Double Lives: Film Composers in the Concert Hall 2018052292, 2018052695, 9780429019319, 9780367028879

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Acknowledgements
Notes on contributors
Introduction
1 Erich Wolfgang Korngold: the last prodigy
2 The concert works of Georges Auric, 1945 to 1983
3 Looking for Mr. Hyde: Franz Waxman’s musical activities beyond film
4 The double life of Miklós Rózsa’s Violin Concerto and The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
5 Bernard Herrmann’s concert music, 1935 to 1975: an overview
6 Nino Rota: neo-classicist, classical modernist, or pragmatic pluralist?
7 Jerome Moross: the concert hall and stage works
8 Don Banks: Hammer horror and serial composition
9 Modern composer off the screen: Leonard Rosenman’s concert music
10 The maestro of multiple voices: the ‘absolute music’ of Ennio Morricone
11 ‘I did it for fun’: André Previn, crossover musician
12 Wojciech Kilar: ‘I am like a Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde’
13 Alberto Iglesias: the Spanish composer behind Pedro Almodóvar’s films
14 Johannes factotum: Jóhann Jóhannsson
15 Laura Rossi’s war musics
Appendix 1: Filmographies
Appendix 2: Works lists
Index

Citation preview

Double Lives

Double Lives: Film Composers in the Concert Hall is a collection of fifteen essays dealing with ‘iconic’ film composers who, perhaps to the surprise of many fans of film music, nevertheless maintained lifelong careers as composers for the concert hall. Featured composers include Erich Wolfgang Korngold, Franz Waxman, Miklós Rózsa, Bernard Herrmann, Nino Rota, Leonard Rosenman, and Ennio Morricone. Progressing in chronological order, the chapters offer accounts of the various composers’ concert-hall careers and descriptions of their concert-hall styles. Each chapter compares the composer’s music for films with his or her music for the concert hall, and speculates as to how music in one arena might have affected music in the other. For each composer discussed in the book, complete filmographies and complete works lists are included as appendices. Double Lives: Film Composers in the Concert Hall is accessible for scholars, researchers, and general readers with an interest in film music and concert music. James Wierzbicki is an associate professor of musicology at the University of Sydney.

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Liveness in Modern Music Musicians, Technology, and the Perception of Performance Paul Sanden Vocal Music and Contemporary Identities Unlimited Voices in East Asia and the West Edited by Christian Utz, Frederick Lau Music Video After MTV Audiovisual Studies, New Media, and Popular Music Mathias Bonde Korsgaard Masculinity in Opera Edited by Philip Purvis Music, Performance, and the Realities of Film Shared Concert Experiences in Screen Fiction Ben Winters Burma, Kipling and Western Music The Riff from Mandalay Andrew Selth Global Percussion Innovations The Australian Perspective Louise Devenish Double Lives Film Composers in the Concert Hall Edited by James Wierzbicki For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/ music/series/RRM

Double Lives

Film Composers in the Concert Hall Edited by James Wierzbicki

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, James Wierzbicki; individual chapters, the contributors The right of James Wierzbicki to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Wierzbicki, James Eugene, editor. Title: Double lives : film composers in the concert hall / edited by James Wierzbicki. Description: London ; New York : Routledge, 2019. | Series: Routledge research in music | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018052292 (print) | LCCN 2018052695 (ebook) | ISBN 9780429019319 (ebook) | ISBN 9780367028879 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Music—20th century—History and criticism. | Music— 21st century—History and criticism. | Film composers. Classification: LCC ML197 (ebook) | LCC ML197 .W564 2019 (print) | DDC 781.5/420922—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018052292 ISBN: 978-0-367-02887-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-01931-9 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

A.M.D.G.

Contents

Acknowledgements Notes on contributors Introduction

ix x 1

JAMES WIERZBICKI

  1 Erich Wolfgang Korngold: the last prodigy

8

BRENDAN G. CARROLL

  2 The concert works of Georges Auric, 1945 to 1983

20

COLIN ROUST

  3 Looking for Mr. Hyde: Franz Waxman’s musical activities beyond film

30

INGEBORG ZECHNER

  4 The double life of Miklós Rózsa’s Violin Concerto and The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes

47

STEPHEN C. MEYER

  5 Bernard Herrmann’s concert music, 1935 to 1975: an overview

58

SAMUEL COTTELL

  6 Nino Rota: neo-classicist, classical modernist, or pragmatic pluralist?

70

CARL ALEXANDER VINCENT

  7 Jerome Moross: the concert hall and stage works MARIANA WHITMER

82

viii  Contents   8 Don Banks: Hammer horror and serial composition

95

MICHAEL HOOPER

  9 Modern composer off the screen: Leonard Rosenman’s concert music

106

REBA A. WISSNER

10 The maestro of multiple voices: the ‘absolute music’ of Ennio Morricone

117

FELICITY WILCOX

11 ‘I did it for fun’: André Previn, crossover musician

132

FRÉDÉRIC DÖHL

12 Wojciech Kilar: ‘I am like a Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde’

143

BOGUMILA MIKA

13 Alberto Iglesias: the Spanish composer behind Pedro Almodóvar’s films

154

MARÍA ÁNGELES FERRER-FORÉS

14 Johannes factotum: Jóhann Jóhannsson

165

VASCO HEXEL

15 Laura Rossi’s war musics

178

KENDRA PRESTON LEONARD

Appendix 1: Filmographies Appendix 2: Works lists Index

190 223 247

Acknowledgements

Each of the fifteen contributors to this volume has a group of persons to whom he or she owes thanks, persons without whose support the writing of these essays, as they say, would not have been possible. The importance of these persons is not to be underestimated, and it is only for lack of space that their names here go unmentioned. Supportive individuals who can be mentioned, sort of, include the various members of the Taylor & Francis editorial staff who collectively believed in this project right from the start and then shepherded it through the difficult process of finding a place for it within the publisher’s catalogue; the editorial boards of both Ashgate’s and Routledge’s film music series for understanding, eventually, that although this book very much deals with composers of film music it is most definitely not a book about film music; and the two reviewers who straightaway understood the book’s gist and who had many useful suggestions as to how that gist might be better clarified in the introductory essay. Most of these persons are, of course, anonymous. Not so, though, with the Taylor & Francis personnel with whom earnest conversations about the Double Lives project began, if memory serves, over tepid coffee during the Music and the Moving Image conference in New York in May of 2015. Really and truly, this particular book – like many other books that serve our field – could hardly exist were it not for the likes of Constance Ditzel, Genevieve Aoki, Heidi Bishop, Annie Vaughan, and Laura Sandford. I am tempted to name all the many persons, both in Australia and in the United States, who during this project’s conception and gestation formed my personal support group. To do that, however, would be to indulge in a privilege denied to the book’s other contributors. You folks know who you are, so let’s just leave it at that.

Contributors

Brendan G. Carroll is a musicologist and freelance journalist specialising in music of the early twentieth century. His 1997 biography of Erich Wolfgang Korngold (The Last Prodigy) is considered definitive. He has written and lectured internationally on Korngold and his contemporaries and is currently writing the first biography in English of the forgotten Austrian composer Julius Bittner. Samuel Cottell is a pianist, arranger, and composer who researches and writes about ‘pragmatic’ musicians. Samuel lectures in arranging at Western Sydney University and tutors in the Music Department at Sydney University. He is published in the Grove Dictionary of Music and is currently writing a book on the life and music of Tommy Tycho. Frédéric Döhl is Head of Digital Humanities at the German National Library and Lecturer in Musicology at the Technical University of Dortmund. His publications include monographs on barbershop as an invented tradition, André Previn and musical versatility, and mash-up and copyright in digital adaptation. His current research focuses on music and copyright law, digital humanities, and adaptation studies. María Ángeles Ferrer-Forés holds a PhD in musicology and is a music pedagogue, independent researcher, and singer. She has been awarded the Acción Magistral Prize by FAD-UNESCO-BBVA (2010) and the Rome Prize (2019). Her books include Music and Audiovisual (2019), Dando la nota (2011), Tosca, by Giacomo Puccini (2007), and Music Project (2005). Vasco Hexel  is a media composer and educator. He leads the Masters  Programme in Composition for Screen at the Royal College of Music, London, and is a Visiting Lecturer in the Faculty of Music at University of Cambridge. Vasco is the author of The Film and Media Creators’ Guide to Music (2018) and Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard’s The Dark Knight: A Film Score Guide (2016). Michael Hooper is a Senior Lecturer in Music at the University of New South Wales, Sydney. Most of his research is about Australian and British music

Contributors  xi from the past seventy years. His first book was The Music of David Lumsdaine (2012), and his next book will be Australian Music and Modernism. Kendra Preston Leonard is a musicologist and music theorist whose work focuses on women and music in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries and on music and screen history. Her publications include Music for Silent Film: A Guide to North American Resources (2016), articles and chapters on silent film music and women musicians in the silent cinema, and the forthcoming Music for the Kingdom of Shadows: Cinema Accompaniment in the Age of Spiritualis. She is executive director of the Silent Film Sound and Music Archive. Stephen C. Meyer is Professor of Musicology at the University of Cincinnati. He is the author of Carl Maria von Weber and the Search for a German Opera (2003) and Epic Sound: Music in Postwar Hollywood Biblical Films (2014). He has edited Music in Epic Film: Listening to Spectacle (2016) and is a coeditor of the forthcoming Oxford Handbook of Music and Medievalism. Bogumila Mika is a music theorist and musicologist who teaches as an Associate Professor at the University of Silesia in Katowice, Poland. She is the author of three books and more than fifty articles on contemporary music and social aspects of music; she has presented papers in many seminars and conferences in Europe and in the United States. Colin Roust teaches musicology at the University of Kansas. His research focuses on the French composer Georges Auric, music and politics, music history pedagogy, and the intersection of music and the other arts in multimedia genres (song, film, opera, ballet, etc.). He is the author of Georges Auric: A Life in Music and Politics (forthcoming), co-translator of William Ritter: Study of Foreign Art (forthcoming), and co-editor of the Routledge Film Music Sourcebook (2012). Carl Alexander Vincent is a Principal Lecturer at Leeds College of Music who specialises in harmonic analysis, composition, and film musicology. His research focuses on cosmopolitanism and subjective truth in Hollywood and on the music of Italian cinema in the 1950s and 1960s. He has presented papers on Hungarian and Italian film composers at international conferences in England, Ireland, Italy, and Finland. Mariana Whitmer teaches musicology at West Virginia University and the University of Pittsburgh. Specialising in the music of the classic Hollywood Western, she has published books on film scores by Jerome Moross (2012) and Elmer Bernstein (2017), contributed to Music in the Western (2010), and recently co-edited a volume of essays titled Re-Locating the Sounds of the Western (2018). James Wierzbicki teaches musicology at the University of Sydney; along with exploring questions of modernity and the postmodern, his research focuses

xii  Contributors on twentieth-century music in general and film music in particular. His books include Film Music: A History (2009), Elliott Carter (2011), Music, Sound and Filmmakers: Sonic Style in Cinema (2012), and Music in the Age of Anxiety: American Music in the Fifties (2016). Felicity Wilcox teaches music and sound design at the University of Technology Sydney. She is an award-winning composer who has written more than sixty scores for Australian film and television productions as well as concert works for such ensembles as the Australia Ensemble, the Decibel New Music Ensemble, Ensemble Offspring, and Ironwood. Her scholarly research focuses on screen composers and gender equity in music. Reba A. Wissner is on the music history faculty of Montclair State University, New York University, Westminster Choir College, and Ramapo College of New Jersey. She is the author of A Dimension of Sound: Music in The Twilight Zone (2013) and We Will Control All That You Hear: The Outer Limits and the Aural Imagination (2016). Ingeborg Zechner studied musicology and business administration at the University of Graz and is currently working at the University of Salzburg. Her research focus encompasses the social and cultural history of opera and music philology as well as film music. In the 2018–19 academic year she was engaged in research on Franz Waxman as a Fulbright Visiting Scholar at Syracuse University.

Introduction James Wierzbicki

For his 1982 autobiography, Miklós Rózsa shamelessly borrowed the title of a 1947 noir film for which he had provided an Oscar-winning score. The film, Rózsa writes in his Prologue, ends tragically, because the central character – an actor cast in the leading role in a production of Shakespeare’s Othello – ‘allows two quite independent strands of his life to become enmeshed’.1 It seems that long before he established himself as a film composer Rózsa anticipated the problems of such enmeshment, and vowed never to experience them first-hand. In 1931, after graduating with honours from the Leipzig Conservatory and then moving to Paris, Rózsa naively expected that he would earn his living as a composer of modernist classical music; little did he know that the only way he could keep body and soul together was by turning out ‘silly little pieces’ that would promptly be recorded and played as background music during intermissions at the many cinemas owned by the Pathé-Nathan company.2 It was ‘light trash of the kind I had so despised in Budapest and Leipzig’, Rózsa recalled, but ‘I consoled myself with the knowledge that Wagner, living in Paris a hundred years before me, had had to make piano arrangements of Donizetti operas, and later Bizet did the same’.3 Mindful that Rózsa aspired to succeed not as a tunesmith but as a composer of music for the concert hall, his friend Alexis Roland-Manuel advised him that for his commercial work he should use a pseudonym. ‘I shouldn’t jeopardize my reputation by linking my real name with what the French call musique alimentaire’, Roland-Manuel told him. ‘And so I became Nic Tomay. Tomay was the name of a family I knew at home, and Nic was short for Nicholas, of course, which in Hungarian is Miklós. So my Double Life began, after a fashion, there and then in Paris’.4 Rózsa did not feel the need to use a pseudonym after he moved to London in 1935 and two years later wrote his first film scores, for Marion Gering’s Thunder in the City and Jacques Feyder’s Knight without Armour. He used his own name for the several London films that followed, and for the dozens of films he scored after his 1939 relocation to Hollywood. Indeed, Rózsa by this time was confident enough in his abilities as a composer to affix his name proudly to everything he produced. At the same time, he was adamant about keeping separate the music he

2  James Wierzbicki composed in order to satisfy his artistic needs and the music he composed in order to earn a living. In Double Life he writes: My ‘public’ career as composer for films ran alongside my ‘private’ development as composer for myself, or at least for non utilitarian purposes: two parallel lines, and in the interests of both my concern has always been to prevent them from meeting. Of course, some contact was unavoidable, but in the main I am convinced that, for me, it was best that they be kept apart. This has been the dominant theme of my creative career, and is therefore the theme of this book.5 And that is the theme of this book, a collection of essays about the music that film composers have created not for the cinema but for the concert hall.

**** Lest there be any confusion, let me clarify the terminology. By ‘film composer’ I mean not simply a composer who has written a film score but a composer whose reputation, at least in the collective mind of the general public, rests primarily on what he or she has written for films. By ‘concert hall’ I mean not just the venue that in many cities goes officially by that name but the entire culture for which the physical concert hall is just a symbol, a culture that embraces and promotes what until not so long ago (before persistent critics challenged the labelling) might have been called ‘serious music’ or ‘art music’. With those two terms understood, it should be obvious why Double Lives: Film Composers in the Concert Hall pays scant attention to such familiar figures as Aaron Copland and Sergei Prokofiev, composers who contributed famously but only occasionally to the repertoire of film music and whose enduring reputations rest solidly on their music for the concert hall. It should be just as obvious why this book pays little attention to such equally familiar figures as Max Steiner and Dimitri Tiomkin, composers who wrote not just famously but prolifically for films and who apparently felt no need to display their musical wares elsewhere. Like the two just named, the fifteen composers represented in this book are indeed known mostly for their film music, yet each of them has pursued a parallel career that is perhaps less well-known, a career whose products include operas and ballets and art songs as well as works for orchestra, chorus, chamber ensemble, and various solo instruments. These individuals are of course not the only successful film composers who have ventured into the concert hall. Were this book larger, it might include chapters on, say, Danny Elfman, Johnny Greenwood, Alex North, Michael Nyman, David Raksin, Zbigniew Preisner, Howard Shore, and John Williams, all of whom similarly gained fame with their film music yet nevertheless led – or still lead – the ‘double life’. Were the book even larger, it might include chapters on such British composers as Malcolm Arnold and Benjamin Britten, or such ‘Eastern bloc’ composers as Arvo Pärt and Dmitri Shostakovich, each of

Introduction  3 whom today looms large in the world of concert-hall music yet has to his credit – perhaps unbeknownst to their many admirers – a huge number of film scores. In any case, Rózsa and the other composers whose music is indeed discussed here had, or still have, in common if not a downright need then at least a desire to share their music with more listeners than those who go to the movies. None of them ‘received a vocation’ to write for the concert hall after they had established themselves as film composers; all of them simply – although often not without difficulty  – sustained activities that they had begun before embarking on their film careers. To be sure, these composers’ individual musical personalities were in various stages of development when they accepted their first film assignments. But also to be sure, these personalities continued to be cultivated even as their owners’ burgeoning success in the film industry brought them more and more scoring assignments. Because he had both the technique and the facility to quickly give filmmakers what they seemed to want, Rózsa soon after his move to Hollywood was in effect typecast both as a composer for dark-shaded mysteries and as a composer for technicolour historical epics, the musical essence of neither of which had anything at all in common with Rózsa’s ‘true’ musical identity. Similarly, Bernard Herrmann wrote as easily for melodramas as for thrillers and fantasy-action films, but none of this dissuaded him from the neo-Romantic path that even as a student he had charted for himself. Trained in and committed to post-Weberian serialism, Leonard Rosenman early in his Hollywood career was indeed able to exercise his personal style in his score for Vincente Minnelli’s 1955 psycho-drama The Cobweb, but his music for the two better-known films that first shot him to prominence (East of Eden and Rebel without a Cause) sound nothing at all like that, and neither do any of his many film scores – for films in genres ranging from Westerns to science fiction – that came later. It should be no surprise that the term ‘double life’ appears in several chapters of this book, but it is interesting that in two of the chapters – those devoted to the Italian composer Ennio Morricone and the Spanish composer Alberto Iglesias – the term is used not just by the chapters’ authors but by the composers themselves. It is interesting, too, that the chapters on both Rosenman and Franz Waxman quote music journalists who, in their commentary on these composers, make reference to Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and that the chapter on Wojciech Kilar has the Polish composer himself calling up that particular image. Surely none of these composers felt his situation to be as dire as that of Stevenson’s protagonist(s), or of the murderous character who prompted the title of Rózsa’s autography. Just as surely, though, these composers and the others dealt with here were/are keenly aware that in order to have the careers they wanted – that is to say, careers that rewarded them financially and at the same time afforded them time in which to explore their artistic interests – they needed to keep their film work somehow separate from their concert work. As Rózsa acknowledged in his autobiography, between his film music and his concert music ‘some contact was unavoidable’. Indeed, a survey of both the film

4  James Wierzbicki music and the concert music of the composers who led, or still lead, ‘double lives’ reveals numerous instances of ‘cross-over’. Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s 1946 Cello Concerto, for example, makes use of themes created for his score for the same year’s Deception. Waxman’s Carmen Fantasie for violin and orchestra predates its use in the 1946 film Humoresque, but many of his concert pieces for orchestra alone (A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, Elegy, Athaneal the Trumpeter, the suites titled Rebecca, A Place in the Sun, Ruth, Taras Bulba) are based on his music for films.6 Jerome Moross’s aptly named 1965 Music for the Flicks draws from no less than five of his film scores.7 Morricone’s recent (2015) Mass for Pope Francis recycles themes from his 1986 score for The Mission. Two of Herrmann’s more popular orchestral suites (the 1943 Welles Raises Kane and the 1963 A Portrait of Hitch) are based on music originally composed for films directed by the dedicatees.8 With Herrmann, of course, the exchange worked in both directions; just as he recycled music from film scores into his orchestral suites, so did he recycle music from his orchestral works into his film scores.9 And, as is explored in detail in Stephen C. Meyer’s essay, Rózsa based his score for the 1970 The Private Lives of Sherlock Holmes almost entirely on his 1953 Violin Concerto. The many examples of ‘cross-over’ notwithstanding, it remains that most composers whose music is heard in the cinema as well as in the concert hall have followed Rózsa’s example and somehow kept the two kinds of music separate. That generalisation applies easily to all of this book’s composers who pre-date the ‘digital age’, that is, to those who established themselves in both the film industry and in the concert hall by writing notes on paper and then having those notes realised by ensembles of performers. But it also applies to the late Jóhann Jóhannsson and other composers who nowadays create with synthesisers and computer files, whose treasuries of multi-track recorded material make it much more convenient to recycle bits of film music into concert works (or vice versa), whose success in film as much as elsewhere is arguably based on a single ‘trademark’ sound. It may well be that for Iglesias, and perhaps for other ‘post-modern’ composers, the boundaries between such once well-defined musical genres as ‘classical, pop, avant-garde, and so on’ no longer exist. But even the prolific Iglesias, who readily acknowledges that his film music and his concert music complement one another, says that the need to lead a ‘double life’ – to ‘llevar una doble vida’, as he told his Spanish interviewer – is crucial to his artistic fulfilment.

**** Two themes run through these chapters. One of them has to do with the painful fact that in the musical world to ‘wear different hats’, as they say, is often not easy. The problem results not from the considerable intellectual challenges involved with composing in various styles but from coping with the negative prejudices that many concert-hall critics and audience members harbour towards musicians who have ‘made it’ in show business.

Introduction 5 To write successfully for the screen of course requires facility and versatility, yet a sizeable portion of the classical music crowd has long associated those particular gifts with glibness and superficiality. If a composer with his or her film scores can again and again ‘so easily’ appeal to the broad public, their false argument goes, how can anything he or she writes for the concert hall be taken seriously? Most of the composers who figure into this book, alas, have had to put up with that kind of thinking. The other dominant theme, not at all painful to consider, has to do with how the composers handled the just-mentioned problem and other problems associated with maintaining simultaneous careers in the film industry and in the world of concert music. There is plenty in this book’s chapters, I trust, to suggest that these composers took, or still take, their music for the concert hall quite seriously. But they did/do not seem to take themselves all that seriously, which is to say that they were/are not much bothered by the self-absorbed egotism that has been the bane of so many ‘serious’ composers especially since the days of Mahler and Schoenberg. They regard(ed) themselves as artists, certainly, but first and foremost they were/ are artisans, plying their craft to the best of their abilities in whatever arena they happened to be working and under whatever circumstances the moment afforded. And one suspects that it was/is precisely because of this shared attitude – a rare combination of self-confidence and humility – that these composers were/are able not just to lead but to enjoy their ‘double lives’.

**** Contributors to this collection were invited to treat their subjects as they saw fit, the only restriction being to keep their commentary on the composers’ film music to a minimum and, indeed, to include it in their narratives only when it had a direct bearing on their composers’ concert music. My original plan, in order to remind readers that all of these composers of concert-hall music are known mostly for their work in cinema, was to preface each chapter with a brief summary of the composer’s film music. I  realised soon enough, however, that by writing such summaries I would be exercising editorial judgements that by their very nature would run counter to the book’s premise and purpose. This book, I reminded myself – and I will remind readers – is not about film music; rather, it is about music that film composers have produced for the concert hall. About these composers’ film music much information is available elsewhere. Significantly, specific scores by seven of the composers discussed here are the subjects of monographs in Scarecrow Press’s series of ‘Film Score Guides’, and in each of these monographs readers will find a succinct account of the entirety of the composer’s film music career.10 To get a sense of the extent of that entirety, and perhaps to prompt readers to marvel that such busy film composers could ever find the time for other musical activities, the reader can refer to the filmographies – some of which are staggeringly long! – and the set of works lists that form this book’s appendices.

6  James Wierzbicki The fifteen chapters are arranged in chronological order according to the birth years of the composers. They begin with discussions of composers who were born in the nineteenth century and who were present at the very beginning of the so-called sound film; they end with considerations of two composers who did not even begin their careers in film until early in the twenty-first century. Two of the chapters – those on Miklós Rózsa and Laura Rossi – focus intensely on single works that, in the opinions of the authors, represent the entirety of the respective composers’ approach to non-film music; other chapters include detailed discussions of numerous works, or of certain stylistic techniques, but none of the language is technical to an extreme, and the essence of the discussions is always more descriptive than analytical. The book’s intended audience of course includes certified experts in music, cinematic and otherwise, but it also includes those many persons who simply appreciate film music in its natural habitat or who enjoy it when they encounter it in the concert hall, and who are perhaps curious about what else its composers have been up to. In different ways, each chapter in this book illustrates the point made by Frédéric Döhl, in his piece on André Previn, to the effect that being a film composer and at the same time a composer for the concert hall ‘is much more about doing many different things in parallel than about trying to fuse them into new musical forms, genres, or practices’. Beyond that, most of the chapters at least imply, as Stephen C. Meyer states explicitly in his piece on Rózsa, that for a composer the ‘double life’ is often not a hindrance but a source of creativity, and that to understand any composer’s ‘double life’ not only ‘helps us celebrate . . . all the other synergies between concert music and film music’ but also prods us ‘to imagine new ways in which these synergies might be fostered’. All things considered, Double Lives: Film Composers in the Concert Hall is indeed a book about synergies.

Notes 1 Miklós Rózsa, Double Life (New York: Wynwood Press, 1982), 15. The 1989 second edition (published by Wynwood) adds the subtitle ‘The Autobiography of Miklós Rózsa’. A reprint from later in that same year (published by Seven Hills) features a more verbose and much less provocative combination of title and subtitle: The Autobiography of Miklós Rózsa, Composer in the Golden Years of Hollywood. The film from which Rózsa borrowed his title is George Cukor’s 1947 A Double Life, which starred Ronald Colman as the ill-fated and eventually murderous actor. 2 Ibid., 53. 3 Ibid., 53–4. 4 Ibid., 54. 5 Ibid., 15. 6 The first three orchestral pieces are based on music from, respectively, the scores for Edge of Darkness (Lewis Milestone, 1943), Old Acquaintance (1944), and The Horn Blows at Midnight (Raoul Walsh, 1945); the suites are based on Waxman’s music for the same-titled films from, respectively, 1940, 1951, 1960, and 1962. 7 From The Sharkfighters (Jerry Hopper, 1956), The Proud Rebel (Michael Curtiz, 1958), Five Finger Exercise (Daniel Mann, 1962), The Cardinal (Otto Preminger, 1963), and The War Lord (Franklin Schaffner, 1965).

Introduction  7 8 In the case of the homage to Orson Welles, the music derives exclusively from Herrmann’s score for the 1942 The Magnificent Ambersons; in the case of the homage to Alfred Hitchcock, the music derives almost entirely from Herrmann’s score for the 1955 The Trouble with Harry. 9 The most famous example, in Herrmann’s case, is his re-use of music from his 1935 sinfonietta for string orchestra in his score for Hitchcock’s 1960 Psycho. 10 The Scarecrow Press monographs focus on Ennio Morricone’s score for The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (Charles Leinberger, 2004), Bernard Herrmann’s scores for The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (David Cooper, 2005) and Vertigo (David Cooper, 2011), Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s score for The Adventures of Robin Hood (Ben Winters, 2007), Nino Rota’s scores and posthumous music for The Godfather trilogy (Franco Sciannameo, 2010), Miklós Rózsa’s score for Ben-Hur (Roger Hickman, 2011), Franz Waxman’s score for Rebecca (David Neumeyer and Nathan Platte, 2012), and Jerome Moross’s score for The Big Country (Mariana Whitmer, 2012).

1 Erich Wolfgang Korngold The last prodigy Brendan G. Carroll

The sweeping main title music from Kings Row is perhaps the most memorable and instantly recognisable film theme ever penned by the Austrian composer Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897–1957). Its influence on style, harmony, and orchestration was potent then and can be felt even now, almost eighty years after it was written, providing the stylistic template for John Williams’s popular score for Star Wars and for many other contemporary epic films. Together with Max Steiner’s memorable Tara theme for Gone with the Wind, Korngold’s main theme for Kings Row encapsulates the magic of Hollywood’s Golden Age. Yet Korngold was far more than a movie composer. At the beginning of the twentieth century he had been hailed as the new Mozart, so prodigious were his musical gifts, and by the 1920s he was, thanks to his highly successful orchestral works and operas, the second-most performed composer in Germany and Austria, second only to Richard Strauss. Korngold’s earliest years are well documented. As a baby sitting in his high chair he could beat perfect time with his mother’s wooden cooking spoon while his father played Don Giovanni on the piano, and by the age of 3 he could play themes on the piano from this same opera, all by ear. He began improvising so well that, by age 5, he was playing four-hand duets with his father and even writing little pieces that, by age 7, began to take on greater substance. His father, the much respected, much feared critic, Julius Korngold (1860– 1945), who had succeeded Eduard Hanslick as chief music critic at the Neue Freie Presse in Vienna in 1904, decided to place his son with the eminent Viennese teacher Robert Fuchs (1847–1927). Fuchs’s lineage was distinguished: he had taught Mahler, Wolf, Schreker, Zemlinsky, Franz Schmidt, and even Sibelius, among many others, and he gave the young Korngold a thorough grounding in harmony and counterpoint. As a result, little Erich’s composing began to develop so rapidly that, in 1906 at age 9, he had produced a substantial cantata for solo voices, chorus, and piano – Gold – of which, sadly, only a fragmentary sketch survives. The cantata, to a text by a school friend, so impressed his father that, in June of that year, much in need of an objective opinion, he took his son to play for Gustav Mahler, then director of Vienna’s Hofoper and arguably the most important musician in Vienna at the time. Mahler was amazed by the child’s talent

Erich Wolfgang Korngold  9 and pronounced him a genius, urging his father to send him to the composer and teacher Alexander Zemlinsky for instruction. It appears, though, that Julius Korngold did not act on this advice for at least a year. Erich continued with Fuchs but dared not show his own compositions to the revered professor, for fear that their modernity might offend the old man. In early 1907 he secretly began work on another cantata – Der Tod [Death]. Fortunately, this early piece has survived, for it eventually became the basis of the first movement of the Don Quixote suite, a set of six character studies for piano drawn from the book by Cervantes, that young Korngold completed in 1909. Der Tod provides the explanation as to why I consider Korngold to be the last great composer-prodigy. Written before Korngold had had a single lesson in composition with Zemlinsky, this work is where I believe we first encounter the real Korngold. Its strident, bold, and complex harmonic palette and the heroic impetuousness of its opening phrases are a true, nascent synthesis of Korngold as he presents himself in his mature works. From its opening bars – with an arresting, chordal declamation – we are gripped. This is not the music of a clever child, or even of a young apprentice composer. Indeed, that bold, opening idea actually becomes a leitmotif throughout the rest of the later Don Quixote suite (the remainder of which was completed at age 11), proving that Korngold was already starting to think operatically. Liberal use of tritones, augmented fourths, a pervasive harmonic colouring using the whole-tone scale, peculiarly personal chromaticism that shows a particular liking for piquant cluster chords  – all this demonstrates a grasp of lateromantic harmony that seems scarcely credible in one so young and which would not seem out of place in Alban Berg’s piano sonata, written around the same time in 1908. It is also evident that Korngold was already conceiving his ideas orchestrally for, while the music is beautifully constructed for the keyboard, it is nevertheless replete with many orchestral touches. There are frequent hints of brass and percussion, a tendency to encompass the sweep of the entire keyboard in the manner of a harp, and a predilection for doubling the melodic line at the octave, reminiscent of the first and second violin sections of the orchestra. Presumably, this facility for creating orchestral colours was intuitive. Most importantly, however, the musical language – the very atmosphere created by this early work – is not remotely retrospective but is firmly rooted in the era in which Korngold was living, even though he could hardly have had much, if indeed any, experience with the new music of his time. Julius Korngold was the leading music critic in Vienna, and by all accounts a very good amateur pianist, his musical tastes were conservative, so much so that I seriously doubt he ever sat at the piano playing early Schoenberg or the latest works by Scriabin, Schreker, or Zemlinsky. Moreover, Erich was rarely, if ever, taken to concerts, and certainly not to those of contemporary music.1 What makes Korngold unique both as a prodigy and as a composer is the fact that he does not appear to have had a childhood, creatively speaking. Once he was armed with the basic tools to put his ideas on paper, there was no stopping him.

10  Brendan G. Carroll Crucially, he did not grow into his own style like other prodigies before him had; he was Korngold from the very beginning. Let us look at some cases. The famous examples of Handel, Mozart, Schubert, and Mendelssohn are not really comparable when one considers the far simpler musical idioms of those composers’ times. Moreover, their early pieces did not immediately enter the international repertory as did Korngold’s, which were played everywhere, from New York to Moscow, London to Berlin. Among more contemporaneous examples often mentioned is Richard Strauss. Strauss was an undoubtedly precocious child and composed songs and dances from the age of 6. Some of this early music has survived and is pleasant and tuneful. But it is also couched in an entirely classical style, almost a pastiche of Mozart and early Beethoven. When we examine his early Piano Trio, which he published as his Opus 1 and which he wrote at age 13, we hear barely any trace of the later Strauss but find, instead, echoes of Mendelssohn. Compare this work to Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s Piano Trio in D major, also his Opus 1 and completed at the same age, in 1910. The contrast could hardly be greater. One can immediately hear what so startled the greatest musical minds of the day and led to it becoming an instant repertoire piece. From the opening bars, we are in no doubt as to its authorship. The ambitious harmonic design, instinctive sense of balance between the three instruments, and the freshness of the ideas remain impressive today. After reading the score, the conductor Felix Weingartner (Mahler’s successor at the Vienna Hofoper) wrote enthusiastically to Korngold’s father: This is stupendous! It is as if Nature has gathered together all the accomplishments of modern musical language for which others have to struggle, step by step, and placed them in the cradle of this extraordinary child. There is no bar which does not offer a surprise. What sense of form! How strangely the three instruments go together. . . . I keep asking myself, when is the boy going to make a blunder? But though I searched diligently, I could find none. All the passages – even the most extravagant ones, and there are many of these – are developed logically. This child is truly a phenomenon.2 Around the time of Korngold’s first appearance in public, another extraordinary prodigy was causing a huge stir in Berlin. This was the Hungarian wunderkind Ervin Nyiregyházi. Born in 1903, Nyiregyházi could sing in tune before the age of 1, began to compose age 2, and at age 6 performed a Mozart concerto with the Berlin Philharmonic under the direction of Arthur Nikisch. He grew into a phenomenal virtuoso and was even hailed as a reincarnation of Liszt. Interestingly, he was examined by the noted psychologist and theoretician Erich von Hornbostel, who later also examined and tested Korngold.3 The results of Nyiregyházi’s examination were later published in a famous book by Géza Révész, The Psychology of a Musical Prodigy, possibly the only profound assessment of a musical prodigy ever written.4 Nyiregyházi was indeed miraculously gifted – and yet, when one examines his compositions, written between the ages of 7 and 14, we

Erich Wolfgang Korngold  11 find they are completely without distinction. His pieces are childish, imitative, clumsy, and totally uninteresting. By age 20, Nyiregyházi was finished as far as the music world was concerned: burned out, a victim of unscrupulous managers and exploitative parents. He subsequently lost all of his money and ended up a vagrant, yet he was briefly rediscovered in the late 1970s when an LP of his playing was produced. Nyiregyházi published no compositions and died, forgotten, in 1987. A more serious and interesting contemporaneous case, and perhaps the most remarkable other prodigy of Korngold’s time, was the Rumanian George Enescu, who grew up to become one of the most individual and still largely unappreciated composers of the twentieth century. Yet here again we find someone totally lacking in originality when we consider the works he produced as a child. While Enescu was a dazzling child virtuoso on violin, cello, and piano, and while he had mastered music theory and harmony before he was even 9, his early works are completely disappointing. Enescu developed into a fascinating modern composer later on, but we find that in his very first compositions, which he precociously started to write down when he was only 5, his stylistic model was early Brahms. Enescu’s first piano sonata, written at age 13, is afflicted (as music by talented composition students at any conservatory often is) by excessive repetition of rhythmical patterns and an overuse of constant, repeated right-hand octaves to effect a sense of bravura virtuosity and musical gravitas in the Lisztian manner. Yet the melodic material and form of the sonata are completely pedestrian. Contrast this with Korngold’s first Piano Sonata (in D minor) that was written in 1908–09 when he was just 11 and 12 years old.5 There is no hesitancy or clumsiness there, and one is never in any doubt as to who the composer might be. Korngold marshals his impressive thematic material with consummate skill, without the need for flashy keyboard padding. The austere key of D minor is a striking choice for an apparently cheerful little boy, and the tortuous harmonies that so vividly characterised the 1908 Don Quixote suite are here even more expressive, with an almost obsessive tendency to advanced chromaticism. The key is only nominally D minor – every measure is littered with accidentals, curiously altered chords abound, and the composer’s liking for diminished sevenths is obvious. The music in effect is bursting at the seams with extravagant use of secondary dominants, Neapolitan chords, and augmented triads that flavour its fluid, declamatory melodic material. A Scherzo and Trio forms the sonata’s second movement, and it is the genuine article. Understanding precisely what the character of a Scherzo should be, Korngold gives his a loping, undulating, slightly sardonic mood caused by its frequently displaced rhythms and a frequent use of fourths. His beguiling Trio is really an ironic ‘mock waltz’ that travels through many keys without any of them being established; in fact, this extremely complex Trio defies conventional harmonic analysis; although the Scherzo is in D major, the key signature of the Trio has three flats, yet is clearly neither in E-flat major nor C minor. Such harmonic sophistication is remarkable for a child of 11, yet to the person who knows Korngold’s later works it seems completely typical.

12  Brendan G. Carroll The sonata’s finale is equally impressive, a passacaglia of twenty masterly variations on a seven-bar theme given originally as a homework exercise by his teacher Zemlinsky. Korngold originally composed it in the key of C minor, but he transposed it into the sonata’s tonic key after Gustav Mahler (upon hearing the boy play it through) suggested he add it as the final movement.6 In the passacaglia, Korngold swings effortlessly between major and minor and colours his material with highly unstable augmented triads throughout. Richard Strauss, after examining the score, wrote to Korngold’s father: The first feeling I have when I realise that this was written by an 11 year old boy is that of awe and fear that so precocious a genius should be allowed to follow its normal development. . . . This assurance of style, this mastery of form, this characteristic expressiveness and bold harmony, it is truly astonishing. I am looking forward to making the personal acquaintance of this arch musician.7 Korngold’s first piano sonata was merely an hors d’oeuvre compared to his second, from 1910. A four-movement tour de force, it was introduced by Artur Schnabel in Berlin in 1911; the performance was a great success, and Schnabel even made a piano roll recording of the piece.8 Dedicated to Zemlinsky, the Sonata No. 2 is marvellously pianistic, full of tuneful invention and surprisingly advanced harmony. The emotional heart of the work is the slow movement, the special, brooding atmosphere of which is created by a liberal use of suspensions. These are often delayed for almost unbearable lengths of time before they are resolved, and even then they are resolved in the most unexpected and surprising ways. The sophistication of Korngold’s musical language is complemented by his ability to hide keys within a diffuse and highly chromatic soundscape. After the movement’s central più mosso section, Korngold creates magical sounds with offbeat chords in the right hand set against an undulating bass figure in the left. Later in the movement, Korngold even looks ahead to Webern with the climactic melody notes split across several octaves, greatly adding to the tension of the climax. If this phrase had all been written in the same octave, it would have sounded very tame. Only at the final bars do we arrive in a key – an emphatic C major, in a resolute, quasi-Mahlerian climax. Korngold’s teacher Zemlinsky left Vienna in the summer of 1911 to become director of the German Theatre in Prague, and Korngold’s lessons ended, barely two years after they had begun. Korngold studied advanced counterpoint for a very short time with another noted Viennese pedagogue, Hermann Grädener, and when Zemlinsky heard about it he sent Korngold a witty postcard from Prague that rather summed up the status quo. It read: Dear Erich: I hear you are studying with Grädener now. Is he making any progress? A von Z9

Erich Wolfgang Korngold  13 Zemlinsky knew his pupil very well. Within a year, Korngold’s first orchestral works were being performed by every great conductor of the time – Fritz Busch, Arthur Nikisch, Willem Mengelberg, Felix Weingartner, Karl Muck, Wilhelm Furtwängler, Henry Wood, Fritz Steinbach, even Richard Strauss – all enthusiastically presenting Korngold’s works, from New York to London, from Berlin to Amsterdam. All of his early works entered the mainstream repertoire, not as mere occasional novelties but as items regularly performed alongside music by Strauss, Mahler, and Korngold’s other contemporaries. Korngold’s first work for the stage was a two-act ballet-pantomime called Der Schneemann [The Snowman], composed at age 11 to his own scenario and orchestrated in collaboration with Zemlinsky as part of his instruction. presented in more than thirty major European theatres within a few years of its premiere at the Wiener Hofoperntheater on 4 October 1910, while the op. 1 Trio was in the repertory of all important chamber groups. Meanwhile, Korngold’s many beautiful songs were taken up by the finest singers, among them Elisabeth Schumann, Selma Kurz, Lotte Lehmann, Leo Slezak, and Hans Duhan. Webern wrote despairingly to Schoenberg in 1910: ‘Performance, publishers! The boy has everything! I shall be old before that’.10 Webern’s remarks reflect the resentment that was building against Korngold; inevitably, there was a backlash against his success, especially in Vienna, where it began to be said that great musicians programmed the boy’s works in order to impress his famous critic father, all in the hope of getting a good review. The famous coffee-house joke that made the rounds went something like this: Someone says to a famous pianist: I hear you are playing young Korngold’s sonata. Is it rewarding? The pianist answers, with a wink: No . . . But his father is! It was all so spitefully Viennese and ridiculous, for although Julius Korngold certainly wielded influence in Vienna, he had no sway abroad. Outside of Vienna, Erich Korngold continued to impress. In London, he became the youngest living composer to have his works performed at the famous Promenade Concerts (a record that he still holds), while in Berlin, in February 1914, Sibelius (attending the rehearsals of a Berlin Philharmonic concert conducted by Nikisch) heard Korngold’s elaborate Sinfonietta for an orchestra not much smaller than Strauss had used in Elektra. He later noted in his diary: ‘He is a young Eagle!’11 By the age of 15 Korngold had begun to search for an opera libretto, and in the spring of 1913, just before his sixteenth birthday, he remembered a charming comic novella set in the eighteenth century – The Ring of Polykrates, by Heinrich Teweles – that he had first read at the age of 10. The amusing story is set in the year 1797 and concerns the comedic mishaps of two young couples: the newly appointed

14  Brendan G. Carroll court conductor Wilhelm Arndt and his wife Laura, and their devoted servants, Florian and Liesel. It is a delightful opera buffa story of amorous misunderstanding and confusion that in earlier times might easily have attracted Mozart or Rossini. Korngold set the story in a bustling single act of just over an hour, with a chamber orchestra enhanced by an unusually large percussion section, but he soon realised that if the opera were to have any chance of being staged a companion work would be needed. He turned to a family friend, the writer Hans Müller (later co-author of the worldwide operetta hit White Horse Inn), who offered two possibilities, one a scenario based on the story of Girolamo Savonarola (subsequently rejected) and the other a tragedy set in fifteenth-century Venice, with a main character that had the melodious name of Violanta. Of the two, the passionate tale of Violanta was far more to young Erich’s liking. The plot is pure verismo. Violanta is a grande dame who has vowed to avenge the suicide of her sister, the abandoned lover of the handsome Alfonso, Prince of Naples. During the carnival, she seeks out Alfonso and lures him to her house where, at a pre-arranged signal, her husband Simone will kill him. After initial hostility, however, she falls in love with Alfonso herself. After a rapturous duet – ‘Reine Liebe’ (‘Pure Love’) – she throws herself between him and her husband’s dagger and dies instead. Operas based on full-blooded Renaissance-period dramas like Violanta were especially popular in the years just before the outbreak of World War I: Schillings’s Mona Lisa, Schreker’s Die Gezeichneten, and Zemlinsky’s Eine florentinische Tragödie, for example, were all written around this time. Such a ripe and melodramatic tale appealed to Korngold’s fertile imagination, and the end result was a highly erotic score that uses a very large orchestra with considerable virtuosity. But perhaps even more surprising is how convincingly Korngold depicts the drama’s very adult emotions. At 17, Korngold was barely aware of sexual matters (teenagers were far less sexually precocious a century ago), and he was, in any case, always strictly chaperoned by his domineering parents. That such a naive youth could compose such powerfully sensual music is one of the great conundrums of musical history. The score also marked a new development in Korngold’s harmonic language. The very opening bar with its unsettling, ambiguous, and strangely altered ninth chord – E – B-flat – D – F-sharp – C-sharp – that Korngold spreads across the entire orchestra, and which never properly resolves, creates a unique, entirely Korngoldian sound world. Korngold obviously had a gift for immediately setting a mood, and this would translate most effectively when he began scoring films. The world premiere of both operas took place at the Royal Opera House in Munich on 28 March 1916, conducted by Bruno Walter, who in a memoir recalled: The experience of hearing the young Korngold play (and sing) for me the two operas which I was going to perform, I shall never forget. One might have compared his interpretation of his own works on the piano to the eruption of a musico-dramatic volcano, were it not that the lyrical episodes and graceful moments also found their insinuating expression in his playing.12

Erich Wolfgang Korngold  15 Before these works were even premiered, what was to become Korngold’s most famous operatic creation had already taken hold of his imagination. In 1916, just before his nineteenth birthday. Die tote Stadt [The Dead City] came to be written almost by accident. The strange story, drenched in Freudian imagery, is based on an adaptation and translation of Georges Rodenbach’s celebrated symbolist novel Bruges la Morte by the German poet and writer Siegfried Trebitsch  – another friend of Korngold’s father. Rodenbach’s tale deals with a man who, unable to forget his dead wife Marie, pursues the young dancer Marietta because she is his wife’s exact double; as Marietta torments and mocks him, the man finally strangles her with a braid of his dead wife’s hair. This is heady stuff, and perfectly suited to Korngold’s extravagant talents. He responded to its primary theme of love enduring from beyond the grave with a score that can truly be called hyperromantic, its rapturous, heroic lyricism bursting from virtually every page. Cast in an elaborate three-act structure, Die tote Stadt included a vision scene where the ghost of the dead wife visits Paul in his room, an extended divertissement in Act 2 featuring Marietta’s actor friends in a surreal harlequinade, and an elaborate religious procession in Act 3. Korngold decided to write the libretto himself, in collaboration with his father, under a pseudonym – Paul Schott – that combined the names of the main protagonist and that of his German publisher. The reason for such deception was that the position of Korngold’s father as chief music critic in Vienna could not be compromised; even more important, it was assumed that the earlier accusations that Julius Korngold had co-authored his son’s works would recur if his name appeared on the score. The authors’ identities would therefore remain a closely guarded family secret until the opera’s revival in New York in 1975. Korngold finished the opera in August  1920. Such was Korngold’s celebrity that a bidding war broke out, with theatres vying for the privilege of presenting the premiere. In Vienna, Richard Strauss and Franz Schalk had recently been appointed co-directors of the State Opera, and naturally they wanted this most eagerly awaited new work for their first season. Korngold however, wanted the premiere to be given in Hamburg, where he had recently been contracted as conductor. At the same time, Cologne had promised a distinguished cast (and Otto Klemperer as conductor). After much haggling, both Hamburg and Cologne agreed to a joint premiere on the same day (4 December 1920). At one point, it seemed that Vienna would join in, making it an unprecedented triple premiere, but reluctantly it deferred until 10 January 1921, when the triumphant opening night was one of the most memorable in that theatre’s history. Strauss (who congratulated his young protégé after each act) spared no expense, with sets by Mahler’s favourite designer Alfred Roller. A superb cast was led by the legendary Maria Jeritza in the dual role of Marietta and the dead wife Marie, tenor Karl Aagard Østvig was the tortured Paul, and the great baritone Richard Mayr sang the cameo role of Marietta’s friend Fritz, reportedly stopping every performance with his delicious rendition of the celebrated ‘Pierrots Tanzlied’. The Viennese dramaturg Marcel Prawy once observed that Die tote Stadt provided the very last ‘hit tunes’ of German opera – not only ‘Pierrots Tanzlied’ but

16  Brendan G. Carroll also the exquisite ‘Mariettalied’ and the charmingly nostalgic Act 2 ‘Pierrotlied’. Indeed, the ‘Mariettalied’ may be the most recorded of all twentieth-century arias (there are now more than 100 versions), and its haunting opening phrase is reproduced, in a facsimile of the manuscript, on Korngold’s gravestone in Hollywood. Die tote Stadt achieved worldwide success, with well over seventy productions by the mid-1920s. On 5 November  1921 it reached New York’s Metropolitan Opera; it was the first German-language opera staged there after World War I, with Maria Jeritza repeating her Vienna success in what was her American debut.

**** Throughout the 1920s, Korngold consolidated his position as one of the leading young composers of his generation. Puccini, who greatly admired him, said in an interview that ‘Korngold has so much talent, he could easily give half of it away and still have enough left for himself; he is the greatest hope of German music’.13 His successes began to multiply. A witty incidental score for a Viennese production of Shakespeare’s play Much Ado about Nothing was eventually in the repertoire of more than a hundred orchestras worldwide; in a version for violin and piano, a suite from the score was performed and recorded by many of the great violinists of that time, including Fritz Kreisler, Mischa Elman, Jascha Heifetz, and Toscha Seidel. In 1922 Korngold accepted the first commission from the famous one-armed pianist Paul Wittgenstein to write a Concerto for the Left Hand (the more famous pieces that Wittgenstein commissioned from Ravel and Prokofiev were not composed until 1929 and 1931, respectively). In 1923 Korngold began what amounted to a second career, in operetta, successfully revising and conducting works by Johann Strauss Jr., Jacques Offenbach, and Leo Fall. In that same year he also composed the first of three string quartets and at the same time began to write what would become his most extravagant operatic creation: Das Wunder der Heliane. This opulent and grandiose work is based on a strange mysterium by the expressionist poet Hans Kaltneker. A tale of love that transcends and defeats death, it is set in a bleak kingdom, with a cruel and brutal ruler who has banished love and happiness, and has been unable to consummate his marriage to the saintly Heliane. Heliane, who possesses miraculous powers, falls in love with a young man condemned to death for defying her husband; both Heliane and the young man die before finally being resurrected by the power of their love for one another. This work, which Korngold considered to be his masterpiece, is a magnificent adult fairy tale, but it did not appeal to the public and was the subject of a critical scandal involving Korngold’s father.14 Only recently has Das Wunder der Heliane begun to be performed again.15 With Hitler’s rise to power in the 1930s, Korngold found his career severely curtailed; he was Jewish, and the refuge offered by the Hollywood film studios would eventually save his life and that of his family. After World War II, Korngold naturally assumed he could return to Vienna and pick up where he had left off. His

Erich Wolfgang Korngold  17 fifth opera – Kathrin, completed in 1937 – had been banned by the Nazis and he hoped to see it finally produced. In 1947, just as he was preparing his European return he suffered a major heart attack. That same year, his intensely romantic Violin Concerto, which he planned as his comeback piece and which today is arguably his most popular work, with literally hundreds of performances every year and more than sixty recordings in the catalogue, was given its first performance by Jascha Heifetz and the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, under the direction of Vladimir Golschmann. Korngold finally returned to Vienna in 1949, but his hopes of being welcomed home and enjoying renewed success were short-lived. His house had been sold in 1941 and he had to fight to get it back. His opera Kathrin, when it finally performed, was deemed to be old-fashioned. To his great disappointment, it seemed to Korngold that he had been forgotten, and that by the younger generation he was completely unknown. Korngold nevertheless continued to compose. A  number of fine late works appeared, including the Symphony in F-sharp, a cello concerto, a final string quartet, and the immensely demanding Symphonic Serenade for String Orchestra. These have slowly begun to find a place in the repertory. In the mid-1950s Korngold even began work on a second symphony and a sixth opera (Das Kloster bei Sendomir, based on Grillparzer’s gothic novel), but a stroke and a cerebral haemorrhage caused both of these to be left unfinished at his death on 29 November 1957, aged just 60.

**** Few mourned Korngold’s passing, and what obituaries there were focused more on his film work than his earlier success. For more than thirty years his reputation would be in eclipse. Gradually, however, Erich Wolfgang Korngold has returned. Thanks ironically to a reawakening of interest in his film music and with many excellent modern recordings, Korngold’s concert works and operas are once again being performed. Above all, Die tote Stadt has, in recent years, started to enjoy the kind of success it originally had when it first appeared in 1920; it is now a repertory opera again, particularly in Vienna. How best are we to assess Korngold in the twenty-first century? While he was neither a visionary nor a revolutionary, he produced a body of work that will clearly endure. He enthusiastically embraced and breathed new life into late-romantic tonality of the sort that Schoenberg believed was exhausted, and undoubtedly he was one of the twentieth century’s last great melodists. He attempted to push the boundaries of classical forms – his chamber works are especially significant in that respect – and in the specific realm of symphonic film music he was, in the 1930s and 1940s, perhaps the greatest innovator, his influence dominating the genre right up until the present day. With the benefit of hindsight, Korngold can now be seen to have been a victim of circumstance several times over. At the beginning of his career, while he was

18  Brendan G. Carroll still a child, he was resented because of his father’s pre-eminent position as a music critic, and when he was in his twenties he suffered because he was a Jew. By the 1930s he was being criticised for not embracing more modern idioms and his music (like that of so many other Jewish composers) was banned by the Nazis for being ‘degenerate’; after the war he was dismissed by critics and the musical cognoscenti as a mere ‘Hollywood composer’. Ironically, it was the reawakening of interest in his classic film scores in the 1970s that has gradually led to the revival of Korngold’s operas and concert works. The pendulum has swung back, and modern interpreters of world stature are once again championing his music. Artists of the calibre of Gil Shaham, Anne Sofie von Otter, Thomas Hampson, Anne Sophie Mutter, Renée Fleming, Hilary Hahn, André Previn, James Ehnes, Jonas Kaufmann, Ben Heppner, Franz Welser-Möst, Benjamin Schmid, John Mauceri, Vilde Frang, Zubin Mehta, Marc Albrecht, and countless others perform the music of Korngold often, and with devotion. There is hardly a young violinist today who does not know and play Korngold’s violin concerto, while the arias from Die tote Stadt are rightly regarded as supreme test pieces for singers and are featured regularly in international competitions. Gustav Mahler, who was the first to recognise Korngold’s genius, once remarked that for a composer to achieve true immortality his works should still be performed fifty years after his death. For Korngold, this milestone has long since been reached. Korngold was convinced that the possibilities offered by tonality could never be exhausted, and according to his wife, he often compared the process of artistic creation to nature’s eternal cycle of exhaustion and renewal. ‘You cannot make an apple tree produce apricots’, he would declare, with a twinkle in his eye, meaning that one could not produce artificially or try to alter natural processes. He also considered himself to be one of the last of a ‘dying breed of composers’, someone whose later music, especially his Symphony in F-sharp (composed 1947–52) could be heard as a lone, defiant scream in the austere anti-romantic postwar era of the 1950s, by which time he had become, in the words of musicologist Nicolas Slonimsky ‘the very last breath of the romantic spirit of Vienna’.16

Notes 1 Erich Korngold’s first important experience with contemporary music seems to have been at the Vienna premiere of Stravinsky’s Petrushka in 1913, at which he was so enthusiastic in his applause that he had to be restrained by his grandmother, who admonished him with the words: ‘Remember your father’s position!’ In a case of remarkable prescience, Korngold’s, Märchenbilder, op. 3, contains several passages that appear to be strongly influenced by the famous, consecutive bitonal chords of Stravinsky’s ballet – yet Korngold’s pieces had been written in the summer of 1910 when Korngold could not possibly have known Petrushka, which was first performed in Paris in June 1911. 2 The letter was lost in 1938, but it is reproduced in Julius Korngold’s memoirs. See Die Korngolds in Wien (Vienna: M&T Verlag, 1991), 157. 3 Erich von Hornbostel (1877–1935) examined Korngold in 1908 and 1909. 4 Révész’s book was published 1916 by Veit Verlag. 5 The sonata was published by Universal Edition 1910.

Erich Wolfgang Korngold  19 6 The manuscript of this early version of the sonata survives in Korngold’s estate and was displayed in Vienna at the Jewish Museum as part of its major exhibition on Korngold and his father, Die Korngolds – Klischee, Kritik und Komposition, for which I acted as special adviser in 2007–08. 7 Letter from Richard Strauss dated 3 January 1910, now in the Bavarian State Library, Munich. 8 The rolls were made by Schnabel in January 1912 for the Frankfurt-based Duca label, but I have yet to find one of them. 9 The letter was lost in 1938, but it is reproduced in Julius Korngold’s memoirs, Ibid. 10 Anton Webern to Arnold Schoenberg, 13 November 1910. The letter is in the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek in Vienna and is quoted, in English translation, in Hans Moldenhauer’s, Anton von Webern: A Chronicle of His Life and Work (New York: Doubleday, 1979). 11 Quoted in Erik Tawastjerna, Sibelius, Volume 1 (London: Faber & Faber, 1976). 12 The statement was read aloud at the Korngold Memorial Concert at the University of California, Los Angeles, on 7 June 1959. 13 Interview in the Neue Freie Presse, 12 September 1921. 14 Korngold’s opera was scheduled to appear in Vienna in the same season as Ernst Krenek’s opera Jonny spielt auf. Julius Korngold, who detested both Krenek and his opera, mounted a vicious newspaper campaign against it. His lengthy and highly critical review of Krenek’s work appeared on the front page of the Neue Freie Presse and was subsequently re-printed in a Nazi newspaper (DÖTZ), which also denounced the opera because of its use of ‘degenerate’ jazz idioms and the fact that one of its main characters was a Negro; this was possibly the only time that a Jewish critic was used by the Nazis to further their own cause. In any case, the public was unmoved by Julius Korngold’s vituperative invective and, infatuated by its novelty, flocked to Krenek’s opera. Franz Schalk, the director of the Vienna Opera, drily observed the day after the premiere that ‘the box office takings exceeded my direst expectations’. Meanwhile, the other leading German critics, offended by Julius Korngold’s deliberate attempt to first suppress and then critically destroy Krenek’s work, reacted by savaging his son’s opera Das Wunder der Heliane when it reached Berlin in 1928. 15 Concert performances of Das Wunder der Heliane were given in Freiburg and Vienna in 2016 and 2017. The opera was staged in Ghent and Antwerp in October 2017, and at the time of this writing a major production was scheduled by the Deutsche Oper Berlin for April 2018. 16 Nicolas Slonimsky, interview with Brendan Carroll, Los Angeles, 22 August 1975.

2 The concert works of Georges Auric, 1945 to 1983 Colin Roust

From his debuts before the Société indépendante de musique in 1913 and the Société nationale de musique in 1914 through World War II, Georges Auric (1899– 1983) was a prominent, even notorious, member of the Parisian avant-garde. In addition to composing a variety of song albums, piano works, ballets, and incidental scores for theatrical works, he was a sharp-tongued critic who wrote regular columns in Les nouvelles littéraires (1922–26), Gringoire (1928–30), Marianne (1934–40), and Paris Soir (1936–39). After the Liberation of France in 1944, Auric found himself in a privileged position in the French music scene. Having been the editor of Les musiciens d’aujourd’hui and contributing to Les lettres françaises, clandestine journals published by two resistance networks, the Front national de la musique and the Front national des écrivains, he emerged from the war as the most influential music critic in France. His role in the French resistance would lead directly to leadership opportunities at the Syndicat national des auteurs et compositeurs (SNAC) and the Société des auteurs, compositeurs et éditeurs de musique (SACEM).1 His administrative career would also include prominent roles in a variety of other organisations and academies, including the International Confederation of Societies of Authors and Composers, the Réunion des théâtres lyriques nationaux (the combined administration of the Paris Opéra and OpéraComique), the Société des auteurs et compositeurs dramatiques, the Académie du jazz, the Académie du disque français, the Académie de la chanson française, and the prestigious Académie des beaux-arts. In the meantime, Auric’s postwar years also featured his rise to international prominence as a film composer, with ninetytwo film scores and eight television scores composed between 1945 and 1975. With such active careers in film and arts administration, it perhaps comes as no surprise that by September 1968, when he stepped down from his role as Administrator of the Réunion des théâtres lyriques nationaux, he was complaining that his contractual responsibilities were preventing him from having time to compose ‘serious’ music.2 Despite his complaints, however, he completed at least sixty-four works for the concert hall and theatre between 1945 and his effective retirement in 1978.

Theatrical works Georges Auric was active in the theatre throughout his career. As a young composer he wrote several unsuccessful operas; only one actually made it to the stage,

Georges Auric  21 and its run was cancelled after just a week.3 Auric’s ballets, on the other hand, were far more important to his early success. Perhaps the most famous and most successful were the three that he composed for Serge Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes between 1924 and 1926: Les fâcheux (GA 36), Les matelots (GA 44), and La pastorale (GA 49).4 Likewise, Auric was a prolific composer of incidental music during the 1920s and 1930s, composing primarily for avant-garde companies in Montmartre theatres. During the height of his film career, the period under consideration in this essay, Auric’s theatrical works included twelve ballets, incidental music for eighteen plays, and one variétés scéniques. Variétés scéniques5 The ambiguities of the term variétés scéniques are reflected in Auric’s only contribution to the genre.6 La plus belle histoire (GA 194), from 1974, is a semi-staged spectacle that combines jazz-funk and French popular chanson styles, and that featured singers who later in the decade would figure prominently in the French disco scene. Like Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Jesus Christ Superstar and Stephen Schwartz’s Godspell, which were both hits in France, La plus belle histoire emerged from the mix of postwar youth culture, hippie aesthetics, and Christian hope that proved inspirational for many artists in the late 1960s and early 1970s. This same mélange resulted in the production of so-called mystères in France and Belgium. These modern mysteries – like the medieval mystery plays that inspired them and, in some cases, even provided the scripts for them – tended to focus on mystical and spiritual experiences. La plus belle histoire was conceived as a ‘modern mystery play’ by the writer Louis Amade and the singer Gilbert Bécaud. When Bécaud found himself too busy to compose the music for the work, he recommended that Amade approach Auric, whom he considered ‘one of the greatest contemporary composers’, and Gilbert Sigrist, a trusted friend, conductor, and jazz-funk pianist.7 The premiere took place on 22 April 1974 at the Église Saint-Roch, in the heart of Paris. Additional performances were given throughout the week, with proceeds supporting the Variety Club of France, an entertainment-industry charity organization that assisted handicapped children and their families. The final form of this ‘modern mystery play’ includes eighteen songs, some composed by Auric and others by Sigrist. The Biblical scenes range from an evocation of the Creation to the Crucifixion and are presented by six singers clad in white robes and six dancers in black bodysuits. Rather than acting out each scene, the singers position themselves in various formations for each number while the dancers provide a continuous ballet around them. As André Sève noted in his review, the work is very hieratic and at the same time very animated. In the church setting, it thus symbolically offers those assembled both the bread and the wine.8 Musically, the songs vary widely in style and reflect various points along the spectrum of French chanson in the 1970s. Sigrist’s song about the Exodus, ‘La longue marche’, is firmly in the jazz-funk world, with a driving bass, virtually static harmonic progressions, and funk guitar licks. Auric’s ‘Le Jourdain’, which tells the story of Christ and John the Baptist, is a more traditional chanson, closely

22  Colin Roust related in style to many of Auric’s film songs. The funk rhythms and harmonies that appear in many of Sigrist’s songs are complemented here by a much more sophisticated orchestration and more complicated harmonies and counterpoint. The one hit song to come out of the show was the final number and the most spectacular of the production, Sigrist’s ‘Les temps viendront’. In both the Paris and Montreal productions, multi-coloured lights synchronised with the music and a large white sphere representing the Earth rose above the performers. Various images were projected on the sphere, while mission recordings of Soviet cosmonauts and NASA astronauts were played over the music.9 Ballets The second half of Auric’s career saw Auric work on a dozen ballet collaborations. Most of these occurred before 1952 (see Table 2.1), a date that coincides with the start of an increasing number of international film commissions and a larger administrative role at the Société des auteurs, compositeurs et editeurs de musique (SACEM).10 Auric’s collaborators included influential people from three generations of twentieth-century ballet. Boris Kochno, Léonide Massine, and Jean Cocteau had been involved with Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes at various points during the 1910s and 1920s. Roland Petit and Jerome Robbins were legendary figures who, in the years after World War II, did much to shape the dance scenes in France and the United States; Odette Joyeux and Jean-Louis Barrault primarily made their careers in film, representing the generation that came of age in the 1940s. In the 1970s, Peter Martins and Jean-Pierre Bonnefous both rose to principal dancer positions in Robbins’s New York City Ballet and then, in the 1980s and 1990s, took administrative positions in the New York City and Charlotte Ballets, respectively. Table 2.1  Ballets composed by Georges Auric, 1945–78 Year

Catalog #

Title

Principal Collaborators

1945 1947 1949 1950 1950 1952 1952 1952

GA 137 GA 145 GA 151 GA 156 GA 157 GA 158 GA 159 GA 161

Boris Kochno, Roland Petit Boris Kochno, Jean-Louis Barrault Boris Kochno, Léonid Massine Jean Cocteau, Serge Lifar Nora Auric, Roland Petit Antoine Goléa, Victor Gsovsky A.-M. Cassandre, Aurélio Milloss Pierre Barillet, Jean-Pierre Grédy

1955 1960 1966

GA 168 GA 174 GA 184

Quadrille La fontaine de jouvence Le peintre et son modèle Phèdre Les chaises à musique Chemin de lumière Coup de feu Anticipation, ou Après la bombe La chambre Le bal des voleurs Grandeur nature

1978

GA 199

Tricolore

Georges Simenon, Roland Petit Léonide Massine Odette Joyeux, Michel Descombey, Philippe Agostini Peter Martins, Jean-Pierre Bonnefous, Jerome Robbins

Georges Auric  23 Of the twelve ballets from this portion of Auric’s career, Phèdre is the standout work and the only one that continues to be performed with some frequency. Cocteau adapted Jean Racine’s 1677 play into a one-act tragédie chorégraphique, declaring in the scenario: ‘A myth is a myth because poets take it up again and prevent it from dying. Nobody should be unaware of that of Phaedra, the granddaughter of the Sun. In words or in dance, we glorify it [the myth]’.11 This concise version of Racine’s play simplifies the plot while still preserving its essence. Theseus, King of Athens, is presumed dead, legitimating the illicit feelings of love that his wife, Phaedra, harbours for her stepson, Hippolytus. Meanwhile, Hippolytus is secretly engaged to Aricia, the daughter of the previous King of Athens, despite Aricia’s vow of chastity enforced by Theseus. When Theseus returns to Athens alive, his wife and son’s treachery leads to tragedy: Theseus calls on the sea god Neptune to kill Hippolytus and, out of grief and guilt, Phaedra commits suicide by drinking poison. Stylistically, the music is typical for Auric in the 1940s and 1950s – indeed, it has much in common with Auric’s scores for such French film dramas as L’éternel retour (GAF 31), François Villon (GAF 35), and La part de l’ombre (GAF 36). Although there is an underlying tonal orientation, dissonance is generously employed and modulations between sections weaken the pull of any particular tonal centre. The Prélude encapsulates the style. In the opening measures, the low woodwinds, brass, and strings open with a dramatic C-sharp major chord; the upper strings interject a polychord consisting of C-sharp major and B minor seventh, and the upper woodwinds add dissonant clusters. A few measures later the primary theme enters in the low woodwinds and trombones in E-flat major, emerging from a swirling background featuring a chromatic ostinato alternating between the high woodwinds and violins, as well as contrasting dissonant ostinato in running demisemiquaver tuplets played by two harps. Incidental music In the first half of Auric’s career, incidental music played a key role in providing a steady income for him and in establishing his reputation as an avant-gardist. He collaborated frequently with innovative playwrights and directors such as Marcel Achard, Nikita Balieff, Pierre Bertin, Jean Cocteau, Charles Dullin, Raymond Radiguet, Romain Rolland, Bernard Zimmer, and Stefan Zweig. During the second half of his career, Auric continued to be active in the theatre and in newer forms of theatrical productions (see Table 2.2). As was also true in the first half of his career, the works to which he contributed are a mixture of new works and revivals of classics. Among the revivals are works by Shakespeare (A Midsummer Night’s Dream), Molière (Le malade imaginaire and Monsieur de Pourceaugnac), Jean Racine (Esther), and Auguste Anicet-Bourgeois (his nineteenthcentury adaptation of Paul Féval’s cape-and-sword novel Le bossu). Le Charivari Georges Courteline was a retrospective featuring eight one-act works originally created in the 1920s by Courteline’s Le Charivari troupe, a mainstay of the Parisian avant-garde scene in the post-World War I years. Because few of these pieces

24  Colin Roust Table 2.2  Incidental music composed by Georges Auric, 1945–67 Year

Catalog # Title

1945 1945 1946 1946 1946

GA 135 GA 136 GA 138 GA 139 GA 140

1952 GA 163

Fédérigo Le songe d’une nuit d’été La traîtresse Un souvenir d’Italie Le Charivari Georges Courteline L’aigle à deux têtes De quoi te plains tu? Le bossu, ou Le petit parisien Les barbes nobles

1955 GA 167

Anastasia

1958 GA 171 1959 GA 172

Le malade imaginaire Les croulants se portent bien Je l’ai perdue Le signe de Kikota Esther Jodelet, ou le maître valet Monsieur de Pourceaugnac Un soir à Chenonceau

1946 GA 143 1947 GA 144 1949 GA 153

1960 1960 1961 1961 1964

GA 175 GA 176 GA 177 GA 178 GA 181

1967 GA 185

Principal Collaborators

Genre

René Laporte Georges Neveux Steve Passeur Louis Ducreux Jean Mercure

Theatre Theatre Theatre Theatre Theatre

Jean Cocteau Fernand Fouery Jean-Louis Barrault

Theatre Radio Theatre

André Roussin, Georges Vitaly Marcelle Maurette, Jean Poulain Robert Manuel Roger Ferdinand

Theatre

Theatre Theatre

Jean Cocteau Roger Ferdinand André Girard Paul Scarron Oscar Fritz Schuh

Radio Theatre Theatre Radio Theatre

Theatre

Jean Vassal, Paul Robert- Son et lumière Houdin

were published and the manuscripts for most of them have not yet been located, there is little to say about the music itself. However, one intriguing work that helped pioneer a new genre merits brief discussion. In 1967 Auric was approached, presumably by Paul Robert-Houdin, about the creation of a new son et lumière for the Château de Chenonceau, one of the most famous castles in the Loire Valley. Although historic buildings had been illuminated by electric lights since the 1920s, the son et lumière genre relied on technologies made available during and after World War II to bring this kind of static presentation to new heights. The genre was invented in 1951 by Robert-Houdin, at the time the architect and conservator of the Château de Chambord. RobertHoudin and Pierre Arnaud, his frequent collaborator from the tourism department of the French Culture Ministry, would ultimately create son et lumières for more than a dozen of the Loire Valley castles as well as numerous other celebrated sites around the world.12 Like the first son et lumière, which premiered in 1952 at the Château de Chambord, the show at the Château de Chenonceau was a presentation featuring a dramatic narrative and music broadcast over loudspeakers scattered around the castle grounds while an array of special lighting effects illustrated the story by highlighting features of the castle and its gardens. The original son et lumière at the Château de Chenonceau premiered in 1953 and has been changed

Georges Auric  25 several times since, including in 1967 when Auric was commissioned to write music for the new production. Little information survives on this production, which was titled ‘Un soir à Chenonceau’ (GA 185); it is known, though, that it dealt primarily with the history of this ‘château des dames’, and that it focused on its most celebrated occupants: Diane de Poitiers, Catherine de Médicis, Louise de Lorraine, Gabrielle d’Estrées, and the widow Louise Dupin.13

Symphonic works Although he wrote frequently for ballet and film orchestras, Auric rarely had the opportunity to compose symphonic music for the concert hall. His 1938 Ouverture pour orchestre (GA 112) was composed as a prelude to the French premiere of Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony, but that remains the only one of his orchestral pieces, beside the ballet suites, to have made any kind of mark on the symphonic canon (and it is rarely played or recorded today). Between 1945 and his death, Auric composed six symphonic works. Three of these – Conquête de la terre (GA 154), Ouverture française (GA 155), and Ouverture pour une opérette imaginaire (GA 183) – were tone poems, all of which were submitted to SACEM but remain unpublished and unperformed. Two others were contributions of single movements to collaborative works written in homage to well-known musicians; one of these was an ‘Écossaise’ (GA 162) included in the 1952 premiere of La guirlande de Campra, for which variations on a theme from André Campra’s 1717 opera Camille were also composed by Arthur Honegger, Jean-Yves Daniel-Lesur, Alexis Roland-Manuel, Germaine Tailleferre, Francis Poulenc, and Henri Sauguet; the other was ‘ML (Allegro final)’ (GA 169) for the 1956 Hommage à Marguerite Long, which also featured variations by Sauguet, Daniel-Lesur, Poulenc, Jean Françaix, Darius Milhaud, Jean Rivier, and Henri Dutilleux. The last of Auric’s symphonic works, and the only one other than the 1938 Ouverture that has been recorded, is a Divertimento (GA 198), commissioned in 1965 by Robert Boudreau, the conductor of the American Wind Symphony.

Chamber music Throughout his career, chamber music was a cornerstone of Auric’s compositional output. In the case of his later works, the compositions range from teaching pieces to virtuosic showpieces, along with two major chamber cycles (see Table  2.3). The prevalence of works for two pianos is noteworthy, as this portion of Auric’s career coincides with the rise in overall popularity of piano duos. Auric arranged one of his film songs, the title song of Goodbye Again, for Arthur Ferrante and Louis Teicher; Une valse pour deux pianos and the Partita were commissioned by Arthur Gold and Robert Fizdale; and the Doubles-jeux cycle was composed for Geneviève Joy and Jacqueline Robin. The six Imaginées are, in some ways, Auric’s most daring compositional effort. They were conceived as a cycle of solo works accompanied by piano, with the final

26  Colin Roust Table 2.3  Chamber works composed by Georges Auric, 1945–83 Year

Catalog #

Title

Instrumentation

1946 1948 1949

GA 142 GA 147 GA 149

Piano Piano Two pianos

1952 1953 1955 1959 1960

GA 160 GA 164 GA 166 GA 173 GA 179

1962 1968 1969 1970 1971 1971 1971 1973 1974 1976

GA 180 GA 186 GA 187 GA 188 GA 189 GA 190 GA 191 GA 193 GA 195 GA 196

‘Danse française’ Valse in the Corridor Une valse pour deux pianos ‘La fée blondine’ Impromptu Partita pour deux pianos Impromptu en ré mineur ‘Hommage à Alonso Mudarra’ ‘Petite marche’ Imaginées I Imaginées II Doubles-jeux I Doubles-jeux II Imaginées III Doubles-jeux III Imaginées IV Imaginées V Imaginées VI

1976 Unknown Unknown

GA 197 GA 200 GA 201

Aria L’évasion Élégie

Piano Oboe Two pianos Piano Guitar Piano Flute, piano Cello, piano Two pianos Two pianos Clarinet, piano Two pianos Voice, piano Piano Voice or oboe, flute, clarinet, two violins, viola, cello, bass, piano Flute, piano Piano Piano

work uniting all of the players, but the cycle expanded from Auric’s original plan of five works to six. Aesthetically, the works embrace postwar avant-garde aesthetics, reflecting Auric’s long-standing support of Pierre Boulez, Jean Barraqué, and other young composers of ‘contemporary music’. Unusually for Auric, the works include atonality, with Imaginées III, dedicated to the memory of Alban Berg, representing Auric’s only known venture into serialism. The first four works in the cycle were premiered shortly after being composed, by Jean-Pierre Rampal, Mstislav Rostropovich, Jacques Nouredine, and Colette Herzog, each of whom was among the leading musicians of the day. The cycle was first performed in its entirety by Detlef Kieffer’s Studio 111 Ensemble at the 1976 Strasbourg Summer Festival.

Vocal music An avid and intellectual reader, Auric throughout his career often set poetry to music. His full output of vocal music includes campfire songs for children, workers choruses, popular songs in the chanson tradition,14 and art songs.15 The ten vocal works that he composed after 1945 (see Table 2.4), continue many of the trends found in the songs from the first half of his career. Auric tended to set texts by poets known to him personally; the only outlier here is the ‘Idylle’ (GA 165), on a text by the sixteenth-century poet Vauquelin de

Georges Auric  27 Table 2.4  Vocal works composed by Georges Auric, 1946–83 Year

Catalog #

Title

Author of Text

1946

GA 141

Max Jacob

1947

GA 146

1949

GA 148

Trois poèmes de Max Jacob ‘Chant des premiers trente ans de liberté’ ‘Du côté de la vie’

1949 1949 1954

GA 150 GA 152 GA 165

‘Valse’ ‘Complainte’ ‘Idylle’

1958 1965

GA 170 GA 182

1971 Unknown

GA 192 GA 202

Le phénix Deux poèmes d’Henri de Montherlant ‘J’ai mis sa main’ ‘La repasseuse’

Paul Éluard and Madeleine Riffaud Paul Éluard and Madeleine Riffaud Louise de Vilmorin Paul Éluard Jean Vauquelin de la Fresnaye Paul Éluard Henri de Montherlant Louis Aragon Georges Neveux

Fresnaye. The frequency of songs on texts by Paul Éluard is striking; both Éluard and Auric were active in communist arts organisations in the 1930s and in the French Resistance during World War II. Both were politically engaged in their artistic work, which is reflected in the three workers songs included here: ‘Chant des premiers trente ans de liberté’ (GA 146), ‘Du côté de la vie’ (GA 148), and ‘Complainte’ (GA 152). Two works deserve mention here. The ‘Valse’ (GA 150) was commissioned by the singer Doda Conrad as part of a collaborative work commemorating the centenary of Chopin’s death. Conrad asked Louise de Vilmorin to write a cycle of seven poems inspired by moments in Chopin’s life. He then arrayed the poems in a suite in which each movement featured a genre on which Chopin had made a mark. Each of the composers involved was asked to set one or more of de Vilmorin’s texts in a particular genre. Henri Sauguet composed the prelude and, as a postlude, a polonaise; Francis Poulenc contributed a mazurka, Auric a waltz, Jean Françaix a scherzo, Leo Preger an étude, and Darius Milhaud a ballade-nocturne. Le phénix (GA 170) is listed in Carl Schmidt’s catalogue of Auric’s works as an ‘untitled song cycle on poems by Paul Éluard’. Although he was unable to locate the manuscripts, Schmidt knew of the piece’s existence from two letters that Auric wrote to Alice Esty, who commissioned it. In the first letter, dated 28 August 1958, Auric projects the work to be a cycle of five songs, of which he had already completed three. Two years later, Auric confesses that he still has not completed the other two songs. After that nothing more was heard of the songs, and Esty does not appear to have ever performed them.16 During a 2017 visit to the archive of the Société Pro Arte Georges Auric, however, I had the opportunity to consult the surviving manuscripts for this cycle. The title and the texts are drawn from Le phénix, the last poetry collection that Éluard published before his death in 1952.17 The manuscript includes only two songs, ‘Air vif’ and ‘Certitude’, which are inserted between a pair of songs from Auric’s earlier song album, Six poèmes de Paul Éluard (GA 129, composed 1940–41).18 It remains unclear if Auric ever

28  Colin Roust completed the cycle or even if he actually completed all three of the songs that, in 1960, he assured Esty had been finished.

*** The years 1978 and 1979 marked the culmination of Auric’s career. On 21 May  1978, TF1 broadcasted an hour-long documentary on Auric.19 Later that year, Auric finished writing his memoirs.20 Then, on 26 April  1979, SACEM organised a concert to celebrate Auric’s eightieth birthday. Numerous journalists and critics took the opportunity to reflect on Auric’s nearly seventy-year career.21 Surprisingly, Auric’s notorious participation in the group called Les Six and his celebrated collaborations with Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes play a lesser role in the evaluations of his career in the late 1970s than they have in subsequent writing about him. Instead, the focus in the late 1970s was on Auric’s threefold career in arts administration, film music, and the concert hall. The works that were consistently chosen to best represent his ‘serious music’ after 1945 were the ballet Phèdre and the chamber cycle Imaginées. Although there has been a resurgence of interest in Auric and his music over the past quarter century, much remains to be done. It is hoped that this brief overview of his concert works from the second half of his career will encourage further research on and performances of music by a composer whose remarkable career kept him at the centre of the French music scene for more than sixty-five years.

Notes 1 At the annual meeting of the membership in 1945, Auric was elected to the Administrative Council of SACEM. Then at the next meeting of the Administrative Council, he was elected to one of the three Vice-President positions and was also named a Vice-President of the Conseil d’honneur. In 1951, he would be named President of the Conseil d’honneur, a position he held until his death, and between 1954 and 1978 he would be elected twenty times to annual terms as President of SACEM. I am grateful to Louis Diringer and Valérie Cottet for permitting me to consult the corporate archives of SACEM. 2 Auric frequently complained of this in interviews with journalists during his two terms at the RTLN (1962–68). See, for example, M[aurice] Tillier, ‘Six Saisons en Enfer’, Le Figaro littéraire (20 May 1968) and Léon Treich, ‘Georges Auric quitte l’Opéra’, Le Soir (14 September 1968). 3 Of Auric’s operatic works, only Sous la masque (GA 57) was published, by Heugel, in 1930. Sans façons (GA 69) ran for seven performances in 1929 before being withdrawn. 4 Carl Schmidt’s, The Music of Georges Auric: A Documented Catalogue in Four Volumes (Lewiston, N.Y.: Edwin Mellen Press, 2013) identifies works with GA, GAUP (unrealized projects), GAF (film), and GATV (television) numbers. GA 1 through GA 134 were composed between 1908 and 1943; GA 135 through GA 199 were composed between 1945 and 1978; GA 200 through GA 202 are undated and unpublished works. 5 In this section, I am grateful to Loïc Métrope, who has served as an organist at the Église Saint-Roch since 1971. Through an interview and access to the church archives, I was able to piece together key parts of the story of La plus belle histoire.

Georges Auric  29 6 The generic term variétés scéniques is an umbrella term that has been applied to musicals, spectacles, and other types of entertainment. The Commission Nationale variétés of the Union artistique et intellectuelle des cheminots français uses the term to encompass clowns, jugglers, tableaux vivants, stuntmen, foot jugglers, caricaturists, mimes, marionettes, illusionists, magicians, as well as operatic, classical, and comic singers (see http://comnatvaruaicf.canalblog.com/). 7 Louis Amade, in an interview with Norbert Lemaire, ‘Le “Mystère Moderne” de Louis Amade’, L’Aurore (12 April 1974). 8 Ibid., Gérard Mannoni also commented in his review on this symbol of the bread and wine. See ‘La plus belle histoire à l’église Saint Roch’, Le Quotidien de Paris (24 April 1974). 9 The only review to specifically identify the mission recordings was C. G., ‘La Plus Belle Histoire’, Le Monde (27 April 1974). 10 Auric served as the Vice-President of SACEM from 1945 to 1954, then as President for twenty annual terms (1954, 1956–58, 1961–63, 1964–67, 1968–70, 1972–74, and 1976–78). In addition, he served on SACEM’s Comité d’honneur as Vice-President from 1945 until 1954 and as President from 1954 until his death in 1983. 11 Jean Cocteau, ‘Phèdre’, Cahiers Jean Cocteau 7, 147. 12 A small sample of Robert-Houdin’s and Arnaud’s son et lumières includes those at the Acropolis, at the Great Pyramids and the Sphinx, the Plaza Bolivar in Caracas, the Castillo San Marco in St. Augustine, Florida, and at the capital buildings in both Washington, D.C., and Ottawa, Canada. In addition, Robert-Houdin and Arnaud created son et lumières in Denmark, Switzerland, Belgium, the Netherlands, Tunisia, Puerto Rico, and Philadelphia. 13 Unlike most buildings with son et lumière installations, the Château de Chenonceau is not state owned. The Menier family, who have owned it since 1913 and who commissioned all of the son et lumière productions there, reported to me via e-mail that their archive is sparse from the late 1950s through the 1980s, and they were unable to find any information on the 1967 show. About ten years ago, the Meniers changed the show from a historical narrative to a ‘night-time promenade’, which features an hour-long loop of classical music (currently, music by Vivaldi and Corelli) with gradually shifting lights. 14 Apart from the songs in La plus belle histoire, discussed above, Auric’s published chansons were all composed for films. While a number of them were hits beyond their films, the most successful by far was ‘The Song from Moulin Rouge’, which Billboard Magazine named the No. 1 Song of 1953. 15 For a deeper discussion of Auric’s approach to composing art songs, see my essay ‘Toward an Aesthetic of Resistance: Georges Auric’s, ‘Quatre chants de la France malheureuse’, Ars Lyrica 18 (2009), 157–72. For a broader overview of Auric’s songs, see Ann Corrigan, ‘The Songs of Georges Auric’ (DMA thesis, University of Cincinnati, 1996). 16 Schmidt, The Music of Georges Auric, 682–3. 17 Paul Éluard, Le phénix (Paris: Guy Lévis Mano, 1951). 18 Carl Schmidt and I  have plans to prepare a critical edition of Auric’s unpublished songs, which will include both of the surviving songs from Le phénix. 19 Georges Auric: La musique de notre temps, directed by Maurice Le Roux. 20 Georges Auric, Quand j’étais là (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1979). 21 A few representative samples include: Pierre Julien, ‘Les confidences d’un musicien du siècle’, L’Aurore (21–22 April 1979); R. M., ‘Les 80 ‘Berges’ de Georges Auric’, L’Aurore (28–29 April  1979); Claude Samuel, ‘Les 80 ans de Georges Auric’, Le Matin (30 April  1979); Bernard Gavoty, ‘Lettre ouverte à Georges Auric’, Figaro (16 June  1979); and Guy Silva, ‘Georges Auric: Quand il était là  .  .  .’, Humanité (29 June 1979).

3 Looking for Mr. Hyde Franz Waxman’s musical activities beyond film Ingeborg Zechner

In his Los Angeles Times obituary for Franz Waxman (1906–67), music critic Walter Arlen began by comparing the composer to Dr. Jekyll, insofar as he lived a ‘double life’. This perspective is particularly interesting, because Arlen did not start with Waxman’s remarkable achievements as a composer of film music, even though he mentioned them briefly thereafter. Instead, Arlen focused on Waxman’s ‘alter ego, [which] was irrevocably devoted to writing “classical” music and to the Los Angeles Music Festival’.1 This view is different to the standard view of Franz Waxman as a composer of Hollywood film music, which indeed constitutes the majority of his compositional output.2 The emphasis of Arlen on Waxman’s ‘double life’ and on his achievements outside of film music was rooted, of course, in Arlen’s work as a music critic for the Los Angeles Times, in which position he informed the paper’s readership about the city’s recent musical events. Arlen’s professional focus was thus on Waxman’s contributions to Los Angeles’s music scene rather than on his film music, which at that time was not a principal concern of any music critic. One can tell, though, that Arlen highly appreciated Waxman’s manifold accomplishments. This chapter aims to take a look at Franz Waxman’s often-neglected ‘alter ego’ – his activity as a concert organiser, conductor, and composer for the concert hall. It addresses not only Waxman’s time in Hollywood, where he continued to live until his death after his emigration to the United States in 1934, but also the earlier stages of his career. The ‘other side’ of Waxman will be evaluated from the perspective of the contemporary public by analysing press reports about the composer and his activities.

Waxman composing jazz and ‘Schlager’ Franz Waxman received a classical formation in composition and conducting first in Dresden and then in Berlin. In order to earn money for his studies, he succeeded the well-known cabaret and film composer Friedrich Hollaender as a pianist in one of the most famous jazz bands in Germany in the 1920s, the Weintraubs Syncopators. Stefan Weintraub founded the band in 1924 originally for the purpose of playing dance music. Through its connection to the composer Friedrich Hollaender, the band quickly emerged as one of the key institutions in Berlin’s cabaret scene,

Franz Waxman  31 playing jazz music paired with classical music parodies and cabaret elements of a high musical standard.3 Hollaender’s involvement in the German film industry got the band an engagement in the film Der blaue Engel [The Blue Angel], and Franz Waxman was responsible for the orchestration of the score as well as for the composition of Marlene Dietrich’s song ‘Allein in einer grossen Stadt’.4 As can be seen from this example, the ties between the German entertainment and film industries in the Weimar Republic were close. This connection was influenced by the dominance of the silent film operetta through the end of the 1920s and then the sound film operetta of the early 1930s.5 Songs, interpreted by the main characters of the film, formed an integral part of this aesthetic. These songs were distributed internationally via film, and emerged in some contexts as popular hit songs (‘Schlager’) on the radio, on recordings, and in live performances by dance orchestras.6 Waxman, familiar with this musical aesthetic thanks to his experience as a performer with Weintraubs Syncopators, composed several successful ‘Schlager’ in the German cabaret tradition, including ‘Gruss und Kuss, Veronika’, ‘Die Mädels vom Montparnasse’, ‘Mir ist heut’ so Millionär zu Mut’, ‘Für’n Groschen Liebe’, and ‘Ich hab’ so was im Blut’. To enable the performance of these songs as dance music, either as separate numbers in revues or simply for home performance, adaptations were circulated in the form of printed scores.7 Additionally, in so-called multi-language versions the German sound films were distributed internationally, and these included much of Waxman’s music.8 Waxman was thus well established in the German entertainment industry before the political climate in Germany changed substantially in 1933,9 and his professional ties to influential persons such as the German film company’s head of production Erich Pommer facilitated his emigration first to France and then to the United States.10 What followed is well known: Waxman became one of the most prolific film composers of his time. Even so, he possessed ambitions beyond the precarious and stressful working environment of the film industry.11

Waxman as director of the Los Angeles Music Festival At the beginning of the 1930s Los Angeles did not possess an especially welldeveloped music scene: there were almost no regular institutions for the performance of operas or symphonic concerts. The film industry, which provided work for composers as well as orchestral musicians, was the dominant music business. The emigration to Los Angeles of many renowned European composers and musicians in the 1930s (among them Arnold Schoenberg, Igor Stravinsky, Otto Klemperer, and Ernst Toch) led to an upswing in the city’s concert scene. Specifically, during the summer months the musical life in Los Angeles was dominated by the Hollywood Bowl concerts, which presented programs ranging from the standard orchestral repertoire to jazz and pop music. Contemporary classical music was heard rarely in concert settings, and almost exclusively during the regular seasons of the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra.12 Waxman felt the urge to make use of the city’s existing rich musical culture. With the Los Angeles Music Festival, founded in 1947 as the Beverly Hills Music

32  Ingeborg Zechner Festival, he tried to combine both ‘entertainment’ and ‘enlightenment’. A summer festival should provide more than just popular entertainment and the ‘great classics’, he wrote.13 In his opinion, a summer festival could and should bring new works to an audience that would not normally attend concerts with contemporary classical music. When Waxman founded the festival, he aimed ‘to introduce at each of the concerts a first performance in this area of an important orchestral work by a contemporary composer’ – an ambitious standard that he upheld throughout his time as the festival’s artistic director.14 When Waxman in 1959 wrote an article for the Music Journal the Los Angeles Music Festival was already in its thirteenth year, yet Waxman obviously still struggled to get his audience to appreciate his concept of programming: I am familiar with the audience that steadily dribbles out during the playing of a new and perhaps difficult work. I know that this is the same audience that sits through all the great ‘classic repertory’ with respect because it has the stamp of tradition and authority, but more so because it is familiar. I have learned to feel the pulse of the box office, but if creating a music festival takes imagination, patience and a long-range view, [t]he festival director must learn to balance his program and his permanent goal.15 Nevertheless Waxman was able to maintain his festival financially through subsidies from both the county and city of Los Angeles as well as from private sponsors.16 Through the years, the festival’s programs showed surprisingly few repetitions of works but a large number of different pieces, including four world premieres and fourteen American premieres.17 One of the festival’s highlights was the 1957 world premiere of the concert version of Igor Stravinsky’s ballet Agon, with Robert Craft as conductor and Aldous Huxley as speaker.18 Organised in honour of Stravinsky’s seventy-fifth birthday, the all-Stravinsky program also included the American premiere of the Canticum sacrum.19 Stravinsky was by far the festival’s most performed contemporary composer, and Waxman’s personal friendship with him might well have influenced the programming decisions.20 Other composers whose music featured prominently on the programs were Arthur Honegger, Gottfried von Einem, Rolf Liebermann, Werner Egk, Darius Milhaud, and Lukas Foss, all of whom were engaged by Waxman to conduct performances of their own works at the festival. In 1959 the Musical World reported that Waxman intended to start a regular commission series at the festival, which would have encouraged compositions about ‘American personalities, places or dates’ in the style of Aaron Copland’s A Lincoln Portrait.21 Unfortunately this ambitious project never became manifest. The three other world premieres at the festival were Elinor Remick Warren’s orchestral suite Abram in Egypt (1961), Roy Harris’s Epilogue to ‘Profiles in Courage’: JFKs (1964), and the Argentinian composer Juan Jose Castro’s Suite Introspectiva (1962). Reflecting Waxman’s intention both to promote more international contemporary music and to address an international audience, in 1961 the festival changed its name to the ‘International Los Angeles Music Festival’.22

Franz Waxman  33 The agenda for June 1961 also included an ‘International Composers Conference’ and an ‘International Critics Symposium’, both aimed at increasing the profile and critical reception of the festival.23 At the same time, Waxman made use of the rich talent of émigré musicians assembled in Los Angeles: André Previn served the festival as both conductor and soloist in the seasons 1951, 1955, 1956, 1959, and 1961, the violinist Joseph Szigeti and the soprano Lotte Lehmann performed as soloists in the first season of the festival in 1947, and the pianist Rudolf Serkin performed all five Beethoven piano concertos in 1965. Waxman was also able to engage such renowned ensembles and soloists as the Paganini Quartet and violinists Isaac Stern, Louis Kaufmann, and Joseph Fuchs.24 Alongside the 1960 festival, which celebrated the 100th birthday of Gustav Mahler, Waxman organised and conducted a one-off concert series on the island of Santa Catalina. As Walter Arlen put it: ‘Franz Waxman’s Los Angeles Music Festival . . . moved its well-oiled organization to the island for concerts Friday and Saturday nights’.25 As is reflected in the programming, the focus of the Santa Catalina Festival of the Arts clearly lay on entertainment outside of a classical concert setting. Amongst other things, Waxman chose for Santa Catalina the original German film version of Kurt Weill’s Dreigroschenoper (shown for the first time in Southern California), Claude Debussy’s ballet La boîte à joujoux (part of a children’s concert), and a reading by movie stars of excerpts from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream interspersed with Felix Mendelssohn’s incidental music. Waxman’s own Sinfonietta for Strings was slated to precede the Shakespeare–Mendelssohn, but ‘in order to keep the program from running late, Mr. Waxman, with a really unselfish gesture, deleted his Sinfonietta for strings and tympani which he was scheduled to conduct’.26 Keeping to the timetable was necessary, because Waxman had had included on the festival’s schedule ‘special festival cruises on the big white steamship’ to the island’s city of Avalon.27 Waxman’s programming of one of his own compositions at the 1960 Santa Catalina Festival was exceptional in the context of the twenty years he served as director of the Los Angeles Music Festival. In this entire time he programmed only five of his works. These were the Elegy for Strings (in 1948), the Carmen Fantasie (in 1952), the Sinfonietta for Strings and Timpani (in 1956), Joshua (in 1961), and The Song of Terezin (in 1966), and none of them received world premieres.28

Waxman as conductor For his festival, Waxman served less frequently as a composer than as a conductor. Waxman had studied conducting in Berlin, and at earlier stages of his career he conducted recording sessions of film music in Germany, France, and Hollywood. It was only relatively late in his career, however, that he began conducting classical repertoire in concerts, although this had been certainly a long-held ambition. In 1942 he began intense score studies using his extensive library, which at the time contained 380 music scores ranging from eighteenth-century to contemporary orchestral compositions.29

34  Ingeborg Zechner It was his success as a film music composer, especially with his 1946 score for Jean Negulesco’s Humoresque, that helped Waxman to establish himself as a conductor for the concert hall. The movie deals with the successful rise of a violin virtuoso and prominently features Waxman’s music, which in the film is used both as underscore and as concert music performed by the fictional violinist Paul Boray (played by John Garfield).30 For this purpose Waxman composed variations on themes from Bizet’s Carmen and Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, both of which are performed on the fictional concert stage. Specifically, the so-called Carmen Fantasie developed a separate life in the concert hall and on recordings with the help of violin virtuosos Isaac Stern and Jascha Heifetz. The piece was originally intended to be performed for the film by Heifetz, a close friend of Waxman, but the famous violinist proved too expensive for Warner Bros., and Waxman instead engaged the young rising star Stern.31 Both Waxman and Stern profited greatly from the success of Humoresque. The journal Musical America praised the film for its parodist depiction of the classical music industry and for giving ‘a glimpse into the realities of an artist’s life’: The musicians who made Humoresque must have enjoyed themselves. The terse comment is very real to anyone who has heard the pungent talk, which goes on backstage. [The character of] Eric de Lamarter [recte Eric DeLamarter], composer-conductor, was made up to look like Leopold Stokowski.32 The success of Humoresque and its music led to various recordings of Waxman’s Carmen Fantasie. Stern’s 1947 Columbia album with selections from Humoresque was listed as no. 9 on Billboard Magazine’s list of ‘The Year’s Top Selling Classical Record Albums Over Retail Counters’.33 Heifetz’s recording of the Fantasie for RCA Victor and the inclusion of the piece in his concert repertoire increased both the work’s popularity and the composer’s reputation.34 In 1949 Waxman came to be represented by the artist agency run by the German émigré Dorothea (‘Thea’) Dispeker, who had started her own company in 1947 in order to ‘advise artists in the field of opera, concert, radio, stage, screen and television’.35 It is no coincidence that Waxman sought management for his work as a ‘composer-conductor’ immediately after his success with the movie Humoresque, amplified by the success of Jascha Heifetz’s concert performances. It was in fact through recordings with Heifetz that Waxman established himself as a conductor in the American music scene. One of the most prominent examples is the 1948 RCA Victor recording (DM 1136) of Bach’s Double Concerto in D minor, on which Heifetz, with the help of overdubbing, played both of the violin parts himself: Rather like a double exposure film is this novel experiment where the same soloist played both violin parts and they are later dubbed in with orchestra. This was done to ensure equality of tone, volume, style and tempo and is successful, if you don’t mind the somewhat artificial idea. Dual role movies have

Franz Waxman  35 the same freakish flavor as would, perhaps, Siamese twins. At any rate the playing is very beautiful and the performance is neatly accomplished without inaccuracy. Knowing the circumstances, one is inclined to be captious about the cool order of the performance and the wish for a little ‘give’ here and there. Even so, the slow movement is particularly lovely. Mr. Heifetz’s virtuosity is not only on display but his memory, in order to repeat the second violin part, the same inflections, and phrasing of the first. It must have been both taxing and amusing to do. The orchestra gives faithful accompaniment, well graduated in tonal scale.36 It is of particular interest that the reviewer here explicitly refers to the film industry by mentioning the strange impressions of dual-role movies. Waxman was not mentioned as the conductor of this innovative recording in the review’s text, but his name is included in the headline. This suggests that Waxman as a conductor was still strongly associated with the film industry and, by implication, was thus the right man for conducting the double concerto. With professional management he could be marketed as a conductor in an international context, while at the same time he was able to lead the Los Angeles Music Festival and, as a freelancer, compose film music. Waxman’s recordings significantly helped to shape his profile as a conductor. This is proved by the National Concert and Artist Corporation’s (NCAC) full-page advertisement, in the February 1950 issue of Musical America, for the ‘inspiring composer-conductor’ and director of the Los Angeles Music Festival.37 Unsurprisingly, the advertisement listed as Waxman’s three main achievements the performances and recordings of the Carmen Fantasie by Jascha Heifetz, the Victor recording of Bach’s Double Concerto, and Waxman’s ‘own transcription and recordings of selections from the music of the film “Humoresque” with Oscar Levant and Isaac Stern as soloist for Columbia records’. Other than this last point, Waxman’s film music was never explicitly mentioned. Even the reference to Humoresque brings the transcription and recordings into the foreground, placing less importance on the film. Interestingly enough, the advertisement also includes a poorly translated excerpt of a review in French of Waxman conducting the ‘orchestra Colonne’ at a concert in Paris in June 1949. While the content of this ‘review’ is unimportant in this context, it clearly aimed to position Waxman as a conductor of international significance. The NCAC used this material to publicise to the American public the composer’s international career, which included a European tour set to take place from June to September that year with concerts in the Netherlands, Belgium, Italy, and Austria.38 Over the years Waxman was represented by various artist agencies. In 1955 he signed with Judson, O’Neill & Judd, the branch for composers and conductors at Columbia Artists Management;39 in 1962 he appeared on the list of Herbert Barrett Management. While managed by Barrett, in 1962–63 he travelled to London, where he conducted both the London Symphony Orchestra and the Philharmonia Orchestra in the Royal Festival Hall.40 The programs for these concerts reflect the repertoire that Waxman tended to conduct, which consisted primarily of

36  Ingeborg Zechner nineteenth-century symphonic music as well as music by such Russian composers as Sergei Prokofiev and Dimitri Shostakovich.41 In 1962 Waxman was the first American citizen, sent by the U.S. State Department, to conduct symphony orchestras in the Soviet Union, including those of Leningrad, Moscow, and Kiev.42 In addition, he was invited to be a juror for the International Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow, which was then in its fifth year.43 This invitation can be seen as a consequence of the previous year’s Los Angeles Music Festival and its International Composers Conference, to which Waxman had invited several Soviet composers. Aside from the conference, the festival that year included the American premieres of Tikhon Khrennikov’s Violin Concerto (with Igor Bezrodny as soloist) and the suite from Kara Karayev’s ballet By the Path of Thunder, both which featured Waxman as conductor. In 1958 a cultural exchange program between the United States and the Soviet Union had begun,44 and in the early 1960s reciprocal activities of cultural exchange between the United States and the Soviet Union – for the purpose of improving the political climate during the Cold War – were increasing. The U.S. State Department at this time favoured ‘classical’ artists and orchestras over jazz or folk music ensembles.45 In this context, Waxman and his festival both gained symbolic value. Waxman’s conducting ambitions were not limited to the concert hall or recording studio. In the summer of 1960 he debuted as an opera conductor with a performance of Giuseppe Verdi’s La traviata at the Cincinnati Summer Opera.46 Despite his increased interest in vocal musical forms in the following years, however, most of Waxman’s conducting activities involved instrumental concerts.47

Waxman’s compositions outside of film Waxman’s success in Hollywood enabled him to compose more and more concert works, to found the Los Angeles Music Festival, and to increase his conducting activity. As those activities often ran parallel throughout Waxman’s career and were mutually dependent upon one other, it is nearly impossible to draw a distinct line between his compositions for film and those for other media. From his notebooks it is clear that Waxman planned to adapt his film music for use in concerts or for radio broadcasts, as he did very successfully with his music to Humoresque. 48 Issuing radio soundtracks provided the film production firms with an additional marketing tool. It also helped Waxman to increase his public recognition. His Rebecca Suite, based on his music for the eponymous Hitchcock movie from 1940, is one famous example of this strategy in action. It has even been claimed that this was one of the first film scores to appear on a radio program.49 In the years to come, it became the norm for film music to be broadcast on the radio. Although Waxman was extremely productive in extracting concert suites from his film music scores, he also composed specifically for private or concert performances. He often composed variations and adaptations of preexisting compositions, and these illustrate his stylistic versatility. In his Auld Lang Syne Variations for string orchestra he used his ability as a parodist. The titles of the variations – 1. Eine kleine Nichtmusik, 2. Moonlight Concerto, 3. Chaconne à son goût,

Franz Waxman  37 4. Homage to Shostakofiev – allude to his comic ambitions. The first variation in the form of a rondo presents the well-known theme from Auld Lang Syne in a style that is reminiscent of Mozart’s chamber music. The second variation quotes Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, as well as themes from his Violin Concerto, which are combined with the Auld Lang Syne theme. The third variation is situated in the sphere of virtuosic violin performances and resembles closely the chaconne in Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D minor; once again, the Auld Lang Syne theme is embedded in the music. The last variation transports the theme into the musical sphere of Shostakovich and Prokofiev. Waxman also wrote compositions for special occasions outside of the concert hall. His 1948 Four Scenes of Childhood for violin and piano was a gift to Jascha Heifetz,50 and his 1960 Goyana was composed for the ceremony celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the Los Angeles County Museum51; both the title and compositional style of the latter, which consists of four short sketches, refer directly to the paintings of Francisco de Goya.52 Finally, his 1949 The Charm Bracelet for piano incorporates five short, relatively easy piano pieces dedicated to Waxman’s son, John. For a commission from the Zurich Radio Symphony Orchestra in 1955, Waxman composed the Sinfonietta for Strings and Timpani, which had its American premiere at the Los Angeles Music Festival the following year. It is one of his few small-scale instrumental compositions for concert use, and it is not directly related to any of Waxman’s film music.53 A  review of the American premiere judged the composition positively, although it favoured Miklós Rózsa’s Violin Concerto, which was given its West Coast premiere at the same concert: Waxman’s Sinfonietta is a short work, which states its material without extensive development. The first movement is lighthearted with a graceful rhythmical flow; the second is an expressive dirge with an ostinato accompaniment on the timpani, and the Scherzo-finale goes in for more complications than the earlier movements while achieving enough liveliness for an effective close.54 In the same year of the Sinfonietta’s American premiere, Waxman was commissioned to compose the film music for Crime in the Streets, which is situated in the life of New York Street gangs. To portray this situation, the music was not composed as a classical-style symphonic underscore; rather, it is in the style of jazz. The film soundtrack, which was released by Decca, did not fill the entire LP, so Waxman wrote two extra pieces for the sake of the recording; these were Theme, Variations & Fugato55 and Three Sketches (‘Nostalgia’, ‘Song’, and ‘Blues’), both of which give an excellent account of Waxman’s feeling for jazz instrumentation and composition. Waxman’s largest compositions for the concert hall are the oratorio Joshua and the song cycle The Song of Terezin. They are both linked to Jewish themes and combine a variety of stylistic elements. The oratorio is based on the biblical story of Joshua from the Old Testament and was premiered in the Temple Emanu-El

38  Ingeborg Zechner sanctuary in Dallas in 1959. At the time of the composition, Waxman was a composer in great demand. This can be seen in the following description of the composer’s travel schedule, which appeared in the commentary column ‘Mephisto’s Musings’ in Musical America: Franz Waxman was in town recently, busy as usual. He had just returned from Europe, where he fulfilled conducting engagements and the Friday afternoon that I saw him he was preparing to fly to Hollywood for a conference, and from there to Dallas on Sunday. It should come as no news to readers that Mr. Waxman in addition to being the distinguished composer for films also writes music for the concert hall, and he was on his way to Dallas to conduct the world premiere of his oratorio ‘Joshua’ on May 23.56 Waxman dedicated the oratorio to his wife, Alice, who had died of cancer in 1957. According to the review in Musical America by George Leslie, Joshua was a success and received a ‘prolonged applause’. The reviewer emphasised that Waxman ‘disclaims adherence to any pattern of composition, and writes with spontaneity. To this listener it was evident that traces of many composers from Bach to Bartok could be found’. The oratorio has a relatively traditional structure with an instrumental prelude followed by arias and choruses. Twelve narrations (by the British playwright John Forsyth) were delivered by the television and stage writer Norman Corwin at the premiere and provided the narrative context for the music. The review stated that the ‘stereophonic’ sinfonia dealing with the siege of Jericho – featuring three groups of trumpets positioned in different places around the circular sanctuary – left an especially great impression.57 Wanting to raise awareness of the fate of children at the Nazi concentration camp in Terezín (Theresienstadt), the Cincinnati May Festival commissioned The Song of Terezin in 1965. It is a song cycle for mezzo-soprano, mixed and children choruses, and orchestra. Cast in a variety of forms and using a variety of styles, including twelve-tone technique, Waxman based the piece on children’s poems found by rescue workers. The poems, which reflect the daily reality at the camp through the eyes of children, had been published in 1964 together with drawings in a book titled I Never Saw Another Butterfly, and they caught Waxman’s attention.58 He wrote: [The children] saw beyond the walls of Terezin to the lands of lovely rolling hills, animals, birds, butterflies. Their minds created visions of which adults are not capable. They created lands of princesses, witches, cookies and soda pop. They created an inward land of happiness.59 It might seem odd that Waxman’s only compositions unrelated to film music came late in his career. Besides The Song of Terezin and Joshua, both of which are in large-scale vocal forms, there was also a planned opera about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Otherwise, nearly all of Waxman’s earlier compositions were in some

Franz Waxman  39 way related to his film music or were intended to be distributed via broadcast. Without a doubt, technological developments in the broadcasting and movie industries had a considerable influence both on Waxman’s career and on his profile as a composer. In composing for different media and in various styles, he developed a keen sensibility for orchestration and the particular demands of each medium; it is hardly a coincidence that Waxman made his career in composing for the movies.60 On the other hand, the concert hall offered more specific and individual credit to the composer, provided the opportunity for repeat performances, and allowed the composer the flexibility to compose in larger-scale musical forms.61 But the concert repertoire in the middle of the twentieth century was increasingly dominated by romantic music, and the audience’s focus was shifting from the composer to the performer.62 Indeed, and as Waxman knew from his experience with the Los Angeles Music Festival, there were challenges in getting the public to accept more modern compositions. Waxman’s compositions clearly did not quite fit into the modernist tendencies of the 1950s and 1960s. Waxman was a ‘progressive traditionalist’, situated somewhere between the musical worlds of the concert hall and of film.63 And this is documented by his reception in the contemporary press.

Waxman’s reception outside of film The recordings of the Carmen Fantasie and the identification of the piece with two of the most prominent violin virtuosos of the late 1940s mark an important point in Waxman’s career outside of film. The virtuosic piece owes its popularity particularly to the recordings by Jascha Heifetz and Isaac Stern, for such popularity could not have been achieved in the concert hall alone. Indeed, there is a strong contrast between reviews of recordings of the piece and reviews of live performances. Billboard magazine reviewed new recordings on a regular basis and recommended the Heifetz recording of the Carmen Fantasie in the column titled ‘for the home collection of light symphonics’. The recording’s primary selling points, according to the column, were Heifetz’s virtuosity and the popularity of the ‘rich gypsy themes from Bizet’s opera’. Waxman is mentioned, but the composition itself is not discussed. Nevertheless, the forthcoming movie Humoresque and its associated recording (with the violin part played by Stern) are briefly noted.64 Despite the Billboard column’s recommendation of Waxman’s composition as recorded by Heifetz, the Carmen Fantasie was harshly criticised after a concert performance in New York. Artur Holde, critic for the New York–based German exile journal Aufbau, in a March 1947 review discredited Heifetz’s performance of the ‘unbearable Carmen-Fantasy of Waxman, which shamelessly plunders Bizet’s intellectual property’.65 Holde did not think that the ‘banal virtuosity’ of Waxman’s piece, which might recommend it for the category of ‘light symphonics’, belonged in the concert hall. While a certain virtuosity might be expected from Heifetz as a performer, Holde blames Waxman’s composition as the source of these ‘unbearable’ extravagancies.

40  Ingeborg Zechner In May  1947, simultaneous with the movie’s premiere, Billboard published a review of the Humoresque album with Stern as violinist. This had a different emphasis, in that it conceptually separates the movie from the music: This is much more than another movie album, altho the four 12-inchers offer the selections played by Isaac Stern as the off-screen violinist for Humoresque. The young artist stands here on his own merits, and playing with individual tone of radiant beauty and with uncommon technical proficiency, it’s a fine recital by a superb artist. With Franz Waxman conducting the orchestra the brilliant young violin virtuoso thrills with the conductor’s arrangement of the well known Fantasy from the opera Carmen. . . . Movie stills embellish the fiddle design for the front cover, with stills of the screen stars in the inside page.66 It is noteworthy that Waxman is emphasised here more as conductor than as composer. His fantasy is listed as nothing more than an ‘arrangement’ derived from Bizet’s opera, even though the variations were obviously composed by Waxman. The review implies that film music is in general of low quality, and hence the initial explanation about this being ‘much more than another movie album’. The notions that film music was inferior and, specifically, that Waxman’s composition was merely an arrangement persisted over the years. This can be seen in a 1950 review of the same album. By this time, Waxman’s Los Angeles Music Festival was in its third year and he was officially under professional management as a composer-conductor. The ‘Humoresque’ referred to in the title is the recent film which starred Joan Crawford, John Garfield and Oscar Levant. The music has no organic relation to the movie, being a series of transcriptions for violin [and] piano . . . of very familiar standard works. Franz Waxman’s special arrangements are quite acceptable. . . . In all, a hunk of merchandise well calculated to attract those record-buying movie-goers who, as the liner notes point out, ‘are developing an unconscious love of good music’.67 This review again tries to separate the music from the movie by emphasising that the music does not function as an underscore and ‘has no organic relation to the movie’. At the same time, it points out that the recording is nothing more than a merchandising product aimed to ‘educate’ the general film audience with ‘good music’. The review furthermore identifies ‘a certain amount of [discernible] gloss’ in Waxman’s composition, which results from its origin as a ‘sound track . . . for sentimental flicks’.68 Waxman’s variations are designated as ‘acceptable transcriptions and arrangements’ rather than as a composition of its own. The fact that the Carmen Fantasie had, thanks to the performances of Heifetz and Stern, already by 1950 emerged as one of the key pieces in the contemporary concert repertoire – and remains there today – is not taken into account. In these reviews of the recordings, Waxman is largely positioned as a performer, as a composer of ‘light’ classics, and as an arranger.69 In the critics’ eyes, it is not

Franz Waxman  41 so much Waxman’s music but rather the performances by acclaimed virtuosos that succeed in bringing the music from film to recording. The notion of Waxman as a film composer, with all its contemporary ideological implications, can be traced even in the criticism of his performances as a conductor.70 It is clear that his two Academy Awards in the 1950s supported the public picture of Waxman as a successful film composer. Despite his achievements in the Los Angeles music scene, however, this perspective influenced reviews about his conducting. At the Los Angeles Music Festival of 1962, Waxman conducted a performance of Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony, a standard work in the concert repertoire. The New York Times critic Harold C. Schonberg accused Waxman of ‘interpret[ing the] “Pathetique” as Program Work’. Schonberg, who can be seen as an advocate of nineteenth-century performance practice,71 criticised Waxman’s interpretation as being cinematic.72 For Schonberg, nineteenth-century symphonic music should be interpreted in the appropriate aesthetic sense as ‘sound moved by form’ or as autonomous art music; there is neither need nor desire for an accompanying program.73 Interpreting Tchaikovsky’s symphony as Waxman had obviously done was therefore irreconcilable to Schonberg’s conception of ‘art’. A similar prejudice is evident in a review of the Decca recording of Lukas Foss’s Second Piano Concerto and Waxman’s Sinfonietta for Strings and Timpani that appeared in the German exile journal Aufbau in April  1957. In the review Waxman’s composition was praised in a backhanded manner: ‘[The sinfonietta] is even entitled to a place in the concert hall’. 74 Another review of the recording appeared in the journal The New Records, and it mentions explicitly that Waxman is ‘a composer’: Franz Waxman besides being a conductor here, is a composer of no mean talents, and his Sinfonietta for Strings and Timpani . . . proved more than moderately interesting. Starting off with a gay first movement, the mood suddenly changes to a dirge in the second movement (for cellos and timpani only), and ends in what must be a tremendously difficult-to-play Scherzo-finale. As with the Concerto, this must be considered to be a definitive performance.75 The fact that Waxman is explicitly called a ‘composer of no mean talents’, whereas Foss’s talents as a composer are not discussed explicitly, shows a certain aesthetic prejudice against film music (and film music composers) as well as some curiosity about Waxman’s concert works. 76 It seems clear that Waxman’s impressive achievements in film music by this time did not in themselves establish his reputation as a composer outside of film music. Waxman’s conducting career complemented his career in film music. In general he was appreciated for his conducting skills and his ability to convey musical meaning.77 A review of Waxman conducting Mahler’s Second Symphony at the Los Angeles Music Festival in 1960 praised him for having ‘kept the mammoth structure of the work intact by brisk tempos and denatured some of the musical bombast in the first movement and in the “Resurrection” finale’.78 Likewise Waxman’s conducting was said to alter the nature of concert experience, as a

42  Ingeborg Zechner review about the West Coast premiere of Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem at the Los Angeles Music Festival in 1964 illustrates: ‘It is unlikely that the concert could have been so instantaneously transformed into a quasi-religious occasion without Franz Waxman’s authoritative and impassioned comprehension of the work’.79 Waxman’s endeavours to enthuse people for new musical compositions is strongly reflected both by his ambitions as a conductor and by his work as a concert organiser. In addition, he was an active supporter of musical talent: without a doubt he played a crucial role in the careers of both Isaac Stern and André Previn. He supported the Music Council of the Young Musicians Foundation financially as well as ideologically,80 and he assisted his composer colleagues with professional advice.81 In Waxman’s career it is hard to separate the two ‘souls’ of his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. This is a result of the nature of the music market in the 1930s through the 1960s, which was considerably influenced during by radio broadcasts and recordings. The latter in particular was important in the emergence of Waxman’s career outside of film, for the ties between those spheres were close. The traditional notion of the concert hall as a bourgeois institution of ‘high art’ co-existed with the changing technological circumstances of music production and the increased possibilities of music distribution. This fact and all its aesthetic connotations are present in the contemporary critical discourse about Waxman’s ‘different personalities’, and this is a subject that needs a more thorough examination. Franz Waxman as a musician was not only ‘a composer of repute in both formal music and that of the films’; he was also a strong advocate of American musical life in general. 82

Notes 1 Walter Arlen, ‘Franz Waxman . . . 1906–1967’, Los Angeles Times, 5 March 1967. 2 This perspective can be found in journalistic publications about Franz Waxman as well as in most of the scant scholarly research about the composer. 3 See, for example, the description of the band’s performance in Vienna’s RonacherVarieté in Wiener Zeitung, 6 October 1931, 6. 4 See Kay Dreyfus, ‘Weintraubs Syncopators’, in  Enzyklopädie Jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur, ed. Dan Diner (Stuttgart: Springer-Verlag, 2011–2017), available at http:// dx.doi.org/10.1163/2468-2845_ejgk_COM_0988. Waxman composed the sung under the name ‘José d’Alba’. 5 For an overview of the genre, see Richard Traubner, ‘Der Deutsche Operettenfilm vor und nach 1933’, in Operette unterm Hakenkreuz: Zwischen hoffähiger Kunst und ‘Entartung’, ed. Wolfgang Schaller (Berlin: Metropol-Verlag, 2007), 147–69. 6 For an overview of the German film and entertainment industries, see Horst Lange, Jazz in Deutschland: Die deutsche Jazz-Chronik bis 1960 (Hildesheim: Olms, 1996); Helmut Korte, Der Spielfilm und das Ende der Weimarer Republik: Ein rezeptionshistorischer Versuch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998); Anton Kaes, ‘Film in der Weimarer Republik’, in Geschichte des deutschen Films, eds. Wolfgang Jacobsen, Anton Kaes, and Helmut Prinzler (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2004), 39–98; and Tobias Becker, ‘Die Anfänge der Schlagerindustrie. Intermedialität und Wirtschaftliche Verflechtung vor dem ersten Weltkrieg’, Lied und populäre Kultur 58 (2013), 11–39.

Franz Waxman  43 7 The most popular among those were adaptations for voice and piano and for voice and guitar. Some of these scores are held in the Austrian National Library in Vienna. 8 The film Ich und die Kaiserin from 1933 (with music by Waxman and Frederick Hollaender) appeared as Das Strumpfband der Kaiserin in Austria, as Moi et l’Impératrice in France, and as The Only Girl in Great Britain. 9 Waxman was at that time already very much involved in the film industry and thus gave up performing with the Weintraubs Syncopators. The band members, with one exception all Jewish, went on international tours as they were no longer allowed to perform in Germany (see Dreyfus, ‘Weintraubs Syncopators’). 10 See Ingeborg Zechner, ‘Migration als Perspektive in der Karriere des Komponisten Franz Waxman’, in Musik und Migration, eds. Wolfgang Gratzer and Nils Grosch (Münster: Waxmann-Verlag, 2018), 245–54. 11 See Ben Winters, ‘The Composer and the Studio: Korngold and Warner Bros’, in The Cambridge Companion to Film Music, eds. Mervyn Cooke and Fiona Ford (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 51–66. 12 For a description of Los Angeles’s music scene, and the role of émigrés therein, see Dorothy Lamb Crawford, A Windfall of Musicians (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), 23–38. 13 Program Booklet of the 1947 festival, ‘To All Music Lovers and Patrons of the Beverly Hills Music Festival’, in The Evelyn Pearl Family Collection of the Leo Baeck Institute (New York, May 1947), available at www.lbi.org/digibaeck/results/?qtype=pid&t erm=1496830 14 Ibid. 15 Franz Waxman, ‘Afterthoughts on Music Festivals’, Music Journal, 1 September 1959, 32. 16 ‘Los Angeles Plans April Music Festival’, Musical America, March 1950, 13; ‘World Music Fete Slated at U.C.L.A.’, New York Times, 29 May 1961, 9; and ‘Music: Los Angeles Festival Opens’, New York Times, 6 June 1962, 35. 17 David Neumeyer provides an overview of Festival program from 1947 to 1966 on the official Franz Waxman website, available at http://franzwaxman.com/franz-waxman/ wp-content/uploads/2013/11/table.html. See also David Neumeyer, ‘Waxman and the Two Decades of the Los Angeles Music Festival 1947–1967’, The Cue Sheet 22, nos. 1–2 (2007), 23–9. The statements about the program made in this essay are based on Neumeyer’s overview. 18 The original plan included Stravinsky as conductor, but he had to cancel due to severe health issues (see Crawford, A Windfall, 238). 19 For the review, see Albert Goldberg, ‘Los Angeles Music Festival Honors Famous Composer’, Musical America, July  1957, 9–10. Waxman conducted Stravinsky’s, Greeting Prelude at the opening of the concert. 20 See Crawford, A Windfall, 238. In 1962 Waxman caused a great sensation by the announcement of a Piano Concerto to be played by a ‘Mr. X’. The mysterious soloist turned out to be the not physically present Igor Stravinsky in the form of a piano roll recording, which was accompanied by the live orchestra (see New York Times, 12 June 1962, 39). 21 ‘Mephisto’s Musings’, Musical America, June 1959, 11. 22 Through the time of his management, Waxman was constantly struggling with prejudices against American music festivals, which in the public’s eye, he thought, could not compete in quality with their European counterparts. In Waxman’s words: ‘The music festival of today and tomorrow can be that important for our new music, for our young artists, and for greater international cultural understanding’ (The Music Journal, September 1959, 87). 23 Among the participants in the former were Karl-Birger Blomdahl, Werner Egk, Lukas Foss, Kara Karayev, Tikhon Khrennikov, Darius Milhaud, Walter Piston, Miklós

44  Ingeborg Zechner

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

33 34 35 36 37 38

39 40 41

42

Rózsa, Igor Stravinsky, and Elinor Remick Warren. The relationship between Stravinsky and Khrennikov was a difficult one; see Tamara Levitz, ed., Stravinsky and His World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 281. See Crawford, A Windfall, 172–3, and Neumeyer’s overview of the Festival program, available at http://franzwaxman.com/franz-waxman/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/ table.html Walter Arlen, ‘Santa Catalina Gets into Festival Swim’, Los Angeles Times, 11 October 1960. Ibid. See the announcement in the Los Angeles Times, 26 September 1960. See Neumeyer, ‘Waxman and the Two Decades of the Los Angeles Music Festival’, 26. Ibid., 24. For the aesthetic dimension of this phenomenon see Ben Winters, Music, Performance and the Realities of Film: Shared Concert Experiences in Screen Fiction (New York and London: Routledge, 2014), 31, 103, and 158–9. See Rachel Segal, ‘Franz Waxman: The Composer as Auteur in Golden Era Hollywood’ (PhD dissertation, Newcastle University, 2010), 179. ‘Film Music: The Composer Emerges as a Man of Importance in New Hollywood Releases’, Musical America, February  1947, 19 and 362. The team working on the movie’s music consisted of Isaac Stern, Oscar Levant, Leo Forbstein, Davis Forrest, and Franz Waxman. Columbia MM657, 1947 (conductor: Franz Waxman) as listed in Billboard, 3 January 1948, 19. RCA Victor GD87963, 1946/1988 (conductor: Donald Voorhees). The recording included also Korngold’s and Rózsa’s Violin Concertos, as well as Rózsa’s Tema con variazioni. Musical America, January 1948, 35. Ibid. Musical America, February  1950, 316. Thea Dispeker seems to have joined forces with the NCAC agency. In the advertisement she is still listed as Waxman’s personal representative. Letter to Paul Aron, 19 July 1950, in the Paul Aron Collection of the Leo Baeck Institute, New York, available at www.lbi.org/digibaeck/results/?qtype=pid&term=431027; and Segal, ‘Franz Waxman: The Composer as Auteur’, 195. Waxman’s letter to Aron includes the information that before the tour radio concerts in New York had been planned. They had to be cancelled, because the Columbia Symphony Orchestra had recently been dissolved. Musical America, February 1955, 227. Waxman had conducted the Philharmonia Orchestra in 1953 at a performance of Gustav Mahler’s Third Symphony (see The Times, 27 July 1953, 3). According to an announcement in The Times, the program of the concert with the Philharmonia Orchestra on 20 December 1962 consisted of Carl Maria von Weber’s Overture to Oberon, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s, Sixth Symphony, Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto (Soloist: Julius Katchen), and Maurice Ravel’s La valse (Ibid., 8 December  1962, 2). In March  1963 Waxman performed with the London Symphony Orchestra Weber’s Overture to Euryanthe, Mendelssohn’s Fourth Symphony, Grieg’s Piano Concerto (Soloist: Giovanni dell’Agnola), and Alexander Borodin’s, Polovtsian Dances (Ibid., 3 March 1963, 2). In a concert with Vienna’s Radio Symphony Orchestra in 1955, Waxman conducted the Overture to Weber’s Freischütz, Lukas Foss’s Piano Concerto (with the composer as soloist) and Sergei Prokofieff’s Fifth Symphony (see the poster held at the Wienbibliothek im Rathaus in Vienna [P-10131]. Segal, ‘Franz Waxman: The Composer as Auteur’, 195.

Franz Waxman  45 43 See advertisement of Franz Waxman by the Herbert Barrett Management for the year 1962, held in the Evelyn Pearl Family Collection, Box  1/Folder 4, of the Leo Baeck Institute New York, available at www.lbi.org/digibaeck/results/?qtype=pid&t erm=1496830; also see and Segal, ‘Franz Waxman: The Composer as Auteur’, 223. 44 Clayton Koppes, ‘The Real Ambassadors? The Cleveland Orchestra Tours the Soviet Union’, in Music, Art and Diplomacy. East-West Cultural Interactions and the Cold War, eds. Simo Mikkonen and Pekka Suutari (Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate, 2016), 74. 45 See Emily Abrams Ansari, ‘Shaping the Policies of Cold War Musical Diplomacy: An Epistemic Community of American Composers’, Diplomatic History 36, no. 1 (2012), 41–52. For case studies of tours of American orchestras and Soviet soloists, see Koppes, ‘The Real Ambassadors?’ and Meri Elisabeth Herrala, ‘Pianist Sviatoslav Richter: The Soviet Union Launches a ‘Cultural Sputnik’ to the United States in 1960’, both in Music, Art and Diplomacy. East–West Cultural Interactions and the Cold War, eds. Simo Mikkonen and Pekka Suutari (Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate, 2016), 69–85 and 87–105. 46 The Cincinnati Enquirer, 10 July 1960, 84. 47 Waxman planned to compose an opera about the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (see Los Angeles Times, 5 March 1967, and Crawford, A Windfall, 174). In 1941 he had composed a score for the same-titled film. 48 Neumeyer, ‘Waxman and the Two Decades of the Los Angeles Music Festival’, 28–9. 49 Segal, ‘Franz Waxman: The Composer as Auteur’, 198. 50 Neumeyer, ‘Waxman and the Two Decades of the Los Angeles Music Festival’, 28. 51 Independent Star News, 3 April 1960, 110. 52 See Franz Waxman’s speech at the world premiere of his composition, which is transcribed on the composer’s homepage, available at http://franzwaxman.com/ music-performance/goyana/ 53 Christopher Palmer sees in the music of the second movement a reminiscence of the film music for The Bride of Frankenstein. See Segal, ‘Franz Waxman: The Composer as Auteur’, 198. 54 Musical America, July 1956, 23. 55 A transcription of liner notes by Waxman for the original 1956 LP can be found at http://franzwaxman.com/music-performance/theme-variations-fugato/ 56 Musical America, June 1959, 11. 57 Ibid., 9. 58 I Never Saw Another Butterfly: Children’s Drawings and Poems from Terezin Concentration Camp 1942–1944 (New York: McGraw-Hill), 1964. Waxman was not the only one who set these poems to music, for an account of other settings, see Rachel Rensink-Hoff, ‘I Never Saw Another Butterfly: Choral Settings of Children’s Poems from Terezin’, The Choral Journal 46, no. 2 (2005), 6–26. 59 Franz Waxman, ‘and a little child shall see the truth’, The Music Journal, 1 September 1965, 47. 60 For Waxman’s differentiated musical treatment of different screen media, see Reba Wissner, ‘I Am Big, It’s the Pictures That Got Small: Sound and Technologies and Franz Waxman’s Scores for Sunset Boulevard (Billy Wilder, 1950) and The Twilight Zone’s “The Sixteen-Millimeter Shrine” (1959)’, Journal of Film Music 7, no. 1 (2014), 77–92. 61 Waxman discussed the differences between composition for the movies and for the concert hall in an article titled ‘Action on the Frontiers of American Composition’, which contrasted the opinions of different American composers on the topic: ‘The composer of a concert piece may look forward to repeated performances of his work. It is studied and performed by one artist and then another. It receives critical study from many angles. Listeners may study the score and have opportunity for several hearings’ (Harrison Music Journal, 1 January 1944, 6 and 47).

46  Ingeborg Zechner 62 For the aesthetic debate about the popularity of romantic music, see Peter Franklin’s book Reclaiming Late-Romantic Music: Singing Devils and Distant Sounds (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014). 63 Los Angeles Examiner, 5 April 1959 (newspaper clipping in the Evelyn Pearl Family Collection of the Leo Baeck Institute, New York, available at www.lbi.org/digibaeck/ results/?qtype=pid&term=1496830). 64 Billboard, 5 April 1947, 123. 65 ‘Unerträgliche Carmen-Phantasie von Waxman, die Bizets geistiges Eigentum respektlos ausplündert’ (Aufbau, 14 March 1947, 13). Holde was a German music critic and writer and a key figure in the contemporary discourse about émigré musicians in the United States. For a detailed biography, see Sophie Fetthauer, ‘Artur Holde’, in Lexikon verfolgter Musiker und Musikerinnen der NS-Zeit, eds. Claudia MaurerZenck and Peter Petersen (University of Hamburg, 2006), available at www.lexm.unihamburg.de/object/lexm_lexmperson_00000672 66 Billboard, 3 May 1947, 121. 67 Billboard, 20 May 1950, 121. 68 Ibid. 69 See also Caryl Flinn, Strains of Utopia: Gender Nostalgia and Hollywood Film Music (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 39. 70 For a discussion about the aesthetics of nineteenth-century operatic and symphonic music and its connections to classic Hollywood film music, see, for example, Flinn, Strains of Utopia, 30–1. For the role of the film studios in operating with this aesthetic prejudice see Peter Franklin, Seeing Through Music: Gender and Modernism in Classic Hollywood Film Scores (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 62–3. 71 Patrick J. Smith, ‘Schonberg, Harold C.’, in Grove Music Online, available at www. oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/25041 72 New York Times, 8 June 1962, 38. A similar link to the ‘cinematic’ is also made by the critic of London’s The Times, who reviewed Waxman’s performance of Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony with the Philharmonia Orchestra in the same year. He criticises Waxman’s fast tempi by drawing analogies to ‘old-time documentary films’ (The Times, 21 December 1962, 3). 73 ‘Tönend bewegte Formen’ (Eduard Hanslick, Vom Musikalisch Schönen: Ein Beitrag zur Revision der Aesthetik der Tonkunst (Leipzig: Rudolph Weigel, 1854) 32). 74 ‘Es kann auch einen Platz im Konzertsaal beanspruchen’ (Aufbau, 19 April 1957, 14). 75 The New Records, March 1957, 6–7. 76 The review presents Foss as a ‘modern’ composer and mentions positively that his piano concerto was premiered at the Contemporary Music Festival in Venice and that it ‘will have to be heard several times for it is “modern” and will probably not be understood on first acquaintance’ (Ibid.). 77 Conducting was a normal task for a film composer who was engaged by a studio (see Segal, ‘Franz Waxman: The Composer as Auteur’, 170). 78 “California Festival Gives Mahler Tribute,” Musical America, July 1960, 9. 79 Musical America, July 1964, 21. 80 Segal, ‘Franz Waxman: The Composer as Auteur’, 178–9. 81 Letter to Paul Aron, 19 July 1950, in the Paul Aron Collection of the Leo Baeck Institute, New York, available at www.lbi.org/digibaeck/results/?qtype=pid&term=431027. Waxman had obviously tried to assist Aron in getting his compositions to a music publisher. The venture failed because Waxman’s contact person left the publisher in order to found his own company. 82 ‘Waxman Oratorio Received Warmly at Premiere in Dallas’, Musical America, June 1959, 9.

4 The double life of Miklós Rózsa’s Violin Concerto and The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes Stephen C. Meyer Miklós Rózsa (1907–95) gave his autobiography an intentionally multivalent title. The first and most immediate reference is to A Double Life, the 1947 film for which Rózsa won one of his three Academy Awards. Directed by George Cukor, the film centres on the troubled life of an actor playing the role of Othello. The title of the film refers to the disturbing slippage between the actor’s ‘real life’ – that is, his relationships to other actors and to a waitress with whom he has an affair – and the plot of Shakespeare’s play. Unsurprisingly, the film ends with the actor’s suicide. For Rózsa, thankfully, the idea of the ‘double life’ was less dark. As he explains in Double Life, his own ‘doubleness’ refers to the split between the two sides of his compositional personality: between his work as the creator of some of Hollywood’s best-known film scores and his lesser-known activity as a composer of concert music. Many film composers of this period, of course, also wrote music for the concert stage, and in this sense Rózsa is hardly unique. But in Rózsa’s case, this ‘double life’ also manifested itself in terms of geography. When Rózsa signed his contract with MGM in 1952, he had a special clause inserted so that he could spend three months every summer away from Hollywood concentrating on what he referred to as his ‘serious’ composition. For these three months, Rózsa decamped with his family to a small house in Santa Margherita Ligure, near Rapallo on the Italian Riviera. The geographical distance between Italy and Hollywood, of course, articulated and reinforced the aesthetic difference between Rózsa’s music for the screen and his music for the concert stage. The idea of the ‘doubleness’ – as its title implies – runs like a red thread through Rózsa’s autobiography, and it lends a sense of irony or even disavowal to the composer’s account of his life. As an impecunious artist working in Paris during the years immediately before the Nazi invasion of France, for example, Rózsa wrote a fairly large number of popular songs under the pseudonym ‘Nic Tomay’, presumably in order to preserve his real name for serious composition. Even after he had established himself as one of the premiere composers in Hollywood, Rózsa sometimes represented film music as a way simply to ‘pay the bills’ – a means of supporting his real work as a composer of serious concert music. In reality, of course, the border between film music/popular music and ‘serious composition’ was far less secure. Like other film music composers of the postwar and

48  Stephen C. Meyer later periods, Rózsa frequently adapted his film music both for soundtrack albums and for the concert stage. As a student in the Leipzig Conservatory during the late 1920s and early 1930s, Rózsa had been trained in the compositional practices of European concert music, and it is therefore completely natural that he should so often conceive of these adaptations in terms of traditional forms and conventions. From his early drafts, it is clear that Rózsa imagined the soundtrack albums as ‘suites’, as indeed they were. Perhaps the best-known of these ‘cross-over’ works is the Spellbound Concerto that Rózsa wrote for the pianist Leonard Pennario. Based on themes from his Oscar-winning score to Alfred Hitchcock’s 1945 film, the Spellbound Concerto famously employed the theremin as part of its orchestral complement. In the film, the theremin is used to underscore scenes of hallucination and/or psychological disturbance, and it brings much of this aura to the Spellbound Concerto. Although the details of Rózsa’s compositional process remain to some extent opaque, it does not seem that he found these concert and soundtrack album adaptations of his film music to be particularly difficult to write. Musical materials from the world of film music  – to put this another way  – could pass across the border into concert music apparently without incident. From our perspective, then, it might seem that works like the Spellbound Concerto challenge the idea of ‘doubleness’ that is foregrounded in Rózsa’s autobiography. And yet for Rózsa himself, it seems clear that these adaptations still belonged to the world of film music, even though they may have been heard via recordings or in live performances rather than in the cinema. A more provocative instance of ‘border crossing’ – and the one that will be the principal subject of this essay – concerns Rózsa’s op. 24 Violin Concerto and its use in the film The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes. Like the Spellbound Concerto, the Violin Concerto also crossed the border between film music and concert music, but it did so – we might say – by moving in the opposite direction.

Between the avant-garde and the ‘swimming-pool set’ Rózsa wrote the bulk of the Violin Concerto in just six weeks in 1953, during the first of his contractually guaranteed ‘working vacations’ in Santa Margherita. In this sense it was the direct product of the ‘double life’ contract that he had negotiated with MGM, a contract designed to let Rózsa preserve a time and space for his ‘serious’ compositional work. Like so many of the great composers on whom he to some extent modelled himself, Rózsa conceived the Violin Concerto for a particular performer, namely, the great virtuoso Jascha Heifetz. Although he had met Heifetz only briefly, Rózsa decided to approach the violinist with the idea of composing a work for him. After some apparent hesitation, Heifetz agreed to the idea, and he first performed the Concerto on 15 January 1956 with the Dallas Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Walter Hendl. The premiere was a triumph, and the work has enjoyed a modest place in the repertoire as perhaps the most frequently performed of Rózsa’s concert works. In addition to highlighting certain key aspects of the Violin Concerto, reviews of both the premiere and the work’s second performance (at the dedication of

Miklós Rózsa  49 UCLA’s Schoenberg Hall later in 1956) also tell us something of the ways in which postwar audiences understood Rózsa not simply as a denizen of Hollywood but as a composer of concert music. In his review for the Fort Worth StarTelegram, for example, E. Clyde Whitlock draws a clear distinction between Rózsa and the music of more ‘avant-garde’ composers. ‘One approaches a contemporary violin concerto with misgivings’, Whitlock begins. He explains: In Rozsa’s case [however] there was less apprehension, since a composer who has put out several successful motion picture scores must have his feet on the ground. The piece has none of the horrors of atonality, being definitely based on key centers. It has a definite and recognizable thematic basis and fascinating rhythmic devices, especially in the final movement.1 Whitlock does not indicate which composers he thinks are responsible for the ‘horrors of atonality’, but it seems likely that he is referencing the works of composers such as Schoenberg and Webern (and perhaps Elliott Carter as well). He places Rózsa in opposition to these composers precisely because of his work as a film composer. But if Whitlock construes Rózsa’s work in Hollywood as a kind of sobering tonic for potentially disturbing flights of compositional fancy (or hubris), film music plays a somewhat different role in John Rosenfield’s review of the Violin Concerto for The Dallas Morning News. ‘[Rózsa] is one of the few in the swimming-pool set’, Rosenfeld writes, who has been able to keep his gifts compartmentalized and evidently without faking. There is no astigmatism (sic) of the sound-track about this concerto. . . . From the fine opus we would judge that he is contemporary without being avant-garde. There is nothing radical about a three movement concerto of fast-slow-fast arrangement. What is different is Rozsa’s ability to fashion melodious and compelling lyricism in phrases neither too long or too intervallically distorted. Craftsmanship is there profusely but why notice it when there are things to listen to?2 These and other reviews of Rózsa’s concert music from this period suggest that the composer occupied a kind of ‘intermediate space’ between film music and the music of the avant-garde. Differentiated both from the ‘horrors of atonality’ and from the glibness of the ‘swimming pool set’, Rózsa’s concert music could be simultaneously ‘serious’ and ‘popular’. In this sense, works such as the Violin Concerto are analogous to the epic film scores that Rózsa was writing during exactly this same period, that is, the scores for which he is most famous today. Films such as Quo Vadis (1951), Ben-Hur (1959), and El Cid (1961) were certainly very popular; Quo Vadis and Ben-Hur in particular were among the highestgrossing movies of the 1950s. But they also made bid to be understood as serious works of art, dealing with grand historical themes and vital questions of politics and religious faith.3 Rózsa approached his work for these films with great integrity and seriousness of purpose. For Quo Vadis – as Rózsa himself explains in an

50  Stephen C. Meyer important essay – he undertook extensive research into ancient music, and incorporated ancient melodies and musical fragments into his score.4 Similarly, Rózsa used selections from the Cantigas de Santa Maria in his music for El Cid. Rózsa adeptly wove these themes and fragments into highly developed, complex, and lengthy scores that were recognised as spectacular achievements: both Quo Vadis and Ben-Hur won Academy Awards for Best Music Score of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture.5 Indeed, Rózsa’s epic scores from this period have arguably enjoyed more enduring respect than the films for which they were produced. From Rózsa’s perspective, however, this productive intermediate space between the supposed superficiality of film music and what he saw as the elitist incomprehensibility of the avant-garde seemed to evaporate during the latter part of the 1960s. His attitude in this regard is captured in several interviews that he gave in 1970 – the year in which The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes was released. Speaking with Toronto music journalist William Littler, Rózsa criticised the commercialism of contemporary Hollywood: The studios own publishing houses, the publishing houses own record companies, and the object of both is to produce a hit tune. No wonder we keep hearing songs in films that bear little apparent relationship to the dramatic context.6 ‘As far as Miklos Rozsa is concerned’, Littler writes, ‘the best years for film music, the years when composers could be experimental, have passed’. Rózsa was equally critical – albeit for different reasons – of contemporary concert music. Comments from a 1971 interview are particularly telling: Music . . . used to be a combination of melody, harmony and rhythm, right? And form. Now, in the new music, there is no melody, no pitch, no rhythm, and there is naturally no harmony. So what form? Nonexistent. You just do whatever comes to your mind. It is something new, but I  wouldn’t call it music.7 What emerges from these interviews, in short, is Rózsa’s sense that the conditions that had enabled him to work at the highest creative level had irrevocably changed. He expresses this perspective quite directly in his autobiography. ‘Now, twenty years later’, he wrote in the early 1980s, ‘I can see that El Cid was my last major film score. . . . Though I did my best with every film which came later, few had real stature. So I must regard 1961 as the climax and watershed of my career’.8 The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes In this context, the music for The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes takes on a special poignancy. The idea of using Rózsa’s Violin Concerto in the film came from director Billy Wilder.9 Sections of the Concerto form the core of the film’s

Miklós Rózsa  51 music  – Rózsa quotes from or paraphrases his earlier work in more than half of its musical cues. The composer’s technique in this regard is revealing. As we might expect, Rózsa uses the most thematically distinctive sections of the Concerto – typically from the beginning sections of each of the three movements – for the various musical cues. The angular and energetic main theme from the first movement is associated with Holmes himself, and especially with his addiction to cocaine, while the lyrical theme of the second movement is connected with his love interest, the mysterious Gabrielle Valladon. The opening of the third movement is linked to the supposed appearance of the Loch Ness Monster (the monster turns out to be a disguise for a submarine prototype). To an extent, Rózsa’s music for The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes resembles the leitmotif-based scores from the ‘golden years’ of his career (roughly from Spellbound in 1945 to El Cid in 1961). The Violin Concerto, in this sense, serves simply as source material for the film’s extra-diegetic music. But the Concerto also functions diegetically, in ways that complicate its semantic status. In order to understand these complications, we must know something about the plot of the film. The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes falls into two very unequal parts. The first of these – comprising approximately the beginning halfhour of the film – is a semi-comical vignette revolving around the question of Holmes’s sexuality. The second and longer part of the film is a more classic Sherlock Holmes mystery, involving the development of a ‘submersible’ (disguised as the Loch Ness Monster) and German efforts (led by an attractive female spy) to steal the prototype. Although the music from the Concerto accompanies much of the second part of the film, it is only in the first section that parts of the Concerto are heard diegetically. The idea of music as a principal topic of the film is adumbrated by a curious shot from the opening credit sequence. This sequence takes place during the twentieth century, long after the bulk of the cinematic diegesis. An acousmatic voice – which we understand to be that of Dr. Watson – directs Watson’s heirs to a box in the vault of a bank in London, a box that is ‘not to be opened until fifty years after my death’. ‘It contains certain mementos’, the voice of Watson continues, ‘from my long association with a man who elevated the science of deduction to an art’. On screen we see a man’s hands opening the box and taking out various objects: isolated playing cards, a faded photograph of Watson and Holmes, the famous detective’s hat and pipe, and – curiously – a single sheet of music manuscript paper, tightly rolled. When the roll is open, we see a single line of music in the treble clef. There is no title, but in the upper left corner we read ‘for Ilse von H.’. In the upper-right corner, Sherlock Holmes is identified as the composer. The music is the principal violin line from the second movement of the Concerto, and it appears to have been written out by Rózsa himself. It is precisely this theme – which sounds here for the first time – that we hear in the score. Here Wilder is introducing two interconnected plot elements, both of which will be developed in the remainder of the film. Building on the idea that Holmes was a renowned violin virtuoso (an idea that appears in the original stories), Wilder presents Holmes as a composer as well. The unnamed composition – we

52  Stephen C. Meyer must presume – is bound up with his relationship to Ilse von H., a relationship that is somehow key to his private life. In a more direct manner, the shot is also performing classic ‘leitmotivic work’ – establishing the link between the second movement theme and the idea of the feminine that will be such a prominent part of the film’s narrative. This link is reinforced in the very next shot of the film, in which we see hands opening a locket that contains the image of a beautiful woman. The credits on the left-hand side of the screen credit Rózsa both as the composer of the Violin Concerto and also as the conductor of the Royal Philharmonic, as the second theme from the Concerto continues. The credits thus leverage both the conventional trope of musical composition as veiled autobiography and the conventional association between the solo violin and cinematic depictions of romantic love. The association between Holmes and music – and specifically between Holmes and the violin – is made explicit in a scene approximately ten minutes into the film. In this scene, Holmes paces around the apartment that he shares with Watson, complaining to his friend about his boredom and the fact that his mind is stagnating. Almost absent-mindedly, he picks up a violin from its case on a low bookcase and begins to tune it. The camera pans back to Watson as we hear the theme from the Concerto’s first movement (without its orchestral accompaniment). In the very next shot see Holmes himself playing the theme. But music apparently cannot alleviate Holmes’s boredom. After setting down his violin, the detective opens another case on the opposite side of the room and takes out the syringe that he will use to administer a dose of cocaine to himself. As he does so, we again hear the first theme of the Concerto, now in the cello instead of the violin. As in the shot from the credits described above, Wilder associates Holmes’s musical creativity with an important aspect of his private life: in this case, his addiction to cocaine rather than his attraction to a beautiful woman. In the next scene, Watson hopes to snap Holmes out of his boredom, and urges him to take advantage of tickets to a performance of Swan Lake by the Imperial Russian Ballet that they have been given by an unknown admirer. The film then cuts rather abruptly to the performance itself. Rózsa himself (in perhaps his only on-screen appearance) is shown conducting Tchaikovsky’s ballet. For those (admittedly scarce) audience members with a heightened sense of music history, hearing Swan Lake in such close proximity to the diegetic presentation of the first theme of Rózsa’s Concerto might make the latter work seem somewhat anachronistic. Especially when placed against Tchaikovsky’s music, Rózsa’s angular, quartal theme seems very much a product of the mid-twentieth century, and something that the ‘composer’ Sherlock Holmes would be unlikely to invent. Indeed, one might imagine Holmes playing a very different type of music in his efforts to stave off boredom. In a previous scene, Holmes mentions an invitation from the Liverpool Symphony Orchestra to appear as a soloist in the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto. It would make perfect sense, then, for Holmes to play a line from Mendelssohn’s work, or – if Wilder wanted to avoid direct quotation – some imitation of Mendelssohn’s style. That Rózsa was adept at imitating the style of other composers is evidenced by one of the cues in the last section of

Miklós Rózsa  53 the film: for music to accompany the arrival of Queen Victoria. Rózsa indicates that this music is to be played ‘quasi una Marcia brittanica e elgariana’, and while it could never be mistaken for ‘Pomp and Circumstance’, it is clearly informed by Elgar’s ceremonial style. Rózsa could certainly have provided Holmes with ‘Mendelssohnian’ music that might have more seamlessly meshed with the film’s nineteenth-century setting. Such a choice, however, would have precluded the classic cinematic gesture whereby diegetic music – ‘As Time Goes By’ from Casablanca, for example, or the principal theme from Laura – might pass over from the diegetic to the extra-diegetic realm (or vice-versa). In this case, it would also have broken the association between the solo violin and Holmes’s private life. In the apartment scene, this association revolves around the detective’s addiction to cocaine. But in the sequence of scenes that unfold backstage at the ballet, it takes a difference form. The tickets to Swan Lake, we learn, were sent to Holmes by the Director General of the Imperial Russian Ballet. The Director is working on behalf of the ageing prima ballerina Madame Petrova. Before revealing this plan to the detective, however, the Director asks Holmes to give his opinion about a violin. Holmes examines the instrument, and proclaims it to be ‘a genuine Stradivarius, from the very best period’. The Director presents it to Holmes in advance payment ‘for services rendered’. Although Holmes at first assumes that he will be needed to solve an especially complex case, he soon learns that Madame Petrova wishes to conceive a child with him. Holmes, the Director admits, was not the ballerina’s first choice. She first considered Tolstoy (too old) and Nietzsche (too German) and finally Tchaikovsky. The encounter with Tchaikovsky – not coincidentally the composer of the ballet in which Madame Petrova had just starred – was a catastrophe. Women, the Director explains, ‘are not his tea’. The fact that Holmes is being presented here with both a woman and a violin, of course, reinforces a central motif of the film. As in the scenes from the opening credits, the violin is associated both with Holmes’s private life and also with the idea of the feminine. But Holmes has no interest in this exchange, and begs off by declaring that ‘Tchaikovsky is not an isolated case’. He tells the Director – although not in so many words  – that he and Dr. Watson are lovers, and the remainder of this first section of the film explores the comic misunderstandings that ensue. These comic misunderstandings might seem dated to audiences in the twenty-first century, and it is perhaps fortunate for the film’s long-term reception that they are rather abruptly abandoned. The second part of the film  – a more conventional mystery story – begins with a short voice-over. ‘What indeed was his attitude towards women?’ we hear the acousmatic voice of Watson ask. ‘Was there some secret he was holding back, or was he just a thinking machine, incapable of feeling any emotion?’ As we hear this last line, the camera moves again to the interior of the apartment that Holmes and Watson share. Holmes sits in an armchair, playing an arpeggiated passage from a Bach partita. Wilder here is at the same time exploring the traditional association between Bach and the cerebral and suggesting – by showing Holmes again with his violin – that a more intimate and romantic side of his personality will eventually be revealed.

54  Stephen C. Meyer As the violin music continues, a carriage arrives at the door. The cabbie presents a young lady in sodden clothes, who apparently cannot remember who she is or how she ended up in the Thames. After Watson brings her upstairs into the sitting room, we again hear the second theme of the Violin Concerto (for the first time since its appearance in the opening credits), and the theme rapidly takes on the status of a leitmotif for the mysterious and beautiful visitor. The young woman seems to be suffering from amnesia, for she cannot remember her name, where she comes from, or why exactly she was carrying the address of the apartment in which Watson and Holmes live. By examining her clothes and her wedding ring, Holmes deduces that she is from Brussels, that she is married, that her husband’s name is Emile, and that her own name is Gabrielle. Watson agrees to give up his own bed, so that the visitor may sleep in comfort. The next morning, Holmes paces the apartment, curious about a small piece of paper that he has found in the woman’s hand. In the underscoring, we hear the theme from the Violin Concerto’s second movement, but played by the woodwind instruments. Holmes opens the door to Watson’s room to see the woman lying asleep in the bed, and as he does so, the theme is transferred to the solo violin. After gazing at her for a few moments, Holmes steps out of the room and closes the door. Gabrielle then awakes, apparently convinced that Holmes is her husband Emile. She climbs out of bed and goes in search of him. Although the camera avoids frontal nudity, it is clear that Gabrielle is not wearing any clothes. In the next room she embraces Holmes as her ersatz husband, speaks to him of a pink négligée that she has purchased, and beckons him to return to the bed. The music seems to lead towards a sexual climax; indeed, this scene is the most overtly erotic section of the entire film. The camera reinforces and articulates Holmes’s voyeuristic gaze, while the theme from the Concerto’s second movement and the sound of the solo violin reinforce and articulate his sexual desire. But instead of returning Gabrielle’s ardent embraces and obeying her coaxing, Holmes directs his attention to a number that appears in ink on Gabrielle’s hand, a number that had been transferred from piece of paper to her hand when she had fallen into the river. Here, the violin theme takes on additional meaning as an aural symbol of the erotic passions that Holmes must suppress. To put this in terms of the film’s title, the violin melody represents the private life that the hyperlogical detective must disavow. Holmes deduces that the piece of paper is a claim ticket, and he uses the number to reclaim Gabrielle’s luggage. With the luggage retrieved, Holmes begins to piece together elements of Gabrielle’s past. Gabrielle herself appears, and prompted by her rediscovered belongings she remembers that she has come to London in order to search for her missing husband. Now the plot of the second part of the film is fully launched. Involving a missing troupe of midgets, canaries, Queen Victoria, the Loch Ness Monster, and a group of German agents disguised as Trappist monks, the plot is far too complex to be recounted here. Instead, I will turn to another scene, near the very end of the film, in which the second movement of Rózsa’s Violin Concerto is heard prominently. Holmes and Gabrielle have travelled to Scotland incognito, presenting themselves as ‘Mr. and Mrs. Ashdown’ accompanied by their valet (who is Dr. Watson).

Miklós Rózsa 55 In this scene, Holmes, after having made some important discoveries, is returning to the hotel in which he is staying with Gabrielle. After showing Holmes’s arrival, the camera moves to the bedroom, in which we see Gabrielle, naked and asleep in bed, very much as she appeared in the scene described above. Just as in the earlier scene, the image of Gabrielle is accompanied by music from the Concerto’s second movement. Holmes enters and gazes at her for several moments. He approaches the bed, and then uses the tip of an umbrella that he is holding (Gabrielle’s umbrella, as a matter of fact) to rearrange the blankets so that her naked shoulders are covered. The gesture is a kind of turning point, and another moment of disavowal. Holmes walks to the window and sees the faux Trappist spies waiting on a hillside outside of the hotel. With this, the second movement theme breaks off. Holmes awakens Gabrielle and confronts her with his knowledge of her true identity. She is in fact Ilse von Hoffmanstal, the famous German spy, attempting to use her powers of seduction in order to gain access to the topsecret submersible ship that the British are developing in Loch Ness. Holmes has solved another complicated case, and we hear a bit of the second movement theme again as Gabrielle/Ilse recounts the scene in which she first appeared in Holmes’s apartment. A  fuller recapitulation of the theme accompanies the last scenes in which Gabrielle/Ilse appears. Holmes has arranged things so that instead of going to prison she will be exchanged for a British agent at the Swiss/German border. She departs in an open carriage, using her umbrella to signal a message to Holmes: ‘Auf wiedersehen’. In the film’s dénouement we see Holmes and Watson eating breakfast in their apartment. Holmes receives a letter, the contents of which send him into a powerful emotional state. Watson turns the letter around, and the camera shows us its contents. The letter tells us that Ilse von Hoffmanstal was apprehended in Yokohama and executed as a German spy. While in Japan, the letter also says, Ilse had been living under the name ‘Mrs. Ashdown’ – the name she had during the brief time when, doubly disguised, she played the role of Holmes’s wife. Holmes takes his syringe of cocaine solution and retires to another room, while Watson sits down by the fireside to write. It is hardly surprising that in the film’s concluding scene the theme from the Violin Concerto’s second movement accompanies this final allusion to Gabrielle/Ilse and her fate.

Double anachronism For attentive viewers, the idea that the violin theme from the Concerto’s second movement is retrospectively strengthened (as if any strengthening were necessary) by the memory of the sheet of music manuscript marked ‘for Ilse von H.’ shown in the opening credits. The suggestion here, of course, is that Holmes is himself the composer for his own love theme, or (to be slightly less glib) that the underscoring for the Gabrielle/Ilse scenes was ‘playing in his head’ throughout his time with her. Because of the theme’s lyric nature, the sense of anachronism is perhaps less strong in this connection than in the scene that I described above (in which Holmes seems to play extemporaneously the theme from the Concerto’s

56  Stephen C. Meyer first movement). For modern audiences, however, the oddness of imagining Sherlock Holmes as the composer of a mid-twentieth-century concerto is not as strong as another sense of disjuncture, namely, that between the film’s visual and narrative style, on the one hand, and the nature of its soundtrack on the other. The plot motifs of Holmes’s false homosexuality and his drug use, as well as the overt eroticism of the second and especially the first bedroom scene, very much mark the film as a product of its time. To call The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes a counter-cultural reimagination of the famous detective is an overstatement, but it is impossible to imagine this film being produced before the social upheavals of the late 1960s. In this context, Rózsa’s music ends up sounding anachronistic. In purely musical terms, Rózsa’s score for The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes more closely resembles the music that he wrote for ‘psychological thrillers’ of the late 1940s such as Spellbound and A Double Life. It is hardly accidental, of course, that the concert music that Rózsa was writing in the early 1950s should sound similar to film music that he was writing in the late 1940s. More interesting, perhaps, are the things that this similarity tells us about Rózsa’s ‘double life’ in particular and, more generally, about the development of film music in the decades preceding the premiere of The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes. The differences between the music that Rózsa composed in the two parts of his ‘double life’, we could say, had more to do with function and form than with harmonic/melodic style. Returning to the metaphor that I used in the first section of this essay, we must acknowledge that the Violin Concerto passes quite seamlessly across the border between film music and concert music. The border that cannot be crossed, however, is the one that separates 1953 from 1970. Hearing Rózsa’s Violin Concerto in the context of a film from 1970 illuminates the way in which Rózsa’s style – expressed both in his concert works and in his film scores from the postwar period – inhabit a middle ground between the compositional avantgarde and the banalities of the ‘swimming-pool set’ (to borrow a phrase from the Rosenfield review quoted above). The Violin Concerto is a work from the high point of Rózsa’s career, when he was one of the most sought-after Hollywood film composers and when his concert works were enjoying highly successful premieres. It is perhaps inevitable, then, that the use of the Violin Concerto in a film from the twilight of Rózsa’s Hollywood career should carry a certain sense of nostalgia or melancholy. This sense of melancholy resonates, perhaps, with the mood expressed at the very end of the film, when the strains of the Concerto accompany both Holmes and Watson thinking of Ilse von Hoffmanstal and wondering about everything that might have been. The beauty of this music, and the skill with which it is deployed, remind us that the ‘doubleness’ of Rózsa’s compositional life was not simply an obstacle to be overcome but a source of creativity. It helps us celebrate, perhaps, all of the other synergies between concert music and film music, and to imagine new ways in which these synergies might be fostered.

Miklós Rózsa  57

Notes 1 E. Clyde Whitlock, ‘Symphony and Heifetz Heard Here’, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, 17 January 1956, n.p. 2 John Rosenfeld, ‘Dallas Godfathers a Violin Concerto’, The Dallas Morning News, 16 January 1956, n.p. 3 I have written extensively about the scores for Quo Vadis and Ben-Hur in my book Epic Sound: Music in Postwar Hollywood Biblical Epics (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2014). For a discussion of the score to El Cid, see my essay ‘The Politics of Authenticity in Miklós Rózsa’s Score to El Cid’, in Music in Epic Film: Listening to Spectacle, ed. Stephen C. Meyer (New York: Routledge, 2017), 86–101. 4 Rózsa’s essay ‘The Music of QUO VADIS’ is reprinted in The Hollywood Film Music Reader, ed. Mervyn Cooke (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 165–71. 5 The score for El Cid was nominated for the Academy Award in 1961, but the award was given to Henry Mancini for his score to Breakfast at Tiffany’s. 6 William Littler, ‘Hollywood Composer Wants to Be Heard’, Toronto Daily Star, 10 October 1970. Since Littler does not enclose these words within quotation marks, we cannot assume that they are a direct quotation. It is possible that Littler is merely paraphrasing Rózsa. 7 Leslie Zador, ‘Music Away from the Movies: Symphonic Music of Miklos Rozsa’, Los Angeles Free Press, 2 July 1971, 52–3. 8 Miklós Rózsa, Double Life: The Autobiography of Miklós Rózsa, foreword by Antal Doráti (New York: Hippocrene Books, 1982), 193. 9 Christopher Palmer describes the origins of this idea in his liner notes for the Polydor record release ‘Rózsa Conducts Rózsa’ (1977 2383 440). ‘When Billy Wilder made Sunset Boulevard in 1950’, Palmer writes, ‘he wanted to play the final scene of Gloria Swanson coming down the staircase to the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in Richard Strauss’ Salome. Copyright difficulties prevented him from doing so, but when some years later he encountered Mìklós Rózsa’s op. 24 Violin Concerto he confided to the composer that he would like to construct a scenario around it’.

5 Bernard Herrmann’s concert music, 1935 to 1975 An overview Samuel Cottell

By all accounts Bernard Herrmann (1911–75) had a successful and artistically satisfying career as a ‘composer who writes film music’, but the recognition he so longed for in the field of concert music and conducting was something he never attained. Affectionately known as ‘Benny’ to many of his friends and colleagues, Herrmann is one of the most interesting and best-known figures in the history of film scoring, yet little is known about his concert music. In terms of his complete output, his widely known and much-appreciated film scores represent only the tip of the iceberg. His concert music can be divided up into periods and trends based on the stylistic traits that occur within them. According to Christopher Husted, the ‘Americana strain’ occurred between 1935 and 1942 and featured works that were rooted in American-themed texts and styles.1 These included The Currier and Ives Suite, Moby Dick, and the Symphony No. 1. The second phase of Herrmann’s career would include compositions that had a distinct Herrmann ‘sound’, a combination of French and English, music, a ‘personal idiom [that] owed more to Debussy and the harmonic structure of nineteenth-century Romanticism’.2 The final period of Herrmann’s life was filled with renewed vigour as he married for a third time and found a new home in England in 19713; works from this final period, from 1961 to 1975, include a string quartet (1965) and a clarinet quintet (1967) as well as a revisiting of the 1933 Aubade for fourteen instruments, reworked into ‘an idyll for orchestra’ and renamed Silent Noon. All this music is marked by several characteristics. For example, Herrmann had a distinct orchestration style that often included scoring for harp, woodwinds, and muted strings, as well as dense and harmonically rich brass chords. Herrmann also regularly used repeated cell-like patterns that shift and change as a piece unfolds. Described by Graham Bruce as a significant feature of Herrmann’s film music, these musical ‘cells’ are also apparent in his non-film works.4 David Raksin recalls that Herrmann was ‘a remarkable composer’ who had only ‘a rudimentary sense of melody, which he sought to remedy by repeating short phrases in sequences – meaning that he would state a brief musical phrase and then repeat it, and repeat it again and again in other positions’.5 In his monumental study of Herrmann’s life and music, Steven C. Smith notes that Herrmann’s style, in general, includes extreme sensitivity to orchestral color (especially the low-register colours of strings and winds); an often static progression of whole- and half-notes to

Bernard Herrmann  59 create a brooding, dramatic atmosphere; and, a fondness of chromatic patterns, rising and falling without resolution – an unsettling device that Herrmann made his own in virtually every composition.6 Herrmann’s concert music explores a wide range of harmonic techniques that are used to great effect. These include the use of seventh chords, half-diminished seventh chords, and ninth chords, all of which owe to the influence of Debussy. In adapting a Debussyian harmonic and textural language, Herrmann was ‘a composer infinitely more interested in generating sombre moods out of harmonic and instrumental color than in writing pretty themes and developing them’.7 In any case, he saw himself as ‘a Neo-Romantic’, a composer for whom music was ‘a highly personal and emotional form of expression’, a composer whose concert music ‘[took] its inspiration from poetry, art, and nature’.8

**** Although Herrmann as a young man was surrounded by modern music and the avant-garde, he rejected the modernist aesthetic and devised his own path by composing accessible new music that had an overall mood of melancholy and introspection (something that is evident in many of his film scores). For a model he had Percy Grainger, with whom he studied briefly at New York University, and in whom Herrmann ‘saw the qualities he himself was cultivating: individualism and dedication to one’s craft and beliefs, however unpopular and unfashionable’.9 Herrmann maintained his individual character and beliefs towards his craft throughout his entire career, at many times to his own detriment. His refusal to bow to the demands and requests of others regularly saw him missing out on opportunities to have his music performed. ‘Unable to sustain personal happiness’, Smith observed, ‘[Herrmann] maintained a faith in the spiritual transcendence of the artist, who could achieve immortality’.10 Herrmann was influenced by the contemporary American composers Charles Ives and Aaron Copland, but also by Ravel, Debussy, and Elgar, whose music he adored.11 His first exposure to English poetry, novels, and music came from his decidedly nineteenth-century schoolteachers, and this early education formed ‘the root of Bernard’s Anglophilia’.12 Herrmann would carry a love of all things English through his entire career, and for inspiration he turned often to English poetry and art. He was fascinated by all the new music that cantered around New York in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Although he found his university studies  – first at New York University, then at Juilliard13 – to be stifling, he nevertheless gravitated towards the schools’ dance and theatre departments, and this is where he began to learn the art of scoring for dramatic purposes.14 In 1934 Herrmann, along with Broadway orchestrator Hans Spialek, assembled a group of musicians and called it the New Chamber Orchestra, whose primary purpose was to perform new music.15 During this time Herrmann also composed music that was reflective of Schoenberg and featured atonality, but he would soon

60  Samuel Cottell come to realise that his personal style was more aligned with French composers like Debussy and with English pastoral music. During these early years Herrmann composed an Aria for Flute and Harp, a set of orchestral variations on the songs ‘Deep River’ and ‘Water Boy’, a Pastoral for Violin and Piano, and several other works. These formative years (1929 through 1934) saw him develop and grow as a composer; at the same time, they saw him abandon modernist musical ideals in favour of a deeply personal approach centred in romantic thinking, something to which he would adhere throughout his life.

Sinfonietta for Strings (1935) The Sinfonietta for Strings, dating from around 1935–36, is one Herrmann’s only forays into avant-garde music. Shortly after he composed it, however, Herrmann did an about-face and turned his back on the modernist movement to which he did not feel aesthetically linked. Nevertheless, the Sinfonietta demonstrates that he was at least interested enough in modernist, often highly dissonant music, to try his hand at it. Herrmann intended the Sinfonietta to be included in a concert that was part of the New Music Orchestra series. But no performance occurred; Herrmann likely retracted the work because it was not in line with the aesthetic that a few years earlier had been encouraged by Percy Grainger. The Sinfonietta, his first published work, did not get a public performance,16 but some of its material – such as the Scherzo with its jagged and violent spirit – was recycled in the score for Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 film Psycho. Smith notes that the ‘Madhouse’ theme from Psycho (which appears in the Interlude of the Sinfonietta) also serves as the coda to Herrmann’s cantata Moby Dick and appears in Herrmann’s last film score, for Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976). 17

Nocturne and Scherzo (ca. 1935–36) In 1934 Herrmann was hired by CBS and by this time was dedicating much of his time to writing short pieces for radio. Along with the Sinfonietta, one of the several non-programmatic concert works he completed between 1936 and 1940 was the Nocturne and Scherzo.18 Herrmann dedicated the work to the CBS conductor and music director Howard Barlow, who was impressed not just with Herrmann’s composing but also with his general knowledge of music, and who in October 1936 gave the Nocturne and Scherzo its broadcast premiere on a concert that also included two movements from the Symphony No. 4 of Herrmann’s idol and mentor Charles Ives.19 Ives heard not the broadcast but only the studio recordings that Herrmann sent to him two weeks later; he was favourably impressed, writing that ‘the [S]cherzo has a real outspoken stride and activity and the Nocturne a dignity and beauty’.20 In April 1937 Barlow, conducting the Federal Symphony Orchestra, gave the first concert performance of Herrmann’s Nocturne and Scherzo; CBS producer James Fassett attended, and in a private memo to Herrmann he likened the work to Debussy’s La mer.21

Bernard Herrmann  61 The delicate Nocturne begins with chorale-style chords in the strings and woodwinds, and a sense of melancholy and eeriness is established. Unresolved phrases start but never conclude before being passed to another section of the orchestra; the orchestral palette and instrumentation changes frequently. The Scherzo begins with pulsing chords and dissonant brass punctuations that would become a signature of Herrmann’s style. The strings have the most melodic material of the whole piece as fragmented musical lines dance around the various sections of the orchestra, coalescing at key structural points. The Scherzo, with its elements of dance macabre, features a flurried whirlwind of excitement with dense chords creating a charging pulse around which small melodic figures seemingly erupt from various sections of the orchestra. The Nocturne and Scherzo demonstrates Herrmann’s affinity for ‘capturing the psychological bond between love and anxiety’,22 and at an early stage of his career it exemplifies, along with his love for English pastoral music, the orchestration techniques that would characterise his music throughout his career.

Currier and Ives Suite (1935) and the ‘Americana strain’ In 1935 Herrmann was promoted to the position of staff conductor at CBS and was named leader of its ‘School of the Air Program’.23 In the same year he composed his Currier and Ives Suite, a ‘light’ work created ‘at a time when he was beginning to settle into his stylistic niche as a composer’.24 The work received its first performance, via broadcast on radio, at some point in 193525; it was ‘conceived for presentation as a ballet at Radio City Music Hall’, and it is ‘written in a very accessible style’.26 Although certainly representative of Herrmann’s ‘Americana strain’, the Currier and Ives Suite is filled with European-style moments that recall the waltzes of Johann Strauss, Jr.; at the same time, its buoyant scoring and quick tempos suggest the bustle of modern America. Christopher Husted suggests that the 1935 Currier and Ives Suite marks the beginning of the ‘Americana’ sound that Herrmann would employ in his first film scores (for Orson Welles’s 1941 Citizen Kane and 1942 The Magnificent Ambersons).27 Royal S. Brown, noting how in the Suite Herrmann used well-known conventions such as the waltz and the galop but gave them a modern twist, observed that the Suite’s composer is ‘rather like an Americana Shostakovich, but in a tamer harmonic, if not instrumental, idiom’.28

Moby Dick: a cantata for male chorus, soloists, and orchestra (1938) Moby Dick was the second major work that Herrmann would compose as part of his ‘Americana strain’. He got the idea to write a work based on Melville’s novel when his then wife, Lucille Fletcher, was writing an article about a fictitious modern composer and asked Herrmann what that composer might be writing. Herrmann jokingly remarked that the imaginary composer in Fletcher’s article would be working on a setting of Moby Dick.

62  Samuel Cottell The idea stuck with Herrmann. He began to discuss the matter with CBS music librarian William Clark Harrington, who ended up writing the libretto. Herrmann originally toyed with the idea of setting Moby Dick as an opera, but a cantata seemed a more logical choice than either an opera or an orchestral piece. He started work on Moby Dick in 1936 and completed it in August 1938.29 He scored it for male chorus, soloists, large orchestra, and – no doubt to enhance its dramatic effect and to give it a ‘modern’ flavour – ‘radio thunder drums’, instruments that before then had never been used in a concert setting. The world premiere of Herrmann’s Moby Dick was given by the New York Philharmonic, under the direction of John Barbirolli, on 11 April 1940. Two more performances, on 12 and 14 April, were broadcast on radio. The work was dedicated to Charles Ives, who warned against such a tribute because, as Ives said, he was not in favour with many audiences and musicians.30 Of his score, Herrmann writes that there are ‘no leitmotifs, with the exception perhaps, of one or two recurring phrases which subconsciously have always been associated in my mind with Moby Dick’.31 Herrmann contrasts the rough and turbulent seas (which perhaps allude to the inner turmoil of Captain Ahab) with the calmer moments depicted by simpler scoring and slower-moving passages. The work begins with a dramatic note for brass and timpani as the chorus sings: ‘And God created great whales!’ This is followed by a fast-moving ascending orchestral figure depicting the turbulent ocean, with the timpani rumbling underneath. Following the dramatic introduction, the scene changes to the town of New Bedford, accompanied by a pedal point largely consisting of the note D over which the orchestra plays chorale-like chords in crotchets; next comes a hymn sung in New Bedford’s Whaleman’s Chapel by members of Ahab’s crew. Throughout, Herrmann contrasts overtly dramatic passages with orchestral interludes and the deeply reflective monologue-type musings of Ishmael. Late in the work, Herrmann uses sporadic appearances by the low-register bass clarinet to capture the psychological fear of the whale lurking under the water, and at the end of the cantata, after the ship has been wrecked, he has the same instrument play ascending chromatic figures. In Moby Dick Herrmann displayed both his affinity for drama and his ability to compose in larger forms. Two years after completing the cantata he began sketching a pair of major works that were never completed. One of these was another cantata, Johnny Appleseed, based on the American pioneer nurseryman who according to legend introduced apple trees to large parts of the United States. The other was a so-called ‘Fiddle Concerto’, for which no score material has survived, and which Smith suspects might have been the same as the violin concerto that Herrmann began in 1937 but never completed.32

Symphony No. 1 (1941)33 Herrmann composed his first and only symphony when he was the music director of the CBS Radio Symphony Orchestra. It was a joint commission from CBS and the New York Philharmonic. Herrmann conducted the world premiere, via broadcast, on 27 July 194134; the work received its concert hall premiere in

Bernard Herrmann  63 November 1942 by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra under the direction of Howard Barlow. Herrmann had tried to interest the conductors Thomas Beecham and Dmitri Mitropoulos in his Symphony, but apparently neither of them thought much of the work.35 But another conductor, Eugene Ormandy, saw potential in it and made several suggestions to Herrmann about he might rework some of the material to reduce the length of the work by as much as fifteen minutes.36 Herrmann did not take kindly to this advice, and although he was aware of flaws in the piece he was not willing to make the changes outlined by Ormandy; after the radio and concert performances, the Symphony was not heard again until Herrmann made some adjustments and recorded it himself, with London’s National Philharmonic Orchestra, in 1974. Herrmann delighted in the commission. ‘For the first time’, he told a newspaper interviewer, ‘I was not confined to the outline of a story. It was not necessary to depict waves, portray the anguish of a lost soul, or look for a love theme’, and in composing the Symphony he in effect ‘had a Roman holiday’.37 But this was to be Herrmann’s last attempt at ‘absolute’ music, for it would soon become evident that his composing was more effective when it had an implied narrative or some other kind of impetus. In a 2011 review, Albert Imperato praises the Symphony for its ‘moments of soaring lyricism, nervous energy and arching, brass-led rhetoric’38; an unidentified critic from 1942 described it as a ‘score of . . . inordinate length, pretentiousness and dismal ineptitude’, and another, writing for the Herald Tribune in 1942, dismissed it as ‘three quarters of an hour of turgid epigynous music’.39 Whatever one makes of it, the Symphony, as Smith rightly observes, ‘illustrates Herrmann’s uneasiness working in a rigidly formal structure’, and it ‘suffers from the fragmentation that characterises most of Herrmann’s output, a quality ideal for radio but not for the concert hall’.40

The Fantasticks (1942) The Fantasticks – scored for four vocal soloists, chorus, and orchestra – is a setting in five movements of words by the English poet Nicholas Breton. It marks a departure from the ‘Americana strain’ that had been a preoccupation of Herrmann during the years from 1933 to 1943. Now Herrmann was looking to England for both musical language and texts, and for inspiration. As Smith notes, ‘this was less a change in taste than a shift in the composer’s own stylistic expression’: although Herrmann would continue to write American-flavoured music for radio programs and films, ‘[his] heart was increasingly drawn to England’.41 The Fantasticks charts the course of changing seasons over a period of five months. The first movement, ‘January’, begins with ethereal and shimmering strings in their higher register, underneath which a flute motif of three notes emerges; the bass voice enters, in direct contrast to the high strings, as woodwind chords descend. ‘April’ is the most pastoral of the movements; featuring soprano soloist, harp, flute, and strings, it displays a shift in mood, musically representing the changing of seasons with tender melodic fragments and orchestral colourings.

64  Samuel Cottell The final movement, ‘May’, begins with a galop and harmonies that sway back and forth; when the chorus enters the 6/8 metre picks up in both speed and reverence, and the mood shifts to one of celebration. Following a triumphantly positive cadence, Herrmann returns to moods projected earlier in the piece; the coda features a solo flute and luscious strings before the voices return in four-part harmony to replace the strings for a moment; similar to how it began, the piece concludes with a feeling of melancholy. Like many of Herrmann’s compositions, The Fantasticks is memorable not so much for its musical content as for its orchestration and the ‘character’ that Herrmann produces with that orchestration. One hears here the influences of English Romanticism (especially Delius, whose music Herrmann had admired since his youth). And throughout the work – filled as it is with nostalgic reflections highlighted by reflective, melancholy moments – one gets a sense of the fragility of Herrmann’s own ego. The Fantasticks demonstrates a less bombastic and hardedged side of Herrmann, an aspect of his musical personality that he would continue to develop over the course of the next decade.

For the Fallen (1943) The second piece to emerge in Herrmann’s post-Americana period was a tribute to the fallen soldiers of World War II. It was commissioned by the League of Composers midway through the war and premiered, on 16 December 1943, by the New York Philharmonic under the direction of the composer.42 Described by the composer as a ‘berceuse (a lullaby) for those who lie asleep on the many battlefields of this war’,43 For the Fallen is, as Smith writes, Herrmann’s ‘most affecting concert piece’. 44 In his note on the score Herrmann writes that ‘the entire composition is built on two melodies, except for the coda which contains a quotation from Handel’s Messiah’.45 Scored for full orchestra and set in a single movement, the piece utilises Herrmann’s distinct orchestral palette. Simple woodwind figures which gently unfold against a backdrop of strings are offset by harmonics in the violins, giving both an eerie and a fragile mood to the opening; a repeating bass line that rarely changes sets up a steady pulse and harmonic stasis over which long, sustained melodies float. Although For the Fallen starts out as a lullaby, it builds towards a brass-heavy set of chords before resolving with ‘a delicate woodwind quotation’46 of the ‘He shall feed His flock’ aria from Messiah. Herrmann started two other works  – the American-centric cantata Johnny Appleseed and a violin concerto – during the period between 1937 and 1940, but neither of these was ever completed. Instead, Herrmann turned his attention to his first opera, Wuthering Heights, which marked a significant change in his compositional style.

A time for opera: Wuthering Heights (1951) While Herrmann was scoring Robert Stevenson’s 1943 film Jane Eyre, he immersed himself in the writings of both Charlotte and Emily Brontë,47 and in

Bernard Herrmann  65 discussions with his first wife, Lucille Fletcher, who eventually became his librettist, he decided that he wanted to compose an opera based on Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Herrmann and Fletcher opted to have their opera end – on a sad note – midway through the story told in the book. When the potential producers of the opera suggested to Herrmann that he make cuts and include a more upbeat ending, discussions about possible performances came to an end. In crafting the libretto Fletcher used words from the first half of the novel for the scenes depicting action; for the arias, she used excerpts from Emily Brontë’s poems. The poems, according to Susan St. John, ‘inject moralistic or philosophical statements’ into the opera, and ‘they allow for the characters to engage in inner reflection’.48 The program annotator for the opera’s stage premiere, which did not take place until 1982 (with around thirty minutes of music cut), observed that whereas ‘Fletcher uses Brontë’s words to capture a time, . . . Herrmann used his music for the storms on the moors to capture a place’.49 Reflecting further on the opera, the same writer noted that although the music is ‘modern’ in comparison with most other American operas written in the 1940s, Herrmann was convinced that his score captured not only ‘the passionate, elemental beings who inhabit “Wuthering Heights” but also the period in which those fictional beings lived’.50 Herrmann’s fondness for unresolved chromatic lines is evident throughout Wuthering Heights. Two of the main arias – ‘I have dreamt’ and ‘How art thou dear?’ – demonstrate many of the details and stylistic elements unique to Herrmann. The first-mentioned aria, for the character of Cathy, is especially representative. It is introduced by an ephemeral flute solo, gently accompanied by dissonant strings that rollick between two harmonies; the aria proper lacks remarkable melodic material, but its languid and melancholy mood is easily communicated by lush orchestration and harmonies dominated by ninth chords. Wuthering Heights provided Herrmann with the opportunity to compose another substantial work following his Symphony; more important, it allowed him to reconcile his dramatic orchestral writing with the colouristic and melancholic writing that had first appeared in the Fantasticks, and to work in a largescale dramatic form while still retaining the English neo-romantic sound he had long cultivated. It is an impressive work, but Herrmann’s refusal to make changes prevented Wuthering Heights from being staged during the composer’s lifetime (although he did conduct a recording of the work in 1966). At least in part because of the disappointment, it would be fifteen years before Herrmann again composed a work for the concert hall.

Echoes (1965) and Souvenirs de voyage (clarinet quintet) (1967) Throughout his career Herrmann had written music for large orchestras. In Echoes, however, he wrote for smaller forces in the form of a string quartet, a medium in which he had not worked before. He described Echoes as a ‘series of nostalgic emotional remembrances’.51 Echoes received its premiere on 2 December 1966 in the Great Drawing Room in London’s St. James Square; the concert ‘received scant notice’,52 but the recording issued in 1967 met with generally positive reviews.

66  Samuel Cottell The work is full of emotional brooding and melancholy, particularly in the opening of the first movement, and this is attributed to the fact that at the time of its composition Herrmann was going through a painful divorce from his second wife, Lucy Anderson, and was no longer an in-demand film composer. Its title perhaps has a double meaning: throughout the piece Herrmann’s musical phrases do, in fact, echo one another, but the entire work can be read as a representation of the composer’s thought processes at the time, or as an acknowledgement that his own ‘great’ music belonged to the past and that at the present only an echo of the composer’s voice remained. Smith notes that ‘most of Herrmann’s favourite devices’ can he heard in Echoes, including ‘a sad valse lente, a lyrical barcarole, [and] a habanera with its allure of Latin syncopation, each briefly recalling happier occasions through the melancholy vision of the present’.53 Herrmann’s clarinet quintet, titled Souvenirs de voyage, was composed in 1967 and ‘reflects [a] rise in the composer’s spirits’.54 Like Echoes, Smith writes, the quintet ‘is nostalgic and often melancholy, but its romanticism and tonal colours are immeasurably warmer’.55 Like many of Herrmann’s concert works, the clarinet quintet has extra-musical connotations: the first movement takes as its inspiration A. E. Housman’s poem ‘On Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble’, while the second evokes Ireland’s Aran Islands and the final pays tribute to J. M. W. Turner’s Venetian watercolours. The use of poetry and art as a stimulus demonstrates Herrmann’s ability to respond to external sources and relate these ideas in music. In the quintet Herrmann had all but abandoned the striking dissonances found in most of his earlier works, and the frequent use of thirds and major intervals throughout suggest a calmer and freer composer than the sharp-edged one who wrote Echoes just two years earlier. 56 Indeed, the final movement with its quasi ‘love theme’ resembles the music of Brahms, and it would appear that a new romance and fresh scenery, together with a newfound success in composing music for French cinema, had nurtured an optimistic side of Herrmann not heard since the Currier and Ives Suite in 1935. The clarinet quintet was to be Herrmann’s last newly composed concert work. By this time, however, Herrmann had launched himself into a productive period of revisiting some of his earlier pieces for the sake of a series recordings for the British Pye label.57 Oddly, the next work he wrote was a musical comedy, The King of Schnorrers. This was another optimistic piece; with The King of Schorrers (based on the novel by Israel Zangwill) Herrmann seems to have been looking back fondly at his youth, when he played violin as a pit musician in the Yiddish Music Theatre on New York’s Second Avenue.58 But the show flopped at its premiere in 1970, and not just because by this time many members of the production team were no longer on speaking terms. After all his years of evading melody, Herrmann had finally turned to writing melodies, most of which, unfortunately, came across as ‘halting and incomplete’.59

Silent Noon (1933/1975) In 1975 Herrmann returned to one of his early pieces, the Aubade for fourteen instruments that he had written in 1933 while he was the conductor of the New Music Orchestra, to use as the basic material for one final and aptly poignant concert

Bernard Herrmann  67 work, an ‘idyll for orchestra’ titled Silent Noon. Husted notes that ‘it is tempting to speculate that this [the Aubade] may have been an attempt to explore Delius’s style under the advice of Grainger, who knew Delius’s music well’.60 It is unclear as to whether or not Herrmann performed the Aubade with the New Music Orchestra in 1933; it is documented that he conducted the work with the CBS Symphony in October 1938, but by then it came across as ‘an early work crowded out by newer and more ambitious concert works that bore the direct imprint of his mature style’.61 Herrmann completed the revised version on 14 September 1975 and died three months later. It is uncertain as to why Herrmann decided to revisit the Aubade, but Husted speculates that it may have been for the sake of ‘several retrospective sets of orchestral recordings for Reader’s Digest which had commenced in the early 1970s [but] did not come to fruition’.62 Although largely based on ideas from the 1933 version of the work, Silent Noon contains many aspects of Herrmann’s compositional style (such as the use of the oboe and harp with rich chords produced by the strings) that emerged in his postAmericana phase (ca. 1942). The revised piece takes its title from a sonnet contained in Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s collection House of Life. It begins and ends with six bell chimes (for a total of twelve), and perhaps Herrmann was alluding here to the beginnings and endings of time. While Smith notes that Herrmann, at the time of his death, had begun sketching an Organ Symphony ‘after four Visions of John Martin’,63 Silent Noon was to be his last completed work for the concert hall.

Herrmann’s music today Throughout his career Herrmann had many opportunities to have his concert works presented by prominent orchestras and opera companies, but his stubbornness typically won out, and because of this he missed many opportunities to have his works performed. Due to his drive and desire to have his music documented, however, many recordings of his work exist. Herrmann’s unswerving attitude towards his own music and his unwillingness to make changes in it kept him from having success in his concert career, but the recordings form a lasting legacy. Because of the recordings, those who assess the concert music of ‘film composers’ are just now finding in Bernard Herrmann an important and musically interesting personality.

Notes 1 Christoper Husted, liner notes to Bernard Herrmann: The Devil and Daniel Webster/ Currier and Ives; James Sedares and The New Zealand Symphony Orchestra, Koch International, 3–7224–2H1, CD, 1994. 2 Steven C. Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center: The Life and Music of Bernard Herrmann (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1991), 38. 3 From the mid-1960s Herrmann spent much of his time in England, moving to London permanently in 1971. 4 Graham Bruce, Bernard Herrmann: Film Music and Narrative (Ann Arbor: UMI Press, 1985), 35–75. 5 David Raksin, David Raksin Remembers His Colleagues, available at www.americancomposers.org/raksin_herrmann.htm. Emphasis original.

68  Samuel Cottell 6 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 28. 7 Royal S. Brown, review of Bernard Herrmann: The Devil and Daniel Webster/Currier and Ives, available at www.arkivmusic.com/classical/album.jsp?album_id=15125 8 Bernard Herrmann, quoted in Edward Johnson, Bernard Herrmann, Hollywood’s Music-Dramatist: A Biographical Sketch with a Filmography, Catalogue of Works, Discography and Bibliography (Rickmansworth: Triad Press, 1977), 8. 9 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 33. 10 Ibid., 4. 11 Ibid., 19. 12 Ibid., 12. 13 His composition teachers were Albert Stoessel and Bernard Wagenaar. 14 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 29. 15 Ibid., 36. 16 Günther Kögebehn, liner notes to Bernard Herrmann: Moby Dick/Sinfonietta, Michael Schønwandt, The Danish National Choir and The Danish National Symphony Orchestra, Chandos, CHSA 5095, CD, 2011. 17 Smith (240) notes that this theme was ‘one of the composer’s favourite signatures for madness and desolation’. 18 A recording of the original 1930s CBS broadcast of the work has been uploaded to Soundcloud. See Jim Doherty, ‘Bernard Herrmann’s “Scherzo” from “Nocturne and Scherzo” ’ and ‘Bernard Herrmann’s “Nocturne” from “Nocturne and Scherzo” ’, Soundcloud Audio, available at https://soundcloud.com/jim-doherty-5/ bernard-herrmann-scherzo-from-nocturne-and-scherzo and https://soundcloud.com/ jim-doherty-5/bernard-herrmann-nocturne-from-nocturne-and-scherzo 19 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 57. 20 Charles Ives, letter to Bernard Herrmann, quoted in Smith, 57. 21 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 58. 22 Ibid., 4. 23 Ibid., 48. 24 Christoper Husted, liner notes to Bernard Herrmann: The Devil and Daniel Webster/ Currier and Ives. 25 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Centre, 47. 26 Husted, liner notes to Bernard Herrmann: The Devil and Daniel Webster/Currier and Ives. 27 Ibid. 28 Brown, review of Bernard Herrmann: The Devil and Daniel Webster/Currier and Ives. 29 Kögebehn, liner notes to Bernard Herrmann: Moby Dick/Sinfonietta. 30 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 56. 31 Bernard Herrmann, Moby Dick (England: Novello & Co. Ltd., 1938). 32 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 371. 33 Herrmann revised the work in 1973. 34 Ibid., 89. 35 Ibid., 98. 36 Ibid., 98–100. 37 Bernard Herrmann, quoted in Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 88. 38 Albert Imperato, ‘My Weekend with Bernie’, available at www.gramophone.co.uk/ blog/new-york-insider/my-weekend-with-bernie 39 Quoted in Bruce, Bernard Herrmann: Film Music and Narrative, 27. 40 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 88–9. 41 Ibid., 97. 42 Ibid., 100. 43 Bernard Herrmann, program note for the Fallen, 1943, cited in Smith, 100. 44 Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 71.

Bernard Herrmann  69 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

57

58 59 60 61 62 63

Bernard Herrmann, For the Fallen (New York: Broude Brothers, 1955). Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 100. Ibid., 110. Susan E. St. John, ‘A Study of the Opera Wuthering Heights by Bernard Herrmann’ (DMA diss., University of Oregon, 1984), 61. Frank Kinkaid, program notes, ‘Benny’s Wuthering Heights  .  .  . At Last’ (Portland Opera, 16 November 1982). Frank Kinkaid, ‘About Bernard Herrmann  .  .  . Composer of Wuthering Heights’, Encore Magazine of the Arts 11, no. 2 (6 November 1982), 11. Bernard Herrmann, quoted by Neil Sinyard, liner notes to Psycho: Suite for String Quartet, Hyperion Records, SIGCD234, CD, 2011. Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 265. Ibid., 264. Ibid., 282. Ibid. For a detailed analysis of Souvenirs de voyage, see Jonathan Bautista Sacdalan, ‘The Secret (Musical) Lives of Hollywood Film Composers: An Examination of Representative Clarinet Concert Works of Bernard Herrmann, Miklos Rozsa, Don Davis, Paul Chihara, and Bruce Broughton’ (DMA diss., University of California, 2010), available at https://search-proquest-com.ezproxy1.library.usyd.edu.au/ docview/755623664?pq-origsite=summon The series of Pye recordings, all under Herrmann’s direction, had begun in 1966 with Echoes and Wuthering Heights. It continued only through 1967, with Moby Dick and concert suites from the scores for the films The Devil and Daniel Webster and Citizen Kane. Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 35. Ibid., 291. Husted, liner notes to Bernard Herrmann: The Devil and Daniel Webster/Currier and Ives. Christopher Husted, Program Notes for Bernard Herrmann’s Silent Noon, available at http://data.instantencore.com/pdf/1038156/Program+notes+for+Bernard+Hermann% E2%80%99s+Silent+Noon.pdf Husted, liner notes to Bernard Herrmann: The Devil and Daniel Webster/Currier and Ives. Smith, A Heart at Fire’s Center, 371.

6 Nino Rota Neo-classicist, classical modernist, or pragmatic pluralist? Carl Alexander Vincent

When musicologists consider the compositional dialectic of Nino Rota (1911– 79), it is predominantly from the perspective of his iconic film scores for some the greatest Italian directors of the twentieth century. Through a re-evaluation of his concert works, however, these preconceived ideas can be readjusted and the essence of Rota’s compositional language can fully emerge. Indeed, an appraisal of the music that encapsulates all of Rota’s ‘double life’ results in a more refined understanding of both his concert music and his music for film. Rota engaged with and excelled in a multiplicity of genres. Given the demand on his time as both a film composer and as director of the Bari Conservatory, his output is impressive; it includes twelve operas, three symphonies, twelve concertos,1 five ballets, four oratorios and other sacred works, numerous orchestral and chamber works, incidental music for plays, and pieces for solo instruments. His operatic output began in 1923 with Irminque and concluded with Napoli milionaria, composed between 1973 and 1977. The type of opera Rota composed was varied, ranging from the dramatic four-act Torquemada, written in 1943 (although not performed until 1976) to the 1950 radio opera I due timidi, from the comic operas Il Principe porcaro (1925–26) and Il cappello di paglia di Firenza (1945–55) to the fantasy opera Aladino e la lampada magica (1963–65) and  – finally – the three-act Napoli milionaria (1973–77), which included a plethora of intra-opus intertextuality from multiple film scores. This last work has Rota trying to eradicate the boundaries between a perceived traditional ‘high’ art form (for example, opera) and what some critics, as well as some academics over numerous decades, would incorrectly define as the inconsequential genre of film music. Rota’s sacred choral works include the oratorios L’infanzia di San Giovanni Battista (1922–23) and its companion work Il martirio di San Giovanni Battista (1923–24), his choral masterpiece Mysterium (1962), and La vita di Maria (1968– 70).2 Additionally, there was the Messa di Requiem (1923–24), Salve Regina (1958), Messa Breve (1961), Messa a quattro voci (1962), Audi Judex (1964), and the cantata Roma capomunni (1970–71), as well as numerous smaller-scale sacred and secular vocal works. The chamber works encompass a wide variety of combinations and stylistic predilections, from solo works through to a nonet. Key works within his chamber music output are the Sonata for Violin and Piano (1937); the Sonata for Flute and

Nino Rota  71 Harp (1937); the Intermezzo for Viola and Piano (1945), a virtuosic piece with firm and robust emotional contours that project a melancholic theme within a textual kaleidoscope of subtle nuances of colour; the Twelve Variations and Fugue on the Name of BACH (1950), for solo piano, seemingly improvisatory in nature but retaining an emotional direction that flows through the variations; the Trio for Flute, Violin, and Piano (1958), which uses a tense and dark compositional palette; the 15 Preludes for Piano (1964); the Trio for Clarinet, Cello, and Piano (1973); and the Nonet for Oboe, Clarinet, Bassoon, Horn, Violin, Viola, Cello, and Double Bass (1959–77).

**** Giovanni (Nino) Rota was born in Milan on 3 December 1911 into a musically and culturally enlightened family. By the age of 8, and after having piano lessons from his mother, Nino was already starting to demonstrate an affinity for composition, writing an oratorio titled L’infanzia di San Giovanni Battista, and in 1923, at the age of 12, he enrolled as a student at the Milan Conservatoire.3 Compositions from this time included the Fuga for string quartet, organ, and string orchestra and Il richiamo for soprano and string quartet (both in 1923), the Concerto for Cello and Orchestra and Die Maus for chamber orchestra (both in 1925), and the comic opera Il Principe porcaro (1925–26). Even in these early works it is clear that Rota’s compositional dialectic of stylistic appropriation and juxtaposition within a classicist approach was a direction that his composition tutors would have encouraged. Rota’s composition teacher at the Milan Conservatoire was Ildebrando Pizzetti (1880–1968), whose style was similar to that of Vaughan Williams in its stylistic fusion of old and new within impressionistic textures. This can be clearly seen in Rota’s 1923 Fuga, in which Baroque stylistic aspects of concerto grosso are juxtaposed with Renaissance cadential figurations in an attempt to create an over-arching stylistic integrity. In Milan Rota also took lessons with Alfredo Casella (1883–1947) before studying with Casella more regularly, from 1926 to 1930, whilst he was at the Academia di Santa Cecilia in Rome. Casella was one of the most influential musicians in Italy during the inter-war years, teaching, performing, composing, and promoting new compositional developments through concerts and articles at every opportunity. Casella’s cosmopolitanism reinforced Rota’s approach though continual engagement with the works not only of other leading Italian composers such as Malipiero, Busoni, and Castelnuovo-Tedesco but also the works of Stravinsky, Schoenberg, and other non-Italian composers. The influence of Casella upon the young Rota cannot be underestimated; it resulted in Rota always having an inquisitive understanding and appreciation of developments taking place in musical composition in Europe and America. In early 1931 Rota enrolled at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, where he studied composition with Rosario Scalero. His application was supported and encouraged by Arturo Toscanini (1867–1957), chief conductor of

72  Carl Alexander Vincent the New York Philharmonic and a close friend of Rota’s maternal grandfather, the composer Giovanni Rinaldi (1840–95). Between 1931 and 1932 Rota associated with some of the leading American composers of the day, absorbed stylistic influences and compositional theories from Aaron Copland and Samuel Barber,4 renewed his childhood friendship with Gian Carlo Menotti,5 and made the acquaintance of Ralph Vaughan Williams.6 An important question raised by Rota’s time at the Curtis Institute is: To what degree was his compositional dialectic emerging or already fully formed? Rota’s overall compositional language in the autumn of 1932 can be summarised as being a result of his engagement with a multiplicity of influences. His synthesis and reinterpretation of Baroque and Renaissance ideas projected through a coherent functional language that juxtaposes both tonality and modality via twentiethcentury harmonic and structural procedures was certainly a product of Pizzetti’s re-evaluation of the past via the present. See, for example, Rota’s Due mottetti for mixed choir (1931–32) and his Four Canons for Three Women’s Voices (1932), both written during his time at the Curtis Institute. In addition, Rota’s discussions with Vaughan Williams in New York – especially involving the function of melodic tonality and the thickening of melodic lines – helped to coalesce these ideas from an English perspective. From Casella, whose fundamental belief in musical cosmopolitanism provided a fertile ground for the exploration of various compositional aspects of melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic construction, Rota learned a variety of approaches to imbuing music with differing degrees of emotional projection from both a Dionysian and Apollonian perspective. Rota’s absorption of ideas encountered in Philadelphia and New York from composers as stylistically different as Barber and Copland enabled the facet of phrasal ‘plasticity’ to be further explored from an American perspective. It is interesting to consider, though, how the compositionally austere, hard-edged works of Copland in the early 1930s might have resonated with Rota. The implied social and political commentary imparted by Copland’s 1930 Piano Variations and other works from this period do not on the surface seem to transfer to Rota’s artistic tastes, given that Rota saw himself as being completely apolitical. Perhaps the strength of Copland’s melodically driven angular lines and their dramatic harmonic underpinning, however, was transferred to at least some moments in Rota’s works; one thinks, for example, of the final part of Mysterium and its melodies that comment on what ultimately constitutes truth in relation to a person’s faith.

**** Overall, Rota takes a multifaceted approach to his concert music. His aesthetic is generally perceived as deriving from a neo-classical position, although the term ‘classical modernist’ is perhaps a better term with which to describe him.7 Some of Rota’s works clearly encompass neo-baroque or neo-romantic tendencies, whilst others express ideas that challenge preconceived ideas of identity and functionality in an embryonic post-modern way. Through his predominant use

Nino Rota  73 of melodic lyricism imbued with tonal and modal harmonic colouring, supplemented at times with synthetic and octatonic inflections from multiple stylistic sources, Rota elicited an Apollonian emotionalism that was always refined and considered. As exemplary archetypes that display Rota’s musical elegance, wit, and charm within a classical modernist vernacular, consider, for example, the refinement of the theme from the opening of the Variazioni sopra un tema giovale (1953), or the energy and brightness of the first movement and the diaphanous texture at the start of the fourth movement of his Symphony No. 3 (1956–57), or the beautifully proportioned and delicately polymetric scherzo from his Concerto for Strings (1964–65). For Rota, the composers whose works most resonated with a classical modernist approach, stylistically disparate yet sharing a common thread of departure from the dominance of Wagner in European musical culture, were Stravinsky, Prokofiev, Vaughan Williams, and Barber. These composers influenced his harmonic, melodic, and structural vocabulary throughout his career. For example, clear influences of Vaughan Williams can be heard in Rota’s Symphony No. 1 (1935–39), the first movement of the Sonata for Viola and Piano (1935), the Quintetto (1935), the Sonata for Violin and Piano (1937), the Piccola offerta musicale for wind quintet (1943), and the Elegia for oboe and piano (1955). Barber’s influence is evident in works such as Balli (1932–34), the second of the Three Children’s Lyrical Poems for voice and piano (1935), and specific moments in the Symphony No. 1 (1935–39) and the Symphony No. 2 (1937–41), whilst in La fiera di Bari (1963) the primary influences are clearly Gershwin and the Hollywood film musical orchestrations of Conrad Salinger. In the Symphony No. 3 (1956–57), the Piano Concerto No. 1 (1959–60), the fifth and ninth preludes from 15 Preludes for Piano (1964), the first and second movements of the Trombone Concerto (1966), the Trio for Clarinet, Cello and Piano (1973), the Cello Concertos No. 1 (1972) and No. 2 (1973), and the third movement of the Bassoon Concerto (1974–77), the influence of Prokofiev is evident, whilst in the Trio for Flute, Violin, and Piano (1958), the third prelude from 15 Preludes for Piano, and the oratorio La vita di Maria (1968–70), which contains the Il Natale degli innocenti section, the influence of Stravinsky is apparent. Additionally, the romanticism of Mahler, Dvořák, and the world of Viennese operetta can be heard in the orchestral Sinfonia sopra una canzone d’amore (1947), the Symphony No. 1, and the Symphony No. 2. Rota’s pluralist approach is not adventitious or unpremeditated, but it is carefully envisioned with specific regard to the compositional material and its emotional communication. Rota’s compositional ‘fingerprints’ – the essence of his compositional language and syntax – can be ascertained within his concert works. His use of melody, harmony, scale materials, and intertextuality to communicate and illustrate emotions that can be at times poignant, impassioned, touching, ironic, witty, and joyous can be found throughout his concert works and give possible directions for the investigation of his film scores.

****

74  Carl Alexander Vincent

Melody Rota’s melodic gifts were prodigious and imparted to his concert works an eloquence that resonates immediately with audiences. His melodic themes can easily be divided into five clearly demarcated emotional attitudes, these being themes that are optimistic and songlike, those that are melancholic, those that express some kind of heroic nature, those that are infused with excited activity, and those that have an unsettling quality. The lyricism and songlike quality of his melodic lines – heard, for example, in the themes that open the first and third movements of his Symphony No. 1 (1935– 39) – sometimes invoke a pastoral nature in the manner of Barber or Vaughan Williams. Rota’s lyricism, though, can also be used in a more measured and subtle way, as is the case with the thirteen-bar oboe theme that marks the transition section of the symphony’s first movement. Other of Rota’s themes – for example, the one that opens the symphony’s final movement – impart a noble heroism that never strays into excessive romantic emotionalism. As a counterpoint to the joyous songlike melodic lines that pervade many of his concert works, Rota also composed themes with a decidedly melancholic tone.8 Consider, for example, the third movement Romanza of the Concerto soirée (1961), which conveys the melancholic nature of love, or the first movement waltz of the same work, which deconstructs the harmonic functionality of the waltz and thereby portrays melancholic reflection and distance. The fourth type of melodic theme – like the one that dominates the final movement of the Trio for Flute, Violin, and Piano  – is one which can be described as having excited activity. Finally, there are the melodic themes – like the ‘Aria’ from the Concerto for Strings – that express an unsettling positioning, or a nervous and anxious quality.

Modes, synthetics, and octatonics Within his concert works Rota utilised a variety of modes, synthetic scales, and octatonic collections. Sometimes he used a single device as the basis for thematic construction within a piece; an example is the third prelude from the 15 Preludes for Piano, which uses octatonic collections. In his Bagatella (1941), however, Rota used mode only as a sectional device, interweaving between Aeolian, Mixolydian, and Dorian before returning to Aeolian for the final slow section. In the Ballad for Horn and Orchestra (1974) both the Mixolydian mode and an octatonic collection are used thematically to demarcate sections within the work, and in the second movement of the Harp Concerto (1947) modal modulation forms the basis for structural design. In the Trio for Flute, Violin and Piano, the first movement features a major-minor synthetic scale (an influence of Ravel’s Piano Trio from 1914 being a possibility), an octatonic collection, the Mixolydian mode, and a Lydian augmented scale, whilst the third movement projects thematically a double harmonic synthetic with Neapolitan minor inflections.

Nino Rota  75

Harmony Harmonic concepts in Rota’s works are generally considered to be of a functional nature, but this idea is true only to an extent, and it does not always reflect his manipulation of functionality when the situation required it. For example, the influence of Prokofiev in numerous works leads to Rota engaging with ‘chromatic displacement’, the technique in which the diatonic syntax and the synthesis are not in complete agreement, the ‘wrong’ notes being understood within the diatonic context to create an illusionary perception.9 Additionally, Rota also uses harmonic devices that include independent vertical sonorities that temporarily suspend functionality and polychordal writing that enhances the harmonic colouring of progressions that are clearly derived from impressionistic concepts via Vaughan Williams. The functionality of Rota’s harmonies also embraces specific ‘colour’ additions within chord progressions (foreground) and musical sections (background). For example, in the third movement ‘Romanza’ of the Concerto soirée there is a beautiful and unexpected cadential approach to the end of the first statement of the theme: an A-flat major chord moving to E major (III of V enharmonically resolving to V).

Intertextuality An important aspect of Rota’s concert music involves the various ways in which he engaged with intertextuality. One type involved the reuse of material from his own works in what might be called intra-opus intertextuality. But he also engaged in a subtle manner with material from composers and compositions he admired and valued: extra-opus intertextuality. In the first of these, Rota can be seen as a composer whose concert music and film scores are to varying degrees interlinked. Certainly, the reuse of material from one genre to another can enable intertextual links to emerge, or at least potentially change the sympathetic insight of listeners and their specific emotional response to the music. The use of film music within concert works, of course, is an approach used by many composers who simultaneously engaged with film music and music for the concert hall. Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s Violin Concerto in D major (1945), which reused significant music from a variety of his films, is contemporaneous with Rota’s use of material from his score for the film La donna della montagne (1943) in his Sinfonia sopra una canzona d’amore (1947). Composers have also engaged with their own concert works to support narrative and characterisation in their film scores; consider, for example, Miklós Rózsa’s use of his Violin Concerto (1956) in his score for The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970). But the difference between these composers and Rota has to do with the fact that Rota applied the idea of interchangeability to music that was reused from a film to a concert work and then reused again in another film. The concept of reusing material from films in concert works is rooted in Rota trying to obliterate the

76  Carl Alexander Vincent perceived boundaries that existed, and still do to a certain degree, between film music and concert music. The perception that one art form was lesser in significance than another was, to Rota, anathema. Rota also engaged in extra-opus intertextuality by using material, although slightly modified, and without direct quotations, from works he admired. An example of this can be seen in his Trio for Flute, Violin and Piano, in which the opening of the second movement closely resembles the second movement of Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms. Another example would be the overture to the opera Il cappello di paglia di Firenze, a consummate amalgamation of the compositional essence of Verdi and Rossini, supplemented with a deftness of ‘wrong note’ harmony in the manner of Prokofiev, that fully empathises with the dramatic and comic aspects of the opera. Still another example is the Symphony No. 3, the opening theme of which, with its opéra buffa wit and elegance, is aesthetically similar to the overture of Leonard Bernstein’s 1956 Candide. Prokofiev’s Classical Symphony, it should be noted, is often discussed in relation to other movements of Rota’s symphony; I would argue that, whilst Prokofiev is indeed an understandable contender, Rota’s use of chord-based material in the transition section of the symphony’s first movement – reminiscent of many of Bernard Herrmann’s film scores – implies at least the start of a decidedly American intertextual perspective.10

**** In Rota’s concert music, the transmission of expression and emotion – romantic in nature or sentimental in approach, melancholic or joyous – cannot always be completely perceived via a one-dimensional perspective. Rota is a composer whose music seems to feature a psychological distancing from the conveying of complete emotion, as though he could not quite reconcile himself to inhabiting a singular feeling and projecting this musically. Sometimes one gets the impression that emotion is treated only as a ‘sign’ that has become hollowed out, as the vestiges of an emotion separated from its intent. An example of this can be found in the Concerto soirée, the first movement of which presents a waltz theme constructed as three phrases anchored throughout over a repeating C minor chord, with the lack of any harmonic change perhaps signalling a departure from harmonic functionality. This stripping of functionality in the opening thirty-eight bars could be heard as a ‘sign’ for a waltz that is ‘detached’ from its perceived meaning, containing the rhythmic elements that define a waltz but without the expected emotional engagement. This emotional ‘detachment’ could be the result of Rota’s engagement with Apollonian perspectives on music, but it could also be due to his personality, a personality that might be described as a dichotomy between separation and approachability. Not all of Rota’s concert works, however, employ this objectivity. In his concert works from the mid to late 1930s – in his first two symphonies, for example – Rota’s compositional delivery is embedded within a style that encapsulates

Nino Rota  77 neo-romantic tendencies. The Symphony No. 1 has a traditional four-movement plan with harmonic and melodic functionality combined with stylistic aspects assimilated from such sources as Vaughan Williams and Barber.11 If we compare Rota’s symphonic style of this time with Petrassi’s 1932 Partita for Orchestra, Malipiero’s 1933 Symphony No. 1, or Casella’s 1937 Concerto for Orchestra, it is clear that Rota had a much greater affinity with Vaughan Williams’s symphonic approach  – especially in terms of language, line, and construction  – than with his Italian contemporaries. In Rota’s Symphony No. 1 one also notices the influence of Barber in the more emotionally ‘romantic’ moments but especially, in the third movement, in the delicacy and warmth with which Rota resolves his musical arguments.

**** In 1937 Rota accepted a teaching position in music theory at the Liceo Musicale in Taranto, in Puglia in southern Italy. In 1939 he became a lecturer at the Bari Conservatoire and would remain there until 1977, when he retired from his position as the school’s director. This change in environment, from the inhibiting and stifling musical atmosphere in northern Italy to an artistically more liberal surrounding, likely had an effect on his music. The first movement of his 1937 Sonata for Violin and Piano shares stylistic attributes – in particular a lilting chord progression that underpins a melancholy melodic line  – with the first symphony. The second movement is emotionally thought-provoking and meditative, icy at times, whilst the final movement’s soaring folk-inspired melodic lines form emotional ‘waves’ that continue and complete the movement’s impassioned basis. Rota’s second symphony, composed between 1937 and 1941,12 was titled Anni di Pellegrinaggio: La Tarantina and clearly made reference to Liszt’s piano works of the same name. The reasoning for the title and its associations, reinforced through the use of a slightly concealed but nevertheless discernible quotation from Dvořák’s ‘New World’ Symphony, is unequivocal. The warmth and charm of southern Italy is apparent in both the second and fourth movements, and the joyful tarantella of the second movement merges with the overwhelmingly optimistic sensation of the fourth movement to create a representation of Puglia. In contrast, the third movement has an austerity of textural writing comparable to that of Vaughan Williams; like a Caravaggio canvas, it communicates a feeling of tenebrosity. Rota’s concert works from the 1940s include the Bagatella for Piano (1941); the operas Ariodante (1938–41), Torequemada (1943), and Il cappello di paglia di Firenze (1945–46); the Fantasia in G for Piano (1944–45); the Sonata for Clarinet and Piano (1945); the Sarabande and Toccata for Harp (1945); the Concerto for Harp and Orchestra (1947); the Sinfonia sopra una canzione d’amore (1947); the String Quartet (1948–54); and the radio piece Cristallo di Roma (1949–50). The opening movement of the Harp Concerto is stylistically neo-baroque, in a ritornello form, and the opening section engages intertextually with Bach’s

78  Carl Alexander Vincent Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 (BVW 1048); the delicacy of its orchestration recalls Castelnuovo-Tedesco, and the harmonic language at times – because of polychordality, minor dominant and subminor chords, and tertial dominants supported modally at cadential points  – seems almost impressionistic. The second movement mixes neo-renaissance and impressionistic features within an unsettling and slightly ominous atmosphere that is punctuated only by quasi-fanfare figurations that suggest a journey from darkness into light. Rota’s melodic and rhythmic drive are fully explored in the final movement, where Stravinskian inflections are supported by polychordality and the use of independent vertical sonorities. During the 1950s Rota’s reputation as a consummate film composer increased; he scored between seven and twelve films per year, including Federico Fellini’s La strada (1954), Il bidone (1955), and Nights of Cabiria (1959) and the King Vidor production for Paramount Studios of War and Peace (1955). It was astonishing that Rota during this period could still devote time to the composition of concert works, yet he produced another three operas – I due timidi (1950), Lo scoiattolo in gamba (1959), and La note di un neurastenico (1959) – the Allegro Concertante for Orchestra and Chorus (1953); the Meditazione for Chorus and Orchestra (1954); the Symphony No. 3 (1956–57); a Concerto for Orchestra (1958–61); the Trio for Flute, Violin, and Piano (1958); and numerous other chamber works. The compositional style of Rota’s third symphony is situated far from the neoromantic sentimentality of his first and second symphonies. There is a definite neo-classical basis for this four-movement work, which is infused with dichotomous emotions and whose texture and tonal shifts sometimes recall Prokofiev. The Trio for Flute, Violin, and Piano could be described as a classical modernist work, and its second movement is especially notable for its demonstration of Rota’s complete mastery in creating an unsettling, obsessive, and claustrophobic musical argument that is imbued with unresolved tension and pent-up emotion. During the 1960s Rota composed scores for such iconic films as Fellini’s La Dolce Vita (1960), the anthology Boccaccio ’70 (1962),13 Fellini’s 8½ (1963) and Satyricon (1969), Luchino Visconti’s Il gattopardo (1963), and Franco Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet (1968). His concert works from this period include the Piano Concerto in C (1959–60); the Concerto soirée for Piano and Orchestra (1961); the magnificent Cantata Mysterium for mixed choir, children’s choir, and organ (1962); the overture La fiera di Bari (1963); the 15 Preludes for Piano (1964); the operas Aladino e la lampada magica (1963–65) and La visita meravigliosa (1963–65); the ballet La strada (1966); the Concerto for Trombone and Orchestra (1966); the Divertimento Concertante for Double Bass and Orchestra (1968–73); the oratorio Il Natale degli innocenti (1968–70); and La vita di Maria, for soloists, choir, and orchestra (1968–70). It is interesting to compare the two works for piano and orchestra. In the first movement of the Piano Concerto in C, the opening theme has definite neoclassical intentions, aurally inhabiting the Vienna of Mozart and Haydn yet suffused with the modern ‘shifting’ chordal functionality of Prokofiev and Khachaturian; the second movement, an andante with variations, seems rooted in an imaginary film score characterisation, and the final movement, which again

Nino Rota  79 features a Prokofiev/Khachaturian sonic world, shines with colourful optimism. The Concerto soirée, on the other hand, directs our attention towards a reflective positioning and redefinition of function in almost a post-modern way. One reading of this five-movement work, which borrows its premise from Rossini’s 1830–35 Soirées musicales,14 has Rota writing music solely for its entertainment value, without regard to compositional arguments that might have sublimity or gravitas; an enhanced reading, however, has all the surface ‘entertainment’ value underpinned with psychological elements that challenge and likely disturb the listener. In any case, the five movements coalesce into an arch form, the first and last exhibiting similar emotional perspectives and the second and fourth sharing compositional aspects, with the wonderfully evocative third movement ‘Romanza’ projecting a melancholy aura with a certain Prokofiev/Khachaturian feel. The final decade of Rota’s life represents a zenith for his film scoring: for Paramount he provided the music for Dino De Laurentis’s Waterloo (1970), Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather Part 1 (1972) and Part 2 (1974), John Guillermin’s Death on the Nile (1978), and for various studios he provided the music for such Fellini films as Roma (1972), Il Casanova di Federico Fellini (1976), and Amarcord (1973). His concert works from this period include the cantata Roma capomunni for voice, choir, and orchestra (1970–71); the opera La visita meravigliosa (1970); the Cantico in memoria di Alfredo Casella (1972); two cello concertos (1972 and 1973); the Trio for Clarinet, Cello, and Piano (1973); the ballet Le Molière imaginaire (1976); the Concerto for Bassoon and Orchestra (1974–77); and his great intra-opus intertextual opera Napoli milionaria (1973–77). In at least some of these concert works Rota seems to re-address his earlier musical dialectic. In the orchestral work Guarando il Fujiyama (1976), for example, Rota embraces compositional aspects that are reminiscent of Scriabin but also include musical suggestions of Japan. The impressionistic textures with which Rota had engaged throughout his career are used here, although in a dark and dissonant way; the work’s lovely melancholic lines eventually resolve into a brightness that overall seems to represent the emotional journey of the city of Hiroshima and its rise from the ashes. Rota’s 1974 Castel del Monte, a ‘ballad’ for French horn and orchestra, is a rhapsodic work that revisits the some of the language of his 1947 Sinfonia sopra una canzione d’amore; his last completed work, the 1978 Piano Concerto in E, features in its opening a return to the neo-romanticism of his first two symphonies.

**** Our understanding and appreciation of Nino Rota’s compositional discourse ought not to be based on an over-arching modernist metanarrative. Rather, it should be based on his long-held belief that music should always be heard, in effect, in the present tense, in a way that constantly reassembles and challenges the notion of musical ‘authenticity’.

80  Carl Alexander Vincent The idea, still held in some quarters, of Rota as a stylistic chameleon who lacked musical gravitas is simply not accurate. His compositional engagement with neo-romantic, neo-baroque, and classical tendencies can indeed be seen as an escape from the high modernism of the Darmstadt school and from the Italian culturati of the 1950s. But Rota’s notion of musical identity at this time was being repositioned through his own compositional language, which resonated with listeners who admired and respected his film music. Above all, Rota directed his music to the artistic nourishment and emotional engagement of audiences. To what extent does our knowledge of Rota’s compositional dialectic influence our evaluation of his film scores? Rota’s prolific work as a film composer needs this kind of re-evaluation, because throughout his career his film music reflected the same influences, and the same keen interest in intertextuality, that governed his music for the concert hall. Consideration of Rota’s relationships with, say, Barber, Vaughan Williams, Stravinsky, and Prokofiev surely will shed light on his film music. And consideration of his essentially post-modern stance, with its reinterpretations and repositioning of musical material from the past, will surely provide us with a deeper understanding of the relationship that exists between his music and visual images.

Notes 1 These comprise three cello concertos (1925, 1972, 1973), three piano concertos (1959–60, 1961–62, 1978), a bassoon concerto (1974–77), a harp concerto (1947–51), a double bass concerto (1968–73), a trombone concerto (1966), a Concerto for Strings (1964–65, rev. 1977), and a Concerto for Orchestra (1958–61). Only two of the cello concertos (those from 1972 to 1973) are numbered. Italian composers in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were predominantly occupied with opera. Members of the Generazione dell’Ottanta, however, embraced the concerto form in Italy starting in the 1920s. See, for example, the violin concertos of Respighi (1922), Casella (1928), Malipiero (1932), and Pizzetti (1945); the cello concertos of Pizzetti (1934), Casella (1935), and Malipiero (1937); and the piano concertos of Respighi (1925), Malipiero (1934), and Petrassi (1936–39). 2 Although identified as an oratorio, Mysterium is perhaps closer to a cantata given that instead of a real narrative it has just a ‘disposition’ to explore the parameters that govern the nature of faith. 3 Gian Carlo Menotti (1911–2077) also enrolled at the Milan Conservatoire in 1923; Rota’s and Menotti’s mothers were friends. 4 Barber was a composition student of Rosario Scalero at the Curtis Institute until 1934. 5 Menotti had enrolled at the Curtis Institute in 1928. 6 At Toscanini’s apartment in New York, in the autumn of 1932, Rota met Vaughan Williams who at the time was a visiting lecturer at Bryn Mawr College. 7 For further exploration of this term, see Herman Danuser, ‘Re-Writing the Past: Classicisms of the Inter-war Period’, in The Cambridge History of Twentieth-Century Music, ed. Nicholas Cook and Anthony Pople (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 260–85. 8 The first of Barber’s Two Interludes for Piano, composed between December 1931 and January 1932, also exhibits a melancholic disposition, and this work resonates with Rota’s style. 9 For examples of this concept in Prokofiev’s music, see Neil Minturn, The Music of Sergei Prokofiev (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997).

Nino Rota  81 10 Bernstein’s compositional dialectic shares ideals with Rota in the way that both composers were stylistically eclectic. Consider, for example, the different modes of expression that are the basis for such Bernstein works as the Sonata for Clarinet and Piano (1941–42), with its stylistic appropriation of a neo-classical Hindemith, and the Symphony No. 2 (1942), which imparts rhapsodic qualities that at times are emotionally charged, sometimes austere, then playful. 11 Writers such as Giordano Montecchi have also suggested the influence of both Tchaikovsky and Dvořák in this work, but in my opinion Vaughan Williams and Barber are more influential. New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, vol. 21 (London: Macmillan Publishers Limited, 2001), 777–9. 12 The premiere occurred only after the work had been revised in 1975, with the first performance taking place in the Teatro Petruzzelli in Bari on 14 April 1975. 13 Rota scored only for the Fellini and Visconti sections of the film. 14 These were a group of opera-styled songs that were performed at musical evenings Rossini held Paris.

7 Jerome Moross The concert hall and stage works Mariana Whitmer

Writing for films didn’t intrigue me that much. I wanted to write for concert and I wanted to write for theater. I loved the theater, and I did write a lot of theater pieces.1

Jerome Moross (1913–83) is best known to some audiences as the composer of the Academy Award–nominated score for The Big Country (1958), an innovative score that challenged the status quo. Its large orchestral conception and assimilation of popular music idioms transformed how Westerns were accompanied. However, Moross’s film-scoring career, which began with an orchestration of Aaron Copland’s Our Town, in 1940, and extended through Hail Hero, in 1969, was primarily a means of supporting his musical composition outside the cinematic realm. Moross had notable success with his dramatic works, primarily ballet and musical theatre. Yet, he also composed several large orchestral works, and, towards the end of his life, smaller chamber pieces. This essay will survey Moross’s non-filmic works, focusing on a limited number of them, highlighting his approach to their composition and placing them within the broader context of the composer’s philosophy with an eye towards understanding the extent of Moross’s compositions and how his style developed over the course of his career. Insightful commentary from the composer, gleaned from his correspondence, published articles, and recorded interviews, will add to an understanding of his works. Jerome Moross was born in Brooklyn in 1913 and made New York City his home until shortly before his death in 1983. Although he attended The Juilliard School and New York University, Moross once boasted that he never studied composition. ‘I had harmony, fugue, form, everything else. All the grammar you needed. But I always felt that I [didn’t] want to learn how somebody else writes. All he can do is show me how he writes’.1 Moross quickly shed what he considered to be the confinement of theories and began writing in what he deemed was his own style. Assimilating the music of New York City became Moross’s preferred method of developing his compositional mannerisms, so he visited as many musical venues as possible to absorb the music all around him, whether that be jazz, classical,

Jerome Moross  83 modern, or popular, or even from a carousel.2 Moross also supported himself by playing in pit bands, theatre bands, and dance bands, and these influences are pronounced in his compositions. Moross became acquainted with the musical avant-garde, as he formed friendships and connections that would guide his musical development and subsequently would influence his compositional career. In the early 1930s modernist composer Henry Cowell (1897–1965) introduced Moross, along with his high school friend, the notable film composer Bernard Herrmann, to Charles Ives. The two young composers were enthralled by Ives, and in 1932 they encouraged Copland to include Ives’s 114 Songs on the programme at the Yaddo Festival of Contemporary Music. Copland included seven of Ives’s songs, which were sung at the festival by Mina Hager with Copland at the piano. Paeans (1931), Moross’s earliest work, was conducted by Herrmann when it premiered in the Juilliard School concert hall in February 1932. The work is in two movements and features characteristics of the modernist style, including quarter tones (indicated in the score by square notes), chord clusters played on the piano, and one measure of ‘complete silence’, as is noted in the score. The second movement, played ‘as quietly as possible’, features a unifying ostinato complemented by a very sparse texture in the other instruments. The ostinato consists of three instruments playing tremolo throughout: a suspended cymbal, two muted violins playing C-sharp and D, and a muted solo viola playing D. Cowell heard the work when it was premiered, and he published it in his New Music Orchestra Series (1933). The following year, Cowell also published Moross’s Biguine, composed for a CBS radio broadcast. In 1932 Moross travelled to Europe and visited Vienna, where he composed Those Everlasting Blues, which is based on texts by American modernist poet Alfred Kreymborg (1883–1966). Subtitled ‘a cantata for Solo Voice and Orchestra’, the work calls for an ensemble including piano and string quintet along with solo woodwinds and brass; the percussion instruments, divided amongst two players, include rhumba blocks, Chinese blocks, and a ‘jazzy cymbal’. Moross was very specific about the vocal quality he desired, noting on the manuscript: ‘Deep contralto or Baritone of the negro “popular song” type’. The lyrics, which may have been assembled from more than one of Kreymborg’s works, are dark and suggest a failed or unhappy love affair. The melody features sliding blues notes, which foreshadow Moross’s dramatic interpretations of the American songs ‘Frankie and Johnny’ and ‘Willie the Weeper’ in his later ballets. Bio-bibliographer Charles Turner described Moross’s music at this time as ‘uncharacteristically dissonant and angular, showing the influence of futurists’.3 Those Everlasting Blues was premiered at a concert of the Pan American Association of Composers on 4 November 1932 at the New School Auditorium in New York City, conducted by Nicolas Slonimsky, and performed alongside works by Ives, Revueltas, Cowell, Villa-Lobos, and Caturla.4 On his return from Europe Moross became a member of Aaron Copland’s Young Composers Group, which was founded in 1932 to further the work of composers under the age of 25. The group included Herrmann, along with Elie

84  Mariana Whitmer Siegmeister, Arthur Berger, Lehman Engel, and Vivian Fine. The Young Composers Group nurtured Moross’s compositional development and launched his career through concerts and performances. The Group gave their first concert on 15 January 1933, with Moross’s Two Songs (‘Jabberwocky’ and ‘Those Gambler’s Blues’, for low voice and piano), included in the programme. A  review of the concert appeared in Olin Downes’s column, ‘Music in Review’, in the New York Times the following day.5 In a 1936 article assessing the Young Composers, Copland wrote: ‘Moross is probably the most talented of these men. He writes music that has a quality of sheer physicalness, music “without a mind”, as it were’.6 Copland and Moross corresponded intermittently for many years. Moross’s growing knowledge of dramatic music and his appreciation for lyricists and for songwriters, in particular, would draw him to the theatre, where he combined his talent for lyrical melodies with larger formal constructions. Moross’s first job was as musical director for Kurt Weill’s The Threepenny Opera, which played for two weeks at the Empire Theatre in New York in 1933,7 and he also composed incidental music for Berthold Brecht’s adaptation of Maxim Gorky’s Mother. Moross’s first work for the theatre was a leftist musical revue based on social issues, called Parade (1935), a work that musical theatre scholar Larry Stempel describes as ‘unrelentingly propagandistic’.8 It was perhaps for this reason that Parade did not play for very long. The Theater Guild produced it in the spring of 1935, starring the popular entertainer Jimmy Savo (1895–1960) along with the young comedian Eve Arden (1908–90). Although the work was not successful, the twenty-five songs Moross composed for Parade may have provided inspiration for two subsequent revues that were better received and which have had lasting impact: Pins and Needles (1937) and The Cradle Will Rock (1937). On the recommendation of Aaron Copland, in 1936 Moross received his first commission for a ballet, from dance icon Ruth Page (1899–1991). An American Pattern was premiered in 1937 by the Great Northern Theater in Chicago, choreographed by Page and dance partner Bentley Stone (1909–84). Moross’s second and more substantial composition for Page’s ballet company, Frankie and Johnny (1938), is based on the American folk song that Carl Sandburg referred to as the ‘classical gutter song’ when he published it in An American Songbag.9 This is the first dramatic work that Moross conceived in a non-conventional manner, reinterpreting the existing tune into a modern format that complemented Page’s progressive choreography. In this production, a trio of three women was added (‘a parody on the Greek chorus’, according to Moross). They portray members of the Salvation Army and are described as ‘Saving Susies’. The idea of staid and moral Christian women singing about an immoral world of passion and crime presents a conflicting or jarring dramatic image that coalesces well with Moross’s dissonant score. Each girl plays a different instrument: tambourine, cymbals, and bass drum, all instruments that are typically associated with a Salvation Army band. Moross later described his approach, saying: ‘I thought it was rather amusing that the Salvation Army girls, who would be in a slum parading around and trying to save souls . . . would be singing the narrative of what was then considered [to be] a very naughty folk poem’.10

Jerome Moross  85 Frankie and Johnny was a pivotal work for Moross that marked a change from his early compositional style, which he described as ‘quite Schoenbergian, We-bernian’ and ‘very intent upon quarter tones’; he said that he ‘suddenly felt [modernist techniques were] a dead end’, and he credited Ives, Cowell, and Copland with encouraging him to work with American popular music idioms.11 Subsequently, Moross composed primarily in consonant tonalities, saving dissonance for occasions when needed by the narrative. Thus, the dissonant, analysis-defying chords that open Frankie and Johnny contrast with his harmonisation of the tune, which is based entirely on major triads as sung by the Saving Susies (two sopranos and an alto). Moross explained: ‘Starting with Frankie and Johnny, I learned to strip my music of nonessentials, and that way I developed a personal style. Now, when I sit down to write, it comes naturally’.12 Moross moved away from modern atonal music construction and returned to tonal melodies; however, his overall harmonic motion was rarely predictable or textbook in nature. Frankie and Johnny is divided into eight movements, each based on a singularly American style, including a stomp, blues, two rags, a foxtrot, and a one-step, as indicated in the score. While the introduction plays to an empty stage, the remaining movements feature choreography based on Moross’s musical structures. During the ‘Blues’ section (the third movement) only Frankie and Johnny appear on the stage and execute a sexually suggestive pas de deux. The tempo is slow, characterised by long sustained notes interrupted by dotted rhythms played in a swing style; the music has a lazy, sultry quality that reflects the lovers’ relationship. The ‘Beer Parlour Rag’ (fourth movement) accompanies a drunken revelry by the townspeople, a crowd that coincidentally prevents Frankie from seeing Johnny flirting with Nelly Bly; the rag setting adds a frenetic character to the music, which reflects both the rowdiness of the drinking and Frankie’s anxiety; it also affords an opportunity for the dancers to execute a Charleston, among other popular steps.13 The sixth movement, simply titled ‘Frankie Tune’, is the ballet’s climax and most poignant section. Frankie, having learned of Johnny’s betrayal, works herself into a frenzy. The music grows in intensity to emphasise Frankie’s ever-increasing anguish and anger. The entire movement maintains a trajectory that culminates in her climactic decision to shoot Johnny, which is aurally represented by the return of the dissonant chords from the introduction. Composed entirely in unison, the music begins slowly in the lower registers. As the tempo increases and becomes more complex, the melodic line ascends, moving into an ever-higher tessitura and eventually reiterating a single high note. Frankie’s emotional collapse is musically depicted by a series of descending semiquavers that melodically spiral as they eventually slow to a stop. That Frankie and Johnny was well received when it premiered in 1938 was due at least in part to the familiar story and the familiarity of the dance styles. In addition to the traditional pas de deux and tour en l’air, the ballet featured such popular idioms as tap, pantomime, and the Charleston. This mixture of old and new, of the elite and the trendy, typifies not only the choreography of the time but also new approaches to musical composition. As Lindsey Boone points out in her

86  Mariana Whitmer study of Frankie and Johnny, ‘not only is Moross’s score a representation of one of the trends in American music in the 1930s, but it shows how music and dance in America could work together to create a unique American idiom’.14 Moross collaborated with Page once more on Guns and Castanets (1939), a musical adaptation of Bizet’s Carmen, which uses Spanish revolutionary songs and texts from the poems of Federico García Lorca (1898–1936). Although Moross worked extensively on the score, contractual disagreements between Moross and Page led to the abandonment of the project. Undaunted by the loss of Guns and Castanets, Moross shifted his focus as he began to receive commissions and requests for orchestral compositions. Along with Copland and William Grant Still (1895–1978), Moross was invited to compose for the CBS radio programme Everybody’s Music, a weekly broadcast that from May 1936 until October 1938 presented new music from American composers. The result was A Tall Story (1938), an orchestral work inspired by Moross’s first trip to California in 1937. ‘The dimensions of everything starting with the Great Plains just overawed me’, Moross would later say of his impressions of the American West, and he distinguished this work from his ballet by noting that ‘Frankie and Johnny is a city piece and A Tall Story is a country piece’.15 When Copland two years earlier spoke of the ‘sheer physicalness’ of Moross’s music, he might have been describing A Tall Story. The work is redolent of bravado and arrogance, and the comments that film music scholar Christopher Palmer made about Moross’s score for The Big Country apply as well to A Tall Story. Palmer considered Moross to be an urban composer, much like Copland, Gershwin, and Leonard Bernstein; Palmer wrote that even when Moross composed about rural spaces, his music ‘pits the skyscraper against the prairie’.16 One hears the hustle and bustle of the city in A Tall Story until it is gone, and then the stillness of the plains is marked by a solo bass clarinet and flute. The city music returns, but it is once again pushed away, by the opening B major triad and a lengthy interlude whose melody – shared by the solo violin and flute – is languid, with syncopated repeated notes articulated by descending thirds and seconds. The contrast between these two sections illustrates Palmer’s characterisation of Moross’s ‘needle-sharp perspective  – we see most clearly when we view from a distance’, and his observation that the ‘urban isolation of the skyscraper [is] reflected in the empty spaces of the prairie’.17 In A Tall Story the musical image of the city returns, but it is replaced by the quietude of the B major triad and the opening textures, and the work comes to a peaceful close. Ramble on a Hobo Tune (1938), an arrangement of the folk song ‘Midnight Special’, was commissioned by CBS, and it became the basis for Moross’s first (and only) Symphony, composed between 1940 and 1942. Moross later explained: ‘I hated [the song] in its fast version, and so I played it very slowly, and I wrote a counterpoint to it, and the whole thing became a two-part invention. It starts off with my theme, and then the folk song comes in after a while’.18 The song melody is almost inaudible, played by muted violas and cellos in a rhythmically transformed version starting in the fifteenth measure. This subtle setting of the song tune became the third movement of the Symphony. Moross recalled: ‘[This

Jerome Moross  87 movement] seemed to call for something before it and something after it. It certainly seemed to me [that the third movement], being an invention, . . . should end with a fugue. I began to fuss around with it, and, before I knew it, I had two movements before it and a fugue after it’.19 The other movements of Moross’s Symphony are melodically unrelated to ‘Midnight Special’. The first movement is a theme with eight variations. In his analysis of Moross’s Symphony, Lawrence Morton described the theme, which is in two parts, as consisting of a ‘New England barn-dance fiddler’ followed by ‘a Missouri revival meeting’.20 The first part is an ascending arpeggio outlining a B major chord, paired with a descending linear motive in semiquavers that ends in a D major chord; the second part is a jaunty, dancelike melody with syncopated rhythms in an eight-measure phrase. The variations segue from one to another without pausing, and in each the theme is presented without alteration. Moross varies the theme primarily in texture and instrumentation. Thus, in the first variation the melody is played ‘rough and detached’ in the strings, while in the fourth variation the texture is transparent with only motivic fragments of the theme played by various instruments. The seventh variation is lighter, as statements of the theme are shared by different instruments. For the last variation Moross combines the two parts of the theme, so that motives from the first part are heard as accompaniments to an augmented version of the second part. As Morton concluded in his review, ‘the first movement is brilliantly scored, with the last variations sufficiently contrapuntal to make up for the repetitiousness of the earlier ones’.21 The second movement is labelled ‘Sonata-Scherzo’. Moross utilised the sonata form to organise the work structurally, yet some of the melodic elements and their development suggest the light and playful qualities of the scherzo. The two themes contrast rhythmically, with the first in 6/8 and the second in 2/4. The first theme is a lively chromatic tune, the second a simplistic melody; both are developed throughout the movement. Throughout this movement the piano is featured prominently, almost as if in a piano concerto. Moross was an accomplished pianist, and when the Symphony was performed in Los Angeles in 1944, he had to step in to play the piano part because the pianist, who was pregnant, had gone into labour; he recalled that he ‘bumbled’ his way through it.22 The Symphony’s fourth movement is a fugue whose subject and countersubject are built on a pentatonic scale. This lends it a Western hoedown atmosphere, complementing the folklike themes of the first movement. Moross develops the fugue by combining the subject and counter-subject in different ways, often altering the rhythm, thus bringing the Symphony to an exciting conclusion. Sir Thomas Beecham conducted the premiere of the Symphony with the Seattle Symphony Orchestra on 18 October 1943. Moross delighted in telling the story of how he approached Beecham backstage at the Hollywood Bowl and asked him to look at the work. Beecham kindly accepted it, but waited two months before he contacted Moross and requested the orchestra parts for rehearsals that were to begin in just three weeks; Moross hired copyists at Warner Bros., where he was working as a staff orchestrator, to help him make a set of parts. A second performance by

88  Mariana Whitmer Beecham, planned for New York City in 1944, was thwarted by the unreliable wartime mail service; when the parts did not arrive in time Beecham had to change his programme, which deprived Moross of an important East Coast premiere.

**** Moross dedicated most of his career to seeking new ways to challenge audiences with hybrid theatrical forms that anticipated what today is often called the integrated musical. ‘My idea was to change the theater’, he said. ‘I was going to make the theater operatic’.23 The four separate scenarios that comprise Ballet Ballads (composed between 1941 and 1946) feature dancers and singers that often share the stage and interact in unconventional ways. As Moross and lyricist John Latouche (1914–56) wrote in the introduction to the original publication, this collection of works ‘[was] intended to fuse the arts of text, music and dance into a new dramatic unity’.24 Inspired by familiar tales, Ballet Ballads was made up of ‘Susannah and the Elders’, ‘Willie the Weeper’, ‘The Eccentricities of Davy Crockett’, and ‘Riding Hood Revisited’. Ballet Ballads has never been performed in its entirety. The 1948 premiere at Maxine Elliott’s Theatre in New York City only included three of the four scenarios, and since then the parts of Ballet Ballads have been staged only occasionally. A second collaboration between Moross and Latouche was similarly unconventional, and highly successful. The Golden Apple (composed between 1948 and 1950) is a retelling of The Iliad and The Odyssey with the setting changed to Washington State at the end of the Spanish-American War. As Moross described it, the idea was to do a Broadway piece using idioms that would not push the audience out . . . and still utilize the opera form to present our ideas on war and peace, on love, on hate, on good and evil and all the rest of it. Actually write an opera for Broadway and we did just that.25 Recitatives, arias (songs), and ensembles characterise the work, as in an opera without dialogue, but all of them are cast in popular musical styles; indeed, Moross noted that he and Latouche approached the work ‘as a series of continuous musical-comedy production numbers’.26 The melodies are simple yet lyrical, the rhythms are distinctive, and the harmonies are generally clearly defined and in the major mode. By the time he composed The Golden Apple Moross had already been working on films as an orchestrator and had completed one original score. As a result of this experience, The Golden Apple features some of film music’s clichés, and it features as well some of the unique characteristics of Moross’s later film style. This reciprocity is evident in several moments in The Golden Apple, but particularly in the fight scene between Ulysses and Paris. Since there is no singing, Moross underscored the contest with filmic stereotypes; these include ascending and descending glissandi in the brass joined by tremolos in the strings, with a steady quaver pattern in the bass that stops briefly every two measures. It is easy

Jerome Moross  89 to imagine that Moross, as he conceived the fight scene, recalled his own score for the 1948 film Close-Up. In The Golden Apple, the character of Helen sings jazz-influenced melodies. Her ‘Lazy Afternoon’ approaches the blues with a predominance of minor seconds in the first phrase and a declarative descent through the octave featuring a series of seconds. Her celebratory ‘My Picture in the Paper’ is set in ragtime, and her repentant ‘I Can’t Think What Got into Me’ is in triple rhythm with frequent ascending chromatic motives. Penelope’s character, as the voice of reason in the narrative, assumes most of the work’s less lyrical and quasi-recitative lines, the lines that urge caution and temperance. While Moross set many of the scenes in The Golden Apple in ternary or rondo forms, he formulated complex musical constructions for particularly important acts. One such example is the scene in the first act when Ulysses has just returned home from the war and is reunited with Penelope. It features the couple, happy to be together again and looking forward to a peaceful future, singing ‘It’s the coming home together’. Mother Hare, however, enters and sings about a future that intrigues Ulysses and has him thinking about further travel. The remainder of the scene predicts Ulysses’s return to wandering, which takes place in the second act. Appropriately, a harmonic peregrination through the circle of fifths characterises the continuation of the scene, which includes Mother Hare’s descriptions as well as the comments by Ulysses and Penelope. Each phrase begins in the minor mode and cadences on the parallel major, thus establishing the dominant for the subsequent phrase (hence, E minor becomes E major, resolves to A minor, which becomes A major, etc.). The lyrics similarly suggest that Ulysses might return to wandering. In between Ulysses’s reaction (‘Will it be the kind of world I want to see?’) and Mother Hare’s soliloquy on evil (‘Good is a word that fools believe’), Penelope interjects her cautionary recitatives (‘The wicked old piece!’ and ‘Resist her, Ulysses!’). Moross develops the characters’ personalities further with two short solos by Ulysses and Penelope. Ulysses’s solo is described in the score as being ‘in vaudeville style’, and it illustrates his laid-back demeanour as he suggests to Penelope that they should explore the new century, while Penelope’s solo is ‘appassionato’ and slightly hysterical. The scene ends with a reprisal of ‘It’s the coming home together’, but in the repeat Ulysses promises that he will not resume wandering and will ‘not travel farther than our pasture track’. Thus the overall scene begins and ends with the romantic music of reunification and coming home. However, with all the intervening revelations (textual and musical), the implication is that Ulysses will not stay home, but will indeed travel once more; this inference is reinforced by the deceptive cadence that ends the duet. The finale of The Golden Apple reprises snippets of themes and melodic materials associated with particular characters. The overall structure features a chorus that comments on the quilt Penelope has been sewing (‘busy little Sewing Bee!’) yet between statements from the chorus Moross intersperses commentary from individual characters. These remarks are set either to music the characters had sung previously or to a melody associated with another character, thus establishing further narrative connections. For example, at one point, Penelope reasserts her faith

90  Mariana Whitmer in Ulysses to the tune of ‘It’s the going home together’ (‘Somehow I keep believing that he’ll return one day’), and at another point Helen offers her criticism of the situation to the tune of ‘Lazy Afternoon’ (‘Why do you sit there a-stitching when you’re free to be be-witching?’). Penelope’s suitors insist that she choose one of them, and they sing their demand to the tune that had been sung by the socialites when they introduced their baked goods for the contest (‘The Picnic Table’). Finally, as Ulysses and his men draw near, they all sing the melody from when they were leaving at the end of the first act – ‘Row boys, row/Row down the river’ – except the melody is now in a minor key and suggestive of the blues. The musical ends with Penelope and Ulysses (along with the entire chorus) singing ‘It’s the going home together’, a song that symbolises the strength and endurance of their relationship. The Golden Apple ran for almost 200 performances when it first premiered in 1954. After forty-eight performances at the Phoenix Theatre, the show moved to the Alvin Theatre on Broadway. It won several awards, including the New York Drama Critics Circle Award. It was revived and recorded in 2014, and was presented most recently in New York City in May 2017.27 Moross’s final ballet, The Last Judgment (1953), was perceived as too controversial in its interpretation of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden and its implied reassessment of original sin. As Moross described it, the ‘woman is to be vindicated of original sin, and man is to be condemned for it, because he committed the original sin for the sake of power’. Although the work was ready to be presented, with the scenery designed and the costumes made, it was never performed. According to Moross, ‘the managers couldn’t accept the idea’.28 The music for The Last Judgment encompasses a variety of styles and characteristics, most of them based on jazz idioms. The first theme sounds like a rag, while blues notes appear in several movements, and syncopated rhythms prevail throughout. The Last Judgment sustains a connective thread throughout its ten dance movements, such that the first theme of each movement becomes the second theme of the subsequent movement. Moross called this a ‘circular’ form. He favoured this kind of methodical approach to composition and applied it, particularly the use of ternary forms (for example, ABA), to his film scores as well. A later and not very successful musical was Gentlemen Be Seated!, a sketch of the Civil War set as a minstrel show whose conception made it extremely contentious. Moross collaborated on the work with dramatist Edward Eager (1911–64) starting in 1955, but the work received only three performances in 1963 in New York City. As bio-bibliographer Turner points out, it was ‘naïve’ of Moross and Eager to think that they could ‘revive the genre of the minstrel show at the height of the Civil Rights movement’.29 According to Moross, the public reception was good, but the critics hated it.30

**** Late in his career, during what he termed his ‘post-film period’, Moross created instrumental pieces for such small ensembles as a clarinet sextet, brass and woodwind quintets, and a piano duet combined with a string quartet. Moross said he

Jerome Moross  91 felt that audiences, tiring of traditional symphonic music, were turning to chamber music and would appreciate his new sound: What the audience has done, is it has moved to chamber music. It’s a whole new world for them. . . . Last week at the Mostly Mozart Concert the Beaux Arts Trio played the B-flat Schubert Trio. After the last piece in the concert when I walked out, I was listening to comments, and one was saying to the other, ‘isn’t that stunning’, as if this were a new piece they’d never heard before. They were orchestra-goers and suddenly here was a new world; here was this absolutely gorgeous masterpiece that they didn’t know existed.31 Moross began exploring chamber music initially with a set of sonatinas. He explained: I wanted to write a series of sonatinas . . . which I was going to call Sonatinas for Divers Instruments . . . and my publisher asked me to write one of them for a clarinet choir. [He said this] was a formal structure that existed throughout the country, and there were any number of clarinet choirs in high schools and colleges. I became fascinated with the idea and transferred the ideas I had for another group to the clarinets.32 Moross composed four works for this set. In addition to the clarinet sextet (No. 1, 1966), the other sonatinas were for string bass and piano (No. 2, 1966), brass quintet (No. 4, 1968), and woodwind quintet (No. 3, 1970). All of the sonatinas are structured using traditional forms: an opening sonata allegro followed by a three-part form as the middle movement and a rondo as the third. The sonatinas also feature traditional harmonies, in contexts that Moross termed ‘classical grammar’ but fashioned into ‘modern music’. As he explained, ‘[this approach] writes music that an audience will like, will listen to; not because I want to just coddle the audience, but because that’s the way I feel. I want to talk to them. I want them to know what I’m saying’.33 Moross’s Flute Concerto (1978) was the last work he composed. He said of its creation: ‘It started as a clarinet quintet, and then I shifted it to a flute quintet and then . . . the flute part became so prominent, it became a concerto’.34 More than any other of Moross’s non-film works, the Flute Concerto exhibits a texture very similar to that found often in his film music, that is, a prominent melody accompanied by almost incessant syncopated chords. The flute is clearly the most important instrument, although the first violin will, at times, share the spotlight. The melodies are long and developed, with abundant syncopation. The Flute Concerto’s first movement is in sonata form with two distinct and rhythmically contrasting themes. The first theme is lively, in 2/4, and is characterised by a semiquaver and quaver figure, accompanied by pizzicato strings; after its initial statement in the flute, this melody is echoed in the first violins and then developed, primarily in a sequential fashion. The second theme is much more lyrical, in 4/4, with longer note values and larger intervallic leaps; once

92  Mariana Whitmer again, the theme is restated in the strings. The development focuses primarily on motivic fragments from the first theme, often reiterated in the strings. When the second theme reenters, it is similarly developed, with statements alternating in the flute and in the strings. The recapitulation is much like the opening, with the flute stating the theme followed by the strings. A flute cadenza is heard, not at the very end of the movement, where one might expect it, but at the end of the recapitulation of the first theme, and it is based primarily on those musical materials. The movement ends with a statement of the second theme, but it includes the initial motive from the first theme. Thus the movement comes to a close with both themes combined. Like most of Moross’s concert music, the Flute Concerto was conceived linearly with an emphasis on the contrapuntal interaction between the voices with some disregard for traditional harmonic progressions. The movement begins in D major and gradually becomes more chromatic, shifting to E major for the second theme, but without a change in key signature. As the music sneaks into the development, Moross alters the key signature to signal C major, yet the harmony wavers between minor and major, as suggested by the presence of both E-flats and E-naturals. Eventually the movement wanders through various other keys, at times adhering to a key signature (A major, B major, D major, C major, E major) but at other times ignoring a key signature entirely. The second movement is labelled ‘Tune with 4 Improvisations’. The flute plays the theme, a lovely syncopated lyrical tune in 12/8, while the strings reiterate a regular pattern in the accompaniment. The viola plays a steadily shifting ostinato of four crotchets that stay primarily within the span of a major second, thus echoing the first four notes of the flute melody. This accompaniment remains rigid through the first two improvisations, which regularly appear every twenty measures, but are slightly modified. Starting at measure 43, during the second improvisation, the second violin part is embellished by the addition of a quaver, and in the third improvisation (measure 63), the viola is similarly altered by the addition of two quavers. With each improvisation, the flute melody becomes steadily more complex and the performance more virtuosic. In the first improvisation Moross offers a triplet embellishment of the melody. In the second he alters the rhythm, changing it to include more semiquavers and thereby shifting the accents so that the metre, instead of 9/8 or even 4/4, feels like 6/4. In the third improvisation the melody is altered through octave leaps, followed by a series of arpeggios. In the fourth improvisation the first violin takes over the melody, while the flute accompanies it with elaborate semitone trills (as noted in the score), tremolos, and demisemiquaver runs. This kind of systematic composition, easily parsed and understood as patterns, is characteristic of Moross’s style, especially the style of his nondramatic works. The Flute Concerto’s third movement is in rondo form and presents two themes, which are similar to those of the first movement, such that the first is a lively melody and the second is a more languid lyrical tune. In the middle section, Moross recalls the entire second theme from the first movement. It is unfortunate that the

Jerome Moross  93 Flute Concerto is not performed more often, as it is an energetic piece that is easily accessible to audiences. Late in his life, Jerome Moross was unapologetic about his music overall. ‘By this time in my career’, he said, ‘I’m no longer thinking about style. My style is there and it’s at my service. I’m now interested in what the piece says, and what would be the best way to say it; how to make the audience feel what I want them to feel; what I felt. That’s what I’m interested in getting across now’.35 Moross left several manuscripts of works that were never published or which remain unfinished, such as the Second Symphony, for which there are numerous sketches. Yet Moross’s collection contains mostly ideas for staged works, including completed works never performed. His love of the theatre is apparent even in his non-dramatic compositions, in the conversational interaction of melodies and rhythms, along with the argumentative contrasts of tessitura and timbre. Moross always sought out a narrative even when one was absent, demonstrated by his superimposition of systematic patterns and creative formal structures in the instrumental compositions. Moross’s confident approach to composition and his desire to communicate with the audience informed his absolute music, but it was his dedication to drama and its emotional appeal, so often planned out in his nonHollywood creations, that inspired the much-appreciated film scores.

Notes 1 Jerome Moross, unpublished interview with John Caps, 31 August 1979, courtesy of William Rosar. 2 Moross’s grandson Joshua interviewed his great-uncle Charlie, who related the story of a time when the composer took him to Coney Island just to hear a carousel. The text of his interview is available at jeromemoross.com 3 Charles Turner, ‘Jerome Moross: An Introduction and Annotated Worklist’, Notes 61, no. 3 (2005), 688. 4 Deane L. Root, ‘The Pan American Association of Composers (1928–1934)’, Anuario Interamericano de Investigacion Musical 8 (1972), 49–70. 5 Olin Downes, ‘Music in Review’, New York Times, 16 January 1933, 12. 6 Aaron Copland, Copland on Music (Garden City: Doubleday, 1960), 161. 7 Albert Goldberg, ‘The Sounding Board: “Ballet Ballads” ’, Los Angeles Times, 1 October 1950. 8 Larry Stempel, Showtime: A History of the Broadway Musical Theater (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 2010), 470. 9 Carl Sandburg, The American Songbag (New York: Harcourt, Brace  & Company, 1927), 75. 10 Jerome Moross, interview with Paul Snook. WRVR Radio, New York, 1970. 11 Moross said: ‘Ives was very kind and very helpful. He once told me that it was a good thing that I was mixing up real popular music with . . . my style. Which, at that time, by the way, was quite Schoenbergian, Webernian’. In Snook interview. 12 Goldberg, ‘The Sounding Board’. 13 I have relied heavily on the description provided by Lindsey V. Boone, ‘Ruth Page and Jerome Moross’s Frankie and Johnny: Its Reception in 1938 and 1945’ (Master’s thesis, Florida State University, 2007) and the description included in John Gruen’s, The World’s Great Ballets (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1981), 107–8. 14 Lindsey V. Boone, ‘Ruth Page and Jerome Moross’s Frankie and Johnny’.

94  Mariana Whitmer 15 Moross, in Snook interview. 16 Christopher Palmer, The Composer in Hollywood (London and New York: Marion Boyars, 1990), 315. 17 Ibid. 18 Moross, in Snook interview. 19 Ibid. 20 Lawrence Morton, ‘Jerome Moross: Young Man Goes Native’, Modern Music 22, no. 2 (1945), 112. 21 Ibid., 113. 22 Moross, in Caps interview. 23 Ibid. 24 Jerome Moross and John Latouche, ‘A Note on Production’, in Ballet Ballads (New York: Chappell & Co., Inc., 1949). 25 Moross, in Snook interview. 26 ‘Note from the Composer’, The Golden Apple complete vocal score (Van Nuys: Alfred Music Publishing Co, Inc., n.d.), 7. 27 Jerome Moross, The Golden Apple, P. S. Classics, 2015, CD. 28 Moross, in Snook interview. 29 Turner, ‘Jerome Moross: An Introduction and Annotated Worklist’, 680. 30 Jerome Moross, unpublished interview with Craig Reardon, 16 April 1979, courtesy William Rosar. 31 Moross, in Caps interview. 32 Moross, in Snook interview. 33 Moross, in Caps interview. 34 Ibid. 35 Moross, in Snook interview.

8 Don Banks Hammer horror and serial composition Michael Hooper

Looking through his sketches shows how readily Don Banks (1923–80) moved between commercial composition and compositions for the concert hall. When writing music for film, or for advertising, he tended to write quickly, using the manuscript paper that was at hand, which very often was the back of manuscript paper being used to hone ideas for a concerto or some chamber music. The film cues that interrupt an orchestral score give a sense of how the composition of music for film, and the tight deadlines that go with it, interrupted the composition of concert works. Banks’s film music and his concert music, of course, were for different purposes, and there is little cross-over in their musical content. Nevertheless, the period in which Banks was most prolific as a film composer – the 1960s – is also the time when he was most in demand as a concert composer. By the 1970s he had found new ways of bringing the jazz with which he began his musical career, and which informs much of his film music, into new contact with music for the concert hall, especially through his use of electronic resources. Banks wrote the music for a dozen of Hammer Studio’s horror films, and he also composed music for advertising and documentaries. Banks’s writing for film began at the invitation of Angela Morley (who at the time was known as Wally Scott). Morley composed and arranged for The Goon Show, and was well-known for the theme tune and incidental music of Hancock’s Half Hour (to which Banks also contributed). Morley, like Banks, had been a student of Mátyás Seiber, and when Morley was too busy to complete all the arrangements for a recording session she often asked Banks to help. This coincided with the birth of Banks’s first child, in 1957, and therefore with his need for more money than work as a copyist was able to provide.1 This led quickly to him writing the first of his Hammer scores, for Murder at Site 3, in 1958. Banks then wrote music for ten more Hammer films: Captain Clegg (1962, also known as Night Creatures), Nightmare (1964), The Evil of Frankenstein (1964), Hysteria (1965), The Brigand of Kandahar (1965), The Reptile (1966), Rasputin: The Mad Monk (1966), The Mummy’s Shroud (1967), The Frozen Dead (1966), and Torture Garden (1967). The score for the last of these was co-composed with Hammer regular James Bernard. Randall D. Larson, writing in Music from the House of Hammer, noted that ‘if James Bernard is the king of Hammer horror music, then Don Banks is surely his crowned prince’.2 About half of Banks’s feature-film output was for Hammer; in

96  Michael Hooper addition, he provided music for some two dozen documentary scores and many television episodes, shorts, animations, and advertisements.3 Banks was born in Melbourne, Australia, in 1923. His father was a professional musician who played trombone, drums, and – especially – saxophone. As a teenager, Banks also played trombone, with Graeme Bell’s Dixieland Jazz Band.4 In Banks’s account, this was at a time when jazz in Australia was flourishing, and it was doing so in association with literary figures and visual artists. This was a significant time for artists in Australia, and Banks was part of a newly enlivened scene that was forming at the end of the Great Depression. Bruce Johnson, in The Inaudible Music: Jazz, Gender and Australian Modernity, describes this period as one characterised by ‘experimental vigour’,5 and he gives the example of a concert in which Banks played solo piano with Bell’s band: In October  1941 Banks participated in an event which Richard Haese has called ‘a landmark in Australian art’.6 Denied hanging space by the National Gallery, the Contemporary Art Society staged its exhibition in the cosmopolitan, secular setting of the Hotel Australia in Bourke Street. With its connections to the Communist Party, and the Angry Penguins literary group, the CAS exhibition represented all that was progressive and modern in Australian culture.7 Looking back at this period, Banks lamented that there were no composers as role models. Australian-born composers such as Arthur Benjamin led their careers mostly in the United Kingdom, and compositional training consisted mostly of harmony classes (which Banks took with Claude Monteith and Waldemar Seidel). The musicians who surrounded Banks were all improvisers, and with them came a ready facility for music-making. As the above quotation explains, this background positioned Banks alongside some of Australia’s most interesting artists, but it also afforded him little training in compositional technique. After military service, Banks studied piano and composition at the Melbourne Conservatorium of Music (1947–49) and then moved to London to study privately with Seiber. Although Seiber and Banks shared an interest in jazz, Seiber’s teaching was mostly technical, based on Bach inventions, the study of Schoenberg, and a strong sense of motivic working.8 This emphasis on the importance of establishing and then developing clearly recognisable motifs was inculcated in such other of Seiber’s students as David Lumsdaine and Hugh Wood.9 Although all these composers used serial techniques, they did so in order to emphasise motifs, just as Seiber did by extending Bartók’s motivic working. Banks’s further studies with Milton Babbitt in Salzburg (in the summer of 1952), and then with Luigi Dallapic­ cola in Florence (1952–53), further honed his motivic technique. This training, which was rigorous and technical, combined with Banks’s interest in jazz to leave him particularly well suited to film scores that required a similarly clear-headed approach to the basic transformations of simple motivic materials. Banks’s training facilitated his wider interest in working with the extended serial techniques in the mid to late twentieth century, even though little of his time

Don Banks  97 studying was focused on serialism, and it also facilitated the quick composition of the scores that made him enough money to continue writing concert works. It is clear from his correspondence, and from the CVs and other documents in his archive, that film music was always a job that paid for his concert music. Nevertheless, the absence of film credits in his later résumés need not be indicative of a low regard for this work, and the variety of music that he composed brought him into contact with a wide and lively artistic circle, which he valued. The London of the 1950s in which Banks was living was, as he described it, ‘a hot-bed of 12 tone composition’,10 and he names Elisabeth Lutyens, Humphrey Searle, and Seiber as its main practitioners. Banks’s first piece written with Seiber is an exploratory work in three movements titled Duo for Violin and Cello (1951)11; its use of a fourteen-note row makes clear enough Banks’s emphasis on motivic transformation over orthodox serialism. In a letter from 1953 to Seiber, Banks discusses his early experiments with serialism proper, ‘à la Milton [Babbitt]’, and the solution to writing canonic forms by having ‘constructed a row from which I can extract what I want’.12 The result of these experiments was Psalm 70. Bradley Cummings has shown that Banks’s reworking of this piece, in lessons with Dallapiccola, retains the original vocal melody and part of the accompaniment, with the surrounding material adapted as the row forms are honed and their possible patterns explored.13 Cummings concludes: ‘Banks composed primarily with themes, motives, and textural ideas, and not with twelve-tone rows as such’.14 Nevertheless, and as Cummings shows, the particular forms of the rows do make a significant impact on the music that Banks composed, and the rows do reflect Banks’s motivic choices. In the same letter to Seiber, Banks also discusses the quick progress that he was making in writing a set of piano pieces, which were able to be written quickly because they were not serial. Nothing came of these piano pieces, but later in 1953 Banks completed his Four Pieces for Orchestra, his Sonata for Violin and Piano, and his Five North Country Folk Songs. The last-mentioned are reminiscent of Seiber’s folk song settings in that they actually sound like folk songs, with simple, if not inelegant, piano accompaniment. They are a good example of Banks’s skills as an arranger, and of his quick assimilation of Seiber’s style of folk song arrangement, with a nod to the folk song treatments of Britten from the 1940s. Banks’s commitment to close motivic working enabled to produce tighter horror-film scores than those written by James Bernard. As Randall Larson explains: The Evil of Frankenstein (1964) benefits greatly from Banks’s music; it’s by far the most melodic of the Frankenstein scores. Banks’s main theme is dynamic, gently forceful. Rather than the crashing, meteoric cacophony of Bernard, Banks chooses to score his primary theme for a flourishing 6-note theme for strings (4 rapid notes followed by two dramatically downwardspiralling notes) punctuated by tympani and cymbals; horrific and Gothic, yet tonal and melodious. It captures both a dramatic sense of excitement and a mixed feeling of horror and pathos. The theme tends to get lost in some of the wild, frenzied action of the film’s multiple climaxes but lends a strong, predominantly melodic musical dynamic to the story.15

98  Michael Hooper Many years later, writing a serial string quartet (1975), Banks directed the leader of the quartet to ‘take your vitamins A, B, C, and D for the 1st section as I’d love to have a strong, rhythmic, vital sound (where appropriate)’.16 The opening of the String Quartet resembles the title sequence in Banks’s score for the 1961 film The Third Alibi. It begins suddenly, with a sff chord, and is immediately followed by low cello playing a sequence of rising and falling semitones – the composition’s essential motif – and then an angular solo violin. Without a tonal setting the melodic lines indeed sound like the serialism that produced them, yet they are not dissimilar to the soaring lines for The Third Alibi. The String Quartet moves through several ideas quickly, all underpinned by the semitone motif; these include an off-kilter hocket, a rising gesture for which the instruments interlock as if in a rising harp flourish, a lilting and espressivo melody for high cello, and – finally – a contrapuntal idea that features fragmented pizzicato and unpredictable rhythms before building to homorhythmic chords played fortissimo. These ideas form the basis for the first half of the piece, which is serially constructed and always gesturally muscular. The composition’s second half begins Adagio ‘mysterioso’, with the cello playing a low, irregularly repeating the figure D, E-flat, D. The section as a whole is softer: muted, with harmonics, and often without vibrato. It ends with a return to the low cello, now playing F, G-flat, F, but increasingly soft and slow, very much dying away. The String Quartet is an homage to Seiber and Dallapiccola, and it also recalls Banks’s friendship with the serial composer Roberto Gerhard. Taking inspiration from these three composers – the role models that the younger Banks had been seeking – Banks would go on to write serial music whose principle motif is the semitone of serialism itself, from which almost the whole of Banks’s musical output is built. The way in which he crafted such drama with such motivic focus is testament to his creative ability, and to the facility that resulted from his writing, during the previous decade, so much dramatic music in so short a time.

**** During the main period of his commercial composing, Banks completed a large number of concert works. Between 1961 and 1972 (when he returned to Australia), he wrote thirty-two pieces, including the Sonata da camera (1961) and the Horn Trio (1962), a Horn Concerto for Barry Tuckwell and the London Symphony Orchestra (1966), and a Violin Concerto commissioned by the BBC Proms (1968). In the following paragraphs I will give an overview of some of his significant works from this time, and I will then discuss Banks’ electronic music, and particularly his role commissioning new instruments. Based on the instrumentation for Seiber’s cantata Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the Sonata da camera was commissioned by the BBC for the Cheltenham Festival. The instrumentation calls for flute, clarinet in A, bass clarinet, violin, viola, cello, piano, and percussion. The first of the three movements begins with the initial idea: C, F, B. This primary pitch motif is presented most clearly in measure 5, over a C timpani drone, where it is iterated twice without complicating

Don Banks  99 material. The rhythm here  – dotted crotchet, dotted crotchet, minim, crotchet, crotchet, crotchet – is also played slowly enough that there is no doubt about the motif’s significance. The opening movement of the Sonata da camera offers a good example of Banks’s serial preoccupations, since the initial C, F, B motif is also the pitch set that forms the basis of the primary tone row, which Banks conceives both as four three-note segments (C, F, B; F-sharp, A, G; E, B-flat, A; E-flat, C-sharp, D) and as two uneven segments of 4 + 2 (C, F, B, F-sharp + Ab, G; E, B-flat, A, E-flat + C-sharp, D). Both hexachords contain the pitch-class sets [016] and [012], or [0167] and [01]. From this material Banks constructed two more rows, each of which in a different way explores the properties of the first row. Banks’s method of reordering pitches is internal to each segment, such that the initial motif is heard not only in the pitch order 1, 2, 3 but also in the orders 1, 3, 2; 2, 1, 3; 2, 3, 1; 3, 1, 2; and 3, 2, 1. The movement’s second row is a condensation of the patterns formed by extending these permutations to include four pitches (derived from the idea that the hexachords are segmented into groups of 3 + 3 and 4 + 2). Additionally, the intervallic content of the tetrachords is retained under some transpositions, with the position of the tetrachord moving between the first and second hexachord (for example, the tetrachord that is found in the first hexachord of P0 is found in the second hexachord of P2, and it moves back to the first hexachord for P1). While this kind of combinatorial thinking resulted directly from Banks’s studies with Babbitt, it also came – perhaps indirectly – from Seiber; although Banks would discover the coincidence only later in an analysis of his own composition, the Sonata da camera’s second row in fact had been used by Sieber in his 1953– 54 Concert Piece for Violin and Piano. In any case, Banks used similar transpositional procedures to form the row for his 1975 String Quartet. Both the String Quartet and the Sonata da camera sound similar to certain of Seiber’s works, but they do not sound derivative. The point of the row forms that Banks used, and the reason for him seeking combinatorial properties, was to make available a stock of motifs that give him significant latitude in composing music. His scores are not formal implementations of the patterns of his rows; rather, they are based on transformations of rich stocks of motifs. Rhetorically, the Sonata da camera opens with a move through P0, followed by a second move through P0 that isolates the C, F, B motif and then nine measures in which the motif is expressed in its transformations. This is most obviously audible in the semiquaver – semiquaver – quaver rhythm for a succession of the [012] motifs, and also in the C–F–B chords. All this is underscored by the timpani, still rolling a low C. When this drone stops it is replaced by D-flat in the cello, which then moves to F-sharp: a further manifestation of the [016] segment. Strictly speaking, the [012] motif comes from the composition’s third row, which comprises four iterations of that trichord; although Banks makes use of this different pitch-class set for various reasons, the music does its work through repetitions of the two three-note motifs. These motifs are used across all three movements, developed through the gradual accretion of more and more of their permutations

100  Michael Hooper and by the addition of durations to their rhythmic profile; the semiquaver–semiquaver–quaver rhythm, for example, becomes four semiquavers plus a minim. It is worth noting that Banks’s serial music is often metric, or very nearly so, and that some of the rhythmic development leads to syncopation. For example, the pattern of dotted crotchet–dotted crotchet–minim–crotchet–crotchet–crotchet is sometimes played in diminution, and the resulting dotted quavers sound syncopated against the general tendency towards metricity. Although this is hardly jazz, Banks’s music never goes fully against his earliest musical experiences. Banks’s most impressive orchestral work – the 1968 Violin Concerto – comes from the end of the period when he worked for Hammer films. The piece was premiered by Wolfgang Marschner, to whom it is dedicated, and the BBC Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Normal del Mar (on a Proms concert, it was programmed alongside John Tavener’s In alium, Thea Musgrave’s Concerto for Orchestra, and Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Kontakte). Generating momentum across its three movements, it is a hugely impressive work, and the one that best encapsulates the way in which Banks’s serial writing combines with dramatic intensity. The violin writing is focused and virtuosic; the orchestra features blocks of glissandi and is often percussive, and it rarely fulfils its traditional role of simply accompanying the soloist. The work is serial, but the series is unusual for Banks, being based on two hexachords that are [012345] clusters: D, C-sharp, E, B, E-flat, C; A, G, F-sharp, A-flat, F, B-flat. Banks considers the row to consist of four trichords, which are then reordered to generate a further row (for the second movement), which in turn is reordered in a more complex way to form a third row (for the third movement). Working with the initial row in trichords enables Banks to form materials that are octatonic (the trichords being [013], [014], [013], and [025]). This is something that Banks was thinking through as he planned the early stages of the piece, and it is found in measures 24 and 25 of the score, for example, where the strings are divided and their chords are derived from six interlocking diminished chords. As in many of Banks’s other pieces, the interval of a semitone predominates in a motivic fashion, but the particular arrangement of the row enables octatonic scalefragments more readily than the larger intervals in the rows of some of the other compositions, and Banks here takes the opportunity to write close-voiced harmonies in a way that his earlier horn concerto (to be discussed below), does not. Whereas the Horn Concerto works to separate the horn from the orchestra, to enable its projection, the Violin Concerto mixes the violin within the strings. The orchestral strings are frequently divided; at the start the first and second violins are both divided into six desks, and from measure 113 the strings are entirely divided, each instrument playing a different harmonic, and each harmonic rapidly moving to the next by glissando. This mass of sound represents the confidence that Banks had in writing for strings, derived almost entirely from the extensive experience that he had gained writing film music for orchestras that included some of the best players in London.17 The opening of the Violin Concerto is also a good example of the way in which Banks would often layer different row-forms homorhythmically to create close-voiced parallel movement. In the case of the 1968 Violin Concerto,

Don Banks  101 this is a further way of massing sound; in the 1975 String Quartet, the layering is a way of being ambivalent about the precise row-form that is used, since the multiple possibilities promote motifs over serial structures. The predominant motif in the Violin Concerto is a [013] set, which is used melodically throughout the piece alongside the usual isolated semitones. The concerto also contains some of the canonic writing that Banks practised as a student of Dallapiccola, here extended to a formal level of palindromes and rondos. Peter Porter described the violin’s line as a kebab’s ‘skewer’, a summary that Banks often repeated, and the work is indeed an exploration of the relationship between solo violin and orchestra. The first movement is essentially a violin cadenza that is ‘interrupted’ by the orchestra. In the second movement the violin works closely with the orchestra. The third movement, as Banks’s programme note describes it, ‘combines the three aspects of the relationship: domination, opposition, and collaboration’.18 The relationship is mostly agonistic, and mostly the violin wins. Banks composed two important works for horn. The first is a trio for horn, violin, and piano, written in 1962 for the Edinburgh Festival, where it was paired with Brahms’s Trio in E-flat Major, op. 40. Banks’s piece was well received. The Sunday Times wrote that ‘is a beautifully composed piece, ingenious in structure, exemplary in texture, and attractive in material’.19 The Glasgow Herald commented that Banks was ‘a thoughtful composer whose work is always arresting’.20 Noting the Australian connection between Banks and the performers, the Edinburgh Evening News reported: ‘It was a Commonwealth triumph for Australianborn composers and Barry Tuckwell, horn, and Australia-trained Maureen Jones, piano, and Brenton Langbein, violin’.21 In a review of the Argo recording for Tempo, Anthony Payne commented that ‘Banks’s Horn Trio embodies a warm and attractively romantic atonality from a composer whose film music is better known than his work in the concert and recital halls’.22 This gives some indication of how Banks was regarded in the mid to late 1960s, which is a time when he was not entirely unknown in the concert and recital halls. In 1968 Tempo’s rival publication, The Musical Times, published an article by William Mann headlined ‘The Music of Don Banks’,23 which brought readers familiar with Banks’s film scores and arrangements of light music up-to-date with his concert works. Banks’s next work for Tuckwell was the Horn Concerto (1966), which was commissioned by the Peter Stuyvesant Foundation for the London Symphony Orchestra, the orchestra with which Tuckwell played principal horn. The row used in the Horn Concerto is similar to that of the Sonata da camera, alternating [012] and [016] trichords, and thus the motifs used are similar. The opening, however, makes a clearer use of the instruments for delineating the motifs than does the Sonata: the wind instruments have the [012] motif, and the strings have the [016] motif. The general trajectory of the opening bars is upward, with the winds and strings alternating motifs. It is a clever opening, since Banks tends to place the larger intervals in the lower registers, and so the motifs contribute to good orchestrational practice for achieving clarity. The horn enters with both motifs played in succession, and, indeed, combining them into a single motif that functions as

102  Michael Hooper such throughout the piece. Banks then introduces a ‘hunting call’ motif played by stopped horn, although it, too, as [0156], is a transformation of the previous motivic material. More interesting is the way Banks treats the horn dramatically. His earliest notes for the piece refer to an ‘aria’ and ‘recitative’ structure, and most of the horn part features the freedom that one would expect from an operatic treatment. The horn is often literally free in its rhythms, and sometimes its rhythmic freedom is composed and notated  – either way, the effect is largely the same. The first cadenza is really a recitative, played over a held string chord, although elsewhere there is evidence of a difference between ‘recitativo accompagnato’ and ‘recitativo secco’. This solves the problem of keeping the horn audible, even when it plays in the middle and low registers. Indeed, the fifth section is an exploration of the horn’s lowest register, which is unusual in a concerto, and overall the piece tends to avoid the horn’s highest register, in part because Banks is interested in moving rapidly around the middle of the instrument’s range, with quick passagework, trills, and detailed articulation, as well as extensive use of stopped and half-stopped playing. It is also for the middle of the horn’s range that Banks writes most of the lyrical arias. Banks’s approach to the Horn Concerto projects the soloist as a musical agent, which adds to the rhetorical drama of the work’s single-movement form. It is significant that this piece was written for Barry Tuckwell, who at the time was the most virtuosic of horn players, and who was also Australian. Although that is a point easily overemphasised, it reminds us that Banks worked closely with other Australians living in London. From the early 1950s he organised the Australian Musical Association with Margaret Sutherland. He also collaborated with the Australian poet Peter Porter, who wrote the libretto for Tirade (1968), first performed in Paris at the Centre de Musique and conducted by Banks’s close friend Keith Humble (who had founded the centre as part of the American Center for Students and Artists in Paris). Tirade is a commentary on Australia ‘Present, Past, and Future’, and also a critique of Australian culture. The libretto is deliberately rhetorical and non-dramatic, and its rejection of drama makes the point that the ‘present’ is not an intermediary between the past and the future; rather, the libretto in effect says, the past lingers on in a set of unchanging, stereotypical ‘myths’, with the ‘future’ being the present, as ‘development’ leads Australia to yet more mining, land clearing, and surfing. Despite the libretto’s non-dramatic qualities, the music is dramatic, which is what makes the work as a whole satirical. Banks’s chance to change Australian musical culture came in 1972. Banks had returned to Australia briefly in 1970, at the invitation of Frank Callaway, who was a professor of music at the University of Western Australia in Perth. He again returned to Australia in 1972, as a Creative Arts Fellow. In December  1972 a national election brought Gough Whitlam’s Labor government to power, and with it came a swift increase in funding for the arts. Banks was invited by the Prime Minister to chair the Music Board of the newly created Australian Council for the Arts, a position that was announced on Australia Day (26 January) 1973. Banks

Don Banks  103 had not been expecting an appointment that gave him the resources to significantly reshape musical organisations in Australia; he quickly brought the (Australian) promoter James Murdoch home from England, and together they founded the Australian Music Centre, which was formally funded in February 1975. During this period Banks was mostly concerned with the creation of the kind of infrastructure that he had experienced – and, indeed, led – in London. In Australia, this came at the cost of time for composing. He wrote few works during the mid1970s, and none as substantial as what he had produced in London. Nevertheless, the time was a significant one for Banks as an administrator, and it was also a time during which he supported the creation of new resources for electronic music. In 1968 Banks approached the British engineer Peter Zinovieff and asked him to build a portable synthesiser. (Banks had first studied electronic music at a summer school in Gravesano, Switzerland, in 1956, and had become much more interested in electronic music following a performance of Mario Davidovsky’s Synchronisms No. 2 organised by Humble at his Centre de Musique.24) The instrument was built by Zinovieff, David Cockerell, and Tristram Cary, and it was called the Don Banks Music Box. When Banks was in Australia, heading the Music Board, he was also employed by the Canberra School of Music to establish its electronic music studio. Banks was therefore central in supporting Tony Furse’s production of the QASAR M8, commissioning the instrument for the Canberra School of Music, and supporting Furse’s work through two large Australia Council grants. Furse’s polyphonic digital synthesiser was significantly more capable, and much cheaper, than any of the other products on the market, and it led directly to the Fairlight CMI. Most of the music that Banks wrote for electronic instruments is speculative rather than honed, exploring the capabilities of the new resources. In working through these possibilities Banks sought to reconcile the stylistic differences between his background in jazz and the serial music that he had lately been writing. His first composition to explore possible connections was a ‘third stream’ piece titled Meeting Place (1970). This was commissioned by the London Sinfonietta, and included that ensemble’s players alongside jazz musicians, with Banks himself playing the VCS3. According to Nicole Saintilan, Banks made good use of the instrument’s optional keyboard controller: The VCS3 could be played as a jazz keyboard but could also provide sounds that mimic and develop the acoustic sounds. . . . To achieve this link, Banks dispersed the sound of the VCS3 through two speakers, one placed in the middle of each performing group.25 Later compositions such as Equation III (1972) and Benedictus (1976) also brought together jazz and chamber ensembles, and they did so with increasingly large numbers of electronic instruments. In 1978 Banks was appointed head of composition at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music. By this time he was ill with cancer, and he composed little music during the final part of his career. His last work is ‘An Australian Entertainment’,

104  Michael Hooper commissioned by Musica Viva for the Kings Singers to perform on their Australian tour. Although it is sometimes considered a return to Banks’s earlier ‘light’ style, his correspondence suggests that the music is perhaps more political than its title suggests. Although his musical output crossed styles more readily than did that of many of his contemporaries, Banks remained a figure who was widely respected, including for the way in which he reformed Australia’s funding for the arts.

Notes 1 Hazel De Berg and Don Banks, Donald Banks Interviewed by Hazel de Berg in the Hazel de Berg Collection (1972), available at http://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-214657506, Session 2, 12′. 2 Randall D. Larson, Music from the House of Hammer (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 1996), 51. 3 For the lists of Banks’s music, and a discussion of the sources for his music that are held in the National Library of Australia, see Graham Hair, Finding Aid (Canberra: National Library of Australia, 2007). Also see Graham Hair, Don Banks, Australian Composer: Eleven Sketches (Amaroo, ACT: Southern Voices, 2007), available at www.n-ism.org/ Papers/graham_DB-11.pdf. For an overview of Banks’s work for Hammer, see David Huckvale, Hammer Film Scores and the Musical Avant-Garde (Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Company, 2008). 4 De Berg and Banks, Donald Banks Interviewed by Hazel de Berg in the Hazel de Berg Collection. Session 1, 3′. 5 Bruce Johnson, The Inaudible Music: Jazz, Gender and. Australian Modernity (Sydney: Currency Press, 2000), 50. 6 Here Johnson cites Richard Haese, Rebels and Precursors: The Revolutionary Years in Australian Art (Ringwood, VA: Penguin, 1981), p. 72. 7 Johnson, The Inaudible Music, 51. 8 Bayan Northcott, ‘A Not-So-Little Music: Goehr’s op. 16 as Paradigm’, in Sing, Ariel: Essays and Thoughts for Alexander Goehr’s Seventieth Birthday, ed. Alison Latham (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), 167. 9 Edward Venn, The Music of Hugh Wood (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 33. 10 Papers of Don Banks, National Library of Australia, MS6830. Box 34. 11 Ibid. 12 Banks to Seiber, 24 February 1953. Papers of Don Banks, National Library of Australia, MS6830. Box 36. 13 Bradley Cummings, ‘Psalm 70: Don Banks’s First Essay in Twelve-Tone Composition’, in Modernism in Australian Music, 1950–2000: Eight Case Studies, ed. Graham Hair (Amaroo, ACT: Southern Voices, 2004), 77–94. 14 Ibid., 94. 15 Larson, Music from the House of Hammer, 53. 16 Banks to Donald Hazelwood, 21 August 1975. Papers of Don Banks, National Library of Australia, MS6830. Box 36. 17 De Bergand and Banks, Donald Banks Interviewed by Hazel de Berg in the Hazel de Berg Collection. Session 2, 13′. 18 Papers of Don Banks, National Library of Australia, MS6830. Folio 8. 19 D. S. T., ‘Tippet and Don Banks’, Sunday Times, 9 September 1962. 20 R. C., ‘Performance of Warmth and Feeling’, Glasgow Herald, 1 September 1962. 21 Anon, ‘Australians Win the Musical “Ashes” ’, Edinburgh Evening News, September 1962. 22 Anthony Payne, ‘Record Guide’, Tempo, 79 January 1967, 20–2.

Don Banks  105 23 William Mann, ‘The Music of Don Banks’, The Musical Times 109/1506 (1968), 719–21. 24 For a full account of this part of Banks’s history, see Nicole Saintilan, ‘The Electronic Music of Don Banks’ (PhD thesis, University of New South Wales, 2017). See also James Gardener, ‘The Don Banks Music Box to the Putney: The Genesis and Development of the VCS3 Synthesiser’, Organised Sound 22, no. 2 (2017), 217–27. 25 Saintilan, ‘The Electronic Music of Don Banks’, 76.

9 Modern composer off the screen Leonard Rosenman’s concert music Reba A. Wissner Known mostly for his film and television music, Leonard Rosenman (1924–2008) first established himself as a composer of serious music for the concert stage. Like many other composers of his day, he composed avant-garde and electroacoustic music, writing in almost every genre and arranging some of his film scores into concert suites. This chapter chronicles Rosenman’s career as a concert composer and examines the works associated with it through an exploration of his interviews and lectures and a study of his manuscript scores housed at the Fales Library and Special Collections of New York University. Rosenman, who originally sought to be a painter, had a storied career as a concert composer that was often overshadowed by his career in film and television. He studied both piano and music theory with Julius Herford at the behest of Lukas Foss and then, after an honourable discharge from the army, enrolled at the University of California, Los Angeles, where he met Arnold Schoenberg.1 He then studied composition at the University of California, Berkeley, where he took composition classes with Roger Sessions and Ernst Bloch, earned his bachelor’s degree, and later joined the composition faculty.2 In 1952 he won a Margaret Lee Crofts scholarship to study with Luigi Dallapiccola at Tanglewood; in 1953 he returned there as composer-in-residence at the Berkshire Music Center.3 He moved to New York City and began his film career while he was James Dean’s piano teacher: director Elia Kazan, having spoken to Dean about his teacher, approached him to write the score for his first film, East of Eden (1955), and after some coaxing by Leonard Bernstein and Aaron Copland – who told him to score the film and in effect ‘take the money and run’ – he reluctantly agreed.4 Rosenman often referred to his career as ‘schizophrenic’ because he worked simultaneously as both a concert composer and a film composer.5 Critics recognised this, with one calling him ‘a compositional Jekyll and Hyde’.6 He remarked that he was referred to as a ‘so-called modern composer off the screen’, given that the avant-garde sound of his concert music often did not translate into his film music.7 Until about 1990 his concert works were mainly atonal, and he credited his second violin concerto with synthesising his two musical personalities – film and concert music – into one.8 He observed that, for him, the biggest difference between composing concert music and film music was that in writing concert music he was not held to time, dialogue, or visual constraints as he was in film.9

Leonard Rosenman  107 Part of his dissatisfaction in working in the realm of films resulted from his lack of autonomy: ‘When a [symphony] conductor asks you to change something, you tell him [off]. When a filmmaker asks you to change something, whether it’s enlightened or ignorant, the allegiance [must be] toward the film’.10 He described his career as a concert composer as a ‘felicitous arrangement with filmmakers’, because those composers who only write film music would be likely to give filmmakers something less original than the composer who also writes concert music.11 Yet he never really considered anything other than concert music to be real music, since the composition of film music was always dictated by outside parameters.12 Film composition did, however, teach Rosenman a lot about composing concert music. He mentioned that he often used his film scores as a laboratory for things that he wanted to try in his concert pieces. If they were successful, he employed them, he said; if not, then he would not incorporate them into his concert music. For example, in his violin concerto he wanted to use four female singers, although not in the context of a chorus; he tried them out in the score for the film on which he was currently working, Robocop 2, and when they worked well enough in the film he incorporated them into the concerto.13 For Rosenman, composing concert music was a much longer process than film composition. He could write a piece for television in a day while a concert piece would take him a year.14 Due to a lack of confidence, before Chamber Music IV (1976) he would often write 500 to 1,000 pages of sketches for a single concert work. Since he was tasked with writing Chamber Music IV at the same time that he worked on his film score for Sybil (1976), he did not have time for this, and he finished both pieces in five weeks without making a single sketch. He claimed that, after this, he would never again sketch out a piece, although among his papers there are indeed sketches for some of his later concert pieces.15 He credited film music composition, because the performances were so immediate, with teaching him something about the kind of music he wanted to write for the concert stage.16 Rosenman said that he did not begin his concert pieces tentatively; the music has drama from beginning to end, and this, he said, stems from the influence of film.17 He remarked that he felt that all of his concert pieces were meant to be played live and that the relationship between the piece and the audience was of the utmost importance.18 For this reason, he was reluctant to allow his film music to be played on the concert stage unless he rewrote the music completely as a standalone concert suite, which he did for five of his film scores.19 Rosenman often mentioned that he had five major performances in New York in the year his first three films – East of Eden, The Cobweb, and Rebel Without a Cause – were released. After the films’ premieres, however, his concert works went unperformed for twenty years, and he never had performances on the West Coast. Unlike other film composers who thrived in the concert hall, Rosenman suffered, finding that once he began writing scores for film and television he was rarely able to have his concert music performed. When it was performed, critics typically compared it to his film and television music, causing him to spiral into depression and retract some of the concert works.20 More often than not, he said, once his film career began critics tended to consider his concert works in the

108  Reba A. Wissner shadow of his film works. He felt that his concert career did not get back on track until he was about 73 years old.21 On average, Rosenman composed music for one film per year and spent the majority of his time working on his concert music.22 He remarked that at the time that he composed the scores for East of Eden, The Cobweb, and Rebel Without a Cause, he would often take time off from working on films for one to four years so that he could concentrate on composing concert music.23 He noted in 1983 that his attitudes towards writing film music were ‘ambivalent’ until that point and that he preferred to spend his time writing concert music.24 According to a friend of his, many of his concert pieces were not written on commission but, rather, on spec. He would find places for the work to be performed only after its completion.25 Rosenman’s concert pieces for the most part involve contrapuntally complex passages and are filled with dissonance and chromaticism.26 His concert works are challenging, with at least one premiere postponed due to insufficient preparation time.27 Some of his teachers and mentors influenced his concert works; for instance, the word ‘elaborations’, which is found in two of his titles, is one that Schoenberg often used, and one can find Schoenbergian Klangfarben techniques in Rosenman’s Chamber Music I (1959) and Chamber Music II (1968). The influence of Roger Sessions can also be heard. Notably, Rosenman reworked pre-existing pieces by other composers in his concert music. His Threnody on a Song by K. R. (1971), for example, was a memorial piece to his second wife, jazz composer Kay Rosenman. As Rosenman mourned Kay’s death, his friend and fellow composer William Kraft suggested to him that he consider writing a memorial piece for her in order to give him a sense of catharsis. Given that Kay was a songwriter, Rosenman decided to compose a work that used one of her original songs.28 The resulting work, a recomposition and arrangement of Kay’s 1961 ‘Just Blame Spring’, is very much in the jazz style. Rosenman remarked that his approach to writing the piece, in which he ‘made a gigantic harmonic extension of one of her tunes’, was very much inspired by Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Hymnen (1966–67).29 He compared his use of ‘Just Blame Spring’ in the Threnody to Alban Berg’s use of J. S. Bach’s ‘Es ist genug’ in his 1935 Violin Concerto, which is also a memorial piece.30 In the program notes to the world premiere of the Threnody, Rosenman wrote that in that piece he utilised the same techniques he would use a decade later in his Foci I. He followed Edward Elgar’s variation form in the Enigma Variations (1898–99),31 and he gave an insight into the process of incorporating Kay’s song into the piece by using it as a harmonic basis in which sections of the song were truncated or superimposed on other sections. He used the song in a motivic way and expanded it by initially focusing on the melody and then stretching it out as the piece progressed.32 He remarked that he chose to use Kay’s song because he was fascinated by its harmonic structure and that, although the song’s melody is diatonic, he treated it as the basis for chromatic variation.33 Rosenman included a Bach chorale melody in his Chamber Music I. Here, he used Hauptstimme and Nebenstimme notation in the theme and variations movement; in the fourth variation, he indicated that the Hauptstimme is the

Leonard Rosenman  109 chorale melody from Bach’s ‘Durch Adams Fall ist ganz verderbt’.34 Composed at the same time he worked on the score for the independent film The Savage Eye,35 Rosenman’s Chamber Music I is infused with pervasive jazz rhythms and instrumentation, yet the piece is modelled on Schoenberg’s Kammersymphonie, op. 9 (1906–07),36 and in the sixth variation the flute and celesta timbres are evocative of the third movement of Schoenberg’s Fünf Orchesterstücke, op. 16 (1909).37 With the exception of his withdrawn works, his Chamber Music II and his Looking Back at Faded Chandeliers, all of the manuscripts of Rosenman’s concert works reside at New York University; some exist only in parts, while some include both parts and scores.38 According to his widow, Rosenman never destroyed anything that he composed, so the meaning of the term ‘withdrawn’ in lists of his concert works remains unclear.39 In any case, Rosenman’s manuscripts contain copious details about how he intended his works to be performed.

**** Although Rosenman composed in most genres, his most acclaimed works were for voice. Most of these were settings of Spanish poems by Federico García Lorca, but he also wrote pieces that set poems by Hugo Wolf and German translations of poetry by Albert Giraud. The Six Songs on Texts of Lorca (1952, rev. 1954) was commissioned by the Composer’s Forum and composed during Rosenman’s studies with Roger Sessions.40 Rosenman’s approach to composing Lorca Revisited was unique. ‘I have attempted to take four poems of Lorca and create musical rather than literary backstories and extended epilogues for them’, he wrote in the foreword to the score. ‘The resulting relationships between the vocal and instrumental parts play the roles of the vocalist’s fellow characters in an almost operatic drama’.41 This work, like Rosenman’s other vocal works, were operatic in style, even when written for just a solo singer. The second setting of Lorca’s texts was Chamber Music II, for singer, electronic tape, and ten musicians, which Rosenman called ‘a monodrama with symphonic formal design’.42 In a radio interview, he was deliberate in describing the work, noting that was his first non-dodecaphonic work. Nevertheless, he said, upon first encountering it his fellow composer Milton Babbitt heard it as a twelvetone work, even though it was not; likely this was because of the work’s cadential structures and intervallic relationships.43 Rosenman composed the tape part using a Moog synthesiser, an Eltrosans frequency shift, and a ring modulator; the tape part included various echo effects and divided the resulting sound among ten to twelve speakers spread around the performance space.44 One of Rosenman’s vocal works that does not use a Lorca text is Looking Back at Faded Chandeliers (1990). This was part of the Pierrot Project, an effort by the University of Southern California’s Arnold Schoenberg Institute to commission composers to set poems by Albert Giraud (often in their German translation by Otto Erich Hartleben) that Schoenberg had not used for his Pierrot lunaire.

110  Reba A. Wissner As Schoenberg did in Pierrot lunaire, Rosenman linked his Giraud songs (‘Die Estrade’ [The Platform], ‘Moquerie’ [Mockery], and ‘Absinth’ [Absinthe]) both tonally and intervallically. Following Schoenberg’s example, Rosenman used flutter tonguing and glissandi, but he avoided Schoenberg’s characteristic Sprechstimme technique. And in ‘Absinth’ he added a sense of drama by requiring the singer to drink from a mock glass of absinthe and feign a gradual inebriation.45 One reviewer, however, remarked that ‘the gesture of sipping from a glass of absinthe fell a little flat’.46 Another of Rosenman’s vocal works not based on Lorca’s poetry is the song cycle Time Travel: Hugo Wolf to Song at Sunset (1996). Sabine Feisst notes that the cycle comprises songs by Hugo Wolf that are ‘linked by newly composed parts in which the soprano is treated instrumentally and sometimes seated with the woodwinds, sometimes with the brass instruments’ and in which ‘the instrumental parts can be viewed as intermezzi to the Wolf songs, or rather the Wolf songs serve as introductions to Rosenman’s original sections’.47 In this work, Rosenman arranges four of Wolf’s songs – ‘Auch kleine Dinge’, ‘Mein Liebster ist so klein’, ‘Lebe wohl’, and ‘Leid vom Winde’ – in addition to setting an excerpt from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, ‘Sun at Sunset’.48 Rosenman treats the singer as a full member of the ensemble and uses the timbres of her voice in each movement to match her with a specific instrument family. Rosenman wrote few works for solo instrument, and all of these were for piano. One of them, Theme and Elaborations, was written for his first wife, Adele Rosenman49; the title uses Schoenberg’s term ‘elaborations’ rather than the more familiar ‘variations’. Rosenman composed a Piano Sonata, which was withdrawn. He also wrote three two-part inventions – Three Piano Pieces – and a solo piano piece called ‘Lenny’s Theme’, of which only the first page survives50; it is not clear whether ‘Lenny’s Theme’ was self-referential or based on a theme by Leonard Bernstein. Rosenman dedicated his Duo for Two Pianos (1975) to composer and pianist Richard Rodney Bennett. The manuscript includes two pages of copious handwritten performance notes, complete with musical examples and drawings of how to prepare the piano using dowels and chains.51 The very first comment in the score indicates that Rosenman conceived of the work as a dramatic piece; it specifies that during the performance the two pianos must as far from one another as possible because the piece requires both maximum sound separation and exaggerated cueing between the players, the latter of which is necessary to create anticipation and tension in the piece.52 Rosenman continued this idea in his fourth annotation: ‘The stage behavior of the executants is of vital importance in the piece. When not playing, the performer is to freeze into immobility’.53 The dramatic effect established by the performer is thus just as crucial as is the musical effect.

**** Of all his concert works, Rosenman’s larger ensemble pieces received the most performances. One of these works was Foci I, commissioned by James H. Randall

Leonard Rosenman  111 for the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra and New York’s YMHA Orchestra in honour of his children54 and later expanded by Rosenman into a larger work with more strings and ‘a reworking of structural aspects of balance and timbre’.55 For the world premiere of the revised version of Foci I in 1983, Rosenman noted that he wrote the piece because he was an amateur astronomer and that an ‘infinite focus’ in astronomy is only limited by one’s imagination. Rosenman decided to base the piece on a single chord, the opening B major sonority, which he likened to the astronomical focus on one planet or star when viewed through a telescope.56 He wrote that Foci I ‘is the first of a projected series of pieces dealing with the magnification, microfication, and the transitions between [focal] processes’.57 He explains that there are four types of foci used in the piece: 1. Alterations of the original material in vertical (monophonic) style by means of inversions, transposition, timbre, and microtonality; 2. Narrowing the field of vision by concentrating on smaller vertical sections within the original chord, such as intervals and characteristic triadic formations; 3. Allowing members of the original chord to become independent, thus elaborating certain foci as horizontal (polyphonic) entities; 4. Exploration of soloistic and virtuoso aspects of lines deriving from the original material.58 The piece, therefore, is marked by the different ways in which Rosenman could alter the opening sonority of the work into a large-scale concert piece. One of Rosenman’s last works was his only symphony, the 1999 Symphony No. 1, of Dinosaurs. According to the notes in the score, before the performance a palaeontologist should give a single fifteen- to twenty-minute lecture on each of the work’s five movements prior to the performance beginning. The lecture should not actually be about the music but, rather, about the evolution of dinosaurs suggested by each movement’s title.59 The work involves a full orchestra and a computer equipped with four speakers, each of which plays a different kind of bird sound in the final movement’s ‘concert aria’; the choice of birds is left to the performers, and it is their job to obtain the recordings. The musical themes of the Symphony No. 1 are developed by Rosenman’s trademark technique of very slow-moving root progressions that give the piece a sense of unity as they are developed throughout the work.60 Rosenman’s final work, A Walk in New York, was uncompleted and undated. The archive at New York University contains the remnants of an incomplete movement as well as sketches for the work. The piece was intended for a chamber orchestra comprising winds, horns, trumpets, percussion, harp, piano, and strings. As Feisst notes, the work was to include ‘various sounds of the city including Chinese, Spanish, and Jewish songs, a blues, and a siren’.61

**** As readers have no doubt come to realise by this point, some of Rosenman’s titles are misnomers. When he spoke about the works in the Chamber Music series he

112  Reba A. Wissner noted that they are not chamber pieces in the way one might expect. Rather, they are concertos for small orchestra and soloist. Some of his pieces were written on commission for a specific performer or ensemble. But, as a friend of his noted, for the majority of his pieces, he first wrote it and then found a place for it to be performed.62 There are cases, however, when Rosenman spoke about commissions that never actually occurred. He noted in an interview, for example, that the New York Philharmonic commissioned a second piece in his Foci series, but the New York Philharmonic archives reveal no record of a commission for any piece by Rosenman and no record of there ever being a discussion of one (the only Rosenman piece ever performed by the Philharmonic was the 1983 revised version of Foci I63). In another interview, Rosenman remarked that the Kronos Quartet commissioned Foci II, but that commission seems never to have happened.64 Similarly, Rosenman stated that the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra had commissioned him to write a piece, but the archives contain no such record. Likewise, an interview in 1984 reported that a new work by Rosenman titled Alter Ego, for double viola, chamber orchestra, and computer, would premiere on 24 January 1985, but there is no record of this work or any performance of it.65 Rosenman was commissioned to write Fanfare 1969 (in his papers titled Fanfare for Eight Trumpets) as part of a series of seven short pieces by seven composers for four pairs of trumpets. Commissioned as part of a joint recital for trumpeter Thomas Stevens and trombonist Miles Anderson, both of the Los Angeles Philharmonic,66 it features an ensemble divided into two antiphonal choirs that ‘handle the rhythmically complex material in a contrasting manner’.67 In 1976 bassist Buell Neidlinger, in conjunction with the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra and the National Endowment for the Arts,68 commissioned Chamber Music IV, which Rosenman in multiple interviews stated was actually a double bass concerto with a second bass serving as a reinforcement to the soloist.69 On the title page of the handwritten score, Rosenman noted that the piece was for four string quartets, double bass soloist, and a second, supporting double bass. Like many of the composer’s manuscripts, this one includes the arrangement in which the musicians should sit, and Rosenman also specifies that the solo bass should be miked using a Barcus Berry pickup and amp/speaker in order for the dynamic changes to be balanced with the rest of the ensemble.70 The score contains an appendix that has the cadenzas written out should the players choose not to improvise.71 Chamber Music IV contains cadenzas for both the bass soloist and the secondary bassist. Rosenman explained that some parts of the piece are indeed to be improvised, but the work contains very specific parameters for the improvisation, such as the range in which the performer must remain and the pitches he can use. Recounting the origins of the work, Rosenman said that while Neidlinger was showing him the capabilities of the bass he realised that there was an inch and a half between the finger positions for C and C-sharp. He asked Neidlinger what was in between those two notes, and Neidlinger replied that there was a lot. Rosenman discovered that on the double bass there were easily obtainable microtones whose timbres were different to those of the conventional semitones.72

Leonard Rosenman  113 Rosenman elaborated on this use of microtonality in another interview, commenting that exploring microtonality affected the way he heard music. For a month after he had Neidlinger play the microtones during their session, he used a synthesiser to train his ear to hear complicated scales of microtones, and for a while this caused him to hear everything ‘out of tune’.73 For Chamber Music IV, he used spatial notation but also developed a graphic notation that represented the microtones, in this case, one-sixth of a tone sharp, one-third tone of a tone sharp or flat, and a quarter-tone sharp or flat.74 Like Chamber Music IV, Chamber Music V (1979) features spatial notation in which note heads are written either close together or far apart, depending on the tempo. Chamber Music V also includes microtonality and is scored for piano solo obligato, flute, B-flat clarinet, two percussionists, violin, and cello.

**** Along with Rosenman’s extant works, there are some that are missing or were never completed. As a young composer, Rosenman in 1954 was awarded a commission to write an opera for the Tanglewood Festival,75 but it seems that he either withdrew the work or did not complete it; there is no documented performance, and manuscript sketches or score do not exist. According to an e-mail from an unidentified friend of Rosenman, the composer told him numerous times that the Koussevitzky Foundation commissioned the opera, intended to be based on texts by Thomas Mann, but he never completed it.76 Rosenman reportedly began a oneact opera titled Cipolla the Great with a libretto by Thomas Mann, but it is unclear if this is the same opera that he intended to write for Tanglewood.77 According to Rosenman’s widow, the composer at this time lived with James Dean; when Dean died in an automobile accident in 1955, Rosenman, who had been out of town, rushed back to their shared apartment only to find it looted; his only score for the in-progress opera was missing, and it remains unrecovered.78 Rosenman’s withdrawn works include the Concertino for Piano and Woodwinds (1948); a Piano Sonata (1948); a ‘mixed media’ piece for actors, singers, dancers, tapes, and movie clips titled A Short History of Civilization, or the Death of Vaudeville (1972)79; Chamber Music III (1976); and an undated and incomplete Trio for Violin, Piano, and Cello. Two of Rosenman’s early compositions do not survive; these are his saxophone quartet and an early string quartet, both of which were heavily critiqued by Schoenberg.80 According to Rosenman’s widow, Judie Gregg Rosenman, the composer did not destroy any of his music, so what happened to these early works remains a mystery.81 Rosenman is said to have composed music for plays that were mounted in the New York, but there is no evidence of this.82 Mrs. Rosenman observed that ‘the lack of attention to his concert work never caused him to question its quality’.83 In the final years of his life, she noted, Rosenman, struck by frontotemporal dementia, had to stop giving interviews, but he never stopped composing, and thus his final few works remain incomplete. Rosenman died of a heart attack in 2008, at age 83. He was remembered fondly by many, especially his principal copyist, Wayne Kiser, who remarked that ‘as his

114  Reba A. Wissner copyist, I was plunged into a challenging world of complex rhythms, powerful chord clusters, unforgettable themes and instrumental scores that rivalled those of Mahler’.84 In e-mail correspondence with me, Mrs. Rosenman made ‘a personal, wifely observation’, elucidating that ‘in spite of the Oscars, the Emmys and all the accolades, deep down Leonard never considered himself a real success because the success he enjoyed in Hollywood (and don’t get me wrong, enjoy it he did) wasn’t the success he most craved’.85 This sentiment alone is the biggest tragedy of Leonard Rosenman’s concert-hall career.

Notes 1 Sabine M. Feisst, ‘Serving Two Masters: Rosenman’s Music for Films and the Concert Hall’, The Cue Sheet 23, nos. 1–2 (2008), 31. 2 Program Notes to Los Angeles Philharmonic, Composer’s Choice Concert, 17 February 1981, 2. David Schwartz, ‘An Interview with Leonard Rosenman’, The Cue Sheet 23, nos. 1–2 (2008), 46. 3 Feisst, ‘Serving Two Masters’, 33. Christopher Palmer and Fred Steiner, ‘Leonard Rosenman’, in Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Laura Macy, available at www.grovemusic.com. E-mail correspondence with Judie Gregg Rosenman, 5 June 2017. 4 Schwartz, ‘An Interview with Leonard Rosenman’, 46. 5 Ibid., 49. 6 Martin Bernheimer, ‘Monday Evening Concerts Open’, Los Angeles Times, 15 October 1980, 4. 7 Randall D. Larson, ‘An Interview with Leonard Rosenman’, Cinema Score 15 (1987), available at www.runmovies.eu/leonard-rosenman-on-scoring-star-trek-iv/ 8 David Wright, program notes for Leonard Rosenman, ‘Concerto for Violin and Orchestra II’, Carnegie Hall, 11 May 1997, 20–1. 9 Vernon Scott, ‘Film Scores Modern Showcase for Composers’, Arlington Heights Daily Herald (Suburban Chicago), 13 August 1990, 2 and 5. 10 Cynthia Kirk, ‘Composer Juggles Film Work, Serious Music in Celluloid Jungle’, Variety, 25 May 1983, 71. 11 Charles Amirkhanian, ‘WKPFA Morning Concert: The Music of Leonard Rosenman’, 30 June 1989, available at https://archive.org/details/MC_1989_06_03 12 Scott, ‘Film Scores Modern Showcase for Composers’, 2 and 5. 13 Wolfgang Breyer, ‘An Interview with Leonard Rosenman’, Soundtrack Magazine 14, no. 55 (1999), available at www.runmovies.eu/leonard-rosenman/ 14 Lee Margulies, ‘TV Music Understated Act’, The Jackson Sun, 14 January 1975, 8-A. 15 Leonard Rosenman, ‘USC Composers’ Forum at ASI’, 2 December 1988, available at https://archive.org/details/calasus_000036/ 16 Josef Woodard, ‘Scoring Some More Respect: Film Composers, Looked Down Upon by Some in the Concert Music Crowd, Are Featured in Their Own New Music Festival’, Los Angeles Times, 4 June 1998, 53. 17 Amirkhanian, ‘WKPFA Morning Concert’. 18 Ibid. 19 These works are East of Eden, Rebel Without a Cause, Fantastic Voyage, The Lord of the Rings, and Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. See Feisst, ‘Serving Two Masters’, 38. 20 Joan Peyser, ‘Composer Seeks Artistic Prestige After Hollywood’, New York Times, 29 August 1982, A15. 21 Jim Beckerman, ‘Never in the Background: Film Composer Leonard Rosenman Has Always Taken His Work Seriously’, The Record (Bergen County, NJ), 12 September 1997, Y03.

Leonard Rosenman  115 22 Larson, ‘An Interview with Leonard Rosenman’. 23 Royal S. Brown, liner notes for Leonard Rosenman, East of Eden, Rebel Without a Cause (Nonesuch Records, 7940202, 1997). 24 Kirk, ‘Composer Juggles Film Work, Serious Music’. 25 E-mail correspondence, Judie Gregg Rosenman, 13 June 2017. 26 Feisst, ‘Serving Two Masters’, 20. 27 ‘Rosenman Premiere Postponed’, Los Angeles Times, 6 March 1981, VI, 6, 10. 28 Peyser, ‘Composer Seeks Artistic Prestige’. 29 Ibid. 30 Leonard Rosenman, program notes for Threnody on a Song by K.R., Los Angeles Philharmonic Contempo71 Concert, 6 May 1971, 13. 31 Ibid. 32 Ibid. 33 Ibid. 34 Chamber Music I, 1960; Leonard Rosenman Papers; MSS 212; series II; box 11; folder 1; Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University Libraries. 35 Judging from the timing and sound, Rosenman also composed these two works at the same time as his only Twilight Zone score, for ‘And When the Sky Was Opened’ (1959). 36 Jessica Payette, ‘Seismographic Screams: Erwartung’s Reverberations Through Twentieth-Century Culture’ (Ph.D. diss., Stanford University, 2008), 249. 37 Ibid., 262. 38 Rosenman’s papers do contain a manuscript score of the second piece of Looking Back at Faded Chandeliers, ‘Mockery’. The entire piece, including that movement, has been published by Peermusic Classical, but it is available only as a rental score. The score for Chamber Music II is available as a printed work. Leonard Rosenman, Chamber Music No. II (New York and Hamburg: PeerMusic Classical, 1978). 39 E-mail correspondence, Judie Gregg Rosenman, 14 June 2017. 40 Andrew Imbrie, Portrait of a Contemporary Composer, Regional Oral History Office, The Bancroft Library (Berkeley: The Regents of the University of California, 2000), 25. 41 Foreword to the score of Leonard Rosenman, Lorca Revisited: Prelude and Four Scenes (New York: Peermusic Classical, 1992), 1. 42 Amirkhanian, ‘WKPFA Morning Concert’. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid. 45 Feisst, ‘Serving Two Masters’, 40. 46 Quoted in J. Leonard, ‘Honoring Two German-American (Jewish) Masters’, AUFBAU 65, no. 25 (10 December 1999). 47 Feisst, ‘Serving Two Masters’, 40–1. 48 Ibid. 49 Theme and Elaborations, undated. Leonard Rosenman Papers; MSS 212; series II; box 14; folder 7; Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University Libraries. 50 ‘Lenny’s Theme’, undated; Leonard Rosenman Papers; MSS 212; series II; box  9; folder 6; Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University Libraries. 51 Duo for Two Pianos (1975). Leonard Rosenman Papers; MSS 212; series II, box 13, folder 2; Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University Libraries. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid. 54 Leonard Rosenman, program notes for Foci I, New York Philharmonic, 3 June 1983. New York Philharmonic Digital Archives, available at http://archives.nyphil.org/index. php/artifact/2f381a2f-c39c-4bbc-a0d0-3470e36eec99/ 55 Program notes, Foci I, New York Philharmonic. 56 Amirkhanian, ‘WKPFA Morning Concert’. 57 Program Notes to Foci I.

116  Reba A. Wissner 58 Ibid., 6–7. 59 Symphony No. 1, of Dinosaurs, undated; Leonard Rosenman Papers; MSS 212; series II; box 16; folder N/A; Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University Libraries. 60 Feisst, ‘Serving Two Masters’, 41–2. 61 Ibid., 23, no. 26. 62 E-mail correspondence with Judie Gregg Rosenman, 13 June 2017. 63 E-mail correspondence, Gabryel Smith, New York Philharmonic Archives, 4 January 2017. A report from the Horizons ’83 Concert Series lists Foci I as revised in 1982. See Laura Kuhn, ‘ “ISMS”: New York: ‘Horizons ’83’, Perspectives of New Music 21, nos. 1–2 (1982–83), 403. 64 Amirkhanian, ‘WKPFA Morning Concert’. 65 Marilynn Preston, ‘Leonard Rosenman’s Compositions Score Musical Harmony in “Heartsounds” ’, Chicago Tribune, 28 September 1984, 5.5. 66 Liner notes for Philharmonic Brass, Lester Remsen, conductor, Crystal Records CD121, 2003. 67 Ibid. 68 Chamber Music IV, 1976; Leonard Rosenman Papers; MSS 212; series II; box  11; folder 6; Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University Libraries. 69 Rosenman, ‘USC Composers’ Forum at ASI’. Amirkhanian, ‘WKPFA Morning Concert’. 70 Ibid. 71 Ibid. 72 Rosenman, ‘Composers’ Forum at ASI’. 73 Paul Attanasio, ‘Spotlight On: The Music in Movies’, The Courier Journal, 1 March 1987, 12. 74 Rosenman, Chamber Music IV. 75 ‘Two Get Commissions to Write Operas’, The New York Times, 22 June 1953, 6. 76 E-mail correspondence, Judie Gregg Rosenman, 13 June 2017. 77 ‘From “Rebel” to Opera’, Pasadena Independent, 18 October 1955, 37. 78 Sam Kashner, ‘Dangerous Talents’, Vanity Fair (March 2005), available at www.vanityfair.com/news/2005/03/rebel200503. E-mail correspondence, Judie Gregg Rosenman, 14 June 2017. 79 Feisst, ‘Serving Two Masters’, 43. 80 Michela Robbins, ‘A Schoenberg Seminar’, Counterpoint 17, no. 2 (1952), 10–11. 81 E-mail correspondence, Judie Gregg Rosenman, 14 June 2017. 82 Tony Thomas, Film Score: The Art and Craft of Movie Music (Burbank: Riverwood Press, 1991), 308. 83 E-mail correspondence, Judie Gregg Rosenman, 5 June 2017. 84 Wayne Kiser, ‘A Remembrance of Leonard Rosenman’, The Committee for a More Responsible Local 47, available at www.responsible47.com/?p=20 85 E-mail correspondence, Judie Gregg Rosenman, 5 June 2017. Emphasis original.

10 The maestro of multiple voices The ‘absolute music’ of Ennio Morricone Felicity Wilcox Necessity and opportunity led to work in the cinema and hence the dual existence of my absolute music and applied music.1

When Ennio Morricone (b. 1928) was 11 years old, his father – a professional trumpeter in the nightclubs and music halls of Rome – sent him to learn to play the trumpet ‘properly’ at the Conservatorio di Musica di Roma.2 Ennio joined his father in his early teens, playing trumpet in theatre, variety, and dance revue bands during the American occupation in Rome in World War II.3 This work sustained him into the 1950s, when he left a steady job as third trumpet at the Sistina (a Rome theatre famous for its musical comedies) to work as a professional arranger at the Radio Corporation of America (RCA) and Radio Audizioni Italiane (RAI).4 At the same time he was completing formal composition studies with the acclaimed Italian composer Goffredo Petrassi (1904–2003) at the Conservatorio di Santa Cecilia.5 Florentine musicologist and preeminent scholar of Morricone’s film music Sergio Miceli observes: His double life began when he was still a student of Petrassi, in the sense that by day he was studying ‘serious’ composition at the Conservatorio di Santa Cecilia, and in his free time, he either played trumpet as a substitute for his father in local bands, or he worked on arrangements for the fledgling record industry.6 Petrassi had a profound influence on Morricone, both professionally and personally, influencing him through ‘his precision, his coherence and even the actual way he wrote out the music’.7 It was Petrassi who instilled in Morricone the abiding ‘pursuit of a craft and creative morality’8 that guided his professional choices and brought him consistently back to engage in his ‘great passion’, – the writing of ‘absolute music’ – despite the successful career he was building as a composer of ‘applied music’.9 For Morricone, balancing the two types of activity was sometimes a struggle: If I am honest there was a time when I resented being known only as a composer of soundtracks. Working in this way was never my ambition, although I do derive a great deal of satisfaction from it. My music is not all about film music even though I had to subsume my other work to it for so long in order

118  Felicity Wilcox to earn money and keep working. I dreamt of being a composer in the classical tradition and it pleases me that more and more audiences know me for my concert music. I probably owe their interest in great part to the fame my soundtracks brought me so I cannot complain.10 This pragmatism and work ethic underpins the evolution of Morricone’s sixtyyear career, which spans some 500 scores for film and television, some 150 concert works, dozens of significant credits as an arranger and composer of Italian popular music, and 7 albums as a member of the avant-garde improvising composer collective Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza (1964–80).11 This essay will deal broadly with Morricone’s music for everything but the screen, briefly discussing his output in popular music before considering his activities in avantgarde improvisation and the more significant concert works he composed between 1957 and 2017. Where relevant, I will attempt to trace the ways in which certain compositional methodologies and structures intersect within the contexts of both applied and absolute music in order to reveal connections between the multiple voices of this acclaimed ‘maestro’.

Popular music After learning that Morricone was studying composition at the Conservatory, in 1952 composer and RAI orchestra director Carlo Savina hired him as an arranger. The RAI environment nurtured the exploration and rigour so important for Morricone’s emerging craft, with the radio station’s small, predominantly string orchestra functioning as the vehicle for Morricone’s application of his lessons with Petrassi: I tried to redeem my work by introducing classical citations or virtuoso instrumental passages I learned during my studies, rather than write the normal arrangements used for songs in that period. But naturally I  never told Petrassi about this. . . . Savina didn’t expect such finesse and sometimes got angry in front of the orchestra, but then when he gave me a ride home he would praise me.12 Before working for RAI Morricone had never done arrangements,13 and he describes his time with Savina and RAI’s regular singers – Nella Colombo, Bruno Rossettani, Achille Togliani, and Gianni Ravera – as a period in which he experimented to reinvent popular music arrangement: ‘Musicologists have called me the father of modern music arrangement, and I suppose if this is in part true then it began here’.14 With his reputation growing, in 1960 Morricone was asked by RCA Italiana director Enzo Micocci to do an arrangement for Gianni Meccia’s song ‘Il Barattolo’ [The Can]. Morricone took inspiration from musique concrète, recording the sound of a can rolling along the street and mixing it seamlessly into a rhythm part played on tom-toms and bongos. The decision to incorporate the sound of the rolling can was early evidence of what was to become an important thread in Morricone’s composition: his ability to engage with the ideology

Ennio Morricone  119 inherent in a work and to address this through the incorporation of sounds that go beyond the notes. ‘I am known for incorporating real-world sounds into my music’, he said, ‘but it is always a natural inclusion that I use when it works easily and plays a role in connecting to people or creating the right sound’.15 One song that Morricone composed and orchestrated during his period at RCA has left lasting traces through his subsequent output in both cinema and concert music. The chorus melody of the 1966 ‘Se telefonando’ (lyrics by Ghigo De Chiara and Maurizio Costanzo, recorded by Mina Mazzini) comprises the same three notes and the same underlying harmony as ‘The Falls’ theme in Morricone’s score for Roland Joffe’s film The Mission (1986). In ‘Se telefonando’, Morricone repeats the three notes (on the scale degrees 8, 7, and 5) in a descending cycle across the four beats of each bar so that they sit irregularly in relation to the underlying harmonic movement. In ‘The Falls’, the same three descending notes are connected to another note (the seventh scale degree) that moves back up to the tonic, so that the melody aligns more predictably with each bar. This second version of the melody reappears in one of Morricone’s most acclaimed concert works, his 2002 Voci dal silenzio for chorus and orchestra. It was in his role as arranger that Morricone first explored the unusual orchestral combinations and strong instrumental gestures that would later characterise both his film music and concert music. It was in his 1963 arrangement of Edoardo Vianello’s ‘Abbronzatissima’, for example, that he chose to pair horns with voice in unison octave leaps, and in his arrangement for ‘Sapore di sale’ (Gino Paoli, 1963), to set up a dissonant recurring motif between piano and horns for the song’s instrumental passages. It was in his 1965 arrangement of ‘Il Mondo’ (by Carlos Pes, Lilli Greco, Gianni Meccia, and Jimmy Fontana) that he first experimented with complex production techniques, about which he explained: I had this idea of calculating the right speed: I actually did the math, recording the first part faster and a . . . minor third . . . above . . . and then lowering it by the same minor third and connecting it with the one played live. . . . When the normal part came in, there was a switch in sounds[,] . . . an added colour that gave an important impulse to the song.16 Reflecting on his time as an arranger, Morricone, noted that ‘even working for these staid organisations, I was driven to experiment with music from the very start’,17 and undoubtedly the opportunity to try out fresh ideas in this relatively safe environment benefitted his later ‘serious’ work.

Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza Nuova Consonanza perhaps best exemplifies my double life. It was experimentation in absolute music but I then used it to good effect in my cinema scores.18

Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza (GINC) was founded in Rome in 1964 by the composer Franco Evangelisti.19 Taking inspiration from the

120  Felicity Wilcox Californian collective known simply as the New Music Ensemble, which founding member Larry Austin had introduced to Evangelisti, GINC followed the model of improvised compositions, strongly influenced by concurrent practices in Western avant-garde composition pioneered by the likes of Karlheinz Stockhausen, John Cage, Pierre Boulez, and La Monte Young, all of whom were carving out new musical forms using aleatoric, mobile, open, and indeterminate techniques.20 A defining aspect of GINC was its choice to include only performers who were also composers, a fact often underlined by Evangelisti.21 The intention, Evangelisti said, was to subvert the ‘assumed basis of the open work (where performer becomes composer), transforming the composer into performer, through a process of permanent identification between the act of composing and the act of executing’.22 Morricone affirmed the centrality of this aspect of the GINC: ‘It was key to our creativity that we blurred the lines between composer and performer, making no distinction between the two roles’.23 Morricone joined GINC in 1964,24 performing on trumpet and flute, and participating (with Evangelisti, John Heineman, Roland Kayn, Frederic Rzewski, Jerry Rosen, Mario Bertoncini, and Ivan Vandor) in the group’s eponymous 1966 debut long-play vinyl album on the RCA label. By 1968 the group had coalesced into a relatively stable lineup, with the names of Evangelisti, Bertoncini, Heineman, and Morricone (and of Walter Branchi and Egisto Macchi) ‘linked to the phase of the most expanded activity, as well as notable resonance throughout the whole world of contemporary music’.25 GINC’s influence in this sphere gave rise to the emergence of numerous improvising groups and festivals in Europe in the years 1967–7126; it impacted, too, on the work of later improvising ensembles such as the Evan Parker Electro-Acoustic Ensemble, Voice Crack, the Italian Instabile Orchestra, and John Zorn’s Naked City,27 and on the late twentieth century’s ‘noise music’ phenomenon.28 Influenced by the Italian surrealists and treading a path parallel to that of such contemporary 1960s genres as free music and free jazz,29 the GINC emphasised ‘immediate’ improvisation as opposed to ‘ancient improvisation based on traditional rules’, a modern form of improvisation that ‘erupts out of the negation of these rules [in] a search for an original language’.30 Its lack of adherence to conventional structure and tonality reflects the group’s admiration of the concert music of avant-garde Italian contemporaries Giacinto Scelsi and Luigi Nono.31 Indeed, the GINC’s 1976 album Musica Su Schemi includes a track titled ‘Omaggio a Giacinto Scelsi’ [Homage to Giacinto Scelsi], which slowly evolves over sixteen minutes on a B-flat drone from pianissimo low-register rapid pulses on piano and bass guitar into high, sustained, ear-splitting screeches on brass and winds, processed through distortion. The abrasive and intricate sound world of the GINC was achieved through consistent and bold exploration of extended instrumental techniques, and at times it involved tape music and electronic instruments. Various mutations of speech, body percussion, mouth noises, and vocalisations – as heard to striking effect in both their 1967 and 1973 LPs, The Private Sea of Dreams and Improvvisazioni a Formazioni Variate32 – were important recurring timbres within the group’s work. The strongly gestural language of the group’s compositions, incorporating pauses,

Ennio Morricone  121 unidentifiable micro-sounds, and sudden outbursts of noise, is in part explained by Morricone in his description of the interactions that frequently occurred: One of the more interesting methods we employed was to create a musical conversation where one player . . . opened a conversation of sounds and another player would respond, agree or disagree in sound.33 The output of the GINC at times spilled over into Morricone’s soundtracks, with the group contributing material from The Private Sea of Dreams to the score for Un tranquillo posto di campagna (Elio Petri, 1968) and from their 1970 album The Feed-Back34 to the score for the thriller Gli occhi freddi della paura (Enzo G. Castellari, 1971). The Feed-Back clearly reflects the influence of contemporary popular music, with funk grooves and distorted rock guitar stylings offset by Morricone’s wailing cup-mute trumpet lines and atonal blasts from Heineman’s trombone. Thom Jurek describes the album’s title cut as ‘Stockhausen and Don Cherry meet Idris Muhammad and Melvin Sparks’, and he suggests that ‘Kumâlo’ is a clash between ‘Eastern modalism and Krautrock psych’.35 Resampling by the current generation of DJs is testimony to this album’s ongoing appeal,36 which Morricone himself alludes to: ‘The Feed-Back was an album that brought together avant-garde concert music, funk and jazz and apparently DJs still play it!’37 The many re-releases of the GINC’s recordings are further evidence of the group’s ongoing relevance and influence.38 The group’s demise in 1980 is attributed to various events, with Evangelisti’s death that year commonly cited.39 But it is Morricone’s account that seems most fitting, because it reminds us that the GINC’s primary activity was as a performing ensemble and speaks to their legacy of risk-taking in this regard, but also because it so beautifully closes the circle on the band’s life: We were in the middle of a performance when Antonello Neri, our pianist, stopped improvising and began playing a traditional concert recital. I started chanting ‘Stop, Stop, Stop’ and the others joined in but he obstinately kept playing. Thus came about the end of our agreement and our group’s work in a very natural closing of an era that had served its purpose.40 And so the GINC experiment, which represented a potent cross-over between composition and performance, and between popular and ‘serious’ music in Morricone’s praxis, came to an end.

Concert music Am I an integrated composer? I believe my work as a composer is rather ambiguous. I  have written absolute music and applied music requiring two different approaches to composition. These two composers cannot be the same.41

Morricone appears to have struggled with this binary attitude towards the two aspects of his compositional activity. Indeed, in listening to an early concert work

122  Felicity Wilcox such as his 1957 Quattro pezzi per chitarra it is difficult to hear any similarity at all between these starkly rendered, atonal contrapuntal lines and the effortless language of the popular music he was writing at this time. In the same year, 1957, Morricone composed a curiously titled work for twelve violins, Music for Eleven Violins, in which the music was performed by eleven violinists while the twelfth performed notated pauses. Music for Eleven Violins was a nod to the not inconsiderable influence of the ‘paradoxical revolutionary’ John Cage, who in 1952 had presented the famous ‘silent piece’ that commonly goes by the title 4′33″. Morricone wrote: ‘Silence is music just as music is a pause in silence. For me the silence within a piece is always a musical fact and a vehicle for reflection’.42 Also in 1957, a year he described as especially ‘productive’,43 Morricone composed his first concerto, the Concerto per orchestra, which was inspired by and dedicated to Petrassi.44 This would be the first of a current total of four concertos, the others being the Second Concerto, for flute, cello, and orchestra (1984); the Third Concerto, for guitar, marimba, and string orchestra (1991); and the Fourth Concerto, for organ, two trumpets, two trombones, and orchestra, titled ‘Hoc erat in votis’ [This was in my prayers] and composed in 1993. These large-scale works collectively represent some of Morricone’s most ambitious and interesting music, and the virtuosic and texturally dense content of the last two arguably places them within the ‘New Complexity’ genre pioneered by British composer Brian Ferneyhough and others in the second half of the last century.45 In his third concerto, Morricone’s genius as an orchestrator is on display. The strings function as a mass plucked instrument, augmenting the timbre of the solo guitar, before lapsing into dramatic arco phrases that revert intermittently back into pizzicato lines to echo and double the guitar part. The ostinato figure heard initially in the guitar (consisting of two pairs of minor thirds) is developed across the whole orchestra as the work progresses, and Morricone manages this with economy, inventiveness, and humour. He has elucidated on his regular use of simple codes to create thematic material in his music: Two simple musical codes I  like to use are the four notes in Bach’s name B–A–C–H and the six sounds in the Ricercare Cromatico by Frescobaldi. . . . I use these simple patterns to create themes that resonate. . . . You can develop these four key notes in so many ways and there are still so many possibilities.46 Morricone’s rhythmic treatment of thematic material in the Third Concerto constitutes a break from the more regular rhythms he utilises to popular effect in his film scores, and it points to the greater rhythmic complexity of which this composer is capable. ‘I have always had a propensity for numbers and analysing patterns’, he wrote.47 A mass pizzicato gesture across all the strings reminiscent of Iannis Xenakis48 leads into an insistent cadenza on solo guitar that gnaws away on what sounds like a distorted fragment from Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez.49 The middle section contains a beautifully executed passage of textural contrast that calls to mind Morricone’s contemporary, György Ligeti, at the height of his dramatic powers: extremely high-register pianissimo violins hang like a canopy

Ennio Morricone  123 above a reflective dialogue between marimba and guitar that builds towards a loud, tutti cascade that tumbles into the lower registers. The marimba cadenza that follows contains demanding, virtuosic writing and sets up a clear return to the angular ostinato heard in the work’s opening passage, now shared by solo instruments and orchestra alike. Morricone puts this simple combination of notes through various rhythmic contractions and extensions before bringing the concerto to its climactic and satisfying finish. The Fourth Concerto opens with no clear tonal centre as organ patterns erratically meander and dissonant brass stabs interject at seemingly irregular intervals. The slowly evolving second movement presents another confident mix of contrasting textures, with upward-swirling sustained string clusters around which the organ and brass soloists sketch rapid, quasi-conversational melodic lines that are reminiscent of Morricone’s improvisational work with the GINC. These gradually overtake the sustained strings, which rise higher and higher, while across the orchestra more instruments contribute to the accumulating melodic irregularity with glissandi, pizzicati, dramatic swells, and calculated pauses that punch holes in the lines. The work ends as it begins, with a sparse layering of clarinet and violins, here fading out in (almost) unison before the double basses pluck a surprising tonic note to finish. In both of these concertos there is none of the sweetness of Morricone’s film music, with its eminently singable melodic writing and heart-wrenchingly beautiful harmonic language. For most of Morricone’s fans this music would be entirely unfamiliar territory. The nascent, abstract tendencies that emerged in the miniatures for solo guitar from nearly forty years earlier are here given their full expression. These are mature orchestral works that reflect a ‘serious’ composer in full command of his craft.

**** Arriving at this level of artistry and technical mastery was not easy, and Morricone admits that between 1959 and 1966, as he focused on building his commercial career, he struggled to find time for it.50 The drought was broken with Requiem per un destino (1966), originally composed as ballet music for choir and orchestra and later appropriated for the soundtrack to Vittorio De Seta’s 1966 film Un uomo a metà. This darkly evocative work draws on avant-garde aesthetics and extended techniques to prioritise textural and timbral exploration over melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic development. Through the late 1960s and 1970s Morricone continued to explore innovative composition for voice with such works as Da molto lontano (1969) for soprano and five instruments; the Caput coctu show (1969) for baritone and eight instruments, on a text by Pier Paolo Pasolini51; Suoni per Dino (1969) for viola and two tape recorders; Immobile (1978) for choir and four clarinets; Grande violin, piccolo bambino (1979) for children’s voices, electronics, and string orchestra; and Bambini del mondo (1979) for eighteen children’s choirs, some of which was later incorporated into Morricone’s score for Adrian Lyne’s 1997 film adaptation

124  Felicity Wilcox of Lolita.52 Another innovative work for voices that came at the end of this period was Tre scioperi (1975/1988), for thirty-six children and bass drum, also composed to texts by Pasolini. It is perhaps no coincidence that the phase in which Morricone, an avowed family man, produced most of his works for young performers overlapped with the childhoods of his four children – Marco, Alessandra, Andrea, and Giovanni – all born between 1957 and 1966.53 In the 1980s Morricone made a conscious choice to refocus his energies more fully towards his absolute music: It was not until around 1980 that I really felt I could scale down my applied music work and dedicate myself as I wished to concert music. I started turning down offers from directors but in fact had already stopped working for the American film industry because they paid insultingly low fees.54 Of the concert works that resulted from the intense activity that followed this decision, Morricone cites three as stand-outs. These are Epitaffi sparsi (1991–93), a chamber work for soprano and piano solo of ‘scathing irony’,55 on texts by Sergio Miceli; Frammenti de Eros (1985), a cantata for soprano, piano, and orchestra, also on texts by Miceli; and Ut (1991), for C Trumpet, timpani, bass drum, and strings. Ut owes its title to the first syllable of the solmisation system devised by the eleventh-century Italian monk and musical theorist Guido d’Arezzo. Hymnlike in character, Ut contains much of the atmospheric mood and beautifully articulated lyricism of Morricone’s film music yet runs away with these into new territory. Given that the trumpet was Morricone’s instrument, it is not surprising that the writing for trumpet is virtuosic, clear, and idiomatic; indeed, Morricone’s voice as performer comes through in the calculatedly crafted spontaneity of the trumpet gestures. A stunning interlude in which the violin and trumpet soloists engage in a slow duet punctuated by widely spaced pulses by the bass drum would serve beautifully as a backdrop to any epic movie scene; at the same time the music transports us, entirely on its own terms, to an almost mystical place that evokes the religious and historical ideology implied by the work’s title. In this passage the musical link to the title also becomes apparent, for one can clearly discern in the solo instruments’ floating melodic lines a pair of tone rows that feature six common pitches – A-sharp, C, E, F-sharp, G, A-natural – to which Morricone adds a seventh pitch as the rows alternate (D in the first case, B in the second). This underlying formal integrity gives insight into the technical processes at work in much of Morricone’s music. He referred to this rigour when reflecting on the need for a composer to develop a ‘mathematical, almost intellectual ability, to create technical coherence. . . . [A] coherent structure is crucial . . . a score must be scientifically and technically correct’.56 Cantata per l’Europa (1988), for soprano, solo recitative voices, choir, and orchestra,57 is another large-scale work based on religious themes that achieved widespread acclaim.58 Conducted by Paolo Olmi and featuring soprano Victoria Schneider and the Orchestra and Choir of the Santa Cecilia National Academy,

Ennio Morricone  125 it received its world premiere on 2 April 1990 at Rome’s Auditorio Pio. Running at a little under thirty minutes and incorporating texts written by such prominent thinkers as Benedetto Croce, Thomas Mann, Winston Churchill, Charles de Gaulle, and Victor Hugo, the Cantata per l’Europa aims for the same sort of grandeur that characterised Morricone’s film music at this time, evident in scores such as The Mission (1986). Similarly ambitious is Vuoto d’anima piena [Emptiness of the Full Soul], composed for solo flute, orchestra, and choir in 2008 on texts by the contemporary Italian poet Francesco De Melis and drawing on writings of the Persian mystic poet Rumi. As is common in his concert music, Morricone here again appropriates form and aesthetics from early music. The work’s ‘Cantata mistica’ section builds from a solo flute statement into a pulsing dancelike refrain for choir, flute, percussion, and brass that carries the listener along in a torrent of primal energy; a pause acts as transition into an epic finale driven by a slowly moving chromatic melody for massed voices that crescendos through multiple iterations, each one a semitone higher than the last. Vuoto d’anima piena received its world premiere on 25 August 2008 in a concert that marked the thousandth anniversary of the Basilica Cathedral of Sarsina in northern Italy, with Morricone conducting the Roma Sinfonietta and the Coro Lirico Sinfonico Romano, and with Massimo Mercelli as the flute soloist59; subsequent performances were given by the National Academy of Santa Cecilia (2010) and the Czech Symphony Orchestra (2011). A ‘difficult tune to learn’60 that has had international impact through several high-profile performances is Voci dal silenzio [Voices from the Silence], a nearly thirty-minute programmatic work for orchestra, choir, spoken word, and tape that describes an apocalypse and its aftermath. Commissioned for the International Festival of Ravenna, it was composed in 2002 in response to the events of 9/11 in New York City, and is dedicated to all who have died as a result of terrorism and mass murder.61 The piece received its world premiere on 14 July 2002 at Ravenna’s Palazzo Mauro De Andrè, conducted by Ricardo Muti,62 and its American premiere took place on 2 February 2007 at the United Nations General Assembly Hall, in a concert to celebrate the appointment of Ban Ki-Moon as the UN’s General Secretary. Morricone described the New York performance as ‘one of the highlights of my absolute music career’.63 An estimated 1,600 delegates, diplomats, and UN staff members attended the closed event, and a standing ovation greeted Morricone as he walked on stage to conduct the Roma Sinfonietta and a 100-voice choir that included the Canticum Novum Singers, the New York Virtuoso Singers, and the University of Buffalo Choir.64 The adept handling of the huge forces in Voci dal silenzio, with choir and recorded voices added to already complex orchestral layers, speaks most emphatically to Morricone’s mastery of orchestration, which he has stated should never be separated from the compositional process, but is integral to achieving ‘the correct sound’.65 Here he uses the orchestra as a sustained background to field recordings of vocal performances from different cultural traditions that connect with the overarching ideology of ‘harmony in diversity’ that gives the work its moral compass. There is no sonic imitation or parody in the integration of the recorded and

126  Felicity Wilcox composed material; rather, the electronic and acoustic strands co-exist in a suspended harmonic and rhythmic dissonance until the recordings disappear around fifteen minutes into the work, overtaken by dramatically building gestures from the orchestra and choir that one reviewer postulated might ‘suggest the cries of the victims’.66 These subside into a sweet string passage that sets up a solo French horn statement of ‘The Falls’ theme from The Mission. Another fragment of ‘The Falls’ is performed by solo soprano in the final bars of the piece, the drone in the choir providing a stark contrast to the diatonic harmony likely familiar to many in the audience. This device, along with a solo trombone fanfare reminiscent of such funereal bugle calls as ‘The Last Post’ and ‘Taps’ that feature angular leaps, provides a lack of finality to the piece and suggests that there is still a need for resolution to this particular chapter of history. Voci dal silenzio has been performed on at least ten occasions since 2002 including twice at the composer’s alma mater, the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia (2004, 2017), and by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in 2014. Morricone’s most significant piece of ‘absolute music’ in recent years is his Missa Papae Francisci [Mass for Pope Francis], commissioned by the Society of Jesus to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the restoration of the Jesuit Order in 2014. It was premiered at the Church of the Gesù in Rome on 10 June 2015, with Morricone conducting the Orchestra Roma Sinfonietta and the Coro Goffredo Petrassi. Morricone’s account of the commissioning process is delightfully quotidian: Every day at seven in the morning, I go to buy the newspapers in Piazza del Gesù, at the newsstand in front of the Gesù Church. One day, in 2013, I met Father Daniele Libanori, the rector of the Church of the Gesù, who asked me to write a Mass. My wife has been asking me to write a Mass for several years but I  have always refused  .  .  . Fr. Libanori’s proposal was not only to write a Mass, but also to perform it for the two-hundredth anniversary of the restoration of the Society of Jesus. I composed it thinking about the occasion, the audience, the Society of Jesus. Perhaps I had never written a Mass before, despite the requests of my wife, because I needed an occasion for doing so. The idea of performing a Mass for that important occasion persuaded me.67 Morricone dedicated the Mass to his patient wife, Maria, and to Pope Francis, the first Jesuit Pope, to whom he went in person to present the finished score.68 Morricone chose to avoid the ‘sappy touch’69 of violins, violas, and woodwinds and instead scored the Mass for double choir and an orchestra made up of two organs, percussion, bass strings, and brass. His Mass has a traditional liturgical structure that comprises seven movements: an Introitus, Kyrie, Gloria, Alleluia, Sanctus, Agnus Dei, and Finale. Morricone’s penchant for early music techniques is evident in his incorporation of ‘antiphonal singing’, with the double choir creating the effect of dialogue in the tradition developed by such sixteenth-century Venetian composers as Adrian Willaert and Giovanni Gabrieli.70

Ennio Morricone  127 The composer describes the Introitus as a ‘musical invention’ whose score is in the shape of a cross, with long melodies in the horn parts colliding with sporadic outbursts from the ‘vertical dimension’ of the whole orchestra.71 Against these contrasting orchestral layers, each of the choristers – and perhaps members of the audience as well – says a quiet prayer.72 The Mass proper starts with the Kyrie, which is an impressive call to worship that features declamatory choral writing and pulsing rhythms. The Gloria contains subtle dissonances scattered throughout a conventional harmonic structure reflective of traditional sacred music; it ends with high-register shouts of the word ‘Gloria’ first by the sopranos and then by the tenors. The call-and-response texture between female voices and French horns that opens the Alleluia clearly reflects the sound of Gregorian Chant, whose ‘absolute monody’, Morricone said, ‘provide[s] the roots to so much of the Western world’s music’73; the dialogue then spreads to the entire ensemble, with both choirs erupting into fugal antiphony on the word ‘Alleluia’. The Sanctus opens with a duet between the two organs before being joined by the tenors, brass, and percussion to establish melodic material, which is then taken up by the choirs and orchestra; microtonal vocal lines rise in upward pitch bends in the female voices before giving way to a joyful and celebratory diatonic passage on the word ‘Sanctus’ that contains hints of a classical-style Hollywood score, until Morricone unexpectedly leaves the music hanging on an unresolved chord on the minor third scale degree. The Agnus Dei opens with sustained dissonance across the soprano and alto parts, with responses by solo trumpet that recall the gentle duet in Ut; throughout the movement Morricone uses imitative entries ‘as an expressive element, which plays and runs from the right to the left of the choir’,74 and the result is an evocative blurring of phrases, pitches, and timbres that sets up the final movement with all the calibrated drama characteristic of this seasoned film composer. The Finale begins with a quotation from The Mission – solo tenor singing a Latin text to the melody of the ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’ theme – before the entire ensemble erupts into a reworked rendition of the film’s main theme, with its resplendent polymodality and polyrhythmic complexity augmented by the separation of the choirs. Long melodic phrases to the left and short rhythmic echoes to the right here bring to the fore the composition’s spatial aspect. In the Mass’s closing bars Morricone gradually reduces his famous film theme to greater melodic and rhythmic simplicity, bringing all the forces together in what he calls a ‘joyful requiem’.75 The last work of concert music listed on Morricone’s official website,76 the Mass for Pope Francis connects all the threads of his output; as the composer explains, ‘all the history of church music I  studied at the Conservatorio, the soundtrack from The Mission and my own recognisable blending of sounds came together in this piece’.77 The appearance and development of key motifs from his score for The Mission here is not the cynical gesture of a composer keen to capitalise on his ‘greatest hits’; rather, it represents an important confluence between his applied and his absolute music, in which the boundaries between these two worlds finally dissolve. It is clear that the music he composed for The Mission, which called upon all his technique and creativity, is as close to Morricone’s heart as anything he has written for the concert hall.

128  Felicity Wilcox

Conclusion Overall . . . between my absolute music and cinema music, I would like to think that I have my own thread in the history of music, some sort of acceptance.78

The strands of Morricone’s career have at times crossed and entwined. For example, the acceptance of any sound’s potential for musicality, which can be traced back to his fascination with the theories of John Cage79 and Henri Pousseur,80 is an important facet of Morricone’s entire oeuvre. Another element that remains strong in Morricone’s music, regardless of its context, is his exploration of all the colours of the human voice, in part also inspired by Cage.81 And there are other linkages between Morricone’s applied music and absolute music that perhaps even the composer is unaware of. The website of Counterpoint Music, which publishes some of Morricone’s concert works, credits his involvement with the GINC, because it involved ‘research [into] a visionary language of synthesis’, with a merging of Morricone’s film and concert music.82 But Morricone’s absolute music – although at times it dovetails with his applied music – is, on the whole, a separate body of work that offers a rewarding listening experience for those well-versed in contemporary Western art music. For those who are not so well-versed, the absolute music is perhaps too challenging. Since the early 2000s Morricone has engaged in intense international concert activity, conducting his own works for massed forces in huge arenas, with his recent ‘60 Years of Music’ tour selling more than half a million tickets.83 Morricone’s absolute music is notably absent from the repertoire at these events, a fact due, one can only assume, to its complexity. At the end of his working life, Morricone is currently celebrating one of the most stellar careers in the history of film music; he is justly embraced by his fans, yet the almost total exclusion of his ‘concert’ music from these concert events begs a redefinition of the term, or at the very least leads one to question whether film music and concert music might not be one and the same thing, with differences depending not on the music itself but only on its mode of presentation and reception. Perhaps one day the music that Morricone describes as his ‘private and personal endeavour’84 will assume the central place it deserves at celebrations of his legacy.

Notes 1 Ennio Morricone, with Giovanni Morricone, Life Notes (UK: Musica e Oltre, 2016), 69. 2 Ibid., 11. 3 Franco Fabbri and Goffredo Plastino, ‘Provisionally Popular: A  Conversation with Ennio Morricone’, in Made in Italy: Studies in Popular Music, ed. Franco Fabbri and Goffredo Plastino (New York and London: Routledge, 2013), 223. 4 Morricone, Life Notes, 224. 5 Gino Moliterno, ed., Encyclopedia of Contemporary Italian Culture (New York and London: Routledge, 2002), 541–2.

Ennio Morricone  129 6 Sergio Miceli interviewed by David Thompson in Ennio Morricone (Happy Valley Films, BBC/ZDF Arte, 1995), available at www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tj6MWE4wZx4. Translation mine 7 Ibid. 8 Morricone, Life Notes, 30. 9 Ibid., 69. 10 Ibid. 11 The seven GINC albums Morricone refers to in Life Notes Are: Nuova Consonanza (1966, RCA); The Private Sea of Dreams (1967, RCA); Improvisationen (1968, Deutsche Grammophon); The Feed-Back (1970, RCA); Improvvisazioni a Formazioni Variate/Gruppo d’Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza (1973, General Music); Nuova Consonanza (1975, Cinevox); and Musica su Schemi (1976, Cramps Records). 12 Fabbri and Plastino, ‘Provisionally Popular’, 224. 13 Ibid. 14 Morricone, Life Notes, 34. 15 Ibid., 76. 16 Fabbri and Plastino, ‘Provisionally Popular’, 230. It is worth noting that ‘Il Mondo’ preceded the ‘psychedelic’ albums – for example, The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds (1966), Frank Zappa’s Freak Out! (1966), and The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (1967) – that were considered to be hallmarks of the new production aesthetics of 1960s popular music in the English-speaking world. 17 Morricone, Life Notes, 34. 18 Ibid., 76. 19 Daniela Tortora, ‘Storia, il Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza’, On the website of Associazione Nuova Consonanza, available at www.nuovaconsonanza.it/ index.php?voce=19710681422&collegamento=16970047217. Translation mine. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid. 23 Morricone, Life Notes, 76. 24 Ibid., 75. 25 Tortora, ‘Storia, il Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza’, Translation mine. 26 Ibid. 27 Sylvie Harrison, ‘Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza, Artist Biography’, On All Music, available at www.allmusic.com/artist/gruppo-di-improvvisazionenuova-consonanza-mn0001409455/biography 28 Here I refer to the noise music scene that emerged from the mid-1970s through the 1990s in industrial music, punk, free jazz, glitch music, and electronica. Prominent artists in this genre include Merzbow, Fluxus, and the Boredoms. 29 Tortora, ‘Storia, il Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza’. 30 Ibid., Emphases original. Translation mine. 31 Harrison, ‘Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza, Artist Biography’. The GINC’s 1976 release Musica su Schemi includes a track titled ‘Omaggio a Giacinto Scelsi’ (‘Homage to Giacinto Scelsi’). 32 The Private Sea of Dreams (as Il Gruppo) (1967, RCA) and Improvvisazioni a Formazioni Variate (also known as Gruppo d’Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza) (1973, General Music). 33 Morricone, Life Notes, 76. 34 Along with Macchi, Heineman, Morricone, and Branchi, The Feed-Back (as The Group) (1970, RCA) featured drummer Enzo Restuccia and guitarist Bruno Battisti D’Amario. 35 Thom Jurek, ‘All Music Review: Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza/ Ennio Morricone, The Feed-Back’, On All Music, available at www.allmusic.com/ album/the-feed-back-mw0002672122

130  Felicity Wilcox 36 Cut Chemist, ‘Edan’s Torture Chamber’ remix, 2005. 37 Morricone, Life Notes, 76. 38 GINC releases after 1980 include: 1967–1975 (1992, Edition RZ); Azioni (2006, Die Schachtel); Niente (2010, Cometa Edizioni Musicali); and Eroina (2011, Cometa Edizioni Musicali). 39 ‘Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza/History’ (Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia. org/wiki/Gruppo_di_Improvvisazione_Nuova_Consonanza). 40 Morricone, Life Notes, 81. 41 Ibid., 69. 42 Morricone, Life Notes, 76. 43 Ibid., 70. 44 Ibid. 45 Richard Toop, ‘Four Facets of the “New Complexity” ’, Contact 32 (1988), 4–8. 46 Morricone, Life Notes, 24. 47 Ibid., 26. 48 Xenakis employs this technique in works for massed strings such as Pithoprakta (1955–56). 49 Joaquín Rodrigo, Concierto de Aranjuez, 1939, for guitar and orchestra. 50 Morricone, Life Notes, 70. 51 ‘Ennio Morricone: Composer Information’, Music Library Services, available at http:// cpmusiclibrary.ca/library_composer.php?cKey=MORENN 52 Chimai, The Ennio Morricone Online Community, ‘Requiescant’, available at www. chimai.com/index.cfm?module=MUS&mode=DET&id=4383 53 Morricone, Life Notes, 88. 54 Ibid., 70. 55 ‘Ennio Morricone: Composer Information’. 56 Morricone, Life Notes, 26. 57 Emanuele Colombo, ‘The Miracle of Music: A Conversation with Ennio Morricone’, Journal of Jesuit Studies 3 (2016), 475–83. 58 Morricone, Life Notes, 81. The composer cites this as ‘perhaps my best known concert piece’ before Voci dal Silenzio (2001), yet there is surprisingly little documentation of it in online sources. 59 Bob Hendrikx, Chimai, ‘Vuoto d’anima piena’, available at www.chimai.com/mod_ comment/dsp_detail.cfm?obj_cd=PRF&id=10580&com_id=2081&action=&nav= left&list_id=1&caller=main 60 Quote extracted from the spoken word part for Voci dal silenzio. 61 Morricone, Life Notes, 81. 62 Event Zone, ‘Artists, Ennio Morricone’, available at www.eventzone.bg/en/artists/ details/ennio-morricone-sofia-concert2002 63 Morricone, Life Notes, 81. 64 Jon Burlingame, ‘Morricone Makes U.S. Debut in NYC, Maestro scores standing ovations at United Nations, Radio City’, Film Music Society (6 February 2007), available at www.filmmusicsociety.org/news_events/features/2007/020607.html?isArchive=020607 65 Morricone, Life Notes, 70. 66 Burlingame, ‘Morricone Makes U.S. Debut’. 67 Colombo, ‘The Miracle of Music’, 478. 68 Ibid. 69 Ibid., 479. 70 Ibid. 71 Ibid., 478. 72 Ibid., 479. 73 Morricone, Life Notes, 9. 74 Colombo, ‘The Miracle of Music’, 479.

Ennio Morricone  131 75 Ibid., 480. 76 Ennio Morricone, ‘The Music, Absolute Music, 2000–2015’, available at www.ennio morricone.org/the-music 77 Morricone, Life Notes, 81. 78 Ibid., 108. 79 ‘[Cage] was adamant that all real-world sounds such as buzzing fly, a revving engine, a tearing newspaper, whip cracks, whistles, animal cries and nonsensical vocals (all of which I have used) belong in the world of music’. Morricone, Life Notes, 76. 80 Fabbri and Plastino, ‘Provisionally Popular’, 225. 81 Ibid., 76. 82 ‘Ennio Morricone, Composer Information’. 83 ‘Ennio Morricone’s “60  Years of Music Tour” Sells 500.000 Tickets’, Ennio Morricone, available at www.enniomorricone.org/ennio-morricones-60-years-ofmusic-tour-sells-500-000-tickets 84 Morricone, Life Notes, 69.

11 ‘I did it for fun’ André Previn, crossover musician Frédéric Döhl

The expression ‘double life’ that Miklós Rózsa famously used as the title of his autobiography is a bit misleading with regard to André Previn (b. 1929).1 Born as Andreas Ludwig Priwin in Berlin, Previn has had a much more diverse career than have most twentieth-century musicians. Or as he once joked: [Crossover] is an odd and somewhat patronizing addition to the vocabulary, but if the image is valid, then I  have crossed not only over, but under as well, and crossed sideways and next to, and have tunneled underground, and bounced on a trampoline.2 After early education in classical music in Berlin and then Paris where his Jewish parents had taken their three children in autumn of 1938 as they fled the Third Reich before moving on to the United States in 1939, Previn’s professional career started in Los Angeles around 1945 when he signed his first contract with the music department of MGM and – at the astonishingly early age of 16 – released his first jazz recordings to much acclaim and significant sales. By the end of 2017, Previn is still active, and several premieres of new ‘classical works’ have taken place in recent years. In the more than seven decades in between, he has touched almost all areas of Western music, including film music, jazz, classical music, contemporary art music, and popular musical theatre. His only real blind spots in postwar Western music have been avant-garde music and rock music in all variants.3 Correspondingly, an endless list of labels acknowledging Previn’s versatility occurs throughout his career, labels like ‘Grenzgänger’ (cross-border commuter),4 ‘crossover-musician’,5 ‘crossover genius’,6 ‘musical amphibian’,7 ‘musical polymath’,8 ‘Jack-of-all-musical-trades’,9 ‘man of all musics’,10 ‘ “compleat” musician’, in the 18th-century sense’,11 and ‘one of the most versatile musicians in the world’.12 Rightfully so, as Previn joked: ‘I’m the only Vienna Philharmonic conductor who ever worked the Apollo Theatre’,13 having done ‘everything in music except, I think, play in a Hillbilly band’.14 Jazz musician Duke Ellington once called Previn’s versatility ‘beyond category’.15 And it truly is. When asked about Previn, his long-time manager Ronald Wilford, the legendary orchestrator of many careers of conductors in classical music, answered with a question: I think he’s probably had a very hard time bringing together the many facets of his life. One thinks of him as an American, but he’s not; he’s a citizen of the

André Previn  133 world. He’s a German-Jewish-French-Hollywood-American-Classical-JazzPianist-Pop-film orchestrator-composer-conductor. What does that make him?16 This is a difficult question to answer. And it has been answered differently in various areas of Western music. The search for an answer has led, for example, to a striking discrepancy between all the awards and prizes Previn has received (including four Academy Awards, a dozen Grammy Awards, the Kennedy Center Honors in the United States, and a Knighthood in Great Britain) and his almost total exclusion from more general academic and journalistic music criticism. Even in the literature devoted to film music, Previn is rarely represented with more than occasional anecdotes.17 In the following, I will give a comprehensive introduction to Previn’s artistic activities through the years. Particular attention will be paid to the many-faceted relationships between his work and experiences in the field of film music and his other musical activities. Film music was central to Previn’s career, but only between 1945 and 1967. In 1967 Previn received his first full appointment as conductor of a symphony orchestra, in Houston, and in the following year he left the United States and film music for good – at least for many years – to become leader of the prestigious London Symphony Orchestra.18 Yet in different shapes and forms, his roots in Hollywood kept following him.

Previn, the jazz musician Previn started recording and releasing jazz recordings in Los Angeles in 1945 and 1946.19 His interest in jazz increased during his military service (from 1950 through 1952) when he was stationed in San Francisco and became part of the West Coast scene. He recorded heavily between 1953 and 1967.20 Then, moving on to a new career in classical music, he stopped almost completely  – for two decades  – his jazz activities; the only exceptions were some projects with old friends, notably Ella Fitzgerald in 1983.21 The reason he gave, in retrospect, was simple. ‘When I  became an inverted serious conductor thirty odd years ago’, he said, ‘I really relinquished playing jazz for a while because it would have harmed me’.22 But distancing himself from jazz – and suggesting that jazz was not to be taken as seriously as classical music – had a long-lasting negative effect on Previn’s reputation in jazz circles, especially in jazz historiography.23 At the same time, a similar thing occurred with regard to Previn’s attitude towards film music.24 As with jazz, Previn has always spoken very highly of his colleagues and musical collaborators in Hollywood. After he left the United States in the late 1960s, however, he often downplayed both professions in comparison to classical music, and he especially downplayed his own contributions and the importance of their respective fields for him as an artist. His typical autobiographical statements highlight aspects of interpersonal relationships, entertainment, education, and income. At the end of his book about his days in Hollywood he writes: My Academy Award statuettes stand in the corner of a bookcase, and they quite often badly need dusting. Of course it would have been much more

134  Frédéric Döhl valuable if I had been given the unassailably correct tempos for the major works of Mozart as a prize, but nevertheless, I have to say that I can’t consider my . . . years in Hollywood as any kind of waste. They were entertaining and educational and highly paid, and I am thankful for that.25 One sees why people who cherish film music as an art form might be offended by statements like this, or, in the case of jazz, by a comment like: ‘I did it for fun. I knew it was not forever – certainly not to the exclusion of what I was after’.26 Previn never returned to the movies, but he did return to jazz. From 1989 until the turn of the century he was constantly performing and recording. And as he had done in the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s, he again collaborated with some of the finest players in jazz. His style, however, did not change, as he openly acknowledged.27 In a musical genre like jazz, where ‘ideas of progress’ are still of great importance for the aesthetic discourse, such an attitude does not help to generate wide critical interest. But if one is fine with that ‘retro approach’, then there are some excellent albums to discover.28 Previn’s biggest contribution to jazz had come decades earlier. In October 1956 he released an album titled Modern Jazz Performances of Songs from My Fair Lady, recorded with Leroy Vinnegar on bass and Shelly Manne on drums.29 The success of this album (which sold more than half a million copies) in the wake of the even more extraordinary success of the Broadway show on which it was based initiated a massive trend: re-readings of single Broadway ‘book musical’ scores as jazz albums.30 Although widely forgotten today in jazz music historiography,31 contemporary commentators used terms like ‘chain-reaction’32 or ‘avalanche’33 to describe the phenomenon that lasted until the mid-1960s. Previn contributed to about a dozen albums in the genre that he himself had initiated. Along with his many adaptations of Broadway scores for the silver screen, they represent an area of extensive engagement between him and Broadway. Previn’s work in jazz during the 1950s and 1960s was in many ways interconnected with his work in the film studios – in contrast to his later jazz work after 1989 when his ties to the movie business were long gone. The interconnections were of five basic types. First, many West Coast musicians, like Shelly Manne or Red Mitchell, who performed and recorded jazz with Previn at that time also worked for him in studio orchestras. This is much evident in Previn’s highly amusing autobiography, No Minor Chords: My Days in Hollywood, which covers that part of Previn’s career when his focus was equally on film music and jazz before he left Hollywood to conduct classical music full time.34 Second, Previn used jazz elements in many of his original film scores, even going so far as to write an explicit jazz score – featuring such notable jazz singers and players as Carmen McRae, Gerry Mulligan, Art Pepper, Russ Freeman, and Shelly Manne – for the movie adaptation of Jack Kerouac’s The Subterraneans (1960).35 Third, in movies like The Subterraneans and Pepe of the same year, one can also see Previn, the jazz player, on screen. In The Subterraneans, Previn at the piano is part of a scene that displays a kind of bohemian living-room meeting and

André Previn  135 has George Peppard’s character doing an impromptu dance. In Pepe, Previn can be seen accompanying Bobby Darin in his performance of one of Previn’s own songs, ‘That’s How It Went, All Right’. Fourth, some of Previn’s songs written for the movies in the 1960s made it to the wider jazz and pop repertoire. Most notable amongst these are ‘You’re Gonna Hear From Me’ (from Inside Daisy Clover, 1965), which was recorded by Shirley Bassey, Bill Evans, Ella Fitzgerald, Diana Ross and the Supremes, Frank Sinatra, Barbra Streisand, Stanley Turrentine, Scott Walker, and Andy Williams, and the metrically tricky ‘Theme from “Valley of the Dolls” ’ (from the infamous eponymous 1967 film), which in its version by Dionne Warwick in 1968 reached no. 2 on the Billboard ‘Hot 100’ chart.36 Both songs have lyrics by Previn’s second wife, Dory, with whom Previn regularly collaborated on songs for movies in the 1960s.37 A third song by Previn, the Grammy Award–winning ‘Like Young’, with lyrics by Paul Francis Webster, and not associated with any film, also achieved wide mainstream success as well as inclusion in the compilation of jazz ‘standards’ known as The Real Book. Fifth, when doing adaptation scores for Hollywood – arguably his most widely acknowledged contribution to the film industry – Previn typically made jazz versions of the same material.38 Comparisons allow one to see where his aesthetics and flexibilities are located in the respective musical fields. In films, Previn saw music in a serving role within a hierarchy; ‘a film score is an accompaniment to an already existing series of images’, he said.39 When doing, for example, the film version of George Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess in 1959, Previn changed Gershwin’s score with regard to filmic purposes.40 For instance, ‘I’m on My Way’ was enlarged to allow a longer shot on Sidney Poitier’s Porgy leaving Catfish Row in the movie’s final sequence, and thematically more easily recognisable material was interpolated into a new introduction for ‘I Loves You, Porgy’ so that it could function effectively under the dialogue that in the movie replaced the opera’s recitative.41 In contrast, when Previn performed Gershwin in the context of classical music, as pianist and/or conductor, he did not change a note.42 In jazz, however, he felt free to focus on what interested him musically. In his jazz version of Porgy and Bess with singer Diahann Carroll (who also performed in the film),43 the genders of the opera’s protagonists are switched where needed (‘Bess, You Is My Woman Now’, for example, becomes ‘Porgy, I Is Your Woman Now’). But Previn also substantially changed the musical material. His treatment of ‘I Loves You, Porgy’ focused only on the ‘love song’ part; Gershwin’s complex formal structure and sharp contrasts in character were reworked into a straightforward ballad form (AABA) that more easily allowed for improvisation. These examples stand for many in giving evidence that Previn’s versatility did not necessarily make him a crossover artist. Quite the contrary, he has always cared a lot about the rules of the respective musical fields he was working in; he simply allowed himself to work in different fields at the same time. Only a few obvious examples – his Guitar Concerto (1971) for classical guitar, jazz trio, and symphony orchestra, or his song-cycle Honey and Rue (1992), written with writer Toni Morrison for classical soprano, jazz band, and chamber

136  Frédéric Döhl orchestra, or his crossover jazz albums with excellent yet unmistakably classical sopranos44 in the 1960s and 1990s – contradict Previn’s many apparently contrary statements that emphasise the limits between the musical fields. In general, when dealing with Previn’s music-making it helps to keep in mind his often-articulated attitude. This allows one to get closer to the specifics of the very unique form of musical versatility that his career represents: it is much more about doing many different things in parallel than about trying to fuse them into new musical forms, genres, or practices.

Previn, the performer of classical music Classical music was Previn’s first love. He started as a piano child prodigy in Berlin, enrolling in one of the local schools of music (the Stern’sches Konservatorium) at the tender age of 6. His virtuosity as a pianist and his sight-reading abilities, both developed early, are signature characteristics of his career, and they both contributed significantly to the later evolution of Previn’s diverse interests. After immigration to the United States, Previn never again took up formal education at a school of music.45 His most important private teachers during his first years in America were Joseph Achron and Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, who focused on composition and scoring. At the same time, Joseph Szigeti, the renowned violin virtuoso, took Previn under his wing for the sake of exploring the classical chamber music repertoire for small ensembles with piano. Perhaps due to his work with Szigeti, the format of the trio became Previn’s favourite not just in classical music but also in jazz.46 Parallel to his work in the movies and in jazz, throughout the 1940s and 1950s Previn regularly played classical music with the immigrant artists who helped make Los Angeles such a vibrant music scene.47 His interest in conducting classical music developed at this same time.48 As a conductor, Previn was in essence an autodidact, although he did spend some with Pierre Monteux in San Francisco during his military service there and he certainly learned a lot about how the job was done from his elder colleagues in the film studios.49 In any case, his first attempts with conducting were made with Peter Meremblum’s California Youth Orchestra, which Previn regularly served as a ‘standby pianist’50 and occasional soloist, around 1945. Later he worked with a spare-time orchestra of Hollywood studio musicians who regularly met to play classical music.51 It is not completely clear from the sources, yet it seems that Previn’s initial impulse to redirect his career towards conducting full-time came one day in the early 1960s when Schuyler Chapin, then vice-president for classical music at Columbia Records, heard Previn conduct the aforementioned spare-time orchestra of Hollywood studio musicians.52 The exact time and occasion may be disputed, but it was Chapin for sure who introduced Previn to Ronald Wilford, who went on to become arguably the most important manager of conductors in the second half of the twentieth century.53 So that Previn could continue ‘learning on the job’, Wilford organised for him a busy schedule with American provincial orchestras

André Previn  137 between 1962 and 1967. In 1967 Previn accepted his first permanent conductorial position, with the Houston Symphony Orchestra; the next year he was named music director of the London Symphony Orchestra (LSO), with which he had been making recordings, on the RCA label, since 1963. During his eleven-year stint with the LSO Previn was able to establish himself internationally. He developed close working relationships with such orchestras as the Boston Symphony Orchestra, the NHK Symphony Orchestra Tokyo, and the Vienna Philharmonic, and after the LSO job he took permanent positions with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra (1976–85), the Los Angeles Philharmonic (1985–89), the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra London (1985–91), and the Oslo Philharmonic (2002–06). As a conductor, Previn favoured twentieth-century English and Russian composers as well as Haydn and Mozart, and he recorded all of Richard Strauss’s symphonic works with the Vienna Philharmonic. He avoided opera, repertoire from before the Classical era, and postwar avant-garde music. Since having established himself as a conductor, he also avoided performing film music in the context of concerts. Previn made many television appearances during the 1970s, especially in the UK. In the BBC show André Previn’s Music Night (1971–79), he and the LSO in a lighthearted manner introduced classical music to a wide audience. Previn continued the educational approach in 1979 with his book Orchestra (a collection of interviews with thirty-one American and British musicians), and in the mid1980s, during his stint as chief conductor of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, he hosted a series titled Sounds Magnificent: The Story of the Symphony. The BBC took advantage of Previn’s popularity when they ran a talk show with Previn as host; on André Previn Meets. . ., between 1974 and 1977, Previn interviewed such persons as the musically ambitious prime minister Edward Heath, the actress Mia Farrow (Previn’s then wife), the singer and actress Julie Andrews, the director Jonathan Miller, the classical pianist (and later conductor) Vladimir Ashkenazy, the playwright Tom Stoppard, the classical guitarist John Williams, and the classical singer Janet Baker. For another talk show, My Kind of Music, Previn interviewed colleagues like Adrian Boult, Colin Davis, Yehudi Menuhin, and Georg Solti. Later, Previn added interviews with colleagues such as Gene Kelly, Yo-Yo Ma, Isaac Stern, and John Williams (the film composer) to his résumé with the BBC series Personal Notes (1985–88). Before that, Previn had taken part in the BBC series Omnibus with themed episodes like ‘American Music and All That Jazz’, ‘Who Needs a Conductor?’, and ‘What Price a Symphony?’ When Previn became chief conductor of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra in 1976, he transferred his interest in television to the United States; the program called Previn and the Pittsburgh – featuring interviews with guests ranging from Betty Comden and Adolph Green to Miklós Rózsa, Stephen Sondheim, and Michael Tippett – ran for twenty-seven episodes on the Public Broadcasting System (PBS) network. Compared with today’s very modest standards of actual musical content in mainstream television, it is amazing to see how far into musical details Previn allowed himself to go without losing touch with his more general audience.

138  Frédéric Döhl

Previn, the composer of contemporary art music Previn’s career as a conductor reached its heights during the 1970s but slowed down during the late 1980s and culminated in his sudden dismissal from the Los Angeles Philharmonic in 1989 after having lost a well-publicised power struggle with the orchestra’s manager, Ernest Fleischmann, that escalated with the arrival Esa-Pekka Salonen as principal guest conductor.54 Previn reacted in two ways. He re-engaged with jazz. And he refocused his energies on the composition of art music.55 Previn had focused on art music occasionally since the 1960s, and his output includes including a Guitar Concerto (1971) for John Williams, the song cycle Five Songs (1977) for soprano Janet Baker, a Piano Concerto (1985) for Vladimir Ashkenazy, the orchestral pieces Principals (1980) and Reflections (1981), and the experimental incidental music for Tom Stoppard’s play Every Good Boy Deserves Favour (1977). But now the emphasis shifted noticeably. In general, Previn composes on commission, usually knowing who will premiere the work, a fact he highlights as being of great importance to his creativity as a composer. In the almost three decades since Previn turned 60 in 1989, he has increased his production significantly. His recent works include concertos for violin (2002, 2012), cello (1968, 2011), and harp (2007); double concertos for violin and viola (2009), violin and cello (2014), and violin and double bass (2007); a triple concerto for French horn, trumpet, and tuba (2012); and several symphonic pieces for orchestra, including Diversions (2000), Night Thoughts (2006), Owls (2008), Music for Boston (2012), No Strings Attached (2014), Can Spring Be Far Behind? (2016), and Almost an Overture (2017). Despite many stylistic influences from moderately modern classical music and a highly recognisable rhythmic style, Previn’s orchestral works very often include episodes that indeed sound like what Peter Franklin has called ‘the typical cinematic “love theme” of the 1930s and ’40s, soaring violins and sobbing horns’.56 In particular due to that commentators continue to link Previn the art music composer to Previn the film composer – a comparison Previn opposes in interviews with frequency and persistence. Among Previn’s many recent chamber music compositions, his Trio for Piano, Oboe, and Bassoon (1996) is the most notable because it has been able to establish itself in the core repertoire of its instruments without the constant participation of its composer or his close artistic allies – such as his fifth wife, violinist AnneSophie Mutter – as performers and advocates. The same is true for Previn’s arguably most important composition, or at least the one with the biggest impact: his first opera, A Streetcar Named Desire (1998).57 Streetcar was commissioned by the San Francisco Opera explicitly to refer to Previn’s earlier work in Hollywood. As the company’s director Lotfi Mansouri stated: ‘I love his soundtracks because they have an incredible sense of drama and personality. Listen to Elmer Gantry, Bad Day at Black Rock. I told André, “You’re a born opera composer” ’.58 The opera has been produced around fifty times thus far, a large number for a contemporary opera. Together with Mark Adamo’s also frequently performed Little Women (1998, Houston Grand Opera production),

André Previn  139 Previn’s A Streetcar Named Desire initiated a new, vibrant genre in American opera that focusses on a specific three-part adaptation formula: a famous American play or novel, first turned into a well-known movie and then into an opera.59 Like many of the operas that would follow this formula,60 A Streetcar Named Desire is equally interested in both of its sources, the Tennessee Williams play (1947) and the Elia Kazan film version (1951). It is not ‘sounding like film music’ that characterises the new genre; rather, at the genre’s heart is an understanding not just of the specifics of the various media but also the relations and confrontations between them.

Conclusion In addition to his prominent work in Hollywood between 1945 and 1968, Previn had significant impact in other musical fields. He initiated long-lasting new genres in jazz (1956–65) and contemporary opera (since 1998), but he also had solid successes in the world of popular music, and especially during his time with the London Symphony Orchestra he secured new audiences for such neglected works as the early symphonies of Rachmaninoff and Walton.61 The amount of relevance and impact in so many different areas of Western music seems to be the first and foremost unique characteristic of Previn’s ‘multiple lives’. The second characteristic is that he is arguably the only musician who started out – at least in the consciousness of the general public and his colleagues in other fields of music – as a film (and jazz) musician and then managed successfully to redirect his career to become a widely accepted performer and composer of classical music.

Notes 1 The background of this essay is a research project I conducted between 2007 and 2010 at the Collaborative Research Center (CRC) 626, Aesthetic Experience and the Dissolution of Artistic Limits, funded by the German Research Foundation (GRF) and based at Freie Universität/Free University Berlin. The project resulted in Frédéric Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2012). Some results from this research have been published in English before; see the articles referenced. 2 André Previn, No Minor Chords: My Days in Hollywood (New York: Doubleday, 1991), 131. 3 Previn openly acknowledges both of these. See Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 26, 214f. 4 Dieter David Scholz, André Previn: Grenzgänger der Ersten Stunde, available at www. dieter-davidscholz.de/dieter_david_scholz_portraits_previn.htm 5 Vanity Fair (1998), quoted in Klaus Umbach, ‘Mister Mutter’, Der Spiegel 42 (2003), 167–8. 6 The Kennedy Center, André Previn, available at www.kennedy-center.org/Artist/ A3786 7 Los Angeles Times, 20 November 1963, D12. 8 Susan Stamberg, ‘Musical Polymath Goes Solo’, on National Public Radio, 11 June 2007, available at www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=10881145

140  Frédéric Döhl 9 New York Times, 30 May 1965, I27. 10 Time, 15 July 1966, available at www.time.com/time/magazine/article/ 11 Edward Greenfield, ‘André Previn’, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. Second Edition, vol. 20, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 2001), 310. 12 This description, to which no author is ever ascribed, is ubiquitous in Internet pages that make mention of Previn. 13 André Previn, quoted in Barrymore Laurence Scherer, ‘Musician of the Year: André Previn’, available at www.musicalamerica.com/features/?fid=48&fyear=1999 14 André Previn, quoted in Michael Freedland, André Previn (London: Century, 1991), 223. 15 Bob Golden, Program Notes on André Previn, available at www.carnegiehall.org/text Site/box_office/events/evt_12225.html 16 Ronald Wilford, quoted in Martin Bookspan and Ross Yockey, André Previn: A Biography (Garden City: Doubleday, 1981), 312. 17 See Frédéric Döhl, André Previn. Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2012). 18 See Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 167–91. 19 See the collection Previn at Sunset ([1945/46], 1972 Polydor/Black Lion BLP 30121/2002 BLCD 760189). For early recordings, see also Mad about the Boy ([1947– 51] 1958, RCA Camden CAL 406); Hallelujah! ([1945–50] 2004, Avid 779 51846). 20 For a full discography of Previn’s jazz recordings, see Frédéric Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 296–307. 21 See Scott Joplin, The Easy Winners and Other Rag-Time Music (1975, Angel S 37113); A Different Kind of Blues (1980, Angel DS 37780); It’s a Breeze (1981, Angel DS 37799); and Nice Work If You Can Get It: Ella Fitzgerald and André Previn (1983, Pablo 2312–140). 22 André Previn, quoted in Breandáin O’Shea, Inspired Minds: One to One with André Previn, Deutsche Welle 2008, available at www.podcast.de/episode/855470/Inspired +Minds%3A+One+to+One+with+André+Previn/. For more quotes, see Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 140. 23 See Döhl, André Previn. Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung. 24 See Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 178–81. 25 Previn, No Minor Chords, 141. 26 André Previn, quoted in Helen Drees Ruttencutter, Previn (New York: St. Martin’s/ Marek, 1985), 52. 27 See Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 122. 28 See especially Uptown (1990, Telarc CD-83303  – with Mundell Lowe and Ray Brown); Old Friends (Live) (1992, Telarc CD-83309 – with Mundell Lowe and Ray Brown); We Got Rhythm: A Gershwin Songbook (1998, DGG 289 453 493–2 – with David Finck); We Got It Good and That Ain’t Bad: An Ellington Songbook (1999, DGG 289 463 456–2 – with David Finck); Live at the Jazz Standard (2001, Decca 440 013 220–2 – with David Finck); and Alone: Ballads for Solo Piano (2007, EmArcy 0602517298316). 29 Although the album (Contemporary C 3527/S 7002/S 7527) was credited to ‘Shelly Manne and His Friends’, Previn was the main arranger and driving force on the record. Manne and Previn alternated main billing through the years on their albums together. 30 I reconstructed the aesthetic concept of Modern Jazz Performances of Songs from My Fair Lady and the jazz genre it created in great detail in Frédéric Döhl, ‘The “Book Musical Genre” in Jazz around 1960: On Modern Jazz Performances of Songs from My Fair Lady (Shelly Manne, Andre Previn, Leroy Vinnegar)’, Jazz Perspectives 10, no. 1 (2017), 63–95.

André Previn  141 31 For a discussion of possible reasons, see Ibid., 78–85. 32 Charles Fox, Peter Gammond, and Alun Morgan, Jazz on Record: A Critical Guide (London: Hutchinson, 1960), 224. 33 Albert McCarthy, Alun Morgan, Paul Oliver and Max Harrison, Jazz on Record: A Critical Guide to the First Fifty Years: 1917–1967 (London: Hanover Books, 1968), 187. 34 See Previn, No Minor Chords. 35 See The Subterraneans (1960, MGM SE 3812ST, reissued 2005, Film Score Monthly FSMCD 7, no.19 (2005). 36 Due to a contract dispute, Warwick’s version of the ‘Theme from “Valley of the Dolls” ’ as sung over the film’s opening credits is arranged not by Previn but by John Williams; Williams received his first Academy Award nomination for this work, but his arrangement is not heard on the ‘original’ soundtrack album. Furthermore, the version of the song that reached the top of the pop charts was a re-recording produced by Burt Bacharach based on a new, more streamlined, pop-driven arrangement. 37 Previn’s songwriting, mostly done for movies, is best accessed through several albums focusing exclusively on his material. See, for example, Doris Day & André Previn: Duet (1962, Columbia CL-1752/CD-8552); Jackie & Roy: Like Sing: Songs by Dory and André Previn (1963, Columbia CL 1934/CS-8734); David Pascucci, Inside André Previn (2005, Rich Rose Records RR DMP1001); and Michael Feinstein, Change of Heart: The Songs of André Previn (2013, TELARC TEL-34021–02). 38 See the jazz album Three Little Words (1950, RCA Victor LPM-1356) and the soundtrack album Three Little Words (1950, MGM E-516); the jazz album Shelly Manne & His Friends: Modern Jazz Performances of Songs from My Fair Lady (1956, Contemporary C 3527/S 7002/S 7527) and the soundtrack album My Fair Lady (1964, Columbia KOS 2600); the jazz album Shelly Manne & His Friends: Modern Jazz Performances of Songs from Bells Are Ringing (1958, Contemporary M 3559/S 7559) and the soundtrack album Bells Are Ringing (1960, Capitol SW-1435); the jazz album André Previn & His Pals: Modern Jazz Performances of Songs from Gigi (1958, Contemporary C 3548/S 7548) and the soundtrack album Gigi (1958, MGM E-3641); the jazz album Diahann Carroll and the André Previn Trio: Porgy and Bess (1959, United Artists UAL 4021) and the soundtrack album Porgy and Bess (1959, CBS BPL 60002). 39 André Previn, quoted in Barry Singer, ‘Encountering Previn’, Opera News 73, no. 10 (2009), available at www.operanews.com/Opera_News_Magazine/2009/4/Features/ Encountering_Previn.html 40 See the soundtrack album Porgy and Bess (1959, CBS BPL 60002). The highly controversial film is not on sale these days on DVD or Blue-ray, but it is listed in the Library of Congress’s ‘National Film Registry’. 41 For a detailed discussion of Porgy and Bess, see Frédéric Döhl, ‘Book Musicals im Jazz um 1960: André Previns “Modern Jazz Performances” von My Fair Lady (1956) und Porgy & Bess (1959)’, Lied und populäre Kultur / Song and Popular Culture. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Volksliedarchivs 58 (2013), 83–93. 42 See George Gershwin: Rhapsody in Blue, Concerto in F, André Kostelanetz and His Orchestra (1960, Columbia CL 1495/CS 8286/Sony 82876 78768–2); George Gershwin: Rhapsody in Blue, Piano Concerto in F, An American in Paris, LSO (1971, HMV ASD 2754/Angel CDC-47161/EMI 2 67969–2); George Gershwin: Porgy and Bess – Symphonic Picture, Cuban Overture, Second Rhapsody, Cristina Ortiz, LSO (1981, HMV ASD 3982/Angel CDC-47021/EMI 2 67969–2); and George Gershwin: Rhapsody in Blue, An American in Paris, Concerto in F, PSO (1985, Philips 412 611–2). 43 Diahann Carroll and the André Previn Trio. Porgy and Bess (1959, United Artists UAL 4021 – with Joe Mondragon, Keith Mitchell, Larry Bunker, and Frank Capp). 44 See Eileen Farrell, André Previn: Together with Love (1962, Columbia CL 1920); Right as the Rain: Leontyne Price and André Previn (1967, RCA Victor LSC 2983);

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45 46 47 48 49

50 51 52 53 54 55

56 57 58 59 60

61

Kiri Sidetracks: The Jazz Album (1992, Philips 434 092–2 – with Kiri Te Kanawa); Sure Thing: The Jerome Kern Songbook (1994, Philips 442 129–2  – with Sylvia McNair); and Come Rain or Shine: The Harold Arlen Songbook (1996, Philips 446 818–2 – Sylvia McNair). For details and source regarding Previn’s musical education and early efforts in classical music, see Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 78–84, 104–15, and 141–6. For full discography, see Ibid., 295–319. See Ibid., 110–15. See Ibid., 105–16. For detailed discussions of Previn’s career as a conductor, see Ibid., 193–222; and Frédéric Döhl, ‘Vier Spielarten einer Komponisten-Dirigenten-Laufbahn im Vergleich: Antal Doráti, Igor Markevitch, André Previn, Lorin Maazel’, in Dirigieren und Komponieren, eds. Alexander Drcar and Wolfgang Gratzer (Freiburg im Breisgau: Rombach, 2017), 327–43. André Previn/Antony Hopkins, Music Face to Face (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1971), 10. For further references regarding the relationship of Previn and Meremblum, see Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 104–6. See Döhl, André Previn. Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 163–6. For the different sources and versions of the story, see Ibid., 167. See Norman Lebrecht, The Maestro Myth: Great Conductors in Pursuit of Power (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1991), 304–27. See New York Times (26 April 1989), available at www.nytimes.com/1989/04/26/arts/ previn-abruptly-quits-post-at-the-los-angeles.html For detailed discussions of Previn’s career as a composer of contemporary art music, see Döhl, André Previn: Musikalische Vielseitigkeit und ästhetische Erfahrung, 223– 55; and Frédéric Döhl, ‘About the Task of Adapting a Movie Classic for the Opera Stage: On Andre Previn’s A Streetcar Named Desire (1998) and Brief Encounter (2009)’, in In Search for the ‘Great American Opera:’ Tendenzen des amerikanischen Musiktheaters, eds. Frédéric Döhl and Gregor Herzfeld (Münster: Waxmann, 2016), 147–75. Peter Franklin, Seeing Through Music: Gender and Modernism in Classic Hollywood Film Scores (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 3. A second opera, Brief Encounter, premiered in Houston in 2009, but it has not yet received a second production. Lotfi Mansouri, quoted in Jesse Hamlin, ‘Taking “Streetcar” to the Opera’, SFGate (19 July 1998), available at http://articles.sfgate.com/1998-07-19/entertainment/17726955_ 1_new-opera-streetcar-san-francisco-opera For detailed discussion, see Döhl, ‘About the Task of Adapting a Movie Classic for the Opera Stage’, 147–75. These include William Bolcom’s, A View from the Bridge (1999), John Harbison’s, The Great Gatsby (1999), Tobias Picker’s, An American Tragedy (2005), Ned Rorem’s, Our Town (2006), Lowell Liebermann’s, Miss Lonelyhearts (2006), Ricky Ian Gordon’s, The Grapes of Wrath (2007), Robert Aldridge’s, Elmer Gantry (2007), Jake Heggie’s, Moby-Dick (2010), Robert Aldridge’s, Sister Carrie (2016), and Jake Heggie’s, It’s a Wonderful Life (2016). See Serge Rachmaninoff: Symphony No. 2 E-minor op. 27, Vocalise op. 34/14, Aleko: Intermezzo, Aleko: Women’s Dance, LSO (1973, HMV ASD 2889/EMI 2 67969– 2); William Walton: Symphony No. 1 B flat-minor, LSO (1966, RCA 7830–2-RG/ LM2927/74321 92575.2); Coco (1969); The Good Companions (1974); and Dionne Warwick: Dionne Warwick in Valley of the Dolls (1968, Scepter SPS 568).

12 Wojciech Kilar ‘I am like a Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde’ Bogumila Mika

In 1998, Polish journalist Anna Sekudewicz tried to describe the room at home in which Wojciech Kilar (1932–2013) worked: There is a desk and a concert Bechstein. There are several framed pictures on the wall. Among others, a picture of John Paul II, who thanked the composer for Victoria – performed during the pope’s visit to Poland – a picture with the Polish primate during the performance of Angelus at Jasna Góra, a picture of Kilar who speaks to a few thousands of people in Katowice’s Cathedral during the ceremony of receiving the prize ‘Lux et Silesia’ from Damian Zimoń, archbishop of Katowice Diocese.1 These pictures are symbolic, for they indicate that his Catholic faith and things connected with the church were important to Kilar. He was generally thought to be a very religious person, and in the last several years of his life many reviewers regarded the late works of this world-famous composer of film music to be merely examples of ‘sacro-polo’ music.2 Although this simple image remained high in the public consciousness, those who knew Wojciech Kilar better found both the composer and his work to be more complex. They perceived him as ambiguous. Kazimierz Kutz, the famous Polish film director, said: ‘There are two Wojciech Kilars. The first is a rake and a jester, who could enjoy life like few people could – witty and gushing with joy. The second is almost a saint, who because of fear bid farewell to his own sinful life’.3 This chapter follows Kilar’s path with all its twists, the path of life during which a sociable, cheerful, and shallow person became a serious, very religious confessor of the Catholic faith.

From Lwów to Katowice Wojciech Kilar was born in Lwów, a beautiful city in southeastern Poland and for many years an important Polish centre of science and culture.4 His father, Jan Franciszek Kilar, was a famous gynaecologist. His mother, Neonilla KilarKrzywiecka, was an actress who performed in the Lwów Theatre. Thanks to his mother, Wojciech Kilar grew up with the belief that art is an important, maybe even the most important, part of a human’s life.5

144  Bogumila Mika Just before he turned 7, Kilar was forced to learn to play piano, but he did not take to it. Years later he confessed that he played piano very badly, indeed. ‘I couldn’t understand what the black and white dots on the staff were, the divisions by bars’, he said.6 He preferred child’s play. Kilar’s school and musical education were dramatically halted by the outbreak of World War II, during which Lwów came first under Russian and later under German occupation. In 1944, Kilar’s mother, who feared the Bolsheviks’ return, decided to leave the city with her son; they escaped to Krosno and later to Rzeszów. Kilar’s father stayed in Lwów, relocating to Poland after the war ended and after Lwów was ceded to the Ukraine, but he never reunited with his wife. Until his death in 1951, Jan Franciszek and his son visited regularly. In Rzeszów, Kilar started his regular musical education under the tutelage of pianist Kazimierz Mirski, who introduced him to the musical world of Debussy. As a result, Debussy – along with Mozart and Ravel – was one of Kilar’s favourite composers.7 Mirski noticed that Kilar, although a gifted pianist, was less interested in playing the piano than in composing. He encouraged his young pupil to follow the composer’s path. Kilar admitted: ‘It suited me very well, because in order to be a good pianist, you have to practice four hours a day, minimum. But one can compose whenever he feels like it’.8 Kilar briefly lived in Cracow, but recalled that he enjoyed only the city’s life and cultural atmosphere. He visited everything it was possible to visit there, and he met interesting people. In 1948 he moved to Katowice in Silesia to attend the local high school of music. In the years 1950 through 1955 he studied composition at the State Higher School of Music (PWSM) in Katowice with Bolesław Woytowicz and piano performance with Władysława Markiewiczówna. He graduated with top honours and in 1955 was awarded a diploma. Woytowicz’s supervision suited Kilar’s personality: both were extroverted, famous for eloquence, had elegant manners, and were eager to make new social contacts. Kilar eventually claimed that as a composer he was ‘an opus’ of Woytowicz.

A ‘gifted young composer’ Kilar’s debut as a composer took place in 1956 at the First International Festival of Contemporary Music (later known as Warsaw Autumn). His Small Overture for Orchestra was presented during the festival’s final concert by the Silesian Philharmonic under the direction of Karol Stryja, who became fascinated by Kilar’s music from the first time he heard it, in 1955, during the composer’s graduation concert. The Warsaw audience received this music enthusiastically, and critics praised the composer for his creative skill and temperament. The Small Overture remains a good example of Polish neo-classical music and belongs to the category known as ‘orchestral fireworks’.9 In 1957 Kilar wrote Oda Béla Bartók in memoriam, dedicated to the Hungarian nation as a protest against the political violence that included the recent massacre in Budapest and against the terror of the system in which he himself had to live.10 Kilar

Wojciech Kilar  145 was interested in the activity of the Experimental Studio of Polish Radio, which had been founded in 1957, and he was also interested in dodecaphony, aleatoric music, and so-called punctualism.11 His fascination with sound experiments encouraged him to travel in 1957 to Darmstadt for the Summer Courses in New Music.12 After graduating from the Higher School of Music, Kilar, a young and promising composer, was awarded a grant by the French government that enabled him to study with Nadia Boulanger in Paris. He spent one academic year in Paris (1959–60), and this strongly influenced his musical activity. In later years, Kilar recalled that period with shame, admitting that he had studied the pleasures of life more diligently than he had studied music. Back in Poland, the lack of money became Kilar’s main problem. Although he certainly needed money, Kilar never worked as a teacher, as many others composers did, because he felt that he had no talent for teaching. But he did try to increase his income by composing occasional music for the theatre. Eventually and completely unexpectedly, two Polish film directors, Kazimierz Kutz and Bohdan Poręba, commissioned Kilar to write music for their films Nikt nie woła and Lunatycy. Kilar found that writing music for cinema and the theatre was easy – and it helped his budget. He also found that collaborating with films’ staffs suited his lifestyle: it provided him with amusement, social activity, and positive reinforcement. Kilar never regarded writing music for film as serious work, although it earned him good money, and he enjoyed the fact that in this genre he could write music that was ‘nice for the ear’, such as waltzes, ragtime, and jazz.13

Phase of sonorism The musical works written by Kilar during the 1960s belong to the timbre-focused style known as sonorism. These were enthusiastically received by public and reviewers alike, and the most important of them were Riff 62, Générique, Diphtongos, and Springfield Sonnet. Riff 62 was born of Kilar’s great fascination with jazz. Dedicated to Nadia Boulanger, the piece was premiered on 16 September 1962 at the Warsaw Autumn Festival. The concert hall was ‘filled to the brim’ and the audience demanded an encore of the entire piece. Just as important, the foreign press commented enthusiastically on the achievements of the new ‘Polish School of Composers’ whose most prominent members, along with Kilar, were Krzysztof Penderecki, Witold Lutosławski, Henryk Górecki, Tadeusz Baird, and Kazimierz Serocki. Franz Willnauer, in the Stuttgarter Zeitung, wrote that ‘the Poles succeeded in opening a window to the West and have left it open for the fifth [successive] year, an accomplishment amounting almost to a miracle’.14 The British newspaper The Times stated: ‘Young Polish composers seem to be more western than the West itself’.15 The Dutch weekly magazine Elseviers Weekblad called Kilar’s Riff 62 a ‘highly dramatic’ piece and noticed that it had been encored while some works of Bogusław Schaeffer and Iannis Xenakis had been hissed. Foreign reviewers stressed that Polish composers presented works written in a hitherto unknown musical language and ‘created new effects of sound colour’.16

146  Bogumila Mika Kilar’s next piece for orchestra, Générique, was composed the following year and presented at the 1963 Warsaw Autumn Festival. The music was inspired by a traffic jam in the streets of Paris; it starts with a siren and horn toot, includes amongst its instruments a gasoline canister, and at one point calls for empty metal cans to be thrown onto the strings of a piano. As had been the case with Riff 62, after the first performance the audience called for an encore, and at least one critic suggested that it was ‘a kind of masterpiece’.17 Diphtongos was written in 1964 for choir and orchestra. The most avant-garde and innovative piece from Kilar’s sonoristic period, Diphtongos is based on the pure sound values of the language of the Trobriand Islands in Melanesia; along with speaking words from that exotic language, the choir whispers, screams, and hisses. Kilar’s fourth and last composition from his sonoristic period was Springfield Sonnet for orchestra, written in 1965 on the centennial of Abraham Lincoln’s death. It has no aggressive tones, and its generally sonoristic materials are used modestly. Kilar admitted to feeling disappointed that the piece was not encored when it was premiered at the 1965 Warsaw Autumn Festival, but some critics consider Springfield Sonnet to be a résumé of the first period of Kilar’s sonoric quest.18 The 1967 Solenne, for orchestra and soprano soloist, opened a new ‘reductive’ phase in which Kilar’s sonorism was combined with constructivism. ‘Even this early’, wrote Polish musicologist Leszek Polony, ‘Kilar combines contradictory elements: changeability, contrast and energy on the one hand and an accurate construction of form on the other’.19 Training 68 (1968) – for clarinet, trombone, cello, and piano  – is of minimalistic character and marks the beginning of yet another transitional period.20 For the next three years Kilar composed no classical music. At the beginning of the 1970s he experimented with several works (Upstairs-Downstairs for orchestra and two choirs of girls or boys, for example, and Prelude and Carol for four oboes and string orchestra) in which he tried to combine sonorism with a simplification of music and a retardation of musical narration.21 In 1972 Kilar closed his sonoristic period with Przygrywka i kolęda [Prelude and Christmas Carol] for four oboes and strings.22 Although sonoristic compositions were enthusiastically received in the 1960s and are still appreciated by music critics, Kilar in his maturity had an indulgent attitude towards them. In his old age he was even more critical; he thought these pieces should be discarded ‘on the graveyard of avant-garde scores’. He even said: I have no relationship with what I  did before [the tone poem] Krzesany. Maybe beyond Przygrywka i kolęda and Upstairs-Downstairs from the years 1971–72 as precursory of a new and completely unknown phase, or Oda Béla Bartók in memoriam from 1956 (!). And the rest? I entirely don’t understand this music today; it seems to me that it was composed by someone else to fulfil completely unknown purposes.23 During this same time, Kilar received several requests to compose music for feature-length films. He had consistent doubts about his ability to write film music while also composing classical pieces. The cinema desired him because he was

Wojciech Kilar  147 an acclaimed composer of contemporary music, but, increasingly, the world of contemporary music rejected him because he understood the cinema and was able to write for its needs. He was afraid that his name would become recognisable in classical music only as an author of film music. For Kilar, cinema was an unsophisticated entertainment that simply allowed him to earn money.24 Indeed, his work for the film industry allowed him to live in relative luxury, and it allowed him to travel often to the United States and Canada.

Breakthrough and new ideas of inspiration The radical compositional breakthrough for Kilar was his symphonic poem Krzesany, written in 1973–74 and inspired by the Tatra Mountains, which Kilar had long regarded with respect, esteem, and even pietism but which he decided to climb only after Krzesany had been completed. Krzysztof Penderecki observed that with Krzesany ‘Wojtek [Kilar] approached Tatra folk music in the strongest and fullest way possible. He approached Tatra folk music more closely than anyone else, even [more] than Szymanowski [had] in Harnasie’.25 Like Szymanowski’s 1931 ballet Harnasie, Kilar’s Krzesany is strongly rooted in Podhale folk music and is inspired by the idiom of authentic, original folk elements; precisely speaking, Krzesany is a cycle of mountaineers’ dances, preceded by an invocation. (The quoted material includes the song ‘Hej idem w las’ [Hej, I am going into the wood], the ‘Sabala’s note’ from Stanisław Mierczyński’s collection Muzyka Podhala [Music of Podhale], and the dance ‘Do zbójnickiego, do zwyrtu’, which is also from Mierczyński’s collection.) In any case, Kilar’s main aim was not to create a stylisation of Podhale music but to explore the emotional climate recalled by contact with highland music. Kilar was conscious that with Krzesany he was writing something completely new, and he was afraid of the audience’s reaction. He knew that his audience associated him with avant-garde music, but this new piece was full of direct and intensive examples of mountain folk music. ‘Krzesany was a frightful risk’, Kilar said. ‘It seemed that I should die forever as a composer, because many claimed that it was kitsch and a scandal on the one hand, but, luckily, a fresh breeze blew on the other’.26 Listeners were indeed divided between enthusiasts and opponents when Krzesany was premiered at the eighteenth annual Warsaw Autumn Festival. The enthusiasts gave the piece a standing ovation and congratulated the composer on the beginning of a new phase; opponents announced the end of Kilar’s musical career. The most important critics and historians discussed Krzesany on the pages of the Polish musical journal Ruch Muzyczny. Opinions were extreme; some critics wrote about kitsch, primitivity, and composing for the simplest public taste; others cited Krzesany as a brave and fresh revelation in music.27 The conductor Jan Krenz, for example, after the premiere said that with Krzesany Kilar ‘opened the window wide and let in fresh mountain air to the room of Polish music’,28 and the music critic Ludwik Erhard wrote that coming as it did after so many ‘overintellectualised and trite compositions’ the ‘noisy simplicity’ of Krzesany

148  Bogumila Mika ‘stimulates, pleases, and thrills’.29 Critic Tadeusz Kaczyński, on the other hand, wrote that Krzesany is a tiresome piece that ‘makes for a good joke’,30 and Tadeusz Zieliński dismissed Krzesany as ‘a complete failure’.31 But Krzesany was hardly a failure. Indeed, this manifestation of what Kilar called ‘a radical eclecticism’, ‘an avant-garde work’ in the sense that ‘it once, i.e., in 1974, broke radically with the [immediate] past’, was widely performed not only in Poland but throughout Europe and in the United States, Canada, and Japan.32 The breakthrough initiated by Krzesany – the move towards music that was ‘romantic in spirit and flesh’ but which ‘[did] not at all renounce the contemporary sound language’33 – led Kilar in two directions. One of these involved more symphonic poems inspired by the Tatra Mountains (Kościelec 1909, Siwa mgła, Orawa); the other involved vocal and symphonic ‘religious poems’ (Bogurodzica, Victoria, Exodus, Angelus). All these pieces represent Kilar’s second compositional phase. Kościelec 1909 was written to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the birth of the promising Polish composer Mieczysław Karłowicz who lost his life on the Kościelec peak in 1909; the piece is dedicated to Witold Rowicki, who conducted the premiere at the opening ceremony of the seventy-fifth anniversary celebration of the National Philharmonic in Warsaw (4 November  1976). Siwa mgła [Grey mist], for orchestra and baritone, is dedicated to Kilar’s friend, the baritone Jędrek Bachleda; it is based on the simple folk melody ‘Wierchowa note’, which had fascinated Kilar for some years, and it was premiered in Bydgoszcz in September 1979, during the XVII Musical Festival, by Bachleda and the Cracow Philharmonic under the direction of Jerzy Katlewicz. The last composition inspired by the Tatra Mountains is the ten-minute Orawa for string orchestra, an example of the fusion of mountain folk music and minimalism written in 1985–86 and premiered in 1986 by the Polish Chamber Orchestra under Wojciech Michniewski. The title refers to the highlanders’ sheep-run, at which mountaineers dance at the end of sheep grazing; Kilar’s piece ends with the cry ‘hi!’, which usually elicited an ovation. Orawa became such a popular piece that it was arranged for such diverse groups of instruments as twelve saxophones, eight cellos, and even three accordions.34 The religious trend of Kilar’s second phase was initiated in 1975 by Bogurodzica [Mother of God], for mixed choir and orchestra, in which Kilar uses the first two stanzas of the oldest Polish national anthem for a nationalist composition that calls for a fight for freedom and suggests potential victory. A kind of postscript to Bogurodzica, Victoria, also for mixed choir and orchestra, was composed eight years later, in 1983, as a welcome song for John Paul II (Karol Wojtyła, the Polish Pope) upon his second pilgrimage to his homeland. For this hymn of praise Kilar chose words that the seventeenth-century Polish King Jan III Sobieski had uttered to Pope Innocent XI: ‘Venimus, vidimus, Deus vicit’ [We came, we saw, God won].35 The piece also features a quotation from Bogurodzica, used at the very beginning both as a clear reference to the work Kilar had composed eight years earlier and as a melody that helps to create a solemn and victorious mood. Victoria was premiered on 20 June 1983 by the Silesian Philharmonic under Antoni Wit at the Cathedral of Christ the King in Katowice during the Pope’s audience with people suffering from illness.36

Wojciech Kilar  149 While working on his score for the Peter Lilienthal’s 1979 film David, Kilar received from Lilienthal a cassette containing some Jewish melodies. One of these was ‘Szoszonat Jaskow’, which became the basis of Kilar’s symphonic poem Exodus.37 Kilar worked for two years on Exodus. The entire twenty-minute composition is based on the single melody, which is repeated eight times in different instrumental combination. This procedure caused reviewers to accuse Kilar of writing music too similar to Ravel’s Bolero, but in Kilar’s piece there is also a choir that sings a Latin text alluding to the idea of Christianity. The work’s title indicates its sources of inspiration, and the score is prefaced with these words: ‘Then Moses and the Israelis sang this song to the LORD: “I  will sing to the LORD, for he is highly exalted. The horse and its rider he has thrown into the sea” ’ (Exodus 15:1). Exodus was premiered at the Warsaw Autumn Festival on 19 September 1981, three months before martial law was imposed on Poland. The composition was understood to be a political manifesto, but once again the audience was divided into enthusiasts and opponents. Some listeners called the piece prophetic, and Penderecki congratulated Kilar on producing a ‘tiptop . . . kosher bolero’,38 but others attacked it for being banal, simplistic, and trivial. In any case, Kilar himself was very satisfied with Exodus, and in old age he admitted that this piece was one of the most successful of his entire output.39 Kilar’s deepening Catholic faith and hope led him to compose Angelus (1984), a piece for soprano, chorus, and orchestra based on the repetition of the traditional ‘Angelus’ prayer. The composer treated this music as a prayer for Poland, a country oppressed by communists, especially after the authoritarian government imposed martial law. Paradoxically, the premiere of Angelus took place in the concert hall in Katowice, the seat of the Communist Party’s Provincial Committee. In 1985 Kilar donated the score of Angelus to the Monastery of Jasna Góra in Częstochowa, the shrine to the Virgin Mary that contains the supposedly miraculous image of the Black Madonna. The gesture, he said, was a vote of gratitude for his and his wife’s lives. As Kilar put it: ‘Jasna Góra was a corner in my life, and Angelus [was] a turn in my creative output’.40

Religious turn Kilar became more religious with age. He said: ‘Speaking truly, there is only one value in a human’s life: the divine value. There is a goodness. Simple goodness includes everything: philosophy, life, politics and the arts’.41 Near the end of the 1990s, as his wife, Barbara, became increasingly ill, and as he was losing his desire to compose, the world-famous pianist Peter Jablonsky asked Kilar to write a concerto for him. Kilar postponed the commission for a long time, then at last finished a piece for piano that was sacral in character, the middle movement being based on repetitions of the melody traditionally associated with the Canticle of Zechariah. This Piano Concerto was premiered at the 1997 Warsaw Autumn Festival.

150  Bogumila Mika In 1998 Kazimierz Kord, the chief conductor of the National Philharmonic in Warsaw, asked Kilar to write music to celebrate the orchestra’s centennial. In response, Kilar composed the Missa pro pace, which has been recognised as music for the new millennium. Missa premiered on 12 January  2001 in the National Philharmonic Hall in Warsaw and was enthusiastically received by the public. But many reviewers attacked the composer. They wrote about ‘kitsch’ and ‘expressive poverty’, and they used the terms ‘sacral gig’, ‘sacro polo’, and ‘film mass’; they even criticised the audience that had warmly received the music.42 Only Jacek Marczyński, reviewer for Rzeczpospolita, praised the piece: The ascetic Missa pro pace is closer to the tradition of simple chant composed several hundred years ago. . . . This mass, in which Kilar does not use ingenious orchestral displays and in which soloists often sing a cappella, is a more honest confession of faith than are complex works of past epochs.43 Most important for Kilar, however, was the fact that his Missa pro pace was performed for Pope John Paul II in Vatican City on 7 December 2001. Ten days later, the Pope wrote and personally signed a letter to the composer, congratulating him on the music.44 Kilar admitted that this letter made him the happiest person in the world. Inspiration for the next composition came from physicist Professor Jerzy Warczewski from the Silesian University in Katowice. Warczewski asked Kilar to write a piece to celebrate the Worldwide Year of the Physicist. The result was the 2005 Sinfonia de motu, a huge piece of music and again religious in character. Its premiere in the National Philharmonic Hall during the thirty-eighth Congress of Polish Physicists was a great success.45 In 2005 Kilar also composed a Magnificat in seven movements, for three vocal soloists, chorus, and orchestra, in which he gives thanks to God for everything – good and bad – that he had experienced in his life. In 2007 the Silesian Philharmonic asked Kilar to write a symphony; the resulting Advent Symphony, which includes in its musical materials some Silesian church melodies sung during Advent time in local churches, premiered on 16 November 2007. The following year Kilar composed his Te Deum, a large choral-orchestral work in five movements that employs simple harmony with persistently repeated motifs; dedicated to the memory of his wife, who died in 2007, the Te Deum premiered in Cracow on 9 November 2008 during the celebration of the ninetieth anniversary of Polish independence. Also in 2008 Kilar wrote Veni Creator, an anthem to the Holy Spirit for mixed choir and strings; Veni Creator premiered in Saragossa, Spain, on 15 September 2008 during the Expo World Exhibition. In 2010, Kilar wrote his Solemn Overture for orchestra, dedicated to the city of Katowice during the year it celebrated the 145th anniversary of its being granted city rights; the composer claimed that with this music he gave thanks to God for the Silesia Region, where he had spent his entire life.46 At the turn of 2010–11, Kilar composed his Piano Concerto No. 2, the beginning of which  – a funeral

Wojciech Kilar  151 march – calls to mind the 2010 plane crash near Smolensk that killed then-Polish president Lech Kaczyński and ninety-five other persons. The Piano Concerto No. 2 was premiered in October 2011 by pianist Beata Bilińska and the Polish National Radio Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Jacek Kaspszyk. During his last several years Kilar suffered from heart disease and cancer. In the autumn of 2013 he spent six weeks in the hospital undergoing radiation therapy, which significantly weakened him. Even when he came home, he was not able to go outside. He died on 29 December 2013, having outlived his wife by six years.

Final remarks Success and popularity came early to Kilar. The innovative, sonoristic ideas he presented at the Warsaw Autumn Festival generated both scandal and fascination, but his avant-garde music, along with that of some of his colleagues in the new ‘Polish School’, was credited with a high level of musical inventiveness and impetuosity. But real fame came to Kilar with Krzesany, the controversial work that marked a breakthrough in his compositional style. Thereafter Kilar looked for more serious sources for inspiration; he found them in Tatra mountain music and faith, and he transformed himself from a composer of light, sociable music into a religious person. His religious trend is especially noticeable in the last phase of his creative output, in the music written at the end of 1990s. But his simplicity of musical material, gentle sounds, simple harmonies, and the frequent inclusion of religious melodies in his sound tissue caused him to be accused of writing ‘sacro-polo’ music or even ‘kitsch’. Kilar was conscious of these opinions but saw no reason to hide his religiosity. Music, for him, was an expression of the ‘gift of existence’, of joy and the energy of life. It was also a religious contemplation of life’s mystery.47 Although Kilar’s concert music is very emotional, he treated composing in an unemotional way. His approach was professional, decent, and responsible. He said: ‘The true composer has only craftsmanship. Writing music is a fight with intervals, instruments, with musical matter. Only after finishing the work can I reflect on its sense, its meaning’.48 For Kilar, composing music was an arduous process. He wrote not for an ideal listener but for a specific audience, one that followed his works for years and anticipated each new piece. The audience’s reaction mattered to him. ‘Music is talking about myself’, he said, ‘but someone must be there to listen to the story. This is a storytelling with love, without contempt, without a feeling of superiority’.49 In his old age Kilar admitted that he felt happy in only three places: in a church, in the mountains, and at home.50 There were only two loves important for him: love of God and love of his wife. The performance of Missa pro pace for John Paul II was the happiest moment in his life.

****

152  Bogumila Mika To appreciate the music of Wojciech Kilar one must pay attention to the Tatra Mountains. Kilar loved the Tatras, because the mountains, more than anything else, brought him closer to God. The mountains’ mystery, mysticism, loftiness, and power reminded him of both the physical and spiritual aspects of church; when in the mountains Kilar felt free, peaceful, and happy. But Kilar also loved the Tatras because these mountains are dangerous, because they arouse respect and fear, because they can kill. Kilar was addicted to the Tatras, but he did not climb them; he did not reach their summits for sport; he was not looking for an extreme feeling. He simply liked to sit on a stone and contemplate rocks, trees, and sky; this contemplation was his prayer. The incomprehensible contradiction of the Tatras fascinated Kilar because he, like the mountains, was internally contradictory. Very conscious of his ambiguous nature and temperament, Kilar said: ‘I am like a Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde’.51

Notes 1 Anna Sekudewicz, Portrety: Wojciech Kilar (Portraits: Wojciech Kilar), Gazeta Wyborcza-Magazyn Gazety, 16–17 January 1998, 10. 2 ‘Sacro-polo’ is a term used ironically to describe a special genre of simplistic music depending heavily upon an engaging melody, usually on a superficial religious theme and without musical or philosophical depth. The term intentionally refers to the genre of disco polo. 3 Maria Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach (Kilar. Genius with two faces) (Kraków: Znak Edition, 2015), 276. 4 Since 1945 Lwów, renamed Lviv, has been part of the Ukraine. 5 Leszek Polony, Kilar: Żywioł i modlitwa (Kilar. Element and prayer) (Kraków: PWM Edition, 2005), 13. 6 Klaudia Podobińska and Leszek Polony, Cieszę się darem życia. Rozmowy z Wojciechem Kilarem (I enjoy with the gift of life. Conversations with Wojciech Kilar) (Kraków: PWM Edition, 1997), 10. 7 Ibid., 13. 8 Ibid., 14. 9 Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 111. The term ‘orchestral fireworks’ (‘orkiestralny fajerwerk’) was commonly applied to flashy pieces that were almost guaranteed to generate vigorous applause. 10 Ibid., 112. 11 The term ‘punctualism’ – sometime referred to as ‘pointillism’ – seems to have originated with the German composer Karlheinz Stockhausen, who called it ‘punktuelle Musik’ and described it as ‘music that consists of separately formed particles . . . as opposed to linear, or group-formed, or mass-formed music’. Karlheinz Stockhausen, ‘Es geht aufwärts’, in Text zur Musik 1984–1991, vol. 9 (Kürten: Stockhausen-Verlag, 1998), 452. 12 Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 113. 13 Ibid., 123–4. 14 Ibid., 128. 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid., 127–9. 17 Tadeusz A. Zieliński, ‘Générique Wojciecha Kilara’ (Générique by Wojciech Kilar), Ruch Muzyczny, no. 22, 1963, 16.

Wojciech Kilar  153 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

Polony, Kilar: Żywioł i modlitwa, 98. Ibid. Ibid., 101. Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 164. Polony, Kilar: Żywioł i modlitwa, 103. Wojciech Kilar, letter to Leszek Polony, 1984, quoted in Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 319. Ibid., 141. Krzysztof Penderecki quoted in Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 178. Wojciech Kilar, ‘O Muzyce’ (about music), quoted in Katarzyna Janowska and Piotr Mucharski, Rozmowy na koniec wieku (Conversations at the end of the century), vol. 3 (Kraków: Znak Edition, 2000), 226. Ibid., 177. Jan Krenz quoted in Polony, Kilar: Żywioł i modlitwa, 38. Ludwik Erhard, ‘O muzyce polskiej na Festiwalu’ (About Polish music on Festival), Ruch Muzyczny 23 (1974), 5–6. Tadeusz Kaczyński, ‘Krzesany Kilara’ (Kilar’s Krzesany), Ruch Muzyczny 23 (1974), 4. Ibid. Mieczysław Kominek, ‘O Krzesanym Wojciecha Kilara’ (About Krzesany of Wojciech Kilar), Studio 2 (1994), 10. Bohdan Pociej, programme book for Warsaw Autumn ’92. Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 261–3. Polony, Kilar: Żywioł i modlitwa, 136. Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 243–4. Ibid., 220. Ibid., 227–8. Kilar, quoted in Ibid., 229. Kilar, quoted in Ibid., 247–9. Podobińska and Polony, Cieszę się darem życia, 90. Ibid., 333–4. Jacek Marczyński, ‘Urok dawnej prostoty’ (The charm of the past simplicity], Rzeczpospolita, 13 April 2001. Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 334–5. Ibid., 347–8. Ibid., 359. Polony, Kilar: Żywioł i modlitwa, 193. Kilar, ‘O Muzyce’, 221–2. Ibid., 229. Podobińska and Polony, Cieszę się darem życia, 88. Kilar, quoted in Wilczek-Krupa, Kilar: Geniusz o dwóch twarzach, 276.

13 Alberto Iglesias The Spanish composer behind Pedro Almodóvar’s films María Ángeles Ferrer-Forés

Intelligent, bright, talented, shy, charming, perfectionist, lover of harmony and quiet, serious but extraordinarily kind, affable and cordial, demanding, disciplined, entrepreneur, analyst, worker, precise, energetic, enthusiastic, lucid. These are some of the adjectives that define Alberto Iglesias (b. 1955) as one of the world’s best communicators, a composer who in masterly fashion combines musical culture and experience, in the noblest and least pedantic ways possible.

A universe of artists On the computer, Iglesias composes in front of an open copy of Charles Rosen’s The Frontiers of Meaning. At the table, he is captivated by a definition in the Spanish language by maestro Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio1 that applies to the possibilities of tonal music, of which he is a strong advocate. The Ferlosio text shares space with Octavio Paz’s Obra poética [Poetic Works] and the fourth volume of Gustav Mahler’s 24 Songs for High Voice. On the large shelves are his own compositions, spiral-bound and with transparent covers, along with as Richard Taruskin’s The Oxford History of Western Music, a translation into Spanish of the Austrian poet Ingeborg Bachman’s posthumous collection Ich weiß keine bessere Welt [No sé de ningún mundo mejor/I do not know of any better world], and such bibliographic novelties as Ramón Andrés’s Diccionario de música, mitología, magia y religión and John Eliot Gardiner’s Music in the Castle of Heaven: A Portrait of Johann Sebastian Bach. On a low bookshelf, next to the grand piano, the venerated score (‘the prettiest score I’ve ever seen, he was an extraordinary musician’, Iglesias says with suppressed emotion)2 for Luigi Nono’s 1974 opera Al gran sole carico d’amore stands out. On the piano itself are the scores for Beethoven’s last four symphonies and the large paper notebooks in which Iglesias writes his first musical ideas by hand, in pencil, and then highlights selected materials with a varied palette of fluorescent markers. On the lectern, outlined in orange, there is the sketch of a leitmotiv for his next film score. Much of the magic radiated by Alberto Iglesias Fernández-Berridi is due to two obvious atmospheres. One of these is his chosen living/working environment, a space he shares with his wife (the dancer Cristina Hortigüela), three children (Jon from his first marriage and the younger Samuel and Leonardo), and a whippet

Alberto Iglesias  155 named Fideo. The other is his family background, which includes four siblings who are, like him, creative artists.3 Born in Donostia-San Sebastián, Spain, Iglesias began his musical studies in his hometown with Blanca Burgaleta (solfeggio and piano) and Francisco Escudero (harmony and counterpoint). After winning the Harmony Prize of the Conservatory of Music of San Sebastián he went to Paris to study piano and composition with Francis Schwartz. In 1979 he attended the Techniques of Electroacoustic Music and Practice of Applied Music courses taught by Gabriel Brnčić at the Phonos Laboratory in Barcelona. Then he trained at the Electronic Music Laboratory of the RAI in Milan. Between 1981 and 1986 he performed with Javier Navarrete in an electronic music duo, and it was during this time that his brother José Luis put him in contact with the filmmakers for whom he wrote his first soundtracks.4 This is where his true vocation began. Iglesias went on to collaborate with many Spanish directors until he began to score, in the 1990s, the films of Julio Médem (Vacas, La ardilla roja [The Red Squirrel], Tierra [Earth], Los amantes del Círculo Polar [Lovers of the Polar Circle]) and Pedro Almodóvar (La flor de mi secreto [The Flower of My Secret], Carne trémula [Live Flesh], Todo sobre mi madre [All about My Mother]). This is how he achieved his national recognition. In the 2000s he continued with Almodóvar (Hable con ella [Talk to Her], La mala educación [Bad Education], Volver, Los abrazos rotos [Broken Embraces], La pile que habito [The Skin I Live In], Los amantes passajeros [Passenger Lovers], Julieta) and Médem (Lucia y el sexo [Sex and Lucia], Ma Ma), and he also collaborated with Icíar Bollaín (Te doy mis ojos [Take My Eyes], También la lluvia [Even the Rain]), Bigas Luna (La femme de chambre du Titanic [The Waitress of the Titanic]), Carlos Saura (¡Dispara! [Outrage!]), and Isabel Coixet (Spain in a Day). In the international arena, his music has animated such films as John Malkovich’s The Dancer Upstairs (2002), Oliver Stone’s Comandante (2003), Fernando Meirelles’s The Constant Gardener (2005), Marc Foster’s The Kite Runner (2007), Steven Soderbergh’s Che (2008), Tomas Alfredson’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Hossein Amini’s Two Faces of January (2014), and Ridley Scott’s Exodus: Gods and Kings (2014). Thanks to his prolific career, Iglesias has received many awards (including ten Goya Awards from the Spanish Film Academy,5 three European Film Awards for Best Soundtrack Composer, two World Soundtrack Awards, and nominations for three BAFTA awards and three Oscars). In 2007 Spain’s Ministry of Culture honoured Iglesias with the National Cinematography Award (2007) and ten years later presented him with the Gold Medal of Merit in the Fine Arts.

The ‘Iglesias sound’ Despite his acclaimed career in film music, Iglesias has maintained a striking ‘double life’ in which he created a large catalogue that focuses especially on ballets, chamber music, and orchestral works. His style is a masterly combination of an avant-garde aesthetic, minimalism, and post-minimalism, always driven by a descriptive element. The result

156  María Ángeles Ferrer-Forés is physical music, music with essence, emotional and exciting music, music that engages. In a 2012 interview, Iglesias said: I get the impression that music serves to make cinema more physical, so that it is not just a matter of understanding but something that comes to us through other elements of discernment. I say ‘physical’ as if the whole body is able to absorb all that information. I have that impression. Everyone believes that it is only with the head, but sometimes the music hits you in the stomach. There are vibrations of the whole body with respect to music, and it is for that reason, I believe, that music moves us so much. If this happens, the cinema is perfect.6 These thoughts are evident in all of Iglesias’s music, but especially in his ‘personal repertoire’ for the concert halls. Iglesias says that My film and my own catalogue are completely connected; this is the most important thing. There is a transfer of materials that has increased chronologically. Before a [certain] tradition in Spain was established, film scores were merely commercial requests, little considered, and the composers had their life in their other music, in their serious, or ‘pure’, music. In my case, there has almost always been a transfer between one music and the other. I believe that this ‘double life’ is very interconnected, and it is very fruitful. It helps me reflect on how music in the cinema acquires meaning, on how it becomes a part of filmic language. Music gives an ‘impression’. I do not say that it ‘means’ anything. On the other hand, music without visual support, without cinematographic narration, may have what we call meaning, but this is something that affects each listener in intangible, indefinable, highly subjective ways. And that brings us to the temporal concept. [In music without visual support] the durations change, the feeling of time changes – a lot – and the perception is different.7 The more than fifty soundtracks composed by Iglesias are, in a way, similar to operas; they are extended works in large format, broken only occasionally by borrowed songs. At the same time, Iglesias has written approximately thirty works on his own. ‘They are fewer in number, because perhaps I am more demanding with my non-cinematographic works’, he says. ‘With film music you are at the mercy of budget, editing, deadlines. That causes you to work under pressure, with a special kind of energy, and then you finish. . . . [With my own music] I prefer to have more time’.8 His own music, for Iglesias, represents an escape valve; after working with film directors, it allows him to reflect, to move forward, to start from a new place. Composing it, he says, requires physical and mental quietude, which is why on weekends he lives in his studio in the mountains near Madrid. While creating his own music, he says, ‘I often need not to have a director nearby in order to work’.

Alberto Iglesias  157 In his studio, concerned only with his ‘personal repertoire’, Iglesias works slowly. ‘I stop a lot’, he says. ‘I think about it a lot. In the end, it is research’. But he says that film music, too, is a kind of research. Writing music for the ‘cinema is also an investigation, about semiotics, about why and how music acquires meaning. And the question involves so many disciplines and different ways of perceiving. That is why I find it so interesting’.9 Although Iglesias experiments a great deal with timbre, his musical language – his ‘way of composing’ – is tonal. ‘For me’, he says, tonality is still a very valid language. I found a remark by Sánchez Ferlosio about the Spanish language that, I think, relates to tonality in an interesting way. Sánchez Ferlosio noted that ‘Spanish offers in its syntax extraordinary richness and finesse, and complexity in terms of constructive possibilities.  .  .  .’. This applies to music, too. Although tonality is a well-travelled path, with centuries of history, and a drift that includes the overreaching of Wagner, Berg, and even dodecaphony, it is still, for my purposes, perfect. The cinema has forced me to have contact with the public and to use a language that can be assimilated into emotional perceptions. I  do experiment with timbre and when necessary take it to extremes, because there are forms of musical expression that do not exist easily in the tonal field. Nevertheless, tonality remains for me the place of reference, the starting place of syntactic construction.10 Iglesias’s musical language is common as much to his cinematographic music as to his own catalogue. Indeed, we can speak of an ‘Iglesias sound’ that the composer himself says is still evolving and perhaps will someday mature. Its influences include Stravinsky, Debussy, Ravel, Bartók, Takemitsu, Steve Reich, and Miles Davis. Amongst its features are the pantonal lyricism of the Second Viennese School (in the manner of a modern Alban Berg), the sonorities of the post-romantic Soviet composers, telluric rhythms, and those desperate tensions that result from a small leitmotiv that traps and pursues the audience member throughout a composition. ‘Minimalism and post-minimalism have influenced me a lot’, confirms Iglesias.11 Iglesias keeps his ‘private’ music separate from his cinematic music. Yet he speaks of a very faithful ‘double life’. ‘It’s polyamory’, he says. ‘One completes the other. One seeks, and needs, the other’.12

Catalogue for concert halls One of Iglesias’s earliest works, dating back to his involvement with Javier Navarrete, is Sh-h-h (1988), a work for string quartet and electronics, whose title suggests the expression of stealth and of silence, of not making noise, of everything concerned with muteness. The fundamental idea behind this composition is that it is music for intimate, personal listening. At least insofar as they are intended for private consumption, Iglesias likens its five short movements to the pieces

158  María Ángeles Ferrer-Forés that Franz Joseph Haydn wrote on commission for Prince Nikolaus Esterházy.13 Although it is possible to present Sh-h-h on stage, it remains that the work’s emphasis is on the pianissimo, on the weakest sounds, on the almost inaudible. In the 1990s, Iglesias began to collaborate with Nacho Duato, choreographer and artistic director of the Spanish National Dance Company. Although ballet may for the most part be a nineteenth-century genre, its contribution to culture continues to surprise new generations of spectators. Iglesias, who with his four ballets has contributed to the genre more than any other living composer in Spain, was attracted by its fusion of movement and music. He said: For me it was very, very stimulating to do ballet work and to befriend ballet. I admire Stravinsky’s ballets, which deal with narrative but also have musical structure. Especially in the great ballets he did for Diaghilev, the musical structure is almost more important than the narrative. The music complements the movement’s architecture and traces its physical possibilities, while the narrative aspects remain minor. Petrushka is a narrative but it leaves room for many things. Its narrative particles are actually quite small, and thus its music acquires enormous importance. With Duato I felt that kind of freedom. The music did not have to follow the action; it was almost the other way around. We worked first with the music, and then he made the ballet. Then I adapted the music to the needs of the choreography. I always wanted to go back to the score and develop more of its musical aspects.14 Iglesias says that his relationship with Duato was similar to the relationships he developed with film directors. It was a very close relationship, a dialogue between artists, a relationship that involved reciprocal, mutual stimulation. Working with Duato, he said, was a significant experience, because later, whenever he returned to the cinema, he was aware that ‘my eye and my ear were noticing the choreographic nature of films. Everything is choreographed, or almost everything, including how things are spoken, how the text is distributed over time. The ballet gave me a new set of values’.15 Cautiva (1987–91) is the first of Iglesias’s compositions to be used for a ballet by Duato. The work has eight short movements, some written for string trio (cello, viola, and violin), others for solo viola or solo piano, others for spoken voice, and an instrumental set consisting of flute, saxello, bass clarinet, and synthesiser. Based on poems by Ezra Pound and James Joyce, its music is inspired by dreamlike language that superimposes all the doubts experienced by someone who struggles in a fantasy world between love and death. Cautiva was inspired by ‘an emotional, irrational idea with multiple meanings’, Iglesias says. ‘The texts of Joyce and Pound confront one another in a dialogue of sorts. Two protagonists tell a story and slip between the music, losing themselves and finding one another’. The music was already composed and recorded when ‘Duato called me to do a ballet. We remade some aspects of it, and he refocused it by changing the order of the movements’.16 With choreography, sets, and costumes by Duato, and

Alberto Iglesias  159 lighting by Nicolás Fischtel, the ballet version of Cautiva premiered at the Teatro Madrid on 12 April 1993; the production travelled internationally, and the results were powerful enough so that the score was published in 2000 and the ballet was restored, at Madrid’s Teatro de la Zarzuela, in January 2005. The next collaboration with Duato involved Iglesias’s Tabulae (1992), a work for small instrumental ensemble (woodwinds, strings, and synthesiser) based on poems by Wallace Stevens, in a structure that alternates sections in minimalist style with sections whose lyrical writing resembles the expanded tonality of Wagner and Berg. Duato’s choreographed version, in which the bodies of the dancers echoe the music’s ‘double nature’ and its ‘mysterious game of alternations’,17 was first performed by the Spanish National Dance company in Madrid on 14 April  1994. A  revival at the Teatro de la Zarzuela in October  2003 had critics commenting on the ‘exciting score’18 with its ‘tiny, fugitive moments of absolute beauty’.19 After his first film score for Pedro Almodóvar (La flor de mi secreto, 1995), Iglesias’s third ballet for Duato was Cero sobre cero, which premiered at the Palacio de Festivales de Cantabria in Santander on 17 November 1995. With this score, Iglesias said, I wanted to get rid of the heavy burden of logic and enter a world where common sense and absurdity are separated by a fragile and delicate line. Irony must be accepted as an expression of profound seriousness. At the same time, it is important to gain distance from oneself and not take oneself seriously. I wanted to fly with my imagination and venture into an intuitive world where the real goes hand in hand with the oneiric. This labyrinth of feelings can at first be disorienting, but it can also be enriching.20 Along with scores for films by Daniel Calparsoro and Julio Médem, in 1996 Iglesias wrote Group of Dogs, a series of short pieces for instrumental ensemble and the only work in his catalogue that he considers to be unfinished. The next year saw the production of more film scores (for Almodóvar and for Bigas Luna) and a fourth ballet, Self, for Duato. As in his previous ballet scores, the score for Self uses a small instrumental ensemble that mixes a minimalist aesthetic with an expanded tonal language reminiscent of the Second Viennese School. Premiered on 17 April 1997 in a joint production by the Spanish National Dance Company and Paris’s Théâtre de Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines, the aptly titled Self concerns doubts about existence. In the words of the composer: Who is that person who lodges inside each human being? Do we really know who we are? Do we really know the persons enclosed in the other human beings with whom we live? In any case, each man and each woman is unique and different. In a world where the material seems to take over our lives, the ‘person’ is devalued. This seems therefore an opportune moment to reflect on its essence, as something that transcends the material world, as something that maintains its value despite all the other factors that exert pressure on us.

160  María Ángeles Ferrer-Forés That ‘person’ who accompanies us throughout our existence can come to be a solid support, because for each of us it constitutes the true reality.21

**** Iglesias seems to live in a permanent idyll with characters of comedy and drama that he fights to make credible. In films the images of these characters are visible, but the images alone are not enough. Iglesias expresses it clearly. ‘Music is a lacrimal dilator, a dilator of emotions. It seems to stop time. It focuses on certain aspects, and it makes movies more intense. Of course, there is a cinema that does not need music, but when music is needed, it prints with a very strong stamp’.22 In fact, Iglesias admits that strings are the instruments that have most connected with his sound landscape. He says: Now I am widening the palette, but I have long used woodwinds and brass mostly for colour. And I have used the strings primarily for the expression of drama. Perhaps it is a division between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. The strings contain the action and the Dionysian, which submits to the narrowing, to the pressure of the narration. On the other hand, the other instruments are Apollonian  – they frame, they are lyrical, but they do not have ‘blood’. I really want to change, to invert that equation, which is to say that I think I need to mature.23 In this world of enormous emotional swings, Iglesias immerses himself in the lives of his characters who he thinks are looking for a better future. Their battles against destiny and the turns of their existence have inspired him to embark upon one of his more ingenious creative adventures. This is his series of what he calls ‘tuned rooms’. It is a novel and suggestive idea, related to architecture. Habitación en Do [Room in C] was the first of them, created in 1999 and 2000. It is a work of large format, in the manner of a collection of songs, lasting one hour and ten minutes. Written for mezzo-soprano and an instrumental ensemble of nine performers, it contains seven instrumental pieces and three songs (two in English and one in French), and it was premiered at the Teatro Cervantes during the third Málaga Festival of Spanish Cinema after Iglesias, in recognition of his career, was presented with the Ricardo Franco Award. ‘It is a poetic way of speaking’, Iglesias said of the piece. Habitación en Do deals with tonality ‘not in the strict sense, the way Bach did [in his Well-Tempered Clavier], but in an architectural, experiential sense. I do not know if I’ll arrive at twelve, but this is a declaration of my recognition of my tonal vocation’.24 The next addition to Iglesias’s ‘personal repertoire’ was A Registered Patent: ‘A Drummer inside a Rotating Box’ (2001), a twenty-minute radio piece with text by the sculptor Juan Muñoz read by John Malkovich, the actor-director whose disquieting thriller The Dancer Upstairs Iglesias had scored earlier that year. The original idea was for a work that would be performed live, like a play, during

Alberto Iglesias  161 Muñoz’s ‘Double Bind’ exhibition at the Tate Modern in London in 2002. But Muñoz, who was the composer’s brother-in-law, died suddenly in August 2001, and Iglesias decided to finish A Registered Patent as a radio piece. The work is based on the legal text of a patent for the toy described in the title; it is highly repetitive, with all the many details that must be given in order to apply for a licence for a miniature mechanical percussionist. It is written for speaking voice, string quartet, piano, electronics, and a percussion set made up of toy instruments, all of which make for a timbre that Iglesias says is ‘very suggestive’. He described the composition process: First, I went to the house that John [Malkovich] has in Provence and recorded his voice. Then I transcribed his speech – its tempo, its silences – and fitted the music in. I love the sound of John’s voice because it is as though he is speaking right into the ear, whispering, like the voice part in Sh-h-h. Spoken this way, a legal text becomes almost a text of confession, a poetic confession. And the most emotional aspect of it is that at any time the mechanism of the recording device can be stopped. The music is synchronised with the voice, and it is tonal, or pseudo tonal, until the mechanism stops. Then silence arises and everything starts again with another part of the text. The most difficult aspect of was writing for the drum set, because its surfaces were so small and the distances between them so different from those of a normal drum set. But I did it with a very good percussionist (Ángel Crespo), who helped me design the work so that it was ‘playable’. And we did play it, at the Tate Modern in London, in Madrid, in Croatia (with Malkovich doing the vocal parts live and Janine Jansen playing violin), at the Documenta Festival in Kassel, etc.25 After A Registered Patent, Iglesias’s ‘double life’ was tilted by a great many cinematographic works (Almodóvar’s 2002 Hable con ella, Oliver Stone’s 2003 Comandante, Icíar Bollaín’s 2003 Te day mis ojos, Almodóvar’s 2004 La mala educación) and a cascade of prizes, including his first Oscar nomination (for Fernando Meirelles’s 2005 The Constant Gardener). This whirlwind of fictional dramas, and some tragic life situations, prompted him to compose a work that he keeps secret, yet to be published. This is Assault to the Castle (2006–07), an intense and powerfully rhythmic work in ten movements for vocal quartet and orchestra. Based on texts by Samuel Beckett, Georges Bataille, and other writers of the twentieth century, it alternates sections of great lyricism with passages in which phrases are broken up and treated syllable by syllable. ‘The castle represents an imaginary circle full of multiple directions or situations’, Iglesias has said. ‘It is an inner journey through concepts such as modesty, cruelty, the incomprehensible word, desire, the delirious image, fleeting or static vision, intimacy’.26 Reflecting on the work’s genesis, Iglesias said: The idea starts with Kafka, with the absurdity of being in a place where someone has to open the door but there is no one to open it. In the end it is not

162  María Ángeles Ferrer-Forés known even if there is a door; all the movements are wrapped in that sensation of strangeness, of claustrophobia. It took me a while to do it and I have not released it. It is a work with which I am very happy. I made a recording but I would like to record it again and finish it someday. I did not release it thinking that I was going to rewrite it.27 The conviction that music enhances the dramatic meaning of moving images influenced not only Iglesias’s score for Marc Foster’s film The Kite Runner (2007) but also his own Orfeo in Palermo (2007). His most ‘cinematographic’ work to date, Orfeo in Palermo is a work for cello, sound effects (performed by a foley artist), narrator, and orchestra whose three movements narrate Orfeo’s journey to hell. Weaving a common thread between different pieces and moments of his life, Iglesias said: The fragment ‘Central de silencio’ of the Room in C resulted in the idea for Orfeo in Palermo, while the reading of Wallace Stevens’s poem by John Malkovich during the recording of The Dancer Upstairs became the axis of the new character. It’s like a musician taking steps, which is a very cinematographic element, made in the studio, with old-fashioned effects. When we did it live in Ghent, a percussionist had an entire floor with different surfaces [on which to run] before opening the door. We could hear that someone was approaching, and the orchestra played until in the middle of the stage a door opened. Then Orpheus entered, who I imagined to be like Verdi entering the Teatro Massimo in Palermo to listen to La forza del destino. Then, finally, the Stevens poem was read in a dramatic way.28 Iglesias’s next composition was In the Land of the Lemon Trees (2009), for soprano, guitar, and orchestra, written in three movements and inspired by poems by John Ashbery, René Char, and Wallace Stevens. Significantly, In the Land of the Lemon Trees was the first of a ‘progressively developing’ series of vocal works, each of which, Iglesias says, ‘can work autonomously’ yet together form a collection. The poems of these connected vocal works are important. ‘They work almost like the script for a movie; they represent an obligation, something that the music has to complete, or take to another place. The music is a kind of vehicle for the poems; it is not a whole by itself; it needs the word to be complete’.29 While working on his score for Icíar Bollaín’s film También la lluvia, Iglesias also composed his Cuarteto breve (2010). Written in a single twelve-minute movement, the piece was commissioned by the Liceo de Cámara of Caja Madrid in commemoration of the fortieth anniversary of the Tokyo String Quartet, the ensemble that premiered it at the Auditorio Nacional in Madrid on 13 April 2010. It is a very personal work, with a nervous pulse and melodic vehemence, with autobiographical features and a kind of homage to various composers that Iglesias admires. Cuarteto breve is printed but not yet recorded, a circumstance that Iglesias would like to remedy as he thinks about composing another quartet. The five-year period that followed the Cuarteto breve was a sort of lustrum that took Iglesias away from his own music and into a multi-dimensional and

Alberto Iglesias  163 international cinematographic universe. The films he scored during this prolific period include Dominik Moll’s Le Moine (2011), Pedro Almodóvar The Skin I Live In (2011), Tomas Alfredson’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Almodóvar’s I’m So Excited! (2013), Hossein Amini’s Two Faces of January (2013), Ridley Scott’s Exodus: Gods and Kings (2014), and Julio Médem’s Ma Ma (2015), and after those came his 2015 Les chansons légères. Written for the countertenor Carlos Mena, two pianos, and orchestra, Les chansons légères is a cycle whose three songs make use of texts in French, English, and Italian by René Char, Wallace Stevens, and Pier Paolo Pasolini, respectively. The poets come from different aesthetic spheres, but their texts have in common the seeking of light among shadows, symbolising a kind of solar vitalism, a solitary and symbolic journey. Mena premiered this work in an intimate version with piano at the XXIII Lied Cycle at the Teatro de la Zarzuela in Madrid on 30 January 2017.

**** Iglesias regularly works with the best performers, all of them strongly linked to the classical repertoire. ‘I am in a lateral position, because contemporary music has many channels’, he says, I am known for being a film musician, but I try to expand the experience of cinema into other areas. Nowadays there are very closed compartments, and a composer is labelled classical, pop, avant-garde, and so on. But the cinema has put me in a situation that takes me to many places. For me, the boundaries between genres do not exist. I have never had a clear affiliation with one genre or another. I am interested simply in working with sound, with sound matter. My vision looks for the narrative possibilities in music, and this has forced me to reach out to the public and to be transversal.30 Iglesias’s most recent film scores are for Spain in a Day (2016, Isabel Coixet), Julieta (2016, Almodóvar), and La cordillera (2017, Santiago Miter). They have preluded his desire to return to writing for the voice, to expand his own vocal repertoire and continue the collection of ‘tuned rooms’ along the lines of Bach’s WellTempered Clavier or Shostakovich’s Preludes. Nevertheless, he is now working with his sister, the sculptor Cristina Iglesias, on Habitación en Sol [Room in G]. This will be a large-format stage piece for countertenor, five singers, and instrumental ensemble. ‘I would like to have six months to finish it’, Iglesias says, ‘but it is hard to find the time’. Habitación en Sol will incorporate parts of Les chansons légères and In the Land of the Lemon Trees, he says, but it ‘will be a work of greater development. It is something that is evolving’.31

Notes 1 From Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio, Altos estudios eclesiásticos. Ensayos I. Gramática. Narración. Diversiones (Barcelona: Debate, 2015). 2 Alberto Iglesias, interview with M. A. Ferrer-Forés, Madrid, 16 December 2017.

164  María Ángeles Ferrer-Forés 3 These are Eduardo (a writer), Cristina (a sculptor), Lourdes (a writer and screenwriter), and José Luis (a filmmaker). 4 Iglesias’s earliest scores were for Montxo Armendáriz’s Paisaje and Ikusmena (both 1980) and Imanol Uribe’s La muerte de Mikel (1984). 5 Iglesias has won more Goya Awards than any other Spanish artist. ‘The prizes are not sought, but they honour a lot’, Iglesias said. ‘I am very happy, very grateful, but I do not gloat in the past. I go to the next, to the next work’. Interview with Ferrer-Forés. 6 Alberto Iglesias, interview with Iñaki Gabilondo, Canal+ TV, 8 February 2012. Translation Ferrer-Forés. 7 Iglesias, interview with Ferrer-Forés. In speaking about leading a ‘double life’, Iglesias used the Spanish phrase ‘llevar una doble vida’. 8 Ibid. 9 Ibid. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid. 17 Alberto Iglesias and Nacho Duato, available at http://cndanza.mcu.es/images/stories/6archivo-cnd/archivo-nacho-duato/web-2011/es/repertorio/nacho-duato/tabulae.htm. Translation Ferrer-Forés 18 Omar Khan, ‘Noche cromática’, El País, 17 October 2003. 19 Rosa Montero, ‘Tabulae’, El País Semanal, 9 November 2003. 20 Alberto Iglesias, available at http://cndanza.mcu.es/images/stories/6-archivo-cnd/ archivo-nacho-duato/web-2011/es/repertorio/nacho-duato/cero_sobre_cero.htm. Translation Ferrer-Forés 21 Alberto Iglesias, available at http://cndanza.mcu.es/images/stories/6-archivo-cnd/archivonacho-duato/web-2011/es/repertorio/nacho-duato/self.htm. Translation Ferrer-Forés 22 Alberto Iglesias, interview with Ferrer-Forés. 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid. 25 Ibid. 26 Alberto Iglesias, ‘Otras Composiciones’, available at www.albertoiglesias.net 27 Iglesias, interview with Ferrer-Forés. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid. 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid.

14 Johannes factotum Jóhann Jóhannsson Vasco Hexel

People seem to need labels, but they can be needlessly reductive.1

In 2016 and 2017 the Icelandic composer Jóhann Jóhannsson (1969–2018) toured North America and Europe. Following concerts in smaller venues,2 he sold out the Barbican in London in December 2016, the newly inaugurated Elbphilharmonie in Hamburg in February 2017, and the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles in April 2017. The tour promoted Orphée, Jóhannsson’s first album released by Deutsche Grammophon. The set list for the concerts comprised a selection from fifteen years’ worth of back catalogue and new compositions from his latest album. Of his film scores, the composer presented only excerpts from Denis Villeneuve’s 2013 Prisoners. While veteran film composers Ennio Morricone and Hans Zimmer were capitalising on past successes with extensive and highly lucrative concert tours, and while live-orchestra-to-film performances were growing ever more popular in cities around the world, Jóhannsson chose to focus his live performances on his nonscreen music. This may seem surprising, given that the composer had recently scored several acclaimed films, earned critical praise, and gained the attention of mainstream audiences. In 2014 he won a Golden Globe and received Oscar, BAFTA, Grammy, and Critics’ Choice nominations for his score for The Theory of Everything, James Marsh’s biopic of theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking. Having previously worked with Canadian director Denis Villeneuve on Prisoners, Jóhannsson worked with him again on the drug cartel drama Sicario (2015). And in the fall of 2016 Villeneuve’s Arrival appealed both to audiences and to the Hollywood film industry, leading to eight Oscar nominations.3 Even if these recent film scores may have attracted large audiences to Jóhannsson’s concerts in the first place, he clearly felt invested enough in his past works to omit most of his film music from the set list. The tour nevertheless received enthusiastic reviews and mesmerised audiences.4 A prolific composer since the late 1990s, Jóhannsson certainly had ample material to choose from. His first album, Englabörn, was released in 2002. Evidencing eclectic and wide-ranging influences, it opens with ‘Odi et amo’ [I hate and I love], an elegiac setting of Catullus 85 by the Roman poet Gaius Valerius

166  Vasco Hexel Catullus. A female voice sings a pensive tune, which is filtered through a vocoder into a synthesised flutelike sound. This is counterbalanced by an arrangement for live string quartet and acoustic piano bass tones. The album is minimalist and introverted on the whole, drawing on long held chords in the strings and atmospheric textures. On its website, the Apple Music streaming service praises the album for its ‘undeniably beautiful’ and ‘emotionally rich compositions’.5 In 2004, Jóhannsson released Virðulegu Forsetar, a long-form composition in four parts for brass and synthesiser. The opening of the album is reminiscent of fellow Icelandic musician Björk Guðmundsdóttir’s overture for Lars von Trier’s 2000 film Dancer in the Dark.6 Jóhannsson serenely weaves back and forth between the brass ensemble and electronic drones, with the occasional interjection of soft percussion. By stark contrast, in the same year Jóhannsson released Dís, a collection of fifteen simplistic easy-listening pieces that form the soundtrack for the debut feature film (also titled Dís) of Icelandic director Silja Hauksdótti. Whereas the very basic musical material may do little to hold the listener’s interest, it is uplifted by sophisticated production techniques and carefully crafted sonic qualities. Jóhannsson’s early albums defy categorisation. It is telling that Apple Music files Virðulegu Forsetar under ‘classical’ whilst categorising Dís as ‘electronic’. The composer pushed boundaries with his stylistic diversity (or, one might say, lack of style). One could argue that the composer’s early output may have been qualitatively inconsistent yet consistently pleasant to listen to. In 2006 Jóhannsson contributed ‘Tu non mi perdrai mai’ to Touch 25, a compilation album that celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of Touch Records. At nine minutes and seven seconds, this was easily the collection’s longest piece. It uses a drone that sits on a notional tonic but goes through permutations of different articulations, including extended techniques resulting in harsh timbres that give the piece avant-garde appeal. The drone eventually recedes and gives way to a small melodic motif in the upper structure. Also in 2006, Jóhannsson released IBM 1401: A User’s Manual, inspired by the IBM mainframe computer and the noises it emits. The album featured ‘The Sun’s Gone Dim and the Sky’s Turned Black’,7 in which a simple descending-line motif accompanies a voice processed through a vocoder. The quasi song repeats the same four phrases (‘The sun’s gone dim, and the sky’s turned black, ’cause I loved her, and she didn’t love back’) over and over, virtually unaltered, and the use of the vocoder further eliminates any scope for interpretative variation on the part of the singer. By 2006, this vocal production technique had been made widely popular by the French electronic music duo Daft Punk, and Jóhannsson may have been tuning into the flavour-of-the-moment in adopting the gimmick. A  non-narrative film was released as a music video for this piece, a marketing tool commonly used for pop songs.8 In 2010 the ‘The Sun’s Gone Dim’ came to wider attention among film fans when it was used in the promotional trailer for Jonathan Liebesman’s film Battlefield Los Angeles.9 This trailer may have been Jóhannsson’s first foray into Hollywood, even if on this occasion he probably had no direct creative involvement in the use of his music; in any case, the usefulness of his composition for a mainstream film trailer certainly signalled an aesthetic compatible with Hollywood content.

Jóhann Jóhannsson  167 In 2008 the album Fordlândia was Jóhannsson’s tribute to Henry Ford’s rubber production plant and utopian community in Brazil. ‘Melodia: Guidelines for a Space Propulsion Drive Based on Heim’s Quantum Theory’ was originally written for an experimental film by Jóhannsson himself but released independent of the film. The piece features an organ part suggestive of a two-part invention accompanied by strings and a drum loop that gradually build throughout the piece; this composition may have felt gratuitously abstract to uninitiated audiences, particularly if they were familiar with Jóhannsson’s previous, altogether more accessible works. The repetitive and minimalist ‘The Rocket Builder’ uses string quartet and electronic pulses; not unlike some of Jóhannsson’s earlier compositions, it remains harmonically static, stuck in the same revolving series of chords, whilst progressively growing in terms of arrangement. This composingby-production approach is a technique Jóhannsson had refined over the years and which, incidentally, would serve him exceedingly well on his later film projects.10 The album’s title track builds ever so gradually from intricate textures and makes use of electric guitars, which is rare on Jóhannsson’s albums; arguably, it bears a striking resemblance to the accompaniment of the 2005 pop hit ‘Hoppípolla’ by the Icelandic band Sigur Rós. If Jóhannsson indeed drew inspiration from Sigur Rós, then this was a precursor to his extensive musical borrowing on later projects. In 2008 Jóhannsson also composed music for the animated short film Varmints by British director Marc Craste. Composed away from the image, the finished score overshot the film by fifteen minutes. The material was released as an album in 2010, with the title And in the Endless Pause There Came the Sound of Bees. In the track ‘Rainwater’, a heavily processed grand piano stabs amongst an intricate mesh of synthesised sounds. Grand strings in octaves repeat a simple melodic gesture. The piece is loud and bright, perhaps overbearingly so for a film about cute rodents. In 2011 Jóhannsson worked with the American filmmaker Bill Morrison on The Miners’ Hymns. Using archival footage, the film depicts the decline of coal mining in England’s County Durham and its communities. For his score, Jóhannsson drew inspiration from the brass music heritage of the northeast of England. The stirring score was conceived for live performance to picture, combining brass band, pipe organ, and synthesisers. It was premiered in July  2010 in Durham Cathedral and later released as an album and DVD.

**** Few composers in their first creative decade have an output as large as Jóhannsson’s, or as diverse in terms of idiom and performance medium. Eschewing labels, Jóhannsson indiscriminately traversed the fields of concert music, theatre music, and film scores, apparently oblivious to a respective project’s potential for commercial success. Whereas over the course of their formative years most composers find their distinctive voices, or choose to work in different styles in discrete periods, Jóhannsson’s work remained stylistically unsettled. On the one hand, this evidenced a diverse and imaginative approach to composition. On the other hand, it made his work difficult to distinguish and differentiate from the huge amount of new music being produced everywhere. By contrast, many contemporary

168  Vasco Hexel composers are keenly aware of their ‘brand’ and feel the need to control and edit what work they commit to and what they publish; one might consider, for example, the carefully branded and homogeneous output of Max Richter or Nils Frahm. By the middle of the 2010s, Jóhannsson had built a considerable reputation for himself, performing at contemporary music festivals, electronic music festivals, and in solo concerts across the United States and Europe. In the meantime, he had composed music for plays staged in Iceland, Norway, and Australia, and he had also become a prolific composer of scores for films and television programs in Iceland, Denmark, the United States, Mexico, and China.11 Continuing to explore different musical forms, Jóhannsson premiered Drone Mass at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art on 17 March 2015. It was performed by members of the American Contemporary Music Ensemble, the vocal group Roomful of Teeth, and Jóhannsson himself ‘on electronics’.12 The longform composition consciously plays on the double meaning of the word ‘drone’, referring both to a musical device and a piece of military equipment. Discussing Drone Mass and drones in music generally, the New York Times reviewer Corinna da Fonseca-Wollheim perhaps rather generously made reference to Mahler and Beethoven before she identified the more obvious American minimalist influences in Jóhannsson’s piece.13 Jóhannsson himself claimed that Drone Mass was in part inspired by John Cage. At the time of this writing, the piece had not been released as an album, but excerpts are available online.14 For Orphée, his 2017 debut album on the Deutsche Grammophon label, Jóhannsson broadly drew inspiration from Greek mythology. He explained that with all of his albums he preferred to have a notional narrative as a backdrop,15 as something that could serve as a structuring device and inform the tone and aesthetic of a composition or whole album. He noted that his academic background in comparative literature may have nourished his narrative leanings, although he stopped short of assigning fixed connotations or narrative meaning to his music.16 Jóhannsson’s albums were not, in his mind, program music. Sometimes Jóhannsson would shoot his own footage to accompany the on-stage performances of music from his albums, as was the case with End of Summer (2015) and Last and First Men (2017).17 For a composer whose creative process involved imagining and/or creating (visual) narratives, writing music for narrative feature films was a logical next step. The first track on the Orphée album, ‘A Song for Europa’, features a sampled female voice (possibly a young girl) reciting single-digit numbers in German; strings and synthetic tones provide a harmonic bed that gradually rises in pitch, and a lusciously produced grand piano repeats a simple motivic figure that lends the piece a meditative air. ‘Flight from the City’ contains highly produced and distorted piano tones with a backdrop of electronic chatter and strings. ‘By the Roses, and By the Hinds of the Field’ features strings and minimalist piano arpeggios; an animated film was released for this piece, resulting once again in a quasi music video. Orphée is unabashedly pretty and soothing, and descriptors such as ‘beautiful’, ‘pleasing’, and ‘emotional’ have been used by fans and critics alike to describe Jóhannsson’s music in general. Jóhannsson presented his music in concert

Jóhann Jóhannsson  169 situations, but he and his music seemed most at home at electronic music festivals and clubs. The music was perhaps too electronic, too seemingly simplistic, and too lacking in internal development to appeal much to lovers of the traditional classical repertoire. At the same time, Jóhannsson’s pretty and un-intellectual music did not attract followers of contemporary avant-garde music. Embracing a distinctly post-modern frame of reference, however, Jóhannsson’s music has eclectic influences as wide-ranging as Monteverdi, Purcell, Barber, Stockhausen, Glass, and Adams. Channelling and blending such a disparate range of ideas, Jóhannsson always distilled something attractive and listenable, potentially introducing younger audiences, including lovers of electronic music, to aspects of classical and avant-garde music they might never otherwise have experienced. Orphée was Jóhannsson’s biggest commercial success, and in the same year Deutsche Grammophon also released the soundtrack album of Arrival, a rare decision for a label that, according to its advertising slogan, ‘is classical music’.18 Full of admiration, Film Music Magazine stipulated that, along with Max Richter and Mica Levi, Jóhannsson was ‘riding a vanguard of bringing “art” music to the multiplex with the studio exposure of Arrival’.19 Jóhannsson was arguably tapping into the existing trend of ultra-minimalist music that had already achieved considerable popular and commercial success both in film scores and in concert halls. He and his contemporaries, including Max Richter, Nils Frahm, and Hauschka (né Volker Bertelmann), took the next logical steps following earlier efforts by Philip Glass and Thomas Newman. With more than eighty film scores to his credit, Glass brought his minimalist style to Hollywood, performed by traditional orchestral forces, thereby popularising a reduction of musical complexity; Newman, particularly with his score for Sam Mendes’s 1999 American Beauty, proved that a minimum of musical material could be stretched to excellent effect by the use of intricate production. Riding this minimalist wave, composer-performer-producer Jóhannsson had hit a highpoint in his career.

**** Jóhannsson’s musical language, including the use of sophisticated music technology and production as a compositional tool, was encouraged by his musical upbringing. Growing up in Reykjavík, he began studying piano and trombone but then abandoned formal musical training, frustrated by the constraints imposed on music as an academic subject. After studying comparative literature and languages at university, he played guitar in rock bands and began experimenting with electric guitar and feedback loops. Pursuing music with exploratory curiosity, he started composing. In these early years, experimenting with a mixture of analog and digital sound sources, he explored the creative and sonic possibilities of music technology. He recalled: When I discovered the albums on [Brian] Eno’s Obscure Records label from the ’70s, my interest moved into creating minimal, ambient structures with classical instruments. . . . I set the guitar aside and started writing music for

170  Vasco Hexel strings, woodwinds and chamber ensembles, combining acoustic and electronic sounds.20 Relying on aesthetic intuition and the technology at his disposal, he drew new sounds from familiar instruments and honed a feeling for textural and visceral music. Of the process of recording Englabörn, he remembered that he ‘recorded the strings, then processed them through digital filters to take apart the sounds and reassemble them. I like going to the microscopic core of the music to extract the essence, then use that to build up layers of sound’.21 Unencumbered by a formal training, Jóhannsson took an experimental and intuitive approach to music composition. Countless performers and composers of popular music have entered the field without structured academic training, which is not to say they have not spent years honing and refining their skills and craft. Liberated from the strictures of lessons and music theory, these artists have found individual avenues to creative (self-)discovery and musical expression. One might consider, for example, synthesiser pop pioneer Giorgio Moroder or the electronic music duo Daft Punk, who have no formal training but nevertheless have demonstrated unrivalled mastery of their respective instruments and idioms.22 In his autobiography, singer-songwriter Phil Collins, creator of some of the best-loved songs of the late twentieth century, describes his trial-and-error songwriting process and admits that to this day he cannot read music notation.23 Of Jóhannsson’s film composer contemporaries, Hans Zimmer is wellknown for having had no formal training.24 By contrast, most, if not all, composers of concert music, including the eclectic set that Jóhannsson would later draw inspiration from, have pursued formal study.25 A knowledge of music theory can indeed enhance composers’ inventiveness and help them work towards structure and balance; untrained composers may create adequate music, even happen upon revolutionary ideas, but their less-than-structured approach to composition may be somehow inefficient. Not surprisingly, Jóhannsson claimed to have ‘dozens of versions of various tracks of Orphée sitting on a hard drive somewhere’.26 Partly because Jóhannsson’s usual approach to composition relied heavily on music technology, he was able to move smoothly between film scores and concert music. Traditionally, many established composers of autonomous music have felt that writing film music was beneath them artistically, and/or they feared that they would lose control of the environment in which their (film) music was placed. At the same time, they also typically lacked the technical skills that might have allowed them to cope with the idiosyncratic creative requirements of the filmmaking process. Rather than relying on notation, Jóhannsson would often record ideas as they come to him, collating and assembling materials for use later on. Multi-track recording, on analog reel-to-reel tape or digital hard disk, facilitated this. The composer took an additive approach, judiciously incorporating instrumental parts and making creative and aesthetic choices along the way. For example, when for Sicario director Denis Villeneuve demanded ‘subtle war music with a sense of dread, music you can feel as much as you can hear’,27 Jóhannsson combined percussion recorded

Jóhann Jóhannsson  171 in Berlin, Los Angeles, and Budapest, which he then manipulated digitally to achieve a desired sound. He later added low strings, including eight contrabasses and ten cellos, as well as contrabassoon, contrabass clarinets, trombones, and tubas, all recorded in Budapest. Finally, he added a church organ, which he recorded in Copenhagen. Multi-track recording allowed him to process the layers separately before mixing them into a dark and rumbling underscore. The resulting music, not unlike much of Jóhannsson’s concert music, is fairly static in purely musical terms, but it has the visceral impact the director sought. A sense of forward momentum derives only from the driving tribal percussion and gradually changing timbres (achieved with automated filters), not from traditional developmental techniques. Such musical development-by-production is of course common in contemporary film music. Noteworthy in this case, however, is that Jóhannsson ably applied the same compositional techniques in both his concert works and his film scores (‘I think of my solo work and the film music as being very related’, he said28), and that the resulting compositions share similarities in minimalist style and their polished surface appeal. He approached the score for Sicario, for example, exactly as he would an album of non-screen music. This differentiates him from other established film composers such as James Newton Howard, who rarely writes concert music and admits to being terrified by the prospect of not having pictures to lean on.29 Jóhannsson acknowledged that working on high-profile film projects afforded him the resources required to be creatively more ambitious in terms of music technology, large orchestras, and collaborators. One key difference between his albums and his film scores was production budgets – he even called working on Villeneuve’s films ‘research and development’ for future projects.30 Besides experimentation, the gestation of Jóhannsson’s works was also informed by existing music and by close collaboration with other musicians. He was one of the founders of Kitchen Motors (1999−2005), an Iceland-based organisation that aimed to articulate and propagate the ideals of experimentation and collaboration in the search for new forms of artistic expression and the breaking down of barriers between forms, genres, and disciplines. Kitchen Motors ‘tried to amplify the opportunities that already existed, pulling together people from the worlds of jazz, classical, electronic music, punk and metal to encourage new hybrids. My own music grew out of those experiments’.31 Although Jóhannsson’s press releases referred to his works as ‘solo albums’, a term widely used elsewhere, this is a misnomer, just as calling him a ‘solo artist’ misrepresents the way he preferred to worked. Jóhannsson had embraced collaborative creativity from the very beginning of his career, and the list of his collaborators was extensive. One may distinguish, of course, between projects where Jóhannsson worked with a diverse group of artists on their respective projects and instances where he collaborated with other artists on his own material. For example, he was synthesiser programmer and keyboardist on singer-songwriter Marc Almond’s 2001 album Stranger Things, he composed orchestral layers for a project with Finnish electronic music group Pan Sonic (2002), and he arranged choral music for Canadian musician Tim Hecker’s album Love Streams (2016).32 He collaborated on his own projects with the vocal groups Roomful of Teeth

172  Vasco Hexel (on Drone Mass) and with Paul Hillier’s Copenhagen-based choir Theatre of Voices (on Arrival). He collaborated with experimental cellist Hildur Guðnadóttir on his film score for Prisoners (2013) and with voice-synthesiser artist Robert Aiki Aubrey Lowe on Arrival (2016). Whilst he may have claimed creative ownership of his albums and film scores, Jóhannsson, inviting the contributions of other artists and incorporating their ideas, was certainly not their sole author. Sometimes the lines blurred between the collaborative contributions of performers and their contributions as co-composers. Perhaps one of the most striking and memorable pieces in the Arrival score is the cue titled ‘Heptapod B’, a sonically complex yet beautifully balanced collage of voices, strings, and other soft textures. The resemblance of the vocal parts to moments in Karlheinz Stockhausen’s 1968 Stimmung is obvious, as is the additional ‘sampling’ of elements of Joan La Barbara’s 1980 vocal piece ‘Erin’. La Barbara’s contribution is so prominent, in fact, that she was given half of the writers’ share of the copyright for a version of ‘Kangarù’, the variation on ‘Heptapod B’ that plays during the film’s end credits.33 Another collaborator on Arrival was Brooklyn-based Robert Aiki Aubrey Lowe, who is known for his creation of drones by singing through filters and synthesiser and then manipulating them in real time on stage. Lowe was not rewarded with a writer’s share of the copyright even though his contribution to Arrival is also substantial: his voice is featured in a cue heard during the first reveal of the alien spaceship (titled ‘Arrival’ on the soundtrack album), and it is remarkable how closely this cue resembles examples of Lowe’s own previous work.34 Creative borrowing is commonplace in film music, which is inherently referential to begin with. Hans Zimmer, for example, is notorious for borrowing musical ideas: some parts of his score for Ridley Scott’s 2000 Gladiator, besides quoting extended passages from Holst’s The Planets, almost identically re-use music previously released by Australian singer Lisa Gerard (with whom Zimmer subsequently shared the composing credit), and key moments in his score for Christopher Nolan’s 2007 Dunkirk are adapted from music by Edward Elgar. On at least one famous occasion, when it was not his idea to do so in the first place, Jóhannsson was reluctant to adapt another composer’s music. For the opening and closing scenes of Arrival, Denis Villeneuve preferred Max Richter’s ‘On the Nature of Daylight’ (from his 2004 album The Blue Notebooks) over the music that Jóhannson had composed. Jóhannson refused to revise his approach by creating something close in style to Richter’s track. The use of ‘On the Nature of Daylight’, which had previously been used in Martin Scorsese’s 2010 Shutter Island and various other films, resulted in Jóhannsson being disqualified from the 2016 Oscar race.35

**** Having come to film scoring from a background in electronic and concert music, Scandinavian theatre, and world cinema, Jóhannsson possibly was, to a degree, ignorant of the conventions of Hollywood film music and oblivious to the scoring clichés that permeate much of today’s repertoire. His scoring choices sounded

Jóhann Jóhannsson  173 fresh, setting his music apart from the widespread uniformity in the field. Freely drawing inspiration from a wide range of influences, and liberally incorporating the ideas of his collaborators into new works, Jóhannsson was, arguably, at his most original when he applied his music in the context of films. Although he did not distinguish between his film and concert music, and he did not change his compositional methods for one or the other, Jóhannsson’s film scores are perhaps his most remarkable work. He made inspired and compelling scoring choices and always worked closely with the filmmakers. He deeply engaged with every new project and usually spent considerable time – an entire year, in the case of Arrival36 – on his scores. His scores had an internal congruity of tone and style, and he aptly judged the aesthetic and affective properties of his music. Deploying music as narrative tool, he prudently advised on his scores’ placement in the film, which is not usually the composer’s decision. He also knew when to hold back, and he made judicious use of silence. His scores boldly pushed conventions of style and form, blurring the boundaries between composed music and sound design. To this end, he worked closely with sound designers wherever possible, which was by no means common in the industry at the time. This collaborative approach to the planning of music in a film, paired with a readiness to exercise restraint, led to Jóhannsson’s music being all but eliminated from Darren Aronofsky’s psychological thriller Mother! (2017). Jóhannsson worked closely with the director for several months, and he composed and recorded a substantial amount of music; in the end, however, it was decided that music would best be omitted, and Mother! therefore has no composed underscore.37 Loosely quoting Michelangelo, the composer recalled: ‘It’s like a sculpture. You start with a slab of granite or marble, and you carve things out. And in this case, we carved out all the granite, all the marble’.38 Originally created in the form of recordings, with every nuance controlled by its composer-producer, Jóhannsson’s music translated easily into the medium of film. When it came to live performances, however, the transition was sometimes problematic. The live set-up for the Orphée tour can serve as an example. A group of amplified string players sat on one side of the stage; on the other side were a large MIDI controller and a grand piano, played by Jóhannsson. At the back were two guitarists, doubling on another MIDI controller keyboard and a modular synthesiser. The MIDI controllers were connected to samplers and rack synthesisers, out of sight of the audience, and they generated pre-set sounds. An analog tape deck with large upright reels sat by Jóhannsson’s side, playing prerecorded loops and providing a visual anchor. Seeing a tape deck physically on stage, the reels turning, perhaps felt novel to an audience reared in a digital age. Jóhannsson must have aimed to capitalise on the tape deck’s visual flair, for there was little other reason to use it – a digital playback device could have done the job equally well and would have been less prone to errors. In addition, operating the tape deck gave Jóhannsson something to do besides playing piano parts that were so simple that any performer would struggle to make their performance look interesting. For the sake of variation, Jóhannsson occasionally beat or bowed a glockenspiel, which looked more impressive than it sounded (the instrument

174  Vasco Hexel required amplification to be heard at all). For added interest, and perhaps to mask the simplicity of the music, there were a good deal of theatrics that had Jóhannsson comfortably slipping into the role of star performer. When at the end of ‘Song for Europa’ Jóhannsson made a serious face and turned down the volume on the tape deck (for a fade-out), this action in fact became part of the performance. For this, of course, he had role models in his minimalist contemporaries, especially Michael Nyman and Max Richter, who also put on shows when on stage. One reviewer noted: Throughout much of the performance, Jóhann appeared to be in some form of highly-focused trance. He remained still and emotionless, moving only to change the tapes where necessary. When the tapes were changed, he would hold each one up to the light, like as a hallowed entity, and set it up in the machine. The nature of his actions gave the show an enticing theatrical twist that significantly contributed to the depth of the immersion I felt in the experience.39 The use of pre-recorded tapes undermined the notion of a ‘live’ performance. Jóhannsson’s priority clearly was the identical re-production not only of a part (a voice reciting numbers) from the track on the album but also the sound processing of that part. In that the music was so highly technical, there was, arguably, little scope for expressive interpretation during the ‘live’ performance; this placed restrictions on Jóhannsson’s musicians, whose playing needed to remain subservient to the pre-recorded parts in terms of timing, intonation, and dynamic blending. The use of so many pre-recorded elements brought Jóhannsson’s live shows close to the realm of pop music concerts, where artists are commonly expected to replicate their studio recordings as closely as possible.

**** By 2016, reaping the benefits of nearly twenty prolific years, Jóhannsson was in growing demand as a concert composer-performer primarily because of his (commercial) successes with film scores. Success begat more success. At this point Jóhannsson could quite comfortably have focused solely on film music, yet he chose to remain active as a recording and touring artist. He said: ‘I’ve decided to spend some time on my own projects so I’m really only doing one film this year, but there have been a lot of offers. All my agent does is say no’.40 Working on relatively low-budget independent films, Jóhannsson had grown accustomed to environments that allowed him ample creative freedom and time to experiment. With independent films such as Arrival, no Hollywood studio committee got in the way of day-to-day creative decisions.41 Having been associated with Villeneuve’s breakthrough successes (Sicario and Arrival), and on the back of multiple award wins and nominations, Jóhannsson finally was asked to score a big-budget feature. When this opportunity arose, he found the working conditions to be very different.

Jóhann Jóhannsson  175 Villeneuve’s 2017 Blade Runner 2049 was the most expensive R-rated film ever made, meaning there was a lot of financial risk that in turn led to creative tension.42 Even though he was working once again with Villeneuve, their partnership tried and tested, Jóhannsson was perhaps ill-equipped to cope with the commercial pressures and strictures of Hollywood. Possibly due to creative differences,43 he left the project before post-production had concluded.44 It is telling that none other than veteran composer Hans Zimmer was called upon to provide ‘additional music’ when Jóhannsson became no longer involved.45 Zimmer had previously worked with the film’s producer, Ridley Scott, on a number of projects, most notably Gladiator. It seems highly likely that Scott called in a composer he trusted when Jóhannsson’s music was felt to be in some way lacking. Zimmer brought with him British composer Benjamin Wallfisch, and the pair set out to complement and replace Jóhannsson’s score. In the end, none of Jóhannsson’s music remained in the film, and Zimmer and Wallfisch became the only composers credited.46 Cagey responses in interviews and non-disclosure agreements stand in the way of anyone finding out the full story anytime soon. In the end, it does not matter whether there really was a scheduling conflict, as was officially claimed, or if there were artistic differences; whatever the case, a more focused and businessminded composer might have tried to retain ownership of the score and persevered in staying involved with the film. The fact that Jóhannsson was either fired or chose to leave the project shows that he may have had other priorities, or that his work ethic and attitude to creativity simply proved incompatible with prevalent creative practices in Hollywood. Blade Runner 2049 was Jóhannsson’s first and only outing in mainstream, bigbudget Hollywood. At its most commercial end, Hollywood in recent decades has certainly not been open to experimentation, including in the sphere of film music. Jóhannsson found the labels with which Hollywood converses to be ‘needlessly reductive’.47 In turn, the industry did not look kindly upon an artist whom it could not categorise. Jóhann Jóhannsson died suddenly in his apartment in Berlin, Germany, on 9 February 2018. It appears that at the time of his untimely death he was enjoying a productive period: he had completed scores for an eclectic array of non-Hollywood feature films, including James Marsh’s The Mercy, Panos Cosmatos’s Mandy, and Garth Davis’s Mary Magdalene. Deutsche Grammophon was planning to re-release Englabörn, Jóhannsson’s 2002 debut record; perhaps the big-label re-launch will shine a new light on the album and stir renewed interest in its material. For more than twenty years, Jóhann Jóhannsson pursued projects and opportunities as composer, arranger, director, filmmaker, and performer. A jack-of-alltrades who strived endlessly for experimentation, he fascinated many audiences and collaborators but alienated others. Those who were impressed with his work on the films Sicario or Arrival, for example, may be dismayed by overly abstract work that could be perceived as verging on the self-indulgent in an album such as Last and First Men. His late successes (the Orphée world tour and the score for Arrival) and missteps (Blade Runner 2049) were logical results and continuations of his all-too-short career.

176  Vasco Hexel

Notes 1 Anon., ‘Composer Jóhann Jóhannsson to work on “Prisoners” ’. Available at http:// soundworkscollection.com/news/composer-j-hann-j-hannsson-work-on-prisoners 2 Including Thalia Hall, Chicago, The Cedar Cultural Center, Minneapolis, Danforth Music Hall, Toronto, David Friend Recital Hall, Berklee College of Music, Boston, and Co-Cathedral of St. Joseph, Brooklyn. 3 The film was made on a relatively low budget of $50  million but earned over $200  million at the global box office. Hollywood studios love this kind of profitability. ‘Arrival (2016) – Box Office Mojo’, available at www.boxofficemojo.com/ movies/?id=arrival2016.htm. See also Tom Grater, ‘Denis Villeneuve, “Arrival” Producers on Making Their $50m Sci-Fi outside of the Studio System’, available at www.screendaily.com/features/villeneuve-producers-on-the-making-of-50m-sci-fiarrival/5112554.article 4 ‘Johann Johannsson Review’, 12 January 2017, available at www.thesoundarchitect. co.uk/johann-johannsson-review/; NDR, ‘Islands Atem Strömt Durch Die Elbphilharmonie’. Enthusiastic audience responses can be found on public Facebook pages, YouTube comment sections, and online forums where numerous contributors have left enthusiastic feedback. 5 Available at https://itun.es/gb/jSL9T?i=771124913 6 The score for Dancer in the Dark was arranged by Vince Mendoza. 7 The album marks perhaps the first time the composer gave his pieces titles in the English language, having previously favoured Icelandic titles. 8 Jóhann Jóhannsson, The Sun’s Gone Dim. Available at www.youtube.com/ watch?v=Iv4CuIIspdE 9 Available at https://youtu.be/ORb3zC8z94w 10 For more on film composers’ focus on music production, see Vasco Hexel, Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard’s The Dark Knight: A Film Score Guide (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2016). 11 For a filmography, see available at www.johannjohannsson.com/film/ 12 Available at www.acmemusic.org and www.roomfulofteeth.org 13 Corinna da Fonseca-Wollheim, ‘Johann Johannsson’s “Drone Mass” Bridges Ancient and Modern at Temple of Dendur’, New York Times, 16 March 2015, available at www. nytimes.com/2015/03/17/arts/music/johann-johannssons-drone-mass-bridges-ancientand-modern-at-temple-of-dendur.html 14 See, for example, Jóhann Jóhannsson, Drone Mass, Krakow 18 September  2015. Available at https://vimeo.com/191716382 15 ‘Jóhann Jóhannsson – Full Performance and Interview (Live on KEXP) – YouTube’, available at www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIaS60-y5Vo 16 Ibid. 17 Wendy Mitchell, ‘Jóhann Jóhannsson Moves from Composing to Directing’, available at www.screendaily.com/home/blogs/johann-johannsson-moves-from-composing-todirecting/5080367.article 18 So said their marketing slogan at the time of writing: www.deutschegrammophon.com/ gb/ 19 Daniel Schweiger, ‘Interview with Jóhan Jóhannsson: Film Music Magazine’, available at www.filmmusicmag.com/?p=16733 20 Anon., ‘Jóhann Jóhannsson Bio’. Available at www.johannjohannsson.com/wp-content/ uploads/2013/07/Jóhann-Jóhannsson-Bio-2016-1.pdf 21 Ibid. 22 Moroder is featured in Daft Punk’s ‘Gorgio by Moroder’ (on the 2013 album Random Access Memories) in which he recounts his early days in music, breaking with rules and convention. 23 Schweiger, ‘Interview with Jóhan Jóhannson’.

Jóhann Jóhannsson  177 24 See also Hexel, Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard’s The Dark Knight. 25 Philip Glass, for example, was a most dedicated student and scholar, as he recalls in his autobiography Words Without Music (New York: Liveright Publishing Company, 2015). 26 ‘Jóhann Jóhannsson’ (Live on KEXP). 27 Tiffany Pritchard, ‘Composers: Jóhann Jóhannsson, “Sicario” ’, available at www. screendaily.com/awards/composers-johann-johannsson-sicario/5098958.article 28 Schweiger, ‘Interview with Jóhan Jóhannson’. 29 C. Reynolds and M. Brill, ‘On the Art and Craft of Film Music: A Conversation with James Newton Howard’, The Hopkins Review 3, no. 3 (2010), 320–51. 30 ‘Jóhann Jóhannsson’ (Live on KEXP). 31 Jóhannsson-Bio-2016–1.pdf 32 Guy Manchester, ‘Jóhann Jóhannsson: Composer of the Brilliant Score for Oscartipped The Theory of Everything’. Available at http://louderthanwar.com/interviewjohann-johannsson 33 Available at www.prsformusic.com – cue sheets database search available for members only: Arrival PRS Tunecode 276930LW, ISWC T-920.964.258-0 34 Compare ‘Exploratorium’, Robert Aiki Aubrey Lowe | Resonance | Performance | Exploratorium, available at www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jr_8RmjXK54 35 Kristopher Tapley, ‘Oscars: Academy Disqualifies Arrival, Silence, Manchester Original Scores’. Available at http://variety.com/2016/film/in-contention/oscars-academydisqualifies-arrival-manchester-by-the-sea-silence-1201941479 36 ‘Jóhann Jóhannsson’ (Live on KEXP). 37 Jóhannsson is credited as a ‘music consultant’. 38 ‘Inside the Dreamy Nightmare of Mother!’s Music-Free Soundscape’. Vanity Fair, available at www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2017/09/mother-movie-jennifer-lawrencedarren-aronofsky-score-johann-johannsson 39 Katie Tarrant, ‘Johann Johannsson Review’, 12 January 2017, available at www.the soundarchitect.co.uk/johann-johannsson-review/ 40 Jóhan Jóhannsson, in Chal Ravens, ‘How to Compose an Award-winning Hollywood Soundtrack’, Fact, 17 October  2015, available at www.factmag.com/2015/10/17/ how-to-compose-a-soundtrack-johann-johannsson/ 41 Grater, ‘Denis Villeneuve’. 42 ‘Blade Runner 2049 Will Be “One of the Most Expensive R-Rated Films Ever Made” ’, The Independent, 21 December 2016, available at www.independent.co.uk/ arts-entertainment/films/news/blade-runner-2-2049-sequel-r-rating-denis-villeneuveharrison-ford-ryan-gosling-trailer-a7488976.html 43 Ron H. Sadoff, ‘Composition by Corporate Committee: Recipe for Cliché’, American Music 22, no. 1 (2004), 64–75. 44 Matt Gerardi, ‘Hans Zimmer joins the team composing  Blade Runner 2049’s score’. Available at www.avclub.com/article/hans-zimmer-joins-team-composingblade-runner-2049-258825 45 John Nugent, ‘Blade Runner 2049:  Hans Zimmer To Write Additional Music  For The Score’. Available at www.empireonline.com/movies/blade-runner-2049/ blade-runner-2049-hans-zimmer-write-additional-music-score/ 46 ‘Jóhann Jóhannsson Has Been Totally Removed from the Blade Runner 2049 Soundtrack’, FACT Magazine: Music News, New Music (blog), 15 September 2017, available at www.factmag.com/2017/09/15/johann-johannsson-removed-bladerunner-2049-production-team/ 47 Anon., ‘Composer Jóhann Jóhannsson to work on Prisoners’. Available at www.johan njohannsson.com/press/

15 Laura Rossi’s war musics Kendra Preston Leonard

Of the many eminent and acclaimed composers writing today for both film and the concert hall, not just men but also such women as Laura Karpman, Anne Dudley, Lolita Ritmanis, Lesley Barber, and Debbie Wiseman, it is Laura Rossi (b. 1974) who is perhaps best known for the intimate connections between her works for the cinema and the stage. Rossi studied music at the University of Liverpool and the London College of Music. After garnering recognition for her early concert works, she began composing for film and television in 2004. Since then she has written scores for more than twenty-five productions, including documentaries, television shows, short films, and such feature films as the British crime drama London to Brighton (2006), the horror movie The Cottage (2008), the comedy-drama Song for Marion (released in the United States as Unfinished Song) (2012), and the BBC drama The Eichmann Show (2015). Nominated for an Academy Award for her music for Unfinished Song (2012), Rossi was commissioned by the Imperial War Museum (IWM) to compose original scores for films from the period of the Great War, including the 1916 The Battle of the Somme (2008) and 1917 The Battle of the Ancre (2002).1 Rossi has also been heralded for her concert music, and in 2014 her work in these two spheres overlapped with the creation of her Voices of Remembrance for orchestra, choir, and spoken voices.2 Voices was composed for the centenary of the First World War, and includes spoken recitations of ten World War I poems, musical settings of three of the poems for voice and orchestra, and seven instrumental movements based on the remaining poems. In reading Rossi’s Voices in the context of her scores for World War I films and analysing Rossi’s approaches to scoring texts and testimonies of various natures documenting the war, I theorise that Rossi’s Voices of Remembrance differs in approach from her film scores in that it does not function just as music to help audiences understand the context of wartime artistic creations but also seeks to serve as a musical autobiography-by-proxy for the poets upon whose works the work is based.

Musical autobiography by proxy I have written elsewhere about composers and autobiography, documenting ways in which composers frame and communicate elements of their own lives in their

Laura Rossi  179 music.3 As Rossi’s work dealing with the war progressed, and as her personal connection with the events of the war deepened through the discovery of her own family’s involvement in the conflict, she became increasingly invested in having her musical representation of the war’s events serve as an autobiographical medium for some of the most eloquent written responses to the war. Because Rossi was not giving musical voice to her own experiences and emotions, however, I call this musical autobiography by proxy: it is music that seeks to communicate nonmusical autobiographical material, music created through the composer’s desire to understand more fully and to make others more fully aware of the original work’s emotional and/or artistic message. In the first movement of her Voices of Remembrance, for example, Rossi musically represents Isaac Rosenberg’s poem ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’. Rossi does not use Rosenberg’s words to communicate her own thoughts or emotions, nor is she using music as her own response to his words – those approaches would both be straightforward musical autobiography on Rossi’s part. Instead, she seeks to mediate Rosenberg’s words through her music, thus creating for Rosenberg a musical autobiography. She both serves as and constructs a medium for the poems that appear in Voices. Because of the nature of such interpretation and the incorporation of a third party into the dialogue between autobiographer and audience, musical autobiography by proxy is not unproblematic. Like any translated autobiography, it can easily become hagiographic, and is subject to the criticism that it is either too personal on the part of the interpreter or too rigid. Autobiography by proxy has frequently taken form in recounting the lives of saints and other, often martyred, figures, about whom first-person accounts of the self were considered essential for reasons of historiographical importance.4 In English literature, there is a long history of autobiography by proxy that can be traced to Chaucer and his contemporaries, and in music it is possible to frame both texted and untexted works as autobiography by proxy.5 Benjamin Britten set poetry by Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex, as a song for the character of Essex in his 1953 opera Gloriana, musically amplifying the text and creating a case in which he composes autobiographically by-proxy for Essex. Edward Elgar explicitly stated that the theme of his Enigma Variations ‘expressed  .  .  . my sense of loneliness of the artist as described in the first six lines of [Arthur O’Shaughnessy’s] Ode [The Music Makers]’.6 Elgar intended his theme to be a musical equivalent of an autobiographical statement by O’Shaughnessy; that the statement also happens to represent Elgar’s own personal feelings adds further autobiographical signification to the music. In my previous analyses of women’s autobiographical composition, I  have focused on the ways in which music could serve as a personal manifesto declaring sexual identity, religious commitment, and specific desire.7 These are not, of course, the only concepts that can be expressed through autobiographical composition: Rossi’s Voices of Remembrance expresses beauty, anger, misery, morbidity, excitement, and mourning as recorded first by the poets and then expressed through Rossi’s music in her position of the poets’ proxy communicator. Careful review of Voices reveals that Rossi represents other sentiments in the poetry as

180  Kendra Preston Leonard well, particularly pastoralism, which functions to represent both the experiences and words of many of the poets and the elite musical culture of their time, when works featuring pastoralism by Ralph Vaughan Williams, Gerald Finzi, and others were prominent in British concert halls. These works are understood as manifestations of national – that is to say, English – pride. As Eric Saylor writes: ‘many English musicians who embraced the pastoral also assumed the responsibility – either consciously or indirectly – of creating art that would both edify and entertain the masses’.8 In creating musical autobiography-by-proxy for the war poets, Rossi takes on this mantle: in order to properly honour the words of the dead, she writes in a language much like what they themselves might have wanted or heard had they lived to hear their words represented by or set to music.

The origins of Voices: Rossi’s scores for war films Rossi’s official biography emphasises her identity as a film composer, but particularly stresses her work for films from the period of the Great War and definitively connects it with Voices of Remembrance: Laura has also written music for many silent films including the British Film Institute’s Silent Shakespeare and the famous IWM 1916 films The Battle of the Somme and The Battle of the Ancre. Her latest work Voices of Remembrance is a choral/orchestral work featuring war poems read by Ralph Fiennes and Vanessa Redgrave. The music was commissioned by Boosey and Hawkes to mark the Centenary of the First World War.9 These related compositions are also publicised together on Rossi’s website. The materials there include an announcement of the Somme100 FILM: The Battle of the Somme Centenary Tour, which, sponsored by the IWM, sought to secure screenings of the historic film accompanied by a live orchestra at more than 100 venues throughout Britain between July  2016 and July  2017; a page detailing Rossi’s music for live accompaniments for World War I films; and information about Voices. This suggests that these projects are those Rossi wishes to promote more heavily than others, and they are clearly those on which she has built a significant part of her public identity. Rossi began working with the Imperial War Museum in 2002 when she was commissioned to create a score for the 1917 film The Battle of the Ancre. The score for Ancre employs chamber orchestra and piano, and often the piano takes on a solo role with orchestra accompaniment. Rossi’s music for Ancre is atmospheric and predictable, offering languid melodies for scenes of the wounded at a dressing station and low rumblings in the bassoons – signifying the imminent brutality of shelling and battle – as howitzers are shown being prepared for use. The score is generally modal and often minimalist in both texture and compositional language, but it also contains some foreshadowing of the structures and language Rossi uses in Somme, in particular her musical references to earlier English

Laura Rossi  181 pastoralism (what Saylor describes as ‘modally flexible melodic and harmonic language’) and her use of close musical mimicking of action.10 The IWM commissioned Rossi again in 2008 for its remastering of the 1916 film The Battle of the Somme. While working on this score, Rossi learned that her great-uncle Frederick Ainge had been a stretcher carrier for the 29th Division, which is featured in the film. Ainge kept a diary, which Rossi read as she composed. ‘I have become really interested in the First World War’, Rossi said in an interview about the Somme film score, and I  now have a much clearer picture of what it must have been like to be a soldier in the Somme battle and what a horrific time these men went through. . . . I think this film brings you closer to the reality of the First World War and I feel very passionately that others should know more about it.11 Rossi immersed herself in learning about the war, including taking a trip to the Somme and participating in the 1 July memorial ceremonies at the battlefield. But she deliberately avoided musical artefacts of the time and place, particularly shunning listening to the 1917 accompaniment for The Battle of the Somme by Morton Hutchinson, composed in the style of a contemporary film accompanist, and recommendations that she listen to and incorporate into her score melodies popular at the time of the war: I decided not to listen to the current video with improvised piano accompaniment or the Morton Hutchinson version of suggested pieces as I didn’t want to be influenced by it. I really wanted to be influenced by the film itself and write music I felt fitted the pictures and made them come to life. I think someone watching the film today would watch it in a completely different way [than spectators did in 1917] as we now can look back in hindsight and we already have a pre-conceived idea of what the war was like from watching documentaries and reading books so I wanted the music to follow the action on the screen so that you are drawn into what’s happening in the film and watch it in a very real way.12 Rossi’s music for Somme is scored for full orchestra. It is highly sectional, and tonal or modal with little dissonance. It also contains a number of similarities to her more minimalist score for Ancre, especially in that it is replete with examples of close synchronisation, particularly for gunfire. Rossi attempted to follow the film’s many cuts and sudden changes of scene with the music: ‘It was very challenging writing music for this film as there are some very contrasting scenes juxtaposed’, she wrote. We see happy soldiers receiving mail, then it suddenly cuts to dead bodies in a crater. So the music was needed to link these contrasting images, help make them flow and enhance the loose structure of the film.13

182  Kendra Preston Leonard While Rossi created leitmotivs and repeated rhythms and figures that she used throughout the score to provide some sense of continuity, these rapid cuts sometimes result in abrupt musical shifts. Overall, the music is redolent of the English pastoral of the early twentieth century; in its use of underlying string textures with oboe and clarinet solos it seems clearly influenced by Vaughan Williams, particularly by his 1914 tone poem The Lark Ascending, inspired by Siegfried Sassoon’s poem of the same name, and his Third Symphony, the ‘Pastoral’, composed as his own response to the war and premiered in 1922. Critic Gary Dalkin noted that Rossi’s reconstruction of ‘an appropriate early 20th Century English concert hall idiom’ in the Somme score is a successful one, brimming with influences from Finzi, Vaughan Williams, Elgar, and Arnold Bax.14 Rossi’s score for Somme is also strikingly similar in many ways to the film scores of Scottish composer Patrick Doyle, in particular his music for Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing (1993). Rossi emulates Doyle in her melodies that suggest English folk song and provide a sense of nostalgia or reference to the mythologised pastoral past, in passages of counterpoint between strings and winds, in long and lyrical passages for solo violin, in her use of large intervallic leaps between notes that are embellished by closer pitches on either side of the leap, and in her writing for brass and percussion that is triumphant without being bombastic. Musical references such as these make it easy for even casual listeners to link the musical meanings found in both composers’ works.

Voices of Remembrance Perhaps because her great-uncle’s diary entries and letters are so terse and prosaic, Rossi chose not his words  – nor those of any other relatively unknown soldiers – as texts for Voices. Instead she selected ten famous war poems, including several for which there had already been composed musical treatments.15 Wilfred Owen’s ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’, for example, famously opens Benjamin Britten’s 1962 War Requiem, and John McCrae’s ‘In Flanders Fields’ has been set numerous times for voice and varied forces. The popularity of these texts remains strong, and this, along with Rossi’s desire to ‘get closer to the thoughts and feelings of the soldiers’, made them ideal for Voices, which she hoped would bring new audiences and new understanding to the Great War.16 Rossi orders the pieces as though they describe a progression through a day, or perhaps through the war itself. The first movement, inspired by Isaac Rosenberg’s ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’, is followed by a setting of Rupert Brooke’s ‘The Soldier’; then come treatments of Julian Grenfell’s ‘Into Battle’, William Noel Hodgson’s ‘Before Action’, John William Streets’s ‘A Lark Above the Trenches’ (set, like the Brooke poem, as sung text), Wilfred Owen’s ‘Dulce et Decorum est’ and ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’, Ewart Alan Mackintosh’s ‘In Memoriam’, John McCrae’s ‘In Flanders Fields’, and, finally, Robert Binyon’s ‘For the Fallen’ (likewise set as a sung text). In the next several paragraphs I analyse three of these movements – two of which use the chorus but give them only the syllable ‘ah’ and one in which Rossi sets the text of the inspiring poem – as representatives of Rossi’s musical autobiographies-by-proxy.

Laura Rossi  183

‘Break of Day in the Trenches’ Pacifist Isaac Rosenberg (1890–1918) joined the war effort for the pay, which he sent home to his poor family. Despite a lack of formal schooling in his youth, his interests and talents in painting and poetry led to his attendance at the Slade Art School and Birkbeck College; he was well-read in English poetry, particularly that of Shelley, Keats, and Blake, whose influences appear in his work. Throughout his military service, from 1915 until his death in April of 1918 at Fampoux, Rosenberg wrote poems critical of the war, many of them using strikingly visual language to depict life in the trenches. Critic Paul Fussell, writing about the literature of the Great War, has declared Rosenberg’s first-person poem ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’ the ‘greatest poem of the war’.17 In ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’, Rosenberg speaks to Time, characterised as an ‘old druid’, who is perhaps seeking new sacrifices, and to the only living thing he sees before the soldiers are roused for the morning ‘stand to’ (preparation for an attack by the Germans), a ‘queer, sardonic rat’. This ‘droll’ rodent insouciantly traverses the battlefield to enter both English and German trenches and witness the surrounding destruction. An urban, anti-pastoral motif in the otherwise pastoral setting, the rat reminds Rosenberg that someone always benefits from violent conflict. Waiting for a potential morning attack, Rosenberg places a poppy behind his ear as he considers how the rat is less likely to die than are the men around him. He passes through amusement to rage to grief as he watches the fall of poppies, ‘whose roots are in man’s veins’, finally coming to realise that he is safe, for the moment, and that the poppy he wears is ‘just a little white with the dust’. Rossi’s musical representation of ‘Break of Day’ is in four sections and is mostly modal, with a tonal centre of A-flat. All the movement except for the coda is in 5/4, the uneven metre exemplifying the uncertainty of whether the morning will see an early attack. Sustained, slow-moving chords in the strings, winds, and voices (using ‘ah’) throughout mostly sound various voicings of A and E while occasionally suggesting tonic, sub-dominant, and dominant chords. This open sound and lack of development, paired with oscillations of seconds and thirds, establishes a stable sonic field reminiscent of the similarly undulating orchestral texture of Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending. Above this field, a solo acoustic guitar is given sweeping, ascending lines: the rising sun, the burning away of morning mist, and the soldiers rising for another day. Above the static field, too, a solo viola and solo violin have shorter ascending motifs that are irregular in rhythm: the narrator’s view of the nimble rat, crossing the ‘sleeping green’ between entrenched lines. Both the guitar and violin solos become more elongated and lyrical leading into the movement’s second section at measure 36, where the violin has one last iteration and the guitar takes over a rising motif – made up of four semiquavers slurred to a longer note – that transitions the movement into the new section. In this second section, the pulse becomes quicker. The tempo is marked ‘accel. poco a poco’, and the section violins and piano take on oscillating crotchet and quaver patterns that contribute to the sensation of forward movement, assisted by emerging semiquaver motifs in the upper winds, suggesting the movement and

184  Kendra Preston Leonard readiness of the ‘strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes’ that both Rosenberg and the rat see taking their places for the dawn hour. More instruments take up increasingly active lines. By the beginning of the third section at measure 52, representing Rosenberg’s rising disgust at the ‘whims of murder’ that lead to men ‘sprawled in the bowels of the earth’, only the voices and a few instrumental lines continue the long and slowly moving chords from the opening. At measure 64, the movement enters its final section: the tempo becomes faster and the dynamics rise continually from mezzoforte to a fortissimo ending. The majority of the instruments churn out an ecstasy of oscillating notes, the poet’s experience of the ‘shrieking iron and flame/Hurled through still heavens’ that comes just before the poem’s end. This climax is followed by a coda of four measures in 6/4 beginning at measure 78, in which the extra beat of each measure perceptibly slows the tempo and stabilises the metre as the oscillating figures begin to disappear and the texture thins. The coda serves as a musical realisation of the poet’s experience of the proximity and stillness of death and of the exhilarating feeling of fleeting safety expressed in the poem’s concluding lines: ‘Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins/Drop, and are ever dropping;/but mine in my ear is safe – /Just a little white with the dust’.18

‘Before Action’ William Noel Hodgson’s poem ‘Before Action’ was written while Hodgson, a lieutenant in the Ninth Battalion, Devonshire Regiment, was waiting for the Battle of the Somme to begin. The British had been scheduled to attack German entrenchments at the Somme in August of 1916, but the date was suddenly moved forward to 29 June, then postponed until 1 July. Hodgson, the bombing officer for the attack, had been in place for several weeks preparing for the action; his poem describes his view of the location, his fears and those of his soldiers, and his premonition of his own death and the millions of others caused by the war. ‘Before Action’ appeared in print on 29 June 1916. In three stanzas, the author prays that God will ‘make [him] a soldier’, ‘make [him] a man’, and ‘help [him] to die’. These three requests are tempered in their stoicism by the author’s obvious desire to continue to experience the ‘glories of the day’, and the beauty of the world.19 As the poem progresses, Hodgson asks that the experiences he has had have been enough to make him a strong and fearless leader, but when his ‘uncomprehending eyes’ witness mass death against the beautiful natural backdrop, he can only plead to be allowed to die with dignity. The final stanza, which begins with ‘I’, clearly comes from the poet’s own intuition about the costs of the coming battle. Rossi’s treatment of ‘Before Action’ is composed in four sections, each with its own motif and method of signifying the passing of time and the desire of the poet for personal transformation. As with ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’, Rossi does not set the text of the poem that inspires the movement but assigns only an ‘ah’ sound to the chorus. ‘Before Action’ is essentially non-developmental; it could be described as being in ‘crescendo form’.

Laura Rossi  185 The first section introduces running semiquavers in the piano, guitar, second violins, and violas that outline the Aeolian mode based on A. It serves as an introduction and sets the scene for the next three stanzas. The tempo is set as ‘stately’, at eighty crotchets per minute. Flutes and clarinets play two short semiquavers on weak beats. Over this harmonically static field Rossi assigns a narrator’s part to the trumpets, which carry a theme of two demisemiquavers rising stepwise to a third pitch that is held for almost two measures. Just as the first lines of Hodgson’s poem establish the pastoral setting of the field before the battle, the music here emphasises and revels in its modality and pastoral nature, with the ‘glories of the day’ illuminated by the bright brass motif. At measure 19, Rossi begins a five-measure coda to the introduction that fits with Hodgson’s text in which he prays to become a soldier. The texture shifts to one less redolent of pleasure and bucolic hills: the poet wishes to become a soldier, and with that wish comes an end to ‘beauty lavishly outpoured’. While the running semiquavers continue, they move apart, spanning larger intervals. The pitch centre of A moves briefly to D, then to G. The flute and clarinet’s semiquaver pulses move to strong beats, creating momentum. The bass introduces a new motif, a syncopated semiquaverquaver-semiquaver figure that destabilises the sense of calm created in the previous section and which can be read as a rhythmic interpretation of the stanza’s final line, spoken by a slightly tremulous young man at the front: ‘Make me a soldier, Lord’. The trumpet’s rising motif disappears and is replaced by a scalar figure in the flute, moving from A4 to A5 and back again in a flutter of demisemiquavers that begin on weak beats and end on strong ones without any resolution to the key centre, suggesting anticipation and fear. At measure 25 Rossi starts a section that represents the poem’s second stanza, in which Hodgson prays that his experience and received wisdom will make him a man. This second section is marked by an increase in tempo and an increase in dynamic intensity, with all forces beginning at forte and immediately starting a long crescendo. The syncopated motif from the previous section becomes the section’s primary rhythmic figure, reiterating its employment as a signifier of Hodgson’s quest to become the manly soldier idealised by wartime propaganda and social customs. Rapid accents in the bass – two semiquavers on strong beats, the second tied to a longer duration – and a steady march of accented minims in the low brass and the right hand of the piano give voice to Hodgson’s prayer: ‘Make me a man, O Lord’. The section comes to a climax with all playing and singing fortissimo at measure 29, at which point the broken chords indicating the Aeolian mode return in the piano, guitar, and second violin. The fierceness of the climax fades abruptly as Rossi brings the entire ensemble down to piano for the start of the last section at measure 32. Rhythmic elements of the three previous parts of the movement are all present, but rather than focus on these past motifs Rossi develops a line of crotchets in the tenor voices that rises through mostly stepwise motion. This inexorable march – the ‘fresh and sanguine sacrifice’ of soldiers ‘ere the sun swings his noonday sword’ – to the author’s final plea, ‘Help me to die, O Lord’, culminates in the climax of the section at measure 39. For the final eight measures, the movement revisits the earlier rhythmic motifs in the same order in

186  Kendra Preston Leonard which they were introduced as the volume level gradually lowers and the running semiquavers finally wind down to a stop. Over the fields, the author believes he has seen his last sunset, and he says ‘good-bye to all of this’.

‘A Lark above the Trenches’ Much like ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’ and ‘Before Action’, ‘A Lark above the Trenches’ expresses a soldier’s experience with natural beauty while surrounded by ‘sanguine strife’. Written by John William Streets, ‘A Lark’ was published posthumously following Streets’s death on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. The poem describes Streets’s encounter with a lark singing over the battlefield even while ‘hurtling shells’ fall around it.20 Rachel Stevenson has written that for the soldier poets of the Great War, the lark was ‘a metaphor for war poetry itself’; along with the poppy, the lark was a signifier of ‘nature “undaunted by the desolation, heedless of human fury and stupidity” ’.21 The freedom of the birds in the air was frequently cited by soldiers who compared it to their entrenched positions in the earth’s muck and mire, and while the soldier poets saw the war as denaturing, many of them nonetheless continually engaged with the pastoral and used pastoral references as metaphors for (English) normalcy and peace. Streets’s ‘A Lark’ is a sonnet with a rhyme pattern of ABBA CDCD EFFE GG. Rossi’s movement is centred around C, with an oscillating quaver pattern in the piano, guitar, and vibraphone, above which the winds and upper strings play rising figures that suggest the movement of the lark that catches the poet’s eye ‘somewhere within that bit of soft blue sky’. This introductory texture lasts for eight measures; at measure 9, Rossi thins the oscillations to just flute and first violin, and speeds them up to semiquavers. The rest of the orchestra for the most part doubles the vocal lines but occasionally adds a brief dissonance. Rossi sets the text of the poem simply, assigning the full text to one or two voices while giving the others either truncated texts to fit longer, supporting pitches or nothing at all. In the first section, the sopranos and altos sing the full text; the tenors have a slightly edited text; and the basses’ text is considerably more limited. Descending instrumental lines represent shells coming down on the trenches and a rising line in the sopranos and flutes matches the lark’s ‘ecstasy’ in its flight. In the following section of text, the voices return to the ‘ah’ of the untexted movements; their lines are at first in counterpoint with the prominent melodic materials but then become static, serving as harmonic support. The poet watches, and the audience hears Rossi’s musical representation of Streets following the lark’s flight and hearing its song high above the ground. The second section of the poem begins at measure 36. The lark’s flight and song are still represented by rising motifs in the flute and violin, and the earth below is still represented by the oscillating pattern, but here the poet turns his attention to himself, comparing his lot with that of the lark. The tenors and basses speak for the (male) poet as he ‘dream[s] of Love’ and lets the lark’s song ‘lure my soul to love till like a star/it flashes into Life’. By employing traditionally masculine vocal ranges for this text, Rossi centres the music on the poet’s epiphany of finding

Laura Rossi  187 love in the lark’s beating wings. This accomplished, the movement of the lark is transferred from the upper winds and strings to the higher voices of the chorus; the winds sustain pitches to support the underlying modality and the violins iterate each measure’s pitch area through semiquaver figures that also serve to represent the tirelessness of the lark’s ‘tireless wings’. The sopranos and altos repeat ‘tireless wings’ and transition into the third part of the sonnet at measure 60. As in the first section, the music here is modal and pastoral, with repeated open fourths and fifths and melodic lines in parallel thirds and sixths. The sopranos and altos sing the complete text, while the lower voices, serving as support, have truncated texts that skip words so that specific words all fall together despite the lower voices’ slower-moving notes. As the section progresses, the winds and the upper strings alternate and then come together in oscillations, and the lower strings outline the suggested modal pitch centres. The final couplet of the sonnet (GG) is attached to the end of the EFFE section without pause. For these last two lines, Rossi asks the entire ensemble to crescendo to a forte that arrives on ‘strife’ on the downbeat of measure 74. The voices switch to ‘ah’ sounds for the final fifteen measures while the orchestra recalls the ‘Help me to die, O Lord’ passage of ‘Before Action’ and reiterates the closeness of death despite the beauty of the pastoral environment and the sense of amazement present in the poet’s voice as he describes the scene: ‘’Tis strange that while you’re beating into life/Men here below are plunged in sanguine strife!’

Conclusion Not surprisingly, given the origins of the work, Rossi’s compositional language for Voices of Remembrance is at times similar to that of her scores for the Great War documentaries. However, her interest in the writings of those who experienced the war and her use of their poems to construct her movements for the concert work enabled her to compose music that, rather than being a general background for images of the war, speaks for individual poets and their personal experiences at the front. The pastoralism of a pre-war Britain in Voices serves as the emotional backdrop on which the events of the poems are inscribed, and Rossi’s larks obviously pay homage to those of Vaughan Williams, both of which are created out of autobiographical impulses. The difference between them is that Rossi’s understanding of the larks and poppies is one step removed: she is citing Vaughan Williams’s larks, while his inspirations were his own battlefield experiences. The language of the war poems in Voices is especially visual and descriptive, and has its origins in the poets’ own observations of their unique situations in and out of the trenches, at the front and in hospital camps, living in the before and after states of the destruction of war. Several of the poets foresaw the necessary memorials that would follow the war; many of them began writing poetry only when compelled to do so by their realisation of mortality, by their fears, and by their desires to explain what it was like fighting a war unlike any in recent history. Rossi’s approach makes use of this language and the poets’ autobiographical stances; instead of catering to audience expectations through familiar, formalised tropes

188  Kendra Preston Leonard and image-matching synchronisation, as her scores for the war documentaries do, in Voices she crafts movements that represent the soldiers’ experiences and first-person views. Although unmistakably influenced by and deliberately recalling English pastoralism of the time when the poets lived, Voices of Remembrance stands on its own as a complex and evocative concert work quite independent of Rossi’s cinematic music.

Notes 1 There is some controversy in musicology about the use of the term ‘silent film’ and its lexicographical cousins. Many scholars object to the labelling of film during this period as ‘silent film’, because such film was almost never in fact silent: it was most frequently accompanied by live music, but was at times also provided with external sound via the means of phonograph recordings, unscored sound effects (blurring the supposed line between music and sound), and other sonic technologies that preceded the invention and widespread use of sound-on-film technology. In this essay, I refer to this body of film simply as ‘early film’ or ‘early cinema’. 2 Rossi’s concert works include Under the Rainbow; Dream with the Fishes; Jailhouse Graffiti; Something Written;  . . . Only Connect; Three Hopkins Songs; Golden Jubilee; A Poor Torn Heart; Grotta di Nettuno; The River; Midnight Mover; Tatotat; Frog; Reflections; Cat and Mouse; Peace; Let Her Sail; In Search of Love; Summer; Learning to Fly; Jinx; Behind Closed Doors; Alice in Wonderland; and Salute to the Amethyst. 3 Kendra Preston Leonard, Louise Talma: A Life in Composition (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), 3–12. 4 Adam Smyth, A History of English Autobiography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 5 David Matthew, ‘Autobiographical Selves in the Poetry of Chaucer, Gower, Hoccleve, and Lydgate’, Smyth, 30. 6 Diana McVeagh, Elgar the Music Maker (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell, 2007), 146. 7 Kendra Preston Leonard, ‘A Great Desire: Autobiography in Louise Talma’s Early Vocal Works’, Current Musicology 94 (2012), 8–10; Louise Talma. 8 Eric Saylor, English Pastoral Music: From Arcadia to Utopia (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2017), 7. 9 Anon., ‘Biography’. Available at www.laurarossi.com/ 10 Saylor, English Pastoral Music, 11. 11 Laura Rossi, interview with Toby Haggith, available at www.laurarossi.com/ somme-interview/ 12 Ibid. 13 Laura Rossi, ‘Scoring the Somme’. Available at www.laurarossi.com/ live-music-to-silent-film/somme/ 14 Gary Dalkin, ‘Laura Rossi, The Battle of the Somme, available at www.musicwebinternational.com/classrev/2008/Dec08/Rossi_Battle_VRCD001.htm 15 Excerpts of the diaries can be read at www.laurarossi.com/diary-1-september-20th1914-to-october-24th-1917/ and www.laurarossi.com/diary-2-november-7th-1917-tooctober-17th-1918/ 16 Laura Rossi, ‘Voices of Remembrance’. Available at www.laurarossi.com/voices/ 17 Paul Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 250. 18 Isaac Rosenberg, ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’, from Trench Poems, in Poetry, ed. Harriet Monroe, December  1916, 128, available at www.poetryfoundation.org/ poetrymagazine/poems/13535/break-of-day-in-the-trenches

Laura Rossi  189 19 William Noel Hodgson, ‘Before Action’, The New Witness (29 June 1916), available at www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/william-noel-hodgson-before-action.htm 20 John William Streets, ‘A Lark above the Trenches’, in From the Front: Great War Poetry, ed. Clarence Edward Andrews (New York: Appleton, 1918), 131. 21 Rachel Stevenson, Literature and the Great War, 1914–1918 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 141. The ‘undaunted’ quote is from Cecil Lewis, Sagittarius Rising (London: Warner, 1936), 113, cited by Stevenson.

Appendix 1 Filmographies1

Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897–1957) A Midsummer Night’s Dream (William Dieterle and Max Reinhardt, 1935)2 Captain Blood (Michael Curtiz, 1935) Give Us This Night (Alexander Hall, 1936) The Green Pastures (Marc Connelly and William Keighley, 1936) Anthony Adverse (Mervyn LeRoy, 1936) The Prince and the Pauper (William Keighley, 1937) Another Dawn (William Dieterle, 1937) The Adventures of Robin Hood (Michael Curtiz and William Keighley, 1938) Juarez (William Dieterle, 1939) The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex (Michael Curtiz, 1939) The Sea Hawk (Michael Curtiz, 1940) The Sea Wolf (Michael Curtiz, 1941) Kings Row (Sam Wood, 1942) The Constant Nymph (Edmund Goulding, 1943) Between Two Worlds (Edward A. Blatt, 1944) Devotion (Curtis Bernhardt, 1946) Of Human Bondage (Edmund Goulding, 1946) Deception (Irving Rapper, 1946) Escape Me Never (Peter Godfrey, 1947) Magic Fire (William Dieterle, 1956)3

Georges Auric (1899–1983) À nous la liberté (René Clair, 1931) Le sang d’un poète (Jean Cocteau, 1932) Lac aux dames (Marc Allégret, 1934) Les mystères de Paris (Felix Gandéra, 1935) Razumov: Sous les yeux d’occident (Marc Allégret, 1936) La mort do Sphinx (Lewis Carls, 1937) – unfinished La danseuse rouge (Jean-Paul Paulin, 1937) Le messager (Raymond Rouleau, 1937) Un déjeuner de soleil [A Picnic on the Grass] (Marcel Cohen, 1937) L’alibi (Pierre Chenal, 1937) Orage (Marc Allégret, 1938)

Appendix 1  191 La rue sans joie [Street without Joy] (André Hugon, 1938) Entrée des artistes (Marc Allégret, 1938) Huilor (Alexander Alexeieff and Claire Parker, 1938) – short Son oncle de Normandie (Jean Dréville, 1939) Le corsaire (Marc Allégret, 1939) – unfinished La mode rêvée (Marcel L’Herbier, 1939) – short De la ferraille à l’acier victorieux (Etienne Lallier, 1940) – documentary short Opéra-Musette (René Lefèvre and Claude Renoir, 1942) L’assassin a peur la nuit (Jean Delannoy, 1942) Monsieur La Souris (Georges Lacombe, 1942) Les petits riens [Little Nothings] Raymond Leboursier, 1942) La belle aventure (Marc Allégret, 1942) L’éternel retour (Jean Delannoy, 1943) Le bossu (Jean Delannoy, 1944) Farandole (André Zwoboda, 1945) François Villon (André Zwoboda, 1945) La part de l’ombre (Jean Delannoy, 1945) Caesar and Cleopatra (Gabriel Pascal, 1945) La belle et la bête [Beauty and the Beast] Jean Cocteau, 1946) La symphonie pastorale (Jean Delannoy, 1946) La rose et la réséda (André Michel, 1946) Hue and Cry (Charles Crichton, 1947) Torrents (Serge de Poligny, 1947) Les jeux sont faits (Jean Delannoy, 1947) It Always Rains on Sundays (Robert Hamer, 1947) Ruy Blas (Pierre Billon, 1948) Corridor of Mirrors (Terence Young, 1948) L’aigle à deux têtes [The Eagle with Two Heads] Jean Cocteau, 1948) Les parents terribles (Jean Cocteau, 1948) Another Shore (Charles Crichton, 1948) Silent Dust (Lance Comfort, 1949) The Queen of Spades (Thorold Dickinson, 1949) Passport to Pimlico (Henry Cornelius, 1949) Noces de sable [Desert Wedding] André Zwoboda, 1949) Maya (Raymond Bernard, 1949) Orphée (Jean Cocteau, 1950) Ce siècle a 50 ans (Denise Tual, 1950) – documentary Cage of Gold (Basil Dearden, 1950) Caroline Chérie (Richard Pottier, 1951) The Galloping Major (Henry Cornelius, 1951) Les amants de Bras-Mort (Marcello Pagliero, 1951) The Lavender Hill Mob (Charles Crichton, 1951) Front de mer (unknown, 1951) – documentary short Nez de cuir (Yves Allégret, 1952) Les sept péchés capitaux (Jean Dréville et al., 1952) The Open Window (Henri Storck, 1952) – documentary La putain respectueuse [The Respectful Whore] Charles Brabant and Marcello Pagliero, 1952) La fête à Henriette (Julien Duvivier, 1952)

192  Appendix 1 Moulin Rouge (John Huston, 1952) La kermesse fantastique (Josef Mishek, 1952) – short The Titfield Thunderbolt (Charles Crichton, 1953) Le salaire de la peur [The Wages of Fear] Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1953) Roman Holiday (William Wyler, 1953) L’esclave (Yves Ciampi, 1953) The Good Die Young (Lewis Gilbert, 1954) Le chair et le diable (Jean Josipovici, 1954) The Divided Heart (Charles Crichton, 1954) Abdulla the Great (Gregory Ratoff, 1955) La femme et le fauve (André Sarrut and Jacques Assez, 1954) – short Du rififi chez les hommes [Rififi] (Jules Dassin, 1955) Chéri-Bibi (Marcello Pagliero, 1955) Nagana (Hervé Bromberger, 1955) The Bespoke Overcoat (Jack Clayton, 1955) – short Les hussards [The Hussars] (Alex Joffé, 1955) Lola Montès (Max Ophuls, 1955) La chaleur du foyer (André Gillet, 1955) – documentary short Licht und der Mensch (N.V. Joop Geesinck, 1955) – documentary short Le mystère Picasso (Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1956) – documentary Walk into Paradise (Lee Robinson et al., 1956) Les aventures de Till L’Espiègle (Gérard Philipe, 1956) Notre-Dame de Paris (Jean Delannoy, 1956) Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison (John Huston, 1957) Les sorcières de Salem (Raymond Rouleau, 1957) Celui qui doit mourir (Jules Dassin, 1957) The Story of Esther Costello (David Miller, 1957) Les espions (Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1957) Dangerous Exile (Brian Desmond Hurst, 1957) Bonjour Tristesse (Otto Preminger, 1958) Les bijoutiers du clair de lune (Roger Vadim, 1958) Next to No Time (Henry Cornelius, 1958) Christine (Pierre Gaspard-Huit, 1958) The Journey (Anatole Litvak, 1959) SOS Pacific (Guy Green, 1959) Stalingrad (unknown, 1959) – TV documentary Le testament d’Orphée (Jean Cocteau, 1960) Sergent X (Bernard Borderie, 1960) Schlußakkord (Wolfgang Liebeneiner, 1960) La princesse de Clèves (Jean Delannoy, 1961) Goodbye Again (Anatole Litvak, 1961) Bridge to the Sun (Etienne Périer, 1961) Les croulants se portent bien (Jean Boyer, 1961) Bridge to the Sun (Etienne Périer, 1961) The Innocents (Jack Clayton, 1961) La chambre ardente (Julien Duvivier, 1962) Carillons sans joie [Bells without Joy] Charles Brabant, 1962) Le rendez-vous de minuit (Roger Leenhardt, 1962) The Mind Benders (Basil Dearden, 1962)

Appendix 1  193 The Kremlin (Peter Jarvis, 1963) – TV documentary Thomas l’imposteur (Georges Franju, 1965) La communale (Jean L’Hôte, 1965) Marc et Sylvie (Paul-Robion Benhaïoun, 1965) – TV series La sentinelle endormie (Jean Dréville, 1966) Poppies Are Also Flowers (Terence Young, 1966) – TV La grande vadrouille (Gérard Oury, 1966) L’age heureux (Philiipe Agostini, 1966) – TV series Ce pays dont les frontiers ne sont que fleurs (Jean Masson, 1967) – short Therese and Isabelle (Radley Metzger, 1968) L’arbre de Noël [The Christmas Tree] Terence Young, 1969) Le trésor des Hollandais (Philippe Agostini, 1969) – TV series Le contes de Perrault (unknown, 1970) – TV series La paroi (Jean-Paul Le Chanois, 1973) – TV Les Zingari (Robert Guez, 1975) TV series

Franz Waxman (1906–67) Das Kabinett des Dr. Larifari (Robert Wohlmuth, 1930)4 Einbrecher (Hanns Schwarz, 1930)5 Flagrant délit (Hanns Schwarz and Georges Tréville, 1931)6 Das Lied vom Leben (Alexis Granowsky, 1931) La petite de Montparnasse (Hanns Schwarz, 1932) Das Mädel von Montparnasse (Hanns Schwarz, 1932) Das erste Recht des Kindes (Fritz Wendhausen, 1932) Scampolo, ein Kinder Straße (Hans Steinhoff, 1932)7 Paprika (Carl Boese, 1932) Un peu d’amour (Hans Steinhoff, 1932)8 Ich und die Kaiserin (Friedrich Holländer, 1933) Gruß and Kuß – Veronika (Carl Böse, 1933) Paprika (Carl Boese, 1933) Paprika (Jean de Limur, 1933) Liliom (Fritz Lang, 1934) The Only Girl (Friedrich Hollaender, 1934) Mauvaise graine (Alezandre Esway and Billy Wilder, 1934)9 La crise est finie (Robert Siodmak, 1934)10 Bride of Frankenstein (James Whale, 1935) The Affair of Susan (Kurt Neumann, 1935) Diamond Jim (A. Edward Sutherland, 1935) Remember Last Night? (James Whale, 1935) East of Java (George Meldord, 1935) Magnificent Obsession (John M. Stahl, 1935) The Invisible Ray (Lambert Hillyer, 1935) Next Time We Love (Edward H. Griffith, 1936) Dangerous Waters (Lambert Hillyer, 1936) Don’t Get Personal (Charles Lamont and William Nigh, 1936) The First Offence (Herbert Mason, 1936) Sutter’s Gold (James Cruze, 1936) Love before Breakfast (Walter Lang, 1936)

194  Appendix 1 Absolute Quiet (George B. Selz, 1936) Trouble for Two (J. Walter Ruben, 1936) Fury (Fritz Lang, 1936) The Devil-Doll (Tod Browning, 1936) His Brother’s Wife (W. S. Van Dyke, 1936) Love on the Run (W. S. Van Dyke, 1936) Personal Property (W. S. Van Dyke, 1937) Captains Courageous (Victor Fleming, 1937) A Day at the Races (Sam Wood, 1937) The Emperor’s Candlesticks (George Fitzmaurice, 1937) The Bride Wore Red (Dorothy Arzner, 1937) Man-Proof (Richard Thorpe, 1938) Arsène Lupin Returns (George Fitzmaurice, 1938) Test Pilot (Victor Fleming, 1938) Three Comrades (Frank Borzage, 1938) Port of Seven Seas (James Whale, 1938) The Young in Heart (Richard Wallace, 1938) Too Hot to Handle (Jack Conway, 1938) The Shining Hour (Frank Borzage, 1938) Dramatic School (Robert B. Sinclair, 1938) A Christmas Carol (Edwin L. Marin, 1938) The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Richard Thorpe, 1939) The Ice Follies of 1939 (Reinhold Schünzel, 1939) Lucky Night (Norman Taurog, 1939) On Borrowed Time (Harold S. Bucquet, 1939) Lady of the Tropics (Jack Conway, 1939) At the Circus (Edward Buzzell, 1939) Strange Cargo (Frank Borzage, 1940) Rebecca (Alfred Hitchcock, 1940) Florian (Edwin L. Marin, 1940) Sporting Blood (S. Sylvan Simon, 1940) I Love You Again (W. S. Van Dyke, 1940) Boom Town (Jack Conway, 1940) Escape (Mervyn LeRoy, 1940) The Philadelphia Story (George Cukor, 1940) Flight Command (Frank Borzage, 1940) The Bad Man (Richard Thorpe, 1941) Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Victor Fleming, 1941) Unfinished Business (Gregory La Cava, 1941) The Feminine Touch (W.S. Van Dyke, 1941) Honky Tonk (Jack Conway, 1941) Suspicion (Alfred Hitchcock, 1941) Design for Scandal (Norman Taurog, 1941) Kathleen (Harold S. Bucquet, 1941) Woman of the Year (George Stevens, 1942) Tortilla Flat (Victor Young, 1942) Her Cardboard Lover (George Cukor, 1942) Seven Sweethearts (Frank Borzage, 1942) Journey for Margaret (W.S. Van Dyke, 1942)

Appendix 1  195 Reunion in France (Jules Dassin, 1942) Air Force (Howard Hawks, 1943) Edge of Darkness (Lewis Milestone, 1943) Old Acquaintance (Vincent Sherman, 1943) Destination Tokyo (Delmer Daves, 1943) In Our Time (Vincent Sherman, 1944) Mrs. Skeffington (Vincent Sherman, 1944) To Have and Have Not (Howard Hawks, 1944) The Very Thought of You (Delmer Daves, 1944) Objective, Burma! (Raoul Walsh, 1945) Hotel Berlin (Peter Godfrey, 1945) God Is My Co-Pilot (Robert Florey, 1945) The Horn Blows at Midnight (Raoul Walsh, 1945) Pride of the Marines (Delmer Daves, 1945) Confidential Agent (Herman Shumlin, 1945) Her Kind of Man (Frederick De Cordova, 1946) Humoresque (Jean Negulesco, 1946) Nora Prentiss (Vincent Sherman, 1947) The Two Mrs. Carrolls (Peter Godfrey, 1947) Possessed (Curtis Bernhardt, 1947) Cry Wolf (Peter Godfrey, 1947) Dark Passage (Delmer Daves, 1947) The Unsuspected (Delmer Daves, 1947) That Hagen Girl (Peter Godfrey, 1947) The Paradine Case (Alfred Hitchcock, 1947) Sorry, Wrong Number (Anatole Litvak, 1948) No Minor Vices (Lewis Milestone, 1948) Whiplash (Lewis Seiler, 1948) Alias Nick Beal (John Farrow, 1949) Night unto Night (Don Siegel, 1949) Rope of Sand (William Dieterle, 1949) Task Force (Delmer Daves, 1949) Johnny Holiday (Willis Goldbeck, 1949) Night and the City (Jules Dassin, 1950) The Furies (Anthony Mann, 1940) Sunset Boulevard (Billy Wilder, 1950) Dark City (William Dieterle, 1950) A Place in the Sun (George Stevens, 1951) Only the Valiant (Gordon Douglas, 1951) He Ran All the Way (John Berry, 1951) Queen of the Pirates (Jacques Turner, 1951) The Blue Veil (Curtis Bernhardt, 1951) Red Mountain (William Dieterle, 1951) Decision before Dawn (Anatole Litvak, 1951) Phone Call from a Stranger (Jean Negulesco, 1952) Lure of the Wilderness (Jean Negulesco, 1952) Come Back, Little Sheba (Daniel Mann, 1952) My Cousin Rachel (Henry Koster, 1952) Botany Bay (John Farrow, 1952)

196  Appendix 1 Man on a Tightrope (Elia Kazan, 1953) Stalag 17 (Billy Wilder, 1953) I, the Jury (Harry Essex, 1953) A Lion Is in the Streets (Raoul Walsh, 1953) Prince Valiant (Henry Hathaway, 1954) Elephant Walk (William Dieterle, 1954) Demetrius and the Gladiators (Delmer Daves, 1954) Rear Window (Alfred Hitchcock, 1954) This Is My Love (Stuart Heisler, 1954) The Silver Chalice (Victor Saville, 1954) Untamed (Henry King, 1955) Mister Roberts (John Ford et al., 1955) The Virgin Queen (Henry Koster, 1955) The Indian Fighter (André De Toth, 1955) Miracle in the Rain (Rudolph Maté, 1956) Crime in the Streets (Don Siegel, 1956) Back from Eternity (John Farrow, 1956) The Spirit of St. Louis (Billy Wilder, 1957) Sayonara (Joshua Logan, 1957) Peyton Place (Mark Robson, 1957) Run Silent, Run Deep (Robert Wise, 1958) Count Your Blessings (Jean Negulesco, 1959) The Nun’s Story (Fred Zinnemann, 1959) Career (Joseph Anthony, 1959) Beloved Infidel (Henry King, 1959) The Story of Ruth (Henry Koster, 1960) Sunrise at Campobello (Vincent J. Donahue, 1960) Cimarron (Anthony Mann, 1960) Return to Peyton Place (José Ferrer, 1961) King of the Roaring ’20s: The Story of Arnold Rothstein (Joseph M. Newman, 1961) My Geisha (Jack Cardiff, 1962) Hemingway’s Adventures of a Young Man (Martin Ritt, 1962) Taras Bulba (J. Lee Thompson, 1962) Lost Command (Mark Robson, 1966) The Longest Hundred Miles (Don Weis, 1967) To Die in Paris (Charles S. Dubin and Allen Reisner, 1968) – TV

Miklós Rózsa (1907–95) Thunder in the City (Marion Gering, 1937) Knight without Armour (Jacques Feyder, 1937) The Squeaker (William K. Howard, 1937) The Green Cockatoo (William Cameron Menzies, 1937) The Divorce of Lady X (Tim Whelan, 1938) The Four Feathers (Zoltan Korda, 1938) The Spy in Black (Michael Powell, 1939) On the Night of the Fire (Brian Desmond Hurst, 1939) Ten Days in Paris (Tim Wheelman, 1940) The Thief of Bagdad (Ludwig Berger et al., 1940)

Appendix 1  197 That Hamilton Woman (Alexander Korda, 1941) New Wine (Reinhold Schünzel, 1941) Lydia (Julien Duvivier, 1941) Sundown (Henry Hathaway, 1941) The Jungle Book (Zoltan Korda, 1942) Jacaré (Charles E. Ford, 1942) – documentary Five Graves to Cairo (Billy Wilder, 1943) Sahara (Zoltan Korda, 1943) So Proudly We Hail! (Mark Sandrich, 1943) The Woman of the Town (George Archainbaud, 1943) The Hour before the Dawn (Frank Tuttle, 1944) Double Indemnity (Billy Wilder, 1944) Dark Waters (André De Toth, 1944) The Man in Half Moon Street (Ralph Murphy, 1945) Blood on the Sun (Frank Lloyd, 1945) Lady on a Train (Charles David, 1945) Spellbound (Alfred Hitchcock, 1945) The Lost Weekend (Billy Wilder, 1945) Because of Him (Richard Wallace, 1946) The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (Lewis Milestone, 1946) The Killers (Robert Siodmak, 1946) Song of Scheherazade (Walter Reisch, 1947) The Red House (Delmer Daves, 1947) Time Out of Mind (Robert Siodmak, 1947) The Macomber Affair (Zoltan Korda, 1947) The Other Love (André De Toth, 1947) Brute Force (Jules Dassin, 1947) Desert Fury (Lewis Allen, 1947) Secret Beyond the Door (Fritz Lang, 1947) A Double Life (George Cukor, 1947) A Woman’s Vengeance (Zoltan Korda, 1948) The Naked City (Jules Dassin, 1948) Kiss the Blood off My Hands (Norman Foster, 1948) Command Decision (Sam Wood, 1948) Criss Cross (Robert Siodmak, 1949) The Bribe (Robert Z. Leonard, 1949) Madame Bovary (Vincente Minelli, 1949) The Red Danube (George Sidney, 1949) Adam’s Rib (George Cukor, 1949) East Side, West Side (Mervyn LeRoy, 1949) The Asphalt Jungle (John Huston, 1950) Crisis (Richard Brooks, 1950) Quo Vadis (Mervyn LeRoy, 1951) The Light Touch (Richard Brooks, 1951) Ivanhoe (Richard Thorpe, 1952) Plymouth Adventure (Clarence Brown, 1952) The Story of Three Loves (Vincente Minnelli and Gottfried Reinhardt, 1953) Julius Caesar (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1953) Young Bess (George Sidney, 1953)

198  Appendix 1 All the Brothers Were Valiant (Richard Thorpe, 1953) Knights of the Round Table (Richard Thorpe, 1953) Men of the Fighting Lady (Andrew Marton, 1954) Seagulls over Sorrento (John Boulting and Ray Boulting, 1954) Valley of the Kings (Robert Pirosh, 1954) Green Fire (Andrew Marton, 1954) Moonfleet (Fritz Lang, 1955) The King’s Thief (Robert Z. Leonard, 1955) Diane (David Miller, 1956) Tribute to a Bad Man (Robert Wise, 1956) Bhowani Junction (George Cukor, 1956) Lust for Life (Vincente Minnelli, 1956) Something of Value (Richard Brooks, 1957) The Seventh Sin (Ronald Neame, 1957) Tip on a Dead Jockey (Richard Thorpe, 1957) A Time to Love and Time to Die (Douglas Sirk, 1958) The World, the Flesh, and the Devil (Ranald MacDougall, 1959) Ben-Hur (William Wyler, 1959) King of Kings (Nicholas Ray, 1961) El Cid (Anthony Mann, 1961) Sodom and Gomorrah (Robert Aldrich, 1962) The V.I.P.s (Anthony Asquith, 1963) The Power (Byron Haskin, 1968) The Green Berets (Ray Kellogg et al., 1968) The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (Billy Wilder, 1970) The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (Gordon Hessler, 1973) Providence (Alain Resnais, 1977) The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover (Larry Cohen, 1977) Fedora (Billy Wilder, 1978) Last Embrace (Jonathan Demme, 1979) Time after Time (Nicholas Meyer, 1979) Eye of the Needle (Richard Marquand, 1981) Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid (Carl Reiner, 1982) Gesucht: Monika Ertl (Christian Baudissin, 1989)

Bernard Herrmann (1911–75) Citizen Kane (Orson Welles, 1941) The Devil and Daniel Webster (William Dieterle, 1941) The Magnificent Ambersons (Orson Welles, 1942) Jane Eyre (Robert Stevenson, 1943) Hangover Square (John Brahm, 1945) Anna and the King of Siam (John Cromwell, 1946) The Ghost & Mrs. Muir (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1947) The Day the Earth Stood Still (Robert Wise, 1951) On Dangerous Ground (Nicholas Ray and Ida Lupino, 1951) 5 Fingers (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1952) The Snows of Kilimanjaro (Henry King, 1952) White Witch Doctor (Henry Hathaway, 1953)

Appendix 1  199 Beneath the 12-Mile Reef (Robert D. Webb, 1953) King of the Khyber Rifles (Henry King, 1953) Garden of Evil (Henry Hathaway, 1954) The Egyptian (Michael Curtiz, 1954) Prince of Players (Philip Dunne, 1955) The Kentuckian (Burt Lancaster, 1955) The Trouble with Harry (Alfred Hitchcock, 1955) The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (Nunnally Johnson, 1956) The Man Who Knew Too Much (Alfred Hitchcock, 1956) The Wrong Man (Alfred Hitchcock, 1956) A Hatful of Rain (Fred Zinnemann, 1957) Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock, 1958) The Naked and the Dead (Raoul Walsh, 1958) The 7th Voyage of Sinbad (Nathan Juran, 1958) North by Northwest (Alfred Hitchcock, 1959) Blue Denim (Philip Dunne, 1959) Journey to the Center of the Earth (Henry Levin, 1959) The House on K-Street (Sam Gallu, 1959) – TV Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock, 1960) The 3 Worlds of Gulliver (Jack Sher, 1960) Mysterious Island (Cy Endfield, 1961) Tender Is the Night (Henry King, 1962) Cape Fear (J. Lee Thompson, 1962) Jason and the Argonauts (Don Chaffey, 1963) Marnie (Alfred Hitchcock, 1964) Joy in the Morning (Alex Segal, 1965) Fahrenheit 451 (François Truffaut, 1966) The Bride Wore Black (François Truffaut, 1968) Companions in Nightmare (Norman Lloyd, 1968) – TV Twisted Nerve (Roy Boulting, 1968) Bezeten: Het gat in de muur [Obsessions] (Pim de la Parra, 1969) The Battle on the River Neretva (Veljko Bulajic, 1969) The Night Digger (Alastair Reid, 1971) Endless Night (Sidney Gilliat, 1972) Sisters (Brian De Palma, 1972) It’s Alive (Larry Cohen, 1974) Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese, 1976) Obsession (Brian De Palma, 1976) It Lives Again (Larry Cohen, 1978)

Nino Rota (1911–79) Treno popolare (Raffaello Matarazzo, 1933) Giorno di nozze (Raffaello Matarazzo, 1942) Il brichino di papà (Raffaello Matarazzo, 1942) Zazà (Renato Castellani, 1943) La donna della montagna (Renato Castellani, 1943) La freccia nel fianco (Alberto Lattuada, 19454) Lo sbaglio di essere vivo (Carlo Ludovico Bragaglia, 1945)

200  Appendix 1 Le miserie del signor Travet (Mario Soldati, 1946) Un americano in vacanza (Luigi Zampa, 1946) Mio figlio professore (Renato Castellani, 1946) Roma città libera (Marcello Pagliero, 1946) Albergo Luna, Camera 34 (Carlo Ludovico Bragaglia, 1946) Vivere in pace (Luigi Zampa, 1947) Vanità (Giorgio Pástina, 1947) Il delitto di Giovanni Episcopo (Alberto Lattuada, 1947)11 Daniele Cortis (Mario Soldati, 1947) Amanti senza amore (Gianni Franciolini, 1947) Sotto il sole di Roma (Renato Castellani, 1947) Senza pietà (Alberto Lattuada, 1947) Come persi la guerra (Carlo Borghesio, 1947) Fuga in Francia (Mario Soldati, 1948) Anni difficult (Luigi Zampa, 1948)12 Proibito rubare (Luigi Comencini, 1948) L’eroe della strada (Carlo Borghesio, 1948) Molti sogni per la strada (Mario Camerini, 1948) Totò al Giro d’Italia (Mario Mattoli, 1948) Arrivederci, papà! (Camillo Mastrocinque, 1948) The Glass Mountain (Henry Cass, 1948) Campane a martello (Luigi Zampa, 1948) I pirati di Capri (Edgar G. Ulmer, 1948) Children of Chance (Luigi Zampa, 1949) Come scopersi l’America (Carlo Borghesio, 1949) Obsession (Edward Dmytryk, 1949) È primavera . . . (Renato Castellani, 1949) Napoli milionaria (Eduardo De Filippo, 1949) Her Favourite Husband (Mario Soldati, 1950) È più facile che un cammello (Luigi Zampa, 1950) Vita da cani (Mario Monicelli, 1950) Donne de briganti (Mario Soldati, 1950) Il monello della strada (Carlo Borghesio, 1950) È arrivato il cavaliere! (Mario Monicelli, 1950) Due mogli sono troppe (Mario Camerini, 1950) White Corridors (Pat Jackson, 1951) Valley of Eagles (Terence Young, 1951) Filumena Marturano (Eduardo De Filippo, 1951) Era lui, sì, sì! (Marino Girolami et al., 1951) Peppino e Violetta (Maurice Cloche, 1951) The Small Miracle (Maurice Cloche and Ralph Smart, 1951) Anna (Alberto Lattuada, 1951) Napoleone (Carlo Borghesio, 1951) Le meravigliose avventure di Guerrin Meschino (Pietro Francisci, 1951) Gli angeli del quartiere (Carlo Borghesio, 1951) Totò e I re di Roma (Mario Monicelli, 1951) Noi due soli (Marino Girolami et al., 1952) Un ladro in paradiso (Domenico Paolella, 1952) Something Money Can’t Buy (Pat Jackson, 1952)

Appendix 1  201 Lo sceicco bianco (Federico Fellini, 1952) Venetian Bird (Ralph Thomas, 1952) I tre corsari (Mario Soldati, 1952) La regina di Saba (Pietro Francisci, 1952) Ragazze da marito (Eduardo De Filippo, 1952) Melodie immortali: Mascagni (Giacomo Gentilomo, 1952) Marito e moglie (Eduardo De Filippo, 1952) I sette dell’orsa maggiore (Duilio Coletti, 1952) Fanciulle di lusso (Piero Mussetta, 1952) La domenica della buona gente (Anton Giulio Majano, 1953) Jolanda la figlia del Corsaro Nero (Mario Soldati, 1953) Le boulanger de Valorgue (Henri Verneuil, 1953) Riscatto (Marino Girolami, 1953) I Vitelloni (Federico Fellini, 1953) Anni facili (Luigi Zampa, 1953) La nave delle donne maledette (Raffaello Matarazzo, 1953) L’Ennemi public no 1 (Henri Verneuil, 1953) Musoduro (Giuseppe Bennati, 1953) Gli uomini, che mascalzoni! (Glauco Pellegrini, 1953) Scampolo 53 (Giorgio Bianchi, 1953) La mano dello straniero (Mario Soldati, 1953) Star of India (Arthur Lubin, 1953) Cento anni d’amore (Lionello De Felice, 1953)13 Via Padova 46 (Giorgio Bianchi, 1953) L’amante di Paride (Marc Allégret and Edgar G. Ulmer, 1953) La grande speranza (Duilio Coletti, 1953) Appassionatamente (Giacomo Gentilomo, 1954) La Strada (Federico Fellini, 1954) Mambo (Robert Rossen, 1954) Vergine moderna (Marcello Pagliero, 1954) Le due orfanelli (Giacomo Gentilomo, 1954) Proibito (Mario Monicelli, 1954) Bella non piangere (David Carbonari, 1954) Divisione Folgore (Duilio Coletti, 1954) Amici per la pelle (Franco Rossi, 1955) Il Bidone (Federico Fellini, 1955) La Bella di Roma (Luigi Comencini, 1955) Accadde al penitenziario (Giorgio Bianchi, 1955) Io piaccio (Giorgio Bianchi, 1955) War and Peace (King Vidor, 1955) Londra chiama Polo Nord (Duilio Coletti, 1955) Un eroe dei nostri tempi (Mario Monicelli, 1955) Ragazze al mare (Giuliano Biagetti, 1956) Il momento più bello (Luciano Emmer, 1956) This Angry Age (René Clément, 1956) Italia piccola (Mario Soldati, 1956) Città di notte (Leopoldo Trieste, 1956) Le notti di Cabiria [The Nights of Cabiria] (Federico Fellini, 1957) Le notti bianche (Luchino Visconti, 1957)

202  Appendix 1 El Alamein (Guido Malatesta, 1957) Il medico e lo stregone (Mario Monicelli, 1957) Gli italiani sono matti (Duilio Coletti and Luis María Delgado, 1957) Un ettaro di cielo (Aglauco Casadio, 1957) La legge è legge (Christian-Jaque, 1957) Giovani mariti (Mauro Bolognini, 1958) Fortunella (Eduardo De Filippo, 1958) La grande guerra (Mario Monicelli, 1959) Plein soleil (René Clément, 1959) La dolce vita (Federico Fellini, 1960) Sotto dieci bandiere (Duilio Coletti, 1960) Rocco e i suoi fratelli (Luchino Visconti, 1960) The Two Shy People (Suso Cecchi D’Amico, 1961) – TV Fantasmi a Roma (Antonio Pietrangeli, 1961) The Best of Enemies (Guy Hamilton, 1961) Il brigante (Renato Castellani, 1961) Boccaccio 70 (Federico Fellini et al., 1962)14 L’isola di Arturo (Damiano Damiani, 1962) The Reluctant Saint (Edward Dmytryk, 1962) 8½ (Federico Fellini, 1963) Il gattopardo (Luchino Visconti, 1963) Il maestro di Vigevano (Elio Petri, 1963) Giulietta degli spiriti [Juliet of the Spirits] (Federico Fellini, 1965) Oggi, domani, dopodomani (Eduardo De Filippo et al., 1965)15 Spara forte, più forte . . . non capisco (Eduardo De Filippo, 1967) Much Ado About Nothing (Alan Cooke, 1967) – TV The Taming of the Shrew (Franco Zeffirelli, 1967) Romeo and Juliet (Franco Zeffirelli, 1968) Histoires Extraordinaries [Spirits of the Dead] (Federico Fellini et al., 1968)16 Fellini: Satyricon [Fellini’s Satyricon] (Federico Fellini, 1969) Paranoia (Umberto Lenzi, 1970) I Clowns [The Clowns] (Federico Fellini, 1970) – TV documentary Waterloo (Sergei Bondarchuk, 1970) Roma (Federico Fellini, 1972) The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola, 1972) Film d’amore e d’anarchia, ovvera ‘stamattina alle 10 in via dei Fiori nella nota casa di tolleranza . . . [Love & Anarchy] (Lina Wertmüller, 1973)17 Amarcord (Federico Fellini, 1973) Hi wa shizumi, hi wa noboru [Sunset, Sunrise] (Koreyoshi Kurahara, 1973) The Abdication (Anthony Harvey, 1974) The Godfather: Part II (Francis Ford Coppola, 1974) Pisnia zavzhdy z namy (Viktor Storozhenko, 1975) – TV E il Casanova di Fellini? (Gianfranco Angelucci and Liliana Betti, 1975) – TV documentary Caro Michele (Mario Monicelli, 1976) Il Casanova de Federico Fellini [Fellini’s Casanova] (Federico Fellini, 1976) Ragazzo di borgata (Giulio Paradisi, 1976) Death on the Nile (John Guillermin, 1978) Prova d’orchestra [Orchestral Rehearsal] (Federico Fellini, 1978) Quei figuri di trent’ anni fa (Eduardo De Filippo, 1978) – TV Il teatro di Eduardo (Eduardo De Filippo, 1978) – TV Hurricane (Jan Troell, 1979)

Appendix 1  203

Jerome Moross (1913–83) Close-Up (Jack Donohue, 1948) When I Grow Up (Michael Kanin, 1951) The Captive City (Robert Wise, 1952) Seven Wonders of the World (Tay Garnett et al., 1956) – documentary The Sharkfighters (Jerry Hopper, 1956) The Proud Rebel (Michael Curtiz, 1958) The Big Country (William Wyler, 1958) The Jayhawkers! (Melvin Frank, 1959) The Mountain Road (Daniel Mann, 1960) The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Michael Curtiz, 1960) Five Finger Exercise (Daniel Mann, 1962) The Cardinal (Otto Preminger, 1963) The War Lord (Franklin Schaffner, 1965) Rachel, Rachel (Paul Newman, 1968) The Valley of Gwangi (James O’Connolly, 1969) Hail, Hero! (David Miller, 1969)

Don Banks (1923–80) The Price of Silence (Montgomery Tully, 1959) Murder at Site 3 (Francis Searle, 1959) Jackpot (Montgomery Tully, 1960) The Third Alibi (Montgomery Tully, 1961) Petticoat Pirates (David MacDonald, 1961) Captain Clegg/Night Creatures (Peter Graham Scott, 1962) Panic (John Gilling, 1963) The Punch and Judy Man (Jeremy Summers, 1963) Nightmare (Freddie Francis, 1964) The Evil of Frankenstein (Freddie Francis, 1964) Crooks in Cloisters (Jeremy Summers, 1964) Hysteria (Freddie Francis, 1965) The Brigand of Kandahar (John Gilling, 1965) Die, Monster, Die! (Daniel Haller, 1965) The Reptile (John Gilling, 1966) Rasputin: The Mad Monk (Don Sharp, 1966) The Frozen Dead (Herbert J. Leder, 1966) The Mummy’s Shroud (John Gilling, 1967) Torture Garden (Freddie Francis, 1967)

Leonard Rosenman (1924–2008) East of Eden (Elia Kazan, 1955) The Cobweb (Vincente Minnelli, 1955) Rebel without a Cause (Nicholas Ray, 1955) Edge of the City (Martin Ritt, 1957) The Young Stranger (John Frankenheimer, 1957) Bombers B-52 (Gordon Douglas, 1957) Lafayette Escadrille (William A. Wellman, 1958)

204  Appendix 1 Pork Chop Hill (Lewis Milestone, 1959) The Rise and Fall of Legs Diamond (Budd Boetticher, 1960) The Bramble Bush (Daniel Petrie, 1960) The Savage Eye (Ben Maddow et al., 1960) The Crowded Sky (Joseph Pevney, 1960) The Plunderers (Joseph Pevney, 1960) The Outsider (Delbert Mann, 1961) Hell Is for Heroes (Donald Siegel, 1962) Convicts 4 (Millard Kaufman, 1962) The Chapman Report (George Cukor, 1962) Alexander the Great (Phil Carlson, 1963) – TV Fantastic Voyage (Richard Fleischer, 1966) A Covenant with Death (Lamont Johnson, 1967) Countdown (Robert Altman, 1967) Stranger on the Run (Donald Siegel, 1967) – TV Shadow over Elveron (James Goldstone, 1968) – TV Hellfighters (Andrew V. McLaglen, 1968) Any Second Now (Gene Levitt, 1969) – TV This Savage Land (Vincent McEveety, 1969) – TV A Man Called Horse (Elliot Silverstein, 1970) Beneath the Planet of the Apes (Ted Post, 1970) The Forty-Eight-Hour Mile (Gene Levitt, 1970) Vanished (Buzz Kulik, 1971) – TV In Broad Daylight (Robert Day, 1971) – TV The Todd Killings (Barry Shear, 1971) Irish Whiskey Rebellion (Chester Erskine, 1972) The Bravos (Ted Post, 1972) – TV Battle for the Planet of the Apes (J. Lee Thompson, 1973) The Cat Creature (Curtis Harrington, 1973) – TV The Phantom of Hollywood (Gene Levitt, 1974) – TV Judge Dee and the Monastery Murders (Jeremy Kagan, 1974) – TV The First 36 Hours of Dr. Durant (Alexander Singer, 1975) – TV Sky Heist (Lee H. Katzin, 1975) – TV Race with the Devil (Jack Starrett, 1975) Birch Interval (Delbert Mann, 1976) The Possessed (Jerry Thorpe, 1977) – TV The Car (Eliot Silverstein, 1977) September 30, 1955 (James Bridges, 1977) The Other Side of Hell (Ján Kadár, 1978) – TV An Enemy of the People (George Schaefer, 1978) The Lord of the Rings (Ralph Bakshi, 1978) Friendly Fire (David Greene, 1979) – TV Prophecy (John Frankenheimer, 1979) Promises in the Dark (Jerome Hallman, 1979) Nero Wolfe (Frank D. Gilroy, 1979) – TV Hide in Plain Sight (James Caan, 1980) City in Fear (Alan Smith, 1980) – TV The Jazz Singer (Richard Fleischer, 1980) Joshua’s World (Peter Levin, 1980)

Appendix 1  205 Murder in Texas (William Hale, 1981) – TV Making Love (Arthur Hiller, 1982) The Wall (Robert Markowitz, 1982) – TV Cross Creek (Martin Ritt, 1983) The Return of Marcus Welby, M.D. (Alexander Singer, 1984) – TV Heart of the Stag (Michael Firth, 1984) Heartsounds (Glenn Jordan, 1984) – TV First Steps (Sheldon Larry, 1985) – TV Sylvia (Michael Firth, 1985) Portraits of Canada (Jeff Blyth, 1986) – documentary Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (Leonard Nimoy, 1986) Promised a Miracle (Stephen Gyllenhaal, 1988) – TV Circles in a Forest (Regardt van den Bergh, 1989) The Color of Evening (Steve Stafford, 1990) Flight to Freedom/Where Pigeons Go to Die (Michael Landon, 1990) – TV RoboCop 2 (Irvin Kershner, 1990) Aftermath (Glenn Jordan, 1991) – TV Ambition (Scott D. Goldstein, 1991) Keeper of the City (Bobby Roth, 1991) – TV The Face on the Milk Carton (Waris Hussein, 1995) – TV Mrs. Munck (Diane Ladd, 1995) Levitation (Scott D. Goldstein, 1997) Jurij (Stefano Gabrini, 2001)

Ennio Morricone (1928–) Morte di un amico (Franco Rossi, 1960)18 Il federale (Luciano Salce, 1961) La voglio matta (Luciano Salce, 1962) Diciottenni al sole (Camilio Mastrocinque, 1962) La cuccagna (Luciano Salce, 1962) I motorizzati (Camilio Mastrocinque, 1962) Gli italiani e le vacanze (Filippo Walter Ratti, 1962) – documentary Tutto è musica (Domenico Modugno, 1963) I basilischi (Lina Wertmüller, 1963) Le monachine (Luciano Salce, 1963) Duello nel Texas (Ricardo Blasco, 1963) Il successo (Mauro Morassi, 1963)  . . . e la donna creò l’uomo (Camilio Mastrocinque, 1964) I maniaci (Lucio Fulci, 1964) I malamondo (Paolo Cavara, 1964) – documentary Prima della rivoluzione (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1964) I marziani hanno 12 mani (Franco Castellano and Giuseppe Moccia, 1964) I due evasi di Sing Sing (Lucio Fulci, 1964) Per un pugno di dollari [A Fistful of Dollars] (Sergio Leone, 1964) Le pistole non discutono (Mario Caiano, 1964) In ginocchio da ta (Ettore Maria Fizzarotti, 1964) Una pistola per Ringo (Duccio Tessari, 1965) I pugni in tasca (Marco Bellocchio, 1965)

206  Appendix 1 Amanti d’oltretomba (Mario Cianao, 1965) Altissima pressione (Enzo Trapani, 1965) Slalom (Luciano Salce, 1965) Thrilling (Carlo Lizzani et al., 1965) Idoli controluce (Enzo Battaglia, 1965) Il ritorno di Ringo (Duccio Tessari, 1965) Per qualche dollaro in più [For a Few Dollars More] (Sergio Leone, 1965) Se non avessi più te (Ettore Maria Fizzarotti, 1965) Non son degno di tre (Ettore Maria Fizzarotti, 1965) Manage all’italiana (Franco Indovina, 1965) Lo squarciagola (Luigi Squarzina, 1966) – TV 7 pistole per i MacGregor (Franco Giraldi, 1966) Svegliati e uccidi (Carlo Lizzani, 1966) Agent 505: Todesfalle Beirut (Manfred R. Köhler, 1966) Uccellacci e uccellini (Piero Paolo Pasolini, 1966) El Greco (Luciano Salce, 1966) La battaglia di Algeri [The Battle of Algiers] (Gillo Pontecorvo, 1966) Un uomo a metà (Vittorio De Seta, 1966) Un fiume di dollari (Carlo Lizzani, 1966) The Bible: In the Beginning . . . (John Huston, 1966) Sugar Colt (Franco Giraldi, 1966) Come imparai ad amare le donne (Luciano Salce, 1966) Navajo Joe (Sergio Corbucci, 1966) La resa dei conti (Sergio Sollima, 1966) Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo [The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly] (Sergio Leone, 1966) Mi vedrai tornare (Ettore Maria Fizzarotti, 1966) Gruppo Di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza (Theo Gallehr, 1967) – documentary Dalle Ardenne all’inferno (Alberto De Martino, 1967) I crudeli [The Hellbenders] (Sergio Corbucci, 1967) Le streghe (Mauro Bolognini et al., 1967) I lunghi giorni della vendetta (Florestano Vancini, 1967) 7 donne per i MacGregor (Franco Giraldi, 1967) OK Connery (Alberto De Martino, 1967) Matchless (Alberto Lattuada, 1967)19 Da uomo a uomo (Giulio Petroni, 1976) La Cina è vicina (Marco Bellocchio, 1967) L’avventuriero (Terence Young, 1967) L’harem (Marco Ferreri, 1967) Ad ogni costo (Giuliano Montaldo, 1967) La ragazza e il generale (Pasquale Festa Campanile, 1967) Occhio per occhio, dente per dente (Miguel Iglesias, 1967)20 Faccia a faccia (Sergio Sollima, 1967) Il giardino delle delizie (Silvano Agosti, 1967) Arabella (Mauro Bolognini, 1967) Diabolik (Mario Bava, 1968) Escalation (Roberto Faenza, 1968) La bataille de San Sebastian [Guns for San Sebastian] (Henri Verneuil, 1968) Grazie zia (Salvatore Samperi, 1968) Comandamenti per un gangster (Alfio Caltabiano, 1968)

Appendix 1  207 Corri uomo corri (Sergio Sollima, 1968)21 E per tetto un cielo di stelle (Giulio Petroni, 1968) Teorema (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1968) Galileo (Liliana Cavani, 1968) Scusi, facciamo l’amore? (Vittorio Caprioli, 1968) El magnifico Tony Carrera (José Antonio de la Loma, 1968)22 Partner (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1968) Ruba al prossimo tuo (Franceco Maselli, 1968) Roma come Chicago (Alberto De Martino, 1968) Un tranquillo posto di campagna (Elio Petri, 1968) Orgia (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1968) Il grande silenzio (Sergio Corbucci, 1968) Il mercenario (Sergio Corbucci, 1968) C’era una volta il West [Once Upon a Time in the West] (Sergio Leone, 1968) Ecce Homo (Bruno Gaburro, 1968) Eat It (Francesco Casaretti, 1968) Fräulein Doktor (Alberto Lattuada, 1969) Cuore di mamma (Salvatore Samperi, 1969) Tepepa (Giulio Petroni, 1969) Alibi (Adolfo Celi et al., 1969) La monaca di Monza (Eriprando Visconti, 1969) Gli intoccabili [Machine Gun McCain] (Giuliano Montaldo, 1969) Metti, una sera a cena (Giuseppe Patroni Griffi, 1969) Un bellissimo novembre (Mauro Bolognini, 1969) La donna invisibile (Paulo Spinola, 1969) Sai cosa faceva Stalin alle donne? (Maurizio Liverani, 1969) L’assoluto naturale (Mauro Bolognini, 1969) H2S (Roberto Faenza, 1969) Un esercito di 5 uomini (Dan Taylor and Italo Zingarelli, 1969) La stagione dei sensi (Massimo Franciosa, 1969) Senza sapere niente di lei (Luigi Comencini, 1969) Una breve stagione (Renato Castellani, 1969) Le clan des Siciliens (Henri Verneuil, 1969) Queimada (Gillo Pontecorvo, 1969) Krasnaya palatka (Mikhail Kaltozov, 1969) Vergogna schifosi (Mauro Severino, 1969) Giotto (Luciano Emmer, 1969) Uccidete il vitello grasso e arrostitelo (Salvatore Samperi, 1970) L’uccello dalle piume di cristallo [The Bird with the Crystal Plumage] (Dario Argento, 1970) Indagine su un cittadino al di sopra di ogni sospetto (Elio Petri, 1970) La moglie più bella (Damiano Damiani, 1970) Metello (Mauro Bolognini, 1970) I cannibali (Liliana Cavani, 1970) Two Mules for Sister Sara (Don Siegel, 1970) Hornets’ Nest (Phil Karlson and Franco Cirino, 1970) Dio è con noi (Giuliano Montaldo, 1970) Città violenta (Sergio Sollima, 1970) Quando le donne avevano la coda (Pasquale Festa Campanile, 1970)

208  Appendix 1 Giuochi particolari (Franco Indovina, 1970) Le foto proibite di una signora per bene (Luciano Ercoli, 1970) Vamos a matar, compañeros (Sergio Corbucci, 1970) La califfa (Alberto Bevilacqua, 1970) Crepa padrone, crepa tranquillo (Jacques Deray and Piero Schivazappa, 1970) Tre nel mille (Franco Indovina, 1971) Il gatto a nove code [The Cat o’ Nine Tails] (Dario Argento, 1971) Una lucertola con le pelle di donna [Lizard in a Woman’s Skin] (Lucio Fulci, 1971) Sacco e Vanzetti (Giuliano Montaldo, 1971) Veruschka: Poesia di una donna (Franco Rubartelli, 1971) Gli occhi Freddi della paula (Enzo G. Castellari, 1971) Il Decameron (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1971) Giornata nera per l’ariete (Luigi Bazzoni, 1971) La tarantola dal ventre nero (Paolo Cavara, 1971) Il giorno del giudizio (Mario Gariazzo, 1971) Sans mobile apparent (Philippe Labro, 1971) La classe operaia va in paradiso (Elio Petri, 1971) Addio fratello crudele (Giuseppe Patroni Griffi, 1971) Tre donne: La sciantosa (Alfredo Gianetti, 1971) – TV Tre donne: 1943: Un incontro (Alfredo Giannetti, 1971) – TV Tre donne: L’automobile (Alfredo Gianetti, 1971) – TV Le casse (Henri Verneuil, 1971) L’istruttoria è chiusa: Dimentichi (Damiano Damiani, 1971) La corta notte delle bambole di vetro (Aldo Aldo, 1971) Incontro (Piero Schivazappa, 1971) Giù la testa [Duck, You Sucker] (Sergio Leone, 1971) Oceano [The Wind Blows Free] (Folco Quilici, 1971) – documentary Maddalena (Jerzy Kawalerowicz, 1971) 4 mosche di velluto grigio (Dario Argento, 1971) 1870 (Alfredo Giannetti, 1972) – TV Mio caro assassino (Tonino Valerii, 1972) La violenza: Quinto potere (Florestano Vancini, 1972) Imputazione di omicidio per uno studente (Mauro Bolognini, 1972) Questa specie d’amore (Alberto Bevilacqua, 1972) Quando le donne persero la coda (Pasquale Festa Cmpanile, 1972) Cosa avete fatto a Solange? (Massimo Dollamano, 1972) Il diavolo nel cervello (Sergio Sollima, 1972) Chi l’ha vista morire? (Aldo Aldo, 1972) I racconti di Canterbury [The Canterbury Tales] (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1972) Il maestro e Margherita (Aleksandar Petrovic, 1972) Forza ‘G’ (Duccio Tessari, 1972) La banda J. & S.: Cronaca criminale del Far West (Sergio Corbucci, 1972) Bluebeard (Edward Dmytryk, 1972) L’attentat (Yves Boisset, 1972) La vita, a volte, è molto dura, vero Provvidenza? (Giulio Petroni, 1972) La cosa buffa (Aldo Lado, 1972) I figli chiedono perché (Nino Zanchin, 1972) Un uomo da rispettare (Michele Lupo, 1972) Il ritorno di Clint il solitario (Alfonso Balcázar, 1972)

Appendix 1  209 Che c’entriamo noi con la rivolutione? (Sergio Corbucci, 1972) Quando la preda è l’uomo (Vittoria De Sisti, 1972) Lui per lei (Claudio Rispoli, 1972) D’amore si muore (Carlo Carunchio, 1972) Fiorina la vacca (Vittorio De Sisti, 1972) Anche se volessi lavorare, che faccio? (Flavio Mogherini, 1972) Le serpent [Night Flight from Moscow] (Henri Verneuil, 1973) Crescete e moltiplicatevi (Giulio Petroni, 1973) Quando l’amore è sensualità (Vittorio De Sisti, 1973) La proprietà non è più un forte (Elio Petri, 1973) Revolver (Sergio Sollima, 1973) Rappresaglia (George P. Cosmatos, 1973) Sepolta viva (Aldo Lado, 1973) Vaarwel (Guido Pieters, 1973) Ci risiamo, vero Provvidenza? (Alberto De Martino, 1973) Il sorriso del grande tentatore (Damiano Damiani, 1973) Giordano Bruno (Giuliano Montaldo, 1973) Il mio nome è Nessuno [My Name Is Nobody] (Tonino Valerii, 1973) De dief (Krijn ter Braak, 1974) – TV L’ultimo uomo di Sara (Maria Virginia Onorato, 1974) Spasmo (Umberto Lenzi, 1974) Mussolini ultimo atto (Carlo Lizzani, 1974) Sesso in confessionale (Vittorio De Sisti, 1974) – documentary Il fiore delle mille e una notte [Arabian Nights] (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1974) Le trio infernal (Francis Giron, 1974) La cugina (Aldo lado, 1974) Milano odia: La polizia non può sparare (Umberto Lenzi, 1974) Allonsanfàn (Paolo Taviani and Vittorio Taviani, 1974) Fatti de gente perbene (Mauro Bolognini, 1974) Le secret (Robert Enrico, 1974) L’anticristo (Alberto De Martino, 1974) Macchie solari (Armando Crispino, 1975) Les deux saison de la vie (Samy Pavel, 1975) Libera, amore mio! (Mauro Bolognini, 1975) Storie di vita e malavita (Carlo Lizzani, 1975) L’ultimo treno della notte (Aldo Lado, 1975) Peur sur la ville (Henri Verneuil, 1975) La faille (Peter Fleischmann, 1975) Per le antiche scale (Mauro Bolognini, 1975) Der Richter und sein Henker (Maximilian Schell, 1975) Leonor (Juan Luis Buñuel, 1975) Divina creatura (Giuseppe patroni Griffi, 1975) Labbra di lurido blu (Giulio Petroni, 1975) Gente di rispetto (Luigi Zampa, 1975) The ‘Human’ Factor (Edward Dmytryk, 1975) Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma [Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom] (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975) Le Ricain (Sohban Kologlu et al., 1975) La donna della domenica (Luigi Comencini, 1975)

210  Appendix 1 Un genio, due compari, un pollo (Damiano Damiani, 1975) Attenti al buffone (Alberto Bevilacqua, 1975) San Babila ore 20: Un delitto inutile (Carlo Lizzani, 1976) Todo Modo (Elio Petri, 1976) Novecento [1900] (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1976) Una vita venduta (Aldo Florio, 1976) L’Agnese va a morire (giuliano Montaldo, 1976) L’eredità Ferramonti (Mauro Bolognini, 1976) Il deserto dei tartari (Valerio Zurlini, 1976) L’arriviste (Samy Pavel, 1976) Per amore (Mino Guarda, 1976) Drammi gotici (Giorgio Bandini, 1976) – TV René la canne (Francis Girod, 1977) Stato interessante (Sergio Nasca, 1977) Exorcist II: The Heretic (John Boorman, 1977) Orca (Michael Anderson, 1977) Il prefetto di ferro (Pasquale Squitieri, 1977) Autostop rosso sangue (Pasquale Festa Campanile, 1977) Il mostro (Luigi Zampa, 1977) Holocaust 2000 (Alberto De Martino, 1977) Il gatto (Luigi Comencini, 1977) Il prigioniero (Aldo Lado, 1978) – TV One, Two, Two: 122, Rue de Provence (Christian Gion, 1978) Pedro Páramo (José Bolaños, 1978) Days of Heaven (Terrence Malick, 1978) Così come sei (Alberto Lattuado, 1978) La Cage aux folles (Édouard Molinaro, 1978) Corleone (Pasquale Squitieri, 1978) L’immoralità (Massimo Pirri, 1978) Dove vai in vacanza? (Mauro Bolognini et al., 1978) Forza Italia! (Roberto Faenza, 1978) – documentary Dedicato al mare Egeo (Masuo Ikeda, 1979) Il giocattolo (Giuliano Montaldo, 1979) L’umanoide (Aldo Lado, 1979) Viaggio con Anita (Mario Monicelli, 1979) Bloodline (Terence Young, 1979) La luna (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1979) Ogro (Gillo Pontecorvo, 1979) Il prato (Paolo Taviani and Vittoria Taviani, 1979) Bugie bianche (Stefano rolla, 1979) Buone notizie (Elio Petri, 1979) I . . . comme Icare (Henri Verneuil, 1979) Windows (Gordon Willis, 1980) Un sacco bello (Carlo Verdone, 1980) Il ladrone (Pasquale Festa Campanile, 1980) Stark System (Armenia Balducci, 1980) Nouvelles rencontres (Jean Luret, 1980) The Island (Michael Ritchie, 1980) L’oeil pervers (Jean Luret, 1980)

Appendix 1  211 Il bandito dagli occhi azzurri (Alfredo Giannetti, 1980) La banquière (Francis Girod, 1980) Uomini e no (Valentino Orsini, 1980) La cage aux folles II (Édouard Molinaro, 1980) The Fantastic World of M.C. Escher (Michele Emmer, 1980) Si salvi chi vuole (Roberto Faenza, 1980) La via del silenzio (Franco Brocani, 1980) Bianco, rosso e Verdone (Carlo Verdone, 1981) La storia vera della signora dalle camelie (Mauro Bolognini, 1981) Occhio alla penna (Michele Lupo, 1981) La tragedia di un uomo ridicolo (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1981) La disubbidienza (Aldo Lado, 1981) So Fine (Andrew Bergman, 1981) Le professionnel (Georges Lautner, 1981) Espion, lève-toi (Yves Boisset, 1982) Butterfly (Matt Cimber, 1982) The Thing (John Carpenter, 1982) White Dog (Samuel Fuller, 1982) Porca vacca (Pasquale Festa Campanile, 1982) Blood Link (Alberto De Martino, 1982) Maja Plisetskaja (István Szintai, 1982) – documentary Le ruffian (José Giovanni, 1983) El tesoro de las cuatro coronas (Ferdinando Baldi, 1983) The Scarlet and the Black (Jerry London, 1983) – TV L’assassino dei poliziotti (Roberto Faenza, 1983) Nana (Dan Wolman, 1983) Hundra (Matt Cimber, 1983) Pelota (Ole John and Jørgen Leth, 1983) – documentary La chiave (Tinto Brass, 1983) Le marginal (Jacques Deray, 1983) Sahara (Andrew V. McLaglen, 1983) Les voleurs de la nuit [Thieves after Dark] (Samuel Fuller, 1984) Wer war Edgar Allan? (Michael Haneke, 1984) Once Upon a Time in America (Sergio Leone, 1984) Die Försterbuben (Peter Patzak, 1984) – TV Red Sonja (Richard Fleischer, 1985) La gabbia (Giuseppe Patroni Griffi, 1985) Il pentito (Pasquale Squitieri, 1985) La cage aux folles III: ‘Elles’ se marient (Georges Lautner, 1985) La venexiana (Mauro Bolognini, 1986) The Mission (Roland Joffé, 1986) C.A.T. Squad (William Friedkin, 1986) – TV Il giorno prima (Giuliano Montaldo, 1987) Mosca addio (Mauro Bolognini, 1987) The Untouchables (Brian De Palma, 1987) Rampage (William Friedkin, 1987) Quartiere (Silvano Agosti, 1987) Gli occhiali d’oro (Giuliano Montaldo, 1987) Frantic (Roman Polanski, 1988)

212  Appendix 1 A Time of Destiny (Gregory Nava, 1988) C.A.T. Squad: Python Wolf (William Friedkin, 1988) – TV Cinema Paradiso (Giuseppe Tornatore, 1988) Gli angeli del potere (Giorgio Albertazzi, 1988) – TV Camillo Castiglioni oder die Moral der Maifische (Peter Patzak, 1988) – TV Gli indifferenti (Mauro Bolognini, 1988) – TV Casualties of War (Brian De Palma, 1989) Tempo di uccidere (Giuliano Montaldo, 1989) Fat Man and Little Boy (Roland Joffé, 1989) Átame! [Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!] (Pedro Almodóvar, 1989) Dimenticare Palermo (Francesco Rosi, 1990) Tre colonne in cronaca (Carlo Vanzina, 1990) Mio caro dottor Gräsler (Roberto Faenza, 1990) Voyage of Terror: The Achille Lauro Affair (Alberto Negrin, 1990) Stanno tutti bene (Giuseppe Tornatore, 1990) The Big Man (David Leland, 1990) Tracce di vita amorosa (Peter Del Monte, 1990) State of Grace (Phil Joanou, 1990) Cacciatori di navi (Folco Quilici, 1990) – TV Hamlet (Franco Zeffirelli, 1990) Ottobre rosa all’Araba (Adolfo Lippi, 1990) Money (Steven Hilliard Stern, 1991) La villa del venerdì (Mauro Bolognini, 1991) La domenica specialmente (Francesco Barilli et al., 1991) La thune (Philippe Galland, 1991) Bugsy (Barry Levinson, 1991) Beyond Justice (Duccio Tessari, 1992) City of Joy (Roland Joffé, 1992) A csalás gyönyöre (Livia Gyarmathy, 1992) Ilona und Kurt (Reinhard Schwabenitzky, 1992) Una storia italiano (Stefano Reali, 1993) – TV Il lungo silenzio (Margarethe von Trotta, 1993) Jona che visse nella balena (Roberto Faenza, 1993) La scorta (Ricky Tognazzi, 1993) In the Line of Fire (Wolfgang Petrsen, 1993) Estasi (Maria Carmela Cicinnati and Peter Exacoustos, 1993) – TV Roma Imago Urbis: Parte I: Il mito (Luigi Bazzoni, 1994) – documentary Roma Imago Urbis: Parte II: L’immortalità (Luigi Bazzoni, 1994) – documentary Roma Imago Urbis: Parte III: Gli acquedotti (Luigi Bazzoni, 1994) – documentary Roma Imago Urbis: Parte V: I volti (Luigi Bazzoni, 1994) – documentary Una pura formalità (Giuseppe Tornatore, 1994) Wolf (Mike Nichols, 1994) The Night and the Moment (Anna Maria Tatò, 1994) Genesi: La creazione e il diluvio (Ermanno Ormi, 1994) – TV Love Affair (Glenn Gordon Caron, 1994) Disclosure (Barry Levinson, 1994) Jacob (Peter Hall, 1994) – TV Missus (Alberto Negrin, 1994) – TV Roma Imago Urbis: Parte VI: Le gesta (Luigi Bazzoni, 1995) – documentary

Appendix 1  213 Sostiene Pereira (Roberto Faenza, 1995) Pasolini, un delitto italiano (Marco Tullio Giordana, 1995) L’uomo delle stelle (Giuseppe Tornatore, 1995) L’uomo proiettile (Silvano Agosti, 1995) La sindrome di Stendhal [The Stendhal Syndrome] (Dario Argento, 1996) Vite strozzate (Ricky Tognazzi, 1996) Ninfa plebea (Lina Wertmüller, 1996) I magi randagi (Sergio Citti, 1996) La lupa (Gabriele Lavia, 1996) Con rabbia e con amore (Alfredo Angeli, 1997) U Turn (Oliver Stone, 1997) Lolita (Adrian Lyne, 1997) Il quarto re (Stefano Reali, 1997) – TV Naissance des stéréoscopes (Stéphane Marty, 1997) Cartoni animati (Franco Citti and Sergio Citti, 1997) In fondo al cuore (Luigi Perelli, 1998) – TV Bulworth (Warren Beatty, 1998) La casa bruciata (Massimo Spano, 1998) La leggenda del pianist sull’oceano (Giuseppe Tornatore, 1998) Ultimo (Stefano Reali, 1998) – TV Il fantasma dell’opera [The Phantom of the Opera] (Dario Argento, 1998) I guardiani del cielo (Alberto Negrin, 1998) Ultimo 2: La sfida (Michele Soavi, 1999) – TV Nanà (Alberto Negrin, 1999) – TV Canone inverso (Ricky Tognazzi, 2000) Mission to Mars (Brian De Palma, 2000) Vatel (Roland Joffé, 2000) Malèna (Giuseppe Tornatore, 2000) Padre Pio: Tra cielo e terra (Giulio Base, 2000) La piovra 10 (Luigi Perelli, 2001) – TV La ragion pura (Silvano Agosti, 2001) Un altro mondo è possibile (Alfredo Angeli and Giorgio Arlorio, 2001) – documentary Aida degli alberi (Guido Manuli, 2001) Perlasca: Un eroe italiano (Alberto Negrin, 2002) – TV Senso ’45 (Tinto Brass, 2002) Carlo Giuliani, ragazzo (Francesca Comencini, 2002) Un difetto di famiglia (Alberto Simone, 2002) I sogni nel mirino (Luca Morsella, 2002) – documentary Ripley’s Game (Liliana Cavani, 2002) Il diario di Matilde Manzoni (Lino Capolicchi, 2002) Il papa buono (Ricky Tognazzi, 2003) La luz prodigiosa (Miguel Hermoso, 2003) Maria Goretti (Giulio Base, 2003) – TV Ics (Alberto Negrin, 2003) – TV Al cuore si comanda (Giovanni Morricone, 2003) Ultimo 3: L’infiltrato (Michele Soavi, 2004) – TV 72 metra (Vladimir Khotinenko, 2004) Guardiani delle nuvole (Luciano Odorisio, 2004) Il cuore nel pozzo (Alberto Negrin, 2005) – TV

214  Appendix 1 Sorstalanság (Lajos Koltai, 2005) Cefalonia (Riccardo Milani, 2005) – TV Karol, un uomo diventato Papa (Giacomo Battiato, 2005) – TV E ridendo l’uccise (Florestano Vancini, 2005) Lucia (Pasquale Pozzessere, 2005) – TV Adolfo Celi, un uomo per due culture (Leonardo Celi, 2006) – documentary Gino Bartali: L’intramontabile (Alberto Negrin, 2006) – TV Karol, un Papa rimasto uomo (Giacomo Battiato, 2006) – TV La provinciale (Pasquale Pozzessere, 2006) – TV Giovanni Falcone, l’uomo che sfidò Cosa Nostra (Andrea Frazzi and Antonio Frazzi, 2006) – TV La sconosciuta (Giuseppe Tornatore, 2006) L’ultimo dei Corleonesi (Alberto Negrin, 2006) – TV Tutte le donne della mia vita (Simona Izzo, 2007) I demoni di San Pietroburgo (Giuliano Montaldo, 2008) Résolution 819 (Giacomo Battiato, 2008) Pane e libertà (Alberto Negrin, 2009) – TV Baarìa (Giuseppe Tornatore, 2009) Mi ricordo Anna Frank (Alberto Negrin, 2009) – TV Angelus Hiroshimae (Giancarlo Planta, 2010) The Earth: Our Home (Vittoria Giacci and Pierpaolo Saporito, 2010) – documentary Filumena Marturano (Franza Di Rosa, 2010) – TV Come un delfino (Stefano Reali, 2011) – TV Napoli milionaria (Franza Di Rosa, 2011) – TV Questi fantasmi (Franza Di Rosa, 2011) – TV Love Story (Florian Habitat, 2011) Sabato, domenica e lunedì (Franza Di Rosa, 2012) – TV Paolo Borsellino: 157 giorni (Alberto Negrin, 2012) – TV La migliore offerta (Giuseppe Tornatore, 2013) Ultimo 4: L’occhio del falco (Michele Soavi, 2013) – TV L’enfant du Sahara (Laurent Merlin, 2015) En mai, fais ce qu’il te plaît (Christian Carion, 2015) The Hateful Eight (Quintin Tarantino, 2015) Il sole è buio (Giuseppe Papasso, 2015) – documentary La corrispondenza (Giuseppe Tornatore, 2016) A Rose in Winter (Joshua Sinclair, 201)

André Previn (1929–) Undercurrent (Vincente Minelli, 1946) Holiday in Mexico (George Sidney, 1946) I’ve Always Loved You (Frank Borzage, 1946) Fiesta (Richard Thorpe, 1947) The Other Love (André de Toth, 1947) It Happened in Brooklyn (Richard Whorf, 1947) The Hucksters (Jack Conway, 1947) The Kissing Bandit (László Benedek, 1948) Tenth Avenue Angel (Roy Rowland, 1948)23 The Sun Comes Up (Richard Thorpe, 1949)

Appendix 1  215 Scene of the Crime (Roy Rowland, 1949) Border Incident (Anthony Mann, 1949) Challenge to Lassie (Richard Thorpe, 1949) Tension (John Berry, 1949) The Outriders (Roy Rowland, 1950) Shadow on the Wall (Pat Jackson, 1950) Three Little Words (Richard Thorpe, 1950) Dial 1119 (Gerald Mayer, 1950) Kim (Victor Saville, 1950) Cause for Alarm! (Tay Garnett, 1951) The Girl Who Had Everything (Richard Thorpe, 1953) Kiss Me, Kate (George Sidney, 1953)24 Small Town Girl (László Kardos, 1953)25 Give a Girl a Break (Stanley Donen, 1953) Bad Day at Black Rock (John Sturges, 1955) It’s Always Fair Weather (Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly, 1955) Kismet (Vincente Minnelli, 1955)26 The Catered Affair (Richard Brooks, 1956) The Fastest Gun Alive (Russell Rouse, 1956) Invitation to the Dance (Gene Kelly, 1956) Hot Summer Night (David Friedkin, 1957) Designing Woman (Vincente Minnelli, 1957) House of Numbers (Russell Rouse, 1957) Silk Stockings (Rouben Mamoulian, 1957) Gigi (Vincente Minnelli, 1958)27 Porgy and Bess (Otto Preminger, 1959)28 Who Was That Lady? (George Sidney, 1960) The Subterraneans (Ranald MacDougall, 1960) Bells Are Ringing (Vincente Minnelli, 1960)29 Elmer Gantry (Richard Brooks, 1960) Pepe (George Sidney, 1960) Tall Story (Joshua Logan, 1960) All in a Night’s Work (Joseph Anthony, 1961) One, Two, Three (Billy Wilder, 1961) The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (Vincente Minnelli, 1962) Long Day’s Journey into Night (Sidney Lumet, 1962) Two for the Seesaw (Robert Wise, 1962) Irma la Douce (Billy Wilder, 1963) Dead Ringer (Paul Henreid, 1964) My Fair Lady (George Cukor, 1964)30 Goodbye Charlie (Vincente Minnelli, 1964) Kiss Me, Stupid (Billy Wilder, 1964) Inside Daisy Clover (Robert Mulligan, 1965) Harper (Jack Smight, 1966) The Swinger (George Sidney, 1966) The Fortune Cookie (Billy Wilder, 1966) Valley of the Dolls (Mark Robson, 1967) Thoroughly Modern Millie (George Roy Hill, 1967) Paint Your Wagon (Joshua Logan, 1969)31

216  Appendix 1 The Music Lovers (Ken Russell, 1971) Mrs. Pollifax-Spy (Leslie H. Martinson, 1971) Jesus Christ Superstar (Norman Jewison, 1973) Jennie, Lady Randolph Churchill (James Cellan Jones, 1975) Rollerball (Norman Jewison, 1975)

Wojciech Kilar (1932–2013) Lunatycy (Bohdan Poręba, 1960) Milczące ślady (Zbigniew Kuźmiński, 1961) Tarpany (Kazimierz Kutz, 1962) I ty zostaniesz Indianinem (Konrad Nałęcki, 1962) Głos z tamtego świata (Stanisław Róźewicz, 1962) Rodzina Milcarków (Józef Wyszomirski, 1962) Spotkanie w ‘Bajce’ (Jan Rybkowski, 1962) Czerwone berety (Paweł Komorowski, 1963) Daleka jest droga (Bohdan Poręba, 1963) Milczenia (Kazimierz Kutz, 1963) Mansarda (Konrad Nałęcki, 1963) Kryptonim Nektar (Leon Jeannot, 1963) Giuseppe w Warszawie (Stanisław Lenartowicz, 1964) Echo (Stanisław Róźewicz, 1964) Pięciu (Paweł Komorowski, 1964) Późne popołudnie (Aleksander Ścibor-Rylski, 1965) Obok prawdy (Janusz Weychert, 1965) Wyspa złoczyńców (Stanisław Jędryka, 1965) Salto (Tadeusz Konwicki, 1965) Trzy kroki po ziemi (Jerzy Hoffman and Edward Skórzewski, 1965) Jutro Meksyk (Aleksander Ścibor-Rylski, 1966) Katastrofa (Sylwester Chęciński, 1966) Piekło i niebo (Stanisław Róźewicz, 1966) Marysia i Napoleon (Leonard Buczkowski, 1966) Ktokolwiek wie . . . (Kazimierz Kutz, 1966) Bumerang (Leon Jeannot, 1966) Powrót na ziemię (Stanisław Jędryka, 1967) Chudy i inni (Henryk Kluba, 1967) Cała naprzód (Stanisław Lenartowicz, 1967) Westerplatte (Stanisław Rózewicz, 1967) Bicz Boży (Maria Kaniewska, 1967) Morderca zostawia ślad (Aleksander Ścibor-Rylski, 1967) Sami Swoi [Our Folks] (Sylwester Chęciński, 1967) Stajnia na Salvatorze (Pawel Komorowski, 1967) Wilcze echa (Aleksander Ścibor-Rylski, 1968) Tabliczka marzenia (Zbigniew Chmielewski, 1968) Ostatni po Bogu (Paweł Komorowski, 1968) Lalka (Wojciech Has, 1968) Dancing w kwaterze Hitlera (Jan Batory, 1968) Samotność we dwoje (Stanisław Róźewicz, 1969) Człowiek z M-3 (Leon Jeannot, 1969)

Appendix 1  217 Molo (Wojciech Solarz, 1969) Sąsiedzi (Aleksander Ścibor-Rylski, 1969) Czerwone i złote (Stanisław Lenartowicz, 1969) Zbrodniarz, który ukradł zbrodnię (Janusz Majewski, 1969) Struktura krysztalu [The Structure of Crystal] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1969) Tylko umarły odpowie (Sylwester Chęciński, 1969) Sól ziemi czarnej (Kazimierz Kutz, 1970) Lokis. Rękopis profesora Wittembacha (Janusz Majewski, 1970) Rejs [A Trip Down the River] (Marek Piwowski, 1970) Romantyczni (Stanisław Róźewicz, 1970) Przystań (Paweł Komorowski, 1971) Pierścień księźnej Anny (Maria Kaniewska, 1971) Martwa fala (Stanisław Lenartowicz, 1971) Życie rodzinne [Family Life] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1971) Gwiazda wytrwałości (Paweł Komorowski, 1971) – TV Perła w koroniė (Kazimierz Kutz, 1972) Brylanty pani Zuzy (Pawel Kmorowski, 1972) Szklana kula (Stanisław Róźewicz, 1972) Bolesław Śmiały (Witold Lesiewicz, 1972) Opętanie (Stanisław Lenartowicz, 1973) Hubal (Bohdan Poręba, 1973) Zazdrość i Medycyna (Janusz Majewski, 1973) Iluminacja [The Illumination] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1973) Pittsville: Ein Safe voll Blut [The Catamount Killing] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1974) Drzwi w murze (Stanisław Róźewicz, 1974) Bilans kwartalny (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1975) Ziemia obiecana [The Promised Land] (Andrzej Wajda, 1975) Linia (Kazimierz Kutz, 1975) Znikąd donikąd (Kazimierz Kutz, 1975) Nachtdienst (Krzysztof Zanussi and Edward Żebrowski, 1975) – TV Jarosław Dąbrowski (Bohdan Poręba, 1976) Smuga cienia [The Shadow Line] (Andrzej Wajda, 1976)32 Trędowata (Jerzy Hoffman, 1976) Barwy ochronne [The Camouflage] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1977) Ptaki, ptakom . . . (Paweł Komorowski, 1977) Haus de Frauen (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1978) – TV Spirala (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1978) David (Peter Lilienthal, 1979) Wege in der Nacht (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1979) – TV Le roi et l’oiseau [The King and the Mockingbird] (Paul Grimault, 1980) Paciorki jednego róźańca (Kazimierz Kutz, 1980) Constans [The Constant Factor] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1980) Kontrakt (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1980) – TV From a Far Country (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1981) Die Unerreichbare (Krzysztof Zanussi and Edward Żebrowski, 1982) – TV Imperative, also known as L’Imperatif (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1982) Versuchung (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1982) – TV Credo (Andrzej Trzos-Rastawiecki, 1983) – documentary Lekcja anatomii (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1983) – TV

218  Appendix 1 Blaubart (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1984) – TV Rok spokojnego słońca [A Year of the Quiet Sun] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1984) Na straży swej stać będę (Kazimierz Kutz, 1984) Marynia (Jan Rybkowski, 1984) Na wszystkich niedostępnych drogach (Roman Wionczek, 1984) – documentary Paradigma, also known as Le Pouvoir du mal (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1985) Wkrótce nadejdą bracia (Kazimierz Kutz, 1986) Kronika wypadków miłosnych (Andrzej Wajda, 1986) Przypadek [Blind Chance] (Krzysztof Kieślowski, 1987) Wygasłe czasy (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1987) – documentary Salsa (Boaz Davidson, 1988) Gdzieśkolwiek jest, jeśliś jest [Wherever You Are, If You Are] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1988) La table tournante [Turning Table] (Paul Grimault and Jacques Demy, 1988) Stan posiadania (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1989) Korczak (Andrzej Wajda, 1990) Życie za życie. Maksymilian Kolbe [Life for Life: Maximilian Kolbe] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1991) Das lange Gespräch mit dem Vogel (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1992) – TV Dotknięcie ręki [The Silent Touch] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1992) Bram Stoker’s Dracula (Francis Ford Coppola, 1992) Śmierć jak kromka chleba (Kazimierz Kutz, 1994) Faustyna (Jerzy Łukaszewicz, 1994) Death and the Maiden (Roman Polański, 1994) Legenda Tatr (Wojciech Solarz, 1995) Damski interes z cyklu ‘Opowieści weekendowe’ (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1996) – TV Fantôme avec chauffer (Gérard Oury, 1996) Cwał (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1996) The Portrait of a Lady (Jane Campion, 1996) Słaba wiara z cyklu ‘Opowieści weekendowe’ (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1997) – TV Our God’s Brother (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1997) Dusza śpiewa z cyklu ‘Opowieści weekendowe’ (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1998) – TV Urok wszeteczny z cyklu ‘Opowieści weekendowe’ (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1998) – TV Ostatni krag (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1998) – TV Linia opóźniająca z cyklu ‘Opowieści weekendowe’ (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1998) – TV Niepisane prawa z cyklu ‘Opowieści weekendowe’ (Krzysztof Zanussi, 1998) – TV The Ninth Gate (Roman Polański, 1999) Tydzień z życia mężczyzny (Jerzy Stuhr, 1999) Pan Tadeusz [Pan Tadeusz: The Last Foray in Lithuania] (Andrzej Wajda, 1999) Skarby ukryte z cyklu ‘Opowieści weekendowe’ (Krzysztof Zanussi, 2000) – TV Życie jako śmielna choroba przenoszona drogą płciową [Life as a Fatal Sexually Transmitted Disease] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 2000) Pamiętam (Marcel Łoziński, 2002) – documentary Suplement [The Supplement] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 2002) The Pianist (Roman Polański, 2002) Zemsta [The Revenge] (Andrzej Wajda, 2002) Philosopher’s Paradise (Pawel Kuczyński, 2004) – documentary Persona non grata (Krzysztof Zanussi, 2005) We Own the Night (James Gray, 2007) Il sole nero [Black Sun] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 2007)

Appendix 1  219 Serce na dłoni [And a Warm Heart] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 2008) Rewizyta [Revisited] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 2009) Obce ciało [Foreign Body] (Krzysztof Zanussi, 2014)

Alberto Iglesias (1955–) Paisaje (Montxco Armendáriz, 1980) – short Ikusmena (Montxco Armendáriz, 1980) – short La conquista de Albania (Alfonso Ungría, 1984) La muerte de Mikel (Imanol Uribe, 1984) Fuego eterno (José Ángel Rebolledo, 1985) Luces de bohemia (Miguel Ángel Díez, 1985) Bilbao Blues [Adiós pequeña] (Imanol Uribe, 1986) Balada da Praia dos Cães (José Fonseca e Costa, 1987) Lluvia de otoño [Autumn Rain] (José Ángel Rebolledo, 1989) El sueño de Tánger (Ricardo Franco, 1991) Vacas (Julio Médem, 1992) La ardilla roja [The Red Squirrel] (Julio Médem, 1993) ¡Dispara! (Carlos Saura, 1993) Una casa en las afueras (Pedro Costa, 1995) La flor de mi secreto [The Flower of My Secret] (Pedro Almodóvar, 1995) Tierra [Earth] (Julio Médem, 1996) Pasajes (Daniel Calparsoro, 1996) Carne trémula (Pedro Almodóvar, 1997) La femme de chambre du Titanic (Bigas Luna, 1997) Los amanites del Círculo Polar [Lovers of the Polar Circle] (Julio Médem, 1998) Todo sober mi madre [All about My Mother] (Pedro Almodóvar, 1999) Lucía y el sexo [Sex and Lucia] (Julio Médem, 2001) The Dancer Upstairs (John Malkovich, 2002) Hable con ella [Talk to Her] (Pedro Almodóvar, 2002) Comandante (Oliver Stone, 2003) – documentary Te doy mis ojos [Take My Eyes] (Icíar Bollaín, 2003) La mala educación [Bad Education] (Pedro Almodóvar, 2004) The Constant Gardener (Fernando Meirelle, 2005) Volver (Pedro Almodóvar, 2006) The Kite Runner (Marc Forster, 2007) Che: Part One – The Argentine (Steven Soderbergh, 2008) Che: Part Two – Guerrilla (Steven Soderbergh, 2008) Los abrazos rotos [Broken Embraces] (Pedro Almodóvar, 2009) También la lluvia [Even the Rain] (Icíar Bollaín, 2010) La pile due habito [The Skin I Live In] (Pedro Almodóvar, 2011) The Monk [Le moine] (Dominik Moll, 2011) Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (Tomas Alfredson, 2011) Los amantes passajeros [I’m So Excited!] (Pedro Almodóvar, 2013) The Two Faces of January (Hossein Amini, 2014) Exodus: Gods and Kings (Ridley Scott, 2014) Ma Ma (Julio Médem, 2015) Julieta (Pedro Almodóvar, 2016) Spain in a Day (Isabel Coixet, 2016) – documentary

220  Appendix 1 La Cordillera [The Summit] (Santiago Mitre, 2017) Quién te cantará (Carlos Vermut, 2018) Todos lo saben [Everybody Knows] (Asghar Farhadi, 2018) Yuli (Icíar Bollaín, 2018)

Jóhann Jóhannsson (1969–2018) Íslenski draumurinn [The Icelandic Dream] (Róbert I. Douglas, 2000) Óskabörn þjóðarinnar [Plan B] (Jóhann Sigmarsson, 2000) Maður eins og ég [A Man Like Me] (Róbert I. Douglas, 2002) Dís (Silja Hauksdóttir, 2004) Ashes and Snow (Gregory Colbert, 2005) – documentary Blóðbönd [Thicker than Water] (Árni Ásgeirsson, 2006) Ópium: Egy elmebeteg nö naplója (János Szász, 2007) Voleurs de chevaux [In the Arms of the Enemy] (Micha Wald, 2007)33 Personal Effects (David Hollander, 2009) Dromme i København [Dreams in Copenhagen] (Max Kestner, 2009) – documentary De día y de noche [By Day and By Night] (Alejandro Molina, 2010) The Good Life (Eva Mulvad, 2010) – documentary For Ellen (So Yong Kim, 2012) Fu cheng mi shi [Mystery] (Ye Lou, 2012)34 Free the Mind (Phie Ambo, 2012) – documentary Sort hvid dreng [White Black Boy] (Camilla Magid, 2012) – documentary Prisoners (Denis Villeneuve, 2013) McCanick (Josh C. Waller, 2013) Blind Massage [Tui na] (Ye Lou, 2014) Så meget godt i vente [Good Things Await] (Phie Ambo, 2014) – documentary The Theory of Everything (James Marsh, 2014) I Am Here (Anders Morgenthaler, 2014) Sicario (Denis Villeneuve, 2015) Lovesong (So Yong Kim, 2016) Arrival (Denis Villeneuve, 2016) I blodet [In the Blood] (Rasmus Heisterberg, 2016)35 A hentes, a curve és a félszemü [The Butcher, the Whore, and the One-Eyed Man] (János Szász, 2017) Mandy (Panos Cosmatos, 2018) The Mercy (James Marsh, 2018) Mary Magdalene (Garth Davis, 2018)

Laura Rossi (1975–) Silent Shakespeare (various direcgtors, 2000)36 C.O.D.: A Mellow Drama (Desmond Dickinson and Gerald Gibbs, 2000)37 Tusalava (Len Lye, 2000)38 Twilight of a Woman’s Soul (Evgeni Bauer, 2003)39 Shooting Shona (Abner Pastoll and Kamma Pastoll, 2004) London to Brighton (Paul Andrew Williams, 2006) The Cottage (Paul Andrew Williams, 2008)

Appendix 1  221 Broken Lines (Sallie Aprahamian, 2008) The Battle of the Somme (Geoffrey Malins and John McDowell, 2008) – documentary The Firm (Nick Love, 2009) The Man Inside (Dan Turner, 2012) Song for Marion (Paul Andrew Williams, 2012) The Eichmann Show (Paul Andrew Williams, 2015) – TV Learning to Breathe (Dan Turner, 2016) We Are Tourists (O’ar Pali and Remi Bazerque, 2017) Jane Shore (Edwin J. Collins, 2018)40

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Exclusive of short and television series. After Felix Mendelssohn’s incidental music for the Shakespeare play. After various compositions by Richard Wagner. With Robert Stolz and Max Hansen. With Friedrich Hollaender. Ibid. With Artur Guttmann. Ibid. With Allan Grey. With Jean Lenoir. With Felice Lattuada. With Franco Casavola. With Mario Nascimbene and Tea Usuelli. With Armando Trovajoli and Piero Umiliani. With Luis Bacalov and Tea Usuelli. With Jean Prodomidès and Diego Masson. With Carlo Savina. With Mario Nascimbene. With Gino Marinuzzi and Piero Piccioni. With Franco Pisano. With Bruno Nicolai. With Gianni Marchetti. With Rudolph G. Kopp. After the 1948 Broadway musical by Cole Porter. With Albert Sendrey. With Conrad Salinger, after the 1953 Broadway musical by Robert Wright and George Forrest that used the music of Alexander Borodin. With Conrad Salinger. Gigi was an original film musical by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe; the same-titled stage version did not premiere until 1973. After the 1938 opera by George Gershwin and Ira Gershwin. After the 1956 Broadway musical by Betty Comden, Adolph Green, and Jule Styne. After the 1956 Broadway musical byAlan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe. After the 1951 Broadway musical by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe. With Lech Branski. With Jeff Mercelis and Stephan Micus. With Peyman Yazdanian. With Jonas Colstrup. The DVD features Rossi’s scores for ‘silent’ versions of King John (1899), The Tempest (1908), A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1909), King Lear (1910), Twelfth Night (1910), The Merchant of Venice (1910), and Richard III (1911).

222  Appendix 1 37 Rossi’s music is for a DVD issue of the 1929 film by Desmond Dickinson, Gerald Gibbs, Lloyd Richards, and Harcourt Templeman. 38 Rossi’s music is for a DVD issue of the 1929 film by Len Lye. 39 Rossi’s music is for a DVD issue of the 1913 film, originally titled Sumerki zhenskoi dushi, by Yevgeni Bauer. 40 Rossi’s music is for a DVD issue of the 1915 film by Will Barker.

Appendix 2 Works lists

Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897–1957) Stage Der Schneeman (pantomime) (Erich Wolfgang Korngold; 1908–10) Der Ring des Polykrates, op. 7 (opera) (Julius Korngold and Leo Feld, after Heinrich Teweles; 1913) Violanta, op. 8 (opera) (Hans Müller; 1914–15) Die tote Stadt, op. 12 (opera) (Erich Wolfgang Korngold and Julius Korngold, after Georges Rodenbach; 1916–20) Das Wunder der Heliane, op. 20 (opera) (Hans Müller, after Hans Kaltneker; 1922–27) Eine Nacht in Venedig (operetta; orig. Johann Strauss II) (Ernst Marischka; 1923) Cagliostro in Wien (operetta; orig. Johann Strauss II) (Ludwig Herzer; 1926–27) Die Fledermaus (operetta; orig. Johann Strauss II) (Carl Haffner and Marcellus Schiffer; 1928–29) Rosen aus Florida (operetta; orig. Leo Fall) (Alfred Maria Willner and Heinz Reichart; 1928–29) Walzer aus Wien (operetta) (Alfred Maria Willner, Heinz Reichart, and Ernst Marischka; 1930) Die schöne Helena (operetta; orig. Jacques Offenbach) (Egon Friedell and Hans Sassman; 1931) Das Lied der Liebe (operetta; orig. Johann Strauss II) (Ludwig Herzer; 1931) Die Geschiedene Frau (operetta; orig. Leo Fall) (Viktor Leon and Heinz Reichert; 1933) Die Kathrin, op. 28 (opera) (Ernst Decsey; 1933–37) Rosalinda (operetta; based on Die Fledermaus) (Gottfried Rheinhardt and John Meehan, Jr.; 1942) Helen Goes to Troy (operetta; based on Die schöne Helena) (Gottfried Reinhardt; 1943–44) The Great Waltz (operetta; based on Walzer aus Wien) (Moss Hart and Desmond Carter; 1947) Die stumme Serenade, op. 36 (operetta) (Victor Clement, Bert Reisfeld; 1946–51)

Orchestra Märchenbilder, op. 3 (orig. for piano) (1911) Schauspiel Ouvertüre, op. 4 (1911) Der Sturm (1911)

224  Appendix 2 Sinfonietta, op. 5 (1911–12) Kaiserin Zita-Hymn, for solo voice, choir, orchestra, and organ (1916) Militär-Marsch (1917) Much Ado about Nothing, op. 11 (incidental music) (1918–19) Sursum corda, op. 13 (1919) Piano Concerto in C-sharp, op. 17 (1923) Geschichten von Strauss, op. 21 (orig. for piano) (1931) Baby-Serenade, op. 24 (1928–29) Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 35 (1937–39) Tomorrow, op. 33 (symphonic poem, with mezzo-soprano soloist and chorus) (1943) Cello Concerto in C Major, op. 37 (1946) Symphonic Serenade in B Major, op. 39 (1947–48) Symphony in F-Sharp Major, op. 40 (1947–52) Theme and Variations, op. 42 (1953) Straussiana (1953)

Chamber Caprice fantastique, for violin and piano (an arrangement of the ‘Wichtelmannchen’ movement from the Op. 3 Märchenbilder) (1912) Piano Trio in G Major, op. 1 (1909–10) Violin Sonata in D Major, op. 6 (1912–13) String Sextet in D Major, op. 10 (1914–16) Suite for Violin and Piano, based on the incidental music for Much Ado about Nothing (1919) Piano Quintet in E Major, op. 15 (1921–22) String Quartet No. 1 in A Major, op. 16 (1920–23) Suite for Two Violins, Cello, and Piano, op. 23 (1930) String Quartet No. 2 in E-flat Major, op. 26 (1933) String Quartet No. 3 in D Major, op. 33 (1944–45) Romance-Impromptu, for cello and piano (1946)

Piano Don Quixote (1908) Piano Sonata No. 1 in D Minor (1908) Piano Sonata No. 2 in E Major, op. 2 (1910–11) Märchenbilder, op. 3 (1911) Four Little Caricatures, op. 19 (1926) Geschichten von Strauss, op. 21 (1927) Piano Sonata No. 3 in C Major, op. 25 (1931) Choral Gold (cantata for chorus, solo voices, and piano) (Erich Wolfgang Korngold; 1906) Der Tod (cantata) (Wilhelm Fabri; 1907)

Songs ‘Vespers’ (1911) ‘Sechs Einfache Lieder’, op. 9 (Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff, Elisabeth Honold, Heinrich ‘Kipper’ (Siegfried Trebitsch; 1911–13)

Appendix 2  225 ‘Nachts’ (1913) ‘Die Gansleber in haus Duschnitz’ (1919) ‘Abschiedslieder’, op. 14 (Christina Rossetti, Alfred Kerr, Edith Ronsperger, Ernst Lothar; 1920–21) ‘Drei Gesänge’, op. 18 (Hans Kaltneker; 1924) ‘Drei Lieder’, op. 22 (Karl Kobald, Eleanore van der Straaten; 1928–29) ‘Unvergänglichkeit’, op. 27 (Eleanore van der Straaten; 1933) ‘Narrenlieder’, op. 29 (William Shakespeare; 1937–41) ‘Vier Shakespeare-Lieder’, op. 31 (William Shakespeare; 1937–41) ‘Fünf Lieder’, op. 38 (Richard Dehmel, Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff, Howard Koch, William Shakespeare; 1948) ‘Sonnett für Wien’, op. 41 (Hans Kaltneker; 1953)

Georges Auric (1899–1983) Stage Les mariés de la tour Eiffel (ballet) (after Jean Cocteau; 1920) Les fâcheux (incidental music) (Molière; 1921) Les fâcheux (ballet) (Boris Kochno, after Molière; 1924) Les matelots (ballet) (Boris Kochno; 1925) La femme silencieuse (incidental music) (Marcel Achard, after Ben Jonson; 1925) Le dompteur (incidental music) (Alfred Poznanski; 1925) La mariage de monsieur le Trouhadec (incidental music) (1925) Pastorale (ballet) (Boris Kochno; 1926) Sous le masque (opera) (Louis Laloy; 1927) Rondeau (ballet) (Jeanne Dubost; 1927) Volpone (incidental music) (Stephan Zweig, after Ben Jonson; 1927) Les enchantements de la fée Alcine (ballet) (Louis Laloy, after Ariosto; 1928) Les oiseaux (incidental music) (Bernard Zimmer, after Aristophanes; 1928) La concurrence (ballet) (André Derain; 1932) Les imaginaires (ballet) (Etienne de Beaumont and David Lichine; 1934) Margot (incidental music) (Edouard Bourdet; 1935) Le quatorze juillet (incidental music) (Romain Rolland; 1936) Quadrille (ballet) (Boris Kochno; 1945) La fontaine de jouvence (ballet) (Boris Kochno; 1947) Le peintre et son modèle (ballet) (Boris Kochno; 1949) Phèdre (ballet) (Jean Cocteau, after Racine; 1950) Chemin de lumière (ballet) (Antoine Goléa; 1951) La chambre (ballet) (Georges Simenon; 1955) Le bal des voleurs (ballet) (after Jean Anouilh; 1960)

Orchestra Ouverture du 14 juillet (from the ballet Les mariés de la tour Eiffel; 1921) Ritournelle (from the ballet Les mariés de la tour Eiffel; 1921) Fanfare (1924) La Seine, un matin . . . (1937) Ouverture (1938)

226  Appendix 2 Phèdre (suite from the ballet; 1950) Chemin de lumière (suite from the ballet; 1951) ‘Ecossaise’, from La guirlande de Campra (1952) ML (part of the collectively composed Variations sur le nom de Marguerite Long; 1956)

Chamber Suite, for six instruments (from the incidental music for Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre; 1924) Aria, for flute and piano (1927, revised 1976) Sonata in G Major for violin and piano (1936) Trio in D Major for oboe, clarinet, and bassoon (1938) Impromptu, for oboe and piano (1946) Imaginées No. 1, for flute and piano (1968) Imaginées No. 2, for cello and piano (1969) Imaginées No. 3, for clarinet and piano (1971) Imaginées No. 6, for violin/oboe and chamber ensemble (1976)

Piano Gaspard et Zoe, ou L’après-midi dans un parc (1914) Adieu New York! (1919) Prelude, from Album des Six (1919) Trois pastorales (1919–20) Sonatine in G Major (1922) Cinq bagatelles, for piano duet (based on the incidental music for La femme silencieuse and Le dompteur; 1926) Petite suite (1927) Sonata in F Major (1930–31) Trois morceaux (based on the film score for Lac-aux-dames; 1934) La Seine, un matin . . ., from A l’Exposition (1937) Trois Impromptus (1940) Neuf pièces brèves (1941) ‘Danse française’ from Jardin d’enfants (1946) Impromptu in D Minor (1946) Une valse pour deux pianos (1949) Partita, for two pianos (1953–55) Doubles jeux, for two pianos (1970–71) Imaginées No. 5 (1974)

Choral Cinq chansons françaises (Anthoyne, Martin Le Franc, Blosseville, Le Rousselet; 1940–42)

Songs Trois interludes (René Chalupt; 1914) Huit poèmes (Jean Cocteau; 1918) Les joues en feu (Raymond Radiguet; 1920) Alphabet (Raymond Radiguet; 1920) Cinq poèmes (Gérard de Nerval; 1925) Deux romances (Marceline Desbordes-Valmore; 1926)

Appendix 2  227 Vocalise-étude pour voix moyenne (1927) Trois caprices (Théodore Faullin de Banville; 1927) Quatre poèmes (Georges Gabory; 1928) Cinq chansons (Lise Hirtz; 1930) ‘Printemps’, from Margot (Pierre de Ronsard; 1935) Trois poèmes (Léon-Paul Fargue; 1940) Trois poèmes (Louise de Vilmorin; 1940) Six poèmes (Paul Éluard; 1940–41) Quatre chants de la France malheureuse, for mezzo-soprano and orchestra (Louis Aragon, Paul Éluard, Jules Supervielle; 1943) Trois poèmes (Max Jacob; 1945–46) Deux poèmes (Henri de Montherlant; 1965) Imaginées No. 4 (1973)

Franz Waxman (1906–67) Orchestra Scherzetto (1936) Rebecca (based on the score for the same-titled film) (1949) A Mighty Fortress Is Our God (based on the film score for Edge of Darkness) (1943) Elegy (based on the film score for Old Acquaintance) (1944) Athaneal the Trumpeter (based on the film score for The Horn Blows at Midnight) (1945) Trumpet Concerto (1946) Carmen Fantasie, for violin and orchestra (based on Bizet’s Carmen and the film score for Humoresque) (1946) Passacaglia (1948) A Place in the Sun (based on the score for the same-titled film) (1951) Sinfonietta (1955) Goyana (1960) Ruth (based on the film score for The Story of Ruth) (1960) Taras Bulba (based on the score for the same-titled film) (1962)

Piano The Charm Bracelet (1949)

Choral Joshua (oratorio) (James Forsyth; 1959) The Song of Terezin, for mezzo-soprano, chorus, children’s chorus, and orchestra (1965)

Miklós Rózsa (1907–95) Stage Orchestra Rhapsody, for cello and orchestra, op. 3 (1959) North Hungarian Peasant Songs and Dances, for violin and orchestra, op. 5 (1929) Three Pieces (1930)

228  Appendix 2 Scherzo, op. 11 (1930) Symphony, op. 6 (1930) Serenade, op. 10 (1932) Theme, Variations, and Finale, op. 13 (1933) Hungaria (ballet) (1935) Capriccio, pastorale e danza, op. 14 (1938) Concerto for string orchestra, op. 17 (1943) Spellbound Concerto, for piano and orchestra (based on the film score for Spellbound; 1946) Hungarian Serenade, op. 25 (revision of op. 10; 1946) The Vintner’s Daughter (Twelve Variations on a French Folksong), op. 23 (1952) Violin Concerto, op. 24 (1953) Overture to a Symphony Concert, op. 26 (1957) Three Hungarian Sketches, op. 14a (1958) Notturno ungherese, op. 28 (1964) Sinfonia concertante, for violin, cello, and orchestra, op. 29 (1966) Piano Concerto, op. 31 (1966) Cello Concerto, op. 32 (1968) Tripartita, op. 33 (1972) Viola Concerto, op. 37 (1979)

Chamber Trio-Serenade, for string trio, op. 1 (1927) Quintet in F Minor, for piano and strings, op. 2 (1928) Duo, for violin and piano, op. 7 (1931) Two Pieces, for cello and piano (1931) String Quartet (1931) Two Hungarian Dances, for violin and piano (1933) Sonata, for two violins, op. 15 (1933) String Quartet No. 1, op. 22 (1950) Sonatina, for solo clarinet, op. 27 (1951) Festive Flourish, for brass and percussion (1975) Toccata capricciosa, for solo cello, op. 36 (1977) Sonata, for solo flute, op. 39 (1983) Sonata, for solo violin, op. 40 (1985) Sonata, for solo clarinet, op. 41 (1986) Sonata, for solo guitar, op. 42 (1986) Sonata, for ondes martenot (1987) Sonata, for solo oboe, op. 43 (1987) Introduction and Allegro, for solo viola, op. 44 (1988) String Quartet No. 2, op. 38 (1991)

Piano Bagatelles, op. 12 (1932) Variations, op. 9 (1932) Kaleidoscope, op. 19 (1945) Piano Sonata, op. 20 (1948)

Appendix 2  229 Choral Lullaby (Rudyard Kipling; based on the film score The Jungle Book; 1942) To Everything There Is a Season (Ecclesiastes; 1943) Lullaby and Madrigal of Spring (Max T. Krone; 1944) Twelve Short Choruses (based on the film score for Ben-Hur; 1961) The Vanities of Life (Ecclesiastes; 1964) Psalm XXIII, op. 34 (1972) Three Chinese Poems, op. 35 (trans. Arthur Waley; 1975)

Songs Two Songs, op. 16 (Robert Vansittart; 1940) ‘High Flight’ (John Magee; 1942) ‘Nostalgia’ (Michael Gyarmathy; 1972)

Bernard Herrmann (1911–75) Stage Americana (ballet-revue) (1932) The Skating Rink (ballet) (1934) The Sun Dance (for the Broadway play The Body Beautiful) (1935) Moby Dick (cantata) (Clark Harrington, after Herman Melville; 1936–38) Johnny Appleseed (cantata; unfinished) (1940) Wuthering Heights (opera) (Lucille Fletcher, after Emily Brontë; 1943–51) A Christmas Carol (television opera) (Maxwell Anderson, after Charles Dickens; 1954) A Child Is Born (television opera) (after Stephen Vincent Benet; 1955) The King of Schnorrers (musical comedy) (Diane Lampert and Shimon Wincelberg, after Israel Zangwill; 1970)

Orchestra The Forest (1929) November Dusk (1929) March militaire (1932) Aubade (1933) Prelude to Anathema (1933) Variations on ‘Deep River’ and ‘Water Boy’ (1933) The City of Brass (1934) Currier and Ives Suite (1935) Sinfonietta for Strings (1935) Nocturne and Scherzo (1936) Symphony No. 1 (1937–40) Violin Concerto (1937–40) – incomplete The Devil and Daniel Webster (based on the film score for All That Money Can Buy) (1942) For the Fallen (1943) Welles Raises Kane (based on the film score for The Magnificent Ambersons) (1943)

230  Appendix 2 A Portrait of Hitch (based on the films score for The Trouble with Harry) (1969) Silent Noon (revision of Aubade; 1975)

Chamber Twilight, for violin and piano (1929) Aria, for flute and harp (1932) String Quartet No. 1 (1932) Echoes, for string quartet (1965) Souvenirs de voyage, for clarinet and string quartet (1967)

Piano Tempest and Storm: Furies Shrieking! (1929)

Songs ‘The Dancing Faun’ (Paul Verlain; 1929) ‘The Bells’ (Paul Verlain; 1929) Requiescat, for voice and piano (Oscar Wilde; 1929) ‘The Fantasticks’ (Nicolas Breton; 1942)

Nino Rota (1911–79) Stage Il Principe porcine (opera) (Nino Rota, after Hans Christian Andersen’s The Swineherd; 1925–26) Ariodante (opera) (Ernesto Trucchi, after Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso; 1938–41) Torquemada (opera) (Ernesto Trucchi, after the same-titled play by Victor Hugo; 1943) Il suo cavallo (incidental music) (1944) I due timidi (radio opera) (Suso Cecchi D’Amico; 1950) La notte di un nevrastenico (opera) (Riccardo Bacchelli; 1950) Il cappello di paglia di Firenze (opera) (Nino Rota and Ernesta Rota, after the play Un chapeau de paille d’Italie by Eugène Labiche and Marc Michel; 1945–55) Fantasia tricromatica: Balletto sulla musica delle ‘Variazioni sopra un tema gioviale’ (ballet) (U. Dell’Ara; 1953) Rappresentazione di Adamo ed Eva (ballet) (Aurél Milloss; 1957) L’impresario delle Smirne (Carlo Goldoni; incidental music) (1957) Veglia la mia casa, Angelo (Thomas Wolfe; incidental music) (1958) Scuola di guida (opera) (Mario Soldati; 1959) Lo scoiattolo in gamba (opera) (Eduardo De Filippo; 1959) Romeo and Juliet (William Shakespeare; incidental music) (1960) L’Arialda (Giovanni Testori; incidental music) (1960) Dommage qu’elle soit une p . . . (John Ford; incidental music) (1961) Aladino e la lampada magica (opera) (Vinci Verginelli; 1963–65) Much Ado about Nothing (William Shakespeare; incidental music) (1965)

Appendix 2  231 Il giornalino di Gian Burrasca (Luigi Bertelli; incidental music) (1965) La visita meravigliosa (opera) (Nino Rota, after H.G. Wells’s novel The Wonderful Visit; 1965–69) La strada (ballet) (based on the film scores for La Strada, Lo sceicco bianco, Il bidone, Le notti di Cabiria, La dolce vita, Rocco e i suoi fratelli, Le tentazioni del dottor Antonio, 8 1/2, and Giulietta degli spiriti; 1966) Le Molière imaginaire (ballet) (Maurice Béjart; 1976) Napoli milionaria (opera) (Eduardo De Filippo; 1973–77) Dichterliebe/Amore de Poeta (ballet) (Maurice Béjart, based on Robert Schumann’s Dichterliebe; 1978) La dodicesima notte (William Shakespeare; incidental music) (1979)

Orchestra Fuga (1923) Cello Concerto (1925) Serenata per orchestra in quattro tempi (1931–32) Balli (1932–34) Symphony No. 1 in G Major (1935–39) Symphony No. 2 in F Major (1937–41) Harp Concerto (1947) Variazioni e fuga nei 12 toni sul nome di Bach (1950) Variazioni sopra un tema gioviale (1953) Symphony No. 3 in C Major (1956–57) Fantasia sopra dodici note del ‘Don Giovanni’ di W.A. Mozart, for piano and orchestra (1960) Festivo (1958–61) Piano Concerto in C Major (1959–60) Concerto soirée, for piano and orchestra (1961–62) La Fiera di Bari (1963) Concerto for Strings (1964–65) Trombone Concerto (1966) La strada (based on music from the same-titled ballet; 1966) Cello Concerto No. 1 (1972) Sinfonia sopra una canzone d’amore (based on the film score for La donna della montagna; 1947–72) Due momenti musicali (1968–73) Cello Concerto No. 2 (1973) Castel del Monte, for horn and orchestra (1974) Guardando il Fujiyama (1976) Bassoon Concerto (1974–77) Piccolo mondo antico, for piano and orchestra (1978)

Chamber Invenzioni, for string quartet (1932) Sonata, for viola and piano (1934–35) Canzona, for eleven instruments (1935)

232  Appendix 2 Quintet, for flute, oboe, viola, cello, and harp (1935) Sonata for violin and piano (1936–37) Sonata, for flute and harp (1937) Piccola offerta musicale, for wind quintet (1943) Intermezzo, for viola and piano (1945) Sonata, for clarinet and piano (1945) Sarabanda e Toccata, for harp (1945) Improvviso, for violin and piano (1947) String Quartet (1948–54) Elegia, for oboe and piano (1955) Trio, for flute, violin, and piano (1958) Fantasia sopra dodici note del ‘Don Giovanni’ di W.A. Mozart, for two pianos (1960) Improvviso, for violin and piano (1969) Cinque pezzi facili, for flute and piano (1972) Divertimento concertante, for double bass and piano (1968–73) Tre pezzi, for two flutes (1972–73) Trio, for clarinet, cello, and piano (1973) Nonet, for flute, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, horn, violin, viola, cello, and double bass (1974–77)

Piano Il mago doppio, for piano, four hands (1919) Tre pezzi (1920) Preludio e fuga, for piano, four hands (1922) Ascolta o cuore june (1924) Ippolito gioca (1930) Preludio (1930) Campane a festa (1931) Campane a sera (1933) Bagatella (1941) Fantasia in G Major (1944–45) Fantasia in C Major (1946) Toccata (1945) Variazioni e fuga sul nome di Bach (1950) Quindici Preludi (1964) Sette pezzi difficili per bambini (1971) Due valzer sul nome di Bach (1975)

Other instrumental Campane a festa, for carillon (1932–33) Sonata, for organ (1965)

Choral L’infanzia di San Giovanni Battista (oratorio) (Silvio Pagani; 1922) Il Martirio di San Giovanni Battista (oratorio) (Silvio Pagani; 1923–24) Missa di Requiem (1923–24) L’isola disabitata (Pietro Metastasio; 1931)

Appendix 2  233 Due Mottetti Vigilate et orate (motet) (Gospel of St. Matthew; 1931–32) Quinque prudentes virgines (Crisóstomo Enriquez; motet (1931–32) Three Canons for Women’s Voices (Angelo Poliziano, Matteo Maria Boiardo, and Gabriello Chiabrera; 1932) Allegro concertante, for chorus and orchestra (1953) Meditazione, for chorus and orchestra (1954) Angelo, proteggi la mia casa (Thomas Wolfe; 1958) Salve Regina, for mezzo-soprano, men’s chorus, and organ (1958) Messa, for chorus and organ (1960) Messa ‘Mariae dicata’, for chorus and orchestra (1960) Custodi nos, Domine, for women’s (or children’s) chorus and organ (motet) (ca. 1960) Mater fons amoris, for soprano, women’s chorus, and organ (1961) Tota pulchra es, for soprano, tenor, and organ (motet) (1961) Mysterium Catholicum (oratorio) (Vinci Verginelli; 1962) Messa (senza Gloria) (1962) Unum panem, for men’s chorus and organ (1962) Audi Judex (1964) Inno del seminario La Quercia, for solo voice, chorus, and piano (1965) Il pane del cielo (1967) Tu es Petrus, for men’s chorus and organ (1967) Canto di gloria, for children’s choir and piano (based on the film score for The Taming of the Shrew; 1968) Ave Maria, for children’s choir and instruments (based on the film score for Romeo and Juliet; 1968) Ave maris stella (based on the film score for Romeo and Juliet; 1968) Il Natale degli innocenti (Vinci Verginelli; oratorio) (1968–70) La vita de Maria (oratorio) (Vinci Verginelli; 1968–70) Roma capomunni (cantata) (Vinci Verginelli; 1970–71)

Songs ‘Ninna Nanna’ (1922, 1923) ‘Quando tu sollevi la lampada al cielo’ (Rachel Santesso and Sara Mingardo; 1922) ‘Il Richiamo’, for voice and string quartet (Rabindranath Tagore; 1923) ‘Perchè si spense la lampada’ (Rabindranath Tagore; 1923) ‘Illumina, tu, o fuoco’ ((Rabindranath Tagore; 1924) ‘Io cesserò il mio’ (Sebastino Carabba; 1924) ‘Il presàgio’ (Niccolò Tommaseo; 1925) ‘La figliola del re’ (Niccolò Tommaseo; 1925) Il Presepio, su parole popolari toscane, for voice and string quartet (1929) ‘Le prime battute’ (from L’isola disabitata) (Metastasio; 1932) Ballata e sonetto del Petrarca (Petrarch; 1933) Tre liriche infantili (Lina Schwarz; 1935) Il pastorello e altre due liriche infantile (Lina Schwarz; 1935) ‘La passione’ (trad.; 1938) Salmo IC (1943) Salmo VI (1943) Azione teatrale scritta nel 1752 da Pietro Metastasio, for voice and orchestra (1954) Vocalizzi (1957)

234  Appendix 2 ‘Salve Regina’ (1958) ‘Psallite nato do Maria Virgine’ (1958) ‘La vita di Maria’ (1969–70) ‘Canto’ (1972) Cantico in memoria di Alfredo Casella, for voice, trumpet, guitar, and organ (Rachel Santesso and Sara Mingardo; 1972) Rabelaisiana, for solo voice and orchestra (François Rabelais; 1977)

Jerome Moross (1913–83) Stage Parade (revue) (Paul Peters and George Sklar; 1935) American Pattern (ballet) (Ruth Page; 1936) Frankie and Johnny (ballet) (Ruth Page; 1937–38) Susanna and the Elders (ballet-opera) (John Latouche; 1940–41) Willie the Weeper (ballet-opera) (John Latouche; 1945) The Eccentricities of Davy Crockett (ballet-opera) (John Latouche; 1945) Riding Hood Revisited (ballet-opera) (John Latouche; 1946) The Golden Apple (opera) (John Latouche; 1948–50) The Last Judgement (ballet) (Ruth Page; 1953) Gentlemen, Be Seated! (opera) (Edward Eager; 1955–56) Sorry, Wrong Number! (opera) (Lucille Fletcher; 1977)

Orchestra Paeans (1931) Those Everlasting Blues (voice and orchestra) (Alfred Kreymborg; 1932) Biguine (1934) A Tall Story (1938) Symphony No. 1 (1941–42) Variations on a Waltz (1946–66) Music for the Flicks (based on various film scores) (1965)

Chamber Recitative and Aria, for violin and piano (1944) Sonatina for Clarinet Choir (1966) Sonatina for Double Bass and Piano (1966) Sonatina for Brass Quintet (1969) Sonatina for Woodwind Quintet (1970) Sonata for Piano (four hands) and String Quartet (1975) Flute Concerto, for flute and string quartet (1978)

Don Banks (1923–80) Orchestra Four Pieces (1953) Episode, for chamber orchestra (1958)

Appendix 2  235 Divisions (1964–65) Horn Concerto (1965) Assemblies (1966) Violin Concerto (1968) Dramatic Music (1968) Fanfare (1969) Intersections, for orchestra and tape (1969) Music for Wind Band (1971) Nexus, for orchestra and jazz band (1971) Prospects (1973)

Chamber Divertimento, for flute and string trio (1951) Duo, for violin and cello (1951–52) Sonata, for violin and piano (1953) Three Studies, for cello and piano (1955) Sonata da camera, for flute, clarinet, bass clarinet, piano, percussion, and string trio (1961) Trio, for horn, violin, and piano (1962) Equation I, for jazz ensemble (1963–64) Three Episodes, for flute and piano (1964) Sequence, for solo cello (1967) Prologue, Night Piece, and Blues, for clarinet and piano (1968) Form X, for two to ten players (1969) Equation II, for jazz ensemble (1969) Meeting Place, for jazz ensemble and electronics (1970) Four Pieces for String Quartet (1971) Commentary, for piano and tape (1971) Equation III, for jazz ensemble and electronics (1972) Take Eight, for jazz quartet and string quartet (1973) String Quartet (1975) Trio, for bass clarinet and tape (1976) 4x2x1, for bass clarinet and tape (1978)

Piano Pezzo drammatico (1956)

Choral Findings Keepings, for chorus and ensemble (various ‘found’ texts; 1968) Walkabout, for children voices and ensemble (Don Banks, 1972) Benedictus, for voices, jazz ensemble, synthesiser, and tape (traditional; 1976)

Songs Five North Country Songs, for soprano and orchestra (traditional; 1954) Psalm LXX, for soprano and chamber orchestra (1954) Three North Country Songs, for voice and piano (1955)

236  Appendix 2 Settings from Roget, for jazz singer and ensemble (Peter Mark Roget; 1966) Tirade, for medium voice and orchestra (Peter Porter; 1968) Limbo, for soprano, tenor, baritone, and ensemble (Peter Porter; 1971) Three Short Songs, for jazz singer and jazz quintet (Samuel Daniel; 1971)

Electronic Acid Drops (1970) Players (1971) Shadows of Space (1972) Carillon (1975) Magician’s Castle (1978)

Leonard Rosenman (1924–2008) Stage A Short History of Civilization, or The Death of Vaudeville (1972)

Orchestra Violin Concerto (1951) Threnody on a Song of K.R., for jazz ensemble and orchestra (1971) Foci, for orchestra and tape (1972) Foci I, (1981) Violin Concerto No. 2 (1991) Symphony No. 1 (of Dinosaurs) (1997) Double Concerto, for oboe and clarinet (1998) Walk in New York (1999)

Chamber Concertino, for piano and woodwinds (1948) Duo, for clarinet and piano (1960) Chamber Music I, for sixteen players (1961) Chamber Music II, for soprano, ten players, and tape (1968) Duo, for violin and piano (1970) Fanfare, for eight trumpets (1970) Two Grand Pianos, for amplified pianos (1976) Chamber Music III, for violin, viola, chamber ensemble, and computer (1976) Chamber Music IV, for double bass and four string quartets (1976) Chamber Music V, for piano and six players (1979) String Quartet (1996) String Quartet (1999)

Piano Sonata (1949) Theme and Elaborations (1951)

Appendix 2  237 Vocal Six Songs, for mezzo-soprano and piano (Federico García Lorca; 1952–54) Looking Back at Faded Chandeliers, for soprano and five instruments (Albert Giraud; 1990) Prelude and Four Scenes, for soprano and eleven players (Federico García Lorca; 1992) Time Travel, for soprano and orchestra (Paul Heyse, Eduard Mörike, Walt Whitman; 1996)

Ennio Morricone (1928–) Stage Partenope (opera) (Guido Barbieri and Sandro Cappelletto; 1995–96)

Orchestra Musica, for piano and string orchestra (1954) Concerto for Orchestra (1957) Concerto for Flute, Cello, and Orchestra (1984–85) Epos (1989) Concerto for Guitar Marimba, and Orchestra (1990–91) UT, for trumpet, bass drum, and orchestra (1991) Una Via Crucis, Intermezzo in forma di Croce, for orchestra (1992) Una Via Crucis, Secondo Intermezzo, for orchestra (1992) Concerto, for organ, two trumpets, two trombones, and orchestra (1993) Brevissimo I, II, III, for double-bass and string orchestra (1993–94) Ombra di lontano presenza, for viola, orchestra, and tape (1997) Quattro anacoluti per A.V. (Antonio Vivaldi), for strings orchestra (1997) Notturno e passacaglia per Cervera, for flute, oboe, clarinet, piano, and orchestra (1998) Immobile no. 2, for harmonica and strings (2001)

Chamber Sonata, for brass ensemble, piano, and timpani (1954) Sestetto for flute, oboe, bassoon, violin, viola, and cello (1955) Twelve Variations, for oboe d’amore, cello, and piano (1956) Quatro pezzi, for guitar (1957) Tre studi, for flute, clarinet, and bassoon (1957) Distanze, for violin, cello, and piano (1958) Musica, for eleven violins (1958) Suoni per Dino, for viola and tape (1969) Proibito, for eight trumpets (1972) Totem secondo, for five bassoons and two contrabassoons (1981) Cadenza, for flute and tape (1988) Fluidi, for ten instruments (1988) Refrains – tre omaggi, for six instruments (1988) Studio, for double-bass (1989) Specchi, for clarinet, oboe, bassoon, horn, and piano (1989) Riflessi, for solo cello (1989–90)

238  Appendix 2 Frammenti di giochi, for violin and harp (1990) Elegia per Egisto, for solo violin (1993) Canone breve, for three guitars (1993) Esercizi, for eleven strings (1993) Blitz I, II, III, for saxophone quartet (1995) Ipotesti, for clarinet and piano (1995–96) Lemma, for two clarinets and piano (1995–96) Scherzo, for violin and piano (1996) A.L.P. 1928, for string quartet (1996) Il sogno di un uomo ridicolo, for violin and viola (1997) S.O.S. (Suonare O Suonare), for brass ensemble (1998) Notturno e passacaglia, for flute, oboe, clarinet, piano, and strings (1998) Vivo, for string trio (2001–01) Metamorfosi di Violetta, for clarinet and string quartet (2001) Notturno e passacaglia, for clarinet, violin, and piano, and strings (2001) Notturno e passacaglia, for soprano saxophone and piano (2001) Finale, for two organs (2002) Riverberi, for flute, cello, and piano (2002) Geometrie ricercate, for eight instruments (2003) Come l’onda, for solo cello or two cellos (2005) Monodia, for solo cello (2009)

Piano Barcarola funebre (1952) Preludio a una Novella senza titolo (1952) Variazioni su tema di Frescobaldi (1955) Invenzione, canone e ricreare (1958) Rag in frantumi (1986) Quattro studi, (1984–89) Quinto studi, (2000) Frop, for piano, four hands (2005)

Other instrumental Mordenti, for harpsichord (1988) Neumi, for harpsichord (1988) A Paola Bernardi, for two harpsichords (2000) 2 x 2, for harpsichord (2002) Finale, for two organs (2002)

Choral Cantata, for orchestra and chorus (Cesare Pavese; 1955) Requiem per un destino, for chorus and orchestra (1966) Immobile, for chorus and four clarinets (1978) Bambini del mondo, for children’s choruses, orchestra, and electronics (1979)

Appendix 2  239 Cantata per l’Europa, for soprano, chorus, and orchestra (Benedetto Croce, Thomas Mann, Winston Churchill, Charles de Gaulle, Robert Schumann, Alcide De Gasperi, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Konrad Adenauer, and Victor Hugo; 1988) Tre scioperi, for children’s chorus (Pier Paolo Pasolini; 1988) Echi, for chorus and cello (1988) Una Via Crucis, Stazione I, for chorus and orchestra Sergio Miceli; (1991) Questo è un testo senza testo, for children’s chorus (1991) Una Via Crucis, Stazione II, for chorus and orchestra (Sergio Miceli; 1991) Una Via Crucis, Stazione IX, for chorus and orchestra (Sergio Miceli; 1991) Una Via Crucis, Stazione V, for chorus and orchestra (Sergio Miceli; 1991) Una Via Crucis, Stazione XIII, for chorus and orchestra (Sergio Miceli; 1991) Wow!, for women’s chorus (1993) Il silenzio, il gioco, la memoria, for children’s chorus (Sergio Miceli; 1994) Ave Regina Caelorum, for chorus, organ, and orchestra (1995) Due pezzi sacri, for chorus, soloists, and orchestra (1995) Flash, for double chorus (Edoardo Sanguinetti; 1996) Amen, for six choruses (1998) Non devi dimenticare, for soprano, chorus, and orchestra (Alessandro Panagulis; 1998) Musica per una fine, for four choruses and orchestra (Pier Paolo Pasolini; 1998) Pietre, for double chorus percussion and cello (1999) l pane spezzato, for chorus and orchestra (1999) Voci dal silenzio, cantata for chorus, orchestra, and reciters (Richard Reve; 2002) Flash, for double chorus and string quartet (Stefano Benni, Sergio Miceli, and Edoardo Sanguinetti;) Cantata Narrazione per Padre Pio (Crispino Valenziano; 2004) Vuoto d’anima piena, cantata for flute, chorus, and orchestra (Francesco De Melis; 2008) Mass for Pope Francis (2015)

Other vocal ‘Il mattino’ (Fukuko; 1946) ‘Imitazione’ (Giacomo Leopardi; 1947) ‘Intimitá’ (Olito Dini; 1947) ‘Distacco I’ (Ranieri Gnoli; 1953) ‘Distacco II’ (Ranieri Gnoli; 1953) ‘Verrà la morte’ (Cesare Pavese; 1953) Oboe sommerso, for baritone and five instruments (Salvatore Quasimodo; 1953) Da molto lontano, for soprano and eight instruments (Franco Califano; 1969) Caput coctu show, for baritone and eight instruments (Pier Paolo Pasolini; 1970) Gestazione, for female voice, ensemble, and tape (1980) Due poesie notturne, for female voice, string quartet, and guitar (Emilio Argiroffi; 1981) Frammenti di eros, for soprano, piano, and orchestra (Sergio Miceli; 1985) Il rotondo silenzio della notte, for female voice and ensemble (Federico García Lorca; 1986) Quatro anamorfosi latine, for soprano, mezzo-soprano, tenor, baritone and orchestra (Sergio Miceli; 1990) Epitaffi sparsi, for soprano and ensemble (Sergio Miceli; 1991–93) Vidi aquam, for soprano and chamber orchestra (1993)

240  Appendix 2 Epitaffi sparsi, for soprano and orchestra (Sergio Miceli; 1993) Monodie I, for voice and strings (Franco Scataglini; 1994) Coprilo di fiori e bandiere, for soprano, clarinet, violin, and cello (A. Gatto; 1995) Passaggio secondo, for orchestra and reciter (Allen Ginsberg; 1996) Flash, for vocal quartet (Edoardo Sanguinetti; 1996) Il sogno di un uomo ridicolo, for voice, violin, and viola (Maurizio Barbetti, after Dostoyevsky; 1997) Grido, for soprano, string orchestra, and magnetic tape (1998) Non devi dimenticare, for soprano, reciter, and orchestra (Alessandro Panagulis; 1998) Il pane spezzato, for twelve voices and string orchestra (1998–99) Per i bambini morti di mafia, for soprano, baritone, six instruments and reciters (Luciano Violente; 1999) Abenddämmerung, for voice, violin, cello, and piano (Heinrich Heine; 1999) Grilli, for soprano and string quartet (Stefano Benni; 1999) Flash II, for eight voices and string quartet (Stefano Benni, Sergio Miceli, and Edoardo Sanguinetti; 2000) Ode, for soprano and orchestra (Giuseppe Bonaviri; 2000) Se questo è un uomo, for soprano, violin, strings, and reciter (Primo Levi; 2001) Neodiscanto, for reciter, piano, percussion and orchestra (Sergio Miceli; 2004)

André Previn (1929–) Stage Coco (musical) (Alan Jay Lerner; 1969) The Good Companions (musical) (Johnny Mercer and Ronald Harwood, after J. B. Priestley; 1974) Every Good Boy Deserves Favour (incidental music) (Tom Stoppard; 1977) A Streetcar Named Desire (opera) (Philip Littell, after Tennessee Williams; 1998) Brief Encounter (opera) (John Caird, after Noël Coward; 2007)

Orchestra Overture to a Comedy (1963) Cello Concerto (1968) Guitar Concerto (1971) Principals (1980) Symphony, for strings (1980) Reflections, for English horn, cello, and orchestra (1981) Divertimento (1982) Piano Concerto (1985) Diversions (1999) Violin Concerto (2001) Double Concerto, for violin, double-bass, and orchestra (2004) Night Thoughts (2006) Harp Concerto (2007) Owls (2008) Double Concerto, for violin, viola, and orchestra (2009)

Appendix 2  241 Cello Concerto No. 2 (2011) Triple Concerto, for French horn, trumpet, tuba, and orchestra (2012) Music for Boston (2012) Concerto, for violin and string orchestra (2012) Music for Wind Orchestra (No Strings Attached) 2014) Double Concerto, for violin, cello, and orchestra (2014) Can Spring Be Far Behind? (2016) Almost an Overture (2017)

Chamber Violin Sonata (ca. 1960) Two Little Serenades, for violin and piano (1970) Four Outings, for brass quintet (1974) Peaches, for flute and piano (1978) Triolet for Brass (1985) A Wedding Waltz, for two oboes and piano (1986) Sonata, for cello and piano (1993) Violin Sonata No. 2 (‘Vineyard’), for violin and piano (1994) Trio, for oboe, bassoon, and piano (1994) Sonata, for bassoon and piano (1997) Hoch soll Er Leben, for brass quintet (1997) Tango, Song, and Dance, for violin and piano (1998) String Quartet with Soprano (2003) Trio, for violin, cello, and piano (2009) Sonata, for clarinet and piano (2010) Octet for Eleven (2010) Quintet, for clarinet and strings (2011) Trio No. 2, for violin, cello, and piano (2012) Violin Sonata No. 3 (2013) Nonet (2015) Morning Rain and Warm Evening, for violin and piano (2016) Montfort, for oboe and piano (2017) The Fifth Season, for violin and piano (2018)

Piano Impressions for Piano (1964) Paraphrase on a Theme of William Walton (1973) Invisible Drummer (1974) Five Pages from My Calendar (1978) Matthew’s Piano Book (1979) Variations on a Theme by Haydn (1990)

Vocal Five Songs, for soprano and piano (Philip Larkin; 1977) Honey and Rue, for soprano, orchestra, and rhythm section (Toni Morrison; 1992)

242  Appendix 2 Four Songs, for soprano, cello, and piano (Toni Morrison; 1994) The Magic Number, for soprano and orchestra (Dory Previn Shannon; 1995) Vocalise, for soprano and cello (1995) Two Remembrances, for soprano, alto flute, and piano (Else Lasker-Schüller and Frau Ava; 1995) Sallie Chisum Remembers Billy the Kid, for soprano and orchestra (Michael Ondaatje; 1995) Three Dickinson Songs, for soprano and piano (Emily Dickinson; 1999) The Giraffes Go to Hamburg, for soprano, alto flute, and piano (Isak Dinesen; 2000) String Quartet with Soprano (Christina Georgina Rossetti; 2003) Four Songs, for tenor and piano (Philip Larkin and William Carlos Williams; 2004) Sieben Lieder, for soprano and piano (Theodor Storm; 2006) Ten by Yeats (W. B. Yeats; 2017)

Wojciech Kilar (1932–2013) Orchestra Concertino, for flute and string orchestra (1953) Mała owertura [Little Overture] (1955) Symphony No. 1, for strings (1955) Symphony No. 2 (‘Sinfonia Concertante’), for piano and orchestra (1956) Ode Béla Bartók in Memoriam, for violin, brass, and percussion (1956) Concerto, for two pianos and percussion (1958) Riff 62 (1962) Générique (1963) Springfield Sonnet (1965) Przygrywka i kolęda [Prelude and Christmas Carol], for four oboes and string orchestra (1972) Krzesany (1974) Kościelec 1909 (1976) Orawa, for string orchestra (1988) Choralvorspiel, for string orchestra (1988) Requiem dla Ojca Kolbe [Requiem Father Kolbe], for piano, percussion, and strings (1990–96) Piano Concerto No. 1 (1996) Symphony No. 3 (‘September Symphony’) (2003) Symphony No. 4 (‘Sinfonia de Motu’), for soloists, chorus, and orchestra (2005) Symphony No. 5 (‘Advent Symphony’), for soloists, chorus, and orchestra (2007) Uwertura uroczysta [‘Solemn Overture’] (2010) Piano Concerto No. 2 (2011)

Chamber Sonatina, for flute and piano (1951) Woodwind Quintet (1952) Sonata, for French horn and piano (1954) Training 68, for clarinet, trombone, cello, and piano (1968) Orawa, arranged for twelve saxophones (2009)

Appendix 2  243 Piano Mazurka in E Minor (1946) Suite (1949) Toccata (1950) 12 Preludes (1951) Variations sur un theme de Paganini (1951) Suite No. 2 (1952) Sonata (1952)

Choral Suita beskidzka [Beskid Suite], for tenor, chorus, and orchestra (1956) Dipthongos, for chorus, percussion, two pianos, and strings (1964) Upstairs-Downstairs, for children’s choruses and orchestra (1971) Bogurodzica [Mother of God], for chorus and orchestra (1975) Fanfare, for chorus and orchestra (1979) Exodus, for chorus and orchestra (1981) Victoria, for chorus and orchestra (1983) Angelus, for soprano, chorus, and orchestra (1984) Króluj nam Chryste [Reign over Us, Christ], for chorus and piano (1995) Agnus Dei (1996) Missa pro pace, for soloists, chorus, and orchestra (2000) Lament, for unaccompanied chorus (2003) Symphony No. 4 (‘Sinfonia de Motu’), for soloists, chorus, and orchestra (2005) Magnificat, for soloists, chorus, and orchestra (2007) Symphony No. 5 (‘Advent Symphony’), for soloists, chorus, and orchestra (2007) Te Deum, for soloists, chops, and orchestra (2008) Veni Creator, for chorus and string orchestra (2008) Paschalis Hymn, for chorus (2008)

Other vocal Kołysanki [Lullabies], for soprano and eight instruments (Józef Czechowicz; 1957) Herbsttag, for alto and string quartet (Rainer Marie Rilke; 1960) Solenne, for amplified soprano, brass, percussion, piano, and strings (1967) Siwa mgła [Grey Mist], for baritone and orchestra (traditional; 1979) Jakźeź ja się uspokoję [How Calmed I Am], voice and piano (Stanisław Wyspiański; 1995)

Alberto Iglesias (1955–) Stage Cautiva (ballet) (Nacho Duato; 1987) Tabulae (ballet) (Nacho Duato; 1992) Cero sobre cero (ballet) (Nacho Duato; 1995) Self (ballet) (Nacho Duato; 1997) A Registered Patent: ‘A Drummer inside a Rotating Box’ (radio piece) (Juan Muñoz; 2001)

244  Appendix 2 Orchestra Assault to the Castle, for vocal quartet and orchestra (Samuel Beckett, Georges Bataille, et al.; 2006) Orfeo en Palermo, for cello, narrator, foley artist, and orchestra (2007)

Chamber Sh-h-h, for string quartet and electronics (1988) Group of Dogs (1996) Habitación en Do (2004) Cuarteto breve, for string quartet (2010) Habitación en Sol (2018)

Vocal Cautiva, for reciter and instruments (Ezra Pound and James Joyce; 1987–91) In the Land of the Lemon Trees, for soprano, guitar, and orchestra (John Ashbery, René Char, and Wallace Stevens; 2009) Les chansons légères, for countertenor, two pianos, and orchestra (René Char, Wallace Stevens, and Pier Paolo Pasolini; 2015)

Jóhann Jóhannsson (1969–2018) Stage Margrét Mikla (incidental music) (1996) Vitleysingarnir (incidental music) (2000) Fireface (incidental music) (2000) Englabörn (incidental music) (2001) Kryddlegin Hjörtu (incidental music) (2002) Viktoria og Georg (incidental music) (2002) IBM 1401, A User’s Manual (dance piece) (2002) Pabbastrákur (incidental music) (2003) Jón Gabríel Borkman (incidental music) (2004) Mysteries of Love (dance piece) (2005) Dínamít (incidental music) (2005) Døden i Teben (incidental music) (2008) Ganesh versus the Third Reich (2011)

Orchestra The Miners’ Hymn (2014)

Studio albums Englabörn (2002) Virðulegu Forsetar (2004)

Appendix 2  245 IBM 1401, A User’s Manual (2006) Fordlandia (2008) And in the Endless Pause There Came the Sound of Bees (2009) The Miners’ Hymns (2011) End of Summer (2015)1 Orphée (2016)

Installations Ashes and Snow (2002)2

Laura Rossi (1975–) Stage Dream (incidental music) (1995) The House on the Hill (incidental music) (2000) Siddhartha (dance piece) (2000)

Orchestra Alice in Wonderland, for jazz orchestra (1994) Learning to Fly, for jazz orchestra (1999) Jinx, for jazz band (1999) Behind Closed Doors, for jazz orchestra (2000) Dream with the Fishes (2002) Jailhouse Grafitti (2005)  . . . Only Connect (2002) Somme Suite (2014)

Chamber Midnight Mover, for percussion ensemble (1999) Tatotat, for percussion ensemble (1999) Salute to the Amethyst, for brass band (2002) The River, for string quartet (2003) Starry Night, for string quartet (2003) Grotta di Nettuno, for alto saxophone and piano (2015) Under the Stars, for strings, piano, tuned percussion, electric guitar, and saxophone (2016)

Piano Let Her Sail (1997) In Search of Love (1997) Frog (1999) Reflections (1999) Cat and Mouse (1999)

246  Appendix 2 Peace (2008) Summer (2008)

Choral Under the Rainbow, for chorus and children’s chorus (2000) Golden Jubilee, for chorus and orchestra (2002) A Poor Torn Heart, for chorus and organ (Emily Dickinson; 2003) Voices of Remembrance, for chorus, narrators, and orchestra (Rupert Brooke, Julian Grenfell, William Noel Hodgson, John William Street, Wilfred Owen, Ewan Alan Mackintosh, John McCrae, and Robert Binyon; 2015)

Other vocal Three Hopkins Songs, for soprano and piano (Gerard Manley Hopkins; 2003)

Notes 1 In collaboration with Hukdur Guònadóttir and Robert Aiki Aubrey Lowe. 2 In collaboration with Gregory Colbert.

Index

Achard, Marcel 23 Adamo, Mark 138 Adams, John 169 Ainge, Frederick 180 Albrecht, Marc 18 Alfredson, Tomas 155, 163 Almodóvar, Pedro 154, 155, 159, 161, 163 Almond, Marc 171 Amade, Louis 21 Amini, Hossein 155, 163 Anderson, Lucy 66 Anderson, Miles 112 Andrés, Ramón 154 Andrews, Julie 137 Anicet-Bourgeois, Auguste 23 Arden, Eve 84 Arlen, Walter 30, 33 Arnaud, Pierre 24 Arnold, Malcolm 2 Aronofsky, Darren 173 Ashbery, John 162 Ashkenazy, Vladimir 137, 138 Auric, Georges 20 – 9 Austin, Larry 120 Babbitt, Milton 96, 97, 99, 109 Bach, Johann Sebastian 34, 35, 37, 38, 53, 71, 77, 96, 108, 109, 122, 154, 160, 163 Bachleda, Jędrek 148 Bachman, Ingeborg 154 Baird, Tadeusz 145 Baker, Janet 137, 138 Balieff, Nikita 23 Banks, Don 95 – 105 Barber, Lesley 178 Barber, Samuel 72, 73, 74, 77, 80, 169 Barbirolli, John 62 Barlow, Howard 60, 63 Barraqué, Jean 26

Barrault, Jean-Louis 22, 24 Bartók, Béla 38, 96, 144, 146, 157 Bataille, Georges 161 Bax, Arnold 180 Bécaud, Gilbert 21 Beckett, Samuel 161 Beecham, Thomas 63, 87 – 8 Beethoven, Ludwig van 10, 33, 37, 154, 168 Benjamin, Arthur 96 Berg, Alban 9, 26, 108, 157, 159 Berger, Arthur 84 Bernard, James 95, 97 Bernstein, Leonard 76, 86, 106, 110 Bertin, Pierre 23 Bertoncini, Mario 120 Bilińska, Beata 151 Binyon, Robert 182 Bizet, Georges 1, 34, 39 – 40, 86 Blake, William 183 Bloch, Ernst 106 Bollaín, Icíar 155, 161, 162 Bonnefous, Jean-Pierre 22 Boone, Lindsey 85 Boosey and Hawkes 180 Boudreau, Robert 25 Boulanger, Nadia 145 Boulez, Pierre 26, 120 Boult, Adrian 137 Brahms, Johannes 11, 66, 101 Branagh, Kenneth 180 Branchi, Walter 120 Brecht, Bertolt 84 Breton, Nicholas 63 Britten, Benjamin 2, 42, 97, 179, 182 Brnčić, Gabriel 155 Brontë, Charlotte 64 Brontë, Emily 64 – 5 Brooke, Rupert 182

248 Index Bruce, Graham 58 Burgaleta, Blanca 155 Busch, Fritz 13 Busoni, Ferrucio 71 Cage, John 120, 122, 128, 168 Callaway, Frank 102 Calparsoso, Daniel 159 Cary, Tristram 103 Casella, Alfredo 71 – 2, 77, 79 Castellari, Enzo G. 121 Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Mario 71, 78, 136 Castro, Juan Jose 32 Catullus, Gaius Valerius 165 – 6 Caturla, Alejandro Garcia 83 Char, René 162, 163 Chaucer, Geoffrey 179 Chopin, Frédéric 27 Churchill, Winston 125 Cockerell, David 103 Cocteau, Jean 22 – 4 Coixet, Isabel 155, 163 Collins, Phil 170 Colombo, Nella 119 Comden, Betty 137 Conrad, Doda 27 Copland, Aaron 2, 32, 59, 72, 82 – 6, 106 Coppola, Francis Ford 79 Corwin, Norman 38 Cosmatos, Panos 175 Cowell, Henry 83, 85 Craft, Robert 32 Craste, Marc 167 Crespo, Ángel 161 Croce, Benedetto 125 Cukor, George 6, 47 Cummings, Bradley 97 Daft Punk 166, 170 Dalkin, Gary 182 Dallapiccola, Luigi 96, 97, 98, 101, 106 Daniel-Lesur, Jean-Yves 25 Davis, Colin 137 Davis, Garth 175 Davis, Miles 157 Dean, James 106, 113 Debussy, Claude 33, 58, 59, 60, 144, 157 de Gaulle, Charles 125 De Laurentis, Dino 79 Delius, Frederick 64, 67 del Mar, Norman 100 De Melis, Francesco 125 De Seta, Vittorio 123

Devereux, Robert 179 Diaghilev, Serge 21, 22, 28, 158 Dietrich, Marlene 31 Dispeker, Thea 34 Downes, Olin 84 Doyle, Patrick 180 Duato, Nacho 158 – 9 Dudley, Anne 178 Duhan, Hans 13 Dullin, Charles 23 Dutilleux, Henri 25 Dvořák, Antonin 73, 77 Eager, Edward 90 Egk, Werner 32 Ehnes, James 18 Einem, Gottfried von 32 Elfman, Danny 2 Elgar, Edward 53, 59, 108, 172, 179, 182 Ellington, Duke 132 Elman, Mischa 16 Éluard, Paul 27, 29 Enescu, George 11 Engel, Lehman 84 Eno, Brian 169 – 70 Erhard, Ludwik 147 Escudero, Francisco 155 Esty, Alice 27 – 8 Evangelisti, Franco 119 – 20 Fall, Leo 16 Farrow, Mia 137 Fassett, James 60 Feisst, Sabine 110, 111 Fellini, Federico 78 – 9, 81 Ferneyhough, Brian 122 Ferrante, Arthur 25 Feyder, Jacques 1 Fiennes, Ralph 180 Fine, Vivian 84 Finzi, Gerald 180, 182 Fischtel, Nicolás 159 Fizdale, Robert 25 Fleischmann, Ernest 138 Fleming, Renée 18 Fletcher, Lucille 61, 65 Forsyth, John 38 Foss, Lukas 32, 41, 106 Foster, Marc 155, 162 Frahm, Nils 168, 169 Françaix, Jean 25, 27 Frang, Vilde 18 Franklin, Peter 138

Index  249 Fresnaye, Vauquelin de 26 – 7 Fuchs, Joseph 33 Fuchs, Robert 8 – 9 Furse, Tony 103 Furtwängler, Wilhelm 13 Fussell, Paul 183 Gabrieli, Giovanni 126 Gardiner, John Eliot 154 Gerard, Lisa 172 Gerhard, Roberto 98 Gering, Marion 1 Gershwin, George 73, 86, 135 Giraud, Albert 109, 110 Glass, Philip 169 Gold, Arthur 25 Golschmann, Vladimir 17 Górecki, Henryk 145 Gorky, Maxim 84 Grädener, Hermann 12 Grainger, Percy 59, 60, 67 Green, Adolf 137 Greenwood, Johnny 2 Grenfell, Julian 182 Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza (GINC) 118, 119 – 21 Guðmundsdóttir, Björk 166 Guðnadóttir, Hildur 172 Gullermin, John 79 Hager, Mina 83 Hahn, Hilary 18 Hammer Film Productions 95, 100 Hampson, Thomas 18 Handel, George Frideric 10, 64 Hanslick, Eduard 8 Harrington, William Clark 62 Harris, Roy 32 Hauksdótti, Silja 166 Hauschka (Volker Bertelsmann) 169 Hawking, Stephen 165 Haydn, Franz Joseph 78, 137, 158 Hecker, Tim 171 Heifetz, Jascha 16, 17, 34 – 5, 37, 39 – 40, 48 Heineman, John 120, 121 Hendl, Walter 48 Heppner, Ben 18 Herbert Barrett Management 35 Herford, Julius 106 Herrmann, Bernard 3, 4, 58 – 69, 83 Herzog, Colette 26 Hillier, Paul 172

Hitchcock, Alfred 4, 36, 48, 60 Hodgson, William Noel 182, 184 – 6 Holde, Artur 39 Hollaender, Friedrich 30 – 1 Holst, Gustav 172 Honegger, Arthur 25, 32 Hortigüela, Cristina 154 Housman, A.E. 66 Howard, James Newton 171 Hugo, Victor 125 Humble, Keith 102, 103 Husted, Christopher 58, 61, 67 Hutchinson, Morton 180 Huxley, Aldous 32 Iglesias, Alberto 3, 4, 154 – 64 Iglesias, Cristina 163 Iglesias, José Luis 155 Imperato, Albert 63 Ives, Charles 59, 60, 62, 83 Jablonsky, Peter 149 Jeritza, Maria 15 – 16 Joffe, Roland 120 Jóhannsson, Jóhann 4, 165 – 77 Johnson, Bruce 96 Jones, Maureen 101 Joy, Geneviève 25 Joyce, James 158 Joyeux, Odette 22 Judson, O’Neil & Judd 35 Jurek, Thom 121 Kaczyński, Tadeusz 148 Kafka, Franz 161 – 2 Kaltneker, Hans 16 Karayev, Kara 36 Karłowicz, Mieczysław 148 Karpman, Laura 178 Kaspszyk, Jacek 151 Katlewicz, Jerzy 148 Kaufmann, Jonas 18 Kaufmann, Louis 33 Kayn, Roland 120 Kazan, Elia 106, 139 Keats, John 183 Kelly, Gene 137 Khachaturian, Aram 78, 79 Khrennikov, Tikhon 35 Kieffer, Detlef 26 Kilar, Wojciech 3, 143 – 53 Kiser, Wayne 113 Kitchen Motors 171

250 Index Klemperer, Otto 15, 31 Kochno, Boris 22 Kord, Kazimierz 150 Korngold, Erich Wolfgang 4, 8 – 19, 44n34, 75 Korngold, Julius 8 – 9, 10, 12, 13, 15 Kraft, William 108 Kreisler, Fritz 16 Krenz, Jan 147 Kreymborg, Alfred 83 Kronos Quartet 111 Kurtz, Selma 13 Kutz, Kazimierz 143, 145 La Barbara, Joan 172 Langbein, Brenton 101 Larson, Randall 95, 97 Latouche, John 88 Lehmann, Lotte 13, 33 Leslie, George 38 Levi, Mica 169 Liebesman, Jonathan 166 Liebermann, Rolf 32 Ligeti, György 122 Lilienthal, Peter 149 Lincoln, Abraham 146 Liszt, Franz 10, 11, 77 Littler, William 50 Lloyd Webber, Andrew 21 Lorca, Federico García 86, 109 Lowe, Robert Aiki Aubrey 172 Lumsdaine, David 96 Luna, Bigas 155, 159 Lutosławski, Witold 145 Lutyens, Elisabeth 97 Lyne, Adrian 123 Ma, Yo-Yo 137 Macchi, Egisto 120 Mackintosh, Ewart Alan 182 Mahler, Gustav 5, 8, 12 – 13, 15, 18, 33, 41, 73, 114, 154, 168 Malipiero, Gian Francesco 71, 77 Malkovich, John 155, 160 – 2 Mann, Thomas 113, 125 Mann, William 101 Mansouri, Lotfi 138 Marczyński, Jacek 150 Marschner, Wolfgang 100 Marsh, James 165, 175 Martins, Peter 22 Massine, Léonide 22

Mauceri, John 18 Mazzini, Mina 120 McCrae, John 182 Médem, Julio 155, 159, 163 Mehta, Zubin 18 Meirelles, Fernando 155, 161 Melville, Herman 61 Mena, Carlos 163 Mendelssohn, Felix 10, 33, 52, 53 Mendes, Sam 169 Mengelberg, Willem 13 Menotti, Gian Carlo 72 Menuhin, Yehudi 137 Mercelli, Massimo 125 MGM 47, 48, 132 Miceli, Sergio 117, 124 Michelangelo 173 Michniewski, Wojciech 148 Micocci, Enzo 119 Mierczyński, Stanisław 147 Milhaud, Darius 25, 27, 32 Miller, Jonathan 137 Minnelli, Vincente 3 Mirski, Kazimierz 144 Miter, Santiago 163 Mitropoulos, Dmitri 63 Molière 23, 79 Moll, Dominick 163 Monteith, Claude 96 Monteverdi, Claudio 169 Morley, Angela 95 Moroder, Giorgio 170 Moross, Jerome 4, 82 – 94 Morricone, Ennio 3, 4, 117 – 31, 165 Morton, Lawrence 87 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 8, 10, 14, 37, 78, 91, 134, 137, 144 Muck, Karl 13 Müller, Hans 14 Muñoz, Juan 160 – 1 Musgrave, Thea 100 Muti, Ricardo 125 Mutter, Anne Sophie 18, 138 Navarrete, Javier 155 Neidlinger, Bruno 112 – 13 Neri, Antonello 121 Newman, Thomas 169 Nikisch, Arthur 10, 13 Nolan, Christopher 172 Nono, Luigi 120, 124 North, Alex 2

Index  251 Nouredine, Jacques 26 Nyiregyházi, Ervin 10 – 11 Nyman, Michael 2, 174 Offenbach, Jacques 16 Olmi, Paolo 124 Ormandy, Eugene 63 O’Shaughnessy, Arthur 179 Otter, Anne Sofie van 18 Owen, Wilfred 182 Page, Ruth 84, 86 Palmer, Christopher 86 Pan Sonic 171 Paramount 78, 79 Pärt, Arvo 2 Pasolini, Pier Paolo 123, 124, 163 Payne, Anthony 101 Paz, Octavio 154 Penderecki, Krzysztof 145, 147, 149 Pennario, Leonard 48 Petit, Roland 22 Petrassi, Goffredo 77, 117, 118, 122, 126 Petri, Elio 121 Pizzetti, Ildebrando 71, 72 Polony, Leszek 146 Pommer, Erich 31 Poręba, Bohdan 145 Porter, Peter 101, 102 Poulenc, Francis 27 Pound, Ezra 158 Pousseur, Henri 128 Prawy, Marcel 15 Preger, Leo 27 Preisner, Zbigniew 2 Previn, André 6, 18, 33, 42, 132 – 42 Prokofiev, Sergei 2, 16, 36 – 7, 44n41, 73, 75 – 6, 78 – 80 Puccini, Giacomo 16 Purcell, Henry 169 Rachmaninoff, Sergei 139 Racine, Jean 23 Radiguet, Raymond 23 Raksin, David 2, 58 Rampal, Jean-Pierre 26 Randall, James H. 110 Ravel, Maurice 16, 59, 74, 144, 149, 157 Ravera, Gianni 119 Redgrave, Vanessa 180 Reich, Steve 157 Revueltas, Silvestre 83

Richter, Max 168, 169, 172, 174 Rinaldi, Giovanni 72 Ritmanis, Lolita 178 Rivier, Jean 25 Robbins, Jerome 22 Robert-Houdin, Paul 24 Robin, Jacqueline 25 Rodenbach, Georges 15 Rodrigo, Joaquín 122 Roland-Manuel, Alexis 1, 25 Rolland, Romain 23 Roller, Alfred 15 Rosen, Charles 154 Rosen, Jerry 120 Rosenberg, Isaac 179, 182, 183 – 4 Rosenfield, John 49 Rosenman, Adele 110 Rosenman, Judie Gregg 113, 114 Rosenman, Kay 108 Rosenman, Leonard 3, 106 – 16 Rossettani, Bruno 119 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 67 Rossi, Laura 6, 178 – 89 Rossini, Gioachino 14, 76, 79 Rostropovich, Mstislav 26 Rota, Nino 70 – 81 Rowicki, Witold 148 Rózsa, Miklós 1 – 4, 6, 37, 47 – 57, 75, 132, 137 Rumi 125 Rzewski, Frederic 120 Saintilan, Nicole 103 Salinger, Conrad 73 Salonen, Esa-Pekka 138 Sánchez Ferloiso, Rafael 154, 157 Sandburg, Carl 84 Sassoon, Siegfried 182 Sauguet, Henri 25, 27 Saura, Carlos 155 Savina, Carlo 118 Savo, Jimmy 84 Savonarola, Girolamo 14 Saylor, Eric 180, 181 Scalero, Rosario 71 Scelsi, Giacinto 120 Schaeffer, Bogusław 145 Schalk, Franz 15 Schmid, Benjamin 18 Schmidt, Franz 8 Schnabel, Artur 12 Schneider, Victoria 124

252 Index Schoenberg, Arnold 5, 9, 13, 17, 31, 49, 60, 71, 85, 96, 106, 108 – 10, 113 Schonberg, Harold C. 41 Schott, Paul 15 Schreker, Franz 8, 9, 14 Schubert, Franz 10, 91 Schuman, Elisabeth 13 Schwartz, Francis 155 Schwartz, Stephen 21 Scorsese, Martin 172 Scott, Ridley 155, 163, 172, 175 Scriabin, Alexander 9, 79 Searle, Humphrey 97 Seiber, Mátyás 95, 96, 97, 98, 99 Seidel, Toscha 16 Seidel, Waldemar 96 Sekudewicz, Anna 143 Serkin, Rudolf 33 Serocki, Kazimierz 145 Sessions, Roger 106, 108, 109 Séve, André 21 Shaham, Gil 18 Shakespeare, William 1, 16, 23, 33, 47, 180 Shelley, Percy Bysse 183 Shore, Howard 2 Shostakovich, Dmitri 2, 25, 36 – 7, 61, 163 Sibelius, Jean 8, 13 Siegmeister, Elie 83 – 4 Sigrist, Gilbert 21, 22 Sigur Rós 167 Slezak, Leo 13 Smith, Steven C. 58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 64, 66, 67 Sobieski, Jan 148 Soderbergh, Steven 155 Solti, Georg 137 Sondheim, Stephen 137 Spialek, Hans 59 Steinbach, Fritz 13 Steiner, Max 2, 8 Stempel, Larry 84 Stern, Isaac 33, 34, 35, 39, 40, 42, 137 Stevens, Thomas 112 Stevens, Wallace 159, 162, 163 Stevenson, Rachel 186 Stevenson, Robert 64 Stevenson, Robert Louis 3 Still, William Grant 86 Stockhausen, Karlheinz 100, 108, 120, 121, 152n11, 169, 172 Stone, Bentley 84 Stone, Oliver 155, 161

Stoppard, Tom 137, 138 Strauss, Johann, Jr. 16, 61 Strauss, Richard 8, 10, 12, 13, 15 – 16, 137 Stravinsky, Igor 18n1, 31, 32, 71, 73, 76, 80, 157, 158 Streets, John William 182, 186 – 7 Stryja, Karol 144 Sutherland, Margaret 102 Tailleferre, Germaine 25 Takemitsu, Toru 157 Taruskin, Richard 154 Tavener, John 101 Tchaikovsky, Pytor Ilyich 41, 52, 53 Teicher, Louis 25 Tiomkin, Dimitri 2 Tippett, Michael 137 Toch, Ernst 31 Togliani, Achille 119 Tokyo String Quartet 162 Tomay, Nik 1, 47 Toscanini, Arturo 71 Trebitsch, Siegfried 15 Tuckwell, Barry 98, 101, 102 Turner, Charles 83, 90 Turner, J.M.W. 66 Vandor, Ivan 120 Vaughan Williams, Ralph 71 – 5, 77, 80, 180, 182, 183, 187 Verdi, Giuseppe 36, 76, 162 Vianello, Edourado 119 Villa-Lobos, Heitor 83 Villeneuve, Denis 165, 170, 171, 172, 174, 175 Vilmorin, Louise de 27 Visconi, Luchino 78 von Trier, Lars 166 Wagner, Richard 1, 34, 73, 157 Walter, Bruno 14 Walton, William 139 Warczewski, Jerzy 150 Warner Bros. 34, 87 Warren, Elinor Remick 32 Waxman, Franz 3, 4, 30 – 46 Webern, Anton 12, 13, 19, 49, 85, 93n11 Weill, Kurt 33, 84 Weingartner, Felix 10, 13 Welles, Orson 4, 61 Welser-Möst, Franz 18

Index  253 Whitlock, E. Clyde 49 Whitman, Walt 110 Wilder, Billy 50 – 3 Wilford, Ronald 132, 136 Willaert, Adrian 126 Williams, Andy 135 Williams, John (composer) 2, 8, 137, 141n36 Williams, John (guitarist) 137, 138 Williams, Tennessee 139 Willnauer, Franz 145 Wiseman, Debbie 178 Wittgenstein, Paul 16 Wolf, Hugo 8, 109 – 10 Wood, Henry 13 Wood, Hugh 96

Woytyła, Karol (Pope John Paul II) 148, 150, 151 Woytowicz, Bolesław 144 Xenakis, Iannis 122, 145 Young, La Monte 120 Zangwill, Israel 67 Zeffirelli, Franco 78 Zemlinsky, Alexander 8 – 9, 12 – 13, 14 Zieliński, Tadeusz 148 Zimmer, Bernard 23 Zimmer, Hans 165, 170, 172, 175 Zinovieff, Peter 103 Zweig, Stefan 23