The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968)

Tony Richardson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968) is one of the most audacious and intellectually provocative historical war films of its era. Far from being a simple retelling of the infamous cavalry charge during the Crimean War, the film is a searing, darkly satirical examination of the British class system, military incompetence, and the crumbling ideals of Victorian imperialism. With its distinctive blend of period authenticity, black humour, and biting social critique, it remains one of the most original and daring reinterpretations of a well-known historical event ever brought to the screen.

The film recounts the events leading up to and culminating in the ill-fated charge at the Battle of Balaclava in 1854, during the Crimean War. This was the disastrous moment when miscommunication and blind obedience to hierarchy led to the slaughter of hundreds of British cavalrymen, immortalised in Tennyson’s poem as a moment of tragic heroism — “Theirs not to reason why, / Theirs but to do and die.”

However, Richardson’s film rejects romantic glorification entirely. Instead, it exposes the institutional incompetence, corruption, and arrogance that underpinned the British military and, by extension, the imperial system. The story follows a series of interconnected figures within the Light Brigade and British command, including Captain Louis Nolan (David Hemmings), Lord Cardigan (Trevor Howard), and Lord Lucan (Harry Andrews), whose rivalries and class prejudices play a direct role in the disaster.

David Hemmings, fresh from his success in Blow-Up (1966), delivers a passionate and complex performance as Nolan—a professional soldier frustrated by the absurdity of the officer class and their devotion to pomp over strategy. His Nolan is a man of modern sensibility trapped in a decaying system, embodying both the voice of reason and the futility of resistance.

Trevor Howard, in one of his finest late-career performances, plays the vain, blustering Lord Cardigan with magnificent pomposity. Draped in gold braid and fuelled by petty pride, Cardigan becomes the personification of the blind arrogance that leads men to their deaths. His petty feud with his brother-in-law, Lord Lucan (superbly portrayed by Harry Andrews), adds a farcical yet tragic undercurrent to the proceedings.

The supporting cast is equally impressive: John Gielgud as the obtuse and self-satisfied Lord Raglan, Peter Bowles as the dashing Captain Morris, and Jill Bennett as Clarissa, Nolan’s married lover, who represents the moral and emotional vacuum of the upper class. Together, they form a gallery of characters that illustrates the madness, vanity, and hypocrisy of empire.

Tony Richardson, one of the leading figures of Britain’s New Wave cinema, brings his trademark irreverence and social consciousness to the period setting. His direction fuses historical spectacle with a modern sensibility, and the result is unlike any other war film of its time.

Visually, The Charge of the Light Brigade is stunning. Cinematographer David Watkin’s work is painterly, with a muted colour palette that evokes faded military paintings and Victorian prints. Yet Richardson subverts this visual beauty with scenes of chaos and absurdity, never allowing the viewer to settle into complacent admiration.

A particularly striking device is the use of animated interludes by Richard Williams, designed in the style of Victorian engravings and satirical cartoons. These sequences—mock advertisements and propaganda pieces—serve as sharp, ironic commentaries on the greed, ignorance, and hypocrisy of the era. They punctuate the film’s narrative with moments of surreal humour, providing a Brechtian reminder that the film is as much about modern Britain as it is about the 1850s.

At its core, The Charge of the Light Brigade is a savage critique of authority, class privilege, and the fatal consequences of blind obedience. Richardson’s tone is acerbic, his humour black, and his outlook distinctly modern. The film portrays the British Empire not as a glorious civilising mission, but as a morally hollow enterprise sustained by arrogance and ignorance.

There is also a strong anti-establishment current running throughout. The officers are depicted as products of a rigid class system that prizes pedigree and conformity over competence. The ordinary soldiers, drawn from the lower classes, are shown as pawns—brave, loyal, and utterly expendable. By the time the famous charge occurs, the audience no longer sees it as a noble tragedy, but as a predictable act of collective madness brought about by a decadent elite.

Richardson’s use of irony is masterful. The dialogue brims with period wit and hypocrisy, while the juxtaposition of gallant uniforms with grotesque mismanagement exposes the hollowness of Victorian ideals. This cynical, modern tone aligns the film more with Dr. Strangelove or Oh! What a Lovely War than with traditional historical epics such as Zulu or the 1936 Charge of the Light Brigade starring Errol Flynn.

When the climactic charge finally occurs, Richardson stages it with extraordinary power. The camera captures both the grandeur and horror of the event—waves of cavalry riding into a wall of artillery fire, men and horses cut down with brutal realism. There is no rousing music, no patriotic triumph—only chaos, smoke, and futility. The sequence is as much a requiem as a spectacle, its beauty inseparable from its horror.

This moment encapsulates Richardson’s entire thesis: that heroism, when born of arrogance and folly, becomes indistinguishable from insanity.

The music by John Addison, with its mix of martial pomp and mournful undertones, perfectly complements the film’s tone. Edward Marshall’s production design and Jocelyn Rickards’ costumes meticulously recreate the world of mid-Victorian military life—complete with absurdly elaborate uniforms and opulent officers’ messes. The film feels both authentic and exaggerated, which suits Richardson’s satirical intent perfectly.

Upon release, The Charge of the Light Brigade divided audiences and critics. Some praised it as a bold, intellectual deconstruction of British imperial myths; others found its tone too cynical and its narrative fragmented. In the late 1960s, with Britain grappling with its post-imperial identity and the Vietnam War dominating global consciousness, the film’s anti-establishment message resonated with younger audiences but alienated traditionalists expecting a patriotic war story.

Over time, however, the film has been reappraised as one of the most significant and daring British historical films of its era. It anticipated the ironic, politically charged historical cinema of later decades, influencing works such as Richard Attenborough’s Oh! What a Lovely War (1969) and even Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon (1975), which similarly interrogated the nature of war and hierarchy.

Tony Richardson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade is a triumph of historical revisionism—a film that strips away the comforting myths of British heroism to expose the human folly beneath. It is visually striking, intellectually challenging, and laced with dark humour, standing as both a compelling war film and a caustic social satire.

While it may lack the comforting clarity of more conventional historical epics, its power lies in its ambiguity, its anger, and its refusal to glorify the past. For all its irony and absurdity, it remains a deeply moral film, lamenting not only the wasted lives of the Light Brigade, but also the arrogance and class divisions that made such waste inevitable.

A brilliant, subversive, and unforgettable reimagining of one of Britain’s most mythologised military disasters.