Maestro (2023)

 Score: 4.5 / 5

A standard biopic is only boring if the filmmakers make it boring. And: “A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers.” With the overwhelmingly big team of Bradley Cooper, Steven Spielberg, and Martin Scorsese, there is nothing remotely boring about Maestro, a searing portrait of legendary composer Leonard Bernstein. Their goal, along with cowriter Josh Singer, is to dramatize the man behind the baton, as the film is far less interested in the music and career of its protagonist than it is in his private life. Which is what many will say of this film, likely with some disdain or scorn. But what they won't tell you is that this is the rare film that finds its fascination in the connection between Bernstein's music and his life, taking us from era to era and immersing us in his singular mind so that we can better understand his music through his life, and vice versa.

Your mileage on emotionally connecting to this film will vary, and to some extent that may be intentional. It's a brilliantly crafted screenplay, but hews close to tried-and-true patterns of biopic narrative, meaning its vast survey of Bernstein's life feels shallow more often than not, reliant more on plot than on our understanding of his character to push the story along. A useful comparison point here might be Tár, which very much uses character and theme to drive plot. If you like more or less standard stories in that regard, then, you might do fine with this film; if you want more heft, don't go into this one seeking deep insight into Bernstein's fascinating life.

On the other hand, the performances bring these characters to life beyond what the time-hopping vignettes and dialogue can provide. Bradley Cooper transforms into the beloved musical genius with the help of award-worthy prosthetics and makeup, and his characterization of the composer and conductor is never less than riveting. His electrifying delivery of Bernstein conducting the London Symphony Orchestra in Mahler's "Resurrection" Symphony No. 2 in 1973 will be studied by acting and music students alike and arrives at the climax of the film, partly due to his movement work, partly the fluid cinematography and subtly effective sound editing, and partly the final realization or apocalypse of Bernstein's life purpose writ large for us to relish. Opposite the maestro is his wife Felicia Montealegre, played by consistently fascinating Carey Mulligan, who seems determined not to let the character slip into a "woman behind the great man" character mold. Her delivery supersedes the screenplay, providing insight where the dialogue frustratingly fails: we never really hear her thoughts on her husband's numerous affairs with younger men, only see her guarded reactions on occasion and the rare icy rebuke when he gets "sloppy" with indiscretions.

Many scenes between husband and wife play a balancing act of bubbly passion and effortless chemistry -- including the scenes of their courtship, early in the film -- and much weightier joys and sorrows as they come to terms with the life they have and the other lives they sometimes want. Part of what makes their dynamic so absorbing is the stilted way they have to navigate their desires, based on the time period. Cooper's somewhat impregnable performance reads true to anyone who has lived closeted, though it does little to endear the character to audiences in 2024; thankfully we get some headway into the lighter side of Bernstein while he's with various men, especially Matt Bomer as a virtuoso clarinetist. A closer study of the film's editing might reveal -- I'm not sure, but it was my impression after a single viewing -- that the more intimate we are with Bernstein and the more intimate he is with someone, the editing slows down. I noticed this most clearly during some of his conflicts with Felicia, which seemed to boast more long takes.

Which leads us to my final point: despite the discourse about screenplay and acting, the best parts of Maestro are its technical aspects. Matthew Libatique's transcendent cinematography and Michelle Tesoro's editing brings the world to life in a metafictional way, performatively evoking the various time periods of this narrative with each decade that passes. The black-and-white boxy ratio of the '40s, the vivid Technicolor of the '60s, even the staging of certain scenes seems to mirror the eras visually. Some of the year's most authentic-looking costume and production design, too, makes this an eminently watchable experience of beauty. "Immersive" gets tossed around a lot these days, but Cooper does want to bring us into his world, something I realized early on during a feverish fever dream/dream ballet sequence of On the Town, which was the moment Cooper won me over.