I said oh no he’s about to fuck the dirt and then he fucked the dirt
MAESTRO is less portrait, more watching someone sit for a portrait — at once seeing the artist make their strokes, the subject try to hold their face, and all the moments the preferred expression falters, fully real but ever protected by the nature of the enterprise.
I loved it.
I understand the ways it holds different kinds of viewers with opposite desires at arm’s length, but I’m the viewer who is fine being at this distance and taking it as a choice
There’s a point toward the end where Ernest (whom the movie follows but never “centers”) is asked if the relationship with Molly was by malevolent design from the start. He reacts defensively — but seemingly honestly — and argues against that suggestion. He recounts with earnest enough feeling how he met, wooed, and loved her on his own steam. An original experience, authentic and his.
This, despite the fact that before their eyes ever locked, before he was more than…