Barry Leaned On

Barry (aka Redmond Barry) starts as a (gullible) broth of a boy and ends up as a bit of a bollox, with one leg missing a promissory note from his estranged aristocratic wife that will keep himself and his mother afloat until the grave. It is a tale of lost hearts, legs, lives and money.

The picaresque magic of Barry Lyndon, the movie, lies in many elements: the painterly tableaux in practically every scene (with thanks to Messrs Gainsborough, Reynolds, Constable, Hogarth, et al), the wonderful ensemble acting , the stentorian voiceover of Micheal Horden and the chocolate box compression of a slice of Hanoverian history into a mere three hours(ish). Even though voiceovers can be simply annoying, Michael Horden’s commanding narration with its ironic, omniscient (knowall?) tone suits the steady progress of the story. We have love (unrequited and rejected), war (British soldiers and Prussian ones), caddishness and sharp practice. If we have to name names, so be it.

            Ryan O’Neal, with his angelic countenance was an inspired choice, as lead. A young man in a hurry, he ends up as an old man hobbling home to the bog with mammy. And this mammy, the exceptional Marie Keane (I once had a walk on and a few words with her in Synge’s The Well of the Saints in the Abbey Theatre and watched in awe), is at home in her contrariness – a key in which she further excelled, in Heuston’s The Dead, a few years later. She is the sort of hard-nosed mother who points out to her young son, too late, that ‘no hay rosa sin espinas’.

Godfrey Quigley is the British army senior officer who, before he is killed in battle, plays surrogate father and banker to Barry Lyndon. Marisa Berenson, high class lady and target of the wised-up Barry’s mercenary affections, is poise and perfection. Then we have Leonard Rossiter whose timorous – but ultimately victorious – dancing Captain John Quinn, unseats Barry’s affections and starts the young man on his downward, upward, downward trajectory. Barry’s Lyndon’s ultimate controlled flight into terrain is as inevitable as a rainy Irish summer. And Patrick Magee’s continental Irish chancer, as the Chevalier de Balibari, cuts an amusing dash in his regal rigout. But my favourite? Why, the wonderful almond-faced, pursed lip Murray Melvin, as Reverend Samuel Runt, simpering behind his prayer book for his mistress. And gloating wickedly when Barry is undone.

Barry Lyndon, in its basic narrative, is a zeitgeisty George III potboiler. The broad strokes of the story may be mundane, but the subtlety lies in the interplay of Kubrick’s characters set against his glorious canvases. I feel now that seeing Kubrick’s in the 4K refreshed original (all the better to see you, my dear), on the big screen, was the first time I really saw it. The combination of big screen and big audience makes a difference to such movies. There’s just something about being in the emotional mosh pit of a great movie with a selection of other mere mortals like myself.

It almost feels like life.

In 4K.