Is it really necessary to criticize Netflix's Il Gattopardo?

More than fifty years later, a new version of Il Gattopardo is about to hit the screen. For Luchino Visconti's cinematic rendition, only five years had passed since the publication of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa's book, quickly becoming one of the cornerstones of world cinema, standing in the imagination where masterpieces are distant and unattainable. And indeed, the work of the Italian director is just that: sumptuous and elegant, seething with an underlying fire that fuels the uncertain destinies of Italy as it prepares to abandon the monarchy and unify the country. Visconti's film has always represented a benchmark too daunting to even approach—until Netflix came along, convinced it could do it. Not necessarily to match the unattainable achievement of the 1963 film, but at least without the fear or reverence that might prevent an attempt to adapt such a famous text as the one published in 1958.

A pinch of recklessness and a minimum of courage, along with the evident predictability that characterizes our times, constantly confronting us with reproductions of great classics in the hope of expanding their world through serialized storytelling. With a streaming distribution possibility that might be the only actual concern, some executives would have no issue continuing Il Gattopardo's story through sequels and spin-offs—practices uncommon in the 1960s but perfectly in line with today’s industry. And so, from March 5, a product is being released that is, in every sense, just that: a product. Not a work of art, not an essential title in the world of serial storytelling—just a product. It was foreseeable that it would eventually come, just as it was clear that it could not meet the expectations of luxury and decadence that defined Luchino Visconti's film. And this is because, considering its packaging and target audience, it does not even aspire to.

Il Gattopardo on Netflix adapts a work that, designed for an online service, could only be simple, straightforward, and linear. With famous faces replacing Burt Lancaster, Alain Delon, and Claudia Cardinale, without much concern for character accuracy or actual talent—could they at least have cast Sicilian actors? Yes, that can be said. A work with a soap opera aftertaste, lacking any pretense of being anything more than a simplified variant of Tomasi di Lampedusa’s text, with its political aspect sacrificed in favor of romantic entanglements—which, in reality, are far more than simple entanglements—that influence the protagonists. Not much else could have been expected from a Netflix production, not even after the streamer showed ambition in making it the next flagship title not just nationally, but globally. And, to be fair, it has indeed captured global attention, even featuring in last year’s Next on Netflix 2025 lineup. Some productions inevitably turn out better than others, such as ACAB with its remarkable formal research or Storia della mia famiglia, which knows where to strike while still maintaining the generalist feel that accompanies much of the platform's programming.

Having now established its explicit stylistic code, Il Gattopardo too had to conform to the platform’s requirements. Visual flatness, affected staging and performances, excessive and overly explicit clarity that leaves no room for nuance—neither in cinematography, direction, nor character portrayal. And so, all that remains for the audience is acceptance. There is no need to reiterate how superior Visconti’s work is or how unnecessary the serial version of the Prince of Salina’s story was. It was inevitable that someone would attempt it eventually, and taken on by Netflix Italia, a similar outcome was predictable. That we all hoped the series would be more satisfying is another matter entirely.