“The good news,” wrote the Times that year, bemoaning the ever-lengthening gaps between his films, “is that Kubrick is reportedly a hoarder. There is apparently an extensive archive of material at his home in Childwickbury Manor. When that is eventually opened we may get close to understanding the tangled brain which brought to life HAL, the Clockwork Orange Droogs and Jack Torrance.”

The thing is, once I sent the tape to the PO box, nothing happened next. I never heard anything again. Not a word. My cassette disappeared into the mysterious world of Stanley Kubrick. And then, three years later, Kubrick was dead.

Two years after that—in 2001—I got another phone call out of the blue from the man called Tony. “Do you want to get some lunch?” he asked. “Why don’t you come up to Childwick?”

The journey to the Kubrick house starts normally. You drive through the St. Albans suburbs, passing ordinary-sized postwar houses and opticians and vets. Then you turn right, past the Private Road sign, into an almost absurdly perfect picturesque model village. Even the name, Childwick Green, sounds like A. A. Milne wrote it. There’s an electric gate at the end, with a Do Not Trespass sign. Drive through that, and through some woods, and past a long white fence with the paint peeling off, and then another electric gate, and then another electric gate, and then another electric gate and you’re in the middle of an estate full of boxes.

There are boxes everywhere—shelves of boxes in the stable block, rooms full of boxes in the main house. In the fields, where racehorses once stood and grazed, are half a dozen Portakabins, each packed with boxes. I notice that many of the boxes are sealed. Some have, in fact, remained unopened for decades.

Tony turns out to be Tony Frewin. He started working as an office boy for Kubrick in 1965, when he was seventeen. One day, apropos of nothing, Kubrick said to him, “You have that office outside my office if I need you.”

That was thirty-six years ago and Tony is still here, two years after Kubrick died and was buried in the grounds behind the house. There may be no more Kubrick movies to make, but there are DVDs to remaster and reissue in special editions. There are box sets and retrospective books to oversee. There is paperwork.

Tony gives me a guided tour through the house. We walk past boxes and more boxes and filing cabinets and past a grand staircase. Childwick was once home to a family of horse trainers called the Joels. Back then there was, presumably, busts or floral displays on either side at the bottom of this staircase. Here, instead, is a photocopier on one side and a fax machine on the other.

“This is how Stanley left it,” says Tony.

Stanley Kubrick’s house looks like the Inland Revenue took it over long ago. Tony takes me into a large room painted blue and filled with books.

“This used to be the cinema,” he tells me.

“Is it the library now?” I ask.

“Look closer at the books,” says Tony.

I do.

“Bloody hell,” I say. “Every book in this room is about Napoleon!”

“Look in the drawers,” says Tony.

I do.

“It’s all about Napoleon too!” I say. “Everything in here is about Napoleon!”

I must say I feel a little like Shelley Duvall in The Shining, chancing upon her husband’s novel and finding it is consisting entirely of the line “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” typed over and over again. John Baxter wrote, in his unauthorized biography of Kubrick, “Most people attributed the purchase of Childwick to Kubrick’s passion for privacy, and drew parallels with Jack Torrance in The Shining.” This room full of Napoleon stuff seems to bear that comparison out.

“Somewhere else in this house,” Tony says, “is a cabinet full of twenty-five thousand library cards, three inches by five inches. If you want to know what Napoleon, or Josephine, or anyone within Napoleon’s inner circle was doing on the afternoon of July twenty-third, seventeen-whatever, you go to that card and it’ll tell you.”

“Who made up the cards?” I ask.

“Stanley,” says Tony. “With some assistants.”

“How long did it take?” I ask.

“Years,” says Tony. “The late sixties.”

Kubrick never made his film about Napoleon. During the years it took him to compile this research, a Rod Steiger movie called Waterloo was written, produced, and released. It was a box-office failure, so MGM abandoned Napoleon and Kubrick made A Clockwork Orange instead.

“Did you do this kind of thing for all the movies?” I ask Tony.

“More or less,” he says.

“OK,” I say. “I understand how you might do this for Napoleon, but what about, say, The Shining?”

“Somewhere here,” says Tony, “is just about every book about ghosts ever written, and there’ll be a box containing photographs of the exteriors of maybe every mountain hotel in the world.”

There is a silence.

“Tony,” I say. “Can I look through the boxes?”

I’ve been coming to the Kubrick house a couple of times a month ever since.

I start in a Portakabin behind the stable block, with a box marked Lolita. I open it, noting the ease with which the lid comes off. I flick through the paperwork inside, pausing randomly at a letter that reads:

Dear Mr. Kubrick,

Just a line to express to you and to Mrs. Kubrick my husband’s and my own deep appreciation of your kindness in arranging for Dmitri’s introduction to your uncle, Mr. Guenther Rennert.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Vladimir Nabokov

I later learn that Dmitri was a budding opera singer and Rennert was a famous opera director, in charge of the National Theatre Munich and Glyndebourne. This letter was written in 1962, back in the days when Kubrick was still producing a film every year or so. This box is full of fascinating correspondence between Kubrick and the Nabokovs but—unlike the fabulously otherworldly Napoleon room, which was accrued six years later—it is the kind of stuff you would probably find in any director’s archive.

The unusual stuff—the stuff that elucidates the ever-lengthening gaps between productions—can be found in the boxes that were compiled from 1968 onwards. In a box next to the Lolita box in the Portakabin I find an unusually terse letter, written by Kubrick to someone called Pat, on January 10, 1968:

Dear Pat,

Although you are apparently too busy to personally return my phone calls, perhaps you will find time in the near future to reply to this letter?

(Later, when I show Tony Frewin this letter, he says he’s surprised by the brusqueness. Kubrick must have been at the end of his tether, he says, because on a number of occasions he said to Tony, “Before you send an angry letter, imagine how it would look if it got into the hands of Time Out.”) The reason for Kubrick’s annoyance in this particular letter was because he’d heard that the Beatles were going to use a landscape shot from Dr. Strangelove in one of their movies.

“The Beatle film will be very widely seen,” Kubrick writes, “and it will make it appear that the material in Dr. Strangelove is stock footage. I feel this harms the film.”

There are a similar batch of telexes from 1975: “It would appear,” Kubrick writes in one, “that ‘Space: 1999’ may very well become a long-running and important television series. There seems nothing left now but to seek the highest possible damages. . . . The deliberate choice of a date only two years away from 2001 is not accidental and harms us.”

This telex was written seven years after the release of 2001.

But you can see why Kubrick sometimes felt compelled to wage war to protect the honor of his work. A 1975 telex, from a picture publicity man at Warner Bros. called Mark Kauffman, regards publicity stills for Kubrick’s somber reworking of Thackeray’s Barry Lyndon. It reads: “Received additional material. Is there any material with humor or zaniness that you could send?”