One of the most intelligent period dramas ever filmed

Rating: 10/10 (19 February 2010)

A teacher once told me that great novels have within them an image of themselves. The same goes for great movies too; famous examples include Jake La Motta futilely punching his cell wall in Raging Bull and an old Foster Kane (Citizen Kane) passing a pair of facing mirrors, creating a never-ending corridor of his own reflections until we are unsure which is the real Kane and which a reflection. Barry Lyndon has several of these moments, and there are two that stick in my mind.
The first is a moment when Lyndon is reading a story to his son. The camera slowly pans away from the two of them revealing a vast painting behind them until the two figures seem insignificant, diminished by the size of the artwork. None of the characters in Barry Lyndon are sympathetic, not a single one - the anti-hero of the film is utterly self absorbed and amoral and his wife is such a pathetic, hopeless victim that she even fails to poison herself and her supposed salvation by her son leaves her in an equally unfulfilling life. As for the son, who could have been the real moral standard bearer, he comes across as a snivelling, self-important brat (wonderfully referenced in Blackadder the Third in Pit the Younger). Needless to say, all this is intentional - the characters are supposed to come across this way so that the real stars of the film become the time, scenery, fate and the narrator (a wonderful use of Michael Hordern's silken tones). The film is stunningly lit (using only natural lighting wherever possible) and is filled with still images that could be lifted straight from the paintings of Hogarth or Gainsborough. I've seen beautiful films before, but this is on a different scale to anything else I've seen. Against this, the characters diminish in size and importance and become props to decorate the background. Indeed, you begin to get the impression that nothing in this film happens without the director's say-so, there's even a bit where a baby cries with perfect comic timing. The film constantly reminds us of man's insignificance (most poignantly done in the Epilogue), and that he is subject to the whims of fate. Fate in the film is represented by the music and the narrator. The theme of the film comes in multiple variations of a piece by Handel; its repetition serves to remind the viewer of fate driving the characters to the inevitable consequences of their actions. The narrator serves as another version of fate, often wittily revealing what's about to happen just before it does. That's not to say that this film is devoid of excitement. What is rarely mentioned is that Barry Lyndon is at times very funny (a particular highlight for me being an overly romantic conversation between two soldiers in a lake). Also many of the duels a genuinely tense, particularly the final one; whether or not you know the conclusion has no relevance as to tension - a good thriller remains so the second time round.
The other moment of self reference I picked up on in the film is in the duels. The duels function both as a narrative theme - Barry Lyndon vs. the aristocracy, vs. his step son, vs. the world etc., as well as a filmic one. All of the duels are in some way false, and this seems to be Kubrick's comment on films and life - a series of phoney rituals, repeated because of misguided ideas and dreams. Barry Lyndon is itself a sort of fake film, replicating the duels: a lot of what is expected of such a film is absent; the rug is pulled out from under the viewer. For me this is one of the most successful period dramas and literary adaptations I've seen – one that not only makes you think again about the writing, but about cinema in general.