Movie Reviews
Maria movie review & film summary (2024) | Roger Ebert
Even if he doesn’t exactly go there in his cinema, Pablo Larraín often obliquely flirts with horror. The hints were there in the fanatical nature of the titular “Tony Manero” character, a dancer unnervingly obsessed with John Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever.” And they were all the more obvious in his gorgeous political satire “El Conde”—one of 2023’s boldest cinematic outings that imagined Pinochet as a 250-year-old vampire. To the careful eye, the director’s genre exploits elevated much of his ingenious, gradually heartbreaking psychodramas “Jackie” and “Spencer,” too, his pair of otherworldly films on the troubled lives of legendary 20th century women.
Now with “Maria,” about the final days of the iconic American-Greek soprano Maria Callas, Larraín turns his “historic women” movies into a near-perfect trilogy, giving us a stunning conclusion to his series. Upon seeing “Maria” for the first time months ago at the Telluride Film Festival (and revisiting it several times thereafter), this critic pondered what made “Maria” not only the gentlest, but the best of the three. And the answer was perhaps always obvious—as an opera connoisseur, Larraín is proudly (and often, sentimentally) protective of one of the artform’s most groundbreaking singers throughout “Maria,” a feature that was prominent neither in “Jackie,” nor “Spencer.”
It’s not that the psycho-dramatic dreads we feel in those former two films aren’t a part of “Maria.” For everyone who’s ever feared losing a big part of what defines them, and for everyone who’s opened their hearts to something they love so widely and unrestrictedly, only to see various forms of cruelty sneak in, this generous and beautiful picture ought to be a gut-punch. But you can often sense that Larraín, among the most intuitive filmmakers working today, almost wants to shield Callas from the harmful grip of those cruelties. While her end is inevitable in the film—Callas died in 1977 at the young age of 53—you will be disarmed, even moved to tears, experiencing Larraín’s care for her in “Maria,” which is essentially a compassionate ghost story on the beloved things we lose, as they continue to deteriorate and slip through our fingers against our will.
In a queenly performance of poise and mystique, Angelina Jolie plays Callas with an ethereal presence, grasping the intense grief of the once-in-a-generation singer who’s been losing her voice. In the beginning, Jolie—through Ed Lachman’s glorious, high-contrast black-and-white lensing—looks straight at the camera, as her defiant Callas sings “Ave Maria” from Verdi’s Otello, perhaps both as a little prayer to her past, and as a reckoning with her present. The voice we hear (both in this scene, and in the several arias we’d get to hear later on) belongs to Callas for sure. (At least for the most past, as Larraín reportedly has mixed in drips of Jolie’s voice in there, too.) But that doesn’t mean Jolie isn’t doing her own singing—she is, as evidenced in the way that she stretches her facial muscles and engages her entire body in the process. But she is subtle in those signifiers, as one has to be while embodying Callas. The famed soprano was effortless in navigating her range and hitting some impossibly high notes—music simply and silkily poured out of her, an artistic flair stylishly internalized and portrayed by Jolie.
A perceptive performer who can sometimes be a tad cold-to-the-touch, Jolie gives her career-best performance as she steers Callas’s ups and downs during the singer’s final days, almost all of it empathetically imagined by Larraín and screenwriter Steven Knight. She floats around her grand Paris apartment, an elegant and expansive space of gothic hues that envelopes Callas in a cocoon of claustrophobia. (Production Designer Guy Hendrix Dyas miraculously marries realism with wistfulness in his work.) She seeks the acceptance of her devoted staff, particularly Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher) and Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino), who bring much warmth and humor into the movie. She turns inward and has conversations with her own self when on a cocktail of medications—chiefly, Mandrax, inventively personified by Kodi Smit-McPhee. Elsewhere, she fends off nosy press and entitled fans. Meanwhile, she remembers both the glamor and the pain that she felt through a thunderous, rewarding, and sometimes heartbreaking past, one that eventually launched her into a rocky romance with the Greek-Argentine tycoon Aristotle Onassis (the terrific Turkish actor Haluk Bilginer). And she does all that sporting Massimo Cantini Parrini’s breathtaking costumes, both exact replicas of her known pieces, and custom designs made for the movie.
In honoring her journey, Larraín contrasts the film’s Paris scenes of gorgeous colors and locales with Maria’s black-and-white remembrances—not only trying to get to know La Callas but also hoping to infuse anyone who might be watching with the kind of affection he clearly feels for the diva. Dare to open your heart to his quest, and you might just feel that tenderness in a deep sense, even if you aren’t an opera connoisseur. And that’s perhaps the grandest miracle of this film—like Callas herself aimed to do, “Maria” brings opera to the masses, not as a gimmick or high-minded endeavor, but as an act of generosity and understanding that art belongs to everyone who wants to appreciate it. In that, as Larraín purposely and studiously braids in arias into his narrative—full songs for the most part, and not frustratingly chopped up snippets—and gives you a taste of everything from Bellini to Puccini to Donizetti, you’ll feel like you’ve had a full musical meal, with a hunger for a second helping.
Will you get to know Callas by the end of “Maria”? Or will she remain as a complete mystery? Rest assured that’s hardly the point of Larraín’s cinematic ode. The reward is the beautiful and heart-swelling two hours you’ll have the privilege of spending with La Callas, alongside a director who wants nothing more than to share his immense love for her.
In theaters now, on Netflix December 11th.
Desert Warrior, 2026.
Directed by Rupert Wyatt.
Starring Anthony Mackie, Aiysha Hart, Ben Kingsley, Ghassan Massoud, Sharlto Copley, Sami Bouajila, Lamis Ammar, Géza Röhrig, Numan Acar, Nabil Elouahabi, Hakeem Jomah, Ramsey Faragallah, Saïd Boumazoughe, and Soheil Bostani.
SYNOPSIS:
An honorable and mysterious rogue, known as Hanzala, makes himself an enemy of the Emperor Kisra after he helps a fugitive king and princess in the desert.
With aspirations of being a historical epic harkening back to the sword and sandal blockbusters of yesteryear, Rupert Wyatt’s seventeenth-century Arabia tale is about as generic and epically dull as one would expect from a film plainly titled Desert Warrior. Yes, there appear to be real locations here, and there are some admittedly sweeping shots of various tribes storming into battle on horseback and camels, but it’s all in service of a mess that is both miscast and questionable as the work of a filmmaking team of mostly white creatives.
The story of Emperor Kisraa (Ben Kingsley, a distracting presence even with only one or two scenes) rounding up women from other tribes to be his concubines, which inevitably became the catalyst for a revolution led by Princess Hind (Aiysha Hart), uniting all the divided clans and strategizing battle plans for flanking and poisoning, is undeniably ripe for cinematic treatment. The problem is that what’s here from Rupert Wyatt (and screenwriters Erica Beeney, Gary Ross, and David Self) is less than nothing in the primary creative process; no one seems to have a connection to Arabic heritage or culture, but they have made a flat-out boring film that is often narratively incoherent.
Following the death of her father and escaping the clutches of oppression, the honorable Princess Hind joins forces with a troubled, nameless bandit played by Anthony Mackie (he totally belongs here…), who seems to be here solely to give the movie some star power boost without running the risk of white savior accusations. Whatever the case may be, it’s jarring, but not quite as disorienting as how little screen time he has despite being billed as the lead and how little characterization he has. It is, however, equally disorienting as some of the other names that show up along the way.
As for the other factions, Princess Hind talks to them one by one, giving the film an adventure feel that fails to capitalize on using beautiful scenery in striking or visually poignant ways at almost every turn; the leaders of these tribes also often have no character. There also isn’t much of an understanding of why these tribes are at odds with one another. This movie is filled with dialogue that consistently and shockingly amounts to vague nothingness. Nevertheless, each tribe doesn’t take much convincing to begin with, meaning that not only is the film repetitive, but it’s also lifeless when characters are in conversation.
That Desert Warrior does occasionally spring to life, and a bloated 2+ running time is a small miracle. This is typically accomplished through the occasional fight scene between factions that also serves to demonstrate Princess Hind coming into her own as a warrior. When the tribes are united in a massive-scale battle, and that plan is unfolding step by step, one certainly sees why someone would want to tell this story and pull it off with such spectacle. However, this film is as dry as the desert itself.
Flickering Myth Rating – Film: ★ ★ / Movie: ★ ★
Robert Kojder
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=embed/playlist
‘4’, the opening track on Richard D James’ (Aphex Twin) self titled 1996 album is a piece of music that beautifully balances the chaotic with the serene, the oppressive and the freeing. It’s a trick that James has pulled off multiple times throughout his career and it is a huge part of what makes him such an iconic and influential artist. Many people have laid the “next Aphex Twin” label on musicians who do things slightly different and when you actually hear their music you realise that, once again, the label is flawed and applied with a lazy attitude. Why mention this? Well, it turns out we’ve been looking for James’ heir apparent in the wrong artform. We’ve so zoned in on music that we’ve not noticed that another Celtic son of Cornwall is rewriting an art form with that highwire balancing act between chaos and beauty. That artist is writer, director and composer Mark Jenkin who over his last two feature films has announced himself as an idiosyncratic voice who is creating his very own language within the world of cinema. Jenkin’s films are often centred around coastal towns or islands and whilst they are experimental or even unsettling, there is always a big heart at the centre of the narrative. A heart that cares about family, tradition, culture, and the pull of ‘home’. Even during the horror of 2022’s brilliant Enys Men you were anchored by the vulnerability and determination of its main protagonist.
This month sees the release of Jenkin’s latest feature film, Rose of Nevada, which is set in a fractured and diminished Cornish coastal town. One day the fishing boat of the film’s title arrives back in harbour after being missing for thirty years. The boat is unoccupied. And frankly that is all the information you are going to get because to discuss any more plot would be unfair on you and disrespectful to Jenkin and the team behind the film. You the viewer should be the one who decides what it is about because thematically there are so many wonderful threads to pull on. This writer’s opinions on what it is about have ranged from a theme of sacrifice for the good of a community to the conflict within when part of you wants to run away from your roots whilst the other half longs to stay and be a lifelong part of its tapestry. Is it about Brexit? Could be. Is it about our own relationships with time and our curation of memory? Could be. Is it about both the positives and negatives of nostalgia? Could be. As a side note, anyone in their mid-40s, like me, who came of age in the 1990s will certainly find moments of warm recognition. Is the film about ghosts and how they haunt families? Could be…I think you get the point.
The elements that make the film so well balanced between chaos and calm are many. It is there in the differing performances between the brilliant two lead actors George MacKay and Callum Turner. It is there in the sound design which fluctuates from being unbearably harsh and metallic, to lulling and warm. It is there in the editing where short, sharp close ups on seemingly unimportant factors are counterbalanced with shots that are held for just that little bit too long. For a film set around the sea, it is apt that it can make you feel like you’re rolling on a stomach churning storm one minute, or a calming low tide the next. Dialogue can be front and centre or blurred and buried under static. One shot is bathed in harsh sunlight whilst the next can be drowned in interior shadows.
Rose of Nevada is Mark Jenkin’s most ambitious film to date yet he has not lost a single iota of innovation, singularity of vision or his gift for telling the most human of stories. It is a film that will tell you different things each time you see it and whilst there are moments that can confuse or beguile, there is so much empathy and love that it can leave you crying tears of emotional understanding. It is chaotic. It is beautiful. It is life……
Rose of Nevada is released on the 24th April.
Mark Jenkin Instagram | Threads
Released through the BFI – Instagram | Facebook
Review by Simon Tucker
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