This film seems imbued with chiaroscuro; fascinated by the space between the dark and the light. Casanova as an Epicurean and a rationalist relishes life and endlessly describes experience. Dracula (who incidentally resembles a weird hedgehog) is primal and atavisitic moving simply from whispers to guttural howls. Both tempt. On the cusp of the cycle of life into death and back again ...
There is a sense of deliberate obscurity about 'The Story of My Death' that grates more than a little. At the same time, Serra constructs very beautiful, dark visual tableaux throughout the film.
This visual feast is in keeping with the strongly sensuous tone. We get sounds, smells, tastes and tactile images galore. We see Casanova's hands covered in menstrual blood and female arousal fluid. We see him straining on the lavotary, and we see the results. Most taxing of all, we hear him scrunching his way through a pomegranate, with exaggerated sound effects and juice dribbling down his stubbly chin.
His slow journey, accompanied by his manservant, Pompeu, is desultory in the extreme. His random thoughts and reminiscences are banal and sketchy.
Once Dracula appears, things drift into a more conventional horror genre, though everything that happens is still very mannered and ponderous. Darkness shrouds most of the scenes, with the only light coming from candles and fires. And, whilst the visual imagery is compelling, I still feel in the dark as to what Serra is trying to achieve.