Few people have been daring enough to even read Leo Tolstoy's epic story, "War and Peace (1865-1869)," let alone adapt it to the screen. At over 1000 pages in length, the novel is notorious for its intimidating thickness, but those who have read it will usually agree that it is one of the finest achievements in the history of literature. I've never been courageous enough to attempt the story myself, but Sergei Bondarchuk's 1960s adaptation, 'Voyna i mir (1967)' seemed an equally ambitious undertaking. At over seven hours in length – usually divided into four parts – the Soviet film defines "epic" in every sense of the word, and, with a budget of $100 million, it is also (adjusted for inflation) the most expensive movie ever made. Watching such a lengthy film in one sitting seemed a daunting task, so I instead decided to segregate my viewing into the picture's original four parts, over as many nights.

I'm the first person to admit my bias towards epic cinema. Regardless of all other factors, if there's sufficient spectacle then I'm a sucker for it. Bondarchuk's 'War and Peace' possesses spectacle in great abundance, and, in every frame, the picture's considerable budget has been put to excellent use. Even the most brief and discreet sequences are gloriously embellished with lavish set decoration and costuming, to such an extent that the flood of colour and creativity becomes almost overwhelming. Unlike comparable masters of epic cinema, such as the wonderful David Lean, Bondarchuk apparently has little use for precise cinematographic composition, and frequently the photography is entirely hand-held, no mean feat considering the bulkiness of those 70mm cameras. In some ways, the unexpected use of this filming style is distracting and occasionally sloppy, but it also adds a unique liveliness to the proceedings – why not brighten things up a bit with a dynamic camera?

The opening hour of Part One, 'Andrei Bolkonsky (1965),' is a watchable but occasionally tiresome introduction of the major characters, the most intriguing of which is Pierre Besukhov (Bondarchuk himself), whose habit for alcohol and recklessness must be stifled following the inheritance of his father's fortune. It is only during the first bloody battle that the director finally spreads his creative wings, and Bondarchuk's magnificent cinematic scope is almost awe-inspiring to behold, as thousands of soldiers fall amid the blood and smoke of open warfare. During these sequences, the film generally avoids spending too much time on any one character, and the director is evidently most concerned with offering an "God's eye" view of events, rather than from the perspective of war's insignificant pawns. Using this method, Bondarchuk is able to retain the "sprawling" tone of his source material, even if such spectacle comes at the expense of any intimacy that we might have had with the story's characters.

Part Two, 'Natasha Rostova (1966)' contains not a single gruesome war-time death, and yet I think I enjoyed it more than the previous instalment. The story almost entirely follows the exploits of the title character Natasha (Lyudmila Savelyeva), the adolescent daughter of a countess, whom we first glimpsed in Part One, as a bright-eyed and giggling youngster yearning for her first romance. By the story's conclusion, she has forever bid farewell to her childhood, and has entered the sobering years of adulthood, heartbroken and disillusioned. The film's first major set-piece – perhaps rivalling Bondarchuk's own battle recreations in scope and attention-to-detail – is a breathtaking New Year's Eve ball, adorned by hundreds of elaborately-costumed dancers who sweep across the floor with impeccable grace. Displaying a versatility that calls to mind a similar sequence in Orson Welles' 'The Magnificent Ambersons (1942),' Bondarchuk's camera glides majestically amid the flurry of waltzing couples, while retaining its intimacy through focusing the spectacle largely from Natasha's perspective.

By Part Three, Bondarchuk seems to have decided that mere personal affairs are no longer important – this episode is about war! Despite a brief running time of 84 minutes, '1812 (1967)' nonetheless contains among the most awe-inspiring depictions of conflict ever committed to film, surpassing even the grandeur of the Bondarchuk's work in Part One and later in 'Waterloo (1970).' Over the course of his film's production, the director sustained no less than two heart attacks – as one might expect, one of these came about during his recreation of the Battle of Borodino. I really can't blame him. This battle, which lasts the bulk of the film's running time, is a genuine battering of the senses, film-making of such overwhelming excessiveness that it just about places the viewer amidst the blasts of smoke and the shudder of cannon-fire. After somehow securing the support of the Soviet Government, Bondarchuk employed full use of their resources, and conscripted 120,000 men to help recreate the Russian Army's mighty encounter with Napoleon Bonaparte's forces.

I must admit I was surprised when, following Russia's so-called "moral victory" at the bloody Battle of Borodino, 'Pierre Bezukhov (1967)' opened proceedings with Field Marshal Kutuzov's reluctant retreat and Napolean's march onwards into Moscow. Nevertheless, Part Four is a visual masterpiece, and Bondarchuk once again presents us with dramatic episodes that are staggering in their intensity and attention-to-detail. During the burning of Moscow, as Pierre stumbles through a fiery inferno, the characters are almost completely obscured by the blustery splinters of ash that gust across the screen. The sheer intensity of the raging red flames often gives one the impression that Pierre has, with the arrival of the French, unexpectedly descended into the sweltering pits of Hell. The picture's eventual conclusion, though certainly sad, strikes just the right note of bittersweet, and we genuinely do feel as though we've just completed something very special. The overriding emotion is one of hope: wars will come and go, but life goes on, and life is the most important thing of all.