Barry Lyndon

Barry Lyndon rewards patience, though we would not pretend it makes patience easy. Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation of William Makepeace Thackeray runs for 188 minutes and studies an opportunist without doing much to make him welcome company. The interest lies in watching Ryan O’Neal’s Barry occupy a world whose manners are more polished than his motives. Kubrick gives us time to look at that world closely, and the film is funny, disquieting and occasionally wearing because he is so unwilling to hurry.

John Alcott’s natural-light and candlelit photography is central to the experience. We felt unexpectedly uneasy in the candlelit interiors, where the formal arrangements of people suggest that even sitting still could be done incorrectly. The images have the stillness of paintings, but the faces keep them from becoming merely decorative. Alcott makes us look carefully at people whom the story gives us little reason to like, which is a considerable service to a film this long.

Ken Adam’s production design gives that scrutiny something solid to work on: rooms arranged with a precision that can feel faintly oppressive. They make a persuasive setting for people concerned with rank and appearances. Ulla-Britt Söderlund and Milena Canonero’s costumes contribute to the same sense of public presentation, with little invitation to imagine anyone comfortable. There is pleasure in looking at all this, but the period detail also makes the characters’ formality easier to understand.

O’Neal is well suited to Barry’s shallow opportunism. He does not keep asking us to discover a better man underneath it, and that restraint prevents the film from turning into an excuse for its central character. Yet there are stretches when we want more from him: some sign of thought that goes beyond the next advantage. Kubrick’s screenplay holds him at a distance so consistently that our curiosity sometimes slackens, even while the actor remains convincing.

Tony Lawson’s editing gives the composed images time to register, and then often leaves them there a little longer. That extra duration is useful when it lets us examine a face or the arrangement of a room; elsewhere, the deliberation becomes something we have to endure. Leonard Rosenman’s music reinforces the formality effectively, although its gravity can add to the sense that nothing here will be allowed to pass lightly. Some passages would benefit from being shorter.

The consensus of the scored reviews is against us, chiefly over the pace and length. We think they underestimate how much there is to observe while Kubrick appears to be doing so little: an opportunist’s manner, an actor’s face, the way a room reinforces its occupants’ importance. Costume dramas can encourage us to enjoy the fine clothes and overlook the conduct of the people wearing them. Kubrick makes that difficult, even when the image is inviting.

We recommend giving it an uninterrupted evening. At home, resist the temptation to leave the pictures running behind a conversation; the small differences in behaviour need as much attention as the rooms. Anyone who needs a sympathetic central character may find the distance exhausting. The candlelight is no promise of a cosy evening.