In a Venetian convent, an Inquisition officer condemns a depraved nun to eternal damnation for one night with Casanova, the city's promiscuous paramour in residence.
"Seems fair," the sister remarks to herself, shrugging.
Much like the wayward nun, the viewer of Casanova indulges in a guilty pleasure: Despite the punishment of a predictable plot and occasional preachiness, the charming comedy and beguiling characters bewitch the senses and shroud the judgmental eye.
The film's premises invite predictability. Casanova (Heath Ledger), the legendary lothario, cavorts, gambols and literally sprints from one lady's bed to another.
Reducing a bevy of women to "quivering puddles," he leaves many a cuckold in his wake. Under pressure from the corrupt Catholic Church that presided over Venice, "a hotbed of silk sheets and heretical books" in 1753, he risks losing ecclesiastical pardons for his sins -- which include fornication, debauchery and trespass -- unless he marries.
Meanwhile, Francesca (Sienna Miller), a feminist thinker who resists patriarchy and publishes her theories under a male nom de plume, finds herself betrothed to Paprizzio, a distant relative whom she has never met, in order to salvage her family's financial ruin.
Casanova, in disguise, describes himself as "Casanova the philosopher, who devotes his life to the perfection of experience."
Francesca sees him as "Casanova the libertine, who devotes his life to seducing women."
Naturally, true love ensues.
But, in this film it is the actors who successfully seduce the audience. In a star-studded cast, Ledger presides as the jewel of the crown. His suave, sultry, sweltering sensuality could enrapture even the most frigid viewer. Jeremy Irons relishes the icy maleficence of the sinister Bishop Pucci, enemy of heretics, fornicators and pleasure in general. As Papprizio, pork fat mogul of Genoa, a rotund Oliver Pratt glistens with an endearing, bumbling and humble charisma.
Unfortunately, Miller, the female lead, inspires few, if any, accolades. It's as if director Lasse Hallstrm were so set on portraying her as the cerebral academic that he extinguishes her romantic sparks. Fortunately, Lena Olin radiates as Andrea, Francesca's widowed mother, who simmers with enough sexual tension to make up for her daughter's apparent drought of lust.
From Carnivale balls to courts of law, themes of masks and mistaken identity underscore the film. Yet sometimes Casanova seems unsure of its own purpose, straying into shallow, unsatisfying philosophical jousting about love or wandering into dolorous realms of slow-motion. Such instances of attempted seriousness seem unfaithful to the rest of the film, which dazzles with sparkling comedy and pithy wit.
Acerbically clever lines lampoon the Holy See; when the "Venetian Virgin" asks Bishop Pucci, "You could restore my reputation and my virginity?" he assures her, "Yes, we are the Catholic Church."
The opulent period costumes with sumptuous brocades, lavish wigs and frilly lace delight the eyes, and the gondolas, canals and churches of Venice can only please. Certain scenes shrouded with a mystic aura will recall the magic luster of Hallstrm's earlier Chocolat.
Yet, like its hero, the film can be accused of heresy: It trespasses into realms of superficial philosophy and dallies with strained speeches about the meaning of love. Furthermore, it shamelessly exploits deus ex machina in a final scene.
Yet somehow, the sheer pleasure of Casanova -- its hypnotizing humor and mesmerizing characters -- makes one night of such cinematic indiscretion seem fair.
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