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Unlike Jackie Kennedy or Princess Diana, director Pablo Larraín’s latest muse, Maria Callas, isn’t exactly a household name—unless you’re one of the opera diehards in the room. But in her time, Callas was nothing short of a mythical presence. She was dubbed “La Davina” or “the Tigress” for her mysticizing stage presence and towering voice. Leonard Bernstein once called her “the Bible of Opera.” Yet, her simplest nickname, “La Callas,” is what underscored her singularity in the world of opera.
Like Jackie (2016) and Spencer (2021), Maria zeroes in on an influential woman in the 20th century reckoning with tragic circumstances; here, he chooses Callas’s final pill-fueled days in her glamorous Paris apartment.
Maria takes a page from Larraín’s previous films, offering an impressionistic exploration of Callas’s inner world rather than a straightforward dramatization. It worked (albeit only partially) for the household names. But following Angelina Jolie’s turn as La Callas, we’re left with a version of the legendary soprano that feels hollow. The tragedy of her vocal decline, drug use, and public persona doesn’t quite land, likely because the details of her life aren’t etched into the zeitgeist. Instead, what should feel extremely human teeters on caricature.
In no way is this Jolie’s fault. Larraín chose a solidly niche subject and appears to have overcorrected. The flashbacks are particularly heavy-handed: there’s her tumultuous affair with Aristotle Onassis (Haluk Bilginer), an asinine conversation with JFK, and the dazzling memories of her most electric performances. This clumsy storytelling is bolstered by hallucinated interviews with her anthropomorphized pills, Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee). Jolie immerses herself in the role (admittedly giving a hell of a performance), but her talents are squandered, left unsupported by her director (a misstep that may remind you of Jolie in the 1998 film Gia).
You might find yourself rooting for Maria, whether for Jolie’s star power or for the genuinely devastating decline of a star. Still, as the credits roll, footage of the real Callas achieves what Larraín was striving for: a sensitive portrait of complexity under immense, almost unbearable pressure. It begs the question—what are all these biopics trying to achieve? R, 124 min.
Netflix, in limited release in theaters
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