What is beauty? Can it be created, out of nothing, in an extraordinary act of genius and will? Or is it pre-existing, all around us, just waiting to be noticed? In other words, does an artist create beauty, or just put a frame around it? These are not idle questions for an artist who suddenly realizes he’s nearing the end of his life, who has dedicated his entire being (and perhaps his ideals, as well) to his art, whose lifelong confidence in his own moral compass is suddenly shaken. In Visconti’s retelling of the Thomas Mann novel, Aschenbach is not a writer but the composer Gustav Mahler, who has come to Venice to well, not to do anything, really, but just because that’s what one does in the summer, if one is of a certain social standing. From the opening shot of Bogarde, wrapped under a blanket on the deck of a steamer, lips pursed, shrunken into himself, it’s clear that the life, the capacity for feeling, has been sucked out of this man. All that remains is the feeble arrogance of a Once Great Man among lesser mortals. When that’s taken away as well when he finally comes to realize that he cannot direct all things then the veil is lifted and he’s finally able to feel and create again if only it weren’t too late.
This article appears in February 16 • 2001.