To make a long story (187 minutes) short, Burt Lancaster is the leopard of the title, a Sicilian aristocrat of 1860, who watches the world change around him. There was a revolution in Sicily in 1860, too, with the rebels led by Garibaldi trying to unite Italy at the expense of the local nobility like Lancaster. He's disturbed by it all. And why shouldn't he be? For God's sake, they want to substitute the Italian tricolor flag we're familiar with today -- green, white, and red -- for Lancaster's family flag -- white with a golden lily. That's HIS flag, man, and he doesn't want to see it replaced with some rag representing the hoi polloi. And on top of that, he's middle-aged and seems to be growing more obsolescent by the day.
Visconti wanted an all-Italian cast and evidently made it clear to Lancaster that he didn't fit the role. An argument ensued, after which the two got along much better, or seemed to. This was an epic movie and a lot of money was at stake.
It must be said that Lancaster is figure instead of ground. He stands out if only because of his bushy hair and impressive mutton chop whiskers. But it must also be said that it sounds queer to hear Italian coming from Burt Lancaster's New York bred speech organs, especially when it's someone else's voice. He really doesn't have that much to say. He's taciturn, gruff, commanding, aloof.
Yet he has one memorable scene. Everyone in this movie is concerned with appearances. They're always stopping in front of a mirror and patting their faces with a handkerchief, or smoothing out their mustache or something, ladies and gents alike. Towards the end, Lancaster stops in front of a mirror and stares at his own face for a long time. His features are expressionless. He seems to be looking into another temporal sphere -- the past or the future -- and his eyes water as the tiny rivulet of a tear becomes barely perceptible on his rough cheek.
There's some humor too. Not much. All of these tiny Sicilian villages seem to have a raggedy band ready to play as the prince's entourage enters the town, and all the bands, maybe a dozen men all together, seem to feature not one but three tubas. Now, a tuba is a preposterous instrument to begin with, and to have three of them flatulating and burping along behind a pompous march is funny in itself, a perfect score for a silent Charlie Chaplin comedy.
Then there's a scene in which a cheerfully corrupt mayor is reading out the fake results of an election. (Lancaster kept his vote open and everybody's vote was counted the same.) The wind keeps blowing out the candles and the band begins to play, on and off, and he turns red with exasperation while trying to keep up a proud front.
Visconti makes good use of the wide screen. Each frame looks like a colorful painting. But it's long, and the themes are mostly understated. You have to pay attention. It could have profitably been chopped by twenty minutes or so.
Visconti wanted an all-Italian cast and evidently made it clear to Lancaster that he didn't fit the role. An argument ensued, after which the two got along much better, or seemed to. This was an epic movie and a lot of money was at stake.
It must be said that Lancaster is figure instead of ground. He stands out if only because of his bushy hair and impressive mutton chop whiskers. But it must also be said that it sounds queer to hear Italian coming from Burt Lancaster's New York bred speech organs, especially when it's someone else's voice. He really doesn't have that much to say. He's taciturn, gruff, commanding, aloof.
Yet he has one memorable scene. Everyone in this movie is concerned with appearances. They're always stopping in front of a mirror and patting their faces with a handkerchief, or smoothing out their mustache or something, ladies and gents alike. Towards the end, Lancaster stops in front of a mirror and stares at his own face for a long time. His features are expressionless. He seems to be looking into another temporal sphere -- the past or the future -- and his eyes water as the tiny rivulet of a tear becomes barely perceptible on his rough cheek.
There's some humor too. Not much. All of these tiny Sicilian villages seem to have a raggedy band ready to play as the prince's entourage enters the town, and all the bands, maybe a dozen men all together, seem to feature not one but three tubas. Now, a tuba is a preposterous instrument to begin with, and to have three of them flatulating and burping along behind a pompous march is funny in itself, a perfect score for a silent Charlie Chaplin comedy.
Then there's a scene in which a cheerfully corrupt mayor is reading out the fake results of an election. (Lancaster kept his vote open and everybody's vote was counted the same.) The wind keeps blowing out the candles and the band begins to play, on and off, and he turns red with exasperation while trying to keep up a proud front.
Visconti makes good use of the wide screen. Each frame looks like a colorful painting. But it's long, and the themes are mostly understated. You have to pay attention. It could have profitably been chopped by twenty minutes or so.