 Angelina Jolie in Maria From exploring the myth of Jackie Kennedy with Natalie Portman in Jackie (2016) to experimenting with Kristen Stewart on surrealism for Princess Diana in Spencer (2021), Chilean filmmaker Pablo Larraín has been building towards an unofficial trilogy about iconic twentieth century women during specific moments in history. He completes the trifecta this year with a sumptuous glimpse into the life of Maria Callas in Maria. Told with immense curiosity and a dreamlike sensibility, Maria follows the legendary opera singer as she rediscovers her voice during a fragile moment in time. Larraín’s introspective storytelling is a poetic fit for the transcendent journey of his subject. He finds a remarkable leading lady in Angelina Jolie, whose movie star charisma adds dimension to this operatic tale of a woman’s phenomenal legacy. Soon to be released by MUBI, Maria brings Larraín’s trilogy to an achingly beautiful close. Continuing in the vein of Jackie and Spencer, Maria plays in the orchestra of rewriting an icon’s history. All three of these legendary women shared the unique experience in which people lived vicariously through them, defined them, spoke on their behalf, to the extent that they became larger than life representations of something much bigger than them. The public, not to mention the media, felt that they were owed something. There’s a powerful scene in Maria in which Maria encounters a bothered fan who had paid for tickets to a concert she cancelled due to an illness. His intonation suggests the illness was an excuse taken to wriggle out of the show. She gives him a fierce and rightful reality check: he has no idea what performing takes out of her. Maria starts in a dreamy haze, but in time Larraín’s mysterious direction becomes clearer. The fan encounter scene is a small but mighty cue of humanity. The film calls attention to the haunting dichotomy between public and private personas. Ever since Maria was a young girl living in Greece, she had been singing for everyone but herself. Fast-forward to 1970s Paris, where Maria lives out her final act discreetly in her apartment, having spent years in the public eye. Behind closed doors, she finds herself in a perpetual state of reckoning. Her talent feels out of reach. Her identity feels faded into unrecognizable territory. Her apartment is full of reminders; pieces of music, glamorous wardrobe, a grand piano. But the piano never seems to be in the right spot. For a place called home, Maria’s apartment resembles more of a waiting room, in which she can’t fully be free. There’s a disconnect between the soprano and her work, which gives the film dramatic tension. By spending time with the character in such close proximity, enhanced with several stunning close-ups, Larraín gives a window into Maria’s humanity beyond her “Las Callas” stage presence. The film defines her not by a chronicle of greatest hits, but by the memories that left a lasting impression on her, moments that she will carry inside forever. For Jackie and Spencer, the focus on specific moments in history helped shaped the narrative structures of those films. Maria sings to a much more fluid and arbitrary tune. Screenwriter Steven Knight navigates the days leading up to Maria’s death. The dialogue can be heavy-handed at times, which creates moments of stagy character interactions and overdrawn impositions. A prime example is the inclusion of Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a journalist who follows Maria around Paris with a television crew. While clear in its hallucinatory effect, the dynamic lacks emotional impact. Thankfully, these moments are sporadic as the film prioritizes other supporting characters, who evoke a more compelling reaction. One of the most powerful scenes in the film features a conversation between Maria and her sister Yakinthi (Valeria Golino). Yakinthi essentially encourages Maria to leave the past behind and move forward, but it’s not that simple. This moment gives us a glimpse of the sisters’ emotionally charged past, and conveys the weight of Maria’s life experiences on her shoulders. Larraín takes empathetic creative liberties to shape the narrative of Maria around her close proximity to death. The character transcends time and space, as though yearning for freedom outside of herself. In her apartment, she hides pills and avoids doctor visits. Her voice carries through the grand, exquisitely lit halls only for her butler Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino), maid Bruna (Alba Rohrwacher), and poodles to hear. Spells of loneliness and misunderstanding reach her in open spaces, too; whether sitting in a cafe that assumedly plays her music (she does not listen to herself), or warming up her vocals in an empty opera house (she struggles to channel the Las Callas voice her pianist wants). Autumnal walks in the park turn into theatrical hallucinations of big vocal performances. Maria’s life is a stage, and the film guides her from the shadows to the spotlight through gorgeous visual interpretation. Angelina Jolie personifies Maria Callas’s vulnerable, messy, mysterious journey with a soul-stirring performance. Simply put, the film would not work without her. The elegant hallways of Maria’s apartment would be cold and empty without Jolie’s astonishing commitment to getting under the character’s skin. Not only does she embody the physicality and stage presence of Callas in her prime, but Jolie also captures the fragmented mind of a woman on the verge of losing her voice years later. Maria’s glory days are conveyed through stunning black-and-white imagery and the use of Callas’ real voice. Jolie herself has an incredibly alluring presence, and she channels that energy into portraying Callas at the top of her game. These flashback scenes add context to the Maria we meet in 1970s Parisian isolation; we come to know from her relationship with admirer Aristotle Onassis (Haluk Bilginer) that she had so long been singing for the pleasure of others. In Paris, Jolie channels a more fragile energy as she floats across rooms, yet she also possesses a fierce inner power. While the flashbacks present Maria through the lens of an outsider, the Paris timeline gets up close and personal into the character's soul, and Jolie excels at drawing out these layers. In addition to Jolie’s tremendous work, cinematographer Edward Lachman deserves some time in the spotlight for crafting one of the most beautiful-looking films of the year. Known for his frequent collaborations with Todd Haynes on such films as Carol (2015) and Far From Heaven (2002), Lachman may have found another dream pairing in Larraín. The two worked together previously on El Conde (2023), which earned Lachman his third Oscar nomination. Each and every frame of Maria looks sumptuous and comes alive like a moving painting. Lachman aligns with Larraín’s evocative, dreamlike sensibilities as a director. The warm color palettes and textures of Callas’ apartment convey a world within a world, a life outside the limelight. The striking black-and-white images only amplify the impressive level of detail, from the production design to the costume design. The film has a disciplined visual language, much like an opera itself which combines so many different art forms and training techniques to convey emotion. The opening montage, in which Maria sings directly into the camera, sets the tone for how much discipline goes into creating such transformative art. One could never truly know what went on inside Maria Callas’ apartment, or inside her head, except La Callas herself. While the dialogue of Maria can be heavy-handed in attempting to fill in her history, Larraín and Jolie operate in the same melodic rhythm to capture an essence of what made this woman so iconic. By the end of the film, the subject remains a mystery, and her impact reverberates nonetheless. Maria arrives in theatres on November 27 and on MUBI's streaming platform on December 11.
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 Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande in Wicked There’s no place like the movies. Victor Fleming’s The Wizard of Oz was one of the earliest films to capture such a feeling. Watching Dorothy and her little dog Toto embark on a brave journey, and collect unexpected friends along the way, radiated a timeless story of togetherness and hope. Over 80 years since its theatrical release, this 1939 technicolor masterpiece still shimmers over the rainbow and continues to make dreams come true. The film inspired audiences to follow their own yellow brick roads towards becoming artists, some of whom continued to explore the land of Oz with gravity-defying stories of their own.
The dreams built in Emerald City eventually found their way to the stage with the beloved Broadway musical Wicked. Sung from the perspectives of witches Elphaba and Galinda, before and after Dorothy’s stormy arrival in Oz, Wicked sparked countless passions for musical theatre. The original 2003 production, starring Idina Menzel as Elphaba and Kristin Chenoweth as Glinda, shattered box office records and won the hearts of millions. Menzel and Chenoweth’s powerhouse voices told a story of female friendship and the capacity for goodness to conquer evil, which rest at the heartfelt core of Wicked. It’s a love story, and it’s always been political, as Jon M. Chu’s impressively acted Part I adaptation conveys. With soulful musical numbers, fantastically detailed production design, and a whole lot of heart running through the characters, Wicked shines as one of the most joyous theatre experiences. Plus, there’s the added layer of hearing reactions to the film from people who hold this story near and dear. For my Wicked screening companion, the stage production changed her life from a young age. It gave her hope and light during a time of darkness. This optimism soars through Wicked and lights a fire that cannot be contained, especially from the perspective of Elphaba, who defies a system designed to silence anyone who speaks out against it. The green image of Elphaba recalls the familiar Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. With an iconic cackle and all-black attire, Margaret Hamilton’s witch loomed over Oz and melted at the hands of lovable characters. Only her pointed black hat was left behind, leaving us without knowing the whole story of how she came to be an evil witch. Wicked begins with a re-telling of history that hints at how green-skinned witch Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) became the Wicked Witch of the West. The cinematically grand “No One Mourns the Wicked” celebrates the witch’s death and casts a spell of relief over Oz. While all of Munchkinland rejoice, Glinda the Good (Ariana Grande) sings with notes of somberness as she ponders, are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them? After all, the Wicked Witch of the West had a childhood. She had a mother and father. She had hopes and dreams. And after all, she had a friend in Glinda the Good, before Glinda became the Good Witch of the North. The film takes us back to Shiz University, where Elphaba and Galinda first meet. Elphaba initially arrives not as a student, but to support a smooth transition for her younger sister Nessarose (Marissa Bode). The moment Elphaba steps foot on campus, she is immediately ostracized and feared for the color of her skin. A slight commotion involving Nessarose and a professor ignite a power in Elphaba that takes over without control, causing damage to the university property. The incident catches the eye of Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh), who sees a potential yet to be harnessed and a possibility to impress the Wonderful Wizard of Oz (Jeff Goldblum). All the while, Galinda is clearly pampered and adored as the most popular girl in school. From her dreamy bubblegum pink arrival on campus, to her comical hair tosses and excitable energy, she stands out in a sea of students. She’s used to getting whatever her heart desires, but finds a roadblock in Madame Morrible not taking notice of her. The classmates’s eyes may all be on Galinda, as they soon will be on charming new student Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey), but the headmistress focuses on Elphaba’s “unlimited” future. As higher powers convene, Elphaba and Galinda are forced to bond. The two witches go from loathing each other to loving each other. The film flies high on the exquisite powerhouse talents of Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande. With keys to the Emerald City, Erivo and Grande unlock the bewitching potential for their characters to soar from stage to screen. Elphaba and Glinda’s moving relationship arc, not to mention their respective interior conflicts, is absolutely integral to the film’s emotional weight. You feel the world crushing on Elphaba’s shoulders as she navigates life as an “outsider” and breaks from conformity. From the optimism of “The Wizard and I” and the realism of “I’m Not That Girl” to the reverberating rebellion of “Defying Gravity,” Erivo hits every single note with incredible vocal range. Additionally, she shines in the quieter moments with subtle shifts in physicality; the Ozdust ballroom dance sequence is a definitive example of how far facial expressions can carry. It's an absolutely pivotal moment for Elphaba that Erivo plays gracefully, wearing emotions on her sleeve. You also feel the lonely complicity in Galinda’s eyes as she aches for popularity and ponders her best friend’s future. Grande’s sparkling humor — whether in her excitable line deliveries or her physical comedic timing — bounces across the screen. Galinda feels like the role Grande was born to play, and she embodies the essence of Wicked with a thorough understanding of how Galinda performs goodness. When the performative nature of her character reaches a pivotal crossroads, Grande charts that emotional arc with great subtlety. The film is a beautiful showcase for her operatic vocal range as well, from the somber “No One Mourns the Wicked” to the bounciness of "What Is This Feeling?” and the shimmering personality of “Popular.” Together, Erivo and Grande compliment each other at a pitch perfect rate. Your heart glows when the two truly see each other, and dampens when their paths reluctantly divert at a crossroads. With the characters in such good hands, Wicked can only go up from there, and it mostly does. The idea of splitting Wicked into two films admittedly caused some skepticism, but Jon M. Chu justifies the extra time with his elaborate storytelling. He stays faithful to the source material, sets up the character arcs for Part II, and gives all the musical numbers plenty of room to shine. The film has impressively wicked pacing; not once does the runtime feel too long or too crowded. The visualization of each song also feels fully realized as it builds on character development and moves the story along. From the ticking functionality of “Dancing Through Life” to the sheer bubblegum pink energy of “Popular,” the songs are given eye-popping looks to match. Much has already been said about the cinematography of Wicked. In particular, the use of backlighting as an approach to create a more “realistic” look. This choice feels at odds with conveying the film’s bold colors and textures. While it can be distracting at times, the overall impact on the end result feels inconsequential when you have talent such as Erivo and Grande operating at the highest levels to bring their characters to life. Plus, neat clues along the way indicate the heavy research that went into Nathan Crowley’s production design and Paul Tazewell’s costume design, not to mention the entire hair and makeup department. From the tornado shaped heels on Nessarose’s crystal shoes, and the beaded spiraled on Glinda’s bubble dress, to the textured fabrics of Elphaba’s black silhouette worn at the end of the film, the magical designs of a reimagined Oz come alive. A lot of these details are quite subtle and blend into the world-building, fully part of the fabric of Chu's storytelling. Filled with so much goodness across the board, Wicked soars as one of the most impactful and delightful musical adaptations. In the hands of Erivo and Grande, Elphaba and Galinda are brought to the big screen in unique and soul stirring ways. With emotionally engaged writing and patient direction, the film echoes the significance and timeliness of fighting for voices to be heard. Given how much care and attention to detail went into this production, one can only anticipate Part II to end on a high note.  A still from Bird, courtesy of MUBI Canada “It really really really could happen.” These six words are sung to Andrea Arnold’s hopeful tune in Bird, a rare gem of ethereal beauty. Arnold blends realism and surrealism to paint a vulnerable portrait of adolescence. In this portrait of moving images, Arnold speaks to the youth of today’s generation who are faced prematurely with the responsibilities of adulthood. Often left to their own devices, they search for which paths feel safest to survive on. Sometimes those paths emerge in the form of a spiritual bond, a spark that cannot fully be explained but is nonetheless vital in existing. Bird exists in the magic realism of such a connection, one that gives communities on society’s fringes the visibility they so deeply deserve.
Set in the British suburbs of North Kent, Bird orbits the fragmented world of twelve-year old Bailey (newcomer Nykiya Adams). Bailey lives with her teen brother Hunter (Jason Buda), her dad Bug (Barry Keoghan), Bug’s girlfriend and soon-to-be wife Kayleigh (Frankie Box), and Kayleigh’s baby daughter. It’s a full house of clashing personalities and uninhibited expression, a powerful cocktail of humanistic sensibilities. As Bailey navigates her interior conflicts and emotional retreats from family dynamics, she meets a transient character named Bird (Franz Rogowski). His mysterious presence evokes a dreamlike state, as he appears seemingly out of thin air. Bird is searching for his family, which comes to align with Bailey’s coming-of-age journey. Arnold infuses Bird with the gritty realism one warmly expects from her work. Through observational writing and empathetic direction, she holds space for a candid exploration of characters and settings. In doing so, Arnold captures moments of unadorned magic, details specific to being in the right place at the right time. Simply put, she sees people, not just for who they appear to be but who they hope to become. She creates down-to-earth heroines like Bailey, whose fierce inner strength and determination to keep herself grounded become a driving force for the narrative. When Arnold takes the story to an ethereal place of otherness with Bird’s character, the film transcends narrative expectations. A spiritual bond gradually washes over the broken-down British landscape, and with that, Bird shape shifts before our very eyes. The changing energies of this ambitious fable would not hit as hard without a remarkably introspective performance at the center. From Kate Dickie in 2006’s Red Road and Katie Jarvis in 2009’s Fish Tank to Sasha Lane in 2016’s American Honey, Arnold has crafted three of the most layered and confident female characters on screen. The filmmaker’s exceptional eye for newcomer talent continues with Bird. In a fiercely brilliant feature debut, Nykiya Adams carries the weight of Bailey’s journey on her shoulders. The character’s staying power often rests in moments of introspection and pent up frustration, which Adams excels at. Whether looking out for her mother Peyton (Jasmine Jobson) and younger sisters who live in an abusive household, or wrestling with the acceptance of her father’s life choices, she makes every moment ring true. With vulnerability and vitality, she gives herself over to a compelling exploration of girlhood. Most impressively, Adams shines in conveying the spiritual connection that Bailey finds in Bird. Their relationship bridges the film’s ambitious movement into surrealism. Given how the characters’ dynamic often unfolds in readings of facial expressions and body language, both flourish in the hands of Adams and Rogowski. The always enigmatic Rogowski delivers another extraordinary performance of soothing, inviting demeanor. His presence evokes dreaminess, yearning, sadness, and everything in between. The depiction of Bird proves to be absolutely crucial, not only for the surrealist shift in tone but also for the arc of Bailey’s journey. Rogowski’s tenderness lays the groundwork for one of the most powerful endings of a film this year; Arnold catches lighting in a bottle. In establishing a sense of community for characters, the film also catches terrific little interactions between the actors. A jolt of lightning himself, Barry Keoghan is electric whenever he appears on screen. He nails the communal, working-class spirit of Bug. Additionally, he has the charisma and intuitiveness to bring extra layers to Bug’s personality. You can’t help but be swept up in the character’s wild ride through life, as he dashes between hectic scenarios and makes a point to indulge in joyous moments. The majority of such moments revolve around music. There’s the amusing reference of Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s 'Murder On The Dancefloor' from Saltburn. Then there’s the one-two punch of Coldplay’s 'Yellow' and Blur’s 'The Universal' in two stellar karaoke scenes that arrive at the most opportune moments. Music plays an effective role in finding a melodic pace, notably through the hypnotic original score by British electronic musician Burial. Whether the inspired needle drops or Burial’s dazzling sound, these components fit neatly into Arnold's vision of blending realism with surrealism. Bird unfolds in a trance of playful, grounded filmmaking. With a neat incorporation of cellphone footage, depicting how today's youth live through screens, the film immerses into Bailey’s perspective. Chaotic as her world is, Arnold holds space for moments of profound stillness and care. Every now and then, we slow down with Bailey as she watches birds in the sky, longing for the ability to take flight from broken grounds. It is on these same grounds that she finds her path towards spiritual healing, and is soothed by six of the most comforting words a young person can hear. “Everything is going to be okay." Watch Bird in theaters in Canada starting November 8. |
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