Venezia 81 Picks: Pablo Larraín's Maria, a Turbulent, Contradictory and Melancholic Microcosm of Maria Callas' mind.

Despite not being a big fan of biopics, Pablo Larraín’s Maria was one of the films I was most excited to watch amongst those competing in the Venezia 81 category. My anticipation for the film first began once its selection as a competing film was announced, however, it kept building up while I was eagerly waiting for Angelina Jolie’s red carpet appearance amongst a mass of equally impatient fans. Though still a little dazed from my ‘fan-girl’ moment and certainly stunned by Angelina Jolie’s scenic presence, I remember feeling enveloped in and commiserative towards the conflicted, confused and lonesome composition Larraín constructed of Maria Callas’ psychological state during her last few years of life. The film fixates on Callas’ ceaseless grapple with cognitive dissonance, and externalises her internal conflict through an implicit and explicit manoeuvring of ocular features. Larraín’s persistent visual hints towards Callas’ incapacity yet necessity to recognise both the termination of her career and deteriorating health serve as constant reminders of her inescapable distress, coaxing viewers to empathise with a public figure most probably obscure to them and underscore the mental strength vital to leading a life in the limelight. 

After spectators are acquainted with Callas' glorious stage persona, we are taken home with her where we are met with her vigilant butler Ferrucio and her nurturing cook Bruna, who serve as the most outstanding emblems of her conflicted mental state. Ferrucio, who keeps a closer eye on Maria’s wellbeing and behaviour, strives to make her take  accountability for her self-destructive patterns while Bruna, in fear of tipping her over the edge, adopts a more consoling and accommodating approach to Maria’s care. Ferrucio is subtly villainized in the film’s cinematic world, which essentially functions as a microcosm of Maria’s mind, as he is often dressed in a red uniform signalling Maria’s almost devilish perception of him as he forces her to face personal issues she would much rather avoid. Bruna, on the other hand is styled in aprons and skirts of pastel colours, establishing her as a benevolent maternal figure in Maria’s eyes. Thus when contrasted with Ferrucio, they emulate the classic shoulder angel and devil dynamic and consequently assists viewers in delving into Maria’s thoughts. Another notable constituent of the film is Larraín’s poignant use of Maria’s eyeglasses as a symbol to visually convey the denial of her reality. Though she is seen wearing her glasses in intimate scenes of the film during which she is not channelling the confident and cunning Maria Callas the public knows her to be, she refuses to keep them on in shots that reproduce her reflection in the mirror. In such scenes, Larraín juxtaposes the metaphorical meanings of the two items, with the mirror connoting the action of introspection and the glasses representing the idea of enlightenment. By refusing to pair the two because of her utter discomfort with her current life, Maria diminishes both their significations resulting in an inconclusive self-reflection as she fundamentally bars herself from seeing and acknowledging her disappointments. 

Ultimately, it is Larraín’s transitions from digital to film-like footage during Maria’s interviews with the young journalist that most skilfully encapsulates Maria’s longing to upkeep her notorious image even with the near-conclusion of her career and deteriorating health. The scenes shot on (or resembling) film produce a romantic and aesthetically comforting illustration of Maria being interviewed, clearly playing into the glamorous facade she has constructed of herself. Whereas the digital rendering of Maria is harsher and more life-like, generating an image of herself Maria aims to keep away from the public, hence explaining the format’s utilisation in ruminative and melancholic scenes of the film. Granted that it can be difficult for audiences to sympathise with figures of Callas’ grandeur and privilege, Larraín’s sustained effort in incorporating filmic discrepancies all throughout Maria leaves viewers with an accentuated understanding of the overbearing emotional turmoil that hindered Callas’ last years of life, and with a newfound awareness and compassion for the difficulties that come with a life of such notoriety; a lifestyle most of us would not have been able to experience so acutely if it was not for Larraín’s film.