The first thing that hits you is how The Choral captures Philip Larkin’s sadness deep down. Bennett and Hytner don’t present that sadness as the main point but as a quiet background hum throughout the film. When the film starts, it’s like innocence is floating out in a faint vapor, quickly replaced by something more solid, more worn, and sometimes quite funny. That mix of sadness and playfulness becomes the main rhythm of the movie.
Ralph Fiennes’s Guthrie shows up with a guarded attitude that immediately adds some tension to the town’s suspicions. Bennett plays off those suspicions to show how fragile wartime patriotism really is, turning town outrage into a kind of humor that shakes things up. But the jokes never let us forget there are real stakes. Every comment about Guthrie’s past has a little metallic edge, a reminder that England is clenching tighter on whatever it can still control.
The choir’s smaller numbers give the film its most lively part. Teenagers trying to avoid military service and vets patched up by surgeons become Guthrie’s raw material. Their voices come together in a patchwork that Hytner observes with warm curiosity. The rehearsals are full of humor, but there’s an undercurrent of fear. Bennett gets that art made under pressure has a strange kind of energy, and the film plays into that.
Mary, played with a gentle restraint by Amara Okereke, becomes the emotional center of the film. Her rise as the choir’s secret weapon is done with a soft comedic touch, but the movie never lets her talent turn overly sentimental. Her singing acts as a moral counterbalance to the town’s worries. Bennett uses her presence to ask who gets to define what’s pure in a world already marked by war.
Edward Elgar, brought to life by Simon Russell Beale with a commanding charm, adds a sharper edge to the film’s critique of artistic authority. His disapproval of Guthrie’s changes to The Dream of Gerontius comes off as both pompous and oddly fragile. Hytner stages these clashes with a theatrical wink, turning Elgar’s stiff approach into a comic obstacle that highlights how silly reverence can seem during wartime. The humor in these moments is sharp and pointed, never just for laughs.
The way Gerontius is performed becomes the main risk in the film. Hytner avoids making it seem grand and instead shows the raw, imperfect side of a community trying to stay together. The wounded soldier playing Gerontius and the nurse as Angel turn the piece into a kind of group act of standing up for what they believe in. The free showing, which happens after Elgar takes back permission, sends a message that art belongs to those who need it most, not just to the people who protect it.
The final part of the film shifts toward themes of leaving and falling apart. Bennett keeps these scenes straightforward and honest. There’s a visit to a sex worker, a request for closeness that’s refused, and a conscientious objector being taken away—each scene hits hard and sticks with you, contrasting with the earlier humor. Hytner doesn’t soften these moments. The young guys getting on the train show a mix of pride and fear, and the film just lets that flicker of emotion stay without commenting on it.
Fiennes’s performance really deepens in these final parts. You can feel his sadness over the sinking of the Pommern, his helplessness at the draft board, and the quiet devastation in the last shot—each moment hits hard. The film lets him show emotion without overdoing it, and he nails it with a subtle, powerful presence that stays beneath the surface instead of exploding out.
If the movie stumbles, it’s mainly when Bennett’s theatrical flair gets a bit over the top. Some scenes seem a little too perfect, like they’re trying too hard to make a point. But even those parts have a charm that matches the movie’s vibe. The flaws feel like they belong, part of the choir’s rough but determined sound.
In the end, The Choral is a bit of a mixed bag—part poetic, part funny, a bit bruised, but still very much alive. Bennett and Hytner put together a film that rises above the chaos without pretending the chaos isn’t there. It’s a messy but graceful work, and its final moment sticks with you long after the screen goes dark.
Letter Grade: B+. On Netflix.
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