Barry Lyndon: Passion's Epitaph
Geoffrey Alexander & Bilge Ebiri
Geoffrey Alexander: Among Kubrick's films, Dr.
Strangelove, 2001, and ACO represent the director at the top of
his game; but they can also be read as as an artist so in control of his
talents he has forgotten how to use his art to ask questions of himself (a
talent Godard and Fellini never seemed to be without, in my opinion) --
that's is exactly the aspect of his work that makes Full Metal
Jacket, for example, the most accomplished of his war-themed films.
There's an objectivity to what it portrays that makes it seem a more
honest, a more realistic portrayal -- that, rather than portray 'evil
things', it portrays things that are, just simply, and lets the
evil of them speak for itself. He's surrendered judgment to the viewer,
trusting not only to arrive at what the film is ultimately about', but to
arrive at what it means -- in the moral sense. Anyone can say "here
is why War is evil -- I will tell you...".
It takes a different sort of artist to say "here is War, or it's
facsimile -- decide what it is". And for Kubrick, 'war' is 'people making
war' -- what they are, and what they become by its auspices. Kubrick seems
to say in FMJ, 'war is of us, it is ours; a part of us' -- and implies
that we should come to determination about us -- who we are,
really, and what we are to become. War is not apart from us.
Obsession, jealousy, love, and regret. They are not apart from us, nor
aspects of a plot, nor ingredients in a characteristic. They are our
substance, by this formula -- and for the first time since Killer's
Kiss they're Kubrick's topic. Compare the relative moral (and
narrative) simplicities of Paths of Glory to those of FMJ -- and
then imagine what Kubrick will be doing with the less distanced, less
abstracted themes of Killer's Kiss in his forthcoming Eyes Wide
Shut.
You know, I've always found it interesting (and rather regretful) that
Kubrick has never closely focused upon interpersonal relationships
(especially romantic ones) without having a secondary purpose -- in
Lolita, Hum & Lo's intersection served a story that contained and
ultimately absorbed their 'personal' preoccupations (the theme of the film
in fact seems to be the bathetic undercutting of their desires &
preoccupations by a corrupt an impersonal reality indifferent to them,
personified beautifully by the character of Quilty) -- in Barry
Lyndon the [incredibly underrated] portrayal of the corrupt &
corrupting relationship between Barry and Lady Lyndon serves to shape our
appraisal of Barry and his fate; the relationship in and of itself is,
strictly speaking, not what is to be examined -- though without a
'feeling' for its corruption, its coldness, its ill-fatedness -- in fact,
all the qualities it represents (and listen to how the narrator describes
briefly, and with little remark, how it was that Barry's adventures [the
comedy of Part I] initiated by his youthful, innocent, and ambitious
desires, brought him to such a frame of mind as he found himself with
nothing but ambition -- but lacking heart....) -- without a sense
of this, of who he tampers with an established order not merely social and
political, but emotional, [sexual by implication,] and familial as well,
we have little sense of what really draws Fate itself down upon Barry [the
tragedy of Part II]. But, as I said, their relationship and its portrayal
only completes a story that is larger (and requires a separate essay or
two.
In Killer's Kiss alone does the interrelationship of the three
leads become a texture within the film in and of itself: two shots in
particular seem to express that the idea of passion itself is what makes
the image-that-is-the-story meaningful: the embrace between the lovers in
the apartment, immediately before the girlfriend's tale of her sister --
and the moment the mob boss has, during the scene where he breaks the
mirror. I'd say this underrated little film may be, in the way it
beautifully, and by way of immediate and affective images, portrays the
passions of the characters, one sketchpad for themes Kubrick has the
maturity to explore in Eyes Wide Shut -- without mere facility -- but with
probing and intent. Add to this the play between story, image, symbol, and
reality we have in The Shining, the almost religious abstention for
judgement towards the characters shown in FMJ, and the preternaturally
sophisticated wit of Lolita, and you 'd have the potential for a
really superlative couple of hours in the cinema; of course, Eyes Wide
Shut will be nothing like that, and better....
Bilge Ebiri: But again, while the relationship of Barry
and Lady Lyndon "is not what is to be examined," it is the final act of a
tale that hinges on sexual desire -- which is not a petty term, but, in
reality, the central (albeit hidden) motivation for a whole host of
Kubrick characters as well as people throughout history.
Redmond Barry's adventures begin over his unrequited love for Nora
Grady. Look at the scene where he watches her dancing with John Quinn:
Quinn is controlled, confident, pleasant, a great dancer, Mr. Smooth, if
you will. Barry is boyish, morose, pouting, melancholy, almost ridiculous
-- which O'Neal conveys perfectly, by the way. This is a creature being
selected against. What was it Humbert wrote to Quilty? "Because you took
advantage of my disadvantage".
The struggle of Barry's tale is one for control -- not necessarily over
others, but over oneself. He learns not to show emotion,and learns to
make small-talk, to control his actions, to let others come to him. Look
at the way Kubrick's camera movements correlate with power moves
throughout the film. As Barry learns to manipulate his way through this
film (and the camera learns to track with him when it moves) so
does he become devoid of emotion. But what saves him for us is his
inability to control himself. The scene when he attacks Bullingdon
during the recital is such a total release of aggression that I have
trouble finding a more viscerally satisfying fight scene anywhere in the
history of cinema. As well as the tears he sheds over his son's death.
It is this loss of control that redeems him for us, but also, ironically,
seals his fate.
Does Barry love Lady Lyndon? This is one of the central mysteries of
the film. While what Barry does may indicate that he doesn't, and
certainly most who've seen the film may agree that he doesn't, how can we
be so sure? Aren't Barry's duplicities and adulteries simply a sign of
his position? Despite its public nature, Barry's two-timing doesn't seem
to hurt his standing any. The last words of the narration is, "He never
saw Lady Lyndon again." And the corresponding freeze-frame, which is the
last time we see Barry -- why do I find this moment so heartbreaking? I
think that maybe Barry has learned to love Lady Lyndon. Their lives grow
apart, but I think that the moment of Brian Lyndon's death brings them
together, yet rips them asunder immediately afterwards. Barry's promise
to his dying son is not an empty promise -- it is probably the one promise
he would keep if he could. It may be that Barry has in fact come
full-circle -- he is, finally, emotional, morose, ridiculous, boyish, and
defeated again, and this humanizes him for us. He has lost all control.
It's the end for him.
And, in the end, what is obsession but a loss of control? A tragic
weakness, if you will? But also a humanizing factor. And if you look at
Kubrick characters, you will find whole legions of the obsessed. This is
what makes these characters human for us, and, in the end, seals their
doom. Maybe the conclusions we reach from this aren't optimistic, but
nobody ever equated humanism with optimism.
So, this whole question of Eyes Wide Shut being "foreign
territory" for Kubrick, as many have said, is in my opinion pure bunk.
Obsession is, as you state, "a part of us," and it is also one of
Kubrick's central themes.
GA: There are two scenes involving Lady Lyndon which
further underscore your observations: The shot of her at prayer with Runt
following Brian's death, with her almost catatonic expression of anxious
pain (matched in some way, I feel, by the scene in which Barry's mother
has her son carried to bed), and the scene where LL tries to kill herself,
with her screams and convulsions recorded dramatically by Kubrick's
held-held camera.
BE: The scene of Lady Lyndon's suicide attempt has always
been particularly intriguing, because it is so loud -- every time I
watch the film, her screams get so loud that I have to turn the sound down
lest my neighbors think somebody is getting killed in my house -- and so
overplayed, which is then undercut and made to look ridiculous by the
narrator's interjection that Lady Lyndon hadn't taken enough dosage to
kill herself. The feeling here is threefold: an initial identification
with LL; a chuckle (perhaps) when she is undercut by the narrator; and
finally, a realization that actually, this is the last straw in Barry's
downfall, the culmination of the dissolution of his family and his hopes
and dreams, symbolized by his wife crawling and screaming pathetically on
the floor.
GA: It's at these points (the suicide attempt especially)
that we realise the story has gotten somewhat away from the narrator -- he
tries to keep up, but no longer offers much in the way of his wry
observations and arch sardonics, and capable only of a recitation of
facts. Realise, that if the were for example, a Merchant-Ivory film (god
forbid!), the action of the film throughout -- beginning to end --
would have been as arch and mannered as the narration -- and melodramatic
without pause --
BE: In fact, it's as far as any film could possibly get
from the staid, measured tone of the earlier parts of the film. Compare
this contrast with the two sets of killings that punctuate the two parts
of Full Metal Jacket. For someone whose tone and style is so often
assumed to be so distinct, Kubrick sure as hell runs the gamut of tonal
and stylistic devices in both of these films. And, in both cases, the
transformations the films have undergone have hindered them in the eyes of
many critics who, I'm afraid, fail to get the point and whose expectations
are too tempered by the rest of the cinematic zeitgeist.
GA: It's a moment for which the director has prepared us,
though; beginning with Barry's attack upon Lord Bullingdon (also shot
hand-held, if I remember right) -- and picking up again with the slo-mo fall
of Brian from his horse -- Kubrick's story (that is, Kubrick's manner of
telling Thackeray's story) begins a definite movement into passion and
realism, with a distinct psychological focus, contrasting explicitly with
the picaresque humors of Part One and the mannered social posturing of the
first half of Part Two, and which comes to a head with the arrival of
Bullingdon at the club to challenge Barry, and the slow reverse tracking
shot of Bullingdon (a direct imitation of Alex in ACO, IMO, complete with
derby, walking-stick and swagger....Barry, in this scene, is the old drunk
in the underpass...). The duel is completely without narration.
And it's the Duel, a central motif of the film, which is the perfect
image of passions & emotion under the strict control of social custom....
BE: Yes!...and speaking of parallels,I recently noticed a
startling resemblance between Bullingdon's challenge of Barry and the
opening scene of Lolita (though the latter is much shorter) as
well. What shall we make of that? Is Barry also a Clare Quilty of
sorts? I would align him earlier in the film with the love-starved
Humbert Humberts of the world. But then again, this isn't a war, and
there aren't really sides.What does seem to occur at that point in
Barry Lyndon is a further doubling, with Bullingdon becoming, in
some sense, the young Barry. Somebody (was it Ciment? Kolker? Nelson?)
once pointed out the similarity in their names. Obviously, though, the
roles being played here are much more complex. But when Barry wakes up to
Bullingdon's challenge, out of his drunken stupor, there is a moment of
recognition in his face. The shot of O'Neal waking up becomes almost
transcendent: Is he thinking, "Oh, yeah, it's that Bullingdon guy." Or
is he thinking, "I was like this once." He has gone from being the
challenger to the challenged. Bullingdon's smashing of protocol in the
later half of the film resembles Barry's smashing of protocol in the first
part (the breaking of the wine-glass, "Here's my toast to ye, Captain John
Quin," etc.).
And as for the duel itself, there are some parallels worth mentioning.
In the duel with Quin, Barry remarks that "These are not my guns." And he
becomes a victim of circumstance as a result (albeit a staged one -- the
guns are full of tow, and Quinn isn't killed). In the last duel,
Bullingdon's gun goes off before he can fire. And yet, he is able to
re-seize his opportunity, and thus become the victor. We get a human
glimpse of Bullingdon, briefly, after he shoots Barry. The camera is
hand-held, and the composition is interrupted by figures rushing in the
foreground (I think) -- there is a moment of joy and relief in his face.
For an instant, he becomes not the scheming Bullingdon, but a young boy
relieved to be through this grueling experience. This is our last human
glimpse of Bullingdon. The complexity of feeling and audience alignment
(not to mention the blinding suspense) in this scene is really hard to
describe with words. The truth of this thing is definitely in the
feel of it, as Kubrick might say. What I carry from it is the sense that
I have seen real life at work. As Jean Renoir said, in The Rules Of
The Game: "Everybody has his reasons."
GA: Fundamentally, the film's manner of telling the story
is representative of the story's deepening concerns -- and see this
movement towards 'seriousness' being told in the details too -- compare
the comical character of Quin the English officer in the opening of the
film with the later character of Potsdorf, the Prussian officer, and then
later Potsdorf, the Berlin Gestatspolizei. If one is sensitive to the
gestalt of each scene, one can easily see the narrative changing right
before one's eyes.
I want to comment here, parenthetically, on the acting in duel-scene
itself -- in a way I think it may be the first time we, as an audience,
are really 'present' at the scene, no longer witnessing through they eyes
of the narrator or even the storyteller. Bullingdon (superbly reaslised by
Leon Vitali) reveals himself the opposite of what he and his society
pretend he is: a nobleman -- while Barry's act of largess in firing into
the ground is perhaps the most significantly & sincerely mature act we
ever witness of him -- answered by Bullingdon without mercy or gratitude.
The facial expression O'Neal uses in reply to Bullingdon's bullying
ingratitude is brilliant, is priceless, and is absolutely perfect.
BE: But as I said before, I believe there is more here.
Bullingdon ceases to be a nobleman in our eyes. And yet, the emotions he
reveals here (pain, fear, anger, ingratitude, relief, etc.) all go to
make him more human. And after this, he becomes the perfect nobleman. He
is now in charge, and he seems to age years within a matter of minutes.
Yet another example of how much this scene becomes representative of the
film -- culminating the story and deconstructing it at the same time,
without having to resort to pseudo-Brechtian theatrics and tactics.
GA: You asked, Bilge, "Does Barry love Lady Lyndon? This
is one of the central mysteries of the film....Barry's promise to his
dying son is not an empty promise -- it is probably the one promise he
would keep if he could...."
I do believe Barry loves Lady Lyndon, and I believe they both
keep that promise to their son unconciously, but are incapable of knowing
or benefitting -- which is ultimately the tragedy of their relationship.
It's a fairly sophisticated observation Kubrick is making here.
And yes, I believe Lady Lyndon loves Barry too. Ultimately this is the
tragedy, or a part of the tragedy, of the story -- that love can be so
thoroughly overcome by a society and culture whose continued operation
depends upon far more commercial & quotidian attitudes. Compare the two
very contrasting images of Barry & Lady Lyndon's union -- when they meet
on the moonlit terrace, in what Kubrick himself described as a similitude
of silent film (even the lighting contributes) -- wordlessly, passionately
-- and the daylight-soaked image of the marriage itself (and listen to the
words being spoken by Reverend Runt) -- the 'battle-lines' between these
competing life-sensibilities are well demarcated. Follow up in your mind
these scenes with the final scene of the film, as LL signs Barry's
annuity....
BE: By the way, in this scene, at the end, the Schubert
we hear on the soundtrack is the same that we hear during Barry's silent
seduction of Lady Lyndon. The look on her face, coupled with the
freeze-frame and the narrator's "He never saw Lady Lyndon again." There
is a depth and complexity of feeling here that only the cinema could ever
hope to communicate.
GA: Certainly, the reverse-zoom at Brian's funeral
procession you discuss in your essay "The Shape of Things To Come" (a
procession led, as in the wedding, by the meaningless ministrations of the
Reverend -- a husband & wife, in solemn social ceremony) -- which ends in
close-up upon the two, together -- is as eloquent a statement as can be
made of the futility of love in the face of a society which consumes and
sublimates passion for its own ends. No less was it the theme of
Lolita, and even Killer's Kiss -- which ends with love's
triumph, interestingly (and features his then-wife in an extended
sequence) -- and was the last totally original script young Kubrick wrote.
If passion itself furnishes the 'protagonist' of the story (a youthful
Irish lad undone by his striving for Imperial English respectabilities),
the villian of the work is the World -- or, more precisely (yet more
abstractly) it is Time & History, as Bilge has illustrated -- and this
makes Barry Lyndon an examplar of Romantic fiction -- it's means in
telling it's story are explicitly apposite & contrary to Romanticism,
which is very much the point. But in reality this film, which far too many
viewers regard as being without passion, is in truth its greatest
manifesto. Or its epitaph.