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http://servuclean.com/category/janitorial-service/office-cleaners/ I love Stanley Kubrick films. But the man couldn’t write a female character to wet the bed.

I’m watching Eyes Wide Shut again and the weakness is glaring. Nicole Kidman plays a wife who confesseses infidelity fantasies and disappears into furniture. The hooker doesn’t keep time. The women at the orgy are props on a conveyor belt. Kubrick’s women exist to provoke men, then step aside.

And yet.

The film follows a Manhattan doctor who stumbles into a masked orgy at a Long Island estate. Cloaked figures. Rituals. Wealthy men behind masks, watching. Women who move like furniture.

Sound familiar?

This is what Kubrick saw more than a quarter century ago. A world where sex trafficking becomes aestheticized ritual and extreme wealth buys silence. Where economically vulnerable young women are disposable by powerful men who livestream their fantasies with human avatars.

It looked preposterous in 1999.

Then came Epstein.

The orgy isn’t about pleasure. It’s about spectacle. Masks, cloaks, robotic choreography. All of it displaying power for fellow big shots.

Epstein’s Lolita island ran the same way, with one addition Kubrick couldn’t show: secret cameras in every room, used eventually to blackmail the clientele.

This wasn’t Kubrick’s first trip to this territory. He adapted Lolita in 1962. He held the rights to the novella behind Eyes Wide Shut for nearly 30 years before finally filming it. He knew what he had. A costume shop owner in the film offers his underage daughter as a sexual favor. Critics called it a digression.

It wasn’t.

A woman at the orgy warns the doctor: I don’t think you realize the danger you’re in now. She turns up dead. Convenient overdose. A piano player vanishes. A mask appears on the pillow beside the sleeping wife. The message arrives without a shot fired: You saw nothing. Go home.

Kubrick died six days after screening his final cut. Heart attack. Age 70. Make of that what you will.

His women couldn’t hold a scene. But maybe they weren’t supposed to. Maybe that was the point.

“Can I get a ride home?” Robert Duvall asked.

I thought he was trying to throw me off my question to him. We were at Matteo’s restaurant, where he was discussing his latest movie, We Own The Night, a cop thriller.

I’d heard that co-star Joaquine Phoenix tried ANYTHING to get Duvall to break character, to flub a line. Director James Gray said Phoenix would shout non-sequiturs, rub Duvall’s earlobes and purr “such a pretty bunny,” and even kissed the actor full on the mouth once. I was trying to confirm that last bit when Duvall had me on my heels.

“Excuse me?” I asked. I thought that he had told me to go home, so offended he must have been by my impertinence.

“My wife dropped me off,” he said. “We don’t live too far from here. Can I get a lift home?”

If the plan was to change topics, mission accomplished. Because now I was panicked.

I had planned to take the motorcycle to the interview, but changed my mind at the last second so I could wear nice shoes and feign maturity.

But that meant taking the pickup truck, which doubled as a dog taxi. On any given day, that Ford had more dander in it than gasoline. I parked it on the street so the valets wouldn’t ridicule me, though I’m sure I heard snickering when I walked into the tony restaurant, Sinatra’s favorite.

Now I was on my heels. Did I even remove the rawhides from the passenger seat? But I said sure, no problem.

For the next couple hours, over tuna, Duvall downplayed every movie he’d ever starred in, aw-shucked every character he brought to life, from The Godfather’s Tom Hagen to Apocalypse Now’s Lt. Bill Kilgore.

But as lunch progressed, Duvall loosened up. He said he refused to watch the HBO Western series Deadwood because he considered the constant swearing inaccurate and gratuitous. He found Unforgiven flawed because Clint Eastwood’s character had trouble mounting his horse after years out of the saddle. “You never forget a thing like that,” he said. He considered Lonesome Dove the best thing he’d ever done. He admitted the two TV shows he COULD NOT miss were Dancing with the Stars and So You Think You Can Dance.

As lunch wrapped, a sense of dread pitted my gut. Were there fast food wrappers everywhere? Is the radio going to blare Rage Against The Machine when I start the engine? Would he sit in my vehicle and make a squeak-fart from an overlooked dog toy?

As we neared my spot, I held my breath. My ride was slobbered and filthy. But no fast food bags. No half-eaten rawhides.

We drove a couple miles to his house, a two-story Beverly Hills townhome in the middle of the block. Nothing about the place screamed, or even suggested, acting legend. Airs simply didn’t suit the man.

He thanked me for the ride and said he and his wife were flying to their home in Argentina in a week. He stepped out, and before shutting the door, said “nice truck.”

I drove home thinking he might have actually meant it.

Thank you for the journey, Mr. Duvall.