Stanley Kubrick
Arancia Meccanica

Watching the trailer for the much-anticipated, and soon-to-be-released, House of Gucci, I was struck by a line spoken by Patrizia Reggiani's character, played by Lady Gaga: "I don't consider myself a particularly ethical person, but I am fair."

Obviously, this immediately brings to mind our beloved Alex DeLarge and the entire essence of this monumental masterpiece I want to discuss.

"Watch closely, brother, watch closely"

Fresh from watching A Clockwork Orange in the theater yesterday, I am compelled, indeed, to make some reflections.

Why is a work like A Clockwork Orange, even today, fifty years after its first shocking appearance, still so relevant, universal, and timeless? Even today it provokes, indeed compels, reflection and a reconsideration of the world we live in. Because it is an incredibly forward-thinking work, brave like few others in the history of cinema and art in general.

First and foremost, at the center of all, derived from Anthony Burgess's novel of the same name, is a work about the profound and complex concept of free will. An anti-authoritarian work on the importance of choice, on how an inability to do harm that is not genuine, but imposed by external and unnatural treatments, is infinitely worse than the harm itself that one would like to eradicate. This is where the unheard-of courage of this film lies, in saying something that remains subversive, if not an outright taboo, even today. And Kubrick said it half a century ago, with an expressive power that has remained unchanged, opening the doors for dozens of directors who owe everything to A Clockwork Orange.

Undoubtedly, this must, indeed should be considered as one of the truly groundbreaking films in the history of this art form. A benchmark and a work that marked a before and after, starting with the depiction of violence: until then, perhaps even more brutal in itself - Leone and Peckinpah had already been pioneering in this -, but never staged with such joyful vindication by a protagonist. Kubrick's is a dance of violence, "my violence is a dream," sang Thurston Moore. A gratuitous and beloved (ultra)violence precisely because it is such. Nothing to do with what had been seen before. Although in certain cinema of the so-called Japanese nouvelle vague, similar examples already appeared, such as in the little-known (but which I recommend, in this regard) Violence Without a Cause by Koji Wakamatsu. But Kubrick's artistic representation was truly something unprecedented.

Beyond this aspect, the political nature of the film, the most political of the director of Dr. Strangelove, makes the most difference. For what was previously said and for much more.

A study on the role of the individual in society, on how he is constantly manipulated and instrumentalized by media and politics, which exercise a progressive and dehumanizing mania of control. In this sense, true freedom is ultimately impossible and illusory, even following Alex's "recovery." And this has cyclical and eternal contours. Alex is, in fact, the man of the future, the starchild from the end of 2001. He is the new man of the modern era (Burgess was conservative, it should be remembered), being both its victim and its perpetrator.

A Clockwork Orange then shows a structure that Kubrick would revisit for his testamentary work, the most troubled, thought-out, and unfortunately for us, final, namely Eyes Wide Shut. In both cases, the protagonist will retrace his steps, encountering the same figures faced during the first part of the journey, thus leading all of us to rethink that same journey with different eyes. To seize other nuances and to view the dark side of both sides of the coin.

"There is no dark side in the moon, really. Matter of fact it's all dark. The only thing that makes it look alight is the sun."

A broader reflection on Kubrick, on his characters (although of original literary creation, but this is a relative and secondary aspect) and on what these tell us about him, then, comes to mind.

Kubrick had, as we know, both in life and after, the reputation of a misanthrope, a figure shy and reluctant to make contact with the world.

"Absence is presence," said Jude Law in The Young Pope, referring specifically to the mythological figure of the New York and London-adopted director.

Kubrick, in his own way, like Salinger, like Lucio Battisti, great artists who decided to progressively detach themselves from the logics of modernity and make their absence, indeed, the strongest presence.

Whether Kubrick's misanthropy was true or not, his cinema is certainly one of negative figures. Violent, primarily, indeed. Violence, in fact, is the first, most evident, but also the most superficial aspect immediately highlighted. But beneath the surface, and this in A Clockwork Orange as in all his other films, there are mean, ambitious, calculating, vengeful, hypocritical figures. Who, since the dawn of man, tend toward a desire for domination and a death drive. Kubrick is a visceral lover of freedom, this is what emerges, but fully aware of the criticalities inherent in human nature and social dynamics. Looking deeply and closely at his works, it is therefore not surprising that he was a reserved and self-isolated character.

The extreme pessimism of his historical and transcendent gaze of time and space ultimately becomes revealing of the most hidden aspects of the psyche. From the past to the present to the future. In Kubrick's cinema, there has never been room for heroes, positive characters, consolatory morals, or conciliatory situations.

And, after decades and dozens of viewings, he does not cease to teach us, amaze us, and shock us. Showing us the ruins of a world in flames, tinged with madness too, but without fear and at least in the hope of the freedom of choice. The most important and precious thing we should have.