The Piano

Jane Campion’s The Piano (1993) is, to my eyes, one of cinema’s great beauties, filled with the rapture of beatific images and music, of spiritual and sexual yearning, and of the embodiment of the titular musical instrument for a voice. As such, Campion’s film chronicles the myriad loves that mute Ada (Holly Hunter) holds dear, entrusting her daughter, the piano, and the prospect of emotional love with her undying devotion. More literally, its high status is often entrenched as a feminist critique of the objectification of women, when women were considered the property of their husbands. Yet such a narrow reading precludes a study of how Baines (Harvey Keitel) exploits Ada for his personal interest, even though she soon reciprocates, and so such a definition must be reconsidered to include the appropriation of objectification that the characters confer upon themselves when their sexual exploits evolve into something deeper and more profound.

Yet this is not a solemn film, even though it concerns itself with muted self-expression, both figuratively and, in the film’s climax, literally. Instead, it is a joyful film, one that celebrates the awakening that may be found in even the greatest torment, and so Campion’s vision arrives at a grace that is its greatest virtue. Ada and her daughter Flora (Anna Paquin) survive through the ravages of their time, transcending any petty betrayals that each might commit upon the other, and refuse to submit to the cultural landscape that demands public and private submissiveness in a marriage.

Ultimately, this film’s claim toward greatness was conferred in my eyes at the ambiguity that lies in the climax and coda of the film, when Ada unwilling and later willingly sacrifices herself to be at one with her voice, her piano. The shots that follow are held in a capsule by my mind, as Campion took a very good film and crossed the threshold to greatness in those moments. The Piano is a magical film, and Campion’s lasting legacy to cinema thus far.

The Piano: 10/10