Re: 897 Barry Lyndon
Posted: Fri Sep 22, 2017 10:07 pm
My 2 cents is that I think we’ll see 4K streaming on filmstruck before UHD discs.
Beyond the aspect ratio...?Michael Kerpan wrote:If one has a mere 50 inch (antique) plasma, will this look all that much different from its predecessor?
First off, I remember seeing this for the first time around 2001 (haha)/2002 when a friend from middle school - and then college colleague - loaned me his Kubrick DVD set (first printing ... so those cardboard/snapper cases). I remember liking Barry Lyndon but I was also thinking there could be a better A/V presentation down the road. In 2017, I can say better late than never. And I'm glad I had that decade and a half gap or so as I have seen plenty more films since then and had a deeper appreciation of Stanley Kubrick at that time (and I was already enamoured of him back in 2001).Sloper wrote:Well I voted for Stalker, but this is my favourite Kubrick film so I’m not sorry it won. It’s more or less perfect, I think. Weirdly, I first saw it in a black-and-white 4:3 VHS version with Spanish subtitles, and it was still very obviously a masterpiece. The BFI have produced four very interesting but annoyingly uncredited (unless I’ve missed something) videos about the film, available here. And below are three questions, which are really variations on the same question; I hope they help to start a discussion.
I often associate this story with Tom Jones, maybe because I saw the films around the same time. In Fielding’s novel, the protagonist is (supposed to be) immensely likeable and sympathetic, whereas Redmond Barry is, overall, kind of a prick. How does Kubrick’s film work to keep us interested in the progress of its anti-hero across three languid hours of screen time?
Continuing on that note, this is far from lifeless. First and foremost, you have a filmmaker who knew fundamentally the importance of image in telling a story. In fact, this was a guy who made his photographs go for the cinematic, especially in storytelling. Yes, there is a certain beauty to marvel for sure, but - like effects - a story is what makes it interesting to start. Otherwise, it is just frilly ... funny enough, like many of the paintings of that time (more from the Continent than the UK).Sloper wrote:The imagery in this film is famously inspired by (and imitative of) 18th-century paintings. The frequent zoom-outs make us feel like we’re in an art gallery, standing back to get a better look at the canvas, just as Barry does when he’s trying to make it as an aristocrat. (On that note, it’s telling that Kubrick switches to frenzied hand-held camerawork when Barry attacks Lord Bullingdon and thereby scuppers his chance at a title.) Is it misguided to emulate static visual art in a motion picture, especially such a long one? Do you find this film static and lifeless; and if not, why not?
I never quite got the whole "cool/cold" vibe when it comes to Stanley's films. There is a formal aspect that underlines all his films, for sure. But there are, at least to me, always engaging and intriguing. Perhaps, that "cold" label comes from how Stanley refused to play the simple melodrama route of classic Hollywood or even classic European filmmaking (prior to 1960 or so). Going back to that shot of Quin courting Norma, had that been in any other film, the emphasis would have been entirely on them. Then, when Redmond Barry enters the picture, it would have been about the three of them and thus you get a love triangle drama. While the love triangle drama is still there, the way it is shot and edited makes much more than just these three people. You get a sense of a greater context being conveyed beyond its apparent story. And while I can see how that can make it less personal, it doesn't negate the personal drama that's there. It just gives more colour and dimension, if you like.Sloper wrote:Does this film have an emotional impact on you? I tend to feel quite moved by the meeting between Barry and the Chevalier, and then moved to tears by the death of Bryan. These moments always take me a little by surprise, because the rest of the film is so studiedly cold, and because I hardly ever feel anything for Kubrick’s characters in any of his films. The seduction of Lady Lyndon, for instance, is prefaced by the narrator’s comment that Barry had lost all his romantic notions by this point, and the scene itself has to be one of the iciest erotic encounters ever filmed. Does the prevailing coldness throw the occasional emotive ‘spikes’ into relief (as it does for me), or does it leave you still feeling coolly detached even at moments when you might expect to feel moved?
If you had to guess, you might expect a film adaptation of this scene to resemble Tony Richardson’s film of Tom Jones, and Kubrick was more than capable of reproducing this kind of frenzied action faithfully if he wanted to. But he keeps the camera still, and he takes everything down a few notches. He spends about 15 seconds showing how Quin kisses Nora: Quin’s hesitant movements and the rather feeble kiss in which they culminate underline his cowardice and his mixed feelings about this marriage, and Nora’s calm, appealing stillness as she looks up at him underlines her mature, calculating approach to the union. Redmond is silent throughout this process, and though his emotions are legible – he looks from Nora to Quin when their engagement is announced, and seems crestfallen and outraged – his face is quite static. He takes his time responding to his uncle, and then speaks quietly and deliberately, whereas Thackeray’s teenage hero doesn’t even give the couple time to kiss before shrieking out his defiance and hurling the wine at his rival. Thackeray follows this action with some farcical violence, but Kubrick leaves Redmond standing in place at the table, and although others are moving around him there’s no sense of panic, no loss of control on anyone’s part. Nor is there any real sense of the bond between Redmond and his cousins, who in the film seem to regard him only as an annoyance, and not with any affection or regard. You could argue that the stillness of the scene makes Redmond’s violent gesture more shocking in its disruption of the civilised rituals taking place around him. But on the whole, I think this is now a scene about rituals: where Thackeray’s narrator observed the emotions of each individual at the table, Kubrick’s camera observes the family dinner, the way in which Quin and Nora signal their engagement, the importance of the communal toast, the embarrassment caused by Redmond’s failure to drink – and his challenge of Quin is a calculated fulfilment of another kind of ritual, not a spontaneous expression of anger. The others respond to it accordingly, taking stock of what has happened and what it means rather than jumping indecorously on Redmond.And in I went, and took my place at the bottom of the big table, as usual, and my friend the butler speedily brought me a cover.
‘Hallo, Reddy my boy!’ said my uncle, ‘up and well?—that’s right.’
‘He’d better be home with his mother,’ growled my aunt.
‘Don’t mind her,’ says Uncle Brady; ‘it’s the cold goose she ate at breakfast didn’t agree with her. Take a glass of spirits, Mrs. Brady, to Redmond’s health.’ It was evident he did not know of what had happened; but Mick, who was at dinner too, and Ulick, and almost all the girls, looked exceedingly black, and the Captain foolish; and Miss Nora, who was again by his side, ready to cry. Captain Fagan sat smiling; and I looked on as cold as a stone. I thought the dinner would choke me: but I was determined to put a good face on it, and when the cloth was drawn, filled my glass with the rest; and we drank the King and the Church, as gentlemen should. My uncle was in high good-humour, and especially always joking with Nora and the Captain. It was, ‘Nora, divide that merry-thought with the Captain! see who’ll be married first.’ ‘Jack Quin, my dear boy, never mind a clean glass for the claret, we’re short of crystal at Castle Brady; take Nora’s and the wine will taste none the worse;’ and so on. He was in the highest glee,—I did not know why. Had there been a reconciliation between the faithless girl and her lover since they had come into the house?
I learned the truth very soon. At the third toast, it was always the custom for the ladies to withdraw; but my uncle stopped them this time, in spite of the remonstrances of Nora, who said, ‘Oh, pa! do let us go!’ and said, ‘No, Mrs. Brady and ladies, if you plaise; this is a sort of toast that is drunk a great dale too seldom in my family, and you’ll plaise to receive it with all the honours. Here’s CAPTAIN AND MRS. JOHN QUIN, and long life to them. Kiss her, Jack, you rogue: for ‘faith you’ve got a treasure!’
‘He has already ‘——I screeched out, springing up.
‘Hold your tongue, you fool—hold your tongue!’ said big Ulick, who sat by me; but I wouldn’t hear.
‘He has already,’ I screamed, ‘been slapped in the face this morning, Captain John Quin; he’s already been called coward, Captain John Quin; and this is the way I’ll drink his health. Here’s your health, Captain John Quin!’ And I flung a glass of claret into his face. I don’t know how he looked after it, for the next moment I myself was under the table, tripped up by Ulick, who hit me a violent cuff on the head as I went down; and I had hardly leisure to hear the general screaming and skurrying that was taking place above me, being so fully occupied with kicks, and thumps, and curses, with which Ulick was belabouring me. ‘You fool!’ roared he— ‘you great blundering marplot—you silly beggarly brat’ (a thump at each), ‘hold your tongue!’ These blows from Ulick, of course, I did not care for, for he had always been my friend, and had been in the habit of thrashing me all my life.
When I got up from under the table all the ladies were gone; and I had the satisfaction of seeing the Captain’s nose was bleeding, as mine was—HIS was cut across the bridge, and his beauty spoiled for ever. Ulick shook himself, sat down quietly, filled a bumper, and pushed the bottle to me. ‘There, you young donkey,’ said he, ‘sup that; and let’s hear no more of your braying.’
[The] expositional strategies are clearly reminiscent of those of silent film, a resemblance Kubrick happily proclaimed, gleefully admitting as much to Michel Ciment when it was mentioned to him. “I think silent films got a lot more things right than talkies,” he said (Ciment 174). The point was important enough that Kubrick, unprompted by Ciment, brought it up again five years later in relation to The Shining, and his comments are worth quoting at length, as they provide a guide to the director's approach here:
The voice-over and third-party dialogue thus take on the role of audible silent film title cards (and, in fact, many silent movie theaters employed “lecturers” to provide explanatory verbal accompinament to the visuals [Aumont 7]). Even the cutting pattern of scenes allows for important dialogue spoken by others to accompany shots of Barry, and other characters frequently pick up the slack when The Narrator is silent. When Barry interrupts a romantic idyll between Quin and Nora, the camera focuses on Barry even as Nora's brothers complain to him, only cutting to them when absolutely necessary. After Barry throws the glass into Quin's face, the confused father of Nora is told by one of his sons what Barry's motivation is, as Barry silently glares at Quin. After the staged duel with Quin, that same brother discusses with Barry's mother the boy's future – the bulk of the conversation, about Barry, is staged as a three-shot where Barry sits silently between the interlocutors, as though their conversation is a voice-over explaining his options; only when Barry speaks do we cut into a more conventional coverage of a shot-reverse shot between Barry and his mother for their short conversation. And not long thereafter, once Barry's assets are stolen and he is in a desperate strait, an army soldier's recruitment speech focuses on the speaker for most of his pitch – but the only cuts to Barry accompany lines in the speech (“All clever young fellows who are free and able and are ambitious of becoming gentlemen” and “Those meeting the qualifications will immediately receive his majesty's royal bounty of one-and-a-half guineas”) which refer specifically to him.I think that the scope and flexibility of movie stories would be greatly enhanced by borrowing something from the structure of silent movies where points that didn't require weight could be presented by a shot and a title card. Something like: Title: 'Billy's uncle'. Picture: Uncle giving Billy ice cream. In a few seconds, you would introduce Billy's uncle and say something about him without be burdened with a scene. This economy of statement gave silent movies a much greater narrative scope and flexibility than we have today. In my view, there are very few sound films, including those regarded as masterpieces, which could not be presented almost as effectively on the stage, assuming a good set, the same cast and quality of performances. You couldn't do that with a great silent movie (187).
Speaking to Ciment, Kubrick likened these silent film techniques to the efficiency of storytelling in “the best TV commercials” (Ciment 187), a theme he would repeat in further interviews. Promoting Full Metal Jacket to Rolling Stone's Tim Cahill in 1987, Kubrick made similar comments, but also allowed that he “suppose[d] there's really nothing that would substitute for the great dramatic moment, fully played out” (Cahill 375). Barry Lyndon has its share of this sort of presentation, as well, though the unconventionally inert performance of Ryan O'Neal upset some viewers and also runs the risk of making the character seem passive.
[...] Barry Lyndon comes in the middle of a curious back-and-forth in the dynamism of Kubrick's leading men. Very few characters are allowed the large performances that hallmarked A Clockwork Orange – Leonard Rossiter as Captain Quin, Frank Middlemass in the tiny role of Sir Charles Lyndon, and arguably at points Leon Vitali as Lord Bullingdon are the only exceptions. Big performances would contradict the stable, ordered high society that comprises the milieu of the film: decorum rules the day, even when characters find themselves in opposition.
Beyond the fairly affectless performances being appropriate to the film's historical and societal setting, they also, of course, contribute to the effectiveness of the application of the silent film strategies discussed above. O'Neal as Barry is frequently a manifestation of the actor in Kuleshov's experiments; and the times where he is not, and is asked to overtly emote, such as when he meets the Chevalier or sits vigil at Bryan's deathbed, gain all the more significance for their break from the film's otherwise established patterns.
[One] result of the zoom's use is that it delays the release of information, and control of information is integral to the film's structure, both visual and narrative (as though “visual” and “narrative” can be separated in a Kubrick picture) – in addition to its delays, the film also frequently provides information earlier than is typical in dramatic presentation. The most striking aural exemplar of this fluid approach to the dissemination of information is The Narrator sardonically and sonorously voiced by Michael Hordern. In one of the film's most curious strategies, The Narrator frequently informs as to the conclusion of events right before they happen, completely removing from the viewer the element of surprise and investing instead the experience of suspense.
Kubrick spoke about this directly with Michel Ciment, drawing a parallel between our being “told that … Bryan is going to die at the same time we watch [Barry and Bryan] playing happily together” and the “dramatic effect” of having “the knowledge that the Titanic is doomed while you watch carefree scenes of preparation and departure.” He further asserted that “Barry Lyndon is a story which does not depend upon surprise” (Ciment 170-171).
The narration finds its source in Thackeray's novel, though its use is very different. In both serial and novel forms, the narrative is presented as the memoir of a braggadocios fool, and the reader must deduce that the narrator is self-serving and unreliable (the original, serialized form of the novel included an editor who would chime in to dispute Barry's claims from time to time). Kubrick, having just made a film presented from the point of view of its unreliable narrator, rejected that approach here, telling Ciment “it might have worked as a comedy by the juxtaposition of Barry's version of the truth with the reality on the screen, but I don't think that Barry Lyndon should have been done as a comedy” (170).
Kubrick's decision to maintain the voiceover technique, while relocating it from Barry to an unseen and allegedly impartial observer, allows him to condense exposition but still provide “ironic counterpoint,” as he put it about the sequence where a romantic idyll between Barry and Lischen (Diana Koerner), a peasant German woman, is undercut by The Narrator's snide gossip about the high turnover of her bed. This control of the release of information is key, and in speaking to Ciment, Kubrick betrayed a bit of his own strategy of using image, performance, and voiceover narration to create a cohesive whole (still in discussion of the Lischen sequence): “You could have had Barry give signals to the audience, through his performance, indicating that he is really insincere and opportunistic, but this would be unreal. When we try to deceive we are convincing as we can be, aren't we?” (ibid.)
Thus Kubrick can dramatize scenes on multiple planes: the external, superficial reality of the situation (Barry and Lischen's outwardly sincere emoting and claims of “Ich liebe dich”) is presented along with the internal, truthful reality of their inner attitudes (using each other for temporary physical affection). Central to this is an understanding that people do not always speak their true feelings or even behave according to them, and in fact the high society to which Barry aspires has its own sets of codes and mores in which contempt and dismissal can be concealed by politesse and ritual. Body language, spoken language, voiceover, and, indeed, the musical score all work together to present the entire picture – as though we had started with one detail (Barry and Lischen's expressions of affection) and zoomed out to gain a complete understanding of the encounter.
This seems an apropos description of Barry, as well, and his dismissal by Lord Wendover when they encounter each other at a club after the brawl with Bullingdon exemplifies Kubrick's stated aims above.Markham described Napoleon's background to Kubrick as being similar to Scottish highlanders, a people “rather barbaric as compared with Parisians, but definitely noble, not bourgeois, like poorish Highland squires” (Ellis 94). This paints a picture of an outsider, a position Napoleon also, as Kubrick and Markham discussed, found himself in relative to other monarchs. “[H]e wasn't one of them,” Markham pronounced (112). Napoleon went out of his way to remind the other kings “that they were kings by blood and he was king by achievement. … He was just not one of them.” “Obviously,” Kubrick responded, “he must have felt that in a thousand ways when he was dealing with them. … You know, in every conceivable way people communicate things psychologically and emotionally. He must have felt this all the time” (ibid.).
Kubrick was deeply interested in this outsider dynamic, and in dramatizing it in his film. “I think it's very, very important in the scenes – it'll have to be done subtly – but it's very important, I think, to portray in this very subtle way their attitude about him, the way they feel about him, and the way they treat him, and what they think about him,” he told Markham (113). “I mean, he wouldn't have had such a bad time of it if they weren't so offended by him.”
The way Kubrick constructed the world of the film as if you are stepping into a seventeenth or eighteenth century painting and all of a sudden the oils and colors of the painting come alive. The way Kubrick arranges Handel's Sarabande differently as commentary on story progression. The way Kubrick's narration provides ironic commentary. The irony in Mr. Lyndon receiving his final comeuppance at the moment in which - for the first time in his life - he thinks of someone else instead of himself. The way the crash of the Sarabande over black at the beginning credits is replicated later in the film at a smash cut when everyone is wearing black. The timber in the narrator's voice. The specific Pantone coloring in the uniforms.
To go further into Kubrick's emasculating and antithetical demonstrations of "growth,"therewillbeblus wrote: Sun May 30, 2021 2:57 am Kubrick never made another overt "comedy," but his tendency to be curious about (and often cheekily laugh at) evidence of nihilism, human folly, and the futility to contest a cold, random higher power with morality is present throughout his work. Barry Lyndon is a cruel comedy about a pathetic, narcissistic protagonist who cannot see beyond the scope of his ideas of fairness in a world that's unfair, thus harming himself and others, and yet the film won't single him out for pity amongst the tragedy of the entire milieu- hence the impact of that final scene of sisyphean, meaningless routine.
Kubrick effectively encapsulates this meaninglessness in the way he pulls back in his zooms from the tight shots to world-at-large that is evolving in seven billion directions. And you nicely suggest my final "way". The way Mrs. Lyndon hesitates for a moment ('pulls her pen back') and a life metaphorically disappears when the hesitation is over.therewillbeblus wrote: Mon Jun 07, 2021 5:51 pm ... the psychology of a person who thinks they matter when they really don't... this is one of the best films ever made about egocentricity's irrelevance... the final scene with the wife writing letters is tragic in an aloof way- signifying the monotonous acts of meaningless gestures we are trapped in. Kubrick seems to be pitying these people from a distance before closing the curtains as a passive reminder that there is no interventionist God to warrant that pity, outside of our own relationship to the recurring banality of living with insignificance in a reciprocally faithless social context.