Film Review: Mayerling (1968)

Certain works of literature secure their place in cultural history not through artistic brilliance but by serving as foundational texts for successive screen adaptations. These adaptations, in turn, offer critics and scholars a lens through which to trace evolving technological, social, and political contexts. One such example is Joseph Schopfer’s 1930 novel Mayerling, written under the pseudonym Claude Anet. Schopfer, a French tennis player turned writer, fictionalised the real-life 1889 tragedy involving Crown Prince Rudolph of Austria-Hungary and his lover, Baroness Mary Vetsera. Their deaths by apparent suicide at the Mayerling hunting lodge sent shockwaves through the Habsburg dynasty and altered the trajectory of European history. The novel’s lurid subject matter and political undertones have inspired three distinct film adaptations, each reflecting the era in which it was made: Anatole Litvak’s 1936 French production, a 1957 television version for CBS, and finally Terence Young’s lavish 1968 cinematic spectacle. While the novel itself is largely forgotten, its screen offspring endure as artefacts of their times, offering insights into shifting cultural priorities and filmmaking techniques.

Anatole Litvak’s first adaptation, Mayerling (1936), emerged as a polished, old-school period piece blending historical pageantry with romantic melodrama. Set against the opulent backdrop of Vienna’s imperial courts, it centred on Rudolph’s doomed affair and the societal pressures that led to his downfall. The film’s starry cast—Charles Boyer as Rudolph and Danielle Darrieux as Mary Vetsera—propelled both actors to international stardom, with Darrieux’s performance as a tragic figure cementing her allure. Litvak’s direction balanced spectacle with emotional depth, though the narrative leaned heavily into melodramatic conventions of the era.

A less successful follow-up came in 1957 when Litvak returned to the story for a made-for-television adaptation on CBS. Starring Mel Ferrer and his wife Audrey Hepburn as Rudolph and Mary, this version lacked the grandeur of its predecessor. Shot on a limited budget and confined to studio sets, it struggled to capture the epic scale of the original novel or the 1936 film. The 1957 Mayerling faded into obscurity, remembered only as a curious footnote in Hepburn’s career.

The 1968 Mayerling, directed by Terence Young, emerged from the director’s youthful fascination with Litvak’s 1936 film. Young, who later gained fame for launching the James Bond series with Dr. No (1962), seized the opportunity to create a lavish, star-studded adaptation backed by a then-massive $5 million budget. Collaborating with French producer Jacques Dorfmann and Associated British Pictures, Young aimed to outdo previous iterations with its technical ambition. The film’s cast included Omar Sharif as Rudolph, Catherine Deneuve as Mary, and James Mason as Emperor Franz Joseph I. Young’s version positioned itself as a throwback to Hollywood’s Golden Age epics, complete with sweeping vistas, opulent costumes, and a sprawling narrative. The director’s ambition was clear: to transform Schopfer’s melodramatic plot into a sweeping historical tragedy that would captivate both art-house audiences and mainstream crowds.

The film opens in 1880s Vienna, where Crown Prince Rudolph, heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, clashes with his authoritarian father, Emperor Franz Joseph. Rudolph, trapped in a loveless dynastic marriage to Princess Stephanie of Belgium (Andrea Parisy), seeks solace in revolutionary politics and the decadent nightlife of Vienna. His flirtations with radical Hungarian politicians and a series of affairs—including one with actress Mizzi Kaspar (Fabienne Dalle)—highlight his inner turmoil. A chance encounter with the young, idealistic Baroness Mary Vetsera (Catherine Deneuve), however, becomes the catalyst for his downfall. Their clandestine romance, fuelled by youthful idealism and mutual despair, draws the attention of the emperor’s secret police. Faced with the threat of exposure and societal ruin, Rudolph and Mary retreat to the Mayerling hunting lodge, where they meet their tragic end. The film’s climax—a haunting reenactment of their deaths—leaves audiences grappling with the consequences of political repression, personal alienation, and the weight of dynastic duty.

Young’s 1968 Mayerling distinguishes itself through its visual splendour. Co-written with Dennis Canan, the screenplay adheres closely to Litvak’s earlier structure but benefits from advancements in technology and production design. The film’s lush Technicolor palette and widescreen format (Cinemascope) allow for breathtaking set pieces: the opulent balls of Vienna’s aristocracy, the snow-blanketed forests of Mayerling, and the meticulously reconstructed imperial palaces. Authentic locations in Vienna, such as the Hofburg Palace, lend an air of historical verisimilitude. Costumes by Marcel Escoffier recreate the era’s fashions with painstaking detail, from the emperor’s formal military regalia to Mary’s delicate gowns. These elements collectively elevate the film beyond its predecessors, offering a sensory immersion into the world of late-19th-century Europe.

Young’s version capitalises on the relaxed censorship standards of 1960s European cinema to explore themes previously considered taboo. Fabienne Dalle’s portrayal of Mizzi Kaspar includes explicit nudity, framing her character as a disposable object of desire. Meanwhile, the film hints at Rudolph’s morphine addiction and mental instability, subtly attributing his erratic behaviour to the Habsburg dynasty’s notorious inbreeding—a factor historians later debated but which the film uses to underscore his psychological fragility. These additions inject a modern, gritty edge into the narrative, contrasting with the more restrained approach of earlier adaptations. The inclusion of drug use and overt sensuality reflects the era’s cultural shift toward greater openness about taboo subjects, even if the execution occasionally feels gratuitous.

Despite its strengths, Young’s film stumbles under the weight of its ambition. The lengthy runtime (over two and a half hours) allows for excessive padding, particularly in the inclusion of Prince Edward of Wales (James Robertson Justice), a character invented to provide “comic relief” and a British perspective. Edward’s presence—a fictionalised account of his friendship with Rudolph—is historically dubious, as he visited Vienna a year before the events depicted. This contrivance feels calculated to appeal to English-speaking markets, inserting a familiar British figure to make the story more palatable to American and British audiences. The segment disrupts the film’s otherwise cohesive narrative, feeling tacked-on and tonally incongruous with the otherwise sombre tone.

Young’s script, however, occasionally rises to the occasion by weaving broader political themes into the personal tragedy. A pivotal dialogue between Franz Joseph and Rudolph underscores the fragility of the multi-ethnic Austro-Hungarian Empire, a theme that gains tragic foresight when the film subtly references the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand—a catalyst for World War I—in its final acts. The depiction of the empire’s military incompetence, exemplified by Rudolph’s inspection of clueless officers during army manoeuvres, mirrors historical accounts of the Habsburg military’s ineptitude in the lead-up to World War I. These elements, while occasionally heavy-handed, add layers of geopolitical commentary absent in earlier adaptations.

Francis Lai’s score, featuring Aram Khachaturian’s iconic Adagio from Spartacus, amplifies the film’s emotional stakes. The haunting melody recurs in key moments, from Rudolph and Mary’s first meeting to their final, despairing embrace. Lai’s choice to lean into Khachaturian’s music—a leitmotif of tragic romance—creates an auditory bridge between the film’s personal and historical dimensions, elevating it to the status of an epic. The score’s grandeur, combined with Young’s visual opulence, ensures that Mayerling feels appropriately monumental, even when the plot falters.

The film’s success hinges on its lead performances. Omar Sharif, best known for his roles in David Lean’s epics, delivers a nuanced portrayal of Rudolph. He captures the prince’s volatility, intellectual curiosity, and inner torment, moving beyond the one-dimensional romantic hero of earlier adaptations. Catherine Deneuve, however, proves more divisive as Mary Vetsera. Playing the character older than she was in reality, Deneuve’s cool detachment clashes with the tragic vulnerability required. Her Mary is less a passionate lover than a detached observer, a choice that undermines the emotional core of the story. James Mason, as Emperor Francis Joseph, dominates the screen with his commanding presence, embodying the rigid, duty-bound monarch whose legacy overshadows his son. Ava Gardner’s turn as Empress Elisabeth, though brief, is a highlight; her portrayal of the empress’s melancholy and existential despair is both poignant and understated.

Upon release, Mayerling received mixed reviews. Critics dismissed its melodramatic excesses, historical inaccuracies, and overly long runtime. Yet the film’s marketing strategy—linking its portrayal of student protests to the real-life unrest of 1968—struck a chord with audiences. Posters juxtaposed scenes from the film with images of contemporary demonstrations, framing the Habsburg tragedy as a metaphor for youth rebellion. This clever positioning, coupled with the star power of Sharif and Deneuve, propelled the film to commercial success. Its box-office performance proved that audiences still craved grand, star-driven historical epics, even if critics dismissed them as relics of a bygone era.

While Mayerling (1968) rarely ranks among the most celebrated films of its time, it holds enduring appeal for fans of old-school period dramas. Its technical achievements—stunning visuals, lush score, and top-tier acting—outweigh its narrative flaws. The film’s greatest value lies in its ability to encapsulate the tension between personal and political tragedy, a theme that resonates across eras. For all its melodramatic excesses, it remains a testament to Young’s ambition and the era’s cinematic possibilities. While not a masterpiece, Mayerling is a worthy addition to the pantheon of historical epics, offering a vivid, if imperfect, window into one of Europe’s most haunting tragedies.

RATING: 7/10 (++)

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