Angelina Jolie Strikes a Chord as French Opera Great Maria Callas
DIRECTED BY PABLO LARRAÍN/2024
The theatrical preview of Pablo Larraín’s Maria that I attended was preceded by one of those brief cordial filmmaker introductions, thanking us for coming to see the film. Larraín’s intro was nothing special, though a little noticeably awkward. What stood out was that he made a point of stating that, to him, individual shots in films often take on lives of their own, and as a director, he prioritizes such artistry over everything else. “Don’t get me wrong-! We have a wonderful story…!” But obviously he was feeling the need to divert attention. Perhaps he’s feeling the uncomfortable chafe of having made the same movie for the third time?
Larraín needn’t worry about that. While the Chilean filmmaker has spent his career oscillating between edgy political/social works (2012’s No; 2016’s Neruda; 2019’s Ema) and lavish biopics of Great Women in defiance (2016’s Jackie, about Jacqueline Kennedy; 2021’s Spencer, about Princess Diana), it’s by far the latter type that’s propelled him upwards in terms of clout. Maria, about French opera star Maria Callas, fits that grouping like a fine couture glove. Sparing no opulence nor sharpness, Maria has no trouble living up to the quality of its predecessors.
Angelina Jolie stars as Callas, imbuing the diva with a righteous feminist independence and wit. Her comebacks are precise in timing and elocution, her statements bend the air of the room. Like most any biographical picture these days, Maria makes a point of being a “warts and all” depiction of its subject. Jolie’s Callas, at one point, lashes out at an adoring fan even though she’s seated at an outdoor cafe, her go-to destination when she’s “in the mood for adulation”.
Throughout the film, which is set in Paris during a contained period at the end of her life (Callas died in 1977), long after her salad days of stardom, she is shown to be deeply addicted to prescription pills. Her loyal house staff (played terrifically by Pierfrancesco Favino and Alba Rohrwacher), themselves aging into obsolescence, exist in that dread state of full cognizance and caring but are unable to really intercede. All the while, an investigative filmmaker played by Kodi-Smit McPhee is attempting to capture “the real Maria Callas”… and magnetized by her allure. This provides something of a framework to Larraín’s film.
The late-in-life timeframe benefits Jolie, who’s confident and fully devoted performance can of course only go so far when it comes to the singing scenes. Obviously, no actor is going to match the dynamisms of Maria Callas, one of the truly greatest opera performers of the twentieth century. Larraín and Jolie’s strategy at faking it worked for me. Less effective is her appearance. As good as Jolie is in this role- and she’s really, really good in it- there’s no getting around a certain divergence in physical resemblance. As is so often the case with actors in biopics, some shots are better than others. I’m sure Larraín would agree.
Larraín’s commitment to the visual really comes through as Maria is simply a lush, and at times oddly cozy film to sit in. Cinematographer Ed Lachman, who’s worked on his share of off-kilter films, is largely to credit for the striking mood of the piece. And as always, Larraín somehow wrangles a seemingly impossible degree of location production value. It’s all in service of this absorbing character study and its increasingly elegiac telling of pending demise. In that, the story is what it is. One needn’t be versed ahead of time in the life of Callas to track with Maria, but don’t expect to come away an expert. What Larraín, Jolie, and company do leave us with is a greatly admirable postscript- an encore, if you will- that shoots into the familiar but nevertheless leaves us singing.