Following Spencer and Jackie — biopic melodramas about Princess Diana and First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy — Chilean director Pablo Larraín rounds out his informal trilogy with Maria, another film about a world-famous woman in close proximity to death. His subject this time is the iconic Greek-American opera soprano Maria Callas, and though the film doesn’t come together as neatly (or completely) as either of its predecessors, its most powerful moments stand head and shoulders above them, thanks to towering, transcendent work from Angelina Jolie in the leading role.
Maria is set during the final week of Callas’ life, at a time when she lived in isolation, far from the spotlight. As Larraín and Spencer screenwriter Steven Knight imagine these pivotal days, the resulting film is, unfortunately, lesser than the sum of its parts. However, each of those elements is so individually exquisite as to yield material that not only proves incredibly moving, but also provides Jolie with a platform to craft what is perhaps the most complex performance of her illustrious career.
What is Maria about?
Set in 1977, Maria opens on the day of Callas’ death from a sudden heart attack, after her body is discovered in her Paris penthouse. It presents this scene from a distinctly ghostly vantage. As Larraín’s hand-held camera peers in on the scene from an adjoining room, it takes on a spectral presence, framing the rest of the film — set during the preceding week — as though it were some kind of desperate letter from Callas sent from beyond the grave.
To put words in a dead figure’s mouth can be risky business, especially when so little is known about her final years. But as with with Spencer and Jackie, Larraín’s focus is the intersection of private and public lives. His biopics are, therefore, speculative by nature. His last film, the satire El Conde, re-imagined Augusto Pinochet as a vampire, and while Maria certainly doesn’t go that far — Larraín understandably has more respect for Callas than for the Chilean dictator — it exists in a similar vein: as a stylized examination of 20th-century history.
In the week preceding her demise, Callas wrestles with trying to regain her voice, which hasn’t been at its full power for some time. However, her withdrawal from the public eye has also led her to self-medicate with largely unregulated drug cocktails. The film tips its hands about their effects early on; Callas claims, to her diligent butler Feruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino) and her housemaid Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher) — her key confidants in the film — that she has a TV interview scheduled with a journalist named Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee), the same name as one of her sedatives. When he arrives, he’s never in the same room (or same shot) as anyone but Callas.
Angelina Jolie stars as Maria Callas in Pablo Larraín’s “Maria.”
Credit: Netflix
That Mandrax is a hallucination is hardly a surprise. In fact, Callas is hyper-aware of her increasing break from reality, though it can’t help but read as if it may have been intended as a plot twist in some earlier draft. It takes a number of scenes before Callas’ interview with the phantom reporter begins yielding any worthwhile material — which is to say, personal revelations about Callas’ past, and ruminations on her fame, which begin to gradually alter the movie’s tone and appearance.
Maria tells its story through shifting textures and timelines.
Hollywood biopics — especially their oft-parodied musical variety — tend to follow a standard structure, beginning on the precipice of a pivotal, late-career performance before the film unfolds in flashback. Maria upends this trend with distinct narrative purpose, stretching that aforementioned late-in-life moment across the entire film, while condensing Callas’ life story to brief flashes of memory.
While the singer’s music is central (and ever-present; her actual voice appears just as much as Jolie’s), the specifics of her career, and her rise to fame, are of little interest to Larraín. He reduces them to an introductory montage burnt onto grainy celluloid stock, as though these moments from her performances had all been captured in great detail, and therefore didn’t need to be the movie’s focus. Rather than re-creating public performances, much of the film shifts rhythmically between Callas’ past and present, often impulsively, as though it were depicting a haphazard stream of consciousness. This approach certainly has its strengths — the film is in constant motion, so at the very least, it’s never boring — but it doesn’t always move with purpose, and tends to repeat itself without finding new dimensions to its story.
On the plus side, Ed Lachman’s dazzling cinematography makes the movie’s present feel wistful. In its 1970s scenes, Maria either reminisces while wandering Paris — scenes which yield moments of musical splendor, where the real world collides with her imagined, operatic one — or she visits an opera pianist to help her rehearse and re-capture her lost glory. These are painted with the warm tones of a perpetual sunset. The movie may be anchored by these scenes (its numerous flashbacks emanate from her conversations, both real and otherwise), but they’re imbued with a sense of finality, and of time running out, as though Callas were keenly aware that she’s nearing the end.
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Her flashbacks tend to take two specific forms. Like the aforementioned, grainy film footage, moments of public performance — of Callas silhouetted by spotlight — appear as brief, nostalgic recollections as she attempts to sing once again and recapture her lost glory. However, the movie’s more complete flashback scenes play out in pristine black-and-white, as though these moments had been more perfectly preserved. This canvas is reserved for a handful of flashbacks to Callas’ tumultuous youth (where she’s played by Aggelina Papadopoulou), but their crux is the time she spent with the Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis (Haluk Bilginer), with whom she had a lengthy affair before his marriage to Jackie Kennedy.
The film presents the aged Onassis as a risible, rankled character, and Bilginer plays him with venomous charisma. However, his frequent presence in Callas’ memories never quite feels justified. It’s speculated, in dialogue, that they may have been each other’s greatest loves, and the film even imagines a wonderful moment of private confession between them, but Onassis only ever feels like an obligatory inclusion, rather than a character whose impact on Callas is deeply felt instead of simply mentioned in passing. However, this and any other flaws the film may have are eventually hand-waved away by its central performances.
Angelina Jolie leads a phenomenal cast.
A film like Maria doesn’t work without its central performances. Apart from Callas, the two characters with the lion’s share of the screen time are Bruna and Feruccio, and though their prescribed roles are set in stone, they offer an intimate, loving perspective on the iconic vocalist.
As Bruna, a woman trained by Callas to be reverential, Rohrwacher allows the character’s true feelings (and true concerns) to slip past her fealty. Feruccio, meanwhile, is far more forthcoming about his objections to Callas’ drug use, and while he’s often rebuked — sternly, yet calmy — Favino maintains a heart-wrenching adoration for Callas. The real Feruccio never sold Callas’ private stories, even after her death, so while the movie draws on fantastical interpretations of her twilight years, it still does justice to Feruccio’s loyalty, especially in moments when real reporters try to cruelly invade her privacy.
However, all this would be for nought had the role of Callas not been perfectly cast and performed. Larraín has tackled real figures before — his historical-fiction Neruda was about poet and politician Pablo Neruda — but his triumvirate of Hollywood biopics have all confronted the impact and allure of fame. Kristen Stewart was a fitting vessel for Larraín’s Spencer, a story about a highly misunderstood woman upon whom aspersions were constantly cast. Jolie is a similarly flawless choice, given the degree to which Maria is about the dueling pain and allure of living in the spotlight.
Angelina Jolie stars as Maria Callas in Pablo Larraín’s “Maria.”
Credit: Netflix
Not just a famous actress, but arguably one of the world’s most famous people in the mid-2000s, Jolie has achieved a level of global stardom of which few can even dream. However, her celebrity has been marked by everything from homewrecking accusations to a harrowing public separation involving alleged domestic abuse (her battle with breast cancer has also been a tabloid topic, though she first publicized it herself). In a recent press junket for the movie’s Venice Film Festival premiere, Jolie was asked about the degree to which she drew on her personal life for her performance, though she refused to elaborate. However, seeing the degree to which she places her most vulnerable self on screen in Maria, it’s clear she doesn’t need to. Everything she has to say on the subject is contained within the four corners of the frame.
Jolie plays Callas at a physical and emotional low point, and she carries herself as though attempting to juggle the grace and poise of an opera legend with the burdened posture of someone who’s given up. She is completely sure of herself when she speaks to other people, but lost in a sea of self-doubt behind closed doors — a duality that Jolie displays not only in different scenes, but within single conversations, as she turns away from and toward her castmates.
Callas is a mess of paradoxes. She’s a woman both plagued by yet constantly in search of adulation. She’s haunted by her past, but her past is what fuels her music, and accessing the most agonizing parts of her story is of the utmost importance if she’s to find herself again. Jolie’s performance feels similarly in tune with the actress’ own history. The further Callas reaches into her soul, the more the curtain slips; you can practically see Jolie and her character becoming one, crying out in unison for some kind of respite from simply being themselves, and living at their level of constant visibility, no matter how much they love the spotlight. It’s heart-wrenching to witness.
However, Jolie goes even further in creating this semi-fictional version of Callas, not just as a real woman, but as a figure practically destined — perhaps even cursed — to be immortalized on screen. The real Callas spoke rather conversationally, and with a more distinctly Greek intonation than Jolie does here. But rather than impersonating her, Jolie instead takes on a classically Hollywood, Transatlantic tone.
This accent is easy enough to access, but Jolie’s masterstroke is what she does with her voice. Not just her singing voice — though she sounds magnificent to this critic’s untrained ear — but her speaking voice, which sounds pitched-up, as though it were emanating at a higher frequency through a microphone from the 1940s or ’50s. The film may be set in 1977, but the ’40s and ’50s were Callas’ professional peak; what better way to translate her idealized version of herself in cinematic terms?
Callas struggles to stand upright in Maria. Not just literally, because of her drug-dulled sense, but spiritually. The film as a whole may feel scattered, and might lose its way in the middle, but all the while, Jolie is locked in a constant battle to hold her head high — to live (and die) with dignity, while experiencing all the fears and convictions that come with a woman slowly accepting that she may be at the end of her life.
Usually, Larraín loves to show off his production design (with sets this lavish, who wouldn’t?), and he loves to make his camera dance, but the smartest thing he does in Maria is get out of Jolie’s way at just the right time. During more intimate or subtle scenes, he pulls back on his flourishes so that her performance can dictate the story at its most potent, painful moments. However, on the rare occasions the film’s operatic formalism and Jolie’s performance align — moments when Callas inches closer to finding herself during her musical search — the result is completely shattering.
Maria was reviewed out of its world premiere at the 2024 Venice International Film Festival.
