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Taking movie music seriously.

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  • mrcooby
    Sunday s Music of the Stars will be our annual Halloween Spooktacular. (And not for the easily frightened.) This is lengthy, but interesting. Taking Movie
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      Sunday's Music of the Stars will be our annual Halloween Spooktacular. (And not for the easily frightened.)


      This is lengthy, but interesting.

       

      Taking Movie Music Seriously, Like It or Not


      By DAVID SCHIFF

      Dean Wong
      Paul Chihara at a rehearsal in 1992. "Things changed for me when people told me
      I wasn't weird but postmodern," he said.

      OR two years in a row, the Academy Award for best film score has gone to a
      classical composer: first John Corigliano for "The Red Violin," then Tan Dun
      for "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon." While cynics claim that this is the film
      industry's way of advertising its high-art pretensions, Hollywood may really be
      ahead of New York in acknowledging that the opposition between film music and
      concert music is a phantom of the last century. Today the two styles constantly
      interact. John Williams's scores for George Lucas's "Star Wars" movies and for
      Steven Spielberg's "Jaws" and "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," which
      resurrected the symphonic style for film in the 70's, have also exerted a huge
      influence on the work of young concert composers. Philip Glass's music for
      "Koyaanisqatsi" made Minimalism an essential component of any film composer's
      stylistic vocabulary.

      Now the American Composers Orchestra is catching up with the Motion Picture
      Academy, presenting a "Hollywood" concert this afternoon at Carnegie Hall that
      culminates a two-week series of small concerts and film screenings. The
      program, conducted by Dennis Russell Davies, includes music for two camp
      classics, the Hollywood "exposé" "The Bad and the Beautiful" (David Raksin,
      composer) and Alfred Hitchcock's Freudian whodunit "Spellbound" (Miklos Rozsa);
      the cult sci-fi thriller "The Thing" (Dimitri Tiomkin); and Hitchcock's
      unavoidable "Psycho" (Bernard Herrmann). Except for "Psycho," none of these is
      a pinnacle of cinematic art, but each score is a milestone in film music.

      The orchestra's warm embrace of Hollywood may be a deceptive sign of a thaw in
      the longstanding cold war between the musical cultures of the two coasts. Last
      year, when Washington had other scandals to think about, a minor Beltway drama
      — call it Kamengate — erupted around a concert by the National Symphony
      Orchestra that included the premiere of Michael Kamen's "New Moon in the Old
      Moon's Arms." Mr. Kamen is a Juilliard- trained composer of many film scores,
      including "Mr. Holland's Opus." But for Philip Kennicott, the music critic of
      The Washington Post, he represents everything wrong with music today.

      Mr. Kennicott dismissed Mr. Kamen's symphony as "pretentious and pernicious
      tonal tripe . . . scored in the usual sodden and overripe Hollywood manner."
      And he blasted the National Symphony for commissioning a "well-remunerated
      Hollywood hack" who "doesn't need to be dipping into the paltry amount that's
      available to composers of serious music." Mr. Kennicott seemed to assume that
      commissions, like welfare payments, should be based on need. And he was nearly
      as harsh on works by non-Hollywood composers, criticizing Richard Danielpour's
      "Voice of Remembrance" as "a succession of familiar moods and feelings." In
      other words, it sounded like film music.
      Mr. Kamen's mediocre score hardly deserved so much ink, but Mr. Kennicott's
      bile, like Mr. Kamen's music, sounded recycled. The classical world's
      anti-Hollywood bias goes back to the dawn of film music in the 1930's, when Max
      Steiner established the genre with "King Kong." During the Depression, New York
      and Hollywood contrasted starkly. Economically, New York was broke, Hollywood
      was rich. Politically, New York was left, Hollywood was right.

      But sound movies were new, and Hollywood needed composers; a musical gold rush
      was on. As lights dimmed on Broadway, Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern and the
      Gershwins headed west, as did Copland, Herrmann, Alex North and Jerome Moross.
      While the tunesmiths happily adjusted to life in paradise, modernist composers
      like Copland were put off by the power politics of the studio system and the
      lush late-Romantic style of established studio composers like Steiner and Erich
      Wolfgang Korngold.

      In a sense, Hollywood was the new Versailles or Eszterhaza. The studio moguls
      were princes of patronage, but composers had grown used to neglect and
      forgotten the advantages and disadvantages of steady employment. Every composer
      who got close enough to dance with the devil had a Hollywood horror story to
      send back east.
      Disney's "Fantasia" (1940) turned Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" into "an
      unresisting imbecility," in the composer's phrase, with drastic cuts and
      "Jurassic Park" animation. Since the score lacked copyright protection because
      of the Russian Revolution, Stravinsky had no choice but to accept Disney's
      modest remuneration and immodest editorial insults. Still, he continued to seek
      out film projects, with little success. (Music he wrote for "The Commandos
      Strike at Dawn" in 1943 ended up as "Four Norwegian Moods," also to be played
      by the American Composers Orchestra.)

      Stravinsky's archrival, Schoenberg, fared no better. Irving Thalberg hoped that
      Schoenberg's name would lend intellectual cachet to "The Good Earth" (1937),
      the MGM prestige epic based on Pearl Buck's novel. Whether in a state of
      delusion or merely seeking an escape hatch, Schoenberg wanted to compose
      pitches and rhythms for the actors' lines and demanded final editing rights. He
      claimed to be relieved when the collaboration fell through, saying, "It would
      have been the end of me."
      For the oater "Duel in the Sun" (Vanguard, 1947), David Selznick demanded that
      Tiomkin whistle first a love theme, then an orgasm theme. William Wyler
      replaced Copland's title music for "The Heiress" (Paramount, 1949) as soon as
      the composer left town. There are more stories, and worse.

      In a 1940 New York Times article on film music, Copland praised the new genre
      but attacked Steiner's 19th-century style, his use of leitmotifs and his
      dependence on "mickey-mousing." Although Copland continued to work successfully
      in Hollywood through 1948, his writings confirmed the East Coast view that the
      industry was dominated by studio hacks working in a reactionary idiom. By
      contrast, Hollywood honored Copland with an Oscar (for "The Heiress," despite
      its non-Copland title music) and quickly appropriated his lean, modernist style
      for psychological dramas and the grander horse operas.

      Composers who remained in Hollywood were given the cold shoulder by New York.
      Paul Chihara said recently that Herrmann and Rozsa bitterly resented the
      refusal of the concert world to take their music seriously. But Mr. Chihara,
      whose "Clouds (. . . From Out of the Past)" receives its premiere in the
      American Composers Orchestra program, exemplifies the way times have changed. A
      student of Nadia Boulanger with a doctorate in composition from Cornell, he has
      won numerous prizes and commissions for his classical scores. He has also
      composed for more than 80 films, including "Crossing Delancey" and "Prince of
      the City," and television series, including "China Beach" and the current A & E
      series "100 Centre Street."

      The smoky, sinuous title trumpet solo for "100 Centre Street" begins like a
      film noir cliché but takes a series of surprising harmonic turns that sound
      more like the devices of a concert composer. "I used to think I was writing in
      two different styles, but now they have come together," Mr. Chihara said.
      "Things changed for me when people told me I wasn't weird but postmodern."

      Mr. Chihara, who teaches at U.C.L.A., is in constant demand as a guest lecturer
      at university music departments and conservatories that used to ignore film
      music. For either artistic or economic reasons, the old stigma against
      commercial music has disappeared. "Today composition teachers want to make sure
      their students know how to write for movies," Mr. Chihara said.

      Film music and concert music are converging in style and technology.
      Postmodernism, a style that emerged in the early 1970's, dominates American
      concert music today, but it took a while to be properly understood. George
      Crumb, David Del Tredici and Mr. Corigliano were, like Mr. Chihara, postmodern
      before the term was invented. They all mixed styles fearlessly and experimented
      with amplification. In his Clarinet Concerto (1977), Mr. Corigliano, whose East
      Coast credentials were just recertified by a Pulitzer Prize for his Symphony
      No. 2 for String Orchestra, placed instruments around the hall, less in
      imitation of Gabrieli and Ives than in anticipation of THX and surround sound.

      Whereas modernist music emphasized structural and stylistic integrity,
      postmodern music is a polystylistic hybrid, mingling and matching incongruous
      elements with a heavy dose of irony — just like film music. Listen to Franz
      Waxman's title track for "Sunset Boulevard," and then listen to John Adams's
      "Chairman Dances": they are not just stylistically similar; they are virtually
      the same piece.

      Mr. Raksin's score for "The Bad and the Beautiful" (MGM, 1952) shows how much
      composers today have learned from the Hollywood masters. The film itself is a
      couple of tall steps below such behind-the- scenes sagas as "Sunset Boulevard"
      and "Singin' in the Rain," though not without its gripping moments. Teetering
      between conscious and unconscious self-parody, it shows a brutish genius
      director, played by Kirk Douglas, abusing his closest friends and lovers to
      make "great" movies.
      Pauline Kael described "The Bad and the Beautiful" as a "spangled, overwrought
      piece of Hollywood self-analysis" but also wrote that the director, Vincente
      Minnelli, gave it a "hysterical stylishness." A lot of that stylishness and
      hysteria is Mr. Raksin's doing. He captures the studio's seductive glamour with
      a romantic theme not far below his classic, "Laura"; then, as the film tours
      the backlots, he serves up 15-second pastiches of B-movie scores. How many
      "serious" composers could evoke a cardboard cowboy-and-Indian film or a
      Saturday morning science fiction potboiler in such a fleeting window of
      opportunity?

      Mr. Raksin's underscore itself is a series of ironic allusions: here a little
      Gershwin, there a little Ellington. In one scene, Mr. Douglas carries a limp
      Lana Turner in his arms against a backdrop of stormy skies. The music surges
      with passion in the grandest Steineresque manner. Then Mr. Douglas drops Ms.
      Turner into a swimming pool to sober her up, and we realize that Mr. Raksin has
      been parodying Hollywood's dream-factory style to sober us up as well.
      Interestingly, the most dramatic scene in the film, Ms. Turner driving off in
      terror from Mr. Douglas's ultimate act of cruelty, has no music: the ultimate
      form of musical irony.

      Mr. Raksin's ironic juxtapositions of style make him the grandfather of current
      postmodernists like John Zorn and Michael Daugherty. But the collapse of the
      wall separating film music and art music may be a question of technology more
      than of style. Because it depends on recording, Hollywood has always been in
      the forefront of musical science, sculpturing and styling performances through
      microphone placement, overdubbing and editing. Both Rozsa's "Spellbound" and
      Tiomkin's "Thing" feature that quintessentially eerie electronic instrument,
      the theremin. Gregory Peck's amnesiac character in "Spellbound" seems to be
      suffering from theremin on the brain as well as what Ingrid Bergman keeps
      calling his "guilt complex."
      Sixty years ago Copland enthusiastically reported on the technology of film
      scoring, the fine art of coordinating music and image. But today only a few
      composers — notably, John Williams — fit their music to the screen action in
      the time-honored way. The artistry with which Mr. Williams's Oscar-nominated
      score for "The Patriot" minutely matches the action proves the value of the
      traditional method, but both the artistry and the method may already be
      anachronistic.

      "There really is no such thing as Hollywood music anymore," Mr. Chihara said.
      "It's all done in a garage in North Hollywood." Composers are now expected to
      produce the music, not just write it. Most of the music you hear on television
      and at the movies uses sound synthesis instead of live performers or in
      addition to them. The blend of live and synthesized sounds is a signature of
      Hans Zimmer, whose Electronica-does- Holst score for "Gladiator" was nominated
      for an Oscar this year. Synthesized music is cheaper, and young people, the
      target audience, prefer its sound.

      Today the audio and video components of a film come together not on a
      soundstage but on a computer screen. Editing software allows composers to
      stretch or compress the music as needed. The new technologies may reinforce the
      old prejudice, resurrected by Mr. Kennicott, that film composers lack
      traditional musical technique. Although composers like Mr. Kamen and James
      Horner ("Titanic") have full conservatory credentials, it is quite possible
      these days to compose and produce film music with little traditional musical
      training. The industry is full of notorious "hummers," whose careers depend on
      armies of unnamed technical assistants.

      But synthesizers and computer editing are transforming concert music as well.
      Music publishing in its older form has virtually disappeared. Every composer
      today is expected to produce scores at home; all you need is a computer and a
      printer. And performers routinely ask composers to provide computer playback
      along with a score; conductors no longer even pretend to be able to imagine a
      score silently.

      The next step is for the computer playback to begin to replace some or all
      aspects of live performance. As in film music, this development is spurred by
      economics and esthetics. Recent scores like Mr. Adams's "Gnarly Buttons" depend
      on a synthesizer to give the music a sound that younger listeners will
      recognize as contemporary. Perhaps concert music will have its share of hummers
      before long, if they're not out there already.

      Still, there remain fundamental differences in the functioning of concert and
      film genres, which cause problems when composers try to cross over. The central
      difference is one of speed. Concert music has to fill a lot of time, but most
      film music cues are brief. This difference became important only with the
      advent of talkies. Silent movies required continuous music to cover the sound
      of the projector and create continuity in a flickering medium. Concert
      composers had room to stretch without skirting around dialogue, so they did not
      have to change their musical habits.

      Copland's first film, "The City," was a documentary, with a voice-over but no
      on- screen speech, and most of the music he used for the Suite From "The Red
      Pony" comes from nondramatic parts of the film. Because "Crouching Tiger,
      Hidden Dragon" uses subtitles rather than dubbed dialogue, it works like a
      silent movie with broad swaths of music; a lot of it feels like a Yo-Yo Ma
      video.

      With the talkies, film music became more fragmentary and film composing more
      specialized. In Mr. Raksin's "Bad and the Beautiful" score, for instance, most
      cues after the sustained opening are less than a minute long. This imposed
      brevity made film music seem irreconcilable with the concert hall. Concert
      composers keep their music going by a strategy of postponement, setting up
      expectations and delaying their fulfillment, but a film composer has to deliver
      the goods quickly.

      A memorable example of instantaneous evocation comes in Copland's score for
      "The Heiress." The heroine waits for a lover who will never arrive. When
      preview audiences laughed at Olivia de Haviland's predicament, Copland added a
      sudden gust of whirling woodwind music, which perfectly captured her state of
      nervous expectancy. The music feels like a muscle spasm. (Did someone ask
      Copland to whistle a muscle spasm?) The film creates suspense by keeping us
      waiting to see if the caddish Montgomery Clift will ever show up; the music
      makes the woman's agony real, and in a matter or seconds.

      HERRMANN said he did not have time for an eight-bar tune; he built his film
      scores from two- second motifs that could do their job no matter how brief a
      musical cue might be. But for concertgoers used to waiting 20 minutes for
      Beethoven to answer his own musical question, a succession of cues does not add
      up to a symphonic experience, especially when they are detached from the images
      they serve to amplify.

      The concert hall automatically gives its own composers an edge. Some, when they
      cross over, conceive the concert version of their music simultaneously with the
      film score, as Copland did with "The Red Pony" and Mr. Corigliano did with "The
      Red Violin." Herrmann's "Psycho" Suite is a more complicated example, for the
      film score made use of a previously composed symphonic composition, but most
      listeners are just waiting for the shower scene anyway.

      Blame postmodernism or technology, but our expectations of symphonic structure
      have diminished; we live in an age of short attention spans and sound bites,
      after all, and delayed gratification is so 19th century. We also live in an eye
      rather than an ear culture. Many orchestras are talking about using some kind
      of video even for their classical concerts: the MTV-ization of the concert
      hall. When that happens, and it won't be long, everything really will be film
      music.

      David Schiff is a composer on the faculty of Reed College in Portland, Ore.

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