Venice is a city of lions. There’s the ubiquitous winged lion, the symbol of Saint Mark, seen everywhere in statuary and on banners. Last night, outside the Casino, one of the main buildings of the festival complex, I saw a winged lion statue, about 12 feet off the ground, with a single wine glass perched delicately if a bit precariously atop one of his meaty paws, left behind by some meticulous reveler. Other lions have no wings but appear not to mind much, standing guard at church entrances, outside restaurants or at the center of neighborhood squares. And everywhere you look, there are smaller lion faces gazing back at you: Some have important and obvious jobs to do, holding door-knockers or doorbells in their mouths. Others are free to simply be themselves, but all seem intent on keeping an eye on things.
Excerpt from:
Postcard from Venice: Time to Say Goodbye, But First: Could Polanski Win a Golden Lion?
