Aria (1987)

Aria is special because it treats opera the way cinema treats dreams: ten directors, ten wildly different visual imaginations, each surrendering to the emotional force of a single aria and letting it steer the whole piece. The fun is in the collisions—high art meeting pop mischief, grand romantic ache brushing up against satire and sensuality—so even when a segment doesn’t fully land, the next one may astonish you with a vivid image or an audacious tone shift. It plays like a gallery walk through the late-’80s art-film psyche, sometimes beautiful, sometimes cheeky, sometimes unexpectedly moving, always interesting in how it translates music into mood. It’s not for everyone—anthologies can be uneven, and there is notable nudity—but if you’re even a little curious about what happens when great filmmakers “direct” an aria, this is a memorable, one-of-a-kind evening.

Aria is trying to be a high-culture mixtape: ten famous directors each building a short film around a single opera aria, aiming for bold, wordless storytelling where music does the heavy lifting. The problem is it plays like a very expensive art-school showcase—wildly uneven in tone and quality, often feeling disconnected from the arias rather than illuminated by them, and occasionally mistaking “provocative” for “meaningful.” If you need a cohesive plot, consistent style, or even the sense that the visuals are serving the music, this will likely feel pretentious and frustrating (and yes, there’s notable nudity in places). But if you’re an opera lover or a cinema-curio collector who enjoys dipping into striking images and auteur quirks without needing it to add up, a few segments do land with real atmosphere and craft.