‘The Choral’ Review: Ralph Fiennes Sings Solo in a Stuffy WWI Drama That Never Finds Its Voice

At this point in his career, Ralph Fiennes could make almost any film sing. Whether brooding through papal intrigue in Conclave or injecting absurdist wit into a post-apocalyptic zombie elegy, the actor has a rare gift for balancing intensity and irony. His performances hum with precision — a glance, a sigh, a half-smile all tuned perfectly to the emotional key of a story. Sadly, in Nicholas Hytner’s The Choral, Fiennes is left performing in a register no one else seems to hear.

Premiering at the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival, The Choral reunites Hytner with longtime collaborator Alan Bennett, but their latest effort proves oddly tone-deaf. A World War I–era tale of grief, faith, and music, it gestures toward transcendence yet lands squarely in polite period-piece territory. Even its moments of beautiful singing can’t drown out the muffled rhythm of a film that never quite breathes.

A Choir at the Edge of the World

The story unfolds in rural England as the Great War rages across Europe. Fiennes plays Reverend Henry Alderton, a weary clergyman and choirmaster struggling to keep his church — and its music — alive while the young men of his parish vanish to the trenches. When telegrams of death begin to arrive, Alderton clings to the belief that harmony might offer solace to those left behind.

Bennett’s script, however, treats this fragile premise with an excess of reverence and not enough vitality. What should feel like a raw portrait of a community on the brink instead becomes a fussy chamber piece about moral restraint. There are gestures toward philosophical heft — questions about whether art can outlast mortality — yet they’re buried beneath safe, predictable beats.

When Alderton recruits a rebellious new tenor (played by Josh O’Connor) whose irreverence both provokes and inspires him, the film hints at deeper emotion. Their dynamic could have sung with tension — mentor and pupil, faith versus cynicism — but Hytner’s direction keeps everything genteel. Every outburst is swiftly soothed; every moment that might crescendo fades into tasteful silence.

Fiennes, Unflappably Excellent — and Entirely Alone

Fiennes, for his part, is quietly magnificent even when the material is not. His face, lined with fatigue and conviction, conveys the unspoken ache of a man holding his congregation — and himself — together through sheer will. In a single close-up, he can suggest decades of devotion and doubt.

Yet there’s only so much one performer can do when surrounded by characters who feel like footnotes. The supporting cast — including Imelda Staunton as a stern church benefactor and Lydia West as a grieving widow — are stranded with dialogue that sounds more like verse than conversation. Bennett’s trademark wit peeks through in isolated quips, but the humor lands awkwardly, as if imported from another film entirely.

The result is a curious mismatch: Fiennes playing with truth and restraint while the world around him plays dress-up. His every note resonates; the ensemble hums along flatly behind him.

The Sound of Stillness

Visually, The Choral is often exquisite. Cinematographer Ben Smithard bathes the English countryside in autumnal light, framing rolling fields and candle-lit chapels with painterly calm. The film’s musical sequences, recorded with the Oxford Boys’ Choir, provide fleeting transcendence — voices rising in lament, echoing through bomb-darkened skies.

But even these moments, lushly arranged by composer Rachel Portman, feel strangely detached from the narrative. Instead of expressing the characters’ inner turmoil, the music functions as decoration, something to admire rather than inhabit. When the film reaches for emotional crescendo — a funeral scene underscored by a choral requiem — the effect is undeniably lovely yet oddly weightless.

You leave admiring the craft but searching for the pulse.

Hytner and Bennett, Out of Tune

The reunion of Hytner and Bennett, whose past collaborations (The Madness of King George, The History Boys) crackled with intelligence and irony, promised sophistication. But here their sensibilities misalign. Bennett’s writing, often sharpest when skewering British repression, seems hemmed in by Hytner’s literalism. Together they produce a film that is elegant but inert — a story about the transformative power of music that never dares to transform itself.

It’s telling that the most alive scenes are those in which Fiennes simply listens: to the choir, to the wind, to the silence between prayers. In those pauses, you glimpse the profound, lyrical film The Choral might have been.

A Final Note

For all its polish, The Choral remains a missed opportunity — an earnest hymn sung in the wrong key. Fiennes lends it dignity, gravitas, and grace, but he can’t overcome the stodginess of its conception. The film wants to meditate on life, death, and the redemptive power of art; instead, it settles for tasteful melancholy.

At one point, Reverend Alderton tells his choir, “It’s not enough to sing beautifully — you must sing as though your lives depend on it.”
If only The Choral had followed its own advice.