‘TÁR’ review: Portrait of the Artist on Fire | NYFF [A]
Opening with a “special thanks” immediately preceding a reverse order roll of the end credits may seem like a peculiar choice for any film, let alone one about a supreme egotist. A scroll of names that includes hair stylists, assistant editors, and other below-the-line crew members boldly reminds the audience of the many people it takes to make a work of art possible. It also warns of the dangers of ascribing all credit and glory to one person. Cleverly, this style choice will be welcome to avid watchers of classic Hollywood films who are used to sitting through an overture as the credits play. It perhaps then calls to mind an art form that some reject in favor of a modern version that actively reflects today’s climate and cultural cues. Todd Field’s magnificent new film, TÁR, blends and critiques tradition and modernity in the form of a razor-sharp character study. It’s been 16 years since Field last sat in the director’s chair (Little Children), but with TÁR, he shows that in his time away, he’s been a keen observer of the world’s destruction and the individuals with the hubris to burn it all down. Lydia Tár (a towering Cate Blanchett) might not burn the whole world down, but she’s capable of destruction, and destroy she does.
In a savvy vehicle for exposition, Lydia Tár speaks onstage at The New Yorker Festival with Adam Gopnik (as himself). Tár is a decorated artist–an EGOT winner, a genius inspired by the giants of the past (Bernstein is name-dropped), and a lesbian who is the first woman to conduct a German orchestra. Within this 15-minute stretch, Gopnik and Tár discuss not just her career but also various topics related to the classical music scene that creatively leave little hints of how this story may unfold. Here, Field deftly foreshadows the importance of relationships as Gopnik and Tár discuss the strained marriage of Gustav and Alma Mahler. Field knows this may sound a little high-minded, but he leans into it hard to establish the film’s impressive, specific milieu. Even the film’s title, our conductor’s name, with its all-caps stylization, and acute “a” feels like a knowing wink from our maestro at the pretentiousness of it all.
While Gopnik’s voiceover recounts Tár’s litany of achievements, Field visually includes additional expository background. He hovers the camera over several records from classical composers scattered across the floor as Tár shuffles them around with her bare feet. The fact that she’s choosing a visual model for her own album cover isn’t as important as the fact that she is the one in control. These men may have ruled over classical music of the past, but it’s her time now. She is the one who is time, who keeps time. Throughout the 158-minute runtime, Tár holds court over every character and the audience with a tight grip. As a conductor, she orchestrates, manipulates, and controls, all for the sake of a grander vision, a complete symphony. However, she isn’t one of those reclusive artists who shy away from attention. She happily obliges when an eager young woman wants to speak with her after her speech at The New Yorker Festival. In return, Tár even compliments the woman’s handbag, a garish red thing that she would never include in her neutrals-only, classic wardrobe.
Many words of praise will be heaped upon Cate Blanchett, who delivers a nuanced performance for the ages. Her acute, wild physical gestures as she’s leading a masterclass or rehearsing a piece make it seem like she is performing her own style of choreography. Her emotional reactions to the music (Hildur Guðnadóttir’s brilliant score) show this specific art form’s hold on its creator. Not since Daniel Day-Lewis’ “final” performance in Phantom Thread have we seen an actor take on the role of an artist that feels so well-calibrated that the person must have been real. If viewers are worried about this film feeling like a stuffy piece of classical music, have no fear. Blanchett is genuinely funny throughout this film–an incredible moment of comedy occurs when Tár confronts one of her school-aged daughter’s bullies in German, announcing, “I’m Petra’s father.”
Tár herself would hate this description of Blanchett’s embodiment of this musical genius, but it is a necessary point to make. So rarely are women given the opportunity to play and perform onscreen the way Blanchett does here. It’s every bit as revelatory as seeing Pacino’s emotional range as his evil pushes every family member away in The Godfather Part II. She is allowed to be both brilliant and cruel and to conceal information. She misbehaves because that is what the character would do, not because it’s in service of a grand feminist point in the script.
The screenplay has its own complex rhythm, which Blanchett and the supporting cast move to with ease. Sharon (a terrific Nina Hoss) is the Alma to Lydia’s Gustav and a violinist with a chair in the Tár orchestra. When Hoss rises to show the rest of the orchestra how it’s done, we can bask in this script’s confidence in ambiguity. Lydia and Sharon have power over each other, and with their work dynamic, we do not need a backstory to fill in the gaps on the early days of their relationship. As cracks in Lydia and Sharon’s relationship are exposed, we see Hoss’ brilliance–the sadness, exhaustion, and fierceness in her face prove that she’s still a worthy match for Lydia. As a part-time assistant, part-time aspiring conductor Francesca (Noémie Merlant) displays the power of being one of the cogs in Tár’s menacing machine. With a potential promotion on the horizon, Francesca keeps all of Tár’s skeleton’s in her closet, AKA her work laptop.
Field, in his first original screenplay, delicately unveils subtle and unsubtle details about Tár’s attitudes and behavior. The first key revelation occurs when she guest lectures at Juilliard. The camera tracks Blanchett at a distance. She is to be admired and feared by these students who know less than her. When Max (Zethphan D. Smith-Gneist), a self-identified BIPOC pangender student, declares, “I’m not really into Bach,” Tár scoffs at this remark. She loses her patience at the thought that a young musician would, according to her, make artistic decisions based on his “allergy” to an old white man who fathered too many children. Here, we don’t just see a generational divide or a hollow comment on identity politics. Instead, Field uses this moment to show us how Tár’s unchanging attitudes and dominant ego can affect those around her. She would never admit it, but she might be threatened by a statement like this, even though she is a woman. She admires the men who came before her, even thanking one for being her mentor many years ago in another scene. It’s personal and an early hint at the bad behavior in her past–could a future musician view her in this way?
This scene also works to question the motive behind The Accordion Fellowship, a group founded by Tár to support aspiring women conductors. As hints of a “difficult” former student in the fellowship program slowly bubble up under the surface, Field trusts the audience to put the pieces together on Tár’s behavior around younger women. It’s also not out-of-step with current issues in the classical music world–DuToit and Levine (composers with real-life sexual assault allegations) are mentioned in the film.
Field tests the audience consistently and provocatively throughout the film. It’s almost as if he wants to say, “You’ve spent over two hours with this character. What do you believe?” He doesn’t set us up to deliver a grand reveal to spell out all of her despicable behavior. That’s never how it works when a prominent person is accused. Her actions and the film’s visual language show that the insidious accusations are true, but also that some were manipulated to add gasoline to the existing flame. This isn’t a #MeToo story, though. It’s a thorny character study that reveals the dangers of power, ego, and control. It’s also a cautionary tale about putting artists on a pedestal only to offer praise. Observing how her behavior simply hasn’t changed is more effective than knowing all of the details of her past dalliances. As the camera and Blanchett slowly show Tár’s new interest and her special treatment directed at a young cellist, we see the possibility of history repeating itself and how a situation like this could have happened to another one of Tár’s subordinates in the first place.
So much of Tár’s attention in the film is directed at performing the Fifth Symphony of a man who died over 100 years ago. For her, performing the works of Mahler, Bach, or Schopenhauer may not just be about honoring the musicians who inspired her when she was an aspiring young conductor. Perhaps it’s about keeping them immortal. But what happens when individuals fated for immortality in the grander sense face their own death and destruction? There’s a moment in the film when Tár takes her daughter Petra to school, and they quietly recite lines from the Edgar Allen Poe poem, “The Bells,” to each other. The poem is full of repetition, references to time, and the beauty and terror of sound. The beautiful and terrifying sound design in the film also taunts Tár. What was once an ever-present source of inspiration suddenly plagues her. Mysterious sounds keep her up at night, and the ticking of her metronome as it keeps time jolts her awake. At the beginning of the film, she declares her power over time and says, “it’s no small thing to throw time out the window.” It turns out that for Tár, she can’t.
Grade: A
This review is from the 2022 New York Film Festival. Focus Features will release TÁR in select theaters on October 7 and nationwide on October 28.
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