When Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut appeared in 1999, it was titillatingly billed as a film about sex and jealousy starring a genuine Hollywood couple, and the element of the film to stir the greatest pre-opening excitement was generally dubbed "the orgy." Once the film opened, some critics hailed it as a masterpiece, but far more called it a catastrophe, and the scene that embarrassed even the film's most positive critics was in fact the "orgy." Yet it was not the fornication vignettes or even (in the American version) their digital revisioning that were most troubling; it was the scene's alarming "staginess," which critics such as Richard Schickel of Time described as "risible." This staginess was seen by harsher critics to plague the entire film--in its mannered dialogue, the artificiality of the New York set, the implausibility of Cruise in his role, the sheer ludicrousness of the plot. (1) Most critics either rationalized or critiqued the film's tone and plot by declaring it, as Philip Hensher does, a "scrupulously faithful adaptation" of Arthur Schnitzler's 1926 Traumnovelle. But Kubrick did not adhere to Schnitzler as closely as most have assumed; the film is just what the credits assert: "inspired by" the novella. Precisely how the film departs shows Eyes Wide Shut to be more mischievous and playful than many at first saw, and hints at another dream story that may have inspired it as well. The "orgy" itself, in both its faithfulness to and deviations from Schnitzler, provides a clue to the film's larger strategy.
First, a look at how Kubrick departs. Both novella and film present a comfortable young couple with a child; the husband, whose point of view we follow, is a doctor; soon after attending a party he and his wife have a discussion that leads to revelations of adulterous fantasy; he then sets out for a series of wanderings, meeting along the way a patient, a prostitute, and an old friend; ultimately he goes (uninvited) to a party, where he becomes involved with a masked woman, who tells him that his presence endangers her and will be discovered; later he learns, or thinks he learns, that she has died. This, roughly, is Schnitzler's plot, and to this Kubrick roughly adheres.
Even in its opening shot, though, the film shades away from Traumnovelle in atmosphere and detail. The novella begins with a fragment of a story read aloud by Fridolin and Albertine's daughter ("'Twenty-four brown slaves rowed the splendid galley that was to bring Prince Amgiad to the palace of the Kalif. But the prince, wrapped in his crimson cloak, lay alone on the foredeck under the dark-blue, starry night sky ...'"). (2) The film, however, opens with a celebrated shot of Alice, or Kidman, stepping nude from a black evening dress. Both book and film deal with what is "cloaked" and what is not, what is "real" and what is not, but from the outset the film exchanges the novella's opening note of fantasy and dark quests for one of erotic revelation. More seemingly prosaic changes that are at once apparent include setting the story not in early-1900s Vienna but in contemporary New York, not during Carnival but at Christmas-time, with most of the characters' names changed. Of course the story had to be set sometime and somewhere if, for some reason, it was not to adhere to its model--but each change was a decision. And the next striking decision was to front the film with the scene of the Christmas party.
In the novella, this first party is a Carnival masquerade briefly summed up after it has taken place, not presented as a scene; the action proper begins the following night, with Fridolin and Albertine discussing the party. Upon entering it, Fridolin had been approached by "two red dominoes [zwei roten Dominos]" (8), who had led him off to what promised to be a dalliance, but then had disappeared; a "Domino" in Schnitzler's sense is someone in a domino, a cloak worn, with a mask, at masquerades. Albertine, meanwhile, was approached by a foreign man who at first interested and flattered her but then frightened her. The couple found one another after these misadventures and sat together, "husband and wife, essentially glad to have escaped a disappointingly banal Maskenspiel [masque or masquerade]" (8). The rest of the night they behaved like new lovers, and only the following evening do they discuss all this and fall into the argument that leads to her (and, in the novella, also his) revelations of adulterous fantasies. The party in Schnitzler is thus an economical means of launching the story.
Kubrick, though, has not only developed this brief sketch of the first party into a full scene but added critical characters and episodes. First the couple, Alice and Bill, prepare for the party--dress, move through their elegant apartment, have words with the sitter, say goodnight to their child--and then step from this realistic zone into one that approaches the fantastical: Victor Ziegler's lavish party, where the atmosphere is suspended and drunken, illumined by glowing curtains of Christmas lights, gleaming like the set of a Hollywood musical. As in the novella's brief outline, two seductresses appear to tempt the doctor, as does the European seducer to tempt his wife. But so too appears Nightingale (one of the few characters whose name is not changed but simply translated from the German, Nachtigall, but who, in the novella, appears only later, once Fridolin has begun his wanderings), as well as Victor Ziegler and the drugged Mandy, neither of whom exists in Traumnovelle. The sequence of events at the party is almost entirely invented and is so mannered that it gave many critics their first opportunity to judge the film harshly. The seducer's lines seem absurd, Alice's response's stunningly strange, Bill's fraternal greetings with Nightingale hollow, his performance as a doctor laughable given--that the film could have glided along with Schnitzler's text and done without this sequence, why do it? What is accomplished by making a scene of the party and adding characters and episodes?
It helps to view the events of the party schematically. Alice is tempted by an unknown man; Bill is tempted by two women; Nightingale appears and offers an invitation; Bill--switching roles suddenly from guest to doctor--is pulled by his host into a drama involving a naked young woman endangering herself; and he is asked by his host to keep this drama quiet. But what happens after the party--that is, in the narrative adhering more closely to Schnitzler's? Alice reveals being tempted by another man; this, in turn, impels Bill's being tempted first by Marion and then by the prostitute; he meets Nightingale and receives an invitation of sorts; then, switching roles again, from doctor to uninvited guest, he enters the costume ball with its drama of a naked young woman endangering herself; ultimately he finds himself in Ziegler's private rooms having his knowledge of this drama nullified. The Christmas party scene invented by Kubrick thus neatly prefigures the rest of the film up until the final scenes at Ziegler's and then in the toy store, both also entirely invented by Kubrick; in the film, therefore, invented scenes frame an adaptation of Schnitzler's narrative. The opening framing scene, the Christmas party and preparations leading to it, functions as a "preview" to Schnitzler's narrative proper, presented in a curiously suspended atmosphere.
As if pointing to just such a linear relation between this party scene and the subsequent narrative, Kubrick soon makes another alteration that seems minute but is pivotal. Upset by Alice's revelations, Bill is summoned to a patient's death bed and then begins his night wanderings, the story here following Schnitzler. But when Bill goes home with a prostitute, as Fridolin does, here she is named not "Mizzi," as her counterpart in Traumnovelle calls herself, but "Domino"--Schnitzler's word for the pair of temptresses at the first party. Domino's cluttered room, moreover, is decorated with masks. Not only does this subtle name-change draw a connection between two moments in the narrative, the party and this scene, but the word in question, meaning both costume and masquerader, begins to plant hints. Another change soon after does the same: when Fridolin goes uninvited to a masked party, he must utter the password Danemark, which is the site of Albertine's adulterous fantasies. But when Bill in turn goes to a party, the password he must use is not the obvious counterpart, Cape Cod, the site of Alice's fantasies, but Fidelio. This is the name of a Beethoven opera, whose full title is Fidelio, or Conjugal Love; by making this the password, Kubrick casts the question of faithfulness, about which the film is ostensibly concerned, upon the operatic stage, and he does so slyly. Another invention soon after does more of the same: the costume shop from which Bill acquires his cloak and mask is named the "Rainbow," and it was "to the end of the rainbow" that the seductresses at the Christmas party had promised to take Bill. Again, a thread tugs scenes together self-consciously; and again the story is briefly illuminated by the hues of another staged fantasy, now The Wizard of Oz. Sly stage references thus begin to accumulate.
Having visited the prostitute, met with Nightingale (over a drink and a Wizard-of-Oz crystal ball), acquired his costume, and been taken a long way by hired car (throughout all of which he shells out a vast number of "bills," which Fridolin does not), Bill reaches the infamous party in the Long Island palace. Described as a "triumph of theatrical fustiness" (Hoberman), as a scene that "flirts with ridicule" (Maslin), and as "melodramatic" and "phoney" (Walker), the event depicted is called by most critics an orgy, by others a Black Mass or a Satanic ritual. Louis Menand in The New York Review of Books shakes his head at its "true bathos," claiming that "none of this is in Schnitzler," but indeed much of it is. Men and women in the novella are masked and dressed as monks and nuns, moving somberly to religious-toned music; at a change in the music, the nuns reappear with their cloaks gone but still masked, and the men, now in white, yellow, blue, and red "Kavalier" costumes (58), rush upon them. It is true that all the film's fornication is invented, but Kubrick only makes explicit what are, in the text, Fridolin's imaginings. Inflamed by the sight of the women's white bodies clasped to the men's colorful silk cloaks, by all the previous events of the night, and by the masked woman accompanying him, Fridolin does not believe that all this ends with "a polite kiss of the hand" (60); he is convinced that there are secret chambers for coupling. Likewise he imagines intensely what is behind the masks and tries to remove his companion's, only to be told that doing so could endanger their lives. As the drama progresses, he begins to believe he has stepped into a Carnival comedy or "Mummerei" (67); when he is ordered by his hosts to remove his mask, he refuses, fearing that to do so would be even more revealing than if he were to drop his clothes. Upon being told that the unknown woman will "redeem" him, he tries to "unmask" the entire scene: "What, my unknown gentlemen, can it matter to you whether you play this Carnival comedy out to the end or not ...? Whoever you might be, gentlemen, you do lead an existence other than this" (67).
So one of the central motifs of Traumnovelle is the mask, the play, the charades and poses of society. Fridolin often longs to don his doctor's smock and mask and be safe behind this shielding identity; later he dwells on his inability to recognize the young woman who has poisoned herself when he had seen only a woman masked at the ball; by extension, he dwells on his inability to "know" his wife, who reveals secrets behind her contented married face; and so on. Likewise the mask is a central motif in Eyes Wide Shut--but bearing such psychological Ernst, such symbolic weight? "Strangers in the Night" plays as the Mysterious Woman warns Bill to leave; surely, then, the thematic content of the mask here is closer to kitsch. Given the accumulating stage-references and the fact that the mask-related elements--the costume shop, the costume ball, the lost and found mask itself--are so lavishly handled in the film, it seems that the mask is not meant to stand for psychological or sociological issues of identity and posturing and so on, but, simply, for the stage itself. Why not, then, look at Kubrick's masquerade scene not as a Black Mass, Satanic ritual, or orgy, as critics have interpreted it, but as exactly what Fridolin calls the party he himself attends--a Carnival play, a Mumming Play, a masque?
Having their origins in primitive fertility rites, in the Mumming Plays that dramatized the death of winter and birth of the new year, or in the Carnival revels before Lent--all having to do with sensual release--by the seventeenth century, masques had become sophisticated staged and costumed events. They were usually performed by disguised amateurs who appeared at court with gifts, presented a drama on allegorical or mythical themes, moved to the floor for staged dances, and then, pairing off with the ladies of the court, invited the audience to join them in licentious revels that might last the night. Often the whole event was preceded by an antimasque, a comic or parodic version of the main drama itself. The point of the older masques was to generate erotic "heat"--engage the court to revel--which would, hopefully, end in sex, particularly between the king and queen. (3) The masque "did not try to create or maintain an intact illusion by separating the audience sharply from the action; rather, it mingled the audience offstage with the actors onstage.... The masque had many elements of an audience-participation game.... [It] was both comic and serious, and anything but realistic" (4)--such as, perhaps, the "merry and tragical" masque of Pyramus and Thisbe, put on for the king and queen's nuptials in A Midsummer Night's Dream (V.I)--like Eyes Wide Shut, a comical drama of drug-induced jealousy, misplaced passions, and enchanted dreaming.
If Kubrick's costume ball is in fact a modern, degenerate courtly masque, what does this mean? ("You should have a cloak lined with ermine" is what, according to the screenplay, the costumer's tricky daughter whispers to Bill in the shop, kinging him .) To start, it means that the drama at the ball (the sacrifice of the Mysterious Woman) should be taken as just that: a drama, a staged, "phoney" event. So it is presented as it should be, with muffled voices, melodramatic lines, and phantasmagorical fornication vignettes, all making us squirm in our seats ("This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard," says Hippolyta [MND, V.I] as she watches Bottom and the players put on their play of Pyramus and Thisbe). Yet it is not just any staged, "phoney" event, but, as a masque, one that will ultimately involve its spectators. Within the film itself, Bill indeed becomes involved, uncertain if this is drama or real. But the same thing ultimately happens to us: not only is the drama Bill watches in the Long Island palace staged, but so too is the drama we watch in the film palace. The fact that this extraordinary scene is a masque but, in effect, a masque in disguise, has implications for the entire film.
Kubrick deliberately disoriented us in shifting the setting from Vienna during Carnival to New York at Christmastime. Given that the film was shot almost entirely on a set, it could have taken place just as well in a fabricated New Orleans during Mardi Gras, say, as in New York during Christmas. The masquerade ball in that case would have been in context, as it is in the novella, and these Carnival themes of sacrifice and redemption might have taken their place logically in the film and not seemed so grievously comical. But as it is, the effect of changing the scene is that we are taken completely by surprise when confronted with the cloaks and histrionics of the masque; it is preposterous. We're shocked and even embarrassed because we have not, all along, been in an atmosphere of staged dramatics and masking. Yet it is important to note that our disorientation has been deliberately induced, which means that the film has something quite different in mind than its purported story.
Let's return to the opening party scene, which strayed so distinctly from the novella and first struck that mannered tone. Schnitzler had described both this and the later party as Carnival masques or masquerades, but Kubrick presents the first simply as a Christmas party. Or does he? What of the stiff dialogue, the stunning theatricality, the hollowness of the performances--or indeed the dressing-up beforehand, with its oddly backstage feel, before Kidman says, "I'm ready!" and she and her husband step into the party's lights and suspended, fantasy atmosphere? Given this scene's almost parodic tone and its investment, by Kubrick, with the entire film's narrative structure, is it possible that it is designed as a form of masque? Or an anti-masque, parodying the events of the main drama that follows? Is it precisely the "disappointingly banal masque" that Schnitzler describes, here so mannered that many critics were appalled? ("This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard ...") If so, many of the elements of the film that have been decried as "phoney" and "stagey" begin to array themselves in a new pattern: the film's artificiality may be as intentional as Snug the Joiner's declaration to the audience that he is not really the Lion he portrays.
Returning now to the Long Island masquerade proper, how can we see the masked women dropping their cloaks to reveal their nude bodies without thinking of the opening shot of Alice, or Kidman, dropping her dress with her back turned to us, and therefore nude but with her face "masked"? At the point in the novella's masquerade when the women drop their clothes, Fridolin, stunned and lustful at the sight of the nude bodies beneath the masks, has a terrible revelation: "That each of those unclothed creatures nevertheless remained a mystery, and that out of each black mask a pair of large eyes like the most unsolvable puzzles gazed toward him--this transformed in him the unspeakable desire to watch into an almost unbearable agony of longing" (58). Given that opening shot of Kidman and what it seemed to promise, in light of the film being sold as a story of sex and jealousy starring a famous Hollywood couple, it begins to appear that the film is playing precisely with our desire to watch, our Lust des Schauens, which was, as most critics bitterly remarked, so disappointed. And if the film is doing so, then it takes on a metadramatic quality and becomes a project in which we are more involved than we think; it begins to be a film about being a film about sex, and not simply the film about sex that we'd been led, with all the pre-opening foreplay, to expect.
Alice's opening nudity and her subsequent half-naked scenes, for instance, made many critics think of the clamor surrounding Kidman's brief nudity in The Blue Room. Thus Kidman appears not only as the character she portrays, but as herself. The same is true of Cruise. Fridolin, leaving Marianne and her dead father, was harassed by boys, as is Bill, yet Bill's harassment is explicitly anti-homosexual; likewise, his, but not Fridolin's, interview with the hotel clerk is given homosexual innuendo. This slant, nonexistent in the novella, seems only to bring Tom Cruise the actor and gossipy suspicions about him to the surface. And his character's comic, constant assertions that he is a doctor--a profession far more germane to the novella's Carnival themes of flesh and rot, yet a profession Fridolin doesn't need to assert--somehow demands the retort, No, no, you're an actor. These aspects of the film keep reminding us of the existence of Cruise himself, not Bill Harford, forcing us to see at the same moment both the character and the actor behind the character, and so dissolving the dramatic illusion. Yet we, the curious audience, are implicated in this double vision because we wanted it: we wanted a film that would expose to us the sex-lives of these stars.
The poster advertising the film had itself hinted at its metadramatic quality: the near-kiss, Kidman's look outward. Certainly the look suggests duplicity, intrigue, a private other world--that is, the content within the drama itself, the fantasies and dreams that Alice reveals to Bill. But the look also suggests the presence of an audience; in it is a coy awareness of being watched. Yet this deliberate outward look does not so much destroy the illusion of the drama as complicate it, implicating us. For it promises two dramas: that which is scripted and staged, but also that, we very much hope, which will be glimpsed between the scenes, behind the masks--the drama of the real couple themselves. The famous mirror scene, in which we see both the couple and their reflection as they embrace, represents this double vision to perfection. Critic after critic fell victim to the promise of a peep, Alexander Walker candidly claiming that "our eyes ... are wide open for the conjugal signals that pass between a real-life couple," Louis Menand compelled to speculate on the couple's private "chemistry."
If the film is intentionally toying with this double vision--presenting at the same time both actor and character as wryly as Bottom is both Bottom and Pyramus--then the very creation of Victor Ziegler, played by director Sydney Pollack, can be seen in a new light. The two scenes in his palatial home are invented by Kubrick and frame the "main" drama. In Traumnovelle, which has no such character and therefore no such framing scenes, the events at the masquerade party are self-enclosed. There being no "Victor" to provide a connection between the dreamlike masquerade ball and the real death of a young woman, and there being no "Mandy" to provide a further connection between masquerade and death, the events of the masquerade ball in the novella remain suspended, dreamlike, detached from the more "real" context. Fridolin will never know whether he was part of a "Carnival comedy" or something with fatal consequences. It is impossible for him to say whether the young suicide he sees in the morgue is the same woman who had been masked and had offered to "redeem" him; the association may exist entirely in his mind, inspired by his inflamed state and by newspaper items he has read.
Bill, however, does not have this hope: there is no question (if we can trust Victor) that the woman in the morgue is Mandy and that Mandy had been the Mysterious Woman at the masquerade. The only question for Bill is whether she simply overdosed as she was likely to do sometime, or was forced to do it in repayment for his presence at the party. Did she redeem him? This he will never know, for here Victor performs his wizardry by saying, "Suppose I said all of that was staged, that it was a kind of charade?" The insertion of this figure and his role thus has the peculiar effect of making the masquerade drama both more "real" than it is in the novella, by linking to it the "real" figures of Victor and Mandy, and more unreal, in that Victor dismisses the drama as being anything other than staged.
But the situation (for us) is worse than that. Although Victor says that Mandy was indeed the Mysterious Woman and that she is now dead, yet that none of this has anything to do with Bill because the event was staged and Mandy in fact died in an unrelated and predictable manner--although Victor says this, the fact is that Mandy is not the Mysterious Woman. That is, if we can believe our own eyes and the film credits, which cite Julienne Davis as Mandy, and Abigail Good as the Mysterious Woman. Yet it is not just Victor who is lying to Bill; Kubrick is cheerily lying to us. Those who do not see this purely mischievous lie will of course find the film and its "obsession with the redemptive power of women" (Hensher) overly melodramatic; they have sought a "real" drama in a work that has laughed at its own fairy dust and tossed out hints from Fidelio to The Wizard of Oz. Yet just as Victor is lying to Bill, and Kubrick is lying to us, so too are both revealing as much when Victor says, "Suppose I said all of that was staged?" Not only was the drama that Bill watched staged, but so too is the one that we're watching. Could it be that we need reminding?
The character of Victor Ziegler, then, is no minor addition. It is at his party--with its suspended, illumined atmosphere--that all the elements in the subsequent drama are first, so to speak, rehearsed. And it is at his palatial home, later, that the stage is taken down again. Clever bits of casting that were no doubt economical but sly all the same conflate dramas and realities still further: production associate Michael Doven, for instance, plays Victor's Secretary, constantly interrupting and summoning the characters to the next scene; co-producer Brian Cook plays the Tall Butler, who ushers Bill before his examiners at the masquerade; casting director Leon Vitali plays the chief examiner himself, Red Cloak. "Take off your clothes," he commands Bill, as Bill struggles to remember his "lines." Is this a film about being a film about sex? Is this a Merry and Tragical Masque of Sex and Jealousy?
And what about the title of the film? It could have simply been called Dream Story, as Lolita was Lolita. "Eyes wide shut" no doubt refers to dreaming, to what one sees behind closed eyes. It could also refer to, even describe most eloquently, the expression of an unworn mask, its eyes open but unseeing: the expression of the mask, for instance, that lies on the pillow near the end of the film. Or it could even, given Fridolin's fevered thoughts as he gazes at the masked women's nude bodies, refer to us, the audience, staring eagerly but never seeing through the mask worn by the actor. Staged characters are characters; there will be no glimpse of the "real-life couple." Standing before his inquisitors (and caster), Bill (or Cruise) refuses to undress; Alice (or Kidman) lies in bed beside her husband's mask and light falls upon her face, contouring it--or revealing it?--to be a white mask.
So we, the consumers of film, were teased. We had been promised an erotic movie starring a Hollywood couple and had managed to believe that, despite the fact that it was a movie and they were actors, we would nevertheless be shown reality; we would actually be given marital sex and not its contrived semblance. We were toyed with. Even at the film's last moment (in the toyshop), we are teased--and again, no such scene exists in Traumnovelle. Despite all the sexuality of the film--the nude bodies, the glimpsed fornication, the fantasies, the attempted seductions--our Hollywood stars have not had sex; our king and queen have been as at odds with each other as Titania and Oberon. Yet by film's end the royals are reconciled: this Merry and Tragical Masque of Sex and Jealousy concludes and ushers lovers to bed, if Alice's one-word proposal closing the film is any indication. But there the film ends, again with the tease, again with that trembling line between the real and the staged, as we are invited now to picture these two doing what she says, these two, Kidman and Cruise--as we are enticed, again, to push away the mask and look behind.
Both novella and film are about the interpenetrations of "reality" and "fantasy," the impossibility of knowing the difference. But while Traumnovelle, set in Freud's Vienna at liminal, licentious Carnival time, jostles the "inner truth" of dream and fantasy against external "reality," Eyes Wide Shut, set in contemporary faux-New York during a Christmas that exists only through bright lights, gaudy trees, and the buying and wrapping of presents--so in the place and time of our era's most conspicuous, glittering consumption--plays not so much with the inner truths of dream and fantasy but with various shifty "truths" of its own medium and consumer-audience as well, drawing not only upon Schnitzler's dream-story but also upon Shakespeare's. Eyes Wide Shut does not try to "create or maintain an intact illusion." Like Bottom and his players presenting their merry and tragical masque at the king and queen's wedding once the jealousies and dreaming are over, Eyes Wide Shut constantly reminds us that it is a staged event, that these are actors, that this is a set--that, ever since buying our ticket, we have been in the hands of a mischievous Puck.
(1) See, for instance, reviews by Ebert, Kauffmann and Hoberman; also by Maslin and Walker.
(2) Translations are mine and are based on the 1995 edition of Traumnovelle published by Fischer. Here, page 7.
(3) Among many excellent definitions and discussions are those by Lanier and Mendes.
(4) Norton Anthology, 1231.
Ebert, Roger. Rev. of Eyes Wide Shut. Chicago Sun Times 7 July 1999
Hensher, Philip. "Masque of the Dead Flesh." Times Literary Supplement 17 September 1999: 20.
Hoberman, J. "I Wake Up Dreaming." Village Voice 21-27 July 1999
Kauffmann, Stanley. "On Films: Kubrick: A Sadness." The New Republic 16 August 1999: 30.
Kubrick, Stanley. Eyes Wide Shut. Warner Bros., 1999.
Kubrick, Stanley and Frederic Raphael. Eyes Wide Shut: A Screenplay. New York: Warner Books, Inc., 1999.
Lanier, Douglas. "Fertile Visions: Jacobean Revels and the Erotics of Occasion." Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900 39.2 (1999): 327-56 .
Maslin, Janet. "Eyes Wide Shut: Danger and Desire in a Haunting Bedroom Odyssey." New York Times 16 July 1999
Menand, Louis. "Kubrick's Strange Love." The New York Review of Books 12 August 1999: 7.
Mendes, Peter. "Introduction to Arcades and Comus--Masque." John Milton: Odes, Pastorals, Masques. Ed. J. B. Broadbent. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975.
The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Fifth Ed. Vol. One. Ed. M. H. Abrams. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1986.
Schickel, Richard. "All Eyes on Them." Time 5 July 1999.
Schnitzler, Arthur. Traumnovelle. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer Verlag, 1995.
Shakespeare, William. A Midsummer Night's Dream. The Portable Shakespeare. New York: Penguin Books, 1977.
Walker, Alexander. "It's a Sex Odyssey." Evening Standard 22 June 1999
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