Tár, the 2022 film written and directed by Todd Field, features Cate Blanchett as the eponymous Lydia Tár. Blanchett is exquisite and her performance, masterfully metronomic.
What fascinates me about Tár is the use of distance as a lens through which to decipher meaning—but it’s hard won; as unforgiving and unsettled as interpreting Mahler’s 5th symphony. No good solutions, just thoughtful attempts.
The film itself is set in the niche world of modern classical music, opening an immediate chasm between the stage and the audience, unless you happen to be in that world of course. There’s an ivory tower element forcing us to look up, without innate understanding of the lexicon, norms, hierarchies.
We enter the film with our necks already craned to the opening scene of a lengthy interview with Tár on stage, Blanchett hitting every intonation and obtuse explanation with a level of precise confidence that immediately suspends our disbelief: Lydia Tár knows exactly what she means and says it how she means to.
Every reference, every response, comes from the type of knowledge only possible from the pursuit of a lifelong passion. The way she speaks, so effortlessly switching between German, French, and English—only faltering in Mandarin for a moment—the way she uses Hebrew words in reference to what ‘Leonard Bernstein once taught her’, is the very definition of practiced.
But it’s also problematic.
Tár’s many achievements, brilliant mind, and Field’s deft deployment of distance in the film challenge the audience to find the undeniable chink in Lydia’s armor.
Yet, we can’t, because we never see any events occur, and when we’re caught up again in Tár’s mesmerizing mind and have forgotten about the whispers of scandal, Field reminds us again, and again, and again. Until neither the audience nor the world of classical music can ignore it.
So what I’m really fascinated with is the distance between Tár and the people in her life, and how that prevents understanding or definitive resolution about the titular character, at every turn.
First, as outlined, the ivory tower distance issues a gap between the audience and orchestra section, so to speak. We don’t know the rules. But Lydia and Sharon, Tár’s wife and also first violinist, do know the rules and tell each other when they’ve broken them.
Secondly, Tár’s assistant, Francesca, holds a palpable space between Lydia and everyone else in her life and work. Even Lydia’s mother calls her assistant when she wants to get to her. Tár insulates herself. When she needs to email someone, she writes the message and has her assistant send the email and forward Lydia the reply.
When Francesca disappears after Tár coldly passes her up for a well-deserved promotion, the insulation evaporates. Lydia takes her own calls; writes and sends her own emails. Suddenly she is closer to the consequences of her actions; the maestro is closer to earth.
Third, the distance between the camera and the character. Todd Field shoots Blanchett at wide angles from far away, at key moments when we crave clarity. The effect is to second guess ourselves, further challenging us to interpret.
Lastly, Lydia keeps her own flat in Berlin. It’s more than a work or seduction space. It’s where she seeks distance from her wife and daughter; it’s her retreat of sorts. And it confirms her emotional separation from those supposedly closest to her.
As Tár’s fall from grace picks up the pace, both types of distance close in proportion to her humiliation and the character retreats into herself, where we are given no access by Field at all.
I won’t spoil the ending, but it’s the film’s second shocking revelation (the first is also shocking and I won’t ruin it here if you’ve yet to see the movie) that Tár’s fully distanced herself from reality so as to protect her ego; that she will never admit the truth to herself or the world.
And still, the lack of definitive knowing created by distance and at time flat-feeling actions devoid of discourse forces the viewer to make a judgment: Is Tár a predator? Or is she a victim? Is she both?
You’ll have to decide for yourself.
But the film gives us certain clues in the way of Sharon’s facial expressions. It’s useful narratively that she be first violinist, both for the metaphoric value but also for the camera angles that naturally pan to her when Tár does or says things to her players that are eyebrow raising.
Is Sharon just another perspective? Or a clue to the truth of Lydia’s long history of predatory indiscretions?
Blanchett does such a striking job at impressing Lydia's self-possession upon us, one can almost hear her rebuttal if confronted: "You're a robot!"
Multiple times during the film, Tár describes those who accuse or challenge her as robots, as being robotic. Field's strong writing here shines again. He consistently presents Lydia as deep-feeling, so it makes sense that the worst thing in the world to her is robotic, unfeeling, unexamined beliefs.
And yet, perhaps the most heartbreaking distance of all in Tár is between the protagonist as she is and the protagonist as she thinks she is: the lack of self-awareness.
By the end, you must ask yet another question: Is it Lydia Tár who is the robot? Who can abscond across the world (again: distance) and leave her child, "the only relationship she's ever had that's not transactional" according to Sharon, if not for someone with a heart of steel?
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