The Leopard, released in 1963 and directed by the great Italian master Luchino Visconti and based on a 1958 book by Lampedusa, is a film that I discovered only recently.
Just as David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia is sometimes considered the greatest epic film, so The Leopard is sometimes considered to be the greatest costume drama.
I saw the film for the first time on the newly-released DVD, and I have to admit that the first time through I was rather bored. Visconti moves at a very slow, elegant pace in this film, and in some scenes not much seems to be happening on a surface level.
But I had a faint intuition that something important was in this film, so I watched it a second time...and then a third. It was the third time through that I began to glimpse what a masterpiece it is. (Yes, I've been accused of being a bit slow—why do you think my name is Slo-man?)
The film takes place in the 1860s and on an external level concerns the transformation of Italian society, a time when Italy first came together as a modern nation-state. The old aristocracy was giving way to up-and-comers in politics and the military.
"The leopard" is Don Fabrizio, Prince of Salina. He is an aging aristocrat who sees his era passing with melancholy regret and yet is adroit enough to maneuver to salvage his lineage. But as interesting as that is, it is not the heart of the story.
The heart of the story is really a meditation on death. As played by Burt Lancaster with magnificent restraint and majesty, the prince during the course of the film comes to realise that physical death is also near.
The first two hours of the film, good as they are, in some sense are but a prelude to the final hour—an extended ballroom sequence that is often considered one of the greatest moments in the history of film. I have to agree.
What makes Visconti so incredibly cool as a director is his sublety. The entire ballroom sequence is mostly told through glances, small gestures, and simple, unaffected dialogue with layers of meaning.
With Visconti, what is happening in the foreground of the screen is often not what is really happening. For instance, during one of the early scenes in the ballroom sequence, we see a large group of young women in the foreground talking and fanning themselves as a light, up-tempo waltz is playing.
In the background, in a corner of the screen, we notice the prince steady himself with his hand for the first time as he sits in a chair. Then he discreetly, unobtrusively, takes out a handkerchief and quietly mops his brow with it. That's all—but those simple gestures speak volumes.
Then there's the beautiful moment when the prince looks in the mirror and realizes he's dying. There's no milking of the scene in any way. It's just a simple, long look as the prince takes in his fate, and yet we feel it far more deeply than if the moment was milked or overdone in any way.
On the walk home in the early dawn, the prince kneels before a passing priest and then looks briefly up at the stars. Finally, as a church bell tolls, he walks slowly out of the frame, ending an almost perfect picture.
Like Fellini with 8 1/2, Visconti achieved heights with this film that he never attained before or later. But that's okay; to achieve such an altitude even once is a masterful accomplishment, and one we can be very grateful for.
—jim sloman, 12.29.04 for Apr 8
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