Barry Lyndon (Kubrick, 1975)
All your little words flicker like candlelight as they escape your mouth. You speak lowly, and wish me a different man, almost unhuman, a figure, carved of soap wood, broken free from your fairytale dreams on your starched feather bed. What wonderful performances I conduct with rapture and pomp for you, this melancholy opera you so use to mask my guile and lurid wonders from your eyes. Some day you will let me slip like fading light into the darkness, and tip-toe silently back into the golden well of hollowness, where every intention wears a face. But in casual glances at the smudges of their character, you’ll hesitate and wish me there.