Seeing Luchino Visconti’s The Leopard in its 205-minute entirety is almost impossible, what with the many butchered prints circulating throughout the world, so a chance to view it in its original Italian must not be passed up. From the opulent visuals and lavish costumes down to the stately Burt Lancaster himself, The Leopard is a breathtaking film. Casting Lancaster as Prince Salina appears to be a curious decision at first glance, considering that it required an Italian voiceover after filming, but I can’t imagine there being a better choice. Dripping authority with every action and movement, Lancaster serves notice early on that this is his show, despite the presence of the equally famous Alain Delon as Salina’s nephew Tancredi and the stunning Claudia Cardenale as the luscious Angelica. Considering the story revolves around him, it’s natural that Lancaster would command the most attention, but Delon’s reputation and prowess could easily steal the show if Lancaster were anything less than marvelous.

Set in 19th Century Sicily, The Leopard‘s storyline centers around Prince Salina during a period of social unrest. Italy is uniting and Salina’s power is slowly fading as a result of the changing times. In an attempt to reinvigorate his status, Salina arranges for Tancredi to wed Angelica, the daughter of a wealthy aristocrat with a strong reputation. While the marriage successfully unites the families, it fails to return society to the manner that Salina craves. One of the many magnificent characteristics present in The Leopard is how Salina’s fall exists on both a personal and political level. For the first two hours, The Leopard predominantly focuses on Salina’s goals in a societal sense, then gracefully shifts to his self-examination once the legendary dance begins. While the ball is certainly lovely to behold, it’s also full of meaning—Salina’s dance with Angelica is a dreamlike alert that age has finally caught up to him, and his most powerful days are behind him. Salina is never entirely unlikable at any point in the picture, so his final realization ends up being quite wrenching. Without spoiling the ending, I’ll say that it ranks up with Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar as the most sublime finale that I know.

Visconti’s direction here is astonishingly subtle. He never loses sight of the little nuances of life that ultimately make the characters so sharply developed and authentic. When Tancredi—the soldier, the handsome youth, the nephew of the Prince—meets Angelica for the first time, he behaves like a schoolboy with a crush, telling cocky stories to puff himself up and ignoring everyone else in the room. One of The Leopard‘s most charming moments occurs when Tancredi and Angelica playfully explore the mansion, flirting and playing a quirky version of hide-and-seek. By not forgetting that these are real people we’re dealing with, Visconti injects just the right amount of pleasurable touches without straying from the primary storyline. The Leopard is completely different in structure and style than Visconti’s neo-realistic masterpieces like La Terra Trema, but it’s no less powerful or impressive. Despite—because of, really—its brilliance, I strongly advise against seeing The Leopard unless the print’s in tip-top shape. Imagine watching Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander or Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai dubbed in English with 50 minutes lopped off. Sound appealing? I thought not.

4/4