In The Philosophers’ Magazine, no. 99. 2023.
Lydia Tár sits at the top of her field. The principal conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic, she has transcended success within the shrinking confines of the classical music world to become its representative to the broader public – a role previously occupied by her mentor, Leonard Bernstein.
But something haunts Tár. She wonders aloud whether her fellowship program, designed to mentor young women conductors, should open its doors to men as well. And in a bombastic guest lecture at Julliard, Tár chastises a student for “not being into Bach” because he was a straight, white, male, misogynist.
These scenes relay a latent insecurity about posterity. Tár worries that her musical contributions might be evaluated through lenses of gender, sexuality, class, or extracurricular behavior, and that this will somehow distort or diminish their appreciation. When asked about challenges faced as a woman conductor in a male-dominated field, she demurs. And her response to the student’s dismissal of Bach, she points out that “if Bach’s talent can be reduced to his gender, birth country, religion, sexuality, and so on -- then so can yours.” Implicit but clear enough is the silent addendum, “and mine.”
As is often the case, these insecurities also result in abuses carried out with an impunity reassuring of one’s status. Rumors swirl about misconduct – recommendations given to students in exchange for sexual favors – and a former student, Krista Taylor, whose career was stymied by Tár after she rebuffed Tár’s sexual advances, is reported to have committed suicide. Field strategically withholds any information which would confirm Tár’s wrongdoing, a deliberate choice which, given the film’s otherwise strict adherence to her subjective perspective perhaps makes us witness to the internal life of someone in the grip of self-deception, whose repressed memories of malfeasance occasionally intrude upon the film in ghostly and sometimes mystical ways (witness the disembodied screams of a woman Tár hears while running).
Yet, just as the art is there, and great, even if we ignore it because of who made it, Tár’s misdeeds are there, and bad, even if she has so far not been held accountable for them. And the whims of posterity are not hers to control. An investigation into Tár’s relationship with Taylor prompts other former students to share similar stories of abuse, and the era of discounting such voices (even in great numbers) has passed.
Disgraced, Tár retreats to her childhood home for a reset, and we get a glimpse into the person she once was: a musical talent who admired Bernstein for his ability and willingness to share his passion for music with the broader public. We see Tár in a moment of great weakness here, crying while wearing her high school field hockey medal, reminded of who she once was and what she’s lost in the pursuit of success. As she sobs, Bernstein provides the crucial commentary: “Every once in a while we have feelings that are so deep and so special that we have no words for them. And that’s where music is so marvelous, because music names them for us.” Once inspired by Bernstein’s words to pursue a life of music, Tár now finds herself without it (worth noting is that, as a conductor, she needs an ensemble to play music for her, with her direction – she cannot perform it in her primary role herself).
Whatever Tár’s moral shortcomings, her rise and fall is a tragic and cautionary tale. Her bad behavior is partially a product of circumstance – in this case, the opportunities for abuse afforded by her artistic achievements. While this doesn’t excuse her behavior, who among us doesn’t desire success in our chosen domains? Yet, the film suggests that success may itself be a moral hazard – a mantle to be accepted only uneasily, lest it corrupt us and leave us without the very thing we’ve sought.
Our journey with Tár ends similarly to how it started, with the maestro spotlighted on a stage, performing for an audience. Except the setting is no longer a shmaltzy New York theater: instead of softball questions from Adam Gopnik, we hear the voice of an unseen narrator cautioning an audience dressed in cosplay gear about the journey they are about to embark upon. Left unclear is whether Tár has internalized anything from her censure, or whether she is simply stoically positioning herself for another bid for the top. In that regard, the ending leaves us unsure how to feel about what’s transpired. Perhaps this is Todd Field’s way of underscoring Tár’s own insecurities about posterity: how others will think of what we leave behind is not for us to mandate.