Maria: A Lyrical Portrait of Callas That Soars and StumblesAngelina Jolie’s return to the screen in Maria, Pablo Larraín’s operatic biopic about the legendary soprano Maria Callas, is a performance that commands attention like a perfectly struck aria. Released in 2025, this film caps Larraín’s trilogy of iconic women—following Jackie and Spencer—and dives into the tumultuous final week of Callas’s life in 1977 Paris, blending fact, fiction, and fever-dream flourishes. Let’s unpack this visually lush, emotionally raw, yet uneven tribute to a voice that reshaped opera, exploring whether it hits the high notes or falters in its crescendo.
Larraín, a maestro of introspective character studies, frames Maria through Callas’s own fractured lens, using a pseudo-documentary device where she narrates her story to a nonexistent filmmaker, Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee). This meta-narrative, paired with her visions of a younger self (played by Alba Rohrwacher in flashbacks), creates a kaleidoscopic portrait of a woman unraveling. The film opens with Callas, now 53, a recluse in Paris, her voice faded from its 1950s zenith. Haunted by her past—abusive parents, a controlling husband, a heartbreaking affair with Aristotle Onassis—she’s a diva diminished, yet still regal. Jolie, through meticulous preparation and vocal mimicry, embodies Callas with a ferocity that’s both fragile and defiant, her eyes carrying the weight of a life lived in extremes.
The screenplay by Steven Knight leans heavily on Callas’s inner turmoil, weaving her memories of wartime Athens, her rise as La Divina, and her betrayal by Onassis (Haluk Bilginer), who left her for Jackie Kennedy. These flashbacks, shot with a golden-hued nostalgia, contrast sharply with the muted tones of 1977 Paris, where Callas pops pills and spars with her butler (Pierfrancesco Favino). The narrative toggles between her glory days—belting Norma at La Scala—and her lonely present, where she lip-syncs to her old recordings, a ghost of her own legend. It’s a bold structure, but it sometimes feels disjointed, as if Larraín can’t decide whether to celebrate Callas’s art or mourn her decline.
Jolie’s performance is the film’s beating heart. She doesn’t sing—Callas’s actual recordings are used—but her lip-syncing is flawless, capturing the soprano’s intensity and physicality. From the way she tilts her head during a high note to the tremble in her hands offstage, Jolie channels Callas’s duality: a goddess onstage, a mortal off it. Her scenes with Rohrwacher, who plays the younger Maria with raw ambition, create a haunting dialogue across time, especially in moments where past and present collide, like a duet with no harmony. Yet, Jolie’s star power occasionally overshadows the character; her glamour, even in dowdy robes, feels too polished for Callas’s brokenness.
Visually, Maria is a triumph. Cinematographer Ed Lachman paints Paris in soft, autumnal grays, while the opera house flashbacks burst with vibrant reds and golds, evoking the stage’s magic. The sound design, blending Callas’s iconic recordings with a score by Matt Dunkley, is immersive—arias like “Casta Diva” soar through theaters, making you feel the music’s visceral pull. Larraín’s decision to shoot opera scenes with real musicians adds authenticity, though purists might wince at minor anachronisms in the staging. The film’s pacing, however, falters. At 113 minutes, it lingers too long on Callas’s hallucinations, and the Mandrax subplot feels like a gimmick that dilutes the emotional core.
Thematically, Maria grapples with the cost of genius. Callas’s voice, once described as “a miracle,” was both her gift and her cage, demanding sacrifices that left her isolated. The film probes her struggle with fame’s weight, her Greek-American identity, and the misogyny she faced (critics called her “difficult” for demanding perfection). Yet, it sidesteps deeper exploration of her vocal decline—linked to health issues and overuse—leaving her art’s technical side underexplored. Instead, it leans into melodrama, particularly in scenes with Onassis, whose cruelty feels one-dimensional despite Bilginer’s nuanced menace.The supporting cast shines, if unevenly. Favino’s butler brings warmth, grounding Callas’s diva antics, while Smit-McPhee’s Mandrax is an awkward cipher, his role more symbolic than substantial. Rohrwacher’s younger Maria steals scenes, her hunger for success a stark contrast to Jolie’s weary resignation. Larraín’s direction, while inventive, occasionally overreaches with surreal flourishes—like Callas dancing with her own shadow—that feel more indulgent than insightful. Compared to Jackie’s taut grief or Spencer’s claustrophobic dread, Maria is less disciplined, its ambition sprawling but not always cohesive.
Critics have praised Jolie’s Oscar-worthy turn, and the film’s $12 million box office haul (modest but respectable for a biopic) reflects strong festival buzz. Still, some posts call it “overly artsy,” with audiences split on its nonlinear style. Opera fans may love the music but wish for more focus on Callas’s craft over her personal tragedies. General viewers, meanwhile, might find the runtime bloated, especially without prior knowledge of Callas’s legend.
Maria isn’t a perfect aria, but it’s a compelling one. It captures Callas’s essence—a woman who lived for art, loved fiercely, and paid dearly—through Jolie’s transformative performance and Larraín’s bold vision. It’s less accessible than Bohemian Rhapsody but more daring than most music biopics, prioritizing mood over plot. If it occasionally misses the mark, it still leaves you humming Callas’s voice, longing to revisit her recordings. For fans of opera, Jolie, or Larraín’s idiosyncratic style, it’s a must-see. Just don’t expect a conventional encore.
Larraín, a maestro of introspective character studies, frames Maria through Callas’s own fractured lens, using a pseudo-documentary device where she narrates her story to a nonexistent filmmaker, Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee). This meta-narrative, paired with her visions of a younger self (played by Alba Rohrwacher in flashbacks), creates a kaleidoscopic portrait of a woman unraveling. The film opens with Callas, now 53, a recluse in Paris, her voice faded from its 1950s zenith. Haunted by her past—abusive parents, a controlling husband, a heartbreaking affair with Aristotle Onassis—she’s a diva diminished, yet still regal. Jolie, through meticulous preparation and vocal mimicry, embodies Callas with a ferocity that’s both fragile and defiant, her eyes carrying the weight of a life lived in extremes.
The screenplay by Steven Knight leans heavily on Callas’s inner turmoil, weaving her memories of wartime Athens, her rise as La Divina, and her betrayal by Onassis (Haluk Bilginer), who left her for Jackie Kennedy. These flashbacks, shot with a golden-hued nostalgia, contrast sharply with the muted tones of 1977 Paris, where Callas pops pills and spars with her butler (Pierfrancesco Favino). The narrative toggles between her glory days—belting Norma at La Scala—and her lonely present, where she lip-syncs to her old recordings, a ghost of her own legend. It’s a bold structure, but it sometimes feels disjointed, as if Larraín can’t decide whether to celebrate Callas’s art or mourn her decline.
Jolie’s performance is the film’s beating heart. She doesn’t sing—Callas’s actual recordings are used—but her lip-syncing is flawless, capturing the soprano’s intensity and physicality. From the way she tilts her head during a high note to the tremble in her hands offstage, Jolie channels Callas’s duality: a goddess onstage, a mortal off it. Her scenes with Rohrwacher, who plays the younger Maria with raw ambition, create a haunting dialogue across time, especially in moments where past and present collide, like a duet with no harmony. Yet, Jolie’s star power occasionally overshadows the character; her glamour, even in dowdy robes, feels too polished for Callas’s brokenness.
Visually, Maria is a triumph. Cinematographer Ed Lachman paints Paris in soft, autumnal grays, while the opera house flashbacks burst with vibrant reds and golds, evoking the stage’s magic. The sound design, blending Callas’s iconic recordings with a score by Matt Dunkley, is immersive—arias like “Casta Diva” soar through theaters, making you feel the music’s visceral pull. Larraín’s decision to shoot opera scenes with real musicians adds authenticity, though purists might wince at minor anachronisms in the staging. The film’s pacing, however, falters. At 113 minutes, it lingers too long on Callas’s hallucinations, and the Mandrax subplot feels like a gimmick that dilutes the emotional core.
Thematically, Maria grapples with the cost of genius. Callas’s voice, once described as “a miracle,” was both her gift and her cage, demanding sacrifices that left her isolated. The film probes her struggle with fame’s weight, her Greek-American identity, and the misogyny she faced (critics called her “difficult” for demanding perfection). Yet, it sidesteps deeper exploration of her vocal decline—linked to health issues and overuse—leaving her art’s technical side underexplored. Instead, it leans into melodrama, particularly in scenes with Onassis, whose cruelty feels one-dimensional despite Bilginer’s nuanced menace.The supporting cast shines, if unevenly. Favino’s butler brings warmth, grounding Callas’s diva antics, while Smit-McPhee’s Mandrax is an awkward cipher, his role more symbolic than substantial. Rohrwacher’s younger Maria steals scenes, her hunger for success a stark contrast to Jolie’s weary resignation. Larraín’s direction, while inventive, occasionally overreaches with surreal flourishes—like Callas dancing with her own shadow—that feel more indulgent than insightful. Compared to Jackie’s taut grief or Spencer’s claustrophobic dread, Maria is less disciplined, its ambition sprawling but not always cohesive.
Critics have praised Jolie’s Oscar-worthy turn, and the film’s $12 million box office haul (modest but respectable for a biopic) reflects strong festival buzz. Still, some posts call it “overly artsy,” with audiences split on its nonlinear style. Opera fans may love the music but wish for more focus on Callas’s craft over her personal tragedies. General viewers, meanwhile, might find the runtime bloated, especially without prior knowledge of Callas’s legend.
Maria isn’t a perfect aria, but it’s a compelling one. It captures Callas’s essence—a woman who lived for art, loved fiercely, and paid dearly—through Jolie’s transformative performance and Larraín’s bold vision. It’s less accessible than Bohemian Rhapsody but more daring than most music biopics, prioritizing mood over plot. If it occasionally misses the mark, it still leaves you humming Callas’s voice, longing to revisit her recordings. For fans of opera, Jolie, or Larraín’s idiosyncratic style, it’s a must-see. Just don’t expect a conventional encore.