Review by
Eric Hillis
Directed by: Pablo Larrain
Starring: Angelina Jolie, Pierfrancesco Favino, Alba Rohrwacher, Haluk Bilginer, Kodi
Smit-McPhee
Artists rarely engage with their own art once the creative process has been
completed (save for Quentin Tarantino, who seems all too happy to watch a
triple bill of his own movies). A musician won't listen to their records; a
filmmaker will refuse to watch their movies; a painter will sell a painting
and never set eyes upon it again. The artist will tell you it's because they
only see the mistakes in their work, and it's now too late to correct them
(George Lucas aside).
With Maria, his biopic of the iconic opera singer Maria Callas,
Pablo Larrain suggests that maybe artists don't like to revisit their
art not because of its imperfection but because of its perfection. In most
facets of life you can work your way to the top over the course of your
career, but artists tend to start at the top and slowly descend over the
subsequent decades as their talents wane. There are a few exceptions (Johnny
Cash made his best albums in his final years) but most artists do their best
work in their twenties. There are various reasons for this but in some cases
it's simply a case of the aging process taking its toll. Such was the case
with Callas, whose voice inevitably waned as she aged.
In Larrain's film we find Callas (Angelina Jolie) living her final
days in a Parisian apartment. She's not quite a recluse - she goes to local
bars and cafes in search of public adulation - but she shuns the stage, all
too aware that her talents are behind her. In the mornings she sings for her
maid, Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher), who dutifully assures her that she
still sounds "magnificent." In the afternoons she visits a local theatre
where her collaborator, the English conductor Jeffrey Tate (Stephen Ashfield), tries in vain to coax one more great performance out of her. Her
faithful butler, Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino), urges her to
contact her doctor, who awaits with bad news. The pills she takes have
caused her to hallucinate, and she imagines herself followed around by a
young TV documentarian (Kodi Smit-McPhee) named Mandrax after the
brand of qualludes to which she's addicted.
Larrain and screenwriter Steven Knight use the latter device to
flash back to moments in Callas's life. They couldn't quite be described as
key moments, but rather the moments just before and after the sort of
monumental events most filmmakers might focus on. This creates the sense
that we're seeing what Callas considers as important memories rather than
what has history has recorded as such. Opera scholars will likely question
the veracity of what's portrayed here, but that would be to miss the point
as Larrain isn't interested in an objective portrayal of Callas, a film as
Wikipedia entry, so much as an exploration of how we engage with artists,
and how they themselves engage with their art.
The label "diva" was coined for women like Callas, and she's portrayed here
as displaying some classic diva behaviour like constantly
asking Ferruccio to move her hefty piano to some new corner of her
apartment (a punishment for his prodding about her health concerns). But
Larrain, Knight and Jolie take us beyond the well manicured, stiff postured
presentation of Callas to get to the heartbreaking turmoil that exists
within her in these twilight days. Their Callas is something of a Norma
Desmond, albeit one who leaves her home, with Ferrucio and Bruna all
occupying the Max von Mayerling part, trying their best to shield her
from the cruel outside world that waits to mock the loss of a gift it once
lapped up. In his naive efforts to prise greatness from her throat once
more, Tate represents the deluded audience that thinks their favourite
artist still has one more great work within them. But
Maria suggests that when an artist retires from the spotlight
it's because they're sensible enough to know they've lost "it," and the
baying of the mob for a return can only add to their pain.
Unlike Callas, who came from nothing and conquered the world, Jon Voight's
daughter arrived in the mid-90s as an instant star, though initially more
famous for her public image than her screen work. Jolie is undoubtedly a
star but the jury has long been out regarding her actual acting ability (in
recent years she's arguably proven herself far more talented as a director
than an actress), her filmography a frustrating list of duds and misfires.
To be fair, Jolie's ethereal looks make it difficult to cast her in the role
of an everywoman, as she just doesn't look like the rest of us. In the
enigmatic Callas she has finally found the role of her life. She may not
look much like the real life Callas (we're thankfully spared yet another
prosthetic nose) but she embodies the idea of Callas, a woman who is larger
than life yet suffers from all the same insecurities that plague those of us
devoid of such talent. Jolie's Callas floats around with her nose in the
air, but we wonder if it's not so she can look down on the public but rather
to avoid seeing them look up at her. She seeks adoration yet it seems to
make her uncomfortable. With her gift disappearing, adoration is all she has
left.
Maria concludes that to expect an artist to continue to be
great right up to the final curtain is a form of cruelty on the part of the
public, that we should accept that everyone has their time and leave them in
peace. Callas had her time, and we're fortunate that it now exists on a
million records, or streaming via that rectangle in your pocket. They may
share our insecurities, but unlike the rest of us, artists get to live
forever. For Callas, the curtain never really came down.
Maria is on Netflix UK now.
