[7.4/10] *Maestro* is an upscale version of musical biopics like *Bohemian Rhapsody*--stately but standard--with a few fascinating artistic flourishes. Most of the time the film’s lookback on the life and times of Leonard Bernstein chugs along exactly as you’d expect. There are stretches of writerly dialogue where the characters philosophize in overly direct ways, actorly monologues that look good on an Oscar reel, and the artist’s trajectory that has become all but standardized in the years since *Ray* and *Walk the Line*. But every once in a while, the film does something tremendous, that justifies sitting through the other ninety percent of the time when it merely does what’s expected.

Some of its creative choices are clever, but well-established. The way the movie’s aesthetic mirrors the time depicted in this ongoing period piece is smart, including a transition from black-and-white into color, in line with producer Martin Scorsese’s approach in *The Aviator*. Likewise, the most striking part of the film’s first act are its dreamlike transitions between scenes, that bend reality but convey the dizzying rush of youthful passion, in a way that's precedented to the point of homage, but still an effective cinematic tool.

But in the film’s first creative climax, it jettisons the off-the-shelf biopic playbook, and indulges in an extended musical sequence that both pays homage to Bernstein’s contributions to *On the Town* while realizing the tumult of Leonard’s relationship with his soon-to-be wife, Felicia, in flourishing, impressionistic tones. The sense of artistry on display, in not just the song and dance, not just the swirling cinematography, but also in the use of this off-kilter method to convey the fraught dynamic between the movie’s two central figures, makes it an undeniable highpoint.

The other comes in a climactic second act crescendo that sees Bernstein give a spirited, furious conducting performance of Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony. Director/co-writer Bradley Cooper stars as Bernstein and, in large part, gives the undeniably well-done but rarely convincing performance of a real life figure that is typical of music biopics. He certainly commits to the part (aided by some rightfully controversial but also genuinely impressive prosthetics and old age makeup). But in line with the film's larger pathology, ninety percent of the time he comes off as doing a ton of capital-A acting, that is recognizable as full of craft and big choices, but rarely seems like he’s truly inhabiting Bernstein and disappearing into the role.

The exception, ironically, is arguably the moment he plays the biggest. Bernstein’s conducting of Mahler is riveting for Cooper’s intensity, for how he, cinematographer Matthew Libatique, and editor Michelle Tesoro stick to long unbroken shots to let the force of Bernstein’s movements wash over the audience without flash or cinematic varnish. One of the trickiest things in music biopics is convincingly portraying the actor as “doing the thing.” Most musicians worthy of story and song possess an incredible talent. That doesn’t always translate when interpreted by another performer. But in Cooper’s rendition of his subject’s Ely Cathedral triumph, you understand the intensity and magnetism of Bernstein as an artist in a way the film strains to tell you rather than show you elsewhere.

The other extraordinary part of *Maestro* is simply the performance of Carey Mulligan as Felicia. She’s subject to the same paint-by-numbers biopic material Cooper is, but does a considerably better job of elevating what she’s given. The simple changes in her expression as she looks on at her husband’s art and antics are softly masterful. An overwritten monologue about blushing over an erstwhile date only to realize she’s repeating old patterns amid her separation from her husband is made heartbreaking in Mulligan’s rendition of a woman straining to keep herself together through it. And Felicia’s third act’s cancer-ridden deterioration could come across maudlin or cheap from a lesser actor, but in Mulligan’s capable hands, it plays as devastatingly real.

That final degradation of illness becomes the cinch of the film’s interesting themes. *Maestro* trafficks in a lot of trite questions of “Can an artist have it all? Do they *need* to engage in questionable or dangerous behavior to fuel their output?”. The film, however, offers a couple of interesting, less traditional answers. The first is that while Bernstein believes the “summer in him” necessary to spur his musical creations comes from his dalliances and spotlight-stealing gregariousness, in the end it’s his connection with Felicia, however staid or fraught, that's as important to his musical fire and fulfillment as the more adventurous part of his life, something put into relief as he begins to lose her.

The way this epiphany mirrors Felicia’s own realization that she can only bear so much of being second in her husband’s life, subordinating herself to his art, looking the other way for his dalliances, while also realizing that she needs him, gives the film some depth in its ideas even as its presentation of them checks all the usual prestige picture boxes with workmanlike efforts.

The second is the idea expressed in Leonard and Felicia’s first meeting -- that the two of them are composites, not just of pieces of their upbringing, but of the seemingly incompatible parts of their lives. In the context of the film, Leonard genuinely loves Felicia and the traditional family they’ve built together, but he’s no less pulled by his attraction to various men in his life, and the bog standard “drugs and debauchery” period all musicians have to go through on the silver screen. The willing to engage in Bernstein’s bisexuality in an unflinching way is to its credit. And the notion that who the Bernsteins are as people -- as artists and spouses and wildchilds and parents -- are inextricable, is a more nuanced take on the “What makes an artist?” question than the movie’s well-crafted but generic presentation of its ideas might suggest.

That's the funny thing about *Maestro* -- much, arguably most of it, isn’t worth talking about. Almost everything in the film is undeniably well done, but often comes off spiritless, like the latest shiny piece to come off Hollywood's musical biopic assembly line. This sense of Cooper’s work as the kind of film *Walk Hard* famously pilloried abides in the film’s rush of years for Felicia and Leonard, and there’s even a touch of a *Shakespeare in Love* here, with unsubtle connections drawn between the events of Bernstein’s life and the compositions he produced, as they’re used to score the film.

But in a few key places, and a few key ways, *Maestro* makes some daring, even avant garde choices that make it a little more than the standard cinematic portrait of the artist as a young man. In those scant but scintillating moments, there’s a glimpse at the greatest artistry possible even in an overdone form, and of the brilliance and broken pieces of the musician *Maestro* is so desperate to lionize and humanize.