A review by trundle
The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon, Esq. by William Makepeace Thackeray
3.0
The great director Stanley Kubrick once noted that he believed it beneficial to work with lesser-known works of literature as the basis for his films because he could then take a story that already existed and mold it into a superior creation that he could safely call his own. And with the exception of Lolita, A Clockwork Orange, and the Shining (each of which are major literary events in their own right), he followed this very rule; and to great success, I must add. This holds true for Barry Lyndon, as Kubrick's adaptation of Thackeray's novel is superior because if any one film could be labeled as a painting, it's this one. That, and the wonderful costume design and direction provided by Kubrick means that poor Thackeray could never compete, even on his best of days.
But, this isn't to say that Thackeray's novel, written in the 19th century, is without its own merits. As a period piece, it's undeniably well-written, and if one fancies life during this particular time period, filled with copious amounts of gambling and ornate costume design, then it's a must read. The problem, however, is that though Thackeray is a good writer (hell, during his lifetime he was second only to Dickens), his novel does feel tedious, and it barely makes its way past three-hundred pages. Therefore, one really has to possess the desire to put up with Barry Lyndon and his haughty behavior, as he mistreats nearly everyone he meets and believes himself superior to each person he encounters as well. This isn't easily done, I must admit; but there's enough intrigue here to help the reader finish the memoirs, as Lyndon's life is seldom boring. I think, though, that the reason that I am claiming to enjoy this novel more than I probably did is because, unfortunately, there is a Barry Lyndon in all of us. This stems from the reality that it is a very human quality to believe that we are better than others, even though we really aren't; because, let's be honest, how many hypocrites and self-righteous jerks have we each encountered online or elsewhere (myself included)? And Lyndon possesses this quality in spades. Throughout his memoirs, one becomes privy to his supposed superior wit, intelligence, and physicality against all the people whom he comes across throughout his myriad adventures. This only serves, however, to demonstrate how much of a loser Lyndon really is, which is Thackeray's point after all. He's a horrible person who gaslights Lady Lyndon (as well as commits many transparent infidelities against her, too) and ruins her fortune and property because of his uncontrollable love of gambling and other interests. The reader gets this, but sadly Lyndon dies thinking he's a great humanitarian, though there are a few glimpses of humbleness when he becomes cognizant of his many wrongdoings. But they're not enough to redeem him, though getting the reader to sympathize with Lyndon is, again, not Thackeray's end goal here. Other than a portrait of this type of life, and what I mentioned above in regards to how one perceives Lyndon, I'm not sure what his point is, actually.
I digress, though. As I said, this is a well-written little novel that has been mostly forgotten, and if it weren't for Kubrick's adaptation I'd be willing to bet that it would be long lost and confined to the time it was written, which cannot be said for Vanity Fair. What I enjoyed most from this work is the hilarious names that Thackeray subscribes to his many characters, of which the myriad hilarities escape me now, which suggest that Thackeray didn't take his subject too seriously. And, to an even greater emotional success, he opposes this farcical tone and treats Lady Lyndon's tragic demise with care and sincerity. I challenge the reader not to feel bad for this poor woman as she crosses paths with Lyndon and his treacherous ways. And the fact that it's hinted that she even almost returns to him after she escapes is utterly heartbreaking and demonstrates just what a psychological number Lyndon had done to her. It's this latter part of the novel that sells it for me and where I can honestly recommend it to other readers with a clear conscience.
But, this isn't to say that Thackeray's novel, written in the 19th century, is without its own merits. As a period piece, it's undeniably well-written, and if one fancies life during this particular time period, filled with copious amounts of gambling and ornate costume design, then it's a must read. The problem, however, is that though Thackeray is a good writer (hell, during his lifetime he was second only to Dickens), his novel does feel tedious, and it barely makes its way past three-hundred pages. Therefore, one really has to possess the desire to put up with Barry Lyndon and his haughty behavior, as he mistreats nearly everyone he meets and believes himself superior to each person he encounters as well. This isn't easily done, I must admit; but there's enough intrigue here to help the reader finish the memoirs, as Lyndon's life is seldom boring. I think, though, that the reason that I am claiming to enjoy this novel more than I probably did is because, unfortunately, there is a Barry Lyndon in all of us. This stems from the reality that it is a very human quality to believe that we are better than others, even though we really aren't; because, let's be honest, how many hypocrites and self-righteous jerks have we each encountered online or elsewhere (myself included)? And Lyndon possesses this quality in spades. Throughout his memoirs, one becomes privy to his supposed superior wit, intelligence, and physicality against all the people whom he comes across throughout his myriad adventures. This only serves, however, to demonstrate how much of a loser Lyndon really is, which is Thackeray's point after all. He's a horrible person who gaslights Lady Lyndon (as well as commits many transparent infidelities against her, too) and ruins her fortune and property because of his uncontrollable love of gambling and other interests. The reader gets this, but sadly Lyndon dies thinking he's a great humanitarian, though there are a few glimpses of humbleness when he becomes cognizant of his many wrongdoings. But they're not enough to redeem him, though getting the reader to sympathize with Lyndon is, again, not Thackeray's end goal here. Other than a portrait of this type of life, and what I mentioned above in regards to how one perceives Lyndon, I'm not sure what his point is, actually.
I digress, though. As I said, this is a well-written little novel that has been mostly forgotten, and if it weren't for Kubrick's adaptation I'd be willing to bet that it would be long lost and confined to the time it was written, which cannot be said for Vanity Fair. What I enjoyed most from this work is the hilarious names that Thackeray subscribes to his many characters, of which the myriad hilarities escape me now, which suggest that Thackeray didn't take his subject too seriously. And, to an even greater emotional success, he opposes this farcical tone and treats Lady Lyndon's tragic demise with care and sincerity. I challenge the reader not to feel bad for this poor woman as she crosses paths with Lyndon and his treacherous ways. And the fact that it's hinted that she even almost returns to him after she escapes is utterly heartbreaking and demonstrates just what a psychological number Lyndon had done to her. It's this latter part of the novel that sells it for me and where I can honestly recommend it to other readers with a clear conscience.