Stanley Kubrick

Perhaps it might be better, Mr. President, if you were more concerned with the American People than with your image in the history books.

Sir, you can't let him in here. He'll see everything. He'll see the big board!

It'd be naive of us, Mr. President, to imagine that these new developments would cause a change in Soviet expansionist policy. I mean, we must be increasingly on the alert to prevent them taking over other mine shafts space, in order to breed more prodigiously than we do. Thus, knocking us out of these superior numbers when we emerge! Mr. President, we must not allow a mine-shaft gap!

Gee, I wish we had one of them doomsday machines.

Doctor, you mentioned the ratio of ten women to each man. Now, wouldn't that necessitate the abandonment of the so-called monogamous sexual relationship, I mean, as far as men were concerned?

General Ripper called Strategic Air Command headquarters shortly after he issued the go code. I have a portion of the transcript of that conversation if you'd like me to to read it.

Ahem… The Duty Officer asked General Ripper to confirm the fact that he had issued the go code, and he said, uh, "Yes gentlemen, they are on their way in, and no one can bring them back. For the sake of our country, and our way of life, I suggest you get the rest of SAC in after them. Otherwise, we will be totally destroyed by Red retaliation. Uh, my boys will give you the best kind of start, 1400 megatons worth, and you sure as hell won't stop them now, uhuh. Uh, so let's get going, there's no other choice. God willing, we will prevail, in peace and freedom from fear, and in true health, through the purity and essence of our natural… fluids. God bless you all" and he hung up.

Uh, we're, still trying to figure out the meaning of that last phrase, sir.

If the pilot's good, see, I mean if he's reeeally sharp, he can barrel that baby in so low… oh you oughta see it sometime. It's a sight. A big plane like a '52… varrrooom! Its jet exhaust… frying chickens in the barnyard!

Mr. President, we are rapidly approaching a moment of truth both for ourselves as human beings and for the life of our nation. Now, truth is not always a pleasant thing. But it is necessary now to make a choice, to choose between two admittedly regrettable, but nevertheless *distinguishable*, postwar environments: one where you got twenty million people killed, and the other where you got a hundred and fifty million people killed.

Mr. President, I'm not saying we wouldn't get our hair mussed. But I do say no more than ten to twenty million killed, tops. Uh, depending on the breaks.

Mr. President, if I may speak freely, the Russkie talks big, but frankly, we think he's short of know how. I mean, you just can't expect a bunch of ignorant peons to understand a machine like some of our boys. And that's not meant as an insult, Mr. Ambassador, I mean, you take your average Russkie, we all know how much guts he's got. Hell, lookit all them Nazis killed off and they still wouldn't quit.

Hello…

I told you never to call me here, don't you know where I am?... Well look, baby, I c-, I *can't* talk to you now... my president needs me!... Of *course* Bucky'd rather be there with you!... Of *course* it isn't only physical!... I deeply respect you as a human being... Some day I'm gonna make you *Mrs* Buck Turgidson!... Oh, listen uh, you go back to sleep hon, and Bucky'll be back there just as soon as he can... All right... listen, sug, don't forget to say your prayers!

Mr. President, about, uh, 35 minutes ago, General Jack Ripper, the commanding general of, uh, Burpelson Air Force Base, issued an order to the 34 B-52's of his Wing, which were airborne at the time as part of a special exercise we were holding called Operation Drop-Kick. Now, it appears that the order called for the planes to, uh, attack their targets inside Russia. The, uh, planes are fully armed with nuclear weapons with an average load of, um, 40 megatons each. Now, the central display of Russia will indicate the position of the planes. The triangles are their primary targets; the squares are their secondary targets. The aircraft will begin penetrating Russian radar cover within, uh, 25 minutes.

That's right, sir, you are the only person authorized to do so. And although I, uh, hate to judge before all the facts are in, it's beginning to look like, uh, General Ripper exceeded his authority.

As you may recall, sir, one of the provisions of Plan 'R' provides that once the go-code is received, the normal SSB Radios in the aircraft are switched into a special coded device which I believe is designated as CRM-114. Now, in order to prevent the enemy from issuing fake or confusing orders, CRM-114 is designed not to receive at all - unless the message is preceded by the correct three-letter recall code group prefix.

That's about the size of it. However, we are plowing through every possible three-letter combination of the code. But since there are 17,000 permutations... it's going to take us about two-and-a-half days to transmit them all.

Mr. President, I'm beginning to smell a big, fat Commie rat! I mean, supposin' Kissov is lying about that fourth plane, just lookin' for an excuse to clobber us. I mean, if the spaghetti hits the fan, now, we're in trouble.

Ah, gentlemen, Mr. President, I'm not a sentimentalist at all, by nature, but I think I know what's in every heart in this room. I think we ought to all just bow our heads and give a short prayer of thanks for our deliverance. Uh, Lord, we have heard the wings of the angel of death fluttering over our heads from the valley of fear. You have seen fit to deliver us from the forces of evil…

Barry had his faults, but none could say of him that he was not a good and tender father. He loved his son with blind impartiality. He denied the boy nothing. It is impossible to convey what high hopes Barry had for young Bryan, or how he indulged in a thousand fond anticipations of the boy's future success and figure in the world. But Fate had determined that Barry should leave none of his race behind him... that he should finish his life poor, lonely, and childless.

A lady who sets her heart upon a lad in uniform must prepare to change lovers pretty quickly, or her life will be but a sad one. This heart of Lischen's was like many a neighboring town and had been stormed and occupied several times before Barry came to invest it.

It is well to dream of glorious war in a snug armchair at home, but it is a very different thing to see it first hand. And after the death of his friend, Barry's thoughts turned from those of military glory to those of finding a way to escape the service to which he was now tied for another six years. Gentlemen may talk of the age of chivalry, but remember the ploughmen, poachers and pickpockets whom they lead. It is with these sad instruments that your great warriors and kings have been doing their murderous work in the world.

No lad who has liberty for the first time, and twenty guineas in his pocket, is very sad, and Barry rode towards Dublin thinking not so much of the kind mother left alone, and of the home behind him, but of tomorrow, and all the wonders it would bring.

Barry's first taste of battle was only a skirmish against a small rearguard of Frenchmen who occupied an orchard beside a road down which, a few hours later, the English main force would wish to pass. Though this encounter is not recorded in any history books, it was memorable enough for those who took part.

Five years in the English and Prussian armies - plus considerable experience of traveling the world - had by now dispelled any of those romantic notions, regarding love, with which Barry commenced life. And he had it in mind, as so many gentlemen had before him, to marry a woman of great fortune and condition. And - as such things so often happen - these thoughts closely coincided with his setting sight upon a lady, who would henceforth play a considerable part in the drama of his life: the Countess of Lyndon, Viscountess Bullingdon of England, Baroness of Castle Lyndon of the Kingdom of Ireland, a woman of vast wealth and great beauty. She was the wife of The Right Honorable Sir Charles Reginald Lyndon: Knight of the Bath; Minister to George III at several of the smaller Courts of Europe; a cripple, wheeled about in a chair, worn out by gout and a myriad of other diseases. Her Ladyship's Chaplain, Mr. Runt, acted in the capacity of tutor to her son: the little Viscount Bullingdon; a melancholy boy, much attached to his mother.

Utterly baffled and beaten, what was a lonely and broken-hearted man to do? Barry took the annuity and returned to Ireland with his mother to complete his recovery. Sometime later, he travelled to the Continent. His life there, we have not the means of following accurately. But he appears to have resumed his former profession of a gambler without his former success. He never saw Lady Lyndon again.

It would require a great philosopher and historian to explain the causes of the famous Seven Years' War, in which Europe was engaged, and in which Barry's regiment was now on its way to take part. Let it suffice to say that England and Prussia were allies… and at war against the French, the Swedes, the Russians, and the Austrians.

The Chevalier was as much affected as Barry at thus finding one of his countrymen. For he too was an exile from home, and a friendly voice, a look, brought the old country back to his memory again.

The Prussian service was considerably worse than the English. The life that the private soldier led was a frightful one. Punishment was incessant, and every officer had the right to inflict it. The gauntlet was the most common penalty for minor offenses. The more serious ones were punishable by mutilation or death. At the close of the Seven Years' War, the army, so renowned for it's disciplined valor, was officered by native Prussians. But it was composed, for the most part, of men from the lowest levels of humanity. Hired, or stolen from almost every nation in Europe. Thus Barry fell into the very worst of courses and company. And was soon very far advanced in the science of every kind of misconduct.

From a report in The Saint James' Chronicle: "Died at Spa in the Kingdom of Belgium: The Right Honorable Sir Charles Reginald Lyndon; Knight of the Bath; Member of Parliament; and for many years, His Majesty's Representative at various European Courts. He has left behind him a name which is endeared to all his friends..."

Barry - had now arrived at the pitch of prosperity and by his own energy had raised himself to a higher sphere of society. Having procured his majesty's gracious permission, to add the name of his lovely Lady, to his own. Henceforth, Redmond Barry assumed the style and title of: Barry Lyndon.

Lady Lyndon was soon destined to occupy a place in Barry's life, not very much more important than the elegant carpets and pictures which would form the pleasant background of his existence.

Barry was clever enough at gaining a fortune, but much less capable of keeping one. For the qualities and energies which lead a man to achieve the first are, too often, the very cause of his ruin in the latter case.

First love! What a change it makes in a lad. What a magnificent secret it is that he carries about with him! The tender passion gushes instinctively out of a man's heart. He loves as a bird sings or a rose blows from nature.

Listen, Bill. Nobody killed anybody. Someone died. It happens all the time. Life goes on. It always does, until it doesn't. But you know that, don't you?

Bill, I don't think you realize how much trouble you got yourself into last night just by going over there. Who do you think those people were? Those were not just some ordinary people. If I told you their names… no, I'm not going to tell you their names… but if I did, I don't think you'd sleep so well at night.

Okay Bill... let's cut the bullshit, alright? You've been way out of your depth for the last 24 hours! You want to know what kind of charade? I'll tell you exactly what kind. That whole play-acted, "take me" phony sacrifice that you've been jerking off with had nothing to do with her real death. The truth is, nothing happened to her after you left that party that hadn't happened to her before. She got her brains fucked out. Period!

Bill... What the hell did you think you were doing there? I couldn't... I couldn't even begin to imagine how you'd even heard about it, let alone got yourself through the front door. And then I remembered seeing you talking with that prick piano player, Nick... or whatever the fuck his name was, at my party here the other night. And it didn't take much to figure out the rest.

Of course it was Nick's fault! If he hadn't mentioned this to you in the first place, none of this would have happened. I recommended that little cocksucker to those people, and now he's made me look like a complete asshole by telling you about it!

I know you didn't, Bill. But I also know that you went to Nick's hotel this morning and spoke with the desk clerk.

Because I had you followed.

Okay, yes I had you followed. I owe you an apology. I'm sorry. But it was for your own good. I know you went to Nick's hotel looking for him and I know what the desk clerk told you. But what the desk clerk didn't tell you was that those two men with Nick… all they did was drive Nick to the airport and put him on a plane back to Seattle. I assure you that Nick is safely back home and he's probably banging Mrs. Nick as we speak.

Yeah? Okay, so Nick had a bruise. But that's the least he deserved for telling you about that party the other night.

Yes, finally. But not because you didn't know it. It's because there was no second password. Of course it didn't help you too much that those people arrived there in limos… and you showed up in a taxi. Or that when they took your coat, they found the receipt to the costume from the rental house in your pocket made out to you-know-who.

Bill, I... I know what happened to you last night. And I know what's been going on since. And I think you just might have got the wrong idea about one or two things.

Please, Bill... no games. I was there. At the house. "The house". I saw you, Bill. I saw everything.

Alice, look at you! God, you're absolutely stunning! And I don't say that to all the women, do I?

Hi, I've got an appointment with Mr. Ullman. My name is Jack Torrance.

Wendy, let me explain something to you. Whenever you come in here and interrupt me, you're breaking my concentration. You're distracting me, and it will then take me time to get back to where I was. Understand?

Fine. Then we're going to make a new rule. Whenever I'm in here and you hear me typing

or whether you don't hear me typing, whatever the fuck you hear me doing, when I'm in here, that means that I am working, that means don't come in. Now, do you think you can handle that?

Good. Now why don't you start right now and get the fuck out of here? Hm?

You can't remember... Maybe it was about... Danny? Maybe it was about him. I think we should discuss Danny. I think we should discuss what should be done with him. What should be done with him?

Have you ever had a single moment's thought about my responsibilities? Have you ever thought, for a single solitary moment about my responsibilities to my employers? Has it ever occurred to you that I have agreed to look after the Overlook Hotel until May the first. Does it matter to you at all that the owners have placed their complete confidence and "trust" in me, and that I have signed a letter of agreement, a "contract," in which I have accepted that responsibility? Do you have the slightest idea what a "moral and ethical principal" is? Do you? Has it ever occurred to you what would happen to my future, if I were to fail to live up to my responsibilities? Has it ever occurred to you? Has it?

Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in. Not by the hair of your chiny-chin-chin? Well then I'll huff and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in.

I like you, Lloyd. I always liked you. You were always the best of them. Best goddamned bartender from Timbuktu to Portland, Maine. Or Portland, Oregon, for that matter.

You got a big surprise coming to you. You're not going anywhere! Go check out the Snow Cat and the radio and you'll see what I mean. Go check it out. Go! Go check it out! Go check it out!

I fell in love with it right away. When I came up here from my interview, it was as though I had been here before. I mean, we all have moments of déjà vu, but this was ridiculous. It was almost as though I knew what was going to be around every corner.

I just happen to have two 20s and two 10s right here in my wallet. I was afraid they were going to be there until next April. So here's what: you slip me a bottle of bourbon, a little glass and some ice. You can do that, can't you? You're not too busy, are you?

I never laid a hand on him, goddamn it. I didn't. I wouldn't touch one hair on his goddamn little head. I love the little son of a bitch! I'd do anything for him. Any fucking thing for him. But that bitch… as long as I live she will never let me forget what happened.

I did hurt him once, okay? Completely unintentional. Could've happened to anybody. And it was THREE GODDAMN YEARS AGO! The little fucker had thrown all my papers all over the floor! All I tried to do was pull him up!

A momentary loss of muscular coordination. I mean, a few extra foot-pounds of energy, per second, per second.

I bet you're the kind of guy that would fuck a person in the ass and not even have the goddamn common courtesy to give him a reach-around. I'll be watching you.

I am Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, your senior drill instructor. From now on you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be "Sir". Do you maggots understand that?

Bullshit, I can't hear you. Sound off like you got a pair!

If you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of death praying for war. But until that day, you are pukes. You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human fucking beings. You are nothing but unorganized grab-asstic pieces of amphibian shit! Because I am hard, you will not like me. But the more you hate me, the more you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops or greasers. Here you are all equally worthless. And my orders are to weed out all non-hackers who do not pack the gear to serve in my beloved Corps. Do you maggots understand that?

What is this Mickey Mouse shit? What in the name of Jesus H. Christ are you animals doing in my head? Why is Private Pyle out of his bunk after lights-out? Why is Private Pyle holding that weapon? Why aren't you stomping Private Pyle's guts out?

Now, you listen to me, Private Pyle. And you listen good. I want that weapon, and I want it now. You will place that rifle on the deck at your feet, and step back away from it.

What is your major malfunction, numbnuts? Didn't Mommy and Daddy show you enough attention when you were a child?

Today... is Christmas! There will be a magic show at zero-nine-thirty! Chaplain Charlie will tell you about how the free world will conquer Communism with the aid of God and a few Marines! God has a hard-on for Marines because we kill everything we see! He plays His games, we play ours! To show our appreciation for so much power, we keep heaven packed with fresh souls! God was here before the Marine Corps! So you can give your heart to Jesus, but your ass belongs to the Corps! Do you ladies understand?

Today, you people are no longer maggots. Today, you are Marines. You're part of a brotherhood. From now on until the day you die, wherever you are, every Marine is your brother. Most of you will go to Vietnam. Some of you will not come back. But always remember this: Marines die. That's what we're here for. But the Marine Corps lives forever. And that means YOU live forever.

Tonight, you pukes will sleep with your rifles. You will give your rifle a girl's name because this is the only pussy you people are going to get. Your days of finger-banging ol' Mary-Jane Rottencrotch through her pretty pink panties are over! You're married to this piece. This weapon of iron and wood. And you will be faithful. Port, hut!

The deadliest weapon in the world is a Marine and his rifle. It is your killer instinct which must be harnessed if you expect to survive in combat. Your rifle is only a tool. It is a hard heart that kills. If your killer instincts are not clean and strong you will hesitate at the moment of truth. You will not kill. You will become dead marines and then you will be in a world of shit because marines are not allowed to die without permission. Do you maggots understand?

Private Pyle has dishonored himself and dishonored the platoon. I have tried to help him. But I have failed. I have failed because YOU have not helped me. YOU people have not given Private Pyle the proper motivation! So, from now on, whenever Private Pyle fucks up, I will not punish him! I will punish all of YOU! And the way I see it ladies, you owe me for ONE JELLY DOUGHNUT! NOW GET ON YOUR FACES!

Are you quitting on me? Well, are you? Then quit, you slimy fucking walrus-looking piece of shit! Get the fuck off of my obstacle! Get the fuck down off of my obstacle! NOW! MOVE IT! Or I'm going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of the world! I will motivate you, Private Pyle, IF IT SHORT-DICKS EVERY CANNIBAL ON THE CONGO!

All right, knock it off! Two hundred and fifty feet! He was two hundred and fifty feet away and shooting at a moving target. Oswald got off three rounds with an old Italian bolt action rifle in only six seconds and scored two hits, including a head shot! Do any of you people know where these individuals learned to shoot? Private Joker?

Who said that? Who the fuck said that? Who's the slimy little communist shit twinkle-toed cocksucker down here, who just signed his own death warrant? Nobody, huh? The fairy fucking godmother said it! Out-fuckingstanding! I will P.T. you all until you fucking die! I'll P.T. you until your assholes are sucking buttermilk.