This book is nothing more than a sorry attempt at trying to make the life of man who shys away from the limelight seem sensationalistic. Throughout the book the writer seems to be dieing to reveal some bit of scandal, some skeleton in the closet of Stanley Kubrick, and he fails at it repeatedly. Baxter writes like a smug, holier-than-though iconoclast who deeply resents the success of the man he writes about. This book is fit only for the grocery store tabloid rack and even then it wouldn't sell because Kubrick has led a sober and quiet life only surfacing every ten years or so to deliver a quality film to quality-strarved audiences. If you want to read a decent biography of Kubrick, check out Vincent Lobrutto's book...