Recently, I was lucky enough to catch Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon projected onto the big screen in 35mm. Though I had seen the film years ago near the time of its initial release, I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed the experience. A brilliant, multifaceted film, Barry Lyndon provoked a lot of observations and thoughts on my part, and I was prompted to read a few reviews and articles to see how others perceived the film and how it rated among Kubrick’s other work, especially in retrospect. However, I wasn’t prepared for the diversity of interpretations for Barry Lyndon — many of them quite interesting — or for some of the puzzling comments made about the movie that seem to apologize for it while admiring it.

Some claimed that Barry Lyndon was the “least-seen of his major works;” that it is admired but “isn’t much loved;” that it was “not the commercial success that Warner’s had been hoping for;” that it is a “neglected masterpiece . . . seldom rated among Stanley Kubrick’s greatest films.” Many described it as long, slow, or slow-moving, and in a Sight and Sound article, Kim Newman wrote of the “mesmeric length of the film.” While all of these articles praised Barry Lyndon, their words seemed defensive of a film that doesn’t need defending. Plus, to today’s movie-going audience, “slow” is a damning word to describe any movie. Viewers who have not seen the film might read these comments and believe watching Barry Lyndon to be the cinematic equivalent of castor oil — good for you in the long run but not pleasant going down. To the contrary, I watched the movie with an audience of all ages, and it left us in high spirits, inspiring many to share their impressions to complete strangers sitting around them.

Instead of slow, I would describe the pacing of Barry Lyndon as deliberate and measured because the film does move right along through its three-hour running time, carried by a subtle rhythm and a sense of anticipation. The precise pacing is a part the unique mood or tone of the film that carries the viewer to another place and time not his own. Many elements go into creating this mood, including the voice-over narration, the music, the choice of filmmaking techniques by Kubrick, and a production design and cinematography that has become legendary. Mood is such an intangible thing that words cannot adequately describe its effect; instead, it must be felt or experienced, and this is particularly true with Barry Lyndon.         

RYAN O'NEAL AS THE RAKISH BARRY LYNDON

The mood begins with the narration. A lot has been written about the voice-over for Barry Lyndon, including the article “From Romance to Ritual” in Sight & Sound mentioned above, and I would recommend reading the perspectives of those who know more about the original source material than I do. Kubrick adapted Barry Lyndon from William Makepeace Thackeray’s 1856 novel The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon about a rake and scoundrel who marries into money and therefore above his station. He then proceeds to waste away his fortune in the very ways that helped him land it. In the novel, the title character narrates his story, but he embellishes and misrepresents his exploits and their consequences, creating an irony between the truth and Barry’s perception of it. For the film, Kubrick opts for an omniscient offscreen narrator (Michael Hordern), whose tone of voice helps establish the rhythm of the film, while the narration distances the viewer from the events and characters. The narration also foretells or at least hints at the outcome of major events before they happen. This tends to make viewers more passive than usual because we don’t have to interpret; we observe the proceedings at a distance and are less inclined to identify with any of the characters, including the nonheroic protagonist, Barry Lyndon. Major events are then anticlimactic because the viewer already knows the ultimate outcome. However, this approach emphasizes the idea of predetermined fate. We anticipate exactly how fate will deal out Barry’s hand, which is still suspenseful. And, whether you call it destiny, luck, fortune, or chance, fate will have its way in this film, accounting for the touch of melancholy that is part of the mood.

 Kubrick’s choice of filmmaking techniques services the content perfectly.  They enhance the tone or mood of the film and also underscore the sense of ritual and rigid formality that is part of the lifestyle of the 18th-century nobility.  With precision and consistency, Kubrick most often uses a long, slow zoom-out to “announce” each new sequence. The zoom was such a popular technique during the 1970s that films and TV programs from the period often suffer from a bad case of “zoom-itis” (for example, the tv series Dallas). But, Kubrick’s zooms in Barry Lyndon are leisurely and sensual, pulling back from a single detail to reveal a pastoral panorama or a lavish interior. They impose a classical sense of perspective and order on a world that is actually violent and decadent.  

CAREFULLY COMPOSED LONG SHOTS DOMINATE BARRY LYNDON

Long takes in long shots dominate the film, placing an emphasis on formal elements and composition. The exquisite production design and costumes are exploited to maximum advantage in long shots and long takes, revealing details that expose the rituals, manners, and ludicrous extravagance of the nobility. Like descriptive passages in a novel, these details convey the world and way of life of 18th century nobility. The long takes and long shots also contribute to the languid mood. Sometimes character relationships are telegraphed through the arrangement of figures in the composition, as in the scene with Barry and Lady Lyndon as they ride together in their carriage. Right away, the viewer realizes that the honeymoon phase of their marriage is over because of their poses in the frame. They sit side by side but are slightly turned away from each other, looking in opposite directions.

THE HONEYMOON IS OVER FOR BARRY AND LADY LYNDON

Kubrick shot every scene on location, primarily in Ireland, England, and Germany. Even the interiors were shot inside various European castles, estates, and manors. Production designer Ken Adam became so stressed from searching for locations that he had a near nervous breakdown. At one point, he begged Kubrick to recreate what he wanted on a set inside a studio, but Kubrick was determined to shoot everything on location. The difficulties of Adam’s job are suggested by the many English locations necessary to depict the exteriors of Lady Lyndon’s Hackton Castle, including Longleat in Wiltshire, Wilton in Salisbury, Petworth in Sussex, and Castle Howard in York (familiar as the location for the TV version of Brideshead Revisted). Shooting on location proved even more difficult after Kubrick decided to shoot the entire film in natural lighting, which he accomplished through the considerable help of cinematographer John Alcott. The first half of the film follows Barry through his exploits in the Seven Years War, so  much of it takes place outdoors, but after his marriage to the wealthy Lady Lyndon, space closes in on Barry. His lifestyle confines him to indoor activities, and this becomes a trap of his own making. The interiors of these grand estates were lit with candlelight in the 18th century, and Kubrick was determined to shoot inside these centuries-old structures by candlelight as well. This entailed the use of superfast industrial lenses that were custom-made by Carl Zuess in Germany.

Like the voice-over narration, much has been written about Kubrick’s insistence on shooting by natural light and on location, particularly how it was accomplished. For more on the lighting, lenses, and locations, I recommend the biography Stanley Kubrick by John Baxter and the articles in American Cinematographer that chronicle John Alcott’s adventures on this film. However, why Kubrick did it is more interesting to me than how, and I don’t agree with those who argue that he did it solely for “authenticity,” that is, simply to make the film realistic to the time of the setting. I always find authenticity as an end in itself a weak rationale for why a director and his crew go to great lengths for a visual effect or to perfect a technique. It’s just too simple, especially for a director of Kubrick’s caliber.

KUBRICK WAITED FOR HOURS FOR THE RIGHT CLOUD FORMATIONS TO EMULATE 17th CENTURY LANDSCAPE PAINTING

Instead, I think it has more to do with the way the period has been depicted to us in other art forms. While watching the movie, I was repeatedly reminded of specific 18th century English and French paintings by certain artists. Kubrick seems to be recalling, recreating, or recasting those paintings through his use of specific imagery, formal composition, costuming, and lighting choices. The grandeur, affluence, foibles, and follies of the 18th century nobility were captured in the Romantic and Rococo artistic movements, and, in retrospect, these styles have come to symbolize the opulence and frivolity of the period. Kubrick emulates famous 18th century artistic movements and styles to recreate the aura of the period and then to convey the frivolousness of the aristocratic class. It is a class that is about to self-destruct with its old-world rituals (duels), its illusion of beauty and elegance (via heavy makeup), and its self-indulgent pastimes (games, pleasures of the flesh, elaborate gifts).  The last scene confirms that their days are numbered. Lady Lyndon pays bills with her eldest son and her lawyer/accountant, and a close-up reveals that it is 1789 — the year of the French Revolution.

In an interview, star Ryan O’Neal discussed Kubrick’s reliance on paintings from the period to establish his compositions. He recalls the director searching through an art book for the appropriate setting for a specific interior scene. The director was looking for a particular painting, and when he found it, he posed O’Neal and costar Marisa Berenson exactly like the figures in the painting. Marisa Berenson is generally identified as a former model who Kubrick selected because of her ability to pose for long periods without losing her character. But Berenson’s great-great uncle was Bernard Berenson, a legendary art historian whose expertise settled the market for paintings by the old masters.  In addition, her heritage included European nobility; I can’t help but think her lineage weighed heavily on the decision to cast her.  

MARISA BERENSON AS LADY LYNDON LOOKS LIKE SHE STEPPED OUT OF A GAINSBOROUGH PAINTING

Some of the paintings that influenced Part 1 include those by English landscape artists John Constable and J.R. Cozens.  The scene in which young Barry stops by a small farm in the Irish countryside to ask for a drink of water begins with a beautiful long shot. Flickers of light dance across the rich, dark green foliage as Barry rides up to the rustic, earth-toned cottage — an image reminiscent of Constable’s Flatford Mill.

AN ACTUAL GAINSBOROUGH

In Part 2, Marisa Berenson as Lady Lyndon sits quietly in her castle as though she stepped out of a painting by Thomas Gainsborough, who painted nobility in all their feathers and brocades, with every detail announcing their station. The first shot of Lady Lyndon with her first husband and young son is posed against a feathery landscape recalling Gainsborough’s The Mall in St. James Park. Those candle lit interiors with golden hues in the foreground and chiaroscuro shadows in the background emulate the lighting though not the subject matter of the French followers of Caravaggio’s style.

BARRY LOOKS LIKE HE STEPPED OUT OF A HOGARTH PAINTING

My favorite reference is to painter William Hogarth, whose preferred device was to make a series of narrative paintings or prints that follow a character in his encounters with social evils in a serial sequence like chapters in a book or scenes in a movie. His series The Rake’s Progress seems comparable to Thackeray’s  The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon in content, though the scene from the film where Barry is drunk in a chair at a gentlemen’s club looks like “Breakfast Scene” from Hogarth’s series Marriage a la Mode. Intended as sharp satire, Hogarth’s painting shows a nobleman and his wife after a long night in the company of others.

The husband is half-conscious, sprawled in a chair with his legs spread apart. A lace cap, which is not his wife’s, can be seen in his pocket, while an accountant with his hands full of unpaid bills raises his eyes to heaven in despair. The wife stretches and yawns in an unladylike manner. The grand setting is almost gaudy, with Hogarth exaggerating the details of the interior decoration to poke fun at the extravagances of nobility. The details of “Breakfast Scene” tell a story of overspending, infidelity, idleness, and decadence — just like the events of Barry Lyndon. Like Thackeray’s novel, and Kubrick’s film, Hogarth’s series is a narrative about the consequences of an idle lifestyle and succumbing to temptations, and the main character gets his comeuppance in the last painting of each series.

HOGARTH'S "BREAKFAST SCENE" FROM "MARRIAGE A LA MODE"

Ryan O’Neal plays the rake Redmond Barry who becomes Barry Lyndon when he marries into nobility. During the 1970s, O’Neal was a major movie star, though, not unlike Barry Lyndon, he would squander his talent and stardom pursuing a Hollywood lifestyle at full speed. Here, O’Neal offers an excellent performance in a difficult role that evolves as the film progresses. In the beginning, Redmond Barry is a handsome, naïve youth hopelessly in love with his vain, spoiled cousin who is being courted by a stodgy officer in the British army. Barry is at the mercy of everyone’s machinations, so at this point O’Neal’s performance is mostly a reactive one, as the character is manipulated by those around him.  Out on his own, Barry becomes an affable scoundrel who is more entertaining to watch, but when he marries above his station,  he turns unlikable and cruel, yet remains sympathetic.  At the end, after Barry’s son is thrown from a horse, O’Neal is heartbreaking to watch as his character sits at the child’s deathbed. In retrospect, O’Neal rarely gets the respect he deserves for his performance. Tabloid gossip surrounding O’Neal, his marriages, and his children seems to have colored some writers’ perceptions of his performance in Barry Lyndon. Some feel the need to explain why tabloid fodder like O’Neal would be in a film like this; others assume that the performance was just part of Kubrick’s genius as a director. A.O. Scott of The New York Times cracks wise at O’Neal’s expense, writing in a 2000 article, “And let’s not forget — though many have tried — Ryan O’Neal . . . .” O’Neal’s offscreen antics have done nothing to diminish his performance in this film; he is excellent, with no further explanation needed and no caustic remarks wanted.

I saw Barry Lyndon during a Kubrick mini-retrospective at one of Chicago’s alternative theaters, which shows foreign films, indies, and classics. This is the kind of programming that revival theaters and university film programs used to do all the time back in the days before home viewing, but few of these types of venues survive, especially in smaller cities. I am hoping that revival venues make a comeback so that viewers can watch movies like Barry Lyndon on the big screen and form their own interpretations and opinions.