11 May 2009

BEIRUT: "'Death in Venice' occupies a special place in the heart of Lebanese audiences," says the dapper-looking Khalil Smayra, administrative head of the Acadamie Libanaise des Beaux-Arts' (aka Alba's) school of cinema. When pressed as to why Luchino Visconti's 1971 film should occupy this privileged position, Smayra replies with an enigmatic shrug.

The comment places an intriguing angle on "Death in Venice," which screened Friday as part of Alba's Visconti week, arranged in coordination with the Italian Cultural Institute. Adapted from Thomas Mann's 1912 novella, the film is a resplendent mash-up of the sensibilities of the intellectual German author and the sensual Italian filmmaker.

Like a chaste version of "Lolita," the film follows a composer, Gustav von Aschenbach (Dirk Bogarde), who develops an obsession with 14-year-old Tadzio (Bjorn Andresson) while convalescing in Venice. The closest the pair get to conversation is a momentary meeting of the eyes, but Aschenbach sacrifices his work, his wife and eventually his life for the sake of remaining in the presence of the blonde-ringletted youth.

The relationship between art, death, beauty and illusion is the central motif of the film. In a series of alpine flashbacks, Aschenbach and his friend Alfred vigorously debate the role of the artist against the backdrop of soaring Teutonic landscapes.

Alfred's earthy aesthetic leads him to believe that the artist should sup from the cup of life in order that he can express raw human emotion, while Aschenbach advocates removal from worldly affairs so the artist can create perfect, unsullied art. "Reality," he ejaculates, "either distracts us or degrades us."

Aschenbach's firm grip on virtue begins to slip on his arrival in Venice, after a heart problem necessitates a period of complete rest. The power of the water-bound city to blend reality and fantasy has been the theme of numerous motion pictures, notably Nicolas Roeg's "Don't Look Now," in which the maze of bridges and alleys are the setting for a father's confused conviction that his daughter has risen from the dead.

The winding alleyways prove similarly disorientating for Aschenbach. On his first night, the composer catches sight of Tadzio. Dressed in a sailor suit, the boy does indeed stand out amidst the crowds of ladies in the salon, barely visible beneath their extravagantly plumed hats.

This first glance develops into an obsession, with Aschenbach glutinously feasting on the sight of the boy at play on the beach or sitting passively with his family. Visconti keeps Tadzio and his family at arms length: None are developed into rounded characters, but are arranged in languorous, luxurious tableaux.

The mother (Silvana Mangano) sits on the beach with a huge veil billowing from her orchid-studded hat like a Titian godess, while Tadzio is filmed against the backdrop of the glittering sea, as ethereal as a religious icon.

As Aschenbach's infatuation increases, unsettling rumors begin to swirl. Word is spread that a cholera epidemic is sweeping in from the east, but hotel staff are vehement in their denial. At a decisive point in the film, Aschenbach decides to leave the island to avoid the contagion, but reneges at the final moment, thus choosing death for the sake beauty.

Onetime matinee idol Dirk Bogarde proves exceptional at being unexceptional. He shambles around in ill-fitting attire, pale and awkward in contrast to the elegant specimens who surround him at the Lido. Our eye follows him only because the camera forces us. On his return to the city, Aschenbach visits a barber who does more than cut hair. Aschenbach is powdered, preened and painted until he resembles a ghastly parody of the youth who obsesses him.

The camera of Pasqualino De Santi, Visconti's cinematographer, captures images of eye-popping splendor. Initially, the frame is filled with activity. Throngs of white-garbed tourists stroll along the Lido, plucked at by the wind, while children in bathing suits romp back and forth. In the hotel, palm fronds and pianos are augmented by acres of feathers and lace, the cast decked out in spectacular fin-de-siecle outfits. Towards the end, elegance descends into apocalypse as Aschenbach trails after Tadzio's family through Venice in the midst of contagion, fires on the streets spewing plumes of black smoke.

Whether or not Smayra is correct about the local penchant for "Death in Venice," the audience at ALBA was certainly an appreciative one. Tadzio's first entrance was greeted by gasps from several attendees. One group of ladies had brought along shot-glasses and liquor.

The week of Visconti films was accompanied by an exhibition which has been traveling the world in celebration of the director's centenary. As Visconti was born in 1906, the memorial in Lebanon is somewhat overdue.

Comprising a series of 100 images together with costumes and props from Visconti's oeuvre, the curators' aim, according to the exhibition blurb, is "to tell as many people as possible the story of an important pillar of Italian and European culture during a culturally interesting historical period between two centuries."

Visconti's story is certainly one worth hearing. Born into one of northern Italy's wealthiest aristocratic families, he broke into the movie world at the age of 30 after his friend Coco Chanel bagged him a job as third assistant director on Jean Renoir's "A Day in the Country."

Unfortunately, the exhibition failed to deliver on its aim. A selection of gorgeous stills from Visconti's films, displaying an emotional intensity that betrays his background in opera, were mounted on breezeblock walls and free-standing whiteboards alongside personal photographs of the man himself. By Friday, many of the images had come unstuck and were lying where they had fallen on the floor.

None of the images were labeled. Without any indication of the context, it was impossible for the uneducated visitor to learn anything about either the progression of Visconti's work or the story of his life.

The selection of props and costumes was equally lackluster. Aside from one or two items of jewelry from "Ludwig," Visconti's biopic of Ludwig II of Bavaria, most were imitations. It is hard to discern what the gallery-goer is supposed to glean from an imitation of the straw hat worn by Tadzio's mother (Silvana Mangano), complete with plastic flowers, when the original on screen has lost none of its splendor over the passage of time.

Copyright The Daily Star 2009.