Barry Lyndon (Stanley Kubrick, 1975)

In some way, Barry Lyndon, an adaptation of Thackeray's meandering novel about the rise and fall of a nobody in 18th-century Europe, has become one of Kubrick's forgotten works in the eyes of the viewing public while remaining high on critics' lists for its singleminded artistry. Kubrick really went method with this one: he insisted on nothing but natural illumination - candles for interiors if needed - and even got his leading lady to stay out of the sun before filming to achieve a period aristocrat pallor without make-up.

And somehow it worked: it's a visually luminous piece, composed of shots every bit as carefully framed and lit as paintings. It turns the otherwise wet blankness of Ryan O'Neal in the lead into a sullen determination entirely in tune with the guarded opportunist of the novel, unreliable and out for his own gain yet sympathetic simply because his aspirations are so understandable, refusing to accept his lowly lot in society and moving through the sneering strata with a dogged sense of purpose. Also, given the change of medium and thus the addition of the visual element to how we see the anti-hero, Kubrick wisely did away with Redmond Barry as narrator of his own life, adding Michael Hordern's avuncular tones instead and with this a degree of welcome wryly detached amusement to his trials and tribulations.
The whole is further enriched by a stately and melancholic score of Vivaldi and Schubert, and while it may leave little emotional residue, three hours slip by quite unmarked.

9/10