Kubrick's Game

  Displayed on the screen was the USC team in what looked like a dark dungeon, their hands shackled. Danny and Austin were handcuffed to a post on one side of the cell. Desiree was on the floor, leaning back against the corner wall with a beaten expression.

  “These are your friends, no? Well, they are now my hostages. You thought you could go off on your own, but this is no longer the case. Our new arrangement is that you give us Kubrick’s treasure, or else your friends will not be seen again.”

  “But professor,” said Shawn, “we need the footage in order to solve the puzzle. You’re only impeding us.”

  “Wrong! You have gone completely off track. We were trying to meet with you at the observatory to tell you the same thing so you would not waste your time. Whether the moon landing is true or not is no matter. I have been assured it is not a part of Kubrick’s game. You must go back to the riddle and the album. Spielberg will only give his answer to a student. Set your mind back to this if you wish to save the lives of your friends.”

  Mascaro seized the canister of film and placed it in his satchel.

  “But professor, if it’s not part of the game, why are you taking the footage?” Wilson demanded.

  “The footage has been requested by someone I could not refuse. You have until Wednesday night to give me the solution to the final puzzle. If you do not, one of your friends will die, and each day after that, another one.”

  Mascaro and his goons took Strauss’s keys, left the room, and locked the door behind them.

  Shawn buried his head in his hands, devastated. “I’m sorry, Mr. Strauss. We shouldn’t have come here. Now you’ve lost the most important reel in film history.”

  “I would have,” said Strauss, “if they had taken the real footage. What I brought up was one of our dummy reels. Mascaro’s men will not be happy when they thread the projector and watch a top quality print of the Pauly Shore classic, Encino Man.”

  “What role was Peter Sellers supposed to play in Dr. Strangelove, but dropped out of because he thought he wasn’t believable?” Strauss asked Shawn, doing his best to stump him on Kubrick trivia.

  They had been locked in the room for more than an hour, quizzing one another to stave off panic and boredom.

  “Easy. Major King Kong, eventually played by Slim Pickens.”

  “Who did the music for Full Metal Jacket, and who was it, really?”

  “The composer was Abigail Mead, who was actually Kubrick’s daughter Vivian. She used an alias named after the family estate, Abbots Mead.”

  “Why did Kubrick cease production on his holocaust film, Wartime Lies?”

  “Because he saw Schindler’s List and thought a better holocaust film could not be made, a lesson he probably learned when Full Metal Jacket came out the year after Platoon and was unfairly compared to it.”

  Strauss never stumped him.

  It was five past midnight when the custodial staff finally arrived and unlocked the door for them.

  Strauss hustled to his studio. “Thank goodness. The real footage is still here. I was working on it when you arrived. Care to take a look at it under the ultraviolet spectrum?”

  Shawn and Wilson were already at Strauss’s work table, but Sami stayed back.

  “Guys, wait,” she said. “Before you look at the footage, ask yourselves if it’s the right thing to do. Kubrick did not want us going down this path, but we couldn’t resist. Now we’re more off-track than ever. Shawn was right before when he said Kubrick wouldn’t want his legacy tarnished by something he was ultimately ashamed of. I say we let history decide the truth. I want no part in it.”

  Shawn hung his head, realizing Sami was right. What good would it serve, other than to satisfy their own curiosity? What good would it serve to history? Or Kubrick for that matter?

  A smile spread across Wilson’s face, as if a great weight were suddenly lifted from his shoulders. He walked over to Strauss and shook his hand. “Mr. Strauss, the moon is in your hands. I think I’ll stay on Earth.”

  “I concur,” said Shawn.

  Strauss looked stunned. “Then I better take this back down into the vault before those creeps find out what I gave them. I suppose it can wait for a few more years.”

  “Come on,” said Shawn. “Let’s get back to work.”

  They left the UCLA Archive and hopped back into Shawn’s father’s Volvo. The whole drive home they brainstormed the puzzle.

  They were back in the game.

  Tuesday, 1:37 a.m.

  Moonwatcher: Desi, are you there? I have to know if you’re okay.

  Djacks: Automated response: I am unavailable at this time. Please try again later.

  7:44 a.m.

  Moonwatcher: Desi? Please answer. You can’t really be held hostage.

  Djacks: Automated response: I am unavailable at this time. Please try again later.

  Shawn wrote to her every hour, but received no response. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else, much less the puzzle. He knew he shouldn’t let Mascaro know he had gotten to him, but he couldn’t contain it a moment longer.

  Text message from Shawn Hagan: Mascaro, I’m finding it extremely difficult to concentrate on the puzzle knowing what you’ve done to the USC team.

  Text message from Professor Mascaro: I will speak to you via Snapchat.

  Snapchat message from Professor Mascaro: I assure you they are in fine health. If you want to keep it that way, you will give us the solution tomorrow night.

  Shawn: And what if I haven’t made progress?

  Mascaro: One of them will go.

  Shawn: I hope you’re a fan of Pauly Shore.

  Mascaro: Yes, Mr. Strauss is clever. You should know that when the footage was discovered to be... what it is, it was I who convinced them not to put you in the same predicament as the USC team. I convinced them you needed your freedom to solve the final puzzle, but their patience grows thin. You have until Wednesday. After that I can no longer protect you or your friends.

  Wednesday of finals week came and the James Bridges Theater readied for the screening of the graduate thesis films. Despite working on the puzzle around the clock, Shawn hadn’t made any significant progress.

  They were together at Wilson’s place, where the two of them put on suits while Sami applied makeup in the bathroom.

  Shawn spoke the riddle out loud:

  The moon conceals the hand of God. He’ll take you to the Land of Nod. And once the final bridge is crossed, find Q’s identity that was lost.

  “The one thing we know for sure,” he said as Wilson helped him with his tie, “is that this puzzle will end up with us asking Spielberg a specific question, which is definitely not ‘What is Q’s identity?’ Any other ideas?”

  “It’s no coincidence Mascaro imposed tonight as the deadline,” said Sami. “He’s going to be at the screening, which runs from eight until eleven. Then there’s a reception in the film school lobby afterward. I’m supposed to be mingling with the industry that’s coming, but I have a feeling that’s when Mascaro is going to approach us and demand results.”

  “What can he do?” said Wilson. “It’s a party. There’ll be people everywhere.”

  “True,” said Sami, “but there are lots of quiet places in the building at night. We have to be ready.”

  “If we need to make an escape,” said Shawn, “there is one thing that gives us a tactical advantage.”

  “What’s that?” said Wilson.

  Sami answered from the bathroom. “We’ll have friends at the screening. We can alert them to take action if we go missing.”

  “I had another idea,” said Shawn. “What happens Wednesday night of finals week?”

  Wilson brightened up. “Oh yeah!”

  “What?” said Sami, entering from the bathroom as she put on her earrings.

  “Someone clearly hasn’t had the full college experience,” said Wilson with a sly grin.

  The three sat next to one another at the back of the theater. They held hands in the da
rkness as the title card for The Confession appeared on the screen to a smattering of applause.

  It looked professionally shot and edited on the big screen. Sami had indicated she wasn’t sure if agents would be interested in repping her as a director from this, but she was confident Shawn would have no trouble getting repped as a cinematographer.

  Raul’s character spoke the final lines of the film:

  “It was you. It was you who pulled the trigger. Your face I saw in the shadows. Help! The killer is here! In this room! The man with the silver tooth!”

  “It’s no use, Andre. The camera is off. I have your confession. Your fate is sealed.”

  “You bastard! You’re going to go to hell for this! I may be going to prison for your crimes, but you’ll burn forever!”

  As the screen faded to black, a long beat of silence hung in the air before the credits rolled—the moment every director anticipated. Would there be applause or the dreaded boos and hisses?

  The silence continued for an abnormally long time. Then the first claps started, followed by the grand eruption that caused tears of joy to well in Sami’s eyes.

  Shawn was at once genuinely happy for her, and at the same time incredibly envious. He’d never experienced that sort of reaction for any of the films he had directed in class.

  Sami stood up and took a bow. Even Mascaro, sitting far off in the front row, stood and clapped.

  Sami ran up to Shawn and Wilson a few minutes later by the food table. “Check it out. This agent from Gersh gave me his card. He said he thinks he could use the film to get me a job directing an episode of NCIS. Pretty cool, right? This other agent is from WME. He said I should adapt The Confession into a feature.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the best team in the game.”

  They turned and saw Raul flanked by at least twenty friends, whose flamboyant dress screamed “theater majors.”

  “Glad you could make it, Raul.” Sami gave him a hug.

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it! Even though I have two finals tomorrow. Three agents gave me their cards and want to meet for an interview. Can you believe it?”

  Wilson shook Raul’s hand and said, “I look forward to losing out on parts to you.”

  “Thanks for bringing so many people,” said Sami. “I’m sure that helped.”

  “It was our pleasure,” said a cute girl wearing overalls and a newsy cap.

  “Guys, these are my buddies,” Raul said. “We’re members of the Commedia dell’Arte troupe Whole Lotta Lazzi. Our last show of the year is tomorrow night if you want to come.”

  “I would love to,” said Sami, “but we already have plans.”

  “Well, we need to run to rehearsal. Wonderful film!”

  Before leaving, each of Raul’s friends personally shook the hand of Sami and congratulated her. A few also handed her their headshots before pulling on their Commedia masks and exiting the room.

  While all this was going on, Shawn scanned the scene, looking for any sign of Mascaro or his men. Where had he gone? When would he make his move?

  They continued mingling for another half hour, with Sami the star of the party. Everyone wanted to talk to her. She put on a brave face, but was torn with fear. Occasionally, she would pull over Shawn and introduce him as her brilliant DP and editor, but nobody seemed that interested.

  Shawn, already uncomfortable in the social atmosphere, sank further into his shell. He continuously checked his phone for a response from Desiree.

  Wilson hadn’t left Sami’s side the entire event. He was in his element, charming the industry in attendance and letting it be known that he was on his way to becoming a director.

  As the event wound down, there was still no sign of Mascaro.

  “I guess it’s time to head back,” said Sami. “Kind of anti-climactic.”

  Then they heard a sound from inside the theater.

  “Psst! Shawn!”

  Shawn turned. It was Rich Greenstone and Luke Wexler, the Fantastic Race duo who had been helping the USC team.

  “Hurry!” said Luke in a loud whisper. “We can’t be seen. They’re looking for us.”

  “You stay here, Sami,” said Wilson. “Shawn and I will investigate. If we’re not back in one minute, call the police.”

  Shawn and Wilson walked into the dark theater.

  Rich and Luke looked frightened and disheveled. Their odor was pungent.

  “We’ve been looking for you guys for days,” said Rich. “We knew you were UCLA film students so we’ve been searching the campus.”

  “We were in the car when the USC team was kidnapped, after leaving Delbert’s record shop,” said Luke. “But I guess they weren’t expecting us to be there because they didn’t have enough guys. We escaped and have been on the run ever since.”

  “We tried going back home, but they had men staking out our places,” Rich added. “What do you know about all this?”

  “The USC team is being held in a cell, but we don’t know where,” Shawn answered. “The ones who kidnapped them have demanded that we solve the latest puzzle and give them the answer by tonight.”

  “Have you solved it?” asked Rich.

  “No.”

  “Well, Luke and I have been working on it in the research library the last few days, and we think we know the answer to finding Q’s identity.”

  “Why should we trust you?” said Wilson.

  “Hey, we’re just a couple of puzzle geeks who got dragged into this a couple weeks ago, and now our lives are literally in shambles. If anything, we need to join forces for everyone’s protection, if we’re going to survive this game.”

  Wilson turned back to Sami and waved her over, deciding it was safe.

  Shawn felt uneasy, because Rich and Luke said they had solved the puzzle, but they hadn’t mentioned Spielberg. “So what did Kelly tell you guys?”

  “Kelly?” said Luke. “Who’s that?”

  “If you’ve solved the puzzle, you should know Kelly. She’s an assistant to someone you have to talk to.”

  “Oh, well here’s the thing about that....” Rich looked over Shawn’s shoulder. “We haven’t actually solved the puzzle.”

  The lights in the lobby shut off and the theater doors slammed shut behind them. The theater’s house lights slowly turned on and the screen curtains parted, revealing Mascaro and three henchmen pointing guns at them.

  “Time’s up,” said Mascaro. “If any sound leaves your mouths except the answers to my questions, you and your captive friends will regret it.”

  Shawn glared at Rich and Luke.

  “Sorry, guys,” said Luke. “We’ve been working for them the entire time.”

  “Talk about a puzzle you should have figured out sooner,” said Rich.

  “You bastards!” yelled Sami. “How could you?”

  “They came to us first and have been paying a heck of a lot better than that USC brat. But when we realized only film students would be permitted to beat this game, we became moles in order to stay in it.”

  “And we played our parts to perfection, I must say,” said Luke. “Perhaps some of my finest work.”

  Mascaro and the goons walked down the aisle, guns raised. “This is your last chance. I need an answer now.”

  “We don’t have an answer,” said Wilson.

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Mascaro.

  The goons circled behind them and pointed the pistols at their backs, as one of them searched their pockets and took their smart phones.

  “Where are you taking us?” said Sami.

  “The same place as your USC friends. You will work in captivity until you have solved the puzzle. We will do the necessary legwork. If needed, we’ll hire other naive students to take your place.”

  Luke and Rich opened an exit door at the side of the theater. The goons shoved them forward behind Mascaro.

  “What about the USC team? Are you going to kill one of them?” said Shawn.

  Mascaro turned. “That will be decided b
y those you are about to meet.”

  Shawn cursed himself as he was led down the vacated hallway by Mascaro, surrounded by men with guns.

  They exited Melnitz Hall, crossed a courtyard toward another building, and stopped at a large shutter door. Shawn recognized it as the back of a theater school classroom. Each room doubled as a small theater, and the entire back wall could open like a garage door to wheel in set pieces.

  Mascaro turned a key and the door rose.

  As they entered the room, bright spotlights blinded their eyes. The shutter closed behind them, revealing ten figures standing in a semi-circle wearing black cloaks and carnival masks—a scene eerily similar to the one in Eyes Wide Shut when Bill Harford is interrogated. The one in the center wore a red cloak.

  The red cloak stepped forward, holding a scepter.

  “If I had known we were having an orgy, I would have worn my sexy underwear!” said Wilson in an obvious attempt to diffuse the tension.

  No one responded.

  The red cloak removed his mask and held it at his waist. “Good to see you again,” he said with an ill smile.

  It was Herbert Greenwald, the curator of the Museum of the Moving Image.

  “Greenwald?” said Shawn. “It’s been you this whole time? You said you wanted to help us.”

  “I did want to help you, Mr. Hagan, so long as it served our end. The events at the museum were all designed to propel your actions, but now that the game has reached its conclusion, all we need is the final piece that’s in your head.”

  “I don’t know anything,” said Shawn. “We’re just as stuck as you are.”

  “Well, here’s what I know. I know that you made a long trek to visit Steven Spielberg, and that the two of you communicated. I know you visited old Kranzler at the observatory. Poor fellow. Perhaps you didn’t see today’s paper.”

  One of the cloaks threw a copy of The Los Angeles Times at their feet. On the front page was a headline: Leonard Kranzler, 83, famed astronomer, dies of heart attack at observatory station.

  “You killed him?” said Sami, barely able to speak.

  “Tragic things do seem to happen to those who refuse to cooperate with us.”