Pablo Larraín’s cinematic fascination with women under extraordinary pressure at a crossroads in their lives reaches new heights in Maria, a haunting portrait of opera legend Maria Callas during her final days. Following his explorations of Jackie Kennedy’s grief and Princess Diana’s isolation, Larraín turns to perhaps his most captivating subject yet – a delicate, devastating diva whose voice defined excellence while her personal life fueled endless speculation.  Like the First Lady and People’s Princess before her, La Divina Callas is an icon shaped by legacy, longing, and the relentless scrutiny of fame.

The film follows Callas during her self-imposed exile in Paris, where she spends her final days in quiet isolation. Living with two staff (Pierfrancesco Favino & Alba Rohrwacher) who do the work of an entire household, Callas has developed a routine that she has decided to break.  She hasn’t sung in years but maybe, perhaps, this is the right time to try again?  Memories of her meteoric rise and triumphant performances mingle with the shadows of regret and loneliness. Through flashbacks, we witness her journey from an ambitious young singer to a global sensation whose voice redefined opera. Yet, in these quieter moments of reflection, Maria reveals its true focus: not the diva on stage but the fragile woman behind the legend.

Angelina Jolie (Eternals), in a career-defining role (it feels like we say that she takes on every third or fourth role, doesn’t it?), vanishes into Callas. Her portrayal captures the soprano’s duality—regal in public, yearning for more in private—with extraordinary precision.  Jolie spent seven months training in opera to prepare, a commitment that shows in her every gesture and expression. Though most musical sequences feature the Oscar-winner lip-synching to Callas’ original recordings, Jolie’s physical performance feels like a convincing extension of the music itself, seamlessly blending her movements with the haunting beauty of the voice. When Jolie’s singing emerges in the film’s climactic moments, it’s less a showcase of technical skill than a raw, vulnerable revelation, embodying Callas’ innermost turmoil.

The supporting cast provides a crucial emotional framework to this intimate portrait.  Pierfrancesco Favino (Rush) brings warm strength to Ferruccio, Callas’ loyal confidant, whose patience is tested/tinged with weariness. Alba Rohrwacher (The Lost Daughter) gives Bruna, Callas’ devoted assistant, a delicate yet steely resolve. Together, they counterbalance the diva’s intensity, giving the narrative an understated complexity regarding loyalty and sacrifice. Young Aggelina Papadopoulou’s portrayal of Callas as a rising star is equally compelling, capturing the determination that would later shape her genius.  Haluk Bilginer (2018’s Halloween) captures the calculated charm of Aristotle Onassis (oh, how I wished for Natalie Portman cameo as Jackie, married to Onassis at this time), whose turbulent relationship with Callas exemplified the tragic arc of her personal life – sky-high heights followed by crushing depths.

As is usually the case with a Larraín affair, the technical elements of Maria are breathtaking. Edward Lachman’s cinematography colors the screen with aching beauty, contrasting the golden hues of Callas’ triumphs with her later years’ cool, muted tones. Massimo Cantini Parrini’s costumes are a masterclass in storytelling, tracing the evolution of a woman who embodied elegance even as her world crumbled.  Everything on the screen is so crisply purposeful and it’s a perfect fit for Jolie, who wears a number of stunning outfits but never lets them wear her.  Guy Hendrix Dyas’ production design transports viewers to grand opera houses and intimate Parisian apartments, immersing us in the grandeur and solitude of Callas’ life.

Yet, for all its visual splendor and technical achievement, Maria can be a frustrating watch. Larraín eschews the familiar beats of a traditional biopic, instead presenting a deeply introspective narrative on mortality that lingers on themes of regret. While hauntingly effective, this deliberate pacing may challenge viewers expecting a more linear or celebratory depiction of Callas’ life. But therein lies the film’s power. By refusing to simplify its subject, Maria offers a complex portrait of a woman whose genius was both her gift and her undoing.  From that lens, it ranks among Larraín’s boldest works. While less experimental than Spencer and less controlled than Jackie, it cuts deeper emotionally.

As the curtain is drawn on Maria, we’re left with a portrait that serves as a tribute to unparalleled artistry and an elegy for unfulfilled dreams. Larraín has crafted a cinematic aria that resonates with the same moving depth that made Callas herself legendary—a reminder that genuine greatness often carries a profound personal cost. Opening in select theaters on November 27 before streaming on December 11, Maria emerges as a deeply challenging yet rewarding experience that, like its subject, demands to be admired and felt.