Immersing yourself in the world of Luchino Visconti is an experience like no other. His films are brimming with an effervescent energy and boisterous grandeur that are simply unprecedented, and go into the almost factual belief that he is one of the finest filmmakers to ever work in the medium. Much like many of the auteurs who carry this reputation, his career contains a few canonical masterpieces, with everyone having a different interpretation on which work is his greatest achievement. The one that tends to be evoked the most is The Leopard (Italian: Il Gattopardo), normally considered to be his crowning achievement, and the work that has held the most significant presence amongst audiences who have been exposed to the director’s magnificent work. Having caught up with the film at long last, I can confirm that it is in every way the masterpiece it’s purported to be – rich, warm and often irreverent in its underhanded humour, The Leopard is a gloriously powerful affair that is lavish in style, dedicated in soulfulness and utterly extraordinary in every conceivable way. Considering I tend to be quite agnostic towards period dramas, there was a great deal needed to keep me as captivated as I was here, and while it may be an intimidating task in theory, the experience of working your way through this film, which breezes by in a way rarely felt by something as epic in scope as this, is beyond comprehension. Poignant, heartfelt and incredibly enriching from the first frame to the last, The Leopard is truly a masterpiece – but considering how this has become almost factual by this point, whatever is said here isn’t attempting to add anything the world didn’t already know, but rather supporting the steadfast belief that Visconti’s work here is amongst the very best of the 1960s.

Speaking about a canonical masterpiece is always a challenging task, and something that I normally tend to approach with extreme apprehension, not only because it may expose me to the rousing cries of “how had you not need that before?”, but also since it tends to be quite intimidating to look into something that has become almost intertwined into the cultural fabric. The Leopard occupies a strange place in the cinematic culture, as it is openly adored by many, while still being seen as something to be admired from afar, rather than an essential work. Whether this is the subject matter, the length or the fact that it can feel somewhat constricted in theory, there’s a sense that the film functions as a historical text, rather than a rite of passage for film-lovers. However, the decision to finally take the plunge was more than worthwhile, since it yielded results that reminded me so sincerely of why I adore cinema in the first place. Movies aren’t there to merely make a statement – they exist as a means for us to escape into these worlds, become a part of the lives of other characters represented to us on screen, and becoming immersed in the stories carefully woven by masterful artists who undergo immense travail to bring these images to us. The Leopard, while an incredible work on its own terms, is the kind of film that provided a potent reminder to what cinema can and should strive to be, pushing the boundaries of film, which has always been the medium of endless possibilities. No one seemed to be more aware of this than Visconti, who possessed the fascinating quirk of being both traditional in sensibilities, but radical in ambition, which resulted in a rich career of films that navigated numerous genres, and touched on many themes that were perhaps not always expected at the outset. His brilliance as an artist was certainly undeniable, as was his persistent attempts to do something entirely new with his films, without abandoning the traditions that anchored him and made him such a respected stalwart of European cinema.

In all honesty, Visconti has always been a filmmaker who has incited great fascination – two of his later films, Death in Venice and Conversation Piece, are amongst the finest films of their respective years, but neither was anywhere close to The Leopard in terms of reputation, and for good reason. On the surface, The Leopard appears to be another extravagant period piece, with lavish costumes and gorgeous production design. This is certainly not untrue, and its the best entry-point into the film, since its most likely that those seeking it out will be fully aware of its status as one of the great historical epics of history. Along the way, while we are still transfixed by the visual splendour, we don’t even notice how there is something slowly simmering below the surface, a kind of underhanded social commentary that isn’t as direct as some would expect it to be, based on the material, but is clearly the work of a filmmaker who struck the perfect balance between elegant epic and fascinating work of subversive fiction. Even just looking at the general premise – a wealthy prince finds himself torn between the traditions he holds sacred and the winds of change that threaten to dismantle his comfortable aristocratic existence – it’s clear that Visconti would use the opportunity to give insights into the socio-cultural system, which may have changed in form since the middle of the 19th century, but remains just as divided at the time of this film’s production as it did back then. It’s a rich and powerful tale of a group of individuals seeking dominance and influence, which is derailed by the realization that these sacred qualities may soon go out of fashion, especially if the proletariat can gain the status they have yet to be afforded.

It’s difficult to know exactly what to discuss when looking at The Leopard and the story it tells – perhaps that’s the point since one of the most notable qualities of the film is how, despite its enormous scope, it is still a relatively simple affair. One of my personal favourite aspects of Visconti’s work is that he would never resort to pretentious, convoluted rambling, which is often employed in epic period dramas as a way to not only justify exorbitant running times but also distract from the fact that these are essentially highly-relevant fables masquerading as bold, ambitious works of stylistic excess. Visconti avoids this entirely, not through downplaying the grandeur (on the contrary – The Leopard is quite simply one of the most beautiful films ever made, each frame brimming with colour, vibrancy and stunning detail),  but through taking quite a simple approach to the source novel by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, conveying the underlying themes without losing focus. One of the finest literary adaptations of its time (and from a period in which films like this could take some form of artistic liberty without losing the spirit of the original story, and in many ways enriching the source by bringing life to its multitude of themes. The film navigates 19th-century Italian society with such ease, never falling victim to the common mistake of providing either too much exposition (which weighs the film down and distracts from the splendour) or glossing over the important details. We may become immersed within Visconti’s world, but we’re never once lost – and even in the moments where we may need to acclimate to a particular line of thinking, we’re quickly guided to another point of coherence, from which the story can continue with the same marvellous ease as before. In no uncertain terms, The Leopard is simultaneously a gorgeously lush period drama, and a daringly simple portrayal of that era, which gives the audience the benefit of the doubt, which is yet another reason why Visconti should continue to be upheld as one of the most brilliant filmmakers of his generation, which is in itself nearly an unimpeachable fact.

Along the way, Visconti picks up a few fantastic collaborators to help him in bringing this story to life. Burt Lancaster (who I’ve previously given effusive praise for his brilliant portrayal of a conflicted professor in Visconti’s Conversation Piece) works with the director for the first time and gives a truly impressive performance that exceeds the boundaries normally imposed on American actors appearing in European films (mainly the fact that a large portion of the performance is lost due to sometimes subpar dubbing), playing the central protagonist, an ageing prince coming to terms with the fact that the Italy of his ancestors is fleeting with great rapidity, with such conviction, its difficult to argue against Lancaster’s reputation as one of the screen’s most enigmatic stars. Lancaster carries the film almost entirely on his own, guiding us through the world of Prince Don Fabrizio Corbera and the various family members and acquaintances that find their way into his life at different points, and how he handles his personal and professional affairs, while still working through his own existential issues. Despite the large cast, Lancaster is the most prominent part of the film, especially since Alain Delon doesn’t do much other than play his falsely-valiant nephew who is actually nothing more than an opportunistic sycophant who cares more about keeping up appearances than he does his country, and Claudia Cardinale, who has many wonderful moments but exists more as a ravishing supporting player that bolsters the Prince’s own crises, such as his gradual realization that he is no longer a young man. Lancaster was an actor who worked well with many different kinds of material, and while The Leopard may have presented him with something of a challenge, it was undoubtedly a task he took on with great vigour, resulting in a performance that is as pivotal to the success of the film as anything else. Visconti would not have been able to realize his vision without the assistance of a great actor, and while Lancaster may not have been his primary choice, the resulting work is a highlight in the careers of both the actor and his director, who found common ground and incited nothing short of cinematic magic with their collaboration.

If all this meandering verbosity isn’t enough to convert you to the brilliance of The Leopard, then perhaps just a brief glimpse into the sheer splendour of this film will be sufficient – filled to the brim with some of the most gorgeous imagery in film history, Visconti’s magnum opus is an incredible experience. It’s almost shameful that it took me this long to watch it – every previous film by the director I’ve encountered has been nothing short of exhilarating, so it only makes sense his masterpiece would only bolster this sensation. However, beneath the larger-than-life reputation that it carries as a canonical masterpiece, The Leopard‘s most significant strength is its narrative simplicity – it manages to be so straightforward, following a single storyline, while exploring a variety of other themes without steering off course or becoming derailed by the extravagance. It was one of the director’s most unusual, but deeply respectable, quirks as an artist, and a major reason why Visconti is embraced so openly by film lovers throughout history. It seems inconceivable that anyone could find themselves under the enchantment of Visconti and not be thoroughly compelled – how he weaves together style and substance in such an incredibly meaningful way, creating something that will mesmerize us on a creative and technical level, while never losing us to the spectacle by having a strong story that carefully ushers us along at a steady pace, is the mark of a truly incredible filmmaker. An experience like absolutely no other, The Leopard is quite certainly the definition of essential cinema, and few films deserve its place in the canon of great artistic works more than this meditative, prepossessing masterpiece.