AA.VV.
Barry Lyndon

Immense. Elegant. Harmonious. Perfect. Sick.
Well, yes, I thought it... the greatest movie of all time.
And I still think so.

Because Barry Lyndon is a breath of history, carrying with it that sad, pale but infinitely fascinating fragrance of the deepest sense of life.
A meaning in life elegantly concealed by the actions and emotions of Barry and all the 18th-century Northern European characters who swirl around him like figures drawn by destiny, beautiful or ugly, good or bad. They whirl within many frescoes of a pure yet disarming beauty, portraits of splendid landscapes or of men caught in their many daily vices: hatred, gambling, thirst for power, fear... love. Moments portrayed in the light of a few candles, or gently colored and shaded almost like pastels.
Meanwhile, Barry's life rises and sets, as if controlled by a dark force that Kubrick teases with an almost perverse consistency. A dark force that takes by the hand and leads the mass of colorful subjects toward a sunset whose foreboding is felt from the very first moments, a sunset that languidly explodes from every image, every glance, every color of the film.

A sunset in which, as the final epilogue says, beautiful or ugly, good or bad, they will all be the same.
A small tear reflecting the dramas and joys of life.
In all its tragic essence.