Avis des critiques

Ambient and immanent metaphysics inform habits and manners that are, by our lights, anything but ordinary; these ecstatic wonders may be a menace to the settled ways of our own rational contemporaries, but they're still given sublime voice in the opera, nowhere more than in the reckless thrills provided by Callas herself.

Callas doesn't sing a note in Pasolini's film; she barely even speaks. Without words, a creepy blankness issues from the film that—to me, at least—emanates from the original script of Euripides' tragedy. The silence makes Medea, as a heroine, seem smart—not like she's mute but like she doesn't waste words.