I’ve Just Met a Girl Named Maria

Pablo Larraín ends his so-called trilogy with a funeral dirge

Critics have called Jackie (2016), Spencer (2021) and now Maria “Pablo Larraín’s Iconic 20th Century Women Trilogy.” But all three films wouldn’t exist without Neruda (2016), Larraín’s first attempt at dissecting the mythology behind an iconic 20th Century figure —in this case Pablo Neruda, Chile’s national poet—, by focusing on a pivotal moment in that character’s life.

Centering on the days that led to Neruda’s escape from his country after President Gabriel González Videla outlawed communism in Chile and issued a warrant for his arrest in 1948, Neruda features some of his poetry, recited beautifully by Luis Gnecco; but Larraín is not interested in placing the poet on a pedestal. He is far more interested in exploring how Neruda built a mythology around his persona, around his beliefs and his work and on the bon vivant much in the same way that Jackie Kennedy (Natalie Portman) wanted to build one around her assassinated husband’s presidency. Larraín playfully breaks the rules of the traditional biopic by creating a fictional police detective chasing after Neruda, always two steps behind the poet. The strategy is reproduced in Maria, the final film in this so-called trilogy, with a reporter following Maria Callas during most of the film: a character who may be as much a ghost or a figment of Maria’s imagination as Anne Boleyn was for Princess Diana in Spencer. In other words, with Neruda, Larraín laid the groundwork for the films that followed.

Maria focuses on the final week in the life of the American-born Greek soprano Maria Callas as she attempts to make a comeback after years away from the stage in Paris. Her voice is no longer as powerful as it was during her heyday, and her addiction to sedatives, especially Mandrax, is wreaking havoc with her health. Loyal butler, driver and sometimes bodyguard Ferruccio (Pierfrancesco Favino) puts up patiently with Maria’s daily mood swings: she will ask him to move her gigantic piano from one room to another, from one corner of that new room to another on a whim, compromising his spine. He dotes and worries about her. Maria’s housekeeper Bruna (actress and director Alba Rohrwacher) equally knows how to soothe her employer’s ego, in what Larraín and scriptwriter Stephen Knight insinuate is a severe case of low self-esteem, by praising Maria’s singing no matter how off it may be.

Callas is approached by a TV reporter named Mandrax (Kodi Smit-McPhee) for a series of interviews. Given the name, it should come as no surprise that the reporter and his camera crew are a narrative device used to stand as internal monologues as Maria reminisces about her past performances (including one as Anne Boleyn), her affair with Aristotle Onassis (husband to one Jackie Kennedy; one almost thanks Larraín for not falling into the temptation of having Portman reenact her role), and her upbringing.

But outside of those flashbacks and her rehearsals for that potential comeback, Maria is a strangely lethargic film that consists of nothing more than shots of Angeline Jolie wearing Callas’ glasses and a facsimile of her wardrobe walking up and down the streets of a period appropriate Paris. Or of Maria lounging at home, listening to her recordings. This is the portrait of a woman who has lost all lust for life, trapped by her memories of a better, happier time. And that might make for an interesting film. What is surprising, considering Larraín’s remarkable output, is how dull this film is. And how uninteresting Maria is rendered , not only as an icon but as a flesh and blood character facing the weakening of her power, by Larraín, Knight, and, yes, Jolie.

There are, though, some fantastic, extended set pieces, as Larraín takes opera back to its working class roots by staging some of Callas’ legendary performances in the streets of Paris. They allow one to truly appreciate what made La Callas such an icon for classical music lovers and the LGBTQ community. I personally wish Larraín had given us more of these set pieces instead of offering bits and pieces in the form of flashbacks. If his intention was to introduce Callas to a new generation of music lovers he more than missed the mark, not only by showing us so little of her talent at her peak but by targeting the least interesting and more depressing moments of her vivacious career. 

Maria, is indeed, the lesser of these four films, lacking Neruda’s joie de vivre and playfulness, Jackie’s tenacity and stoicity, and Spencer’s palatial and psychological prison. Maria ends this accomplished and intriguing series of films with a funeral dirge. 

Maria will be released theatrically on November 27 and begins streaming on Netflix on December 11.