Whether she’s trapped in the flat, digital picture of a Marvel movie or buried under showy prosthetics and CGI in a Disney franchise, Angelina Jolie has always been a star able to transcend hindrances that would easily hold lesser actors back. Still, watching someone with such sheer magnetism fight against intellectual property’s many constraints feels disheartening. Films like “The Eternals” and “Maleficent” still sport Jolie’s typical charisma, but their stories are often too thin and tidy to showcase what she can really do. Jolie hasn’t had a chance to demonstrate the full scope of her talents in far too long, which is precisely why her star turn in Pablo Larraín’s “Maria” is bound to turn heads: It’s a performance that only someone of true, old-fashioned movie star caliber could pull off.
Larraín’s film, which screens at the New York Film Festival before a select theatrical run starting Nov. 27 and a Netflix release Dec. 11, finishes the director’s triptych of contemplative, women-focused biopics, this time honing in on Greek opera legend Maria Callas. “Maria” is just as thoughtful, studied, and occasionally peculiar as 2016’s “Jackie” and 2021’s “Spencer.” But in his latest, Larrain’s ruminations on a more traditional idea of celebrity are less stirring than those quiet portraits of figures like Jacqueline Kennedy and Princess Diana, whose lives and careers sparked controversy because of their proximity to politics. “Maria” is still a tragedy in its own right, just one that finds its subject with greater control over her own fate. That autonomy keeps “Maria” from being a thematic gut punch about predestination like Larraín’s other outings, but Jolie’s stunning central performance makes up for what the film’s story lacks. Watching her is a singularly captivating, intimate experience, like strolling around a museum after hours, when no one else is there, free to admire the renowned beauty and artistry at your own pace.
How fitting, then, that “Maria” begins like a gallery view of the mythic soprano’s storied history. We’re treated to glimpses of a life—career, fame and adoration—as it flits past our eyes. Callas’ was an existence so full of elegance that Larraín’s images threaten to spill out from the screen, unable to contain such splendor. That is, until we find ourselves in September 1977, with Callas’ lifeless body splayed out on the floor, utterly devoid of all the grandeur. It’s a stark but necessary contrast given how regularly Callas’ incredible career was dogged by sadness and scandal.
Like Larrain’s other films focused on notable figures of the recent past, “Maria” is meditative and slow, a delicate examination of a public figure at her most formative impasse. Screenwriter Steven Knight jumps back to the final week of Callas’ life, during which the singer was entrenched in isolation following the decline of her beloved voice. With her instrument out of whack, Maria is separated from the gift that gave her life purpose, relying on her loyal housemaid Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher) and her assistant Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino) to keep her mind in shape. But at this stage of her life, Callas’ mental stability has become questionable. “What’s real and what’s not real are my business,” Maria tells Ferruccio early in the film. “Doctors label revelation as an illness, when in fact, it is a sanity they don’t understand.”
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Every line of dialogue falls gingerly from Jolie’s lips as if it were uttered by a happy mistake.
Maria is inundated by visions, products of her steady mental wane and the abuse of prescription medication. But Knight, Larraín, and Jolie are all careful to avoid reducing Callas to an over-the-top ableist stereotype or portraying her as the ruthless prima donna tigress the media painted her as. Sure, Maria strides around her massive Paris apartment, stowing pills in the pockets of her jackets and dressing gowns, and asking her piano to be moved for no other reason than to give her day a change of scenery. But we understand that she is in control, even if her hallucinations are worsening. She envisions her sedative brand, Mandrex, as a young journalist (Kodi Smit-McPhee), to whom she gives unfiltered access. When the personification of Mandrex asks her why she’s allowing him to make a film about the end of her life, Maria tells him that she wants an aria as part of her third act.
Every line of dialogue falls gingerly from Jolie’s lips as if it were uttered by a happy mistake. She does not mimic Callas’ voice and mannerisms, but exudes all of their diva energy. In this case (and in most), that’s highly preferable. Biopics should not be a lookalike contest, where audiences gawk at the screen, inspecting the performance with opera binoculars to see just how closely an actor can come to mirroring their real-life subject. With so much of Callas’ later life happening away from the public eye, Jolie is free to create her own myth, and she brings an effervescence to Maria that is nothing short of hypnotic. This is the striking presence that a film about Maria Callas necessitates, and Jolie commands the camera just as Callas commanded her audience.
Angelina Jolie as Maria Callas in “Maria” (Pablo Larraín/Netflix)“Maria” stresses Callas’ penchant for adulation to remind the viewer of how crippling it can be when stardom fades away. But it wasn’t just the absence of her adoring public that hurt Callas, an inability to use her preeminent voice scarred her just as much. Knight’s screenplay deftly equates talent to torture, allowing us to understand Callas’ pain without vividly depicting her suffering. When her voice fails her, it’s heartbreaking to watch. Here is a legend who spent her life subservient to her art, unable to conjure the miracles that defined her existence. But when Knight’s screenplay burrows into the unearthed memories tormenting Maria, he strikes a powerful connection between trauma and art that helps the film sing as it nears its finish line.
If the rest of “Maria” could retain that grasp, it would be a closer contender for one of the best films of the year. While it’s certainly a compelling look at its subject, the movie suffers from the spoils of the same vanity Callas was plagued by. “Maria” is remarkably shot, shining with vivid yellows and greens against statuesque Parisian architecture, but it spends too much time bathing in its beauty. Flashbacks of Callas’ romances—most notably with the insistent Aristotle Onassis (Haluk Bilginger)—creep over the film like a slow, champagne-soaked, jazzy haze. What initially seems like seduction begins to feel like sedation, and the movie nearly loses itself in its drowsy rhythm.
That is until Maria opens her mouth to sing, and that marvelous, unmistakable voice fills the room once more. While Jolie studied opera for seven months to prepare for the role, her vocals are mixed into Callas’ recordings, though that doesn’t make these sequences any less impressive as Jolie radiantly recreates the stoic force that made Callas a legend. This level of singing, which requires such precision and technicality, is so undeniable that it reminds us of why opera is such a treasured, traditional art: You don’t have to understand it to appreciate it. An opera doesn’t require an intricate plot or dazzling tricks, only that its stars enthrall their audience with their breathtaking talent in the moments that count. The same goes for “Maria,” where a comprehensive narrative would only distract from Jolie’s sensational performance. The film may lull periodically, but all else fades away when the prima donna takes center stage for her aria.