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I can't quite explain why I find this so alluring and "The Leopard" not; it may be because the focus here is on all that was great with that film, those intimate moments that Visconti can render so magnificently. Like that film, it has a majestically slow pace, but this time it isn't overlong. It's the kind of film where nothing happens but twenty minutes passes like that. I think that must be due in part to the way the film deals with flashbacks that act as their own mini-story. Like "The Leopard," it has a sympathetic lead who brings out the same kind of worn pathos -- though Bogard's performance is more willing to open itself to being unlikable, especially in look: he has a really stupid grin that's easy to dislike. It's often quite beautiful in the quiet moments. It's the opulence of Visconti's films, the grandeur of the ball scenes, that I find tedious, as they exchange individual clarity with mass precision. But here, that is part of the point -- Gustav surrounded by a visual din.
The way in which the object of Gustav's affection is introduced to us is quite brilliant -- the camera shows a girl, girl, girl, then this beautiful, feminine-featured boy. It's like an allusion to Shakespeare's sonnets, and it doesn't feel heavy-handed. (It's not until the camera views Tadzio fully, pulls back and we see his long, slender legs, that we realize he is not a boy, but an adolescent -- at first we're forced to question Gustav's attraction in an uncomfortable way; Visconti must have known that, and he doesn't shy away from it.) Visconti is extremely patient with Gustav; we get a sense of the man, we know him. It's a largely silent performance, and when he does open his mouth it's to spew venom; no wonder he wants the angelic, open-featured boy to project himself onto. There's a difference with Tadzio (we never know him, just as we never know a handful of Fellini grotesques; but that's because his life is another, its own film), but it's not as flirtatious as it's been made to seem (there is one scene, however, where he twirls around a pole that's too much). Tadzio isn't necessarily leading him on -- he's looking at him; Visconti just zooms in is all.
The film doesn't detail Gustav as being gay -- Tadzio isn't even really male, he's a prettified version of a boy (delicate, pale, wispy, with golden locks) that everyone seems to love (including one gorgeous, slightly older young man who he wrestles with). The closest they go to showing what could be understood as a reference to Gustav's homosexuality is the famous barber scene, which unlocks his repressed vanity.
It isn't totally successful -- the whole section with Alfred is a waste, and some unnecessary scenes, people carrying bags in long shot, could have been excised. Some parts are heavy-handed, such as when Gustav's boat pulls in and rowdy boys pass him by -- the looks on his face are too obvious. (But during the same scene Gustav throws a fit, wanting a new rower, something so unexplainable that it makes up for it.) But there are some scenes -- touching for the first time -- that build up a remarkable, quiet intensity. Tadzio repeating a piano song again and again, the notes quivering in the air, may be the best example of the anxiety the film has. There is one discussion that contains a debate I'm especially interested: Can art be spiritual if it satisfies the senses, or does it have to go beyond them? (We can consider Tarkovsky, who esteems both Visconti and Mann, to be the prime example of someone going beyond mere sensory sensations.) I think this one manages to do both. 9/10


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