This two-hour documentary scarcely has time to explore the multiple facets of Count Luchino Visconti di Modrone: aristocrat, Marxist, soldier, homosexual, painter, opera director, horse trainer. Amazingly, he even found time to direct a few films - at least half of them masterpieces, and none of them less than intriguing. His most cherished themes were the Decay of Beauty and the Beauty of Decay. No surprise then, if - in interviews with his surviving friends, lovers and colleagues - we see a vicious circle of Decayed Beauties, who delight in dissing each other now the Great Man is safely out of earshot.
Hence a bloated Helmut Berger - actor, protege and live-in lover - as he reminisces about a black Afghan hound named Rocco. "I hated that dog," Berger hisses. "It reminded me of Alain Delon." The French actor was his predecessor in Visconti's films and (so it is strongly hinted) Visconti's bed, although nobody can say so directly for legal reasons. As if to put Berger in his place, a haggard Charlotte Rampling purrs cattily: "Helmut had no style. He had no culture. He was just a skiing waiter with a big bum." Another ex-lover, the director and notorious right-winger Franco Zeffirelli, growls and grumbles about the number of Communists who attended Visconti's funeral in 1976. A stark contrast, no doubt, to the Forza Italia goons who will turn out in droves when Zeffirelli goes to meet his maker.
In the midst of all this unlovely sniping, the genius of Visconti can still emerge untarnished. We see spectacular clips from his better-known films, but no mention at all of his more obscure ones. OK, I'd just as soon forget Bellissima and The Stranger, but as for Sandra, which may be his great unexplored masterwork...it hurt to see it left out yet again! His opera and theatre work get similarly short shrift (no clips, you see) apart from an ancient archive interview with Maria Callas. Given this film's limited appeal (i.e. purely for sad Visconti obsessives like me) I wonder that director Adam Low did not take an extra hour and cover Il Maestro in greater depth.
David Melville
Hence a bloated Helmut Berger - actor, protege and live-in lover - as he reminisces about a black Afghan hound named Rocco. "I hated that dog," Berger hisses. "It reminded me of Alain Delon." The French actor was his predecessor in Visconti's films and (so it is strongly hinted) Visconti's bed, although nobody can say so directly for legal reasons. As if to put Berger in his place, a haggard Charlotte Rampling purrs cattily: "Helmut had no style. He had no culture. He was just a skiing waiter with a big bum." Another ex-lover, the director and notorious right-winger Franco Zeffirelli, growls and grumbles about the number of Communists who attended Visconti's funeral in 1976. A stark contrast, no doubt, to the Forza Italia goons who will turn out in droves when Zeffirelli goes to meet his maker.
In the midst of all this unlovely sniping, the genius of Visconti can still emerge untarnished. We see spectacular clips from his better-known films, but no mention at all of his more obscure ones. OK, I'd just as soon forget Bellissima and The Stranger, but as for Sandra, which may be his great unexplored masterwork...it hurt to see it left out yet again! His opera and theatre work get similarly short shrift (no clips, you see) apart from an ancient archive interview with Maria Callas. Given this film's limited appeal (i.e. purely for sad Visconti obsessives like me) I wonder that director Adam Low did not take an extra hour and cover Il Maestro in greater depth.
David Melville