Music or sound in a film is a character as important as another character.
-Melvin Van Peepbles s (1932-2021; Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song, 1970)
What came first; the chicken or the egg? Perhaps the question should be: With no one to hear, was it a cluck carried on a breeze or the soft, nearly imperceptible crinkle of an egg, expelled onto a nest?
The music of our natural environment, whether dissonant or melodious, is indivisible from human development.
Along with all the developed visual arts: dance, theatre, pre-cinema shadow play, magic lanterns, slide shows, and silent cinema itself, they were married to music.
Why the needless expository intro? Before I launch into Oppenheimer, I suppose I’m trying to preclude someone suggesting (to paraphrase Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”) that I never “really cared for music,…”?
Clearly-or rather audibly- If a picture is worth a thousand words, music can convey tenfold that number with range, dimension, subtlety, and power that no other art form can singularly evoke. Ultimately all l art is synonymous with music: Whether it be in film, literature, or performance, rhythm – pace and timing are essential.
Before we digress to “Oppoie“, let’s talk about some rhythm makers.
The range and scores of great film composers – from Max Steiner (King Kong, 1933) to John Williams (Star Wars, 1977) – are far too vast to gush over in so short a space. Film composers in the last few decades have taken on near-rock star status. The preternaturally prolific John Williams, a household name amongst cinephiles, has scored over a hundred films, and composers, such as Danny Elfman (Nightmare Before Christmas, 1993), is a legitimate rock star in his own right with the band Oingo Boingo (1979-1995), riding a wave of recognition nearly equal to the film’s cast.
One of the greatest of all film composers who has faded somewhat into obscurity is Bernard Hermann (1911-1975). Hermann was a brilliant innovator. No instrument could have been more apropos than the most futuristic of all instruments: the theremin (an early electronic touchless device), blended into his score for The Day The Earth Stood Still (1951). Hermann’s scores go beyond intensifying or embellishing the visuals; his compositions become a sentient character, a tangible component of the narrative. Hermann composed beyond the needs of the film, intending the compositions to flourish, irrespective of the cinematic context.
Listen to his imagistic soundtrack for Journey To The Center Of The Earth (1959), as one’s imagination travels to conjure travels, scenarios, and landscapes. Of course, no mention can be made without the aural elephant in the room: the composition for Psycho (1960). It stands as one of the most original, frighteningly evocative, and arguably recognized pieces of music in the history of cinema.
Hermann’s creative process, unfortunately, wasn’t music to most collaborators ‘s ears. Composers are typically inspired or motivated by viewing rough cuts or dailies, and gleaning what they can from production meetings with the director. However, he was having none of that. His initial meetings, if not apocryphal, began and ended any collaborative effort. He routinely declared: “I have the final say or I don’t work at all”. As such, Bernie’s bouts with Hitchcock were legendary, and I imagine any tete-a-tete with Orson Welles might have well been literal.
All filmmakers aspire to render narrative visually, that is, attempting to tell the story, to the greatest degree, ideally, through image alone. Hitchcock achieved that with Psycho, as the few spoken words are nearly superfluous. Yet while the film is comprehensible from beginning to end, sans dialogue, remove sound and music, and the film is emotionally flat and dimensionless.
Here’s a shocker: Hitchcock originally planned to have the shower scene play silently. Glad that someone threw cold water on that notion! I can imagine Bernie just seething, pail in hand. I think it’s fair to say, as well, Hermann’s work ethic may have put a crimp in his career.
We jump ahead to Taxi Driver (1976), the great composer’s coda. Herrmann’s final score was nuanced, melancholic, and mournful; enveloping both the idealistic and nihilistic, self-redemptive qualities of the protagonist, Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro).
I can’t end this without briefly mentioning Ennio Morricone’s (1928-2020) immense legacy. His original, bracing score for The Good, The Bad And The Ugly (1966), as with any iconic theme, speaks volumes, the score engaging as an omniscient, uproarious narrator, mocking the gracious ambitions of its varied protagonists.
Of course, as film sound precedes narrative, a composer’s score is our first impression. Music can foreshadow events, embolden actions, drive motivation, direct attention, and segue mood, all in seconds. But you know all this.
I’m aware that Oppenheimer was successful and an important movie. But art is not redeemed by content and, to my mind, suffers from an excessive and misguided sense of itself (e.g., no aftermath or visual toll of the bombings). I can certainly see the anguish on Oppenheimer’s s face but that shouldn’t preclude any visual depiction on whatever scale.
I care for music – as I do for all the elements of cinema working in concert.
Let’s digress, once again, to Christopher Nolan. Nolan is unquestionably gifted – and one whose name, due to many high-profile projects, carries cachet with cineaste and casual spectator alike.
When a filmmaker has stature, he becomes self-indulgent and loses perspective. Hence the three-hour movie. There’s no hard and fast rule, but few films require 3 hours to encapsulate a story. (I take exception with Gone With The Wind (1939), as each “half,” separated by intermission, can fully stand on its own.) No three-hour-plus film in recent memory can, to my mind, claim that distinction.
The casting of Cillian Murphy was superb. Yet despite the actor’s gravitas, despite the journey we take from the character’s impressionable beginnings to his impending realizations, the film rests so much on the shoulders, or more aptly, on the soulfully harrowed visage of Oppenheimer that it feels as though we are in perpetual close-up.
Despite the atom’s bomb’s undeniable consequence upon our world and its collective psyche, Nolan’s hubris was evident. The politics of warmongers, of weaponization, of governmental deceit, are historically embedded. The story of one man’s struggle with the soul of humanity is clear. Yet from a narrative standpoint, there’s no forward momentum to the story other than navigating Oppenheimer’s increasingly ragged, furrowed brows, and ultimately nothing to sustain its length. I feel as though Nolan sensed this. And that is why Nolan sought to shore up a weak wall – actually thousands of hollow or reiterative moments – by relying on an incessant soundtrack. While many a film lacked music to bolster certain scenes or applied inconsequential musical segments, I cannot recall a single accomplished work, when cinematic music felt oppressive rather than integral.
On a narrative level, as one can see the entire world in a grain of sand, subjects, events, and lives can be explored ad infinitum. Even as filmmakers conceptualize what avenues to explore, what themes their vision expresses, time is the polishing stone. An artist-more often than not, a veteran artist- may not have perspective on his own work, seeing everything in his final cut to be crucial. Much of what’s left is extraneous, superfluous, or redundant; thereby, preventing a film from achieving its potential rhythm.
For example, I cite Silence Of The Lambs (1991). Even as immaculate casting was no doubt instrumental, the film’s mastery of pace and rhythm is a cinematic benchmark. In the case of Pulp Fiction (1994), despite its imaginative screenplay, its original intent was chronological; yet its final, non- linear narrative brilliantly transformed its rhythm and pace.
Other music, other sounds, other directors.
Martin Scorcese is renowned for his deep appreciation and mastery of the soundtrack. In Goodfellas (1990) tavern scene, where Jimmy Conway (Robert De Niro). basks in his murderous intent to wipe out the Lufthansa heist crew, “Sunshine Of Your Love” (Cream) is heard, ostensibly from its jukebox. Scorcese uses the urgency and aggressiveness of this riff, unconcerned with chronology or contextual accuracy. The Lufthansa theft occurred in 1978, while Cream released “Sunshine” in 1967. Not a song that would be on a wise guy’s playlist,-much less a decade later- or mob jukebox. Yet it works flawlessly.
As for cinematic sound itself-as opposed to special effects or foley work – no film exemplifies the potential of using sounds to not merely embellish, but formally create a scene, than the underrated Casino Royale (1967). This one-time Bond spoof (yes, unbelievably “official”) introduced the hit, “The Look Of Love” (Hal David, Burt Bacharach) and generated an award for costume design (Julie Harris; British Academy Award ).
67s Casino Royale, is credited to 5 directors, including the late great John Huston ( The Treasure Of The Sierra Madre, 1948) Throughout the film,but most effectively in its climax, dissonant sound, effects, and musical snippets, successfully strive to replace a production seemingly bereft of budget, achieving of cinema’s most comically innovative explorations of sound.
Unless you’re a cartoon character, of course.
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