I started listening to opera by accident. In 2014, to satisfy a long-standing whim, I bought a cheap vinyl player—one of those $40 entry-level models. Since then, I’ve moved on to more sophisticated ones, but this was where it all began. I wasn’t home when the Amazon package arrived; I was in Philadelphia for work. It was deep winter, sometime in January or February, and the city streets were covered in ice and snow. It was raining too, which made the roads dangerously slippery.
I was staying in a downtown hotel, and one evening, after finishing work a little earlier than usual, I decided to take a walk and explore the area. The daylight was fading fast, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Despite wearing three layers of clothing, I shivered as the cold, wet air hit me. Within a few blocks, I stumbled upon a vinyl record store—an unexpected and welcome find. After all, when I returned home, I’d have a record player waiting for me but no records to play. I thought, why not buy one or two here?
I don’t recall the store’s name, but I remember it being a large space with multiple sections. There weren’t many customers—who would venture out in weather like that? —and the few staff members seemed engrossed in their own tasks. It was my first time in a vinyl store, and I was struck by the sheer number of records. Some looked new, others clearly vintage, their covers worn with age. The air smelled faintly of must, like old books mellowed by time, and the dim lighting gave the place a quiet, almost mysterious charm.
After wandering aimlessly for a while, I found myself in the Western classical section. There, my eyes landed on a 1955 Maria Callas recording of Puccini’s Madam Butterfly. The cover featured a dramatic image of Callas with outstretched hands, closed eyes, and an expression of complete immersion in her performance. It was striking. The jacket contained two discs along with extensive notes on the recording’s history. The price was $20. At the time, I knew almost nothing about opera or vinyl quality, but the record drew me in. It felt like the right choice—a genuine piece of history from a time when vinyl was king. After a brief hesitation over the price, I picked it up, along with a few cheaper records, and headed back to my hotel.
That was 2014. I still remember the first time I placed that Madam Butterfly disc on my player. As the needle touched the surface, there was a brief crackle, and then the music began. Maria Callas’s voice emerged—bold, sweet, and exquisite. Within moments, I was captivated by the first aria. Even on my cheap player with its built-in speakers, her voice carried a clarity and depth that seemed to fill every corner of my small apartment. It reminded me of Kishori Amonkar, the great Hindustani classical singer—provocative and bold, yet irresistibly sweet. That was the moment I fell in love with Maria Callas and opera.
Director Pablo Larraín’s Maria started streaming on Netflix earlier this month. The film captures the final days of Maria Callas’s life in her Parisian apartment, where she died at fifty-three. Alone except for her loyal butler and cook, she is shown grappling with her lost voice, her identity, and her past. Heavily medicated and haunted by memories, she drifts through her palatial home like a ghost of her former self. While this portrayal may not be the best tribute to her artistic legacy, it has a certain tragic beauty. Callas’s life—full of genius, eccentricities, a turbulent love affair with Onassis, and personal struggles—has inspired countless biographies. Yet, Larraín chose to focus on her human vulnerabilities in her final days, portraying her as a flower withering but still carrying an undeniable charm.
Maria Callas thrived on stage. She could channel her genius into unforgettable performances, gliding effortlessly across the tonal scale, each note imbued with emotion. People who saw her live often described her as magnetic and moving. Jolie’s portrayal captures some of that essence, but more than that, her eyes do most of the work. Large, luminous, and heartbreakingly expressive, they mirror every emotion Callas might have felt—grief, longing, defiance—with gravity and sincerity. In one particularly moving scene, those eyes glisten with unshed tears as Callas bids farewell to a dying Onassis. It’s a moment that encapsulates the heartbreak of Callas’s personal life and Jolie’s ability to embody her vulnerability.
Opera is more than just a voice. It’s about performance—costumes, acting, stage presence, breath control, and the raw emotion that brings music to life. Composers like Puccini, Verdi, Mozart, and Wagner demanded superhuman abilities from their sopranos. A studio recording, no matter how perfect, can never fully capture the magic of live opera. In another poignant scene in Maria, Callas, asks a restaurant manager to stop playing one of her records. When he expresses admiration for her voice, she replies, “That recording is too perfect, but my singing is never perfect. I’m still striving for it.” That line stayed with me. There’s something about the imperfections of live music—the missed notes, the instinctive improvisations, the human moments—that recordings can’t replicate. (This is the reason why live performances still draw huge crowds. Listening to Lady Gaga on Spotify is nothing compared to watching her perform on stage.)
The film has its flaws. It meanders and doesn’t fully showcase the Maria Callas the world reveres—the commanding genius of the stage. Instead, it focuses on her vulnerability. But that’s typical of Larraín’s work, as seen in Jackie and Spencer. He prefers to delve into private moments, showing his subjects away from the public eye. Their glamour and achievements are already well-documented and widely known; Larraín explores their humanity.
I enjoyed Maria, partly because of my love for the subject. Over the years, I have amassed a decent Vinyl collection of Callas’s recordings. On cold winter evenings, there’s nothing better than a hot cup of tea and her voice filling the room. I’m no expert on opera—I don’t need to be. This music moves me, and that’s enough.
I recommend Maria for Angelina Jolie’s haunting performance and Pablo Larraín’s tender portrait of a tortured genius who lived—and sang—on her own terms.