“There ain’t nothing in room 237. But you ain’t got no business going in there anyway, so stay out,” The Overlook Hotel’s chef Dick Hallorann warns Danny Torrance when he first arrives.

This is kind of how I feel when my editors ask me to attend a party based on Stanley Kubrick’s 1980 classic The Shining. Sure, I work in the film industry and, yes, I have seen The Shining at least 20 times but hardly knowing the folks behind Young Lions Music Club, I almost feel like a party crasher, wedging my way into the cool kids’ social circle.

My editor texts me the day before, telling me to be in the back alley behind Sneaky Dee’s for 10PM; the venue will be labeled Room 237. I’m not brave enough to go alone and it’s not just the creep factor that’s shaking my confidence. I drag a friend along for social buffering purposes. She tells me on our way over that she’s never even seen the film.

We arrive at Bathurst and College around 11PM and head into the only alley we see. There are 75 people in line at a black door labeled Room 237—the first film reference of the evening that alludes to The Overlook’s caretaker’s suite where a man named Delbert Grady once murdered his wife and twin daughters. As my friend and I head to the line-up, we overhear a young couple shortcutting through the alley. “Must be a good party,” the guy says to his girlfriend.

YLMC’s founder Bobby Kimberley has made throwing events like this the crux of his business, working tirelessly over the last few weeks to launch a new film-based initiative through Young Lions Music Club. This party is the first of a series of tribute events that seek to connect music lovers with film by enveloping them in the colours, shapes, sounds and images of Kubrick’s work.

My friend and I join the line where I immediately spot Bobby walking through the line-up, stopping to chat with friends. Kimberley has promised dark Kubrickian undertones and small details throughout the venue tonight. The first appears to be his shirt, a blue Mickey Mouse knit sweater, similar to the one Danny wears in the film.

A short while later, we are inside Room 237. The venue is a former Flamenco club, renovated to appeal to the College Street bar crowd, but I wouldn’t know it if I hadn’t spoken to the new owner’s friends. A large mirror extends the far wall behind the stage where the bands will play. REDRUM is scrawled across it in red paint; it’s the perfect backdrop for the music we’re about to hear.

I visit the bar and literally squeal when I see that the special drink of the evening is called Red Rum. I can’t resist a good allusion, no matter how obvious, so I ask Owen the bartender to mix me one. Not so shockingly, it is blood red and really strong. I tell Owen I appreciate his outfit—a 1920s bartender coat that is almost identical to the jacket worn in the film by the purveyor of all bourbon, Lloyd the Bartender—and we move on.

I notice a group of iPhones being pulled out in the corner, left of stage, and walk over to find Sarah Cannon’s wall mural. A portrait artist who specializes in life-like renditions has chosen to paint Jack Nicholson’s famous “Here’s Johnny” moment in black on a white wall. Next to Nicholson’s image is a large portrait of Shelley Duvall’s haunting yet lovely face, leaned against the bathroom wall for support as the axe cuts through the door. Cannon has captured her bug-eyed expression and gap-toothed mouth gape so perfectly that, out of context, it is hard to read if she is the terror or the terrorized.

My friend and I wander the venue while Room 237 begins to fill with Shining fans. I see some Kubrick lite in the attire of partygoers but for the most part, people seem to be there to gawk at how far Bobby and his team of artists can go with this theme.

And that’s when we see him. Tucked away in the corner, in a room of his own, Jack Torrance sits at a typewriter in the hotel. He is typing away that famous line, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” He runs his fingers through his long, frazzled hair, stands up and throws papers, yelling at the people who have gathered to watch. Danny’s tricycle and toys are scattered around the geometric rug. I inch over to look at the props and he screams at me. The direct eye contact makes me retract. I know this is actor Nicolino De Francesco playing a role but I feel so uncomfortable interacting with him during this performance that I need to leave. He follows my friend and I with his axe, shouting at us. I vow to return later to examine the details of the room while he is out murdering others.

Music starts onstage so our attention is diverted. Two girls—one blonde, one brunette—walk on. Dead in the eyes and refusing to drop one another’s hands, they begin a harmony that sounds like a lullaby if lullabies were sinister and ominous. AL X, as the brunette is known, is a Young Lions Music Club musician that in our pre-interview has told me she had a big surprise up her sleeve.

As it turns out, she has enlisted her friend to help channel the Grady twins. They wear matching blue plaid dresses with white knee-highs and black Mary Janes, remaining deadpan throughout the entire performance. I use this opportunity to explain the plot of The Shining to my friend. Soon after I become fixated by Eric Wichman’s installation above.

Key scenes from the film roll by in flashes. Sped up with blurred pulls in and out on the actor’s faces create light wave lines. Shelley Duvall’s eyes seem to pop more than they already do as the close-ups become closer and the image looks to be reverberating. It’s easy to get lost in the loop; watching terrifying moment after terrifying moment highlighted in quick succession seems to make a horrific short film out of the content. Kubrick would be proud.

The digital orchestra known as Absolutely Free steps on to stage around 1AM and strikes up a fusion of sounds that could easily be the soundtrack to a teen slasher flick. Their sound reminds me of an old cassette tape of Halloween sounds my mother once bought to scare trick-or-treaters that visited our suburban home in the early ‘90s. It’s the first time I have seen an instrumental band perform outside of the Toronto symphony but it’s enjoyable, save for the keyboardist dressed in the all-white uniform of an insane asylum nurse. I wonder if he confused Jack Nicholson films because he looks more One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest than The Shining.

I turn back at a point during Absolutely Free’s performance and realize the crowd is an entirely new set of people. I know that Bobby Kimberley has a lot of friends but I’m starting to realize that I’m definitely no party crasher. Mild acquaintances, friends, members, even complete strangers who find the party on event listing websites have shown up to YLMC’s party because YLMC throws good parties. On Twitter the next day, Bobby tweets that over 400 people have walked through the doors of Room 237 on this night.

Somewhere around 2AM, my friend and I decide it’s time to leave. I briefly stop in to Jack’s writing room for one last look when I notice a replicated image from the end shot of the film, that moment when you realize that Jack belonged at The Overlook all along. Amongst friends at a 1920s New Year’s Eve party, Jack Torrance stands at the forefront of a large group, life (and death) of the party.

I exit Room 237 into the alleyway to see De Francesco wandering outdoors with his axe. He’s still wearing his red bomber jacket and plaid shirt despite the humid air, entertaining the smokers and lingerers. The rain starts to pour and I grab a newspaper to cover my head, vowing to get home as quickly as possible.

All it takes is one look at an old family portrait from the 1930s on the wall of my apartment when I get home. “Fuck it,” I say to myself, “I’m staying up all night.”

Photos of the bands by Adrian Vieni / Event photos by Tara Bartolini