Review: Maria

Director:  Pablo Larraín

Stars:  Pierfrancesco Favino, Angelina Jolie, Haluk Bilginer

A philistine with no great appreciation for opera I may be, but as someone who was moved to the core by Pablo Larraín’s handling of Jackie at the start of 2017, this closing(?) chapter in his cycle of films in awe of 20th century women had me chomping at the bit for a seat (I was gutted to have missed an earlier opportunity thanks to a bout of the flu). Granted, 2021’s Spencer felt like something of a stutter – in no small part thanks to screenwriter Steven Knight’s… unpredictable talents – but even his continued presence for this picture couldn’t assuage my anticipation.

Larraín’s third choice may be his least well-known to modern Anglo-American cinephiles but in certain circles the name Maria Callas carries as much weight as either Jacqueline Kennedy or Princess Diana. My main memories of Callas are her crystalline, bespectacled features staring back at me from my father’s modest and neglected record collection. Mostly nowadays I know her from Pier Paolo Pasolini’s inscrutable adaptation of Medea. But my familiarity (or lack thereof) with Larraín’s subject became immaterial in front of his film, which swoons majestically for two near-impeccable hours, as graceful and elegiac as anything the Chilean director has put his hand to.

Angelina Jolie – a woman of no small celebrity herself – gives a career-best performance as opera’s premiere diva entering the last week of her life circa September 1977. An air of decline permeates her ornately decorated Parisian apartment. Suffering maladies of the head and the heart, Callas is troubled by hallucinations, has grown reclusive, and approaches the prospect of her return to the public eye with taciturn enthusiasm. She has become deeply dependent upon two key members of her staff; butler Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino) and cook Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher). Their dearness to her is as conspicuous as their returned, unwavering devotion. A devotion as evident as Larraín’s own.

Stop-start sessions with accompanist Jeffrey Tate (Stephen Ashfield) convey Callas’ lack of confidence in her instrument as well as her flighty, prickly nature, but much more of her character is shaded via the peppering of mixed-media flashbacks that take us on an a-chronological tour of highs and lows of her life. The most reverential of these see Jolie hand over performance reins to Aggelina Papadopoloulou as Callas’ younger self, compelled to sing before an SS officer (Jörg Westphal). Her rendition of ‘Habanera’ is enough to convert any opera naysayer. Larraín cannily includes a scene much later on in which Jolie and Papadoloulou briefly interact, touching fingers. It makes the background presence of a poster for Luis Bunuel’s 1977 swansong That Obscure Object of Desire – which featured two actresses sharing one role – seem far from coincidental. Perhaps something of a cinephile Easter egg? Who’s to say.

Elsewhere, Jolie portrays Callas’ introduction to Greek tycoon Aristotle Onassis (Haluk Bilginer), a charismatic older man who enjoys stealing his prizes. He would of course later marry one Jacqueline Lee Kennedy (and Maria rather clumsily teases a surprise crossover that never quite materialises; we’re to settle for JFK instead).

These flashback sequences – whether captured in grizzled 8mm or in starkly chic black and white – offer a collage of elegance. With jet-setting visits to opera houses and private yachts, it is Larraín at his most debonair and luxurious. Whole sections of the film recall – most fondly – the tapestry-like quality of Jackie. And it feels like a concerted effort from the creative team to return to that film’s successful modes of evocation.

Screenwriter Knight doesn’t quite get away Scott-free. In a bold and possibly foolhardy move, Knight and Larraín have Callas’ medication made flesh and molded into the form of a fantasy documentarian named Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee). While it is useful to have some substantive portrayal of Callas’ plight with hallucinations, the device feels somewhat at-odds with the graceful picture that surrounds it. It’s the only real hangnail Maria has. And while it’s written with more restraint than certain passages of Spencer, it still abuts the broader sensibility, keeping Maria from ascending to the same consistent heights of Jackie.

But oh it comes awfully close. Knight’s dialogue is frequently sharp, allowing Jolie some delectable deliveries. And, as intimated, the entirety of Maria is a dream to look at (Edward Lachman once again proving himself one of the very best cinematographers out there, especially when he captures falling light). For the virtuoso singing, Larraín and the sound department have layered and intertwined recordings of Callas with Jolie’s own vocal efforts, meaning that the switch from one performer to the other doesn’t jar grotesquely. Purists may decry the choice, but it works to maintain the illusion of one incredible voice.

In spite of a couple of rash or uncouth decisions, Maria is a stirringly soulful picture. It feels as though its all around you, all at once. Like moving through a cathedral. Such is Larraín’s reverence for his subject. You don’t even mind his bias, so intoxicating is his passion. This, one senses, is the most personal of the three pictures for its creator. It’s also sweepingly tragic and unapologetically melancholic. In other words, yes, fittingly operatic.