Entertainment
Commentary: What Netflix's 'Maria' gets so wrong about Maria Callas
Here we go again.
In Hollywood’s ongoing cheerless attempts to contest the joy of music by cutting stellar classical musicians down to size, “Maria” joins the curt parade of “Tár” and “Maestro.” The new biopic of Maria Callas follows the takedowns of fictional conductor Lydia Tár and larger-than-life Leonard Bernstein with a dramatization of the most compelling singer I’ve ever encountered — live, on recording, on video anywhere. (I’m hardly alone in this estimation.) All three films have this in common: Over-the-top musicians are tragically brought down by their own hubris and turn monstrous. Each is a victim of her or his celebrity — something celebrity-incubating Hollywood happens to be pretty good at.
“Maria,” which began streaming on Netflix this week, focuses on Callas’ reclusive last years when she was, if you care to believe this account, pitifully self-destructive. She had lost her voice and her lover, and she had nothing to live for. She could not recapture the mythic La Callas nor make peace with the woman, Maria. It’s an ignominious tale of woe and quixotic temperament.
The gloomy film begins and ends with Callas’ solitary death. In typical flashback fashion, we witness her decline and delusions as she tries to recapture her voice, the attentions of Aristotle Onassis and the adoration of the public. Flashbacks mix in bits and pieces of documentary footage, glimpsing a few highlights of her life.
Throughout, the improbable Angelina Jolie captures Callas’ style in her dress, her public manner and her movements. She sports to glossy perfection sensational ‘50s and ‘60s hairdos. She’d make a great plastic doll of Callas.
The real Callas was striking in a different way. Her face didn’t have Jolie’s spectacularly exact proportions. In fact, Callas made herself out of what she considered to be an ugly duckling. When she first appeared onstage in the late 1940s, she immediately demonstrated a voice to be reckoned with and a fervent vocal theatricality. But she was a large woman and said to be somewhat awkward onstage. Director Franco Zeffirelli described her as big in every way — big eyes, big nose, big mouth, big body — and compared her to the Statue of Liberty.
Seeing the 1953 film “Roman Holiday” made Callas determined to look like its diminutive star, Audrey Hepburn. Callas lost 80 pounds in a single year. She had already been working with great directors, especially Luchino Visconti, but now she had the physical means to go much further and invent the modern concept of opera as drama. Her voice had lost some of its sheen, and those who disliked her blamed the weight loss, which wasn’t the case. It was, instead, her compulsion to put all of her being into a raging theatrical intensity.
On the surface, Callas had become an icon of elegance, but now she could make her big eyes, big mouth and big voice penetrate like nothing anyone in opera had ever experienced. She transformed not just herself but the art form.
Callas’ career in opera lasted less than two decades and was over by 1965. She was only 42 when she sang her last staged opera performance, a production of “Tosca” at Covent Garden in London. People came up with all kinds of reasons why her voice went so early. Only after her death 12 years later did we learn that she suffered from dermatomyositis, which causes muscle weakness that can affect the vocal chords and likely also led to her heart failure at age 53.
Jolie’s voice has been slightly mixed with Callas’ in such a way that it ever so slightly sanitizes Callas’. Joile’s speaking voice sounds almost like Callas’ but without the hint of Callas’ New York accent. She lacks, crucially, Callas’ disarming smile. None of this might matter so much had director Pablo Larrain concentrated less on supplying glamour shots of Jolie.
The film is called “Maria” for a reason. Callas’ was, indeed, a life of conflicts between the artist who grandly became La Callas and the woman who was Maria. But you need to understand both. She undoubtedly stopped singing because of her physical condition. Still, her greatness gave her a remarkable capacity for transcending biology. Yet her need to become more of the woman she wanted to be drove her obsession with the ultimately toxic Onassis.
I saw just how exceptional the transcendent part of this complex equation could be in her 1974 ill-fated comeback tour with tenor Giuseppe di Stefano. A graduate student at the time, I had a top balcony seat at War Memorial Opera House in San Francisco. The acoustics are best up there, and I bought a pair of opera glasses just to see her.
She sounded pretty bad. The voice was gone. But not the intensity, not the presence. This became, in fact, some of the greatest singing I’ve ever encountered. She seemed at the same time superhuman and a super-suffering human. You cannot possibly experience the wizardry of Callas and the music becoming one on the awful underground recordings of the concert found on YouTube and elsewhere.
Better to watch Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1969 film “Medea,” in which Callas stars in a purely acting role. Like Larrain with Jolie, Pasolini was fascinated by Callas’ face, particularly her nose. He scrutinizes her expressivity, its extraordinary power. She no longer needs opera, it’s inside her. Pasolini uses music as though he were filming a Noh play but with masks off. The fact that this film has so little regard in the opera world and even among Callas fanciers demonstrates how, if you pay close enough attention, she remains ahead of her time.
Her radical sophistication and courage were in further evidence in 1974 when she addressed a Verdi musicology conference in Chicago. She appeared dignified, eloquent, unsentimental and downright revolutionary. She had no need to waste her time with musicologists and their talk of neglected early Verdi masterpieces. Knowing what mattered and what didn’t, she suggested that they take the best bits from those operas and make something modern and meaningful. She also blamed Puccini for making singers and audiences lazy, because he wasn’t challenging enough.
A year later, Onassis died, which it is said to have caused Callas to lose interest in life. He had left Callas, whom he never married, to wed Jacqueline Kennedy, but the flame burned in Callas to the end. Her last two years were obviously very difficult, what with drugs, depression and dermatomyositis, all of which come across as tawdry in “Maria.” I wonder whether she became a recluse in part because patients suffering from dermatomyositis are supposed to stay out of sunlight. Her body was failing her.
A more affectionate and fanciful portrait of Callas in those years is the basis of Zeffirelli’s 2002 biopic, “Callas Forever,” starring Fanny Ardant and Jeremy Irons as her agent. Zeffirelli had worked with Callas and knew her well. To best understand Callas, turn to Tony Palmer’s 2007 documentary “Callas,” in which Zeffirelli is particularly illuminating.
All the adoration, the glamour, the high life was, for Callas, a purposeful life of bread and roses. Rather, her art had always been the way she boldly filled such emptiness with incredible meaning. “Maria,” on the other hand, offers little more than pathos and poses.
Movie Reviews
‘Evil Dead Burn’ Movie Review – Spotlight Report
Sam Raimi‘s Evil Dead films and TV series are a fine example of creativity within constraints, playfulness, self-awareness and outright slapstick comedy. The Evil Dead series after Raimi is very, very different. Starting with 2013’s Evil Dead by Fede Álvarez, followed by Evil Dead Rise by Lee Cronin, the new series takes itself more seriously and emphasises pure horror, violence and gore. Some have considered this praiseworthy as it avoids being a mere retread of the old films, but the reception has been mixed.
In Sébastien Vanicek’s Evil Dead Burn, Alice (Souheila Yacoub) loses her abusive husband (George Pullar) to a motor accident. When she goes home to stay with his family, the consequences of the work of their dead grandfather researching the Necronomicon and the Deadites manifest in terrible ways. One by one, the family are turned into the Evil Dead.
Horror is a genre that depends on you relating to the protagonists so you care what happens to them. In the case of Evil Dead Burn, Yacoub does a decent job with the character she’s given, but the gonzo horror elements manifest so early in the film that she may as well be collateral damage in the onslaught, especially as the film’s early point of view is that of her brother-in-law (Hunter Doohan).
Fans of gory violence will get their money’s worth here, but there’s not a lot going on besides that. The film is a descent into madness and carnage that is so resolutely unpleasant that, after some of the early kills, it becomes numbing. It’s hard to gather what the tone is supposed to be, with lots of callbacks to the early films’ style by setting up inevitable kills with Chekhov’s weed trimmer, Chekhov’s fork and every other potentially dangerous prop the camera lingers on. The family are all deeply unpleasant at some level and so their deaths register as meaningless. Yes, the film has the obligatory something to say about how our tendency to ignore domestic abuse creates demons that destroy families, but then absolutely panders to bloodlust by absolutely revelling in some of the most extreme violence imaginable between family members (and a pet). To say this is not a film for the sensitive is to understate things considerably. This is a film that absolutely earns its content guidance warnings.
Is there any comedy? Some, but it feels out of place given the absolute brutality inflicted on the cast. While most of the other films were self-aware about setting up a ludicrously grisly end for a villain as a payoff, in Evil Dead Burn,the kills have very little flair. It’s also hard to know what the rules for getting rid of a Deadite are, as some of them are still upright and chatty after losing most of the contents of their skull and some are dispatched by the repeated application of a blunt object to the head. Towards the end, a McGuffin is added to make the kills final, but before that, who knows?
Should you watch Evil Dead Burn,? It certainly gets vocal reactions from audiences in a cinema, and if you’re a gorehound you’ll be in for a ride. If you’re a horror fan, it’s certainly a horror film, but violent instead of scary. If you’re just a fan of cinema who likes good films whether or not they’re horror films, then this will be an alienating watch. In Evil Dead Rise the decay of the family was more than background noise and factored into the circumstances of the individual deaths, but not here. It has slight pretences of being a film with Themes and Ideas, but in the end it just feels like an excuse to serve up limbs being mutilated, skulls being crushed and any number of stabbings, slicings and gougings rendered with psychopathic visual fidelity. If that’s what you’re after, that’s what it’s got.
Entertainment
‘Children of Blood and Bone’ author won’t see film after feud with star Amandla Stenberg
Tomi Adeyemi, the author of the bestselling fantasy “Children of Blood and Bone,” isn’t planning to see the forthcoming film adaptation — even though she co-wrote it.
Over the weekend, the Nigerian American author posted a video on TikTok addressing fans who have been asking her the same question, “Why don’t you post about the adaptation of your first film adaptation anymore?”
“There is a reason I will not post anything about the adaptation of my work,” the author wrote in what appear to be screenshots of a group chat. “I have not seen the film, and I will not watch it.”
The adaptation of the first installment of Adeyemi’s “Legacy of Orïsha” fantasy trilogy is slated to hit theaters in January 2027. Gina Prince-Bythewood — who wrote and directed “Love & Basketball” and helmed “The Woman King” — is directing. The film stars Amandla Stenberg, Thuso Mbedu, Tosin Cole, Damson Idris, Cynthia Erivo, Lashana Lynch, Regina King, Idris Elba, Chiwetel Ejiofor and Viola Davis.
Alongside the screenshots of her comments in the group chat, she shared a February 2025 exchange with Stenberg that shows the author severing ties with the actor.
Adeyemi shared only her final message to Stenberg, which reads, “Do not ever use my name in an interview or video again. Do not text me. Do not call me.” That exchange is followed by a notification that she blocked Stenberg, who plays Princess Amari in the upcoming fantasy flick.
The message from Stenberg that preceded Adeyemi’s reply is not shown in full.
Stenberg, who played Rue in “Hunger Games,” Starr Carter in “The Hate U Give” and, recently, Verosha “Osha” Aniseya and Mae-ho “Mae” Aniseya in Disney’s “Star Wars” series “The Acolyte,” had been getting flack from readers of the series, who claimed colorism was an issue while casting the movie.
In February 2025, Stenberg posted a since-deleted nine-minute TikTok addressing the controversy and told followers that Adeyemi had given the actor her blessing when cast as the series’ princess.
“I am four months into training for ‘Children of Blood and Bone’ and I am getting my ass whooped,” Stenberg joked in the video, per BET.
“This year was mostly defined for me, honestly, by contending with what it felt like to receive racist death threats just for existing in the ‘Star Wars’ universe, and that was a really difficult thing for me to move through,” she continued. “But honestly, it feels so much more painful for me to feel like I’m at odds with my own community.”
Stenberg said that she considers her skin tone when navigating her career choices and would “never go after a role” she didn’t feel well suited for. “I know that colorism is an insidious system that relentlessly impacts every facet of entertainment.”
The actor continued that it was actually a meeting with the “Children of Blood and Bone” author that gave her the confidence to pursue the role.
“I had the opportunity to meet Tomi, the novelist, for the first time. … And she goes, ‘Amandla, I want you to know that when you were a little girl and you were cast as Rue in “The Hunger Games,” and people said that Rue’s death wouldn’t be as sad because you’re a Black girl — that inspired me to write this series so that Black girls like you and Black girls of all shades could have a story written about them,’” Stenberg said in the video. “We started crying, and I said to myself, ‘God wants me here.’”
Representatives for Stenberg, Adeyemi and Prince-Bythewood did not immediately respond to The Times’ request for comment.
Movie Reviews
‘Night Nurse’ Review: A Caretaker Explores Her Kink for Elder Abuse in the Year’s Strangest Erotic Thriller
There are any number of erotic thrillers in which rich old men are robbed blind and/or left for dead, but Georgia Bernstein’s admirably bizarre “Night Nurse” might be the first movie of its kind where elder abuse is the source — and possible subject— of its erotic thrills. If there are others, I’m not sure I want to know.
But this woozy debut feature doesn’t rely on its audience being turned on by the relationship between a nubile caretaker and her dementia-addled patient. Their psychosexual bond, meanwhile, hinges on cold-calling vulnerable old people under the guise of a grandchild in financial distress. (“I’m in trouble, nana, send me $10,000 or I’ll be left to rot in jail!” That sort of thing). With its slim wisp of a premise stretched into a Strickland-esque dreamscape that substitutes kink for conflict, the film itself hardly seems convinced by its own wrinkled lust — all desperate kisses and non-touching poses of subservience. More important to Bernstein is what that lust reveals about her characters’ deepest needs, specifically how their need to care and be cared for can be as easily perverted as any other form of desire.
As moody and weightless as the noir-accented score that blows through the movie like a curlicue gust of wind in an old cartoon (credit to musicians Sam Clapp and Steven Jackson), “Night Nurse” lacks the pulse required for its stray feelings to come alive. Still, the film ambiently taps into the latent eroticism of teasing out the distance between how you see yourself and who you really are. Bernstein plays with that distance like a telephone cord wrapped around her fingers, and Eleni — played by the excellent newcomer Cemre Paksoy, powerfully helpless — only frays even more as the receiver is brought near the hook. “Everything I did before today wasn’t me,” the nurse tells co-worker Mona (Eleonore Hendricks) after starting a new job at an Illinois retirement home. “It was somebody else.”
What she did before today remains unexplored (specifically, what she did to get herself fired from her last gig), but I’m guessing she’s probably changed less than she thought. There’s a faraway flicker in her eyes the moment she catches the vibe between Mona and Douglas (a ribald and elusive Bruce McKenzie), a white-haired seventysomething who shows early signs of dementia but still commands an undiminished sexual energy. “I’m not an invalid,” he coos as Mona bathes him in the tub, to which she replies, “yes, you are,” in a supplicant tone that hints at a rich history of power games between them.
Later that same night, Douglas will force Eleni to call a stranger, pretend that she’s their granddaughter, and ask for money — he’ll wrap the phone cord around the nurse’s body as she talks and shove her against the wall as they kiss. She’s into it. So into it that he has to clarify the terms of his whole deal: “If you’re looking for a pogo stick, I’m really not your guy.” But Eleni isn’t looking for anything to bounce on. She just wants to be needed, and maybe to need someone in return. Someone who will see her for who she really is and allow her the fantasy of pretending she isn’t being herself when she cons vulnerable strangers out of their money — when she exploits how enthralled those strangers are by the care they have for their loved ones.
“Night Nurse” doesn’t belabor the psychology, as Bernstein prefers to express her story through heavy-lidded suggestion. Somnambulating from the moment it starts, the film moves through a series of beautifully arranged poses that stretch their latent meaning thin across the surface (Lidia Nikonova’s cinematography lacquers every shot with a seductive dreaminess). We see Douglas smoking in a lawn chair with Mona and Eleni curled around his feet. Eleni riding in the backseat of a convertible as the wind blows through her curls. The full staff of nurses — all of them under Douglas’ sway — stumbling around his condo in a state of zonked out bliss as they roll on the prescription drugs they’ve stolen from the residents.
Once you’ve seen one shot of this movie, you’ve practically seen them all, at least until things escalate during a rushed and unsatisfying third act that forces Eleni into an honest confrontation with herself. People will do just about anything to feel needed — they’ll give whatever degree of care allows them to receive it in return. “Night Nurse” understands that desire, but remains far too numb to treat it.
Grade: C+
The Independent Film Company will relase “Night Nurse” in theaters on Friday, July 10.
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