Death in Venice (1971, Luchino Visconti) (Patreon)

51/100

Second viewing, last seen 1997. Visconti is less hamstrung than Kubrick was adapting Lolita, since this adult and child never even speak (plus nine years had passed—big difference between '62 and '71), but Humbert's exaggerated idiocy works far better onscreen than does Aschenbach's tortured longing. Bogarde gives a supremely empathetic performance, but absent Mann's omniscient narration (about which more below), the "eww" factor is discomfitingly high; while the novella emphasizes Aschenbach's efforts to rationalize his lust as an artist's appreciation for beauty (a form of denial that makes more sense for a writer than for a composer), the film is forced to rely on flashbacks to philosophical arguments with frenemy Alfred, all of which are marred by Mark Burns' ghastly habit of shouting every line at the top of his lungs. Not the movie's fault, but I'm also no fan of Mahler, whose work always strikes me as amorphous to the point of almost failing to resolve (if that makes sense—I have zero experience analyzing music, so it might be gobbledygook outside of my head). 

Still, as usual with literary adaptations, my main problem is just leave it on the page where it belongs. Rather than embalm the book you love, let it inspire you to create something new, with cinema's unique attributes in mind. As a film, Death in Venice is basically two-plus hours of a man furtively staring at a boy from across the room or the beach; Visconti could orchestrate placid crowds like no other director, and individual shots here are often glacially impressive, but the emotional core of Mann's story doesn't translate to a visual medium. I know I keep doing this, but here's a quick passage:

Aschenbach sat near the balustrade, a glass of pomegranate juice and soda-water sparkling ruby-red before him, with which he now and then moistened his lips. His nerves drank in thirstily the unlovely sounds, the vulgar and sentimental tunes, for passion paralyses good taste and makes its victim accept with rapture what a man in his senses would either laugh at or turn from with disgust. Idly he sat and watched the antics of the buffoon with his face set in a fixed and painful smile, while inwardly his whole being was rigid with the intensity of the regard he bent on Tadzio, leaning over the railing six paces off.

It's impossible for Bogarde to act "I'm drinking in thirstily these unlovely sounds, for passion has paralyzed my good taste"; the best he can do is communicate Aschenbach's focus on Tadzio, assuming the fixed and painful smile Mann describes. Onscreen, the vulgar music comes across merely as an unwanted distraction. Yet Visconti faithfully devotes several minutes to this episode, oblivious to how little it offers the viewer. Only the film's final scene really achieves any power from being photographed, thanks to the juxtaposition of Aschenbach's sudden frailty (magnified by his garish makeup) with Tadzio's literally elemental vigor (standing knee-deep in the ocean, carefree). That gave me chills. but there's just too much studious enervation en route.