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

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

Maria Callas seized fame as the voice of Tosca, Medea and Carmen, opera’s eternally doomed heroines. If opera still commands audiences a century from now, perhaps it will sing of Callas, a fighter who survived the Nazi occupation of Greece, a heckling at La Scala, a media hazing on multiple continents and a humiliating public affair only to be hobbled by her own coping tools: sedatives and starvation.

“Maria,” starring Angelina Jolie, is director Pablo Larraín’s latest effort to build his own canon of 20th-century tragediennes. His previous melodramas “Jackie” and “Spencer” were fables about two painfully self-aware celebrities at their nadirs: Larraín peeked behind Jacqueline Kennedy‘s and Princess Diana’s facades less to humanize them than to expose their wounds. Callas, however, was infamous for her fits, so Larraín, perversely and underwhelmingly, chooses to respect her imperious veneer. If she’s the big boss-level diva he’s been working up to, Larraín lets her win.

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.

If you’ve seen any old interviews with Callas, you know that actual journalists tended to be rude with her. First, they’d ask Callas if she was a monster. Then they’d needle her about spending nine years with Aristotle Onassis only to get dumped for the future Jackie O. They needed to prick the goddess to see if she bled.

Early on, Callas parried these inquisitions with humor. Accused of hurtling a bottle of brandy at a director, she replied: “I wish I did. It would be a shame for the bottle.” As Callas got older, though, she got stiffer, and that’s the version we’re staring at here. Regal, guarded and stubborn, Jolie plays Callas as a lonely 50-something who rejected love, fame, joy and music and won’t fight that hard to get them back. Her character arc is just a blueprint plan of one; from scene to scene, you’re never sure whether she’s going to take action. Callas wants to be adored but she doesn’t want to be known. Her exhausted housekeepers Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino) and Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher) speak volumes with every silent, fearful look, and when they get too personal with her, Callas commands them to move the piano as punishment.

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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).

Callas could fold herself in a cloak and force an audience to focus on her. Her stillness was magnetic. All the emotions flooded out through her eyes and throat. Jolie trained in opera for seven months to prepare for the role and, according to Larraín, did her own singing on set. What we’re hearing is her voice blended into the real one at concentrations that range from 1% to 70% — the latter, I assume, in the scenes when a retired Callas tests her own vocal strength. To my ears, Jolie sounds fantastic, the kind of voice that would knock ’em dead on karaoke night. But peak Callas hits the senses like a lightning strike. Larraín tries to capture that power in his first close-up of Jolie, shoulders bare, singing at the camera in bold black and white. But the starkness of the shot works against him, giving us too much time to notice that Jolie’s throat barely seems to move, to wonder if her eyes shouldn’t have more passion.

Angelina Jolie in the movie “Maria.”

(Netflix)

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Blazing passion used to be Jolie’s whole thing. I could close my eyes right now and see the wicked grin that made her a star in 1999’s “Girl, Interrupted.” But having endured her own tabloid scrutiny, she too has emerged too tightly controlled. Here, there’s only one second in one montage when, during a performance of Medea, Jolie unleashes a hot glare. The moment is so electric that you wish the whole film had that juice. We don’t see Callas that vibrant again until the end credits, and then, it’s archival footage of the real thing flashing a mischievous smile.

“A song should never be perfect,” Callas insists. I agree. Some critics called her singing ugly. Not in the factual sense, because that would be crazy, but closer to how fashionistas know to add one discordant accessory. The clash keeps things interesting. Jolie, however, uses perfection as armor, so no matter how much her Callas insists that opera is intoxicating, no matter how intoxicated her character actually is, her performance is a sober take on madness.

Larraín allows himself the occasional visual thrill, say a throng of Parisians suddenly assembling into a chorus. Otherwise, we’re so deep inside Callas’ delusions that things just feel flat. “What is real and what is not real is my business,” she pronounces, having bent the world to her will.

Oddly, after swooning along with giant aria after giant aria, I left the theater fixating on one of Larraín’s smallest sound-design choices. It comes when Callas, resplendent even in a bathrobe, glides into the kitchen to sing at Bruna while the poor deary cooks her an omelet. The solo goes on forever, long enough to make the point that, yes, Callas had fans clamoring outside the Metropolitan Opera, but she could also be a bit of a bore. And then, mid-song, Larraín adds a tiny clang — the sound of the spatula hitting the pan — to let us know that even in the prima donna’s fiercely protected bubble, her ego doesn’t always trump a plate of eggs.

I wish Larraín had cut Callas down to size more. He’s too protective of his fellow artist to slosh around in the fury that fueled her art. Callas could sing three octaves, but the film is mostly one note.

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‘Maria’

In English and Greek, with subtitles

Rated: R, for some language including a sexual reference

Running time: 2 hours, 4 minutes

Playing: In limited release, Nov. 27

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‘Evil Dead Burn’ Movie Review – Spotlight Report

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‘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).

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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.

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‘Children of Blood and Bone’ author won’t see film after feud with star Amandla Stenberg

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‘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.

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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.

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“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.

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‘Night Nurse’ Review: A Caretaker Explores Her Kink for Elder Abuse in the Year’s Strangest Erotic Thriller

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‘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. 

The Five-Star Weekend series stars D'Arcy Carden as Brooke, Regina Hall as Dru-Ann, Chloë Sevigny as Tatum, Jennifer Garner as Hollis, Gemma Chan as Gigi, shown here posing for a photo

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.

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“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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