Barry Lyndon
“O'Neal easily seems self-pitying, narcissistic, on the verge of tears. As one terrible event after another occurs to him, he projects an eerie calm. Nor do his triumphs—in gambling, con games, a fortunate marriage and even acquiring a title—seem to bring him much joy. He is a man to whom things happen.”
—Roger Ebert
“Being told in advance that disasters await doesn’t alleviate their impact, any more than does the optical beauty with which we are to be lavished for three hours. There is musical beauty too, an inescapable sonic flow incorporating Handel, Vivaldi, Schubert, and (in the first half) the traditional Irish music of the Chieftains. The music moves with its own sense of purpose, sometimes underscoring, sometimes contradicting what we see.”
—Geoffrey O’Brien
“The ever perverse Kubrick had adapted an unknown literary classic, stocked it with celebrity stars, and worked in well-publicized secrecy over an extended period of time under security so tight his studio barely knew what he was doing (and, in any case, wouldn’t see it until three weeks before release). Heralded by a worshipful Time cover story, the movie received notices ranging from the ecstatic to the brutally dismissive. Unlike Eyes Wide Shut, however, Barry Lyndon could be considered Kubrick’s masterpiece.”
—J. Hoberman
Redmond Barry is a cross between Chance the gardener and Patrick Bateman. He is, to quote Ebert, “a man to whom things happen” and a self-obsessed opportunist who uses everyone in proximity with zero empathy or moral quandary. In the apt words of Lord Bullingdon: “The ill-treatment of the insolent Irish upstart… his brutal and ungentlemanlike behavior, his open infidelity, his shameless robberies, and swindling of my property and yours.” A low-bred ruffian. Perplexing, then, to read reviews afterwards describing the Barry Lyndon experience as emotionally detached and withdrawn, leaving the viewer to gaze upon its happenings like a painting in a museum.
I’d posit quite the contrary. For me, Lyndon is far and away Kubrick’s most emotional offering whose characters’ rigidity deepens their melancholy rather than weakens it. Full of intensity and quiet sadness you can feel.
To echo Ebiri, Barry’s mobile in the first half and trapped in the second—trapped in a jewel box he chose himself and is incapable of affecting. What makes Lyndon so spellbinding is that we don’t at all mind spending 3 hours watching spoiler heavy narrated fate unfold upon a character who’s borderline useless and definitely capricious save for loving his son “with a blind partiality.” Otherwise, akin to Being There, Kubrick maneuvers Barry like an enigmatic pawn while we keep rapt focus on the grand game. Which is not to suggest Barry doesn’t get what’s coming.
And the wisdom from a Spike Lee Joint arrives as if on cue: The further you run from your sins, the more exhausted you are when they catch up to you. And they do. Kubrick’s omniscient third person implies that Barry had no choice; inevitable grave end sealed from the start. But his complete lack of consideration at every turn makes one wonder if those actions lent good old destiny a helping hand.
In sum: Technically superb, surprisingly engaging, but most of all a mood. A beautiful door locked for which only Nora Brady has the key.
