Since today was Stanley Kubrick’s birthday — he would have been 83 — I decided to watch Lolita for the first time since I was closer to Humbert’s age than Lolita’s. It was just as good as I remember, but there’s a few things that I appreciate more now that I have a few more brain cells to scrape together.
James Mason was a wonder, wasn’t he? Alternately pugnacious and charming, he really occupied his role perfectly. It’s remarkable how sympathetic I found myself, really, because he’s more than a bit of a bastard.
Sue Lyon. Golly, is that uncomfortable or what? Even with her having 2 years on the novel’s version of the character, she’s so very charming and sweet and real and boy I feel creepy just typing that.
Oswald Morris’s photography takes all the cinematic tropes of the time and uses all of its tricks to his advantage. I love how subversive this film feels in this aspect, something that reminds me very much of the much-more-modern Burn After Reading.
I genuinely forgot how funny the movie was, and not just in the uncomfortable, black manner. The scene with the cot builds to a comedic crescendo that rivals Some Like It Hot for slapstick comedy, even as it reinforced our protagonist’s predicament.
Every year I get closer to inevitable death, I appreciate Peter Sellers more. Can we retroactively give him all the Oscars? Please?
Let’s not ever discuss the Adrian Lyne version. Ever.