The Obliteration of an Artist: How ‘Tár’ Confronts Existentialism Through Fame and Power

The real artistry of the film is how Field and Blanchett nod to a history of abuses with such discretion and subtlety. The explicit nature of misconduct and sensational overtures are abandoned in favor of a more tasteful discovery of facts.

“If you really want to talk about power and the long reach of history — the abuse and complicity of power, how it corrupts, all these clichés we’ve grown up with — you have to reckon with the idea that there is no black or white. To find the truth of something requires a little more rigor.”

— Todd Field on the corruption of power in ''Tár"

SPOILERS AHEAD

A few weeks ago, I strolled into a theater nearby to catch a screening of Todd Field’s Tár (2022). While I’d seen various clips and teasers online, I hadn’t watched the full trailer and even managed to avoid any major spoilers on Twitter [a miracle, certainly]. As the audience scurried to their seats when the lights dimmed, I wondered if a nearly three hour drama at 10pm on a Sunday would captivate the viewer the way it’s intended. Suffice to say, the construction of Tár’s fictionalized reality was both exhilarating and hopelessly crushing upon delivery. When the *figurative* (more on this later) credits rolled at the end, a pair of ladies sitting adjacent to me exclaimed: “That was really good,” to which an older gentleman resting diagonally in the row above me agreed. Though I remained silent, I couldn’t help but agree as the sweeping feeling of existentialism begin to seep through my mind. Is this what we have to look forward to as creatives? A life led by the fear of losing everything, so much so that we completely annihilate ourselves and everyone around us? The simple truth may be, merely, a double-edged sword: to get means to take—and to take, well, opportunity costs.

Lydia Tár (Cate Blanchett), considered one of the greatest modern composer-conductors of our time, must grapple with the pressures of leading a major German orchestra through the new age of accessibility; whereas the acclaimed composers of the past (Wagner, Bach, Bernstein, Beethoven, Mahler, etc.) weren’t subject to the scrutiny of the public eye through an always-online presence. These manifestations arise in the way by which Tár’s assistant, Francesca (Noémie Merlant), inevitably exposes her for disgusting behavioral patterns with the touch of a finger. Lydia seems to acknowledge the risk of voiding her accolades if someone were to reveal her performative artistry—but she proceeds to manipulate her environment because she can’t help herself. In fact, it may even result in the ballooning of excessive narcissism and self-sabotage. Is this a feature of her real identity or does she miscalculate with her response to a crumbling empire to save her legacy? Where does her work as an artistthe art stand in all this? Simply understanding the dynamic toxicity of politics in the 21st century doesn’t protect one from the consequences of their own societal perception. The implications laid by the filmmakers for exploring this narrative are not to cast blame on any one individual, but rather to explore the shifting nature of power and those who wield it.

Perhaps, there is no better scene to exemplify that point than the conversation at Julliard. Very early in the film, Tár lectures a class on the meaning of musical composition and begs students to question the artist’s intentions with their work; essentially explaining that while identity must influence the art on some intrinsic level, it doesn’t quite capture the full picture. In a remarkable one-shot, cinematographer Florian Hoffmeister (Pachinko, Antlers) canvases a significantly sized lecture hall where she begins to meticulously target a particular student who argues that it is, indeed, identity that informs how to interpret art, specifically the fact that much of the celebrated classical musicians are cis, white males. Blanchett’s intensity in this moment can be felt through the screen as her intention’s shift from trying to firmly counter the point they are making to an exceedingly poignant challenge against their own character. We are left to ponder if this verbal altercation was Tár’s response to a looming potential that her artistry, too, can one day be questioned—especially given that we learn later on how much she cares for her partner, Sharon Goodnow’s (Nina Hoss), daughter, Petra. There’s clear sense of preservation that Lydia has towards Petra’s innocence, before the corruption of life takes hold. We can’t help but wonder why she is so protective of Petra while confronting her bully at school; meanwhile, she declines to call her own mother.

The real artistry of the film is how Field and Blanchett nod to a history of abuses with such discretion and subtlety. The explicit nature of misconduct and sensational overtures are abandoned in favor of a more tasteful discovery of facts. Sure, in the first few minutes of the film, Adam Gopnik (self) interviews Lydia ahead of her anticipated live recording of Mahler’s 5th Symphony, listing off an abundance of achievements from the famed musician herself, but slowly those lucrative accomplishments fade into the background of importance for the narrative. In a recent interview with Uproxx, Todd Field considers that we all have likely dramatized our lives at one point or another, though Tár—and other artists— have the luxury of hearing this phenomenon, presented by others to themselves, in real time. “I think that sometimes we self-dramatize our lives. I certainly do. But really, life happens for most of us. It’s not that dramatic. You don’t really see it coming. It’s much more domestic,” he says. That thread of interrogation with reality contextualizes in the elusive surrealism found in the film. Tár struggles to sleep at night and when she can finally shut her eyes, she’s susceptible to be swallowed whole by the ghosts of her past. In that regard, Tár reads like a chilling ghost story.

When her mistakes inevitably halt her forward trajectory of power and fame, she begins a journey of self-discovery (we think). This leads to her family on Staten Island, finally, where we might get an answer to who she was. As she enters her [presumably] childhood home, the space starkly contrasts her modern aesthetic. She steps forward to a piano, only to learn that this pristine instrument is severely detuned. When her brother returns home, they share a brief moment—so detached and cold—where we learn that her real name is Linda Tarr. She leaves shortly thereafter, with no real resolution to all of the questions we might have. Deciding that she can’t really ever recover from the accusations levied against her, she heads out of the country where she may be able to reconstruct the artist and person she desperately wished to portray. And the final scene, shrouded in the mystery of the spotlight, reveals that everything she built is gone by a beautiful track shot. It’s an ending that feels so devastating, regardless of your feelings about the character. To really grasp what I believe to be the point made here, it’s worth revisiting the opening. There is no cold open, rather Field chooses to let the audience ingest the names of the people who made the film possible by presenting the production credits first. A choice that, after seeing the story unfold, feels very fitting for the times and harkens back to a point Lydia Tár makes earlier in the film:

To be one of the great artists, one must completely obliterate themselves in the process.