On The Masters of Cinema: Stanley Kubrick and Stanley Kubrick

I’m still reading the Masters of Cinema series of Cahiers du Cinema. 
Bill Krohn’s book about Stanley Kubrick isn’t particularly good. There is more praise than analysis, and when the author analyses a film, he often does on Freudian terms, which doesn’t quite work. Strangely, he talks a lot about repetitions, especially self-repetitions—when Kubrick’s different films have the same theme or a similar scene or image, as though you couldn’t find that in other directors. Most important of all, though perhaps personal, it doesn’t make me like Kubrick again. 
The only thing I like about the book is that Bill Krohn mentions several times the influence of Orson Welles and Max Ophuls on Kubrick. Will that make Kubrick’s fans turn to Welles and Ophuls? I don’t know. But I like that Krohn points out, and talks at length, about the influence of Welles and Ophuls. Even though I used to admire Kubrick highly, his fans get on my nerves—they act as though Kubrick’s the 1st and only master of cinema, the best director of all time who changed cinema and influenced everyone. Lots of these people watch only new, contemporary films and Kubrick’s films. They call Kubrick the best because they don’t know of anyone else. 
Another thing that annoys me about Kubrick’s fans is the way they read a lot into his films and develop crazy theories, because of the assumption that his films have no mistakes and no random coincidences—everything, even a continuity error, is a code or hidden message. 
To clarify, I recognise Kubrick’s influence and still admire the technical aspects in his films, and I’m sure I will still enjoy The Killing and Dr Strangelove (2001: A Space Odyssey is something I admire more than enjoy, as I don’t get it). But his works lack the human aspect, so to speak, and the performances are always drained of life. The flat, deliberate, monotonous delivery of lines, and the clear enunciation of every single word, may work for certain kinds of characters and for certain kinds of films, but are always in his films, as though a trademark. The performances feel flat and contrived. 
Humanity in Kubrick’s films is humanity in the general sense, the abstract sense; the most acclaimed performances in his films are for the caricatures, satires, and embodiment of ideas, as in Dr Strangelove or A Clockwork Orange, instead of the realistic performances. Kubrick doesn’t seem to be particularly interested in people as human beings, nor in emotions, relationships, and conflicts between people. 
His Lolita is a failure, a ridiculous adaptation of Nabokov’s novel. His Spartacus has faded into oblivion, for a good reason, even if there are some good moments—the good and bad characters are too black and white and have no complexity. His Barry Lyndon is among the most beautiful films I have ever seen, each frame is like a painting, but it is cold and detached, and leaves me cold. His The Shining has excellent cinematography, production design, and mood, with some unnerving moments, but the performances don’t quite work, especially Jack Nicholson’s—and I don’t like how the character already seems to have some evil in him from the start. 
I don’t remember Eyes Wide Shut. 
Kubrick’s best films are the ones where he doesn’t deal with emotions and realistic performances, like 2001: A Space Odyssey, Dr Strangelove, and A Clockwork Orange (though Anthony Burgess’s fans probably disagree about the last one). 
(To get an idea of my aesthetics: the directors that I think are best at working with actors include Ingmar Bergman, Elia Kazan, Clint Eastwood, and Francis Ford Coppola). 

Personally, I’ll pick Billy Wilder over him any day.