The meticulous artistry behind a Cate Blanchett performance is nothing new. No matter the role, we’re in for a masterclass in acting, and her latest is no exception. In Todd Field’s meditation on power dynamics, Tár, Blanchett plays the titular character. The film follows composer and conductor extraordinaire, Lydia Tár, and the subsequent downfall of her impressive career after her crooked antics come to light. Incredibly gifted and a darling of the classical music world, Lydia is one of the few EGOT winners who has clawed her way to the top. She reigns supreme in a cutthroat industry, wielding so much power that morals, ethics, and empathy don’t even get a foot in the door.
The film kicks off with Lydia being interviewed at the New Yorker Festival, where her endless accolades are paraded for the audience. She’s achieved more than most people dream of but is still hungry for more, fixated on her legacy. She announces she’s tackling the Mount Everest of compositions, a paramount live recording of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. She immediately gains the crowd’s respect— in the movie and the movie-watchers themselves– by eloquently going into depth about her craft. While detailing the conductor’s role as the orchestra’s clock, Tár says, “It’s not until I once again decide to raise that hand that time is allowed to continue marching along on her very merry way.” At first, what seems only applicable to the art form, becomes a haunting metaphor for Lydia’s control of the people around her.
This film very clearly lives in a post #MeToo world, with Tár being one of those right-leaning contrarians who is fed up with cancel culture. Early in the film, she goes on a post-woke identity politics rant directed at one of her Juilliard students who spoke up on Bach’s misogynistic views. It becomes a meta argument on separating the art from the artist, with Tár putting the art above all. When the student doesn’t budge on their stance, Lydia tells them, “The narcissism of small differences leads to the most boring conformity.” Honestly…she’s not wrong. In a way she’s urging her students to think critically for themselves and avoid liberal influence. The irony is that her unapologetic beliefs would be far more compelling if she wasn’t perpetuator of toxicity herself.
Karmic retribution follows Lydia closely behind, and shortly after that rant, the fortress walls protecting Tár come crashing down. One of her former mentees, Krista, takes her own life, leaving a note detailing the abuse she experienced under Tár. She is accused of grooming and forming a transactional sexual relationship with someone who was essentially her student. That sets off the unravelling of Lydia’s personal life and public career, and she pins it all on the herd-mentality of cancel culture. Instead of self reflection or accountability, she just blames society at large.
From Dirty Harry to The Sopranos to Deadpool, the antihero archetype has been explored at length. The charm of these characters lies in their contradictions. They’re the protagonists of their stories but ditch the altruism and solid moral compass, yet remain likeable to the audience. Women are seldom given the opportunity to sink their teeth into a multi-faceted character that challenges the norm. Female characters are often still crammed into a shoebox of outdated and plain old misogynistic stereotypes: the damsel in distress, the boy-crazy man-stealer, the trophy wife, the caretaker, and so on. Alongside those is a crop of faux-feminist characters that could appear to be crafted well but disservice representation just as much as the others— for example, the career-driven girlboss, the kickass superhero, and the queen bee. I’m talking to you, Captain Marvel. Frankly, the general public is still uncomfortable with objectable insolent female characters. That’s why writers don’t write them, studio’s don’t produce them, the cycle continues.
Thanks to that gaping void in the movie market, the last decade has finally seen a surge of films with genuine characters showing every side of a woman, warts and all. Arguably the most popular example— and my person favourite— is Amy Dunne in Gone Girl, portrayed by Rosamund Pike. Not only is Amy an unstable, maniacal woman on an absolutely unhinged journey of revenge, but the script itself also acknowledges the very issue at hand. Her iconic ‘cool girl monologue’ tackles how conforming to men’s ‘ideal woman’ has drained the life out of her. Amy Dunne is a labyrinth of a character; she’s a hopeless romantic and a dotting wife, intelligent and sophisticated, sensitive and emotional, resilient and headstrong, unstable and neurotic, hypocritical and manipulative. She’s a walking contradiction who is deeply flawed, and that’s why she’s real, thats why I love her. Similar can be said for Pike’s character of Marla Grayson in I Care A Lot or Emma Stone in The Favourite. They both use selfish and violent schemes for personal gain, but just the right amount of humanity to have nuance.
On the other side of the same coin, roles like Charlize Theron’s in Young Adult or Kirsten Dunst in Melancholia go about being problematic in another way. Both women suffer from intense depression and, in turn, are shrouded in narcissistic tendencies— they are so deep in their own despair that they can’t see how they hurt the people around them. The most compelling thing about all of these characters, including Lydia Tár, is that they don’t quite fit into the description of an anti-hero. Yes, they are the main character, have questionable morals, and act purely out of ego, but they’re not exactly likeable. Everyone seems to love Tony Soprano, but no one is walking out of Tár thinking, ‘Wow! I love her!’ (Okay, maybe I am). The gender bias in movies becomes abundantly clear when you compare male anti-heroes to unlikeable female characters. Ironically, Tár exists to dismantle that narrative.
During the aforementioned New Yorker interview, Lydia says, “As to the question of gender bias, I really have nothing to complain about.” She doesn’t believe in diluting things down to a label, nor does she feel threatened by her own gender or sexuality. But why would she be when she is already the one in power? She’s long passed the vulnerable stage where someone above her could take advantage; now, she’s the one pulling the strings. Once Lydia is outed for her sexual misconduct, inappropriate workplace behaviour, and problematic views, she gets knocked off her pedestal. She loses her wife, daughter, job, respect of her peers, and worst of all— her legacy. Lydia ends up in her own personal hell, exiled to Southeast Asia, where she conducts video game music to a cosplayer-filled audience. Again, Lydia likens these circumstances to reactionary liberals.
Blanchett portrays Lydia as a woman wish unabashed confidence, making it hard to completely write her off despite her beyond-questionable behaviour. She shows glimpses of cognizance and humanity, which rounds off the dimension of her character. As a viewer, you go back and forth throughout the movie; ‘Do I like her? Do I even want to like her? I don’t like her, but I kind of respect her. Do I respect her, or is she just confident?’ The film was crafted to engage audiences into that inner struggle, compelling us to confront aspects of ourselves we typically avoid. Perhaps Lydia’s words and actions mirror what any of us would do if we found ourselves in her position of absolute control. Referring to Tár’s remarks on gender, the film substantiates her point— the effect on the human psyche when granted immense power and then having it stripped away does not depend on gender.
Lydia Tár— revealed late in the film to have been born Linda Tarr, a name both plain and forgettable— is the kind of person that exists across all industries. It just so happens this film revolves around the classical music world, but could have easily been a tech CEO, an investment banker, or a high-school principal. Anyone watching this movie can probably identify a Lydia-adjacent person in their own lives. Todd Field crafted a universal type of woman we’ve all crossed paths with, but are hardly represented in on screen.
Tár proves the very real notion that women can be terrible too, because they are humans! They are flawed and multi-layered. They can do bad things while simultaneously accomplishing great things. Amy Dunne murdered someone while also pulling off a bait-and-switch for the ages. Abigail in The Favourite sabotages and poisons her own cousin while also gaining the respect and trust of Queen Anne. Justine in Melancholia cheats on her husband on her wedding night but garners power from the world ending and finds peace in her fatal destiny. The reason a film over two hours long with no action sequences and the monotonous backdrop of an orchestra pit, is an immersive and exhilarating experience is because of the unbridled, ugly, and authentic humanity of Lydia Tár.
*originally published by collider.com on 11/30/2022