Suspicion is a key feature of the mind and attitude of the noble gentry in Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon (1975). The above frame highlights a moment wrought with the overtones of a precarious tenure in an era of declining rule, when the Prince of Tübingen questions the Chevalier de Balibari whom, alongside Barry, has cheated him in a well-rehearsed conspiracy during a game of cards. Such is the Chevalier and Barry's opportunistic mischief and vagabond lot in life. In events set during the 1770s (those final and decadent decades before the Storming of the Bastille) the audience is quietly dredged through a hypnotic visual painting achieved in the contours of natural light, cinematographic balance and symmetry, and the "aggressive detachment"—in the words of Roger Ebert—of Kubrick's style. As the audience is drawn further into the unfurling plot of Barry's demise as an aspiring nobleman, a trifold trickery can be witnessed at the film's peak, within the climactic duel between Barry and his nemesis stepson Lord Bullingdon. But this witnessing is only accessible if one leaps into the deeper narrative substrate, beyond mere appearances where it seems as if fate and chance are the operative principles at play.
Barry, in a bid to impress those whose company he hopes to keep, by becoming a distinguished gentleman of title, embarrassingly asks his host about the price of Ludovico Cardi's oil painting The Adoration of the Magi, the most prominent artwork on the wall, one of a religious significance that depicts the Madonna and child beheld by the Three Kings and the Angels above. Notice the subtle surprise in Lord Hallam's expression (immediate right of Barry) at this faux pas. The host continues to wax about the beauty and importance of the artwork under his purview without batting an eye (nor without really saying anything of depth about its subject matter). Nevertheless the insulting and uncouth manner of Barry's temperament and inquisitiveness would certainly have been registered, not only by the host but clearly by Lord Hallam, and most importantly by Lord Wendover, who hovers in the background without betraying any emotion whatsoever. Such are the affects and social mannerisms clocked by Kubrick of The Dominant, the most powerful and conniving class of men (save for the monarchy itself), their powdered faces and fine clothing delineating both a coded sign of authority, but also paradoxically, in the film's narrative implications, a decrepit and dying breed of aristocratic society.
Kubrick never reveals the painting to the audience, a clearly deliberate choice (and one that foreshadows the metaphoric through line of godlessness as reflected in the final duel which takes place in an abandoned chapel, and in both Barry's and Lord Bullingdon's case, between literally fatherless men) obscuring its presence and denying its symbolic truth. In the painting, Saint Caspar has discarded his gifts and his turban onto the ground, genuflecting to kiss Christ's feet. Could Barry be reading optimistic outcomes of his life into the painting's depiction of surrender at the foot of ultimate power? Or could the painting be a mirroring of the very scene itself with the three English noblemen who, touched by Barry's innocence and naïveté, also drop their gifts to the ground—in other words—deny them to Barry? The sense we as the audience are left with by the painting's absence is that it is actually what is being hidden and not revealed that takes precedence, and so by this methodology … what, we may ask ourselves, are the hidden elements of this interaction between Barry and the Lords? Why is this scene in the film? What is the purpose of disappearing The Adoration of the Magi from view? What I will argue is that this scene is necessary because in it Barry is framed as outnumbered and outwitted by a cadre of secretive, ruthless men embedded in multi-generational class alliance, and that their socialized behavior, read outwardly as polite, sophisticated, reserved, betrays a deeper function of The Dominant, one in which the collective id has made itself subservient—over countless generations of cruelty—to all manner of amoral trickery, deviousness, and sadism in service of maintaining social and economic power, with zero exceptions. But the scene also underscores the importance of things that remain out of view and unseen, and it is through this awareness of absence that the scene's purpose is understood.
Many scenes in Barry Lyndon assume a far more sinister guise when read this way. Look for example at the scene where Reverend Runt takes momentary leave during a compulsory scholastic block of activity for both young Brian (Barry's biological son with Lady Lyndon) and Lord Bullingdon (Barry's stepson). On its surface the scene exemplifies Lord Bullingdon's impatience and contempt for his half-brother through the episode of a misplaced pencil that leads to an altercation, one that is the result of either an accident of recognition on Brian's part, or an accident of Lord Bullingdon, aloof to his writing implement of choice while he attempts to maintain concentrated dedication to his studies, for which he repeatedly chastises Brian for disrupting. However as I will argue, Lord Bullingdon—as the most cunning and intelligent character in the film—has deliberately stolen the pencil and feigned ignorance in order to set into motion his self-imposed exile. Lord Bullingdon's superior intellect is reinforced again and again. Think for example of the scene in the horse-drawn carriage with young Lord Bullingdon and Reverend Runt, in which the young man speaks with an eloquence and insight far beyond his years concerning the pity and misgivings he experiences for his mother Lady Lyndon's marriage to Redmond Barry, the brute commoner of Irish descent, now his de facto father. Lord Bullingdon, anticipating how Barry will react when he finds him spanking Brian over the pencil conflict, plays upon Barry's psychology by seeing that, in his pursuit to maintain order at the Lyndon estate, he will punish him, in what—we are led to believe—has become a mundane and common ritual of humiliation: six repeated lashings upon the backside. The stolen pencil thus guarantees the activating chastisement, whereby Lord Bullingdon not only successfully declares his autonomy and opposition to Barry but also orchestrates his self-imposed exile and ultimately, through a Machiavellian chicanery, the removal of Barry from the estate.
Before his self-imposed exile can go into effect, Lord Bullingdon initiates a subsequent lever in his ingenious multi-stage contraption of social engineering, through a tripartite opprobrium of his entire family in front of the Lords: Barry, Lady Lyndon, and young Brian. Knowing exactly where to apply the pressure, in a single gesture he: (1.) connects to his mother's sympathies; (2.) mockingly passes the mantle of his Lordship to young Brian; (3.) catalyzes Barry into apoplectic rage, compelling him into unprovoked attack (Barry hits Lord Bullingdon from behind with no warning). This has the triple effect of sealing Lord Bullingdon's desired exile and banishment, destroying Barry's chances of securing a noble title, and advocating for his mother by recognizing her enduring sufferings of Barry's indiscretions and fallibilities by making public his dedication and devotion to her. Such are the contrived behaviors and responses of the gentry and Redmond Barry, the commoner. Lord Bullingdon cleverly infers what his actions will vouchsafe for him in the redemption arc of his family name. It is through his meticulous sociological grasp of the powers available to The Dominant and the society around him that make Lord Bullingdon the puppeteer of Barry's controlled destiny.
Lord Bullingdon's demeanor in the scene following Graham's alarm at the sight of Lady Lyndon's suicide attempt is cold, calculating, mechanical, and self-assured: he is at his most confident and righteous, moving at the heights of his determination. "…I know now what I must do." … as the two men in his servitude look on in frozen and understanding delight. The "fine family fortune" is at stake, and nothing will be left to chance … nothing. There is a deviousness and surety to Lord Bullingdon's manner. The grandfather clock in the right portion of the frame, the largest and most prominent time keeping device we ever see in the film, save for a small clock in the Lyndon estate that appears behind Lady Lyndon while she is signing debt remittances, suggests that time stands firmly on the side of these men. The clock alludes to mechanical certainty, deterministic in is onward progression, making sure that what "must be done" is indeed executed with the same rigor with which Lord Bullingdon delivers his remarks to the trusted co-conspirators who hold his allegiance. Additionally, compared with the vast interior spaces we have grown accustomed to at this point in the narrative, this room is strikingly small and cramped, lending a physical bearing upon which the secrecy and close-knit spatial encounter rests. These men are hatching their next steps to remove the intruder from further leading their reputation and fortunes to ruin, and they are doing so in small, hidden quarters.
Contrast this behavior with the timorous and diffident Lord Bullingdon that appears in the final duel. There is a strange quality in this complete reversal of his character, and the audience (as well as Barry) are to be forgiven in interpreting it as a sign of his innate weakness become manifest: his first shot with the pistol misfires, and he appears to wretch with dread and anxiety in teary-eyed distress before finally regaining his composure. Kubrick masterfully insinuates this weakness throughout the film by portraying Lord Bullingdon as a feeble and confused child born unto wealth, with tender feelings for his mother, and rather effeminate docility in social settings: a man who has never experienced struggle, war, and who repeatedly submitted to the abuses of his false-father, Barry. However, what we are witnessing is not the natural behavior of a frightened man-baby under duress, but a careful and elaborate ruse designed to lead Barry to his doom and, as I will argue, to deceive the audience who fall prey to it—hook, line and sinker—along with Barry, believing that fate and chance are determining the outcome of the duel. It is in fact, a much more nefarious and sophisticated plot, which remains completely hidden from us, owing in part to the sheer audacity and unjust capability of The Dominant.
In my repeated viewings of Barry Lyndon that spanned two decades I never once questioned this deliberate closeup of the King George 1/2 penny, showing the obverse 'heads' side facing up. Lord Bullingdon is given the first choice to call the coin toss as the aggrieved party in this dispute, where he "demands satisfaction" for the wrong that Barry "committed" against him in a previous era, attacking him from behind in front of the Lords when they gathered for the music concert at the Lyndon estate. You'll notice "committed" surrounded by quotation marks here because it belies an active agency accorded to Barry, when it was in fact Lord Bullington, through his social antagonism, who provoked the Irishman's fury, and—had he not lost his temper—it is may as well have been Barry demanding satisfaction from him. The duel's setup seems innocuous enough: Lord Bullingdon's servant prepares his pistol; states the rules and regulations surrounding the extralegal battle they are about to engage in to seek resolution; performs the coin toss. But The Dominant will not tolerate to chance anything hindering its strategic plan. The merry-go-round of trickery and credulity that characterize Barry's (and the Chevalier's) rinsing of the upper classes through their gambling charades has come back full circle to destroy them, because unlike the boundaries of the gambling table where Barry found himself most comfortable in executing his scams, the boundaries of The Dominant span nearly the entire social psychogeometrical domain of which Barry is now haplessly enmeshed, having thrown himself in too deep with the illusion of gaining favor but without a credible exit. There is no dislodging from The Dominant's reach once you are in its clutches, save for the monarchy, and to a lesser extent, the law (which we will return to later). So pervasive and ubiquitous are its manifestations that it essentially lies hidden in plain view. If we accept The Dominant's narrative for society and the reporting of events as history, we take it for granted that the coin would be a common copper penny from the Royal Mint, with an obverse 'heads' and reverse 'lyre'. But The Dominant does not play games fairly, nor settle disputes in the spirit of justice, and so it engages in subterfuge to guarantee its goals.
Thus we should be terrified by the closeup of the coin if we come to the realization that we suspected it of being legitimate all along. Kubrick, no stranger to parlor games, describes them in a 1968 interview with Joseph Gelmis for Newsday:
"I think it's become something of a parlor game for some people to read that kind of thing into everything they encounter."
The above quote is actually Kubrick using parlor games in the negative, discrediting theories by some that the vocal inflections of the artificial intelligence in his film 2001: A Space Odyssey—HAL 9000—indicate the AI's homosexual orientation, which Kubrick dismisses as far-fetched. But could Kubrick be engaging in a parlor game of his own in Barry Lyndon ? … by presenting a story which, by all sensible and rational interpretations, leads us to believe that it is chance and fate that marks Barry's destiny though its blind indifference? … when, in fact, all could be the result of the cold-blooded, calculating machinations of a ruthless social order in the twilight of its dominion? Think of Lord Wendover's comments earlier in the film as Barry seeks ascendancy: "All the best men." … an allusion to the type of circles he keeps. Neither would this baleful interpretation contradict Kubrick's career-long obsession with mysterious and secret agents of conspiracy and sabotage, which lie at the heart of all his filmmaking. We now return to the trifold trickery described at the outset of this essay, and what it means.
Lord Bullingdon's plan, which seems to crystallize in his mind when pacing in the small quarters with Reverend Runt and Graham, is never given verbal exposition in the film, but we can witness it unfurling. First, the double-headed coin—ensuring that Lord Bullingdon gets the first fire. Second, Lord Bullingdon's intentional misfiring of the pistol before he has properly aimed it at Barry, and the subsequent pleas with his servant (who peculiarly overrules him) requesting a new pistol since his is faulty … and all the resulting hysterics and faux-vomiting that is carried out before coming to his senses and readying himself for Barry's return fire. And here is where Barry—again read like an open book by Lord Bullingdon and his razor sharp understandings of his opponent—catastrophically misreads his entrapment, and takes the high-road prescribed by the gentlemanly conduct he aspires to, and fires his pistol into the ground, begetting a truce in his mind. This is exactly what Lord Bullingdon anticipates, and by his animated histrionics, makes it clear that he has not received satisfaction. Third, and lastly, Lord Bullingdon has achieved checkmate, discarding what otherwise might have been settled as a draw, seeing to the moral prerogative of the nobleman's good deed. But owing to The Dominant's mistrust of rectitude in the pursuit of its goal, he aggressively and without warning decides to take another turn, aims at Barry and fires. His expression of elation is clearly visible after Barry collapses. The plan succeeds. Barry is wounded under the knee, as the doctor who has to amputate him makes clear (although one could go a step further and implicate even this town doctor in on the conspiracy, since Barry doesn't appear to us to be hemorrhaging blood, as the doctor claims). But being wounded below the knee would necessitate a deliberately low aim from the distance from which Lord Bullingdon fires the pistol. Precisely. If Barry is wounded, he can be controlled; if he is killed, then that activates the law, and Lord Bullingdon seems to have made it part of his calculus to avoid any such encounter with the authorities. Thus the trifold trickery: (1.) the deception of Barry, the principal victim; (2.) the evasion of the law (which does pose as an ominous presence in Barry Lyndon at various points in the film) a circumvention which The Dominant clearly prefers so that it covers its tracks; (3.) the deception of the audience in precluding any suspicion of The Dominant, making events seem entirely ordinary, random, or governed by a higher destiny. But we know there is no higher destiny that is predetermined, since the church in which they duel is abandoned, The Adoration of the Magi is never seen, and Barry lacks the agency to lay claim to his own autonomy. The house always wins, as all gamblers are aware. This is power that operates in the shadows, beyond our sight, even our wildest dreams.
Post-script
There is a metacinematic aspect at play: Leon Vitali, the English actor who plays Lord Bullingdon, gave up a promising career in acting to become Stanley Kubrick's full-time assistant for the remainder of his life. At the time he was made the object of ridicule for such a sisyphean bargain … trading an illustrious future for a menial one under the thumb of a controlling and detail-oriented filmmaker. But what if the mastermind narrative that plays out so brilliantly out-of-sight in Barry Lyndon and in Lord Bullingdon's character does the same in life? What is known is that Vitali became integral to Kubrick's working methods, and had insider knowledge (and influence) in all aspects of the film productions that Kubrick would embark upon after their acquaintance was made (The Shining … Full Metal Jacket … and Eyes Wide Shut). Some even say that there would be no Kubrick, as known in these last mature works, if it were not for Vitali … and so we must ask ourselves, was having memetic advantage the ultimate goal in Leon Vitali's calculus? Once seen as rather buffoonish in his surrender to Kubrick, perhaps Vitali holds onto the last laugh in his conquest to manifest a subversive control over the images contained within Kubrick's future work themselves, an alchemy of the highest and most devious, secretive order, indeed.
Suspicion is a key feature of the mind and attitude of the noble gentry in Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon (1975). The above frame highlights a moment wrought with the overtones of a precarious tenure in an era of declining rule, when the Prince of Tübingen questions the Chevalier de Balibari whom, alongside Barry, has cheated him in a well-rehearsed conspiracy during a game of cards. Such is the Chevalier and Barry's opportunistic mischief and vagabond lot in life. In events set during the 1770s (those final and decadent decades before the Storming of the Bastille) the audience is quietly dredged through a hypnotic visual painting achieved in the contours of natural light, cinematographic balance and symmetry, and the "aggressive detachment"—in the words of Roger Ebert—of Kubrick's style. As the audience is drawn further into the unfurling plot of Barry's demise as an aspiring nobleman, a trifold trickery can be witnessed at the film's peak, within the climactic duel between Barry and his nemesis stepson Lord Bullingdon. But this witnessing is only accessible if one leaps into the deeper narrative substrate, beyond mere appearances where it seems as if fate and chance are the operative principles at play.
Barry, in a bid to impress those whose company he hopes to keep, by becoming a distinguished gentleman of title, embarrassingly asks his host about the price of Ludovico Cardi's oil painting The Adoration of the Magi, the most prominent artwork on the wall, one of a religious significance that depicts the Madonna and child beheld by the Three Kings and the Angels above. Notice the subtle surprise in Lord Hallam's expression (immediate right of Barry) at this faux pas. The host continues to wax about the beauty and importance of the artwork under his purview without batting an eye (nor without really saying anything of depth about its subject matter). Nevertheless the insulting and uncouth manner of Barry's temperament and inquisitiveness would certainly have been registered, not only by the host but clearly by Lord Hallam, and most importantly by Lord Wendover, who hovers in the background without betraying any emotion whatsoever. Such are the affects and social mannerisms clocked by Kubrick of The Dominant, the most powerful and conniving class of men (save for the monarchy itself), their powdered faces and fine clothing delineating both a coded sign of authority, but also paradoxically, in the film's narrative implications, a decrepit and dying breed of aristocratic society.
Kubrick never reveals the painting to the audience, a clearly deliberate choice (and one that foreshadows the metaphoric through line of godlessness as reflected in the final duel which takes place in an abandoned chapel, and in both Barry's and Lord Bullingdon's case, between literally fatherless men) obscuring its presence and denying its symbolic truth. In the painting, Saint Caspar has discarded his gifts and his turban onto the ground, genuflecting to kiss Christ's feet. Could Barry be reading optimistic outcomes of his life into the painting's depiction of surrender at the foot of ultimate power? Or could the painting be a mirroring of the very scene itself with the three English noblemen who, touched by Barry's innocence and naïveté, also drop their gifts to the ground—in other words—deny them to Barry? The sense we as the audience are left with by the painting's absence is that it is actually what is being hidden and not revealed that takes precedence, and so by this methodology … what, we may ask ourselves, are the hidden elements of this interaction between Barry and the Lords? Why is this scene in the film? What is the purpose of disappearing The Adoration of the Magi from view? What I will argue is that this scene is necessary because in it Barry is framed as outnumbered and outwitted by a cadre of secretive, ruthless men embedded in multi-generational class alliance, and that their socialized behavior, read outwardly as polite, sophisticated, reserved, betrays a deeper function of The Dominant, one in which the collective id has made itself subservient—over countless generations of cruelty—to all manner of amoral trickery, deviousness, and sadism in service of maintaining social and economic power, with zero exceptions. But the scene also underscores the importance of things that remain out of view and unseen, and it is through this awareness of absence that the scene's purpose is understood.
Many scenes in Barry Lyndon assume a far more sinister guise when read this way. Look for example at the scene where Reverend Runt takes momentary leave during a compulsory scholastic block of activity for both young Brian (Barry's biological son with Lady Lyndon) and Lord Bullingdon (Barry's stepson). On its surface the scene exemplifies Lord Bullingdon's impatience and contempt for his half-brother through the episode of a misplaced pencil that leads to an altercation, one that is the result of either an accident of recognition on Brian's part, or an accident of Lord Bullingdon, aloof to his writing implement of choice while he attempts to maintain concentrated dedication to his studies, for which he repeatedly chastises Brian for disrupting. However as I will argue, Lord Bullingdon—as the most cunning and intelligent character in the film—has deliberately stolen the pencil and feigned ignorance in order to set into motion his self-imposed exile. Lord Bullingdon's superior intellect is reinforced again and again. Think for example of the scene in the horse-drawn carriage with young Lord Bullingdon and Reverend Runt, in which the young man speaks with an eloquence and insight far beyond his years concerning the pity and misgivings he experiences for his mother Lady Lyndon's marriage to Redmond Barry, the brute commoner of Irish descent, now his de facto father. Lord Bullingdon, anticipating how Barry will react when he finds him spanking Brian over the pencil conflict, plays upon Barry's psychology by seeing that, in his pursuit to maintain order at the Lyndon estate, he will punish him, in what—we are led to believe—has become a mundane and common ritual of humiliation: six repeated lashings upon the backside. The stolen pencil thus guarantees the activating chastisement, whereby Lord Bullingdon not only successfully declares his autonomy and opposition to Barry but also orchestrates his self-imposed exile and ultimately, through a Machiavellian chicanery, the removal of Barry from the estate.
Before his self-imposed exile can go into effect, Lord Bullingdon initiates a subsequent lever in his ingenious multi-stage contraption of social engineering, through a tripartite opprobrium of his entire family in front of the Lords: Barry, Lady Lyndon, and young Brian. Knowing exactly where to apply the pressure, in a single gesture he: (1.) connects to his mother's sympathies; (2.) mockingly passes the mantle of his Lordship to young Brian; (3.) catalyzes Barry into apoplectic rage, compelling him into unprovoked attack (Barry hits Lord Bullingdon from behind with no warning). This has the triple effect of sealing Lord Bullingdon's desired exile and banishment, destroying Barry's chances of securing a noble title, and advocating for his mother by recognizing her enduring sufferings of Barry's indiscretions and fallibilities by making public his dedication and devotion to her. Such are the contrived behaviors and responses of the gentry and Redmond Barry, the commoner. Lord Bullingdon cleverly infers what his actions will vouchsafe for him in the redemption arc of his family name. It is through his meticulous sociological grasp of the powers available to The Dominant and the society around him that make Lord Bullingdon the puppeteer of Barry's controlled destiny.
Lord Bullingdon's demeanor in the scene following Graham's alarm at the sight of Lady Lyndon's suicide attempt is cold, calculating, mechanical, and self-assured: he is at his most confident and righteous, moving at the heights of his determination. "…I know now what I must do." … as the two men in his servitude look on in frozen and understanding delight. The "fine family fortune" is at stake, and nothing will be left to chance … nothing. There is a deviousness and surety to Lord Bullingdon's manner. The grandfather clock in the right portion of the frame, the largest and most prominent time keeping device we ever see in the film, save for a small clock in the Lyndon estate that appears behind Lady Lyndon while she is signing debt remittances, suggests that time stands firmly on the side of these men. The clock alludes to mechanical certainty, deterministic in is onward progression, making sure that what "must be done" is indeed executed with the same rigor with which Lord Bullingdon delivers his remarks to the trusted co-conspirators who hold his allegiance. Additionally, compared with the vast interior spaces we have grown accustomed to at this point in the narrative, this room is strikingly small and cramped, lending a physical bearing upon which the secrecy and close-knit spatial encounter rests. These men are hatching their next steps to remove the intruder from further leading their reputation and fortunes to ruin, and they are doing so in small, hidden quarters.
Contrast this behavior with the timorous and diffident Lord Bullingdon that appears in the final duel. There is a strange quality in this complete reversal of his character, and the audience (as well as Barry) are to be forgiven in interpreting it as a sign of his innate weakness become manifest: his first shot with the pistol misfires, and he appears to wretch with dread and anxiety in teary-eyed distress before finally regaining his composure. Kubrick masterfully insinuates this weakness throughout the film by portraying Lord Bullingdon as a feeble and confused child born unto wealth, with tender feelings for his mother, and rather effeminate docility in social settings: a man who has never experienced struggle, war, and who repeatedly submitted to the abuses of his false-father, Barry. However, what we are witnessing is not the natural behavior of a frightened man-baby under duress, but a careful and elaborate ruse designed to lead Barry to his doom and, as I will argue, to deceive the audience who fall prey to it—hook, line and sinker—along with Barry, believing that fate and chance are determining the outcome of the duel. It is in fact, a much more nefarious and sophisticated plot, which remains completely hidden from us, owing in part to the sheer audacity and unjust capability of The Dominant.
In my repeated viewings of Barry Lyndon that spanned two decades I never once questioned this deliberate closeup of the King George 1/2 penny, showing the obverse 'heads' side facing up. Lord Bullingdon is given the first choice to call the coin toss as the aggrieved party in this dispute, where he "demands satisfaction" for the wrong that Barry "committed" against him in a previous era, attacking him from behind in front of the Lords when they gathered for the music concert at the Lyndon estate. You'll notice "committed" surrounded by quotation marks here because it belies an active agency accorded to Barry, when it was in fact Lord Bullington, through his social antagonism, who provoked the Irishman's fury, and—had he not lost his temper—it is may as well have been Barry demanding satisfaction from him. The duel's setup seems innocuous enough: Lord Bullingdon's servant prepares his pistol; states the rules and regulations surrounding the extralegal battle they are about to engage in to seek resolution; performs the coin toss. But The Dominant will not tolerate to chance anything hindering its strategic plan. The merry-go-round of trickery and credulity that characterize Barry's (and the Chevalier's) rinsing of the upper classes through their gambling charades has come back full circle to destroy them, because unlike the boundaries of the gambling table where Barry found himself most comfortable in executing his scams, the boundaries of The Dominant span nearly the entire social psychogeometrical domain of which Barry is now haplessly enmeshed, having thrown himself in too deep with the illusion of gaining favor but without a credible exit. There is no dislodging from The Dominant's reach once you are in its clutches, save for the monarchy, and to a lesser extent, the law (which we will return to later). So pervasive and ubiquitous are its manifestations that it essentially lies hidden in plain view. If we accept The Dominant's narrative for society and the reporting of events as history, we take it for granted that the coin would be a common copper penny from the Royal Mint, with an obverse 'heads' and reverse 'lyre'. But The Dominant does not play games fairly, nor settle disputes in the spirit of justice, and so it engages in subterfuge to guarantee its goals.
Thus we should be terrified by the closeup of the coin if we come to the realization that we suspected it of being legitimate all along. Kubrick, no stranger to parlor games, describes them in a 1968 interview with Joseph Gelmis for Newsday:
"I think it's become something of a parlor game for some people to read that kind of thing into everything they encounter."
The above quote is actually Kubrick using parlor games in the negative, discrediting theories by some that the vocal inflections of the artificial intelligence in his film 2001: A Space Odyssey—HAL 9000—indicate the AI's homosexual orientation, which Kubrick dismisses as far-fetched. But could Kubrick be engaging in a parlor game of his own in Barry Lyndon ? … by presenting a story which, by all sensible and rational interpretations, leads us to believe that it is chance and fate that marks Barry's destiny though its blind indifference? … when, in fact, all could be the result of the cold-blooded, calculating machinations of a ruthless social order in the twilight of its dominion? Think of Lord Wendover's comments earlier in the film as Barry seeks ascendancy: "All the best men." … an allusion to the type of circles he keeps. Neither would this baleful interpretation contradict Kubrick's career-long obsession with mysterious and secret agents of conspiracy and sabotage, which lie at the heart of all his filmmaking. We now return to the trifold trickery described at the outset of this essay, and what it means.
Lord Bullingdon's plan, which seems to crystallize in his mind when pacing in the small quarters with Reverend Runt and Graham, is never given verbal exposition in the film, but we can witness it unfurling. First, the double-headed coin—ensuring that Lord Bullingdon gets the first fire. Second, Lord Bullingdon's intentional misfiring of the pistol before he has properly aimed it at Barry, and the subsequent pleas with his servant (who peculiarly overrules him) requesting a new pistol since his is faulty … and all the resulting hysterics and faux-vomiting that is carried out before coming to his senses and readying himself for Barry's return fire. And here is where Barry—again read like an open book by Lord Bullingdon and his razor sharp understandings of his opponent—catastrophically misreads his entrapment, and takes the high-road prescribed by the gentlemanly conduct he aspires to, and fires his pistol into the ground, begetting a truce in his mind. This is exactly what Lord Bullingdon anticipates, and by his animated histrionics, makes it clear that he has not received satisfaction. Third, and lastly, Lord Bullingdon has achieved checkmate, discarding what otherwise might have been settled as a draw, seeing to the moral prerogative of the nobleman's good deed. But owing to The Dominant's mistrust of rectitude in the pursuit of its goal, he aggressively and without warning decides to take another turn, aims at Barry and fires. His expression of elation is clearly visible after Barry collapses. The plan succeeds. Barry is wounded under the knee, as the doctor who has to amputate him makes clear (although one could go a step further and implicate even this town doctor in on the conspiracy, since Barry doesn't appear to us to be hemorrhaging blood, as the doctor claims). But being wounded below the knee would necessitate a deliberately low aim from the distance from which Lord Bullingdon fires the pistol. Precisely. If Barry is wounded, he can be controlled; if he is killed, then that activates the law, and Lord Bullingdon seems to have made it part of his calculus to avoid any such encounter with the authorities. Thus the trifold trickery: (1.) the deception of Barry, the principal victim; (2.) the evasion of the law (which does pose as an ominous presence in Barry Lyndon at various points in the film) a circumvention which The Dominant clearly prefers so that it covers its tracks; (3.) the deception of the audience in precluding any suspicion of The Dominant, making events seem entirely ordinary, random, or governed by a higher destiny. But we know there is no higher destiny that is predetermined, since the church in which they duel is abandoned, The Adoration of the Magi is never seen, and Barry lacks the agency to lay claim to his own autonomy. The house always wins, as all gamblers are aware. This is power that operates in the shadows, beyond our sight, even our wildest dreams.
Post-script
There is a metacinematic aspect at play: Leon Vitali, the English actor who plays Lord Bullingdon, gave up a promising career in acting to become Stanley Kubrick's full-time assistant for the remainder of his life. At the time he was made the object of ridicule for such a sisyphean bargain … trading an illustrious future for a menial one under the thumb of a controlling and detail-oriented filmmaker. But what if the mastermind narrative that plays out so brilliantly out-of-sight in Barry Lyndon and in Lord Bullingdon's character does the same in life? What is known is that Vitali became integral to Kubrick's working methods, and had insider knowledge (and influence) in all aspects of the film productions that Kubrick would embark upon after their acquaintance was made (The Shining … Full Metal Jacket … and Eyes Wide Shut). Some even say that there would be no Kubrick, as known in these last mature works, if it were not for Vitali … and so we must ask ourselves, was having memetic advantage the ultimate goal in Leon Vitali's calculus? Once seen as rather buffoonish in his surrender to Kubrick, perhaps Vitali holds onto the last laugh in his conquest to manifest a subversive control over the images contained within Kubrick's future work themselves, an alchemy of the highest and most devious, secretive order, indeed.