There is a story, perhaps apocryphal, that when the young Leonard Bernstein informed his father that he planned to pursue a musical career, the elder Bernstein was sorely disappointed. He ran a successful cosmetics business, and had hoped his oldest son would follow him into the business; initially, he actively discouraged his son's musical pursuits. In later years, his father struggled to explain: "You have to understand . . . How did I know he would become . . . Leonard Bernstein?"
The term "genius" is overused in popular discourse, but if there have ever been any American musical geniuses, surely Bernstein was one. As that story illustrates, his very name was synonymous with music. And though he was most famous as a conductor, he was also a composer (both of classical and popular pieces), an arranger, a gifted pianist, and a music educator (renowned for his early use of television for his Young People's Concerts). Bernstein himself once noted that some critics denigrated his role in each of those fields -- he was not "really" a conductor because he composed so much, and not "really" a classical composer because so much of what he composed was for musical theater, etc.
Indeed, his talents roamed over so many musical landscapes that he was hard to categorize; perhaps the best examples is when he describes himself in an interview with Edward R. Murrow as a "musician." But Bradley Cooper's beautifully directed and acted tour de force "Maestro" (Cooper directed, co-wrote, and plays Bernstein himself) makes a game try, exploring his talents and contributions to American music while lavishing equal attention on Bernstein's complicated personal life.
"Lenny" (as he was known to friends and family) was a force of nature -- when we first see him, it's on the morning of the now-legendary day in 1943 when he received an early call to substitute that same afternoon to conduct the New York Philharmonic because its guest conductor, Bruno Walter, had taken ill. At a time when almost no conductors were under 40, twenty-five year-old Bernstein stepped into the role with gusto, and without a rehearsal, gave an acclaimed performance that set him on a road that he would travel for nearly the next 50 years.
But that morning also finds Bernstein awakening with his bedmate, the choreographer Jerome Robbins -- just one of Bernstein's male lovers, at a time when being gay was still illegal in much of the country. But while the film does not shy away from Bernstein's sexuality, it reserves most of the tale of his personal life for the most important person in it -- Felicia Montealegre (Carey Mulligan), whom he would wed in 1951. Felicia ultimately becomes just as prominent in the story as Lenny, with the depiction of their courtship and early life framed in particularly romantic scenes (mostly shot in black-and-white) that will come back to have a poignant resonance later in the film.
It's remarkable is that the film is so frank about such elements as Bernstein's sexual orientation and his infidelities with young men, especially given that Cooper had the full cooperation of the three Bernstein children -- allowing at least some of the film to be shot in original locations where the events took place. And though he was directing and starring as Lenny, Cooper generously (and rightly) gives Felicia as much or even more attention as the film progresses.
The movie is blunt about how Lenny's desire to live according to his own rules eventually caused the couple to separate (though never to divorce). And then, when she is diagnosed with what will become terminal cancer, Bernstein finally recognizes how much he loved this woman, and cares for her tenderly.
As compelling as this story is, the film succeeds because of the performances. Cooper inhabits his character so much that, for those of us who remember "Lenny" in life, makes it feel as if he has been reincarnated. Cooper put enormous effort into his performance, mimicking Bernstein's voice, learning to conduct, and in an astonishing scene lasting 5 or 6 minutes (apparently without cuts) recreates a 1973 performance of a Mahler symphony at Ely Cathedral. It is the high-point of his performance -- Cooper replicates the symphony's finale gesture-for-gesture -- sweating, hair flying, arms swooping, and gyrating on the podium just as Bernstein did in the original.
Still, Carey Mulligan is with him step-for-step as Felicia. Though she required far less makeup and no prosthetics, and did not have to give as flamboyant a performance, she too seemingly brings Felicia back to life. Initially tentative, apparently amazed that she drew the attention of this irrepressible public figure, her Felicia ultimately turns flinty, criticizing her husband's lack of discretion in his assignations. And at one point, she orders him (over his objections) to shield the truth from their oldest daughter, Jamie (who, as a teenager, began hearing rumors about her father's lifestyle). Finally, as Felicia's health fails, Mulligan gives a tender, vulnerable performance that is never mawkish.
The film clocks in at barely over 2 hours, and perhaps in three or four hours, or a mini-series, Cooper could have delved far more into Bernstein's musical and gone down other byways of his personal life. But he and co-writer Josh Singer manage to strike just the right balance between Bernstein's career and personal life, depicting just how much they intertwined, while acknowledging that his family life eventually suffered precisely because, well . . . Because he was Leonard Bernstein. Such a man could not have achieved as much as he did without sacrificing somewhere -- and that sacrifice, sadly, was often made by his family.
The term "genius" is overused in popular discourse, but if there have ever been any American musical geniuses, surely Bernstein was one. As that story illustrates, his very name was synonymous with music. And though he was most famous as a conductor, he was also a composer (both of classical and popular pieces), an arranger, a gifted pianist, and a music educator (renowned for his early use of television for his Young People's Concerts). Bernstein himself once noted that some critics denigrated his role in each of those fields -- he was not "really" a conductor because he composed so much, and not "really" a classical composer because so much of what he composed was for musical theater, etc.
Indeed, his talents roamed over so many musical landscapes that he was hard to categorize; perhaps the best examples is when he describes himself in an interview with Edward R. Murrow as a "musician." But Bradley Cooper's beautifully directed and acted tour de force "Maestro" (Cooper directed, co-wrote, and plays Bernstein himself) makes a game try, exploring his talents and contributions to American music while lavishing equal attention on Bernstein's complicated personal life.
"Lenny" (as he was known to friends and family) was a force of nature -- when we first see him, it's on the morning of the now-legendary day in 1943 when he received an early call to substitute that same afternoon to conduct the New York Philharmonic because its guest conductor, Bruno Walter, had taken ill. At a time when almost no conductors were under 40, twenty-five year-old Bernstein stepped into the role with gusto, and without a rehearsal, gave an acclaimed performance that set him on a road that he would travel for nearly the next 50 years.
But that morning also finds Bernstein awakening with his bedmate, the choreographer Jerome Robbins -- just one of Bernstein's male lovers, at a time when being gay was still illegal in much of the country. But while the film does not shy away from Bernstein's sexuality, it reserves most of the tale of his personal life for the most important person in it -- Felicia Montealegre (Carey Mulligan), whom he would wed in 1951. Felicia ultimately becomes just as prominent in the story as Lenny, with the depiction of their courtship and early life framed in particularly romantic scenes (mostly shot in black-and-white) that will come back to have a poignant resonance later in the film.
It's remarkable is that the film is so frank about such elements as Bernstein's sexual orientation and his infidelities with young men, especially given that Cooper had the full cooperation of the three Bernstein children -- allowing at least some of the film to be shot in original locations where the events took place. And though he was directing and starring as Lenny, Cooper generously (and rightly) gives Felicia as much or even more attention as the film progresses.
The movie is blunt about how Lenny's desire to live according to his own rules eventually caused the couple to separate (though never to divorce). And then, when she is diagnosed with what will become terminal cancer, Bernstein finally recognizes how much he loved this woman, and cares for her tenderly.
As compelling as this story is, the film succeeds because of the performances. Cooper inhabits his character so much that, for those of us who remember "Lenny" in life, makes it feel as if he has been reincarnated. Cooper put enormous effort into his performance, mimicking Bernstein's voice, learning to conduct, and in an astonishing scene lasting 5 or 6 minutes (apparently without cuts) recreates a 1973 performance of a Mahler symphony at Ely Cathedral. It is the high-point of his performance -- Cooper replicates the symphony's finale gesture-for-gesture -- sweating, hair flying, arms swooping, and gyrating on the podium just as Bernstein did in the original.
Still, Carey Mulligan is with him step-for-step as Felicia. Though she required far less makeup and no prosthetics, and did not have to give as flamboyant a performance, she too seemingly brings Felicia back to life. Initially tentative, apparently amazed that she drew the attention of this irrepressible public figure, her Felicia ultimately turns flinty, criticizing her husband's lack of discretion in his assignations. And at one point, she orders him (over his objections) to shield the truth from their oldest daughter, Jamie (who, as a teenager, began hearing rumors about her father's lifestyle). Finally, as Felicia's health fails, Mulligan gives a tender, vulnerable performance that is never mawkish.
The film clocks in at barely over 2 hours, and perhaps in three or four hours, or a mini-series, Cooper could have delved far more into Bernstein's musical and gone down other byways of his personal life. But he and co-writer Josh Singer manage to strike just the right balance between Bernstein's career and personal life, depicting just how much they intertwined, while acknowledging that his family life eventually suffered precisely because, well . . . Because he was Leonard Bernstein. Such a man could not have achieved as much as he did without sacrificing somewhere -- and that sacrifice, sadly, was often made by his family.