Main cast: Holly Hunter (Ada McGrath), Harvey Keitel (George Baines), Sam Neill (Alisdair Stewart), Anna Paquin (Flora McGrath), Kerry Walker (Aunt Morag), and Genevieve Lemon (Nessie)
Director: Jane Campion
There aren’t many movies like The Piano around. In fact, we’re not even sure they ever made many movies like this. Sure, you can dig through the back catalog of Merchant and Ivory productions and bathe in genteel emotions over a cup of Earl Grey, but few films can match the scorching, understated passion that it brings. It’s a movie where emotions don’t just simmer—they boil over, evaporate, and scorch the viewer’s soul. Best of all? Holly Hunter does it all while barely uttering a single word. Truly, the quietest Oscar-winning mic drop in cinematic history.
This isn’t your average romance; it’s “romance” in the grand, old-school sense. Sweeping, glorious passion that burns as hot as a blazing piano on a remote New Zealand beach but also leaves everyone scorched.
Ada McGrath, a mute Scottish woman, is shipped off to marry Alisdair Stewart, a husband so unpleasant he could give “Mr Wrong” a trademark symbol. Things get complicated when Ada gets tangled up with her rugged, sensual neighbor, George Baines, whose idea of courtship involves trading access to her beloved piano for increasingly personal interactions. You know, classic boy-meets-girl extortion.
On paper, this is your typical historical romance. There’s the mean husband, the forbidden love, and more lingering glances than a Victorian etiquette manual could handle. But nothing about The Piano is sweet or simple.
Baines isn’t some lovelorn Byronic hero; he’s a man of his brutal time. His actions toward Ada toe the line between coercion and tenderness, creating a dynamic that would feel right at home in one of those politically incorrect 1970s historical romances with lurid covers and Fabio hair.
Ada isn’t exactly a saint either. She’s self-absorbed, dismissive of her husband, and pretty much hands her daughter Flora a front-row seat to emotional chaos.
And yet, somehow, the chemistry works. After all, let’s be honest, passion and lust are rarely neat, polite, or fit for the family-friendly aisle. They’re messy, raw, and brimming with feels. Michael Nyman’s haunting score captures it perfectly—The Heart Asks Pleasure First, after all.
Holly Hunter is an acting powerhouse here. Her face is a battlefield of suppressed rage, yearning, and defiance. Every glance is a soliloquy, every furrowed brow a Shakespearean tragedy.
Then there’s Harvey Keitel. Let’s be real—his body does all the acting. Whether clothed, unclothed, or scrubbing Ada’s piano in that scene (you know the one), he exudes raw masculinity that makes you rethink every bad thing you’ve ever said about the man gut. Mr Keitel may not be conventionally handsome, but he oozes charisma. If sex appeal were a currency, Baines would be a Fortune 500 CEO.
And then, there’s the soundtrack. Michael Nyman’s score isn’t just background music; it’s practically a co-star. Haunting, tragic, yet somehow epic, the music does 50% of the heavy lifting in sweeping you into the sweltering heat and burning passions of 19th-century New Zealand. From the very first notes, you’re already lost—emotionally shipwrecked on the stormy shores of Ada’s life.
The crown jewel is, of course, The Heart Asks Pleasure First. A piece so iconic it’s become a go-to for both weddings and funerals—a testament to its versatility and sheer emotional weight. Want a little joy? It’s there. Need a touch of tragedy? Oh, it’s there, too. This melody is a magic spell in every note, perfectly capturing the bittersweet ache of love, loss, and longing. By the time the credits roll, Nyman’s score will have carved its place into your soul, leaving you both breathless and quietly devastated.
Honestly, it’s no exaggeration to say the movie would lose half its emotional punch without that piano. As much as Holly Hunter’s performance is a silent symphony of emotion, it’s Mr Nyman’s music that whispers the words her character can’t speak. Together, they’re an unstoppable force, a potent cinematic alchemy of the highest order.
Of course, the movie has its hokey bits. Sam Neill spends his screentime chewing scenery like he’s auditioning for The Thing 2: Cosmic Boogaloo. Flora is less a character and more a chaos gremlin that Jane Campion threw in to stir the pot.
And let’s not forget that ending—oh, the unsarcastically cheesy ending with every second oozing with Jane Campion’s resentment! Apparently, test audiences demanded a happier resolution, so we got one. It’s ambiguous enough to satisfy everyone, but you can’t help but wonder what could have been if Ms Campion went full tragic mode.
In the end, The Piano is more than a romance. It’s a visceral, brutal meditation on power, autonomy, and longing in a world that offers women so little of each. Ada’s fight to reclaim herself is messy, painful, and imperfect, much like the movie itself. It’s a raw, unforgettable masterpiece that leaves your heart in tatters and your brain asking, “Why don’t they make movies like this anymore?”
Jane Campion never gave us another movie like this. A pity, but also, how could she? Some pianos only play one song, but when it’s this good, who cares.
