The Leopard (Luchino Visconti, 1963) (Patreon)

Alas, my very first Visconti film. Like a handful of other major directors, he is someone I just never got around to, and for some reason the rep screenings of his films always seemed to correspond to me being somehow indisposed. Seeing The Leopard in 35mm was certainly a fine introduction, and although I found quite a lot to admire here, the film also confirmed some of my suspicions about Visconti. There is a tendency here to allegorize, since each of the film's major characters represent a particular class identity or macro-historical trend. The Leopard is very invested in the personal plights of its characters, but their psychology is somewhat limited. His characters are neither stand-ins for available historical positions nor are they especially well-rounded psychologically, with the exception of Prince Salina (Burt Lancaster), who essentially anchors the film.

 The Leopard is of course a close examination of a society at a crossroads, where traditional roles are slowly being eliminated and a new order has yet to firmly establish itself. So the film's odd approach to its characters makes formal sense. These are people whose options are being eroded, and only the Prince seems fully aware of it. He is a transitional figure, very much against his will. His refusal of a senatorial position, or his physical inability to give himself over to the ball -- clearly designed as a last hurrah for the aristocratic culture -- displays both a full recognition of his predicament and an inability, or an unwillingness, to do anything about it. The Prince has, indeed, lived beyond his relevance and must now wait for nature to take its course.

Again, on a formal level, Visconti's ability to orchestrate crowds, and his persistent use of medium-paced tracking shots, all contribute to an epic feeling, even though most of the film, even the revolutionary battles, are fairly circumscribed. The Leopard is a film about limited movement, an ever-shrinking chessboard that promises an opening-up -- the uniting of Italy as a romantic, democratic gesture -- but insistently narrows. As we see with the character of Tancredo (Alain Delon), the only way to remain entrenched is to abandon one's principles and march under the new flag. ("We are real officers now!") As political theater, The Leopard is utterly convincing.

However I am not certain Visconti completely masters his desired articulation of micro and macro relationships. Tancredo's evolution, if you want to call it that, is never really communicated dramatically. It's simply presented as a social fact. This would be formally proper if Visconti were after a didactic Brechtian style, but his predilection for broad, sweeping gestures very closely emulates the period dramas of classic Hollywood. This approach keeps things interesting, and Visconti succeeds at keeping his three hour running time sprightly, with nary a longeur. But it does mean that certain subplots, like the betrayal of Concetta (Lucilla Morlacchi) and the inter-class precariousness of Angelica (Claudia Cardinale), never develop beyond theatrical signposting.

What is most intriguing about The Leopard is also perhaps its biggest flaw. I do not know enough about Visconti to say whether he is a conservative, but there is something Rohmeresque in this film's overt sympathy with fading aristocracy and its outsized depiction of middle-class vulgarity. Don Calogero (Paolo Stoppa) is a caricature, and just in case any viewers miss the point, we see Tancredo and the Prince mocking his garish formal wear. And while indeed, Visconti tries to give us multiple layers of social shift and historical realignment, there is something awkward, and in my opinion mishandled, about The Leopard's depiction of the post-1848 ascendancy of the middle class. The Prince explains to both the senate representative and his manservant that Calogero is the future. But the narrative we see unfold is quite different. The bourgeois boor succeeds because his daughter is unfathomably hot, and she is his true object of exchange.

To be clear, I do not begrudge Visconti his ambition. But there is an odd fit between his Zolà-like attempt at chronicling epochal change and the more intimate business that actually holds center stage throughout much of The Leopard. Then again, maybe this film is not supposed to hold together. Perhaps it is a contradictory representation of a contradictory period in history. (In this regard, I now see Visconti's influence all over Pietro Marcello's Martin Eden.) As if to make sure we don't miss the point, the Prince articulates his motto twice, driving home his brand of revolutionary quietism. "Things much change so that things can remain the same." Likewise, perhaps we must remain blind to human history in order to participate in it.