The Shining (1980) is a horror film directed by Stanley Kubrick and photographed by John Alcott. Depicting the all-American Torrance family’s gradual slip into madness as they inhabit an empty hotel for the winter, the movie is one of the most iconic and genuinely disquieting horror films of all time - and while there are plenty of ghastly spectacles throughout, the terror the audience leaves the theater with is a result of Kubrick’s command over tone, tension, and the uncanny.
Much has been written about what The Shining “means” - is it an allegory for the genocide of America’s indigenous peoples? A metaphor for the Holocaust? Is it a deconstruction of the nuclear family? Of white male rage in a culture that is (slowly) becoming less unequal? Is it nothing more than a descent into madness? There are enough overt thematic indicators to get an idea of what this film is “really” about - the fixation on familial dynamics, wedded with references to American history/iconography reveal Kubrick’s interest in the American family (and its inherent horrors) - but any attempt to consolidate its many pieces into a cohesive message is impossible (and a popular activity for fans).
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Whatever secrets lay buried in The Shining’s subtext, they are sought so fervently for one main reason: in formal terms, divorced from any abstract meaning, The Shining is a masterpiece. If it weren’t superb on a sensory level, no one would care what it meant. Without relying on jump scares and gore, The Shining raises the heartbeat and makes the mind race with dread: what’s coming?
When the horror finally arrives, that dread bursts into a rush of adrenaline. But if it weren’t for the two hours preceding it, would Jack Nicholson yelling “Here’s Johnny!” be particularly scary? Would the chase through the hedge maze get the adrenaline pumping with such ferocity? Would the image of Jack frozen and scowling be anything but ridiculous? The power of these moments comes from long-building tension. The Shining is (forgive the pun) a shining example of the Slow Burn Horror: a film that makes the audience wait for the scares, based on the principle that the long-lasting tension will make whatever follows more impactful. Remove the build-up from the final act, and the scares are loud, shocking, and a little disturbing - but hardly terrifying. So how does that tension build? How do Kubrick and Alcott make the movie feel scary, even when “nothing” is happening?
Camera Movement
Warner Bros.
The Shining is claustrophobic and merciless, portrayed in deliberate and unsettling images. The majority of the story is captured in steady shots, either locked off, slow-moving, or photographed from a distance. This creates the impression of a supernatural presence bearing down on the main characters. Kubrick famously employed the newly developed steadicam tech to follow Danny (the youngest member of the Torrance clan) as he rides his tricycle through the labyrinthine corridors of the hotel. The steadiness of the camera and its relentless pursuit clues the audience into the terror that follows him, either as a literal supernatural force or the horrors that await. With each rounded corner we hold our breath, knowing that something horrible will be there - and when nothing happens, we aren’t relieved: we know the worst is yet to come - we cannot relax. This technique is brought to a blood-curdling conclusion when Danny rounds a corner, and he - along with the camera - finally comes to a stop. In front of him, two identical ghost girls wait. This is the first overt moment of horror in the movie, and the camerawork contributes to its effectiveness: after spending so much time creeping towards an unknown destination of doom, the camera comes to a halt, letting us know that we have arrived at something truly horrible.
If the steady tracking shots come to represent a sneaking sense of dread, the calm before the storm, Alcott and Kubrick switch to a raw, hand-held style in the film’s final act: once Jack succumbs completely to insanity and attempts to murder his family, everything becomes fast-paced, a controlled chaos in sharp contrast to the unyielding stasis that has come before. This taps into the viewer’s primal sensations: when we suspect danger, we become still, and observant. When that danger reveals itself, we run like mad and hope our legs are fast enough to deliver us to safety.
Lighting and Design
Warner Bros. Pictures
Much of the lighting in the film (particularly in the hotel) is idyllic, soft, and rich. The wide frames and elegant exposure give the Overlook Hotel an aura of the sublime. This beauty is in sharp contrast to the horror lurking beneath the surface. Horror icon Jordan Peele has argued that a scary movie is most effective when placed in a beautiful location: when we are somewhere eerie, we expect terrible things. When we are somewhere that feels good, that creates a sense of comfort or serenity, we come to trust that location - and feel doubly betrayed when its evil reveals itself. This touches a deep human fear: we equate beauty with good, and when what is beautiful proves to be malevolent, we are confronted with a taboo idea - everything is bad. Beautiful surfaces harbor evils as great as any tableau of horror or disgust.
Like the last act’s shift in camerawork, the lighting in The Shining becomes increasingly bleak and surreal, culminating in a fluorescent nightmare. When Jack chases Danny through the maze, the snow covered passages reflect harsh and blindingly bright light. This choice also signifies that hidden evil has broken out into the open.
Framing and Symmetry
Kubrick’s framing is unconventional: while perfect symmetry is generally avoided in film (as it calls attention to itself and breaks the compositional rule of thirds), Kubrick leans into it, often placing his subjects in the middle of the frame. The audience might not consciously realize it, but this makes us uncomfortable: we sense that something is off. Symmetry is commonly associated with the supernatural (the history behind this association is vague – one explanation is that the natural is imperfect, while that which exists beyond it - the supernatural - possesses a perfection we cannot grasp). By framing so unusually, Kubrick infuses his images with the weight of relics and religious architecture.
All of these choices are formal, separate from the superb performances or rich subtext - but they create a world that allows the other elements to take on unfathomable meaning. These techniques come together to form one of the most unique horror experiences ever committed to celluloid: long before any supernatural element is introduced, we get the sense that something is deeply wrong, thanks to the meticulousness of the cinematography.
