Power, prestige, and the fall: a review of Tár

Picture this: it’s a miserably cold, grey evening, as a group of friends and I stumble out onto the street, having just experienced a new, two-and-a-half-hour long visual and emotional epic; with a long retinue of talented actors, both veteran and up-coming, attached to its one-word title. Our eyes dart between each other, debating what to say, when someone eloquently pipes out “that might have just been the most packed screening for a film I’ve ever seen at Picturehouse.” Had this paragraph followed a review on some new Marvel film, or, indeed, Matt Reeves’ The Batman (a screening so packed I feared that there would be some sort of crush), this would no doubt be the expected response to such a viewing experience. However, when it applies to an unexpectedly-released, arthouse biopic, directed by Todd Field - an actor who, only occasionally before, has tried his hand behind the camera - starring Cate Blanchett as an emotionally-tortured composer struggling to stay afloat in the modern world of classical performance, it certainly raises a few eyebrows.

Not only were the sheer droves of people who came out on a cold, winter night just to experience Tár (2022) surprising, but so was the incredibly hypnotic quality of Field’s latest work - something I remarked upon as I sat motionless, gazing up at the screen as Blanchett’s Lydia Tár masterfully flitters from scene-to-scene, the quiet disintegration of her mental state at the hands of such a high-pressure career laid bare for all in the audience to solemnly witness. Watching this film, especially as someone completely unversed in the world of classical music and music theory, was like plunging your head into a bucket of ice cold water; filled with confusing references to Bach, the Berlin philharmonic orchestra, and impenetrable instrument-based terminology. Nevertheless, once you adjust to this strange, threatening new world, Field takes you on a roller-coaster ride of tragedy that left me feeling completely emotionally wrecked by the end of its epic two-and-a-half-hour runtime.

I have, in the past, made my feelings about films that stray over two hours patently clear; that is, there is nearly always room for a director or editor to cut out, say, thirty minutes of content in the interests of making a more punctual, satisfying film; and, though I certainly loved the viewing experience of Tár, I still think that this golden rule of mine continues to hold water here. Certainly, to the uninitiated ear, the overbearing references to classical performance, and scenes where it is discussed in intense detail (with almost nothing else added), disappointingly slowed down the pace of an otherwise incredibly-well edited watch; but, be in no doubts that Blanchett’s performance alone is worth your investment.

Indeed, this is one of those few films where everything - and I mean everything - hinges on the portrayal and writing of its main protagonist. Lydia Tár, as well as being a force to be reckoned with on-screen, is the glue that holds everything else in this tapestry of misfortune and quiet anguish together. Perhaps the most tragic thing about her character is how painfully likely it is that there are a thousand Lydia Társ wandering around in the arts today; both male and female. Field roots his story firmly in the modern day, and takes an unflinching look at the human psyche when placed so highly in the public spotlight. Though perhaps some of the references to cancel-culture, and social media furor, seem a bit clunky at times, I still found myself shocked that the looming figure of Lydia Tár was a total fabrication; an almost perfect reflection of how catastrophic a public downfall in the 21st century truly is.

Thus, to conclude, Tár is absolutely a valuable use of your time; if only to plunge into the ice-cold abyss that Field weaves for his audience throughout. Indeed, unlike its protagonist, Tár may have a few notable failings under the surface; but ones that do not lead to total catastrophe as they come, painstakingly, to fruition.