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It would be fitting enough for the first thing to appear on screen at the beginning of "Maestro" to be a quote from Leonard Bernstein, but the quote in question couldn't be more perfect given the film that follows. The titular "Maestro" once mused, "A work of art does not answer questions, it provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers." Pulled from one of Bernstein's many books, this one called "The Infinite Variety of Music", it's a quote about questions that raises a few of its own. The most important question of all, though, might double as the most rhetorical: Is this Bradley Cooper's way of telling us that his Leonard Bernstein film is going to ask more questions of its audience than answer those they came in with?

But it's fair to ask the question, especially considering the fact that most people enter "Maestro" with a number of preconceived notions. Primarily, the assumption is that it's a biopic of the first American conductor to receive international acclaim. Now, that's partly true -- it does provide audiences a great deal of background into the personal and professional escapades of Bernstein (Cooper) over the course of his most prominent years -- though it skirts some of the more ancillary elements of the work, an exceptionally groundbreaking (and welcome) exercise in biographical storytelling.

Instead of placing Bernstein at the center of every frame, of every critical moment in the film, "Maestro" tells the story of the love found, lost, rediscovered, and everlasting between Bernstein and his wife of 27 years, Felicia Montealegre (Carey Mulligan). It charts their romance from the beginning -- the two met at a party in 1946 and were married in 1951 -- to end (Montealegre died of lung cancer in 1978, with Bernstein by her side), and everything in between. Though Bernstein was there for his bride at the end, a devoted and loving husband with only his wife on his heart and mind, it would be absurd to suggest that this was the case for the duration of their marriage, and of course, the film is sure to explore everything that occurred between their first meeting and final moments. Bernstein was known for carrying on extra-marital affairs, primarily with men; Felicia was aware, though to count her as "supportive" would be disingenuous, if not cruel.

This marriage, evidently, was a complicated one, and those essentially unfamiliar with its intricacies prior to "Maestro" will have no issue grasping its essence. Written by Cooper and "Spotlight" writer Josh Singer, "Maestro" certainly builds Bernstein up as the orchestral god that he was, but it doesn't shy away from noting what a borderline-monster he could be as a partner. Cooper is astounding as Bernstein, capturing his brilliant, tyrannical essence, and Mulligan captures the pain and fury Montealegre undoubtedly experienced with a fearlessness that results in a turn unlike many performances we've seen this year.

"Maestro" will be remembered, above all other aspects, as an acting triumph, but what I would argue is that it's something far more astonishing. It's a beautiful, heartbreaking tale of a marriage between a musical titan and an actress forced to retreat into his shadow simply because he refuses to dodge the sun. Bernstein is fully aware that the shadow he casts is a large one, and in turn knows that his wife will let him cast it, uninhibited. The way Cooper reflects these conflicts is gentle, far different from how he implements a barrage of Old-Hollywood flourishes in other moments in the film. And as a viewer, that's a blessing.

Then again, a few of those sequences are among the most astonishing I've seen in film this year. It's a stratospheric leap for Cooper, from one area of storytelling and image-making to another. In my mind, "Maestro" sees the director vaulting from being an "actor who can direct" to a prominent, visually-gifted filmmaker, one with ideas and brilliance to spare. Much like Bernstein, as a matter of fact.