The Sicilian composer revisited the sonic imagery of Tomasi di Lampedusa’s novel, drawing inspiration from the landscape and musical traditions of the island of the Leopards, unafraid to engage with the work of Nino Rota. We interviewed him to explore his musical vision in greater depth.

The Leopard remains one of the greatest historical and literary epics of our culture. From the historical transition that marked the end of Bourbon rule to the formation of a new, seemingly unified nation, Tomasi di Lampedusa’s novel openly reflected the crisis of political disillusionment in a revolution that never truly came to fruition, and how the divine nobility of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies had to abdicate in favour of the new jackals. In the figure of its protagonist, Don Fabrizio Corbera, Prince of Salina, the novel encapsulated all the disillusionment and the melancholic end of one who was everything and suddenly nothing, in an Italy newly born but always the same. 

The Salina family became the perfect portrait of a family usurped of its power and how time would erode every aspect, leaving to disreputable figures, such as Don Calogero Sedara and his daughter Angelica, the power to influence the foundations of a new state, emerging on the shores of an ever-restive island. 

“These withered women, these foolish men, are just defenceless prey condemned to enjoy a small ray of light granted to them, between the cradle and death.” In its first cinematic adaptation, directed by Luchino Visconti in 1963, The Leopard became one of the first major cinematic blockbusters of our country, involving not only great actors such as Burt Lancaster, Alain Delon, and Claudia Cardinale but also a top-tier technical and artistic team, capable of translating into images the grandeur and decline of an era. On top of Giuseppe Rotunno’s cinematography, Piero Tosi’s lavish, regal costumes, above all, was CAM Sugar Nino Rota’s soundtrack, both a prophet in his homeland and overseas. It gave further emotional depth to the story of the Prince of Salina, capturing every note the waltz could represent.

Today, in its new serial adaptation, Tomasi di Lampedusa’s novel comes to life again, touching on new themes. The character of Concetta Corbera becomes a bearer of new truths and representations, and everything becomes much more in line with contemporary generations, but the music, composed by Paolo Buonvino (Romanzo Criminale, I Medici, Manual of Love) continues to maintain its sacredness, delving deeper into the Sicilian fresco and digging into its ancient and ever-changing underground. The philological connection with the dances of the time – waltzes, polkas, and mazurkas – remains unchanged, and especially with Verdi, from whose unpublished manuscript Rota derived the famous “Valzer brillante”, which has cemented Visconti’s The Leopard in popular culture. However, the style changes, and above all, the approach, which becomes more focused on emotions and delves into ethnomusicology. We met the composer to delve further into the musical world of Netflix’s The Leopard.

Paolo Buonvino has reimagined the Sicilian landscape for the soundtrack of Il Gattopardo Netflix.

Federico de Feo: How did your involvement in The Leopard as a composer come about?

Paolo Buonvino: I was brought in when the project was already at an advanced stage, by Anna Collaboletta, the music supervisor of The Leopard. In addition to the professional respect we have for each other, I believe my Sicilian background played a role. I understand the cultural mechanisms and nuances of the land, which are an integral part of the novel. I shared my musical vision with [director] Tom Shankland, imagining a soundtrack that would tell the story of Sicily as an emotional and narrative backdrop, independent of the plot. The director responded with the phrase ‘we are twins’, feeling a strong resonance with my vision. I explained that I wanted to include musical elements that would highlight the centrality of Sicily, a land rich in dominations and influences, which is present in the novel as a living, integrated backdrop.

FdF: Considering the legacy left by Visconti’s 1963 film, how did you approach such an important work, not only in comparison to the original novel but also to the cinematic oeuvre?

PB: I don’t like to compare it to Visconti’s work, because the two projects are very different: one is a film, the other a series, and they belong to different eras. Visconti created something extraordinary, but our starting point was always Tomasi di Lampedusa’s novel. However, I did notice that in Nino Rota’s score, there was a lack of a musical dimension that explicitly evoked Sicily. That was the element I wanted to explore and bring into my composition.

FdF: How did you approach this process? Were you able to avoid the burden of comparison with Nino Rota’s score?

PB: Starting from the land, I wanted to explore the deep musical soul of Sicily, researching and studying sources in continuous exchange with one of the leading experts in Sicilian ethnomusicology at the University of Palermo, Sergio Bonanzinga. It was a dive into my traditions, which then allowed me to reimagine this dimension and create my own personal vision, incorporating these roots into a contemporary language.

The element of the land was crucial: I tried to compose pieces that were ‘climbing’ on the land, rooted in it. Even the nobles, in my interpretation, are tied to that land. The series ends with a traditional song, “Si Fussi Aceddu”, which I wanted to include because it adds an important emotional dimension. The lyrics say: “If I were a bird, I would fly to my beloved, sit on his lap and tell him all my troubles.” In Sicilian, it’s heartbreaking, it has an incredible emotional strength. For me, that song represents Concetta’s suspended love, the possibility denied. It’s a metaphor: if I could fly, if things had gone differently, I would be happy. But she accepts her heritage, the weight of the family’s destiny. Through the music, I wanted to express this inner tension: on one hand, the acceptance of a role, on the other, the desire – never truly extinguished – for a different happiness.

I wanted to tell the story of the family through the iconic waltz. I wanted to compose the waltz for the iconic scene because, for me, that waltz had to be like a trailer for the life of the prince – a cathartic moment in which the dance music would make him relive the most significant moments of his existence, leading him to the deep reflections he expresses in the following scenes.

Regarding traditions, I wanted to focus on all the moments of diegetic music, trying to include as many elements as possible that were true to the tradition of my land, allowing its strength, its “scent,” and its essence to shine through.

I wanted to explore the sense of sacred music in the novel, including continuous discussions with a Sicilian theologian from the Catholic University of Milan (Francesco Brancato) to identify the meaning of the sacred in Sicily and during that historical moment. The songs of the nuns in the monastery in Palermo, and later in Donna Fugata, are examples of this.

Another aspect I wanted to convey through music was the revolution – indeed, the revolutions – and the changes that resulted from them: the historical revolution of the Garibaldini, the social revolution represented by Mayor Sedara and his daughter Angelica, who gradually gain more power over the nobility, and finally, the revolution of Concetta, the prince’s daughter, who seeks to rebel against her father. See tracks: “Lettere dal fronte”, “Luci e ombre”, “Di speme e di coraggio”, “Il tempo negato”, and “Trame invisibili”

Lastly, the soul—perhaps the most complex aspect. I wanted to express it in its many faces: the Prince, who starts as a confident man but gradually reveals his fragility and inner torment (“Ombre”, “Don Fabrizio”), Concetta’s restrained love for Tancredi (“L’incanto sospeso”, “L’alba”, “Potremmo scappare”). It’s an inner journey of transformation, filled with nostalgia, missed possibilities, but also with awareness.

FdF: Does the comparison with the previous incarnations of The Leopard not worry you?

PB: I believe fear is based on ‘competition’. I try to live art, and music in particular, as an expression of one’s soul – something I feel an urgent need to express, but with sincerity and simplicity. I use my technical musical knowledge, but I place it at the service of this urgency. When that happens, there is no need to be afraid.This type of musical storytelling wasn’t present in the film, but I also believe it wasn’t meant to be. They are different stories, different visions of the same world. We often tend to view a work as the beginning of something, and anything that comes after can seem, in some way, a betrayal of that origin. Actually, every interpretation is a ‘betrayal’, after all, the word tradition comes from the verb ‘to betray’. A tradition is created through a series of reinterpretations that gradually expand and enrich the initial concept in a way that betrays it, thus creating a tradition. Life is precisely this movement, this transformation; it’s what keeps a tradition alive and prevents it from becoming merely a museum object. That’s why I think we should celebrate more when someone, with sincerity and passion, tries to make something traditional. That’s how stories will continue to speak to us.

FdF: How did you approach the waltz, one of the great classics by Rota?

PB: I wanted to create the waltz for the iconic scene of the dance between Angelica and the Prince of Salina. Not out of ego, but to give that moment a deeper narrative and musical significance. I wanted the waltz to emotionally tell the life of The Leopard, perfectly summarising its feelings and contrasts. The dance precedes the Prince’s final monologue, in which he reflects on his life and what truly mattered in his existence. That moment represents an inner reckoning, and I thought it was significant for the waltz to anticipate this awareness. I imagined the dance as a musical story, with a melancholic Sicily, a sense of openness, and the inescapable cycle of life. A dance with the devil dressed as an angel, a moment full of emotional tension and ambiguity. I don’t know if I fully succeeded in my aim, but that was the core of my idea.

FdF: How did Tom Shankland react to this idea?

PB: When I composed the waltz, I played it to the director even before the scene was filmed. His reaction was very positive, and from there, naturally, that theme became an integral part of the series, just as it did for the Prince Fabrizio character. That music, with its atmosphere and intensity, ended up amplifying the meaning of the scene. It was as if that motif already belonged to the story, almost reflecting the character’s life itself. We had heard it before seeing it represented.

FdF: The waltz theme marks a crucial passage in the narrative, almost a rite both of initiation into the new Italian society and the end of Bourbon hegemony over Sicily. How did you work on this aspect to translate its historical weight into music?

PB: These are two very different celebrations. The first, from a strictly narrative point of view, is organised by the Garibaldini and represents a crucial turning point: it marks the entry of a new power that should symbolise change. From a musical perspective, I chose and composed several dances: waltz, polka, mazurka. Some of these pieces are by Verdi, others I wrote trying to put myself in the style of a composer of the time, but without loading the music with an overly direct or explicit meaning. For example, the first waltz was selected very carefully. I wanted it not to be too engaging, precisely because the nobles at that party are not emotionally involved: they’re there out of duty, but remain detached. If you watch the scene, it’s clear that the Prince decides to start the dance not because he feels comfortable, but for a precise strategy. Even Verdi’s waltz, which opens the dance, was arranged to maintain a more formal and detached tone, consistent with the atmosphere of the scene. The party then becomes livelier, but at that initial moment, the music accompanies a context of coldness and suspension. There are no personal stories emerging because that change is still perceived as something external, not shared. It’s as if the Prince experiences that moment as a ‘ball of liberation,’ but with the idea that this liberation is, in fact, an invasion. The music reflects exactly this: it’s elegant, but deliberately not engaging, almost restrained. Of course, there are richer and more melodically beautiful dances later in the party, but they weren’t meant to tell the identity of the characters, as the main theme of the series does. The intention was to accompany one of the most delicate narrative passages, letting the music suggest, without ever overwhelming the scene.

FdF: What did the studies and insights you mentioned lead to?

PB: The soundtrack opens with a Sicilian chant, recorded in 1950 by Antonino Uccello, a famous Sicilian anthropologist. That chant struck me for its authenticity; it represented Sicily from a time long ago, perhaps even from a century earlier. To depict the love and purity of Concetta, I chose two ancient songs: “Spunta Lu Suli” and “Si Fussi Aceddu”. These are love songs that, in the nineteenth century, were sung by women – an unusual choice for the time, but one that tells of a Sicily where there existed a femininity capable of expressing its feelings freely. This detail made me think of Concetta: a pure woman, but also determined, able to declare her love without fear.

FdF: And what about the other major female character in the series, Angelica (Deva Cassel)?

PB: Among the other themes introduced is that of Sedara, the mayor of Donnafugata and Angelica’s father: a theme that I deliberately constructed with a ‘lopsided’ rhythm, as they say in Sicilian, meaning somewhat limp. I wanted the music to reflect his character, initially ridiculous and underestimated, but changing when his daughter enters the scene. At that point, the theme becomes more elegant and less caricatured, anticipating a shift in their relationship. The theme of Angelica and Sedara takes on its definitive shape with “Luci ombre”. I sought to infuse this composition with the sinuous movement of a serpent, full of ambiguity and subtlety. It’s a melody that slowly envelops you, almost without you realising.

The original motion picture soundtrack by Nino Rota for Luchino Visconti’s The Leopard (1963).

FdF: Another recurring element in your music, linked to Sicily’s ancient identity, is the use of nursery rhymes…

PB: Right in “Luci ombre” there is the inclusion of a French choir, constructed using period nursery rhymes. This is because Angelica, at her father’s insistence, studied in France, not out of a thirst for knowledge, but to refine her cunning and ability to manipulate the aristocracy. The nursery rhymes, deliberately nonsensical, reflect this duality: a refined appearance that hides a more sly and pragmatic intelligence. If you focus on Angelica’s theme (which I play on the piano), the scale we’re talking about has deep Sicilian roots, but it manifests in a very subtle, almost deceitful form, like the sinuous movement of a rattlesnake. There’s something hidden and fascinating in her nature, which also recalls the sounds of the Arabic scale. The musical theme we’re discussing becomes increasingly central as the story unfolds, reaching its peak in the piece “Di Speme e di Coraggio”. It’s a crescendo of about four minutes that starts with a small musical cell, almost imperceptible but full of tension. This theme represents the Prince’s growing awareness of the Sedara family: an initially slight discomfort, like a pebble in the shoe, which grows into an unstoppable avalanche. From the third episode onwards, this theme becomes Angelica’s leitmotif. I’ve developed it in many variations to represent the different facets and inner changes of her character. The music follows her evolution, perpetually transforming.

FdF: The themes of love in the story seem suspended, as though awaiting a time that has already slipped away. How did you translate this sense of enchantment and incompleteness into musical language?

PB: I think the piece “L’incanto sospeso” perfectly encapsulates Concetta’s infatuation with Tancredi, as well as her disillusionment. It’s a piece built on small musical cells, a delicate intertwining that grows progressively. If you listen to just ten seconds of the piece, you’ll immediately sense the atmosphere I wanted to evoke. The introduction is like a sprout slowly opening: the notes expand gently, like spring drops making a flower bloom one after another. But just when you feel the need to move beyond, the piece fades away. It never truly reaches completion. This unfinished passage perfectly narrates Concetta’s emotional essence: a love that never fully materialises, suspended in constant tension. In contrast, the way I portrayed Angelica’s love is different. I used other nuances because I wanted to convey the complexity of a love that isn’t entirely sincere – not only towards others but also towards herself. Angelica was trained by her father to move in a certain way, but there’s a deeper dimension I wanted to explore. Angelica manages to ‘climb’, to get what she wants, but this ascent comes at a price. Her life remains suspended, as if she had given up part of herself to reach her goal. It’s a victory that doesn’t bring happiness, but rather an inner suspension, a silent renunciation.

FdF: The story of the Salina family also serves as a testament to the dissolution of a historical era, of a royal and rural Sicily. How did you translate this sense of melancholic disillusionment and loss that permeates both the characters and the era they live in musically?

PB: Before translating something into music, I always have to translate it into my life first. For me, every composition is an expression of something that belongs to me deeply, something that comes from within. I believe that, fundamentally, human beings are always the same: since the time of Homo sapiens, we’ve faced the same fundamental issues. I say this because The Leopard highlights these themes with great force. It’s a deeply contemporary novel, even though it talks about a historical change in the nineteenth century. In reality, it tells what happens inside us every time we face a change. There are characters like the Prince or the mayor who, though acting in different ways, are trying to respond to the challenges of their time. They struggle, try to build something, but in the end, they are all discontent, just like their families. Why? Because there’s no real dimension of happiness. The only one who manages to touch it, even just for a moment, is the Prince. In one of the most significant narrative moments of the final episode, he asks: ‘When was I truly happy?’ And he can only identify two moments in his life. The rest he considers wasted time. It’s a painful but lucid awareness. The same happens to Concetta, when she falls in love with Tancredi. In the sequence where she confesses to the priest, she uses very meaningful words: ‘It’s the greatest emotion I’ve ever felt, as well as the greatest peace,’ and those words alone make it clear that it’s an authentic feeling. That’s the only real moment of happiness for Concetta. Everything else – the social climbs, the falls, the conquests – are just attempts to climb the wrong mountains. And I believe this is the great existential knot of the story: the sense of searching for something that perhaps will never be found, or which is only discovered when it’s already too late.

The Leopard directed by Tom Shankland with original music by Paolo Buonvino is now ut on Netflix.

Opening image: Il Gattopardo. (L to R) Astrid Meloni as Maria Stella, Kim Rossi Stuart as Fabrizio in episode 102 of Il Gattopardo. Cr. Lucia Iuorio/Netflix © 2025