Fitting a novel‘s plot into two hours is an undertaking like jamming Cinderella‘s stepsister’s foot into the glass slipper: You have to hack off toes or full limbs. But this is the age of binge-watching, and directors need to make fewer procrustean compromises to runtime now. Instead, they just make a miniseries, a format that offers the salvation of adequate time. A bit of promise, therefore, twinkled faintly and tantalizingly out from Netflix‘s new The Leopard, an adaptation of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa’s 1958 portrait of Sicilian aristocratic decline.
The Leopard, the sole novel written by Tomasi, published posthumously, is a considerably autobiographical tale of the decline of a Sicilian aristocratic family amid the Risorgimento. It is fantastic. The tone is one of active mourning for
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