were constructed using 17th-century Puritan carpentry techniques; the costumes in 2022's 10th-century revenge saga The Northman were hand-made using reindeer leather and Icelandic sheep wool. Eggers' goal appears to be nothing less than his audience's complete and total immersion in a bygone era – a tactic that benefits his actors, too. Anya Taylor-Joy, star of The Witch, recalls working on Eggers' ruthlessly well-researched and painstakingly detailed sets: 'You show up and exist. You don't have to imagine it.' While Eggers has built his reputation on a strict adherence to period accuracy, others like Baz Luhrmann have forged their own creative mythos from doing exactly the opposite – particularly when it comes to music. The soundtrack to Luhrmann's 1996 Romeo + Juliet is the stuff of legend (going triple platinum in Australia and reaching No. 2 on the US charts), and his follow-ups for Moulin Rouge, The Great Gatsby and Elvis similarly threw historical fidelity out the window, incorporating music by Elton John, Sting, Jay-Z and Kacey Musgraves to name but a few. Loading Luhrmann's quasi-modern mixtapes bridge the gap between his characters' emotional experience and their audience's cultural context. Much like Sofia Coppola's young queen swooning through the Palace of Versailles to the Strokes' What Ever Happened?, Leo DiCaprio moping about on a beach to the strains of Radiohead's Talk Show Host was the perfect way to help angsty '90s teens relate to his Romeo – just as mixing Hound Dog with Doja Cat on the Elvis soundtrack tidily conveys the King's stratospheric popularity to listeners of his time. While this kind of musical juxtapositioning has been common in film for decades (see also: Leonard Cohen scoring Robert Altman's 1971 Western McCabe & Mrs. Miller, Queen's We Will Rock You as the opening them to 2001's medieval A Knight's Tale, and David Bowie's Cat People (Putting Out Fire) popping up in Quentin Tarantino's World War II caper I nglourious Basterds), we've now entered a golden age of historical revisionism in television, too. Were he alive today, I can absolutely see Tommy Shelby (Peaky Blinders) being a diehard Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds fan (possibly even Dirty Three?), just as I can imagine a young Emily Dickinson being as obsessed with Billie Eilish as any other twenty-something in 2025. This year's Dope Girls, billed as a 'spiritual successor' to Peaky Blinders, explores the birth of London's drug underworld in the post-World War I nightclub scene – all scored by modern British experimental electronic collective NYX. And who could forget the very first episode of Netflix's Bridgerton, which proudly announced its anachronistic bona fides by having its young socialites arrive at the Danbury House debutante ball to an orchestral arrangement of Ariana Grande's thank u, next? Using modern music in these historical settings compresses our sense of time. It creates common ground between characters and audiences otherwise separated by centuries, and makes the past feel like a less alien place. Bridgerton is a leading example of yet another form of wilful anachronism: race-blind casting, which feels like a fitting karmic corrective to a hundred years of on-screen blackface, yellowface, and everything in between. Without this calculated departure from the historical record, we never would have had Regé-Jean Page's breakout turn as the Duke of Hastings in Bridgerton, or Sacha Dhawan as Russian royal adviser Count Orlo in The Great, or Dev Patel and Rosalind Eleazar as David Copperfield and Agnes Wickfield in Armando Iannucci's 2019 reimagining of the Charles Dickens classic. Unshackling these stories from period accuracy has been a boon for casting directors and audiences alike. At its most powerful, race-blind casting subverts and re-interrogates history (as in Hamilton) – while even in its most minor application, it offers brilliantly talented actors of colour a proper and well-overdue turn in the sandbox. Loading There will always be purists who believe a director's duty is to create a flawlessly accurate facsimile of the past. And while there's no doubt considerable artistry in the efforts of those like Robert Eggers, choosing to play a little bit fast-and-loose with period detail allows even more modern-day viewers to see themselves reflected in history. More than that: it makes us feel less alone. It reminds us that even though fashion changes and film stock evolves, the human experience remains remarkably consistent. Whatever you're going through right now – workplace drama or star-cross'd passion or fiery rebellion – people have been going through it for centuries. And should you find yourself unable or simply unwilling to suspend your disbelief – if the sight of Marie Antoinette's Chucks or the thought of Regency-era teenagers dancing to Taylor Swift is anathema to your filmic sensibilities – there's always the History Channel.
Yahoo
11-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Tom Cruise Recalls Recommending Nicole Kidman For ‘Eyes Wide Shut' Role: 'A Great Actress'
Nearly 25 years after their divorce, Tom Cruise still appears to be a fan of Nicole Kidman. The 4x Oscar nominee recalled making the 1999 Stanley Kubrick-helmed erotic thriller with his then-wife, explaining that he 'suggested Nicole play the role' of his character Dr. Bill Harford's wife Alice. More from Deadline Nicole Kidman Recalls Stanley Kubrick 'Mining' Tom Cruise Marriage For 'Eyes Wide Shut' Nicole Kidman's Career In Photos: From 'Days of Thunder' And 'Eyes Wide Shut' To 'Moulin Rouge!' Tom Cruise Praises Nicole Kidman, Pays Tribute To Val Kilmer, Lauds Movie Greats Jack Nicholson And Marlon Brando 'I flew out to [Kubrick's] house, and I landed in his backyard,' he told Sight and Sound. 'I read the script the day before and we spent the day talking about it. I knew all of his films. Then it was basically he and I getting to know each other. And when we were doing that, I suggested Nicole play the role [of Alice]. Because, obviously, she's a great actress.' Cruise told the writer/director 'Whatever it's going to take [to make the movie], we're going to do this.' Co-written by Kubrick and Frederic Raphael, Eyes Wide Shut stars Cruise as a wealthy doctor feeling restless in his marriage. When he discovers an elite underground sex club, Dr. Harford quickly realizes he's in over his head. 'I thought the film was very interesting, and I wanted to have that experience,' said Cruise. 'When I go to make a movie, I do a lot of detailed investigation and a lot of time with the people before I commit so that I understand what they need and want and they understand me and how we can work together and really create something very special.' Kidman previously recalled the initial meeting with Kubrick, for which she was also in attendance, as well as their rehearsals for a scene where the couple has an intimate talk while sharing a joint. 'I suppose he was mining [our marriage],' she said of Kubrick. 'There were ideas he was interested in. He'd ask a lot of questions. But he had a strong sense of the story he was telling. I do remember him saying, 'Triangles are hard. You have to tread carefully when it's a triangle.' Because one person could feel ganged up on. But he was aware of that and knew how to manage us.' Kidman added, 'But there's something about being a woman in that equation, too. And Stanley liked women. He had a different relationship with Tom. They worked more closely together on his character.' Kubrick died of a heart attack at age 70 on March 7, 1999, just days after screening a final cut of Eyes Wide Shut for his family and the stars of the film. Best of Deadline All The Songs In Netflix's 'Forever': From Tyler The Creator To SZA 2025 TV Series Renewals: Photo Gallery 2025 TV Cancellations: Photo Gallery
