*This article contains major spoilers for the entire plot of Tár*
Perhaps it was her notoriety. After all, can you really be seen to praise someone as controversial as Lydia Tár? Well, despite being described as an EGOT, and the fact she isn’t actually real, the Academy said ‘no’. Any criticism of the Oscars for their failure to award Todd Field’s masterful Tár anything on the big night might be interpreted as some kind of slight towards big winner Everything Everywhere All At Once, but now that all the brouhaha has died down, and the gold nuggets have been apportioned, the most enduring accolade will be withstanding the test of time. Tár should have no problem in that regard.
The lady in question says it herself. “Time is the thing”, proclaims Tár (Cate Blanchett) in her fascinating public interview at the beginning of the masterpiece named for her. It’s certainly the thing when you talk to fans and critics on the European side of the pond, who had to wait over three months after its U.S. release to finally get to see writer-director Field’s long-awaited third feature film. His first two films, In The Bedroom and Little Children, told tales of suburban malaise through the eyes of the people experiencing very particular circumstances. Tár goes one step further, focusing on one character, both the victim and cause of a very public downfall. As the lead conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, Tár has worked her way up through academia and the classical music world to achieve great things. It is difficult not to write of Lydia Tár as if she’s real; meme culture being what it is, in a way she has become real. Blanchett’s performance has transcended the limitations of the screen on which her fiery performance is projected to become a living, breathing entity of her own. Lydia Tár will stand the test of that elusive thing, time. While doing the rounds of the festival and awards circuits, Tár has been dissected every which way in an attempt to pin down what it has to say. It tackles a lot of issues of the day, from gender equality to abuses of power, but the theme that lasts is time, because it’s the one that every audience member can appreciate. Tár is about someone attempting to control time, whilst simultaneously failing to realize that she has become frozen in time, unable to escape the actions of the past or the consequences that lie in the future. In short, her time is up.
The very first scene shows how frozen Tár has become. Sat on a private jet and groggy behind a sleeping mask, we observe Tár through a smartphone camera, the subject of a texted conversation. The person holding the phone is Tár’s latest find and favourite, star cellist Olga (played by acclaimed cellist Sophie Kauer in her screen debut). The identity of the person she’s texting is never confirmed, but there are so many potential saboteurs that are revealed over the following two-and-a-half hours, that the viewer may find themselves becoming confused, or even paranoid. From the opening, Field’s script and direction is daring to put you in an uncomfortable place: inside Lydia Tár’s head. At this stage, we are not yet aware of what Tár is alleged to have done, but the invasiveness of the first shot is hard to shake off, establishing an eerie atmosphere that rarely lets up for the rest of the film. Tár is made to feel like she’s being stalked. Whether she is or not is up to the viewer, but if she is, even the nature of her stalker is up for debate. Is someone actually after her, or is it a ghost, or merely a feeling? Is Tár’s paranoia the real antagonist of Tár?
Control is re-established on Tár’s behalf as the credits come in. However, these aren’t traditional opening credits showcasing the primary players. Field moves the full credits normally reserved for a film’s end right to the beginning, a disruptive move worthy of Lydia Tár herself. As the following scenes make clear, Tár is a visionary in the classical music world, one who prides herself on her control of the material she’s bringing to the audience. The choice to place the credits first, accompanied by chanting from a member of a South American tribe whose musicality Tár studied extensively for her PhD, is a choice Tár herself might have made. Normally an audience might have escaped shortly after the credits start to roll, but Tár would insist her story is worth the extra time. As well as reflecting his character’s self-deluded pretension, Field also gives worthy credit to the crew whose very mention could easily have been skipped over were they left to the end of the film.
The scene following the credits is the afore-mentioned public interview between Tár and New Yorker writer Adam Gopnik, who posits that some people think of orchestra conductors as mere timekeepers. She responds with that statement that may as well be her mission statement. “Time is the thing”, says Tár. “Time is the essential piece of interpretation. You cannot start without me. See, I start the clock.” This could be an apt nod to T. Fleischmann’s ‘Time Is The Thing a Body Moves Through’, a selection of essays on our interactions with art and how it defines us, but moreover it defines Field’s dialogue for Tár, at once excessively wordy and brilliantly forthright. She takes pride in her control, and exercises it through her verbosity; she even edits her own Wikipedia page. That control extends to the interview itself; the scene opens with Gopnik listing Tár’s accomplishments, and at one point we cut to Tár’s assistant Francesca (Noémie Merlant), reciting the introduction to herself as Gopnik delivers it. All of this has been pre-arranged, introducing a suggestion that Tár is not to be challenged. Throughout the interview, she delivers answers that the audience might not expect, but is clever enough to contextualize them in ways that soften the blow. She pays tribute to the female conductors that came before her (despite the real-life protestations of Marin Allsop, one of the names Tár mentions), whilst admitting that she hasn’t faced much in the way of sexism while rising up in a male-dominated field. Much has been made of Tár as a film about cancel culture, but Field makes a key choice about how to portray the rise and fall of Lydia Tár. Cancel culture is the context in which Tár operates, but it is not the subject of the film. Naturally, in a post-#MeToo world, the film has to acknowledge the shift in attitudes towards inappropriate behaviour in cultural and other realms in recent years, but that becomes window dressing by the end. Tár is about how one character is affected by these shifts, and how she responds to it. The fact that Tár is a woman complicates matters; it gives subsequent plot developments around her actions an edge that wouldn’t be there if the character were written as a man. After many high-profile men have been brought down by their behaviour towards women, how does this dynamic work when the (alleged) abuser is a woman too? This is part of Field’s determination to eschew easy answers, as is his decision not to specify everything Tár is alleged to have done. As time goes on, we learn that there was some kind of exchange of favours between Tár, Francesca and another budding musician/assistant, Krista (Sylvia Flote), though the film is purposely vague about the nature of these favours, be they professional, sexual or otherwise. We also learn that Krista has committed suicide, and Tár’s active refusal to support her applications for posts in orchestras likely played a part in her death. Tár has clearly done something wrong, but for most of the film this is manifested more in the guilt she feels and tries to avoid, rather than the consequences she faces.
Before we even get to the guilt or consequences, though, we get to witness Tár exercising more control, this time in the classroom. While many scenes could lay claim to being the most infamous in Tár, the sequence in which she delivers a masterclass at Juilliard has become a prime contender, not least by acting as a lighting rod for any number of contemporary talking points. Like the interview before it, the scene takes its time. The masterclass is obvious in its formal daring, with Field staging the scene as a ten-minute long take. Florian Hoffmeister’s elegant camera follows Tár around the cavernous lecture hall as if rapt to her every word. Here again we see Tár controlling her audience through her words; the camera hangs on her, even as she invites some audience participation. Asking a couple of students for their opinions on Bach, the camera follows Tár to sit next to Max (Zethphan Smith-Gneist), who expresses disinterest in the white European males of the canon (“As a BIPOC pangender, I have difficulty connecting with Bach.”). The preceding interview established Tár as a champion of female conductors and composers, so it could be presumed by both the students and us, the audience, that Tár might be sympathetic to his point of view. However, in as erudite a fashion as possible, she rebuffs Max’s rejection of the canon. As she does so, she becomes more animated, leading to a moment that serves to bring the themes of control and time crashing together. Tár invites Max onto the dais to sit beside her at the piano to demonstrate some Bach. Up to this point, Max has sat listening, all the while his leg has been twitching, whether out of impatience or nervousness. This continues while sitting with Tár at the piano, even when she stops playing to ask for his feedback. As he struggles to find the words, Tár reaches over him and places her hand on his knee, as if to stop the twitching. The action is impulsive, and feels even more so when it comes from someone who has exercised so much control up to now. The fact that this moment comes as a shock despite the fact there still haven’t been any cuts in this scene is a testament to Field’s writing. By now, we are over half an hour into Tár, and up to this point the film has repeatedly demonstrated Tár’s control over her own narrative and her time. A preceding scene saw her dressing down her colleague Elliot Kaplan, treating an ostensible equal so dismissively as to emasculate him (Putting the pathologically bald Mark Strong in dated glasses and a floppy haircut only adds to the humiliation).
Yet the dressing down Tár gives Max is different. Being a teacher to Max, the power dynamic shifts in her favour. The physical invasiveness of her actions is something that has been hinted at before (In an earlier scene, we see Tár playfully touch a flirty reporter’s handbag in admiration), but this is an unrestricted and inconsiderate move from this alleged master of control. This moment between Tár and Max has two functions. From a character development point of view, it introduces Tár’s potential for physical and/or intellectual intimidation; as the film goes on, this aspect of her personality will play a bigger part in the action. As for the film as a whole, the moment Tár puts her hand on Max’s knee marks time. This moment is the end of Act One. This is precisely when Tár begins to lose control of her story. Though the scene doesn’t end there, a very different pallor is cast over the film. Tár’s ongoing lesson to Max becomes more confrontational, but is still erudite, though Max is unable to respond with civility (“You’re a fucking bitch.”). After this scene, the film’s rhythms speed up. No scene in the film after this goes on as long without a cut. From here on in, Field will loosen his grip on his precise control of Tár’s visual storytelling. The rigor that has been so visible up to this point will give way to faster pacing as the narrative proper kicks in. This is not to suggest Field gives up or loses control over his film: quite the opposite. As a filmmaker, he is so in tune to the requirements of his story that he can see that the formal precision is no longer required. The sweeping camera moves and formally-pleasing frames give way to off-centre framing, and even handheld camera. Tár’s formal precision represents Lydia Tár’s control; as one ebbs away, so must the other.
Act Two is where the narrative of Tár actually starts. The fact it takes so long for the story to get going is a source of most criticism against the film; for some, it moves too slowly. Like Tár herself, the film allows itself the indulgence of wordy confrontation, but only up to a point. Unlike her, the film knows when to move on. Among the few purely happy constants in Tár’s life are her partner Sharon (Nina Hoss) and their daughter Petra (Mila Bogojevic). They offer unconditional happiness to Tár but, for as much as she loves them, it’s clear she enjoys the stimulation of control and power more. The pursuit of control, and the structures that enable Tár to indulge in that pursuit, are constantly evoked (See her frequent meetings with predecessor and mentor Andris (Julian Glover), an eloquent reminder of old structures and practices that are probably best forgotten). However, perhaps Tár cannot leave the past behind because she (and we) are constantly reminded of it. As her control of the narrative slips away, Field’s evocation of time becomes more nebulous and mysterious, introducing a sense of unease that builds in and around our protagonist. Numerous reviews have referred to Tár as a ghost story, and Field includes some elements that border on the supernatural to accentuate the unease. Krista sends Tár a copy of Challenge, Vita Sackville-West’s veiled portrait of her affair with Violet Keppel. This hints at a sexual dimension to their relationship. Tár responds by throwing the book away, but not before ripping out the title page that has been embossed with tribal markings, a nod to her time spent in South America researching her PhD. Both Krista and the markings will reappear in the film, but only fleetingly. Krista is only glimpsed face-on in Tár’s nightmares, and her red hair interjects from the side of frames on occasion to hint at her increasing mental degradation, rather like Tyler Durden’s blink-and-you’ll-miss-them intrusions in the early scenes of Fight Club. The markings appear again when drawn on a metronome that has been set off in the middle of the night in Tár’s study. How the markings came to be there, or how the metronome got set off, is left unanswered. We are invited to consider if a ghost is toying with Tár, or if this is a manifestation of her own paranoia. Either way, the ticking is loud and insistent, like the encroaching heartbeats in Poe’s ‘The Telltale Heart’, with Tár grabbing it with both hands in desperation to stop the clock. The fear that time is catching up with her builds throughout the this portion of the film. There are constant references to her past successes, but her sins interject from the side of the frame. For example, an elderly neighbour’s assistance bell goes off now and again to disrupt the composer’s train of thought, a reminder of the unseen parents Tár left behind for her musical success.
The film will go on to suggest that Tár may have encountered someone similarly confrontational to herself in Krista. However, from here on in, Krista only resurfaces through reports of her suicide, but the ghosts of the past manifest themselves in more literal ways as time becomes more ethereal. An investigation into the circumstances of Krista’s death slowly draws Tár in. Meanwhile, the arrival of a new potential protégé, Kauer’s virtuoso cellist Olga, sees Tár indulge some of her worst impulses, including favouritism, bullying, and even downright stalking. Though we’re only witnessing her for a relatively brief period with the Philharmonic, the invocation of routines and the conductor’s dominance suggest this has been the way she has operated for quite some time. However, as her sins begin to catch up with her, time threatens to rupture altogether. The second act ends when Tár offers Olga a lift in her car. Olga leaves something behind, and Tár follows her into her strangely derelict apartment block to return it. Creeping through a waterlogged basement, and glimpsing a growling hound at the end of a long corridor, Field switches from elegant Steadicam to haphazard handheld. This is hell manifested for Tár, and she will not be left unmarked. Indeed, as she flees the scene, she falls and gets a black eye. This mark of Cain will stain her as her public disgrace begins proper. A newspaper story on Krista’s death goes viral, as does an edited video of her confrontation with Max at Juilliard, phenomena that Tár’s old-fashioned ways can’t envisage being a problem. The warning of the first scene, the composer’s fall from grace happening on small screens beyond her control, has come to pass. The use of handheld camera becomes more notable, Tár starts checking her watch more often, and that scar marks her for all to see. Like J.J. Gittes’ bandaged nose in Chinatown, the injury and the danger it represents are too prominent to ignore. It might heal, but the real damage has already been done. Lydia Tár is damaged goods, and it was her own meddling and invasive ways that brought her down.
The epilogue of Tár has inspired more debate than most films muster in their entirety. Her return to her childhood home, followed by a relocation to south-east Asia to conduct soundtracks to video games, offers no clear answers. Does Lydia Tár see the error of her past ways? When visiting a massage parlour, only to learn it’s actually a brothel, she runs out to vomit. Perhaps she has learned, but part of Tár‘s daring lies in the fact that there is no obvious sense of redemption. Her new setting and repertoire could be interpreted as a severe demotion. In the film’s final shot, as the camera cranes up over her new audience, a hall full of costumed gaming cosplayers, the audience is invited to laugh not at them, but at Tár. Try as she might to throw herself into this work, she is a world away from the elegant regimented settings she cultivated back in Berlin. We can imagine this being another hell for her; she no longer has control of her place or time. Indeed, the ending of Tár seems conclusive, with no ongoing sense of forward momentum. She just exists in this place now, without family, responsibility or power. This feels at once both cruel and just; we have spent two-and-a-half hours learning about this woman and what makes her tick. It is just at the end that the spell has been broken, and we realize we have been asked to empathize with someone who showed too little empathy herself. In doing so, Field evokes the power of the second Golden Age of Hollywood, when moral ambiguity created riveting drama so wonderfully. His ability to disrupt expectation through the marriage of thorny material to masterful filmmaking would have won him the praise of his director in Eyes Wide Shut. Kubrick hypnotised us, even when exploring the depths of human behaviour, and Field does the same. Lydia Tár is compelling not because she’s a victim or villain, but because she’s human; we can all relate to being put through the emotional wringer and losing control. Still, we and Lydia hope these wounds can be healed; time is the thing.
Tár is now available on Blu-Ray and streaming on demand.