Review: Angelina Jolie glides through ‘Maria’ like an iceberg, but a chilly Callas isn’t enough

As someone who has spent years immersed in the world of opera, I found “Maria” to be a captivating portrayal of a legendary figure whose artistry transcended the boundaries of time and culture. The film’s visual style, with its black-and-white close-ups and haunting imagery, beautifully captured the intensity and passion that Maria Callas brought to her performances.

Maria Callas became widely recognized as the vocalist behind Tosca, Medea, and Carmen – opera’s tragic heroines who endure throughout time. If opera continues to captivate audiences a hundred years from now, it might celebrate Callas, a resilient figure who overcame the Nazi occupation of Greece, scorn at La Scala, harsh media scrutiny across various continents, and a humiliating public scandal. Her downfall, however, was not caused by external forces but rather her own methods of coping: excessive use of tranquilizers and self-starvation.

In my opinion, the film “Maria,” featuring Angelina Jolie, represents director Pablo Larraín’s most recent contribution to his collection of tragic heroines from the 20th century. His previous works like “Jackie” and “Spencer” were not so much about humanizing Jackie Kennedy and Princess Diana as they were about revealing their deep emotional scars. Instead, Larraín delved into the hidden aspects of these public figures to expose their vulnerabilities. Unlike them, Maria Callas was known for her volatile temperament, yet surprisingly, Larraín chooses to preserve her regal demeanor in this portrayal. If she is indeed the grand diva he’s been preparing to depict, Larraín seems content to let her maintain her victory.

This is Callas at the end of her life. Her corpse is the first thing we see onscreen, although cinematographer Edward Lachman has such a dazzling trick of cramming chandeliers into the frame that it takes a minute to spot her body. In the flashbacks that follow, Callas attempts to grandly dismiss liver disease as though it were spoiled wine. She spends most of the film doped up on Quaaludes, which in ’70s Paris were sold under the brand name Mandrax. Screenwriter Steven Knight even has her stroll around with an imaginary character named Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a TV reporter she’s hallucinated into existence in order to feel important. Mandrax tosses her softball questions. She swats them down.

In old interviews with Callas, you might notice that journalists often displayed a rude demeanor towards her. Initially, they’d inquire whether Callas was a monster. Later, they’d provoke her about spending nine years with Aristotle Onassis before he moved on to Jackie O. It seemed as though they sought to test the goddess by trying to make her react negatively.

As a passionate cinephile, I’ve always been captivated by the life and times of Maria Callas, a woman who danced on the edge of scandal and fame. Initially, she skillfully deflected inquiries with a dash of wit. In response to allegations that she hurled a bottle of brandy at a director, she quipped, “Oh, if only I had! What a waste that would have been for the bottle.

Larraín makes a half-hearted attempt to recast Callas as a feminist martyr, alleging, as obliquely as possible, that she was once forced to trade her body to soldiers for cash and food. Biographical dots are unapologetically skipped, including her marriage to a man who doesn’t even merit a name before he’s ditched for Onassis (Haluk Bilginer). Adding to the disorientation, young Callas (Aggelina Papadopoulou) looks nothing like Jolie — not her lips, eyes, nose, jaw, frame, nothing. Yet the casting choice highlights how Callas recast herself in the 1950s, shedding a third of her body mass to transform from a zaftig soprano cliché into a high-fashion sylph (and in the process, sacrificing a bit of her oomph).

In a captivating manner, Callas would envelop herself in a cloak, drawing the attention of the crowd solely towards her. Her immobility had an irresistible allure. All her feelings poured out through her eyes and voice. To prepare for this role, Jolie spent seven months training in opera, and as per Larraín, she sang live on set. What we’re hearing is a blend of her voice with the original one, with concentrations ranging from 1% to 70%. The higher concentrations are likely used in scenes where a retired Callas tests her vocal prowess. To my ears, Jolie sings beautifully, a voice that could steal the show on karaoke night. However, the real Callas’s impact is comparable to a lightning bolt. Larraín attempts to capture this force in his first close-up of Jolie, bare-shouldered and singing directly into the camera in stark black and white. Unfortunately, the simplicity of the shot gives us too much time to observe minor details such as Jolie’s barely moving throat and question if her eyes lacked enough passion.

Jolie was once known for her fiery intensity, and just imagining her iconic smirk from “Girl, Interrupted” in 1999 can still evoke that image. However, after facing tabloid attention herself, she now seems more restrained. In a single instance during the Medea performance, Jolie lets loose with an intense stare that is electrifying. It’s a shame this intensity isn’t present throughout the film. The vibrancy we see again in her at the end of the credits is from old footage of Callas flashing a playful grin, not from any new scenes in the movie.

In the words of Callas, “A song should never be flawless,” she firmly believes. I concur with this sentiment. Some critics even deemed her singing as unattractive, not in the literal sense, but more like how fashionistas strategically incorporate an unexpected, discordant element into their outfits. This contrast keeps things intriguing. Contrarily, Jolie employs perfection as a protective shield. Thus, despite Callas’ passionate assertions that opera is captivating and her character being truly enraptured, Jolie’s performance presents a restrained portrayal of madness.

Larraín occasionally indulges in visually exciting moments, such as a large crowd of Parisians unexpectedly forming into a choir. However, most of the time we are immersed so deeply in Callas’ delusions that it all seems dull. “What is real and what is not real is my concern,” she declares, having manipulated the world to suit her needs.

As a passionate cinephile, I find myself yearning for a more balanced portrayal of Callas by Larraín. His admiration for his artistic peers has perhaps led him to shy away from fully capturing the tempestuous spirit that ignited her artistry. Callas had the power to sing across three octaves, but the film fails to convey this complexity, instead focusing on a single theme.

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2024-11-28 05:01