Just being mad does not make one a genius, nor does genius require that one be mad. Case in point: writer-director Todd Field and his latest creation, Lydia Tár. Field’s third film should leave no doubt that he is a genius of the cinema, but he is far from mad. Rather, in interviews, he comes off as humble and humbled by his unusually protracted Hollywood journey. Whereas for the titular protagonist of TÁR, portrayed with equal parts ferocity and precision by Cate Blanchett, her madness seems to grow as her genius comes into question.
But we are getting ahead of ourselves, and if there is one thing TÁR exudes, it is patience. So let’s begin at the beginning. We are introduced to Lydia Tár during a New Yorker conversation on stage in front of hundreds of – it would not be a stretch to call them – worshippers. Worshippers at the altar of high society. Worshippers at the altar of classical music. And worshippers at the altar of the great composer who claims before them that she controls time itself. As she will find, however, there is no more dangerous place to be than placed upon a pedestal.
Immediately after this, Lydia indulges the fawning of a fan in the lobby. In fact, she revels in it, both in the attention of a beautiful woman and in the flattery of her own brilliance. For Lydia, the two go hand in hand. She is hurried away by her assistant, Francesca (a perfectly seething Noémie Merlant), who has seen this act before. The maestro (not maestra, we are informed in the opening scene) is needed at lunch with a wealthy benefactor who hopes to learn her artistic secrets. He fancies himself an amateur conductor and wishes to see her notes. She refuses and suggests he lacks whatever alchemy produces great artists, an alchemy which she, of course, is certain she possesses.
Within three scenes, Field and Blanchett have established so much about their main character. She is a gifted self-promoter who feeds off the adoration of the crowd. She needs their love, but beyond that, she absolutely believes she deserves it and has earned it through her “genius.” And, possessed of this genius, she also feels it is hers to share with the crowd or withhold from a benefactor. With all of this firmly in mind, Field delivers the coup de grâce of his film’s first act.
Lydia delivers a guest lecture to a conducting class at Juilliard. A student who identifies as BIPOC and pangender conducts a piece by an unknown modern, female composer, of whom Lydia is instantly dismissive – most likely in the very manner the classical music establishment would have first dismissed her. She suggests the student give a try with some Bach. He demurs and says that he cannot in good conscience conduct a piece by a composer whose personal life was so reprehensible. She seems personally offended on Bach’s behalf, and what follows is a lengthy treatise on an age-old debate: Can we – and more importantly, should we – separate the art from the artist?
Of course, this is Lydia’s class, and she holds all the power. In front of a packed house – her favorite – she pokes, prods, and belittles the student who dared question Bach’s place in the pantheon. Her position: simply that it would be infantile to deny or disregard someone’s obvious genius based on his questionable personal life. Would not the student, she asks, want to be judged on his work and not his own private life? At this, he has had enough and angrily storms out of the classroom. Perhaps in Lydia’s eyes, she has won. But won what, and at what cost?
The rest of the film will engage with and deconstruct this argument, using Lydia Tár herself as the subject. We will come to learn of accusations of impropriety from a former protégé. We will witness acts of petty deceit and staggeringly poor judgment. We will see her treat those closest to her, including her partner, Sharon (a wonderful Nina Hoss), with coldness and ingratitude. We will watch her act in ways that would have future students refuse out of principle to engage with her work.
This would be fascinating enough to watch in and of itself, particularly with Blanchett’s wrecking ball of a performance at its center, but it would be somewhat trite. The argument between art and the artist, by now, is shopworn and a little boring. The trick of the film and what makes it a masterpiece is that Field is not interested in debating whether artistic genius excuses personal failings. He seeks to interrogate whether genius itself is a myth, and this becomes far more exciting to explore over the course of the film.
For the purposes of this investigation, it is immaterial if Lydia Tár is guilty of the specific charges levied against her, and Field smartly leaves it up to the audience to decide how much is true, how much is fabricated, and just how much we can believe any of the stakeholders. During a conversation with a retired composer and former mentor of hers, Lydia is told that these days, an accusation is as good as a conviction in the court of public opinion. The film’s final hour bears this out.
As Lydia’s world unravels, we learn more about what it took to fashion the mystique that surrounds her, and we begin to question how much is real and how much is smoke and mirrors. It is not by accident that in her moments of greatest self-doubt, Lydia lights a pair of candles to stare into her own reflection. In a late, standout scene that features Blanchett and Hoss going toe to toe to great effect, Sharon asks if Lydia remembers the politicking and maneuvering it took to place the conductor in her position of power.
You see, Sharon is the first chair violinist of the Berlin Philharmonic, which Lydia conducts. We learn in the film’s opening conversation that historically, orchestras once were led by the first chair violinist, something which Lydia deems highly illogical – of course, the conductor is vital to the orchestra! But, without Sharon, could Lydia have reached the heights she has? Indeed, without the musicians who sit before her, what would there be to conduct?
It is here that we should note Field’s fascinating opening gambit. Before that New Yorker conversation and before anything else, the film begins with its end credits played in reverse, culminating in the title card, “Written, produced, and directed by Todd Field.” Field has been coy in interviews as to the exact meaning behind his decision to start the film this way, but it certainly foregrounds the reality that it takes hundreds and hundreds of people to mount a movie. Field’s name may be most prominent in the credits, but his film could not exist without all the names that come before it.
It is a metatextual act of humility on Field’s part, the kind of humility Lydia Tár would be incapable of displaying. This humility is well earned and very real for Field, who has been out of the game for the better part of 16 years. Though he has directed many commercials, he has not had his name on a short, a documentary, an episode of television, or a feature film since the equally brilliant, though vastly different Little Children in 2006.
He has been attached to numerous projects over the years alongside fellow luminaries such as Joan Didion, Cormac McCarthy, and Jonathan Franzen, among others, but nothing ever came to fruition. If you ask Field how it is that TÁR came to be the project that finally made it happen, he will tell you he is just as surprised as anyone. The vagaries and whims of Hollywood, he suggests.
Whatever it was that brought Field back and TÁR to the big screen, the cinema is better for it. If genius exists, then Field has it, propped up as he is by the tremendous actors and many fine craftspeople – Oscar-winning composer Hildur Guðnadóttir foremost among them – who helped make this film happen. If, on the other hand, genius is a myth, then Field is doing a damn fine imitation.
See it? Yes.
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