Death in Venice is an anomaly of a film. It is amongst the most beautiful films ever made, as well as one of the most profoundly difficult I’ve ever experienced. Luchino Visconti, to his credit, always made films that were visually sumptuous and narratively complex, and while they could sometimes be extravagant, they were rarely ever inappropriately excessive. Widely considered one of the iconoclastic director’s most definitive works, Death in Venice is a gorgeous but challenging film that is less about a particular story and more a representation of some metaphysical ideas that aren’t always so clearly articulated in these kinds of films – the director would go on to look at some very similar themes in his final masterpiece, Conversation Piece. Visconti really demonstrated that he was a filmmaker fully in command of his craft with this film, and in adapting Thomas Mann’s brilliant novel, he managed to bring a sense of existential beauty to the cinematic form in a way few other directors ever could. Divisive by design, but purposeful in its approach to the subject of desire, this is an astoundingly fascinating film that stands as one of the most profoundly moving pieces of its era and a film that captivates the viewer through its wonderful approach to a more complex set of ideas.

Taking its cue from the novel, we are introduced to the protagonist, Gustave von Aschenbach (Sir Dirk Bogarde), a German composer who has found his way to Venice for two reasons. The first is his health, with the suggestion that going somewhere more idyllic like the beautiful canals of the Italian city would greatly benefit him. The second is that he is suffering from a decline in his career – his output is disappointingly poor, and he is struggling to find the motivation to return to the same standard of work he was known for. Once again, it’s his belief and that of others that a change of scenery will be of great use to him. While there, he becomes distracted by the presence of Tadzio (Björn Andrésen), the son of a wealthy Polish dowager who also finds themselves spending some time in Venice. Without ever directly interacting with the boy, Gustave finds himself obsessed with the young man – to the protagonist, everything that was previously intangible about the concept of beauty manifests in the Tadzio’s youthful vigour. Over the course of their concurrent visit in the same city, Gustave slowly starts to fall in love – however, the question remains as to whether it’s with the boy himself or what he represents. Even when confronted with his own ill health and the suggestion he leaves Venice due to coming into the knowledge that there is secretly a cholera epidemic spreading across the city, Gustave remains anchored firmly in position, dedicated to solving the quandary incited by the presence of the young man.

Dirk Bogarde was a tragically underpraised actor, mainly because despite a long career of memorable performances in a variety of acclaimed films, he could never quite reach the level of adoration some of his peers seemed to manage to achieve. This is a shame, because not only was Bogarde just as good, he demonstrated on many occasions that he was capable of being even better in certain instances. Death in Venice required an actor who would be able to command the screen with a relatively subdued character, one that makes an imprint on the film without needing to do much. A great deal of the performance is wordless, with the role relying heavily on Bogarde’s natural expressivity. This precisely what makes his performance here so impressive – in theory, it should be something any actor could effectively do, as there isn’t much to it in a traditional sense. Yet, when you realize how much complexity is embedded within every moment the character is on screen, you come to respect Bogarde even more. Relying less on verbosity and more on the raw emotion he demonstrates, this is amongst the actor’s finest moments, and proof that he could take on any character with the same intensity and vivacious intricacy that made him one of the greatest actors of his generation, and one who needs to be seen as less as the dedicated character actor he’s often thought to be, and more as one of the most influential to ever work in the craft.

Death in Venice is relatively parred for the course with the rest of Visconti’s work, particularly his later work, insofar as he finds the perfect balance between the spectacle and the story. The film doesn’t promise excess and constructs itself around the idea that despite its audacity, it is a character-driven drama more than anything else. This allows the director to explore his fascinations with the visual, but in a way that doesn’t neglect the more intimate moments. As we’ve mentioned, the film is adapted from the very intimate novel by Thomas Mann, which mostly took the approach of being a third-person testimonial, but one where the descriptions of the character’s experiences and inner workings were prioritized. This is a literary method that often works in the printed form but is tremendously difficult to adapt to the screen. Of course, Visconti was never one to turn down a challenge, and taking on the notoriously complex but beautiful novel, he presents us with an equally gorgeous film. So much of the film takes place silently, with only the beautiful score and the occasional narration steering us towards a particular mood. The interactions between various characters certainly are worthwhile, and even the most insignificant roles in this film are given attention. However, where Death in Venice is most effective are in the smaller moments, the ones that see the protagonist quietly ruminating on his internal state, meditating on the flurry of emotions that have somehow been incited by the arrival of a young man whose presence confuses Gustave.

Everything about Death in Venice converges in one central theme, that of desire. Anyone with a moral core will be somewhat hesitant towards this film – after all, it does focus on a middle-aged man falling in love with a teenager in a way that borders on obsession. Yet, this isn’t the point of the film – its less about Gustave falling in love with the boy, but rather what he represents. Throughout the film, we hear various characters ruminating on the idea of beauty. Tadzio represents everything that the older generation misses about their youth – the reckless disregard for social norms, the freedom from expectations and the liberating ignorance of believing everything to be possible. The distance between the two characters is notable – not a word is shared between them, and the closest encounter is in a feverish hallucination by Gustave, who only tries to warn the boy and his family to retreat or they too will fall victim to the same affliction plaguing Venice. Yet, they constantly exchange looks, developing some mutual admiration, albeit from afar. The relationship between the two characters is one that can harbour a great deal of discussion, and the separation between them, intentional as it may be, creates a sense of unease that allows the film to look at the concept of chasing beauty, rather than the person who possesses it. Gustave is not so much smitten by the boy as he is by the idea of unimpeachable, uncorrupted beauty.

Visconti’s vision for this film is almost unparalleled, and so much attention is spent on bringing Mann’s story to life. Ultimately, Death in Venice is simply the story of a single man yearning for a time when he was happier – he longs to return to his youthful days, when he had a child of his own (implied to have died very early), and when he himself was prolific. It isn’t merely a coincidence that the film is set in Venice at a time when it wasn’t quite the attraction it has become in the past few decades. Much like the city, Gustave himself is decaying, slowly perishing as a result of time and a lack of attention to its long-term wellbeing. Not even an attempt at recapturing his youth through changing his appearance can conceal the fact that Gustave is no longer a young man, as is Venice no longer a young city. Yet, Tadzio briefly inhabits both Venice and Gustave’s thoughts, adding youthful innocence to something so archaic, momentarily returning it to its former glory – yet, much like beauty, his presence if fleeting, and by the time the gorgeous music swells in the climactic moments of the film, as Gustave perishes in the city he loves, we understand exactly what Mann and Visconti were trying to say – everything is finite, and even the greatest of beauties, whether of a person, creation or concept, will eventually fade away, only to be replaced by another. Death in Venice is a poetic film that grapples the line between beautifully romantic and heart-wrenchingly tragic, with its often brutal sensitivity creating a unique but undeniably poignant piece that finds optimism even in the most harrowing of situations.