Over the past decade, Pablo Larrain has grown from this small name Chilean filmmaker into someone I find intensely reliable. This was due in large part to his film Jackie (2016) which tapped into my affection for First Lady iconography. Even as he delved into well-worn territory, there was a surrealist fever dream baked into the framework of a widow in her early days of mourning. By the time that he announced Spencer (2021) as a companion piece, many were labeling it part of a spiritual trilogy. They hypothesized who the third entry would be. Many landed on Britney Spears as the figure whose misunderstood reputation with the public could make for an artful drama. While I wouldn’t put myself on the list of people excited by that suggestion, it did make me curious to see where things were going.
In an age where biopics have become haggard endorsements, there’s something curious about Larrain. With exception to Ema (2020), every film he’s released since 2016 has owed some facet to history. Most people would cause me to roll my eyes and begrudgingly watch less because I care and more because I wanted to stay in the conversation. The same can’t be said for Larrain, who taps into the heart of cinema and captures what I think the best biopics should have. They were never about accuracy or reverence. They were about conveying an idea, and I would love to think they’re as interwoven with the cinematic technique as they are in Jackie or Spencer. To me, you understand Jacqueline Kennedy and Princess Diana not as public figures, but the sympathetic wounded souls that Larrain sees them as. They’re studies of psychology and endurance and, as I realize in the wake of Maria (2024), locks into the emotional weight of trauma.
Many have questioned why Larrain would end this trilogy with Maria Callas. As someone who doesn’t regularly consume opera, the name means nothing to me. While I was able to hear her music and recognize pieces, I’ve realized that she’s been able to exist through osmosis in pop culture. When commercials use opera, there’s a good chance that they use her voice. It’s here that you become aware of the power of her instrument. When your career rests on how much your body can produce such a commanding voice, it’s terrifying to know you’re at risk of losing it. It would be like a painter never being able to do a brushstroke again. Everyone’s anticipation of this ethereal beauty will cease to be a present-tense phenomenon. No matter how much you try, age plays its cruel game and even if you’re good, you hate yourself because you know you’re not great. To be great is immortal and, as those commercials would suggest, Maria Callas has transcended this mortal coil.
There’s nothing shy about the Callas that Angelina Jolie depicts. Whereas Jackie and Spencer reflect women who are more reserved, often appreciated more for their bashful iconography, Maria is a lot more direct with its intentions. The opera singer has a diva attitude that forces the world to pay attention. As she wanders the streets of Paris, she fantasizes about watching the crowds singing to her. The confidence is astounding, reflecting a woman who clearly has gotten joy out of life. Even as Larrain steps away from the dreamlike aesthetic that defined his prior work, he uses a cinema verite pastiche to reflect reality setting in. Callas seems addicted to building her mythology. She wanders the streets with an interviewer at hand creating a documentary. The question is whether this should be celebration of a woman getting to express herself as she wants, or if is she writing her own obituary. A documentary has that interpretive quality that suggests maybe she’s in the final stages of crafting her video memoir. As her voice fades, she will hand over her legacy to the public. They will speak of her in passing, lacking the anticipation of the next big project.
As someone who dedicates their life to creative pursuits, I found the crux of Maria to be very powerful. Somewhere in the solitude is an artist having to accept their fate. Nobody wants to believe that what they’re creating is fading into irrelevance. As she sits in cafes listening to people play her records, she’s reminded of better days. The smiles on their faces eat at her because she realizes she can’t achieve that anymore. No matter how much she pushes herself, there won’t be a time when her voice reaches that high. Whereas I’m a writer who benefits from less physical strain, Larrain emphasizing the loss of a voice is a poetic way to end this trilogy. In each case, these women have been reaching out to be heard. Maria emphasizes how that message can ripple through time. The only issue is knowing when it’s okay to cease.
As mentioned earlier, the larger connecting tissue of these three films is a shared sense of trauma. In Jackie, it was the loss of a husband during one of America’s most notorious assassinations. In Spencer, it was somewhere towards the middle of a traumatic episode where Princess Diana feels isolated and disconnected from her own identity. For Maria, it’s the end of trauma. Even as Larrain cleverly ties his latest back to the first (hint: Aristotle Onasis is the link), there’s the painful reality of time marching on. Whereas Spencer still had a morbidity at its core, it was one rooted in survival and identity. Maria delves more into a self-acceptance that’s not too dissimilar from Paolo Sorrentino’s introspective cinema on the autumn years. Along with some of the best cinematography of 2024, it’s a quest to appreciate the beauty of life while one can. Is it possible to appreciate life when you’ve served your purpose? Can you deal with simply existing?
The biggest criticism thrown at Maria tends to be about how different it is from the other titles. Whereas the first two revel in a dreamlike tone, I see Maria as that last fleeting moment of clarity before death settles in. It’s life flashing before your eyes, and it looks like Callas had quite the time. She went to luxurious parties and played to thousands of people in adoring crowds. While most last days films like Judy (2019) would emphasize the painful deterioration for easy sympathy points, Maria is an incredible study of endurance. She tries to remain strong until the very end, desiring to recapture her voice. It’s the only thing she has. For her whole life, she’s chased the euphoria that comes with being talented. The issue is having to stop to process everything, where you know that it’s not as fulfilling as being in the moment. When your body gives out, so does that rush.
Admittedly, this is the third best film in the trilogy. There’s something about Larrain’s technique that feels more at arm’s length this time around. While it probably benefits to know a little about Callas, the ambiguity works against it larger appeal. A big reason that Jackie worked was because of John F. Kennedy’s influence on larger American culture. Spencer hit like a wrecking ball because most people either had a relationship with Princess Diana or have their own complicated thoughts on Queen Elizabeth II. There are larger institutions that define the subtext of their stories. They are presenting themselves in a tapestry that has long been established. While it can be argued that opera plays the same role, I’d argue it doesn’t play the same intellectual shorthand for American audiences.
My guess is that Larrain’s masterstroke was to remove the tapestry altogether. Callas may be a figure who dedicated her life to a historic craft, but she wasn’t defined by a larger family. Everything she earned was self-motivated. Nobody has silenced her. Where Jackie and Spencer feel introverted, this is an extroverted love of life. The melodrama comes in a story recognizable to anyone who dedicates their life to art. It’s not like architecture or science where there’s a larger system to fall into. Art is about individuality, where only a certain number of living voices will be relevant after they die. It’s arguably more vulnerable and difficult to appreciate because where a building is praised on its ability to stand, a song impacts listeners on how they feel for three minutes. There is a need to never lose that rush. So how does one achieve immortality?
In truth, you can’t. While the 20th century benefits from improved documentation, there’s no guarantee that singing before crowds will last as a memory, that future generations will resonate with your gifts once you’re gone. Most become footnotes, studied in a music appreciation course and forgotten shortly after turning in the final. The key to immortality is luck. Not just anyone can sing a song that makes strangers free of larger context feel deep emotions. Callas became one of them, possibly because opera is a type of singing that not just anyone can imitate. Those who truly master it will receive certain accolades. However, once it’s started who wants it to be over? As toxic as it is to think, the accolades can stand in for love, and even then the fear of losing it overwhelms the most fragile of souls.
Jolie plays Callas with a level of withering confidence that is incredible. For a role that otherwise seems reserved, there is something profound about watching her sing in a kitchen, doing everything to capture what she used to have. She moves a piano from room to room, looking for the best acoustics and finding the best way to project. She plays the role with a grace that never allows her to be fully removed of dignity. She may cry and give poignant monologues, but they’re all presented as insecurities that many are familiar with. Whereas Jackie and Spencer felt more reserved about what they wanted to say, Maria’s directness may annoy viewers expecting something more artful. This is not that story. This is a dramaturgy that summarizes everything that’s come before. All three of these women are different but it’s in Maria that every point is concluded with sublime focus.
I’m happy to announce that Larrain has earned his place on the list of directors who have made great spiritual trilogies. With Maria, he places himself in the likes of Ingmar Bergman (The Faith Trilogy), Edgar Wright (The Cornetto Trilogy), Krzysztof Kieslowski (The Colours Trilogy), and Lars Von Trier (The Depression Trilogy) as an artist who was so focused on a larger theme that culminated in a grand, personal statement. While I think the director’s larger career is worth exploring, I wonder if he’ll ever top this moment. By exploring the interiority of three famous women, he found the insecurities of trauma and the will to survive. Even as a camera flashed in their face, he was curious to see what made them endure. The results more than speak for themselves. Maria may not be the flashy end point many wanted, but I’d still argue it contrasts the familiar with enough that’s different to really bring the point home of why they should’ve been appreciated not just for what they gave the world, but for enduring its strange landscapes.
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