Film Score Friday #5: “A Charlie Brown Christmas” (1965)

Charlie Brown and Linus van Pelt muse on the meaning of Christmas.

The list of things that one might readily associate with the timeless charm of the animated specials based on Charles Schulz’s phenomenally successful Peanuts cartoon strip is plentiful: the trademark scream; the “kick the football” running gag; the gibbering voices of Snoopy and Woodstock, ably provided by long-time series director Bill Melendez; or perhaps the naturalistic delivery of the real children who voiced their main characters. For others, however, it might be the invariably tasteful yet effortlessly swinging jazz soundtracks contributed by pianist Vince Guaraldi, collections of lovingly crafted miniatures with a sprightly liveliness that makes them as infinitely enjoyable to listen to in their own right as when accompanying the adventures of Charlie Brown and friends. Indeed, Chris Barton writes in a Los Angeles Times article from 2013 of how these scores acted as a first exposure to jazz for generations of young children, and furthermore made life-long converts out of many, including Guaraldi’s later biographer Derrick Bang. Yet far from being gradually introduced, this was a core component of the series from its very inception, and especially so in the inaugural A Charlie Brown Christmas.

The ball (football, perhaps?) began rolling for these specials in 1963, when producer Lee Mendelson chose Schulz and Peanuts to be the subject of a new documentary, with the chosen title of A Boy Named Charlie Brown. As well as conducting interviews with Schulz about his creations and his working process, Mendelsohn also commissioned animated segments that brought the previously static Peanuts gang to life, assembling a team whose combined efforts would come to define the look, style and enduring appeal of the series that followed, including Melendez as animation director, and Guaraldi, whose iconic composition “Linus and Lucy” cannot now help but suggest anything else.

Although the programme never made it to the airwaves, it was enough to attract the attention of an executive at Coca Cola, who approached Mendelson to produce a Peanuts Christmas special. Mendelson duly approached Schulz, who worked up a scenario. As well as re-enlisting Melendez to supervise the animation side of the operation, both decided that Guaraldi’s music, having played such a successful part in A Boy Named Charlie Brown, should be just as integral to the new project, with Schulz setting his sights on its then unusual fusion of traditional music and jazz right from the very start. This theme continued on the soundtrack album of the same name released to coincide with the special’s transmission in December 1965, featuring new arrangements by Guaraldi of other Christmas carols including “The Little Drummer Boy” (as “My Little Drum”) and “What Child Is This?” alongside re-recorded versions of the songs featured in the film with different sidemen.

In contrast to the magical “winter wonderland” atmosphere and unfettered jollity present in other Christmas-themed media, and especially noticeable for a children’s film (although one need only look to films such as White ChristmasIt’s a Wonderful Life, or indeed to the annual tradition of the Coca Cola advert to see that this is not limited to this level of programming), the opening to A Charlie Brown Christmas is rather muted and even somewhat downbeat. While the viewer is indeed presented with the charming scene of falling snow, a frozen pond and a blanketed landscape, the colour palette is relatively pale and washed out, emphasising the skeletal trees around the water’s edge and suggesting wintry cold rather than festive warmth.

This is reflected musically in Guaraldi’s score as well. Instead of the whoosh of blizzards and snowstorms evoked by the swirling strings and woodwinds at the opening of the stop-motion Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer released the previous year, we are instead greeted with the comparatively subdued “Christmas Time is Here”, a languid waltz whose soft brush accompaniment is a similarly suitable representation of the softly falling snow and the fragility of the surrounding landscape (the timbre of the fast and high-register pizzicato in the instrumental version recorded on the soundtrack album similarly suggests the sound of wind billowing through bare branches). As the film progresses, the recurrence of this tune, in both vocalised and instrumental forms, comes to be associated with Charlie Brown’s unseasonal melancholy – something no doubt reinforced in recent years by its take-up as a similarly minded running gag on Arrested Development.

For one, it underscores moments that reinforce his sense of being bypassed by the “happiness and cheer” promised in the song’s lyrics, as he outlines first to Linus and then to Lucy, and that furthermore communicate this to the viewer. Both of these conversations, for example, book-end a sudden change in the music, as the gossamer-light “Skating”, a far faster waltz with echoes of Dave Brubeck and Bill Evans, enters while the other children catch snowflakes and throw snowballs around. This obvious musical contrast, reinforced as “Christmas Time” re-enters for his “doctor’s appointment” with Lucy, throws his sense of depression into even sharper relief, as he glumly wanders away from the enjoyment going on around him. This psychological isolation is made physical and explicit in the few seconds leading up to the show’s title card, as Snoopy, having previously brought all the children together in a spontaneous and joyful display of line-skating, immediately latches on to him, the depressive misfit, and expels him from the pond, distancing his negative influence from the group’s (and, one suspects, his own) enjoyment.

In other ways, however, it also leads the viewer, far from merely sympathising with Charlie Brown, towards aligning themselves with his perspective. Its re-entry, for example, when he writes out the extensive Christmas list dictated by his younger sister Sally reveals the way in which the very observance of Christmas seems to have changed around him as if to compound and reinforce his feelings of spiritual emptiness, something both he and the viewer observe in other characters’ behaviour as well. Additionally, the message sung by its angelic children’s chorus at the film’s opening comes across as somewhat threadbare in light of its rather banal lyrics (contributed by Mendelson and, with all due fairness, scribbled down ‘in about fifteen minutes on the back of an envelope’), full of generic imagery and seemingly paying mere lip service to what the spirit of Christmas truly means. Furthermore, however, the non-diegetic nature of the music soundtrack – the characters can’t hear it, but the audience can – means that this reserved solely for the viewer, projecting onto them the evident Weltschmerz that Charlie Brown projects onto his own world and that provides an adequate substitute in the in-film universe for the prevailing mood of Guaraldi’s composition.

This sense of having lost sight of “what Christmas is all about” continues later in the film, for example as the Beethoven-worshipping Schroeder attempts to approximate the desired sound and feel for “Jingle Bells” envisioned by Lucy. Having offered first a lyrical piano and then a gospelly Hammond organ version that seem to suggest far more of a festive mood, the final rendition he irritably bashes out, with the pointedly tinny and out-of-tune timbre of a thumb piano, is ultimately the one that satisfies Lucy’s evidently empty conception. It is when Charlie Brown leaves to seek out a suitable Christmas tree for use in the children’s school play, however, that this conflict between old and new values begins to reach some sort of resolution. Tasked by Lucy and the others with obtaining a “big, shiny aluminum tree”, opting for the glitz and spectacle of a modern substitute over the understated beauty of a real one (Walter Benjamin would have been proud), the music heard as he and Linus set out into the snow is a traditional-sounding solo piano arrangement of the carol “O Tannenbaum” (a.k.a. “O Christmas Tree”), albeit with some flashes of jazz harmonisation.

As they arrive at a sales lot populated by ostentatious but audibly hollow metallic trees, however, the tempo and style of this music changes appropriately into full-on jazz, moving from 3/4 into regular 4/4 time. While this certainly connotes something of the commercialisation of Christmas that causes Charlie Brown such consternation, it is not to bring this to the viewer’s attention in any moralistic sense. Instead, it suggests that the more modernised version of Christmas as celebrated by the other children is perhaps not as incompatible with his more purist outlook as it may first appear. Indeed, as Guaraldi himself will surely have been aware, the AABA form of “O Tannenbaum” lends itself very naturally to interpretation and performance as a jazz standard (or a pop standard, for that matter). Yet far from merely acknowledging this stylistic overlap, Guaraldi creates a composition that not only combines, but synthesises the two distinct styles into a form in which both are equally recognisable and equally convincing. (One might look for comparison to Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn’s Nutcracker Suite, which does not rearrange so much as recompose Tchaikovsky’s ballet as if were the composer himself writing for big band.)

In many senses, both the character of Guaraldi’s music and its usage in the film underlines its overall message that “the real meaning of Christmas” is ultimately dependent on the individual, and that no single interpretation is necessarily incorrect. The other children’s more materialistic viewpoint, for example, is as much a product of the consumerist society into which they have been born as anything else; Sally, for example, justifies her excessive present demands simply with, “All I want is what’s coming to me!”, a sentiment that might resonate with age groups far beyond the special’s intended audience. As much as the viewer might be prompted, both narratively and musically, to root for Charlie Brown’s refusal to “let all this commercialism ruin my Christmas” (it is supposedly A Charlie Brown Christmas, after all – albeit one ironically enabled by Coca Cola…), the role of Guaraldi’s score within the context of the film also demonstrates the futility of trying to foist his interpretation on the other children. In his attempts to stamp order on the rehearsals for the school Christmas play, for example (“We’re going to do this play,” he tells the others, “and we’re going to do it right”), he fails to assert his authority not only over his actors, who continually break out into the spontaneous dancing seen in the first school scene rather than following the proscribed Nativity scenario, but also over the soundtrack, whose conspicuously modern hard bop sound, established in this same scene with “Christmas is Coming”, stubbornly continues with further reiterations of “Linus and Lucy”.

Similarly, it is not only Charlie Brown who gains some kind of spiritual strength from Linus’s pivotal recitation of verses from the King James Bible, but also Linus himself, who, having been continually castigated through the whole film by Lucy for his (over-)reliance on his security blanket, is able, at least for the duration, to let go of it, seemingly caught in a kind of mild rapture. For many modern-day, more secular audiences, this might well smack of the strong Christian overtones that have been successively read into the series (and into the original strip, for that matter) but only go some way towards summarising Schulz’s true spiritual beliefs. The same argument could be made of the closing chorus of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, with traditional, time-honoured and, furthermore, Christian music (and performance methods) apparently winning the day over of its more modish competitors.

Ultimately, however, the theme of the day is reconciliation, something that Guaraldi’s soundtrack again reflects and reinforces towards the end of the film. Although the children reject and ridicule both the “completely hopeless” Charlie Brown and the tiny sapling he has brought back to be their tree (something in turn bolstered by the re-entry of “Christmas Time is Here” after a good ten minutes of screentime), the music heard as he carries the tree back out into the snow, filled with renewed hope after Linus’s monologue, is a return to the 3/4 feel and calm timbre of the original “O Tannenbaum”, accompanied this time by a slow and soft jazz accompaniment. Furthermore, however, the other children, seemingly drawn to his new sense of purpose, follow him on his journey and help decorate the scrawny-looking sapling to make a Christmas tree that is worthy of the name on both his and their terms.

A Charlie Brown Christmas would prove to be the start of Guaraldi’s long association with the Peanuts franchise, which covered sixteen further short and feature-length films and was only cut short by his untimely death in 1976, aged 47. Although “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” is indeed the music that ends the film, his expert realisation and execution of Schulz’s brainwave to mix traditional carols with jazz helps bring its themes of tolerance, inclusivity and mutual compatibility to full fruition. Ironically enough, however, as Mendelson remembers, this approach, highly unorthodox for its time, was one of the factors that drew a high amount of scepticism from the CBS executives to whom the special was pitched, such that, were it not for the fortuity of the rave reviews it received afterwards, it might never have been aired again. Happily, though, not only was it the starting-off point for a series of much-loved and fondly remembered cartoons, but also a special achievement in its own right, and furthermore one in which the music of a jazz pianist and composer named Vince Guaraldi played an indelible part.

“Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”

Film Score Friday #4: “Ran” (1985)

‘Why do I write film music? … I don’t like things that are too pure and refined. I’m more interested in what’s real. And films are so full of life’. This simple self-assessment by Toru Takemitsu, which opens Charlotte Zwerin’s documentary for Sony Classical’s Music at the Movies series on his considerable output for film, neatly encapsulates the aesthetic of a repertoire that does not so much contrast with as complement the varied, unique and endlessly fascinating oeuvre that firmly established him as Japan’s most celebrated classical composer. Working with film, Takemitsu continues, with its rather more ‘coarse’ elements of (among many others) eroticism and violence, afforded him a certain freedom from the comparative ‘purity’ not only of writing concert works, but also of the increasing demands for abstraction from emotional impulse in contemporary art music, both of which occasionally, for him, threatened to border on stultifying. Indeed, his film scores, of which he composed more than 100 over the course of his career, do not at all represent a compromise of his compositional voice, but rather showcase his insatiable curiosity and urge towards experimentation to a very different degree.

The latter placed him in good company with a number of prominent directors within the emerging Japanese New Wave movement with whom he quickly forged fruitful partnerships, such as Hiroshi Teshigahara (The Woman in the Dunes) and Nagisa Oshima (Empire of Passion). Yet his attentions were also sought by figures from the old guard – some might even say the “establishment” – among them the great Akira Kurosawa, who had built up a formidable reputation among domestic and international audiences alike chiefly for his string of successful historical period dramas or jidaigeki, including RashomonSeven SamuraiThrone of Blood and Yojimbo. Following a somewhat fallow period in terms of both output and acclaim, 1980 saw Kurosawa begin to revive his creative and critical fortunes with Kagemusha, a return to the costume epics of his heyday which won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Buoyed by the film’s success, he was able to mount the confidence and, crucially, the financial backing for his next project, the even more monumental Ran, which, like its predecessor, would prove one of his undisputed masterpieces.

Akira Kurosawa on the set of “Ran”.

Loosely based on Shakespeare’s King LearRan follows the fallout from the decision by the ageing warlord Hidetora Ichimonji to bequeath and divide up his territory among his three sons, believing that their combined strength and loyalty to each other will make them, and by extension the Ichimonji clan, more powerful. After his youngest son, Saburo, warns him against this course of action, and is banished for his troubles, the two older sons, driven by internal and external machinations of greed, power and revenge, duly turn first against Hidetora and then against each other, plunging the kingdom into anarchy and war, and indeed into the “chaos” of the film’s title. For the project, Kurosawa enlisted Takemitsu’s services on composition duties for a second time, having previously worked with him on the coolly received city slum drama Dodesu’kaden. In much the same way as the two efforts offer vivid contrasts in terms of dramatic and visual style, while the latter embraces more of a chamber aesthetic and radiates a sense of child-like naivety and optimism (as evidenced in the film’s main title), the music of Ran is dark, brooding and foreboding, its full orchestral score enveloping the soundtrack like the frequent shots of gathering storm clouds interspersed throughout the film.

Takemitsu’s unique and fiercely independent compositional voice is unmistakeable, and large portions of the score evince the influence of traditional Japanese music, particularly that accompanying noh theatre performances, that he increasingly embraced during the course of his career. As well as employing Japanese instruments such as the shinobue flute that provides many of the film’s musical cues, the idiomatic way in which Takemitsu writes for these instruments is also reflected in the “Western” orchestra, with many other themes and moments displaying the same angular, disjointed character. While many of his other collaborators knew better than to interfere with Takemitsu’s composition process, Kurosawa’s vice-tight grip on the production, a sign of the obsessive perfectionism that often made him difficult to work with as much as it also endeared him to his appreciators, is evident too. In Zwerin’s documentary, Takemitsu describes how, once filming for Ran eventually began, the director gradually moved away from the initial ideas that the two had conceived for the film’s music, which utilised synthesised human voices to mimic the cries of battle, and instead pressed him to model it around the music of Gustav Mahler, to the extent that Kurosawa became, in the composer’s words, ‘obsessed with that Mahler sound’.

While it is not immediately obvious from the context what Takemitsu means by this, there is a discernible heaviness in portions of his score that displays a certain affinity with the central preoccupation with death that underscores much of Mahler’s work, such as in his Second (“Resurrection”) and Sixth (“Tragic”) Symphonies. As well as being a source of fear and existential dread, however, Mahler’s treatment of death also offers the prospect of transcendence into another realm, and thus of reconciliation and acceptance. Leonard Bernstein, for example, argues that the last movement of his Ninth (and final completed) Symphony not only symbolises Mahler’s coming-to-terms with his own impending death, but that the act of its composition effectively performs this function as well, even going so far as to pinpoint the moment at which ‘the world…slip[s] out of his fingers’.

Toru Takemitsu in typically meditative mood.

In contrast, Takemitsu’s score frequently complements Stephen Prince’s view that Ran offers ‘Kurosawa’s view of the human character…at its bleakest and most unsparing, [where] history has given way to a perception of life as a wheel of endless suffering’ (The Warrior’s Camera, p. 287), eschewing all sense of pathos in favour of utter despair and desolation. This is most effectively and unmistakeably expressed during the celebrated sequence in which Hidetora’s castle is attacked by the combined forces of his two traitorous elder sons, the almost paralysing horror of which is enhanced substantially by the complete absence of diegetic sound, leaving the viewer only with the indelible images of Hidetora’s soldiers and and retinue being mercilessly slaughtered. The sole accompaniment comes instead from the ‘dirge-like’ tones (Prince, 287) of Takemitsu’s “Hell’s Picture Scroll”, an appropriate title almost certainly derived from Kurosawa’s screenplay:

‘A terrible scroll of Hell is shown depicting the fall of the castle. There are no real sounds as the scroll unfolds like a daytime nightmare… The music superimposed on these pictures is, like the Buddha’s heart, measured in beats of profound anguish, the chanting of a melody full of sorrow that begins like sobbing and rises gradually as it is repeated’ (quoted in Prince, 288 – also available from cinephiliabeyond.org)

A threnody that unfolds in real time with the apocalyptic tableau seen on screen, the piece not only fits this brief, but truly surpasses it, as various factors combine to give the composition as a whole a visceral power that is little short of terrifying. Far from the transcendence of Mahler, here we have the earth-bound anguish of Shostakovich, its sonic palette evoking some of the spikier melodies of his Fifth Symphony in its lugubrious, wailing main theme in the upper strings and woodwinds and the dark sonorities of his Thirteenth in its funereal orchestral textures (appropriately enough, Shostakovich did himself provide the score for a 1971 Russian film adaptation of King Lear). The predominance in Takemitsu’s harmony of minor major seventh chords, particularly underneath the first theme, has a persistent destablising effect, with the added sharpened seventh creating a double dissonance against both the root (namely a major seventh) and the third (augmented 5th) of the minor triad.

Furthermore, not only is this confined to the accompanying instruments, but it is also used to harmonise the melody itself, resulting in a dense, atonal cluster of notes that is prominently placed within the orchestral timbre and that moves in parallel, never allowing the dissonance to be fully resolved. If at this point the music merely unsettles the listener, its hellish power is fully unleashed through Takemitsu’s orchestration. Spread across the entire ensemble from top to bottom and punctuated with the ‘[heart]beats of profound anguish’ provided by the timpani, its titanic intensity evokes the sensation of the ground trembling beneath the viewer’s feet, a frighteningly effective analogue to the furious ‘storm of steel’ that has just broken.

Hidetora stumbles through the inferno as his castle burns.

In the accompanying in-universe introduction to his novel The Glass Bead Game, Hermann Hesse (or at least, his narrator) writes of the importance of music to the ancient Chinese kings in reflecting and, indeed, safeguarding the health and prosperity of their lands:

‘It was held that if music throve, all was well with culture and morality and with the kingdom itself… If music decayed, that was taken as a sure sign of the downfall of the regime and the state. The poets told horrific fables about…the “music of decline”; no sooner were these wicked notes struck in the Royal Palace than the sky darkened, the walls trembled and collapsed, and kingdom and sovereign went to their doom.’

This portentous fable is just as applicable to the world depicted in Ran, as Takemitsu’s score often serves (in terms of both its sound and its placement) to reinforce the nature of violence within the film not only as an unavoidable evil, but one necessary to put in place the structures of power and control that, ironically, ensure some form of peace. After all, when Saburo speaks of himself and his brothers as having been ‘weaned on strife and chaos’, he refers to a capacity for ruthlessness that not only runs through the Ichimonji bloodline, but also provides the very foundation of the clan’s dominance and correspondingly underpins a worldview that is seemingly stronger among its wider members than among the family themselves. Jiro’s general Kurogane, for example, is even more committed than his already power-hungry lord to the merciless family creed of absolute rule, the path to which he implores Jiro to follow after the attack on the Third Castle rather than aiding his shell-shocked father, and to which Jiro is, by the film’s close, irredeemably converted.

This relationship is established at the film’s very beginning, as Takemitsu’s opening title combines icy string harmonics with bursts of shrill shinobue flute and atmospheric percussion, effectively mirroring the tense and foreboding scene of mounted soldiers seemingly keeping uneasy watch. This is subsequently revealed to be for a boar hunt which, although somewhat anti-climactic, presents a fitting analogy right off the bat for the campaign of conquest and domination through violence that Hidetora freely admits he has waged for decades, an analogy which from this point on is never far from the surface.

Indeed, the first subsequent reentry of the score, after a good twenty-five minutes, comes as Hidetora unwaveringly shoots down one of his son Taro’s guards for threatening his fool Kyoami (“The Brave General’s Bow”), the angular flute line a perfect counterpart to the formidable figure he cuts up in the ramparts. There are moments too, however, where the idea of music providing commentary on violence in the film is more conspicuous by its absence, as many scenes pivotal for the story’s human drama and intrigue, such as Lady Kaede’s attempted assassination and then successful seduction of her brother-in-law Jiro, are left unscored.

The blind Tsurumaru (Takeshi Nomura) plays on his flute.

Neither are the ‘wicked notes’ of Hesse’s parable limited in Takemitsu’s score to the physical enactment of violence, but also extend to its consequences. See, for example, the scene in which the sightless Tsurumaru, blinded as a child on Hidetora’s orders, plays the dishevelled lord a song on his flute (“Tsurumaru’s Flute”) into which, according to Kurosawa’s screenplay (p. 59), he pours his ‘deep sorrow and lament’. While this supposedly ‘moves Hidetora’, the reaction of actor Tatsuya Nakadai is seemingly (at least without the benefit of the screenplay) one more of horror than heartbreak, with the flute’s chilling tones appearing to signify the ghastliness not only of Hidetora’s past crimes, but also of the way in which they have shaped and impacted the world he now wanders, a world for whose gradual collapse a ‘music of decline’ seems all too appropriate. Indeed, the totality and finality of this collapse is reinforced by the re-entry of this melody (“Flute of Darkness”, 1’36” onwards) over the film’s closing shot, namely of Tsurumaru alone and stranded atop a high precipice, the echoes of his flute a reminder of the prophecy of death and ruin that has now been fulfilled.

In contrast, the score’s sole instance of genuinely tragic music helps to draw a clearer demarcation, if not between heroes and villains, then between the victims and agents of violence, and is first heard as Hidetora visits Tsurumaru’s sister Sué (“The Buddhist Praying Temple”), forced to marry Jiro after the slaughter of their family. While her brother’s hatred for Hidetora clearly lingers on, Sué retains a certain purity and virtue expressed primarily in her selfless devotion to the Buddha, but also in the forgiveness her faith allows her to show her murderous father-in-law. If Hidetora is indeed ‘moved’ by Tsurumaru’s song, the music that plays at this point complements his intense feelings not only of guilt towards Sué, amplified by her lack of defiance and furthermore by her willingness to absolve him of his wicked crimes, but also of pity for a person whose only capable response to the trauma she has suffered is to smile bleakly through her pain and to place her trust in a deity who, in his view, ‘is gone from this world’. This theme is then heard again amidst the roar of battle of the “Hell’s Picture Scroll” sequence as a pair of Hidetora’s concubines commit mutual suicide. Much as ‘the beautiful way in which they die’, as Kurosawa’s screenplay stipulates, ‘touches the heart’, the reentry of this theme provides brief respite from the ongoing musical nightmare, respite that is brought to a swift and brutal end as the main theme returns over the image of more concubines being mercilessly mown down by musket fire.

Hidetora (Tatsuya Nakadai, in white) has his portentous vision, tended by sons Taro (Akira Terao), Saburo (Daisuke Ryu) and Jiro (Jinpachi Nezu).

In contrast, Kaede completes a transition from one to the other, as her grief for her own loss at Hidetora’s hands manifests itself in a lust for revenge that causes her to exhibit the same callous and bloodthirsty tendencies as the warlord himself, and it is here too that the absence of music takes on connotative properties in itself. While the revelation of Sué’s death is greeted with the hair-raising sound of high-register tremolo strings over the macabre image of her and her chambermaid’s headless bodies prostrated in a horrifyingly picturesque blossoming field, Kaede’s, possibly the most violent death in the entire story, is completely silent. Similarly, for all the sympathy that Hidetora elicits through his ordeals in the film, or Saburo as its de facto “hero”, both characters remain irrevocably tainted by the Ichimonjis’ past deeds, and, robbed of the opportunity to make amends, both their deaths are essentially “unmourned” in Takemitsu’s score. Indeed, the music that is eventually heard after this point is a recapitulation of the main theme from “Hell’s Picture Scroll”, identifying less with the fallen protagonists than with the senseless violence that they (and mankind in general) have brought into the world.

This, ultimately, is the message with which the viewer is left at the film’s close. While the funeral procession for Hidetora and Saburo is accompanied by a suitably Mahlerian-sounding Trauermarsch (“Attendance at the Funeral”), with an insistently plodding pulse, open woodwind textures and a plaintive minor theme played on a solo bassoon, against the backdrop of a darkening sky and the ruined castle that previously belonged to Sué and Tsurumaru’s family, the impression is more that it is the ravaged world around them for which the real mourning is intended. In this sense, although Takemitsu was initially dissatisfied with the musical results (‘I guess it’s fine the way it is’, he later admits in Zwerin’s documentary), his masterful score is as much an authority as Kurosawa’s story in presenting (and aligning itself with) a cruel and obdurate universe in which violence is the norm and the pity reserved for the desperate victims caught at its centre is insufficient to relieve them of their suffering. The fool Kyoami, who contrary to his designated role frequently offers much in the way of insightful wisdom, bitterly remarks at one point that, ‘Man is born crying. When he has cried enough, he dies’. As the “Hell’s Picture Scroll” theme is briefly heard once again over the “Ending Credits”, closing the cycle of death and violence revealed at the film’s opening, one cannot help but see some degree of truth in his sad words.

Kurosawa directs the attack on the Third Castle.

Film Score Friday #3: “The Thing” (1982)

IMPORTANT – this article contains not only spoilers, but links to clips that some people may find disturbing or frightening (it’s about a horror film, after all). Please proceed with caution!

Among John Carpenter’s substantial corpus (corp’s(e)?) of work as a director not only of horror, but a great many other fine genre movies, his 1982 alien creature feature The Thing is something of an anomaly. For one, following a previously unbroken a streak of commercial (if not always critical) hits – the more independently financed Assault on Precinct 13Halloween and The Fog, and the bigger-budget dystopian action thriller Escape from New York – the film was, at least at first, a resounding failure, making minimal profits on its budget and promptly losing Carpenter the major studio backing from Universal Pictures he had only just recently secured, leaving him, somewhat like its survivors, adrift in the (Hollywood) wilderness. On an artistic level, it also bucks the trend prominent in Carpenter’s back catalogue of the director (for both artistic and financial reasons) scoring his own films, often with the aid of his long-time musical collaborator Alan Howarth. (This practice would continue long after the release of The Thing and would, indeed, lead later to Carpenter pursuing a side career as a musician, including two studio albums of Lost Themes released last year.)

For a variety of reasons – the time constraints that necessitated outside involvement, the pressure placed on Carpenter by Universal to secure a big name to reflect the increased budget, his own admiration of the man’s music and his firm belief that he was the only man for the job – he and producer Stuart Cohen approached Ennio Morricone, whose attachment to a horror film, especially one with such graphic imagery as The Thing, might certainly have raised eyebrows among Western audiences familiar with his music chiefly through his iconic scores for Sergio Leone’s Dollars trilogy. On the contrary, Morricone had, for his part, already proven himself to be a flexible and versatile film composer, contributing scores not only for a slew of so-called giallo pulp thriller/horror films in his native Italy (many for the undisputed king of the genre, Dario Argento), but also for Italian- and English-language comedies, dramas and art films.

Ennio Morricone (l.) with John Carpenter in 1981.

What makes Morricone’s involvement particularly curious, then, is more the fact that he is there at all, and indeed, Carpenter’s influence and musical aesthetic is never far from the surface. In his blog The Original Fan, devoted to production stories and recollections from the making of The Thing, producer Stuart Cohen describes the imprecise and rather rushed nature of his and Carpenter’s limited collaboration with Morricone. The two were forced to pick a miniscule two-day window in the composer’s busy schedule to fly to Rome and discuss the project in person, while Carpenter, anxious that his intentions for the music might not be accurately conveyed in the back-and-forth of interpreters that was subsequently required, attempted to approximate them for Morricone in musical form on the piano.

Quite how successfully this was conveyed in Morricone’s subsequent suite of work, which Carpenter then cut and reassembled for use in the film, varies between accounts. While Cohen surmises that the initial meeting was something of a success and that ‘Morricone had understood John perfectly’, Alan Howarth stated in a 2011 interview that Carpenter felt portions of Morricone’s score to be ill-suited to the film. Carpenter himself is also on the record as saying that he found some of Morricone’s original submissions to be too present and overt – in the words seemingly of Emperor Josef from Amadeus, he also described his original title track as having ‘too many notes’ – and consequently worked with the composer to modify the score to better match his specifications: in Howarth’s words, to ‘have him imitate John Carpenter’. Indeed, to this end, many selections from Morricone’s “suite” that made it into the final version of the film are drastically cut, and three – “Bestiality”, “Eternity” and “Despair” – are omitted entirely, replaced in part by simple electronic cues scored by Carpenter and Howarth that help greatly in contextualising The Thing amongst Carpenter’s overall body of work.

While Carpenter also emphasised his wish to remain faithful to Morricone’s vision as well as his own (‘in no way was I trying to compete with Ennio’s score’, he claimed in the same source, ‘The score is his’), his judiciousness in adapting and trimming Morricone’s score arguably brings it more into line with the story and style of the film itself. While the creature’s repulsive incarnations may be the viewer’s abiding visual memory of the film, providing the horror element of immediate loathing and revulsion, it is The Thing‘s sense of pacing that makes it a truly terrifying cinematic experience, with the men’s isolation, paranoia and mutual distrust allowed to take centre stage and crank up the dramatic tension like a vice grip, to which the monster’s various appearances provide something more like relief. True to form, the soundtrack is often conspicuous by its sparseness or even total absence; of the monster’s six major appearances, for example, three, including the first transformation in the kennel and MacReady’s climactic final showdown, are underscored by an ominous low synth drone that neatly intensifies the feelings of dread while without drawing dramatic focus away from SFX designer Rob Bottin’s nightmarish creations. Similarly, the discovery (and disposal) of the partially assimilated Bennings, the first on-screen instance of human imitation, takes place over a sustained church organ chord whose liturgical overtones lend the otherwise unworldly and frightening scene the sense of a grotesque apotheosis.

Meanwhile, arguably the two most dramatic and intense of these – the equally (in)famous “chest-chomping” and blood test scenes – both of which involve the dispatchment (either by death or transformation) of multiple characters, are completely unscored, with the ear being drawn immediately to the grotesque vocal and sound effects; the sound is so vivid one can almost visualise the rubber and latex (or, in the context of the narrative, the endlessly reformed human tissue) being physically stretched and reshaped as the camera rolls. In contrast, Marco Beltrami’s score for the 2011 prequel, while suitably effective for what is in essence a very different type of horror film from the original, is often an unfortunate accomplice in the commonly-felt criticism that it lacks the subtlety and nuance of Carpenter’s version, with the musical cues, especially in similar scenes involving multiple fatalities, communicating unequivocally to the viewer that they should, to quote David Cronenberg’s later body-horror classic The Fly, ‘be very afraid’.

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Kurt Russell on alien-ass-kicking duty as MacReady.

The film’s iconic “Humanity II” theme perfectly encapsulates this aesthetic, being perhaps the clearest example of the “Morricone magic” of Cohen’s account (albeit with Carpenter’s suggestions for simplification), and also reflects in many ways the film’s creeping inexorability that keeps the viewer so transfixed throughout. For one, it is built almost entirely around doggedly repetitive melodic and rhythmic figurations that never let up and emphasise for the viewer that there is no escape from the apocalyptic scenario depicted.

Alongside the constant repetition evident in its instantly recognisable, chillingly simple “heartbeat” motif, the synthesiser lines that enter on top create a strophic 12-bar form (four phrases of three bars each) that then itself cycles round and round in a manner reminiscent of a Baroque ground bass, with the crucial difference that the only variation is that of timbre and register, effectively heightening the dramatic tension whilst providing no obvious trajectory for it. Additionally, the piece’s multiple entries serve to underscore the sense of futility in the researchers’ efforts to defeat the creature. Following the opening title, for example, the action shifts from the icy bleakness of deep space, expertly rendered through Morricone’s use of timbre and harmony in the far more orchestral “Humanity I”, to the equally icy bleakness of the Antarctic, around which the “heartbeat” motif seems to reverberate endlessly, as a Norwegian helicopter vainly pursues the disguised dog-monster that sets the film’s chaos in motion.

It then reappears later on as MacReady and the other survivors, aware of their almost inevitable fate, dynamite the base in the hope of taking the Thing down with them, and then again at the very end as the exhausted MacReady, having supposedly destroyed the last remaining creature, witnesses Childs mysteriously re-emerge from the snowstorm, continuing over the closing credits. This moment provides further proof of Carpenter’s contribution to the soundtrack’s overall effectiveness. At around the halfway point of the full seven-plus-minute version included on the film’s soundtrack album, Morricone’s composition, much like the film’s monsters, suddenly “transforms” into something much more energetic (4’26”), ramping up the volume and allowing the quietly meandering mood to erupt in a peal of church organ chords and more agressively metronomic synthesiser accompaniment. Carpenter’s editing, however, omits this section to leave the accumulating tension unresolved, an effect far better suited to the ambiguity of the film’s ending, as the viewer is left unsure as to whether either of the two remaining survivors are still human.

The team examine the UFO crash site.

While such touches are undoubtedly important for the reception of the film from a cinematic point of view, this “uncharacteristic” transition, and indeed the full symphonic suite included on the original soundtrack release, does highlight an important and extremely intelligent facet of Morricone’s score that is unfortunately lost in its ultimate on-screen treatment. In his superlative review of the recent complete soundtrack album for The Thing, which includes Carpenter and Howarth’s extra additions and the truncated versions of Morricone’s work as heard in the film, AVForums’ Chris McEneany describes Morricone’s method as a ‘classical and symphonic approach…tuned more towards the grand design of the plot rather than its individual chapters’. Rather than limiting itself to underscoring individual moments, as Carpenter and Howarth and indeed Beltrami do to great effect, Morricone weaves the very essence and themes of the film into his overall composition process, allowing it to develop and linger much as the drama and tension do on-screen.

This is reflected just as much in the composition of “Humanity II” as in its usage. As well as the appearance alongside the “heartbeat” motif of a second similar figure – in McEneany’s words, ‘that of an alien imposter…almost semi-mimicking its plaintiff humanity’ – the manner in which the harmony of the overlying synth lines gradually expands outwards from the extremely close interval of a major second to a minor seventh (see the figure below) is in itself an effective musical analogue for the creature in a variety of ways. For one, especially when heard over the end credits, the combination of the slow and minimal melodic motion of the two voices, moving either in single tones or semi-tones, with the muted timbre of the synthesisers creates an eery yawning sound redolent of the monster’s grotesquely distorted vocalisations, especially the howls of pain as its offshoots are variously incinerated. Additionally, the gradual descending motion of the lower line, heard against the repeated C-D-flat motif in the upper voice which it thus continuously reharmonises, creates a harmonic “shape” that is at once constantly changing and yet, especially over the F-C pedal in the bass, also distantly recognisable and static – a dangerous quality when compared with the Thing’s expert powers of imitation. As this ostinato repeats, gaining in intensity as its filter envelope is modified, a second similar motif enters in between the various phrases, this time on a shimmering church organ, further strengthening the notion of the creature’s growing dominance.

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Intervallic shape-shifting in “Humanity II”.

This is equally true in other portions of Morricone’s score. “Humanity I”, for example, slowly germinates and builds almost exclusively from the simple semi-tonal motif heard at the very opening (and later recapitulated in “Humanity II”), extending outwards and gaining in complexity in a manner that suggests not only the organic multiplication of cells through mitosis but also, given the context of the film, the alien’s voracious capacity for assimilating its victims and then taking over and imitating this same process. While this is most obvious in terms of harmony, as no sooner is the home key (such as it is) of F minor established than it is immediately destabilised by a simple chromatic movement elsewhere, it is reflected in the orchestration too; following the initial phase of expansion in the strings and harp, a similar “block” of sound begins in the woodwinds, with clarinets and bassoons descending as the strings continue to rise.

“Solitude”, meanwhile, heard in part during the initial investigation of the ill-fated Norwegian camp, begins with a series of parallel minor thirds in the strings that would not be out of place in a Shostakovich symphony and which is then imitated in fugato form first in the upper and then in the lower registers to create a seething, writhing mass over which muted trumpets and piano solemnly intone jagged, semi-tonal lines. Even the refreshing sense of pace established by the repeating piano chords has an air of incessantness and madness about it, something which at the same time does little to disrupt the whirlpool of swirling strings underneath. A similar idea occurs in “Wait”, beginning this time with distant, muted French horns before upper woodwinds and strings compound the texture, to then be punctuated by sinister low-register piano tone clusters and sustained chords in the low brass. This idea then recapitulates around halfway through, first in the strings and then in the rest of the orchestra, and the way in which the various melodic lines overlap and criss-cross each other both harmonically and rhythmically results in a sprawling, atonal mesh that is perfectly suited to the accompanying sequence, as MacReady and Copper unveil the ghastly “split-face” creature recovered from the Norwegian camp.

Ultimately, while its splicing together (in many respects, quite literally through Carpenter’s editing) of electronic and orchestral sounds and the various musical contributions of Morricone, Carpenter and Howarth may have contributed somewhat to its nomination for Worst Original Score at the 1982 Razzie awards, the composite nature of The Thing‘s soundtrack is arguably an utterly appropriate counterpart for its shape-shifting antagonist. By turns familiar and spine-chillingly alien, futuristic and grounded in the present, it furthermore plays an important role in transporting the War of the Worlds-esque ending of Christian Nyby’s original The Thing from Another World, with its parting warning of “Keep watching the skies” signalling more of a reprieve for humanity than a victory, into the far more pessimistic present. Indeed, with the incessant pulse of Morricone’s digital heartbeat in “Humanity II”, one is reminded of the computer simulation run by the station biologist Blair, which grimly predicts the assimilation of all life on Earth within little over three years should the Thing ever reach civilisation. On a musical level, at least, the end of humanity is not only imminent in Carpenter’s version – it has already begun.

Film Score Friday #2: “Ghost in the Shell” (1995)

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Motoko Kusanagi contemplates life and meaning in Ghost in the Shell.

In a world where the human body has been augmented and all but replaced by technology, does the possession of a soul serve as the criterion by which one is judged to be human? And if so, what constitutes a soul? These are the primary questions posed in the near-future society of Mamoru Oshii’s groundbreaking 1995 anime Ghost in the Shell, an adaptation of Masamune Shirow’s highly successful manga of the same name, in which the barriers between man and machine have blurred to the point of becoming indistinguishable. When not fitted with robotic or cybernetic implants, many humans now live as cyberbrains (the “ghosts” of the title) inside specially created cyborg bodies (“shells”) and hooked up to a vast interconnected global network of information exchange.

With these new prospects come new dangers, as skilled hackers and cybercriminals find fertile online ground to exploit, and necessary new means of police protection, in the form of Public Security Section 9, led by series protagonist Major Motoko Kusanagi. One of the most successful and influential anime productions of all time, with its lasting impression seen most visibly in the story and visual design of the Wachowskis’ Matrix series (whose ‘digital rain’ effects it directly inspired), and beautifully animated, it went on to spawn not only a film sequel, subtitled Innocence, but two separate TV reboots, namely the Kenji Kamayama-directed Stand Alone Complex and the more recent Arise. A live-action remake, the subject of fevered discussion in recent months over its controversial casting of Scarlett Johannsen as Kusanagi, is due for release next year.

Both Shirow’s manga and Oshii’s film can be read as attempts to understand, navigate and, in some respects, anticipate the brave new world heralded in real life by the dawning of the internet age only a few years prior, of which the fictional world depicted in Ghost in the Shell can be seen as a logical extension of the increasing interconnectedness between both human societies and human bodies. (It was, for example, the first anime film released simultaneously in Japan, the United States and the United Kingdom.) While the manga clearly outlines that its setting, the purpose-built New Port City, is in Japan, this is less explicit in the film, presenting the sprawling megalopolis (never mind metropolis) as a teeming, heaving melting pot of both regional and international influences. The visual influence of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner is evident in the mixture of English, Japanese and Chinese script in the myriad neon signs that dominate the cityscape, as is the look and architecture of real-life cities such as Hong Kong, from which Oshii drew extensively in his conception of the city. It is not only different cultures, however, that live side-by-side, but both rich and poor and old and new, with tumbledown shanty huts providing both a stark contrast to the progress and technological miracles seen elsewhere in the city and a vivid reminder of those that they leave behind, as true of real-life, modern-day metropoles from Manhattan to Mumbai as of fictional, futuristic ones.

Ghost in the Shell‘s futuristic city setting.

This sense of temporal and cultural synthesis is mirrored in numerous ways by Kenji Kawai’s minimalist but fantastically effective soundtrack, which offers an eclectic mix of traditional and modern instrumentation and itself evinces a panoply of influences not only from East and West, but from film-scoring and pop music conventions as well (Kawai enjoyed some moderate success as a rock musician before transitioning into composing). The liberal use of synthesisers, particularly synthesised strings, not only aptly matches the film’s futuristic setting, but also draws comparisons with (and bears the influence of) other forward-looking film composers whose style is similarly predominantly defined by synthesised sounds. One might think of John Carpenter’s early electronic scores for his own films, Wendy Carlos’ work for Stanley Kubrick or, perhaps most fittingly of all, Vangelis’ immediately distinctive soundtrack to Blade Runner.

At the same time, however, while acoustic instruments feature frequently alongside electronic ones, it is somewhat telling that those that do are often the most identifiably Japanese; alongside three singers, the few fellow musicians credited on Kawai’s soundtrack are percussionists, playing a set-up of traditional taiko drums, bells and gongs. The atmospheric “Nightstalker”, for instance, combines synthesised strings with the distinctive tone of the Japanese koto, creating a ruminative quality that would not be out of place in a neo-noir film. Indeed, coupled with the film’s pan-Asian stylisation, the concurrent sounds of the expansive free-time strings and koto’s rubato phrasing draws more than a passing comparison with Blade Runner‘s famous “Love Theme”.

Rather than merely referencing this at certain points, however, Kawai sets this tone from the very start with what is essentially the film’s opening title, “Making of a Cyborg”, accompanying a sequence in which Kusanagi (or at least her cyborg “shell”) is, as the title suggests, “made”, in the sense of being literally assembled (see below). The first of three similar “Chants” interspersed throughout the soundtrack, Kawai describes in the accompanying featurette Production Report included on the film’s DVD release how the composition of this piece comprises a mixture of different musical traditions, with Japanese vocalists singing words in the ancient Yamato dialect to notes taken from Japanese scales and harmonised using techniques borrowed from Bulgarian folk music. The added presence of traditional Japanese bells and drums, providing unobtrusive and solemn background accompaniment, lends this number a further air of mystery, its evocation of ancient customs in strong juxtaposition to the futuristic images seen on screen.

The combination, however, of singing styles and percussive sounds heavily redolent of Buddhist religious music with words from a wedding incantation intended to banish evil spirits also takes on a strongly devotional aspect that is significant for the context of the film in more ways than one. Seen in the sense of the obvious implication that technology has become a new dominant religion to which the majority of the world’s population now subscribes in some way, it comes to resemble something of a purification ritual that keeps the “temple” of technology clean, safe and unsullied. Consequently, in a society where biological reproduction has been rendered almost obsolete through the widespread manufacture of cyborg bodies, the otherwise sterile isolation chamber in which Kusanagi’s “shell” is created comes essentially to represent a “womb of the future”, complete with amniotic fluid of sorts that protects and supports the shell as it develops. Particularly given the presence of entities such as the film’s antagonist the “Puppet Master” that are capable of hacking into, controlling, and thus violating cybernetic bodies, “Making of a Cyborg” also gives the impression of a prayer for the wellbeing of the “unborn child” Kusanagi and others like her whose shells are made in this way.

As if to emphasise and even uphold this ritualistic relationship with technology, similar motifs and combinations of sonorous metallic and membranophonic sounds form the basis for a large portion of the score that follows. “Ghosthack”, for example, is accompanied by ominous low synth tones, gongs and scraped cymbal effects more commonly heard in suspense or horror films. “Access” and “Ghostdive”, meanwhile, almost variations on the same theme, both revolve around the tintinnabulous sounds of tuned gongs and tubular bells, occasionally interspersed with digital or digitally treated percussion. The “Puppet Master”‘s main theme is almost a slowed-down version of this same idea, with the transfigured sense of pace and the microtonal differences in tuning between the various gongs drawing as much of a comparison with Aphex Twin’s early ambient work as traditional Japanese music.

The chant first heard in “Making of a Cyborg” also recurs on two further occasions, each with slightly varied instrumentation. Furthermore, the final chant plays over the closing credits, book-ending the film along with the first, and offers the first real semblance of a full orchestration, adding not only extra instrumental voices but extra instrumental textures, with a string melody and accompanimental dulcimer quaver figurations now clearly discernible amongst the held string chords and sparse percussion from before. This is doubly significant coming shortly after the film’s climax, in which Kusanagi agrees to the Puppet Master’s request to merge souls with her, creating a being that is neither one nor the other, but a combination of both in a symbolic act of reproduction. (As if to make this analogy inescapable for the viewer, Kusanagi’s new “shell”, her old one having been destroyed in the aftermath of the battle, is a smaller one bearing strong resemblance both to a doll and to a child.) Furthermore, the musical transformation and the “fleshing out” of the instrumentation heard, coupled with the subtitle “Reincarnation”, mirror the sense that, in her new persona, Kusanagi, and indeed the Puppet Master, are now somehow more complete through their act of union, having seemingly found answers to at least some of their initial questions.

Kusanagi and the Puppet Master’s union is presaged through the use of perspective.

While the film and manga certainly offer glimpses at the possibilities for human evolution through the continuous process of mechanisation, and furthermore hint at their inevitability, there is little disguising the sense of ambivalence that comes with it, particularly the implication that even the emotional connections we make with the world around us and the experiences that arguably form the concept of a soul can be digitally replicated, leading to the gradual erosion and erasure of the qualities that we take for granted as being innately human. It is telling, for example, that the climactic battle and “meeting of minds” between Kusanagi and the Puppet Master takes place in a museum, and furthermore one showing signs of its obvious age and decrepitude. As further emphasised by the prominent wall mural of an evolutionary chain leading up through various species of fish to “hominis” at the top, the suggestion is abundantly clear that humankind, having previously been at the apex of this process, is fated instead to be merely another stage in it that will (and, it is implied, must) be bypassed by the advent of modern technology and reduced to an artefact, a forgotten and abandoned relic.

Kawai’s instrumentation here, in the appropriately titled “Floating Museum” (drawing immediate associations with Debussy’s piano piece “The Sunken Cathedral”), illustrates this implication in a way that is both beautiful and unnerving. Perhaps the most overtly modern selection on the soundtrack, its sound defined primarily by electronic effects and soft synthesiser lines that steadily build in mood and intensity, the chanting vocals heard at the film’s opening in “Making of a Cyborg” are heard again, but this time in sampled, synthesised form, creating the eery impression not so much of echoes as of vestiges of the original human source. In many senses, however, this hybridisation of organic and synthetic sounds, as well as being the defining feature of Kawai’s soundtrack, also defines its overall effect within the film. Although its electronic elements are very much prominent, they are in roughly equal proportion to their acoustic counterparts, which linger and persist despite all best efforts, very much musical “ghosts” – not just of the spirit, but of the past – within the soundtrack’s digital “shell”. Indeed, by limiting his acoustic ensemble to such primal instruments as percussion and the human voice, and furthermore by demonstrating how these can be manipulated and even substituted with digital versions, it is almost as if Kawai challenges the viewer to consider what the caveats are that come with the kind of modernisation presented in Ghost in the Shell, and furthermore whether we are happy or prepared to accept them.

Kusanagi dives into the film’s interconnected world by means of camouflage.

Film Score Friday #1: “On the Waterfront” (1954)

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Leonard Bernstein at work.

[The musical examples referred to in this article are taken from the original soundtrack album reissued in 2015 on Madison Gate Records. Also worth a listen is Bernstein’s own Symphonic Suite arrangement of music from the film, of which his 1961 recording conducting the New York Philharmonic is my preferred version.]

Much as director Elia Kazan reportedly solicited Marlon Brando’s involvement in his seminal 1954 drama On the Waterfront in the hopes of securing a larger budget (there was already an implicit agreement in place with Frank Sinatra to play Brando’s Oscar-winning role of Terry Malloy), producer Sam Spiegel saw the need to broaden the film’s commercial appeal by attaching a similarly big name to provide the music – hence his decision to seek the services of Leonard Bernstein. While initially reluctant to participate in a project that would require him necessarily to rein in his own musical ideas, one might not have guessed this from some of the reactions to his score in later years from Kazan and from scriptwriter Bud Schulberg, both of whom considered portions of it obtrusive and distracting. Certainly, Bernstein’s sensibilities as a well established classical composer and conductor mean that the music in On the Waterfront is often not content merely to occupy a background role, but, as film music historian Jon Burlingame asserts, it does not so much jostle for attention as engage as ‘a full partner in the filmmaking process, matching the script, direction and acting in conveying the essence of the drama’, something that was unusual for the period and would go on to revolutionise the practice of film scoring.

In an essay published in a 2003 Cambridge University Press essay collection on the film (chapter 6), Burlingame identifies three main recurring themes within the score. As well as the film’s famous ‘love theme’ that follows Terry and Edie’s growing affections (see below), the first of these is a main theme that comes to be associated with Terry and, in Bernstein’s words, his ‘tragic nobility’ (p. 135) (“Main Title”). Introduced on solo French horn and subsequently picked up in canon form by two flutes and trombone, it is the first sound the viewer hears at the opening of the film, and Burlingame identifies in Bernstein’s sparse instrumentation an almost complete antithesis of the declamatory orchestral style that was common for cinematic opening titles at the time. Indeed, its combination of harmony, dynamics and instrumental timbres are at times more redolent of the quieter sections of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring than of a big-budget Hollywood drama.

Marlon Brando as Terry Malloy.

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