Ego, Grief, and the Fragility of Sound

Read Time:5 Minute, 31 Second

MOVIE REVIEW
The Musicians (Les musiciens)
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Genre: Comedy, Animation
Year Released: 2024, 2025
Runtime: 1h 30m
Director(s): Julian Glander
Writer(s): Julian Glander
Cast: Jack Corbett, Miya Folick, Janeane Garofalo, Elsie Fisher, Tavi Gevinson, Grace Kuhlenschmidt, Julio Torres, Joe Pera, Sarah Sherman, Cole Escola
Where to Watch: opening in New York on August 8, 2025, and Los Angeles on August 15

RAVING REVIEW: THE MUSICIANS opens with a rare opportunity and a heavy burden. Astrid Carlson (Valérie Donzelli), daughter of a classical music lover, has managed to reunite four legendary Stradivarius instruments to perform a long-lost composition. However, her father’s dream quickly turns into a logistical nightmare for her. Despite gathering the perfect tools, she’s working with flawed human parts—four brilliant musicians with egos too big to fit in the same room, let alone the same measure.

From its first moments, the film conducts a surprisingly funny and heartfelt exploration of artistic pride, grief, and the messy work of reconciliation. While the setup has the potential for stiff drama, director Grégory Magne wisely embraces contradiction: this is a story full of people who take music very seriously, but the film never forgets that self-seriousness is often hilarious.

Each musician enters with a history of conflict or self-imposed isolation. Lise (Marie Vialle), George (Mathieu Spinosi), Peter (Daniel Garlitsky), and Apolline (Emma Ravier) are virtuosos, but virtuosity doesn’t equal chemistry. Rehearsals devolve into squabbling over technique, interpretation, and unspoken grudges. There’s no “bad guy” in the group—they’re all just human, bruised, defensive, and exhausted by the weight of perfection.

Enter Charlie Beaumont (Frédéric Pierrot), the reclusive composer whose piece has drawn these greats together. His reluctant return to guide the ensemble marks the turning point. What might have been a sentimental mentor figure instead becomes one of the film’s most layered and endearing characters—part tired artist, part reluctant therapist, part agent of chaos. Pierrot delivers the role with warmth, wit, and an understated sadness that elevates every scene he’s in.

Magne approaches sound the way some filmmakers approach light. The intimacy of the music is never lost. We don’t just hear strings—we listen to fingers sliding, bows scratching, the breathing between notes. The detail is immersive, and not just because of technical polish—it’s because the film understands that sound is emotion, and every phrase carries history. That attention to the tactile extends visually too: Pierre Cottereau’s cinematography finds poetry in cramped rehearsal rooms and elegant châteaux, never romanticizing the environment but always treating it with a sort of reverent curiosity.

One of the most satisfying aspects of THE MUSICIANS is how it gradually aligns its characters without forcing resolution. The final performance doesn’t solve every conflict, but it captures something truer: the act of choosing to show up, to try again, to listen. When the quartet finally plays as one, it’s not a triumph—it’s a fragile miracle. That restraint makes the ending linger long after the applause fades.

Casting is one of the film’s secret weapons. Most of the main performers are trained musicians, and their fluency with their instruments adds an authenticity that no editing could replicate. But they also act—with depth, awkwardness, humor, and pain. Emma Ravier’s Apolline feels especially lived-in, her insecurity wrapped in discipline, her face a quiet battlefield of doubt and pride. Garlitsky’s Peter, visually impaired and musically gifted, brings intensity to the ensemble. Spinosi injects George with brash charm that conceals deeper vulnerability, and Vialle’s Lise is the soul of the film’s emotion—firm, wounded, and yearning for connection.

Valérie Donzelli’s Astrid is perhaps the trickiest character to pin down, and that’s part of her appeal. She’s not a musical genius, but she’s the glue trying to hold the vision together. Her grief is never weaponized for drama. Instead, it lingers in the background, in how she phrases her requests, in how often she backs down to keep the peace. Donzelli’s performance is powerful—her emotions don’t crescendo, they resonate.

The stately French estate isn’t treated as picturesque wallpaper; it’s a place of legacy, pressure, and unintended contradictions. A jacuzzi in a formal garden becomes both a running gag and a visual metaphor for clashing priorities. Magne stages these tensions without overemphasizing them. The film trusts viewers to feel their way through.

At just over 100 minutes, THE MUSICIANS doesn’t waste a note. It’s as precise in construction as the instruments it reveres, but it’s never clinical. It’s interested in failure, compromise, and the private humiliations of performance. It has no interest in manufacturing a villain or forcing catharsis. Its power lies in its small victories.

And while the subject may be music, the message is universal. Collaboration requires risk. It demands discomfort. But in the tension between four people playing different lines is the chance for something neither could make alone. THE MUSICIANS is that kind of film—modest in scope, rich in feeling, and perfectly in tune with the audience’s need for something real.

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