Unsettled Scores: Politics, Hollywood, and the Film Music of Aaron Copland and Hanns Eisler 2019954101, 9780252042812, 9780252084645, 9780252051678

Table of contents :
Cover
Title
Copyright
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgments
1. Background Stories
2. Copland on Hollywood
3. Copland, Hollywood, and American Musical Modernism: Of Mice and Men
4. Eisler in America: The Film Music Project and Composing for the Films
5. Eisler in Hollywood: Hangmen Also Die!
Epilogue
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Back cover

Citation preview

UNSETTLED SCORES

MUSIC IN AMERICAN LIFE

A list of books in the series appears at the end of this book.

UNSETTLED SCORES Politics, Hollywood, and the Film Music of Aaron Copland and Hanns Eisler

SALLY BICK

Publication of this book was supported in part by a grant from the Henry and Edna Binkele Classical Music Fund. © 2019 by the Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois All rights reserved Library of Congress Control Number: 2019954101 isbn 978-0-252-04281-2 (hardcover) | isbn 978-0-252-08464-5 (paperback) | isbn 978-0-252-05167-8 (e-book)

To Jim

Contents

Preface  ix Acknowledgments  xi

1 Background Stories  1



2 Copland on Hollywood   24



3 Copland, Hollywood, and American Musical Modernism: Of Mice and Men  40



4 Eisler in America: The Film Music Project and Composing for the Films  81



5 Eisler in Hollywood: Hangmen Also Die!  127

Epilogue  159 Notes  163 Bibliography  203 Index  225

Preface

When I was a young professional cellist, Dick Armin, who played in both the Canadian rock band Lighthouse and the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, helped me get a foothold working in the major recording studios in Toronto. Through Dick, I had the opportunity to work with Henry Mancini and chat with him when he came to town to conduct his most popular TV and motion picture scores. I learned what it was like to be a studio musician during that time period. And though as my idol, the pianist and film composer Oscar Levant, has remarked, I was but “a cog in the wheel,” nevertheless, the experience was exciting and taught me a great deal about collaboration and the vicissitudes and complexities of being part of a film production. This insider’s perspective also shaped me as a music critic. I say this because the film score inevitably and always operates within an intricate web of interrelated texts, a dependency that, on the one hand, immediately expands and problematizes the critical boundaries of the text but that also, on the other, enlivens the study of film music and gives it its greatest appeal. That music does not dominate the screen does not lessen its impact or importance. To interpret the film and its score is to expose the manipulative nature of music, how it functions and operates within its wider ecosystem. Music’s relationship, whether subliminal, covert, inaudible, direct, or indirect within the film’s complexity, gives music its greatest advantage for the critic by invoking a vast network of signification, associations, and connections within and outside

Preface

the filmic system and therefore provides a highly rich interpretive pallet from which to draw cultural meaning. It elevates and celebrates musical function to reveal how in a multitude of ways music can create meaning. In this context, music has never been more vital. Concealed behind this textual complexity, operating within a film’s production, is a panoply of collaborations, artistic and technical partnerships that on the surface do not reveal the artistic decision-making process involved in the production. Hidden layers of procedures, conflicts, negotiations, struggles, and power relations are invested in the final musical score, a condition that other scholars, such as Ronald H. Sadoff and Nathan Platte, have discussed. Aaron Copland and Hanns Eisler fully understood that film production was a collaborative affair, even though they resisted it in their writings and in their scores, a posture that reflected their personal biases and perspectives. As a scholar, however, no matter how conscientiously I acknowledge these collaborative processes, my ability to penetrate all of their complexities can only succeed within the limitations of the sources available. In film musicology, the presumption of single authorship has been blamed for perpetuating canon building, itself a disciplinary blunder that opens up numerous political questions around status, prestige, and ethics. Ben Winters has written perceptively on this delicate issue. In the two scores I am considering in this study, we know that many types of collaborations shaped the final product. Copland and Eisler, in their own accounts, reveal some of these layers and entanglements. Yet, as is the predicament for all historians, we do not always have the sources to track the various relationships and contestations. Copland’s and Eisler’s own descriptions must be subjected to critical evaluation, and they cannot always be weighed against independent sources, including those that represent others who participated in creating the final score. Against the idea that these collaborations exist and played an essential role, I use Copland’s and Eisler’s personal autograph scores (themselves negotiated sites of contention), which coincide with the recorded commercially released film in the United States. In this study, I seek not to build up these scores as important monuments of aesthetic glory. Instead, I hope to present a critical perspective about the state of one aspect of American modernism during the late 1930s and early 1940s and a means to understand Copland’s and Eisler’s political orientations through their associations with Hollywood.

x

Acknowledgments

Like the curious and political publication history of Hanns Eisler’s Composing for the Films, this book too has taken an unusual and circuitous path toward its final publication. The long and winding road has not always been easily trodden, but in the process, I truly found wonderful friends and colleagues who supported me, especially when the going got tough. Early on, Michael Denning, Peter Burkholder, Carol Oja, Howard Pollack, Judith Tick, Mitchell Morris, and Leta Miller provided mentorship and support, as did David Nicolls, whose great sense of humor and friendship sustained me and still does. I am grateful to Joy Calico, Arved Ashby, and Richard Leppert, who read portions of this book, as did Christopher Gibbs; they all gave careful and extremely helpful comments. Parts of this book were published earlier. David Nicholls, editor of the Society for American Music’s journal, American Music, published chapter 3, for which I received the ASCAP Deems Taylor Award, and a version of chapter 5 appeared in Musical Quarterly. During the initial research for this book Dr. David Culbert discovered correspondence between Theodor Adorno and the editors at Oxford University Press. He generously made them available to me, and for this I am extremely grateful. The results were published in German Studies Review and form part of this book’s chapter 4. Each year, a small group of wonderful friends meet over dinner to discuss our projects and ideas. To them, Judith Peraino, Leslie Sprout, Arved Ashby, Amy Bauer, and David Metzer, I raise a toast and give you my heartfelt thanks.

Acknowledgments

David Metzer in particular has been a constant and sustaining friend in all things. Other colleagues who helped me along the way include Jennifer DeLapp and James Buhler. I would also like to thank Gayle Murchison, Katherine Preston, Jacqueline Warwick, Steve Bauer, Julia Foulkes, and Ivan Raykoff, all of whom invited me to share some of my ideas at their institutions and with their students. I would also like to single out Andrea Bohlman and especially Anne Schreffler and Eric Bentley, whose words of wisdom and support on the German front were strategic and especially kind. Special thanks go to Gayle Sherwood McGee and Sabine Feisst, who helped shepherd the book through and provided important support and constructive criticism. I would also like to thank my colleagues at the University of Windsor: Janice Waldron, Jonathan Bayley, Mary Abt-Pacquet, and especially Chris Blais, as well as my students Austin DiPietro, Meghan Chamberlain, Mitch Glover, Lilly Korkontzelos, and Zack Harrison. My thanks also go to Elizabeth Simpson, John Gingrich, Dana Gorzelany-­ Mostak, Caleb Boyd, Claire Harrison, and Peter Jarrett. I am especially grateful to Tim Page, as well as to Lisa Robinson and Andy and Ben Baharlias, all of whom understand what being a mensch really means. I am particularly grateful to the Feuchtwanger Memorial Library, the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada, the National Endowment for the Arts, Dr. Michael Ku, Natasha Wiebe, and Brent Lee from the Faculty of Arts and Social Science at the University of Windsor in Canada, and the Henry and Edna Binkele Classical Music Fund for generous support at critical moments in the unfolding of this research. The Society for American Music also supported the final research for the book, honoring me with the Virgil Thomson Award. In the various libraries where I performed exhaustive research, I acknowledge the help of Dr. Werner Grunzweig at the Akademie der Künste in Berlin and George Boziwick, Jonathan Hiam, and especially my friend Channan Willner at the New York Public Library. No words can express my heartfelt thanks to the University of Illinois Press for taking on this project. Working with Julianne Laut and the team was lucky and amazing. Most of all, I am deeply indebted to my editor, Laurie Matheson, whose wisdom and support for this book have meant such a great deal to me. Laurie read every word of the manuscript and offered sage advice and meaningful feedback. Few editors today show such investment in their authors. In so many ways, my parents inhabit this book. My mother adored films and influenced my love of classical Hollywood films. My father, like Eisler, was a German Jewish émigré and grew up in Berlin during the Weimar years. While he immigrated to Toronto to escape Nazism with his family in 1939, my

xii

Acknowledgments

grandparents eventually resided in Los Angeles as part of the German émigré community. Their stories, told through the lens of my father, brought to life an understanding of Weimar culture and the vicissitudes of émigré life; those stories became influential to this book. I’m so grateful to have had the opportunity to share my work with my father. I know he and my mother would be proud of the outcome. My daughter, Bianca, grew up during the gestation of this book and came to be an important sounding board for me. Because of the censorship around the Hays Code, classical Hollywood films emerged as an ideal platform for a mother and her young daughter. We watched, we listened, we talked about films incessantly, and, as happened a generation earlier with me and my mother, Bianca developed a great love for classical Hollywood films. As her expertise and taste developed, she became my most ardent critic, for which I am very grateful. She also taught me that time away from the book could provide an essential and critical corrective for my thinking, and she was right. Finally, what can I say about my best friend, Jim, my mentor and partner in crime . . . te amo. It is to you that I dedicate this book.

xiii

UNSETTLED SCORES

Chapter 1

Background Stories

In 1924 culture critic Gilbert Seldes published The Seven Lively Arts, an impassioned manifesto praising popular culture. It marked a strategic moment when American intellectuals began to take seriously the artistic and cultural significance of contemporary mass-produced entertainments in the United States.1 In the wake of the devastation that Europe experienced during World War I, the United States emerged in the 1920s as a significant cultural and political force primarily through the power and strength of its industrialization. As technology, assembly line manufacturing, and consumerism rapidly developed, Seldes and others acknowledged that the industries creating “mass art” and “mass culture” were distinctive features of the American political and artistic ethos, a signature of its brand of modernism.2 Hollywood played a defining role in that identification. In the cultivated musical arts, modernist composers in the United States also began to initiate their own intellectual debates about film music and the implications of mass culture during the 1920s and 1930s.3 Much of their attitude was shaped by the aesthetic and partisan tensions that separated the communities of high and low forms of culture. Whereas the high arts in the United States were underdeveloped, especially in the cultivated musical arts, which were primarily borrowed from Europe’s bourgeois classes, the American culture industries were robust, a situation reinforced by the country’s limited elite tradition and its underlying political ideals of a democratized egalitarian society.

Chapter 1

These conditions should have opened up new attitudes and possibilities for modernist composers in the United States, but as important as Hollywood was within popular culture, few of them embraced its potential. Most instead disdained it, holding the preconception that the enterprise committed a multitude of aesthetic sins.4 This book focuses on the collision of these competing cultures by examining the Hollywood activities of Aaron Copland and Hanns Eisler, who were among the earliest modernist art composers to challenge the movie capital both in their writings and in the scores they created for the industry. They considered Hollywood to be an imperious institutional authority, a political and aesthetic force to be reckoned with, but also a powerful platform that could affect the minds and hearts of the public and, most importantly, contribute to the political discourse of the period. This latter concern was significant. Both composers saw firsthand how the ills of capitalism and war had created social crises, profoundly shaping their political ideals and, in turn, their cultural and aesthetic thinking. Confronting these social problems led them toward experimenting with new artistic forms and values and to Hollywood, where they found possibilities to articulate their modernist political ideals. As a contemporary art form, motion pictures offered an opportunity to communicate musically through current technologies. The notion was not unfamiliar to modernist art composers, but in the United States, they generally turned to documentary film as their genre of preference. Modernist composer George Antheil, one of the few who penetrated Hollywood, observes that the emphasis upon pictorial rather than dramatic narratives (the latter associated with Hollywood’s commercial films) made documentary films more hospitable, easier for the art composer. It allowed them to employ symphonic or ballet-like underscoring, a natural condition that coincided with their skills and values.5 But American composers also felt that the culture around documentary productions was more attractive; there were better opportunities to integrate progressive techniques, elevate music as a dominant voice (largely in agreement with Antheil’s assessment), and take seriously the film’s more persuasive political subjects.6 While modernist composers believed that Hollywood was artistically restrictive and relied on kitsch and that its productions were formulaic, nevertheless, by the end of the Great Depression, the public, whose power of the purse held consequences, and the industry’s own independent directors began to demand better-quality films. In response, Hollywood began to move away from the escapist narratives that characterized most of its films to more realistic and higher-quality projects.7 For Copland and Eisler, the opportunity was ripe.

2

Background Stories

They pursued Hollywood in part for monetary reasons but also as a provocative vehicle that could offer professional possibilities for the expression of their deeply held political and aesthetic conscience and convictions. Nevertheless, both men occupied different points on the political spectrum of the Left, while their musical upbringing represented contrasting stylistic propensities. Copland, an American, studied with Nadia Boulanger in Paris and subsequently forged a place in the limited modernist circles at home during the 1920s. The shadow of capitalism during the Great Depression, however, forced him to address the political implications of this economic and social crisis and to reconsider his elite inclinations. He moved toward the creation of an American aesthetic, an ideal that represented a more democratized outlook. Copland’s idea of bringing together art and mass industry not only reflected this political reality but also mirrored the values of American culture about which Seldes had argued, a posture that helped the composer cultivate his distinctive musical sensibility. Hollywood would play a central role in this endeavor. Many of the same political questions regarding egalitarianism and democratization raised by modernists like Copland had already emerged in Germany a decade earlier in response to the devastation caused by World War I. The war and its horrific human cost led Eisler to leave the rarefied circles of his teacher Arnold Schoenberg in order to embrace Marxism (his siblings were already central figures in the Austrian and later German Communist Parties) and become among the most-sought-after political Marxist musicians on the international stage. Eisler’s European film scores formed an essential aspect of his political and aesthetic contributions. The crises of capitalism, then, were pivotal moments for Copland and Eisler. The brutal economic and social conditions created enormous adversity, which in turn galvanized their social conscience, motivating them to interpret more keenly their contemporary political environment and the culture that defined it. Unlike those of Copland, Eisler’s political investments were problematized beginning in 1933 because of his émigré status first in Europe and then in the United States after 1938. Yet, both composers were closely aligned to various communist and cultural front organizations, a common link in their respective communities. Each in his own way cultivated a place for his activities in the Popular Front (Eisler as a continuation of his previous political commitments), the movement organized by the Soviet Comintern in 1935 to combat fascist developments in Europe, exploring new ways to transfer his musical modernist ambitions into the political realm.8 By the time Copland came to Hollywood in 1939 (Eisler arrived two years later), an estimated 85 million people from the country’s population of 132

3

Chapter 1

million, all diverse and mixed communities, attended and consumed movies each week.9 It was a powerful democratized platform. Despite Hollywood’s relationship to industrialization, its appeal to wide audiences, and the appearance of violating modernism’s ideals of originality and individuality, mass culture nevertheless still retained certain innovative and experimental qualities. For example, to capture its diverse mass public, those from different classes and ethnicities, Hollywood nurtured an ability to negotiate between high and low forms of art. The cultivated arts, once the purview of the educated or bourgeois classes, were now easily and inexpensively distributed to the masses, while folk, ethnic, and working-class entertainments, previously consumed locally and ignored by highbrow audiences, were made accessible by virtue of the media and could not be dismissed so easily.10 These cultural democratized forms created a powerful synthesis in the medium that Copland and Eisler expertly cultivated within their film scores. Though profits were valued over taste, taste nevertheless was now shaped by diverse consumer expectations. One manifestation of this condition, for example, was the emergence of the prestige picture, whose more elevated production values attracted Copland to work in Hollywood and Hollywood to be interested in him. To stimulate demand and profitability, the industry also invested tremendous capital to achieve a high level of technical brilliance and, in turn, the extraordinary reputation for which the movie capital was known. This appealed to Eisler, who held a keen interest in film’s technology and was very impressed with Hollywood’s sound facilities.11 When Antheil reported in 1936 that “Hollywood cannot be equaled; that our directors, cameramen, cutters, soundmen, and musicians are technically superb and that the entire cinema process in our studios is, from start to finish American efficiency at its very best,” he not only legitimized Hollywood’s industrialized supremacy but also elevated these technical achievements as part of the country’s nationalistic virtues, a cultural value that Copland did not overlook.12 More than any other modernist art composers of the era, Copland and Eisler insinuated their individual political and aesthetic values in Hollywood. As outsiders to the film studios, they wrote highly critical, sometimes hostile assessments of the enterprise but also contributed directly through their writings, which were designed to reform Hollywood in ways that reflected their own particular sensitivities, both political and aesthetic, as modernist composers. Copland and Eisler held serious reservations about the institution’s corporate culture and hierarchy of power relations, its factory-influenced modes of production, and its methods of collaboration, which they felt more often corrupted the musical enterprise. In this, they were echoing the complaints that musical modernists had used to rail against industries of mass culture, maintaining 4

Background Stories

what Andreas Huyssen has coined the “anxiety of contamination,” arguments of exclusion that reinforced the high/low dichotomy.13 Copland and Eisler experienced a similar anxiety in Hollywood because of the cultural boundaries they were straddling and the conflicts that arose in their practical experiences working there. Such baggage distorted many of their critical judgments or even more neutral observations about the industry, often at the expense of obfuscating the good. I approach their musical activities in Hollywood not only through an interpretation of their writings on the subject but also through their first Hollywood film scores, Copland’s for Lewis Milestone’s 1939 film Of Mice and Men and Eisler’s for Hangmen Also Die!, directed by Fritz Lang (1943). The choice is strategic, since these two motion pictures reflect Copland’s and Eisler’s respective initial experiences within the industry and coordinate with their critical Hollywood writings. More important, these films are highly politicized topical narratives of the period, each addressing a particular and salient crisis that engaged these composers’ individual ideologies concerning society and the human condition. The central personalities involved in making these two pictures also shared political sensibilities with the two composers. In the case of Copland’s experiences writing for Of Mice and Men, both Milestone and novelist John Steinbeck were invested in the political advocacy of those whose lives were dislocated by the Great Depression. Hangmen Also Die! was created by a circle of German émigrés in Hollywood whose political identifications lay firmly on the Left, particularly playwright Bertolt Brecht, an intimate friend and comrade of Eisler’s who helped write the story and script. The parallel structure of this book, formed by the two film music analyses I present, illuminates the differing ways Copland and Eisler treated the score as an agent for political expression. It also reveals how they transformed their individual modernist styles into the commercial sphere. Simultaneously, their critical writings, which form a complement to their own film scores, are among the most detailed reactions to Hollywood and have since become central historical documents from the period. Eisler: A European Film Composer

Eisler and his coauthor, the cultural critic Theodor W. Adorno, intended the introductory statement in their 1947 book Composing for the Films, quoted below, to function as an indictment of the Hollywood enterprise and, in turn, American capitalistic culture.14 The motion picture cannot be understood in isolation, as a specific form of art; it is understandable only as the most characteristic medium of 5

Chapter 1

contemporary cultural industry, which uses the techniques of mechanical reproduction. . . . In this advanced industrial age, the masses are compelled to seek relaxation and rest, in order to restore the labor power that has been spent in the alienated process of labor; and this need is the mass basis of mass culture. On it there has arisen the powerful amusement industry, which constantly produces, satisfies, and reproduces new needs.15

Such stark reactions arose from the authors’ European Marxist identities and experiences and, in the case of Eisler, his compositional activities as a political musician and film composer. Like Copland, Eisler believed in the social purpose of music, that music should not only mirror society but also participate in it. In comparison to Copland, however, who saw Hollywood more generally as a positive icon of American culture, Eisler characterized the enterprise as part of the larger political crisis in capitalism, a perception influenced by his experiences in Berlin following World War I. At the time, the chaos of debt and hyperinflation had taken ahold of the metropolis in a pervasive way, and the social price was heavy. The misery in the crowded streets, characterized by the paintings of George Grosz, a friend of Eisler’s, exposed the vulgarity between a poverty-stricken underclass that included the unemployed, old and young prostitutes, crippled beggars—vestiges from the war—and outsiders who could buy almost anything with their valuable foreign currency, only to be surpassed by the greed of local plutocrats. The city’s vulnerability was characterized by two nationalistic ideals: everything American, with that country’s image of money and technocracy, and the fledgling Soviet Union, which offered hope and social progress. Though Eisler’s sympathies were heavily invested in communism, both ideals would come to occupy his dialectic perspective in Hollywood.16 As the center for the workers’ movement after World War I, Berlin offered Eisler a variety of musical opportunities with the more aggressive communist artistic organizations, such as Das Rote Sprachrohr (The Red Mouthpiece), the first agitprop troupe (politicized theater) of the Communist Youth League (KJVD). Actor Franz Boensch, who worked within this political network, recalled that Eisler had been well established within the inner circle of the party, a relationship that would follow him to the United States.17 Within these theatrical circles, Eisler also met and introduced the playwright Bertolt Brecht to the revolutionary working-class cultural world that the composer inhabited.18 Brecht, an enfant terrible in the city’s theater community, where he cultivated his proletariat image, was fundamentally a shrewd and merciless artist with business savvy who played one producer off another.19 Even so, Brecht and Eisler forged an important personal and professional relationship, collaborating 6

Background Stories

FIGURE 1.1. George Grosz (1893–1959), © VAGA at ARS, NY. Twilight, from the cycle Ecce Homo, plate XVI, 1922, Kunstbibliothek, Staatliche Museen, Berlin. © 2018 Estate of George Grosz / Licensed by VAGA at Artists Rights Society (ARS), NY. Photo: Knud Petersen. Art Resource, NY.

on political theater works for the workers’ movement and experimenting with new modes of expression such as Kampflieder (fighting songs), many of which became international anthems within socialist and communist circles.20 Rather than the contemplative, mood-making, or “intoxicating” effects (what Brecht called “culinary”) that conventional musical theater had exploited, they focused on rationalizing their work in order to achieve the more pointed, intellectual, and didactic goals that would service their political ideals. They invoked shock and irony, using materials to encourage more critical engagement with the narrative, an approach characteristic of the modern epic theater. Eisler would continue to implement these ideas with Brecht in film and later in Hollywood when they collaborated on Hangmen Also Die! Berlin’s urban chaos, its entertainments, and its amusements were all fueled by the emergent technologies of mass media: radio, gramophone, and sound films. While these new fields contributed to the city’s cosmopolitan modernity, 7

Chapter 1

they were also controlled by capitalistic enterprises that ensured the public was, as Eisler would say, intoxicated by them. The commercial German movie industry thrived during the 1920s, especially on escapist comedies and metaphorical narratives that paralleled the doom and gloom percolating all around. Fritz Lang, who later conceived and directed Hangmen Also Die!, was among the most prominent filmmakers whose motion pictures focused on these dark subjects. His film Metropolis (1927), for example, is a ruthless depiction of capitalism. Nearly half the films shown in Germany, however, came from Hollywood and, by their very nature of being American, appealed to the German sensibilities of the period with their narrative exposés of violence, crime, wealth, and excess.21 The rampant bourgeois capitalistic domination over media and information in Berlin prompted the Communist Party of Germany (KPD) to produce an alternative film culture. Willi Münzenberg, the powerful propaganda organizer for the KPD, bought the German distribution rights for Soviet films and released Sergei Eisenstein’s revolutionary propaganda motion picture Battleship Potemkin, exemplifying to German left-wing filmmakers a political approach to film.22 He also helped to establish the Prometheus Film Collective and financed collaborative partnerships with Moscow’s Mezhrabpom-Russ (1924).23 These studios attracted a like-minded community of left-wing avant-garde artists, including Eisler and Brecht, and produced films that fused agitprop theater techniques with a fictionalized documentary style. Unlike the entertainment narratives that defined Hollywood productions, these films were largely noncommercial political documentary or documentary-style endeavors. Eisler’s experiences in this environment helped shape his perspectives on collaborative production values and the use of music in film for political ends. In 1931, during the early stages of sound film, he collaborated on the KPD-sponsored proletariat film Kuhle Wampe oder: Wem gehört die Welt? (Kuhle Wampe, or Who owns the world?) (produced by the Prometheus Film Collective, script written by Brecht and Ernst Ottwald) and later Song of Heroes (Mezhrabpom), films that promoted strong revolutionary agendas and embraced the social values enunciated by Münzenberg.24 Many of Eisler’s compositional techniques were designed to enhance the film’s political affect by creating a more rational and reasoned approach and by utilizing the music as a strong and independent voice rather than a subordinated appendage that functioned only to reinforce on-screen actions. Such strategies, among others, were devised to stimulate audiences and to counteract the manipulative approach that Hollywood scores achieved through escapist effects. Eisler’s commitment to these activities led him to write about the subject. In one of his first published articles for the London magazine World Film, for

8

Background Stories

example, he emphasizes the importance of working side by side with the filmmaker, such as Victor Trivas.25 In Niemandsland, a pacifist film set amid the conflicts of World War I, Trivas called for sound and music to function in conflict with the screen. This strategy, explored by Russian formalists like Sergei Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov, captured through sound some of the ideas that could not be visualized or identified on-screen and drew out deeper meanings that might underlie the film’s depiction. In Niemandsland, therefore, the conflict between sound and screen might metaphorically be construed as the conflicts existing between nations in World War I, and Eisler’s score materially contributed to these effects. In comparison, similar antiwar films of the period, such as Lewis Milestone’s American film All Quiet on the Western Front (1930), used sound and music in tandem with the visual images to capture the realistic aspects of war, illustrating what was already apparent on the screen.26 Few films in Hollywood would have employed the type of sonic musical style or counterpoint that Eisler used in films like Niemandsland or the commercial film Dans les rues, also made by Victor Trivas.27 As Eisler would discover, his European experiences in film and those of Hollywood seemed to be worlds apart. By 1933, when Hitler became chancellor, Eisler was no longer welcome in Germany, and in exile he could not always choose his film commissions. Still, he continued to work primarily with a close, politically leftist émigré circle who shared the artistic views and partisan politics that infused aspects of their motion pictures. In England he participated in two commercial films, Abdul the Damned, a film that criticized Hitler’s dictatorship through a veiled historical parable set in pre–World War I Turkey, and Pagliacci, an opera adaptation.28 The cultural and political milieu in which these pictures were made placed them well outside the general motion picture fare produced in England and revealed a cultural divide. Novelist Graham Greene’s xenophobic response to these “British” productions, in which Eisler was involved, highlighted the problems when he said, “We have saved the English film industry from American competition only to surrender it to a far more alien control.”29 Film practice was cultural practice defined by particular characteristics of identity politics and ethos; Greene’s comments reflected things to come. By now, Eisler had become a highly skilled European film composer and critic, but this expertise would not entirely prepare him for his own immediate experiences in Hollywood. Eisler’s first impressions of the United States (and Hollywood) came on a cross-country tour of the country in 1935, promoting his political music and lectures primarily within the fledgling American Marxist circles, an environment where he was celebrated. The American Music League’s Composers’

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Chapter 1

Collective, a communist-front organization directed toward professional composers, used Eisler’s example as a model for their own work. Members such as Charles Seeger and Henry Leland Clarke, among others, revered his ability to transform modernist musical language politically to reach a mass audience.30 Because Copland participated in some of these organizations, Eisler’s example provides a common political link between the two composers, even though their modernist and cultural inclinations would lead to quite different outcomes. More important, the trip laid the foundation for Eisler’s later residency in the United States when he finally fled Europe. The connections he made, especially in left-wing political circles, created opportunities for him to work in film as both a critic and a composer and eventually in Hollywood itself. Few German émigrés looked favorably to America as a viable place of exile, perhaps because of its distance and certainly because of its alien culture. Eisler’s initial observations during his 1935 tour, for example, reflected elements of this posture. German exiles came from a society that catered to a different set of cultural ideals and values (as Greene emphasized in Britain) that relied on a historical elite tradition, even if, like Eisler (and Brecht), those exiles came into conflict with that tradition. German artists of all stripes still enjoyed political and aesthetic autonomy through a diverse but wide infrastructure that supported their traditions.31 The proletariat had an expansive network of social and cultural agencies in which Eisler participated, and political parties like the Social Democrats (SPD) and the Communists (KPD), through Münzenberg’s leadership, controlled independent and powerful distribution mechanisms. Within art circles, exhibitions like the Baden Baden Festival, where Eisler’s score for Walter Ruttman’s experimental film Opus III was premiered in 1927, showcased modernist trends. European artists, even controversial and political ones, still had a public and an infrastructure that supported them in a tradition of critical engagement. Furthermore, Eisler had witnessed a mythologization of American culture in 1920s Weimar Germany through German films, jazz cabaret, and detective novels. These productions fostered a perception on the part of many intellectuals and artists that the United States was a diabolical place, exotic and vulgar, void of intellectualism, and tied to money, capitalism, and the clutch of technology. Consequently, when Eisler and Adorno collaborated on Composing for the Films or when Eisler, Brecht, and Fritz Lang worked together on Hangmen Also Die!, their responses to the Hollywood enterprise and its public often exposed an undercurrent tied to this kind of cultural animosity and naïveté. After Eisler arrived in Hollywood, as he had done in Berlin, England, Paris, and New York, he immediately integrated himself within a like-minded partisan émigré group. Each of his compatriots carried different attitudes toward 10

Background Stories

their new American context, especially Hollywood, where they would reside. Brecht despised it and could never acclimate himself to the culture, while Fritz Lang embraced it. Eisler negotiated between the two extremes, openly expressing his critical disdain for American culture in Composing for the Films, yet as a Hollywood composer he became a pragmatist, writing a score for Hangmen Also Die! that bridged the two cultures. Copland’s Emergent American Modernism

In historical hindsight, it seems ironic that Aaron Copland should have emerged as the quintessential twentieth-century American composer in the cultivated musical arts. As a modernist of Jewish descent, a homosexual, and a leftist, he had to negotiate his career through a field of arduous political and aesthetic hurdles in a community that embraced conservative musical ideals, anti-Semitism, homophobia, and later anticommunism.32 But in many ways, these characteristics helped to shape his political sensitivity and orientation toward the pursuit of inclusion and egalitarianism, values that would become determining factors in his artistic and political outlook and central to his engagement with Hollywood film. Howard Pollack and Elizabeth Crist have carefully documented Copland’s progressive ideals and his movement toward Marxist political activities during the 1930s.33 The political orientation Copland adopted motivated him to rethink more acutely the relationship between modernist composers, who he feared were “working in a vacuum,” and their audiences. In order to capture a new public, Copland turned to the generation that now consumed music through the new technologies of radio, phonograph, and film, themselves not only products of modern culture but simultaneously the means by which modern culture was disseminated. Moreover, in the pursuit of that new public, he introduced an “imposed simplicity,” a conscious and deliberate effort to create an accessible yet modern musical complexion.34 The opportunity to compose scores for Hollywood films allowed him to combine his “imposed simplicity” with the mass medium of film. Hollywood, as a powerful cultural enterprise, with its vast and diverse audiences, its appeal, and its ability to cross cultural boundaries, helped to establish Copland as the iconic Americanist composer. In this regard, film music held important implications for Copland’s career because the medium’s visual and narrative content brought a dynamic quality to his scores (of course, his music reciprocally animated the films), branding them with their American sensibilities. It was a stylistic ethos that he had already begun to develop in his ballet scores and concert music in the mid-1930s. But unlike the ideals of originality that defined these cultivated practices and were 11

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coveted by art composers, Hollywood relied more often on repeated stylistic identification from film to film, a practical inevitability of the production process that led to the creation of a historic and cultural network of musical codes.35 When studio music departments discovered the American modernist qualities that defined Copland’s film music, they too adopted them, invoking his stylistic features as a model for other Hollywood films of American contemporary content. More than the ballet scores, his film music became popularized through a pyramid structure of dissemination, distributing his musical ideas well beyond his own film scores.36 Ironically, this prestige of popularity, itself tied to Copland’s political ethos, found its way back into the concert hall, but now with a vibrant and more particular meaning enhanced by the nationalistic program with which Copland had invested it and the branding Hollywood gave it through its wide-reaching democratized power. After Copland wrote Hollywood scores, critics would come to understand the more difficult of the composer’s high modernist works through the interpretive and cultural lens that his film scores had provided.37 Copland’s early experiences in Paris with Nadia Boulanger shaped his modernist outlook and heightened his appreciation for American culture through its dissemination and consumption in France. The aesthetics of simplicity, a characteristic that would later distinguish his film music style, were qualities introduced to him in the compositional work of the notorious French composers Les Six through their audacious embrace of “Une musique de tous les jours” (music of the everyday).38 Their rebellious approach, itself a modernist posture, challenged French traditions that they considered to be no longer relevant while legitimizing a utilitarian role for music. For Copland, their musical courage validated the juxtaposition of an accessible language within contemporary art music, much as Eisler was doing in late 1920s Berlin, a new way of thinking that profoundly affected both composers’ outlook. Perhaps more shocking to Copland was Les Six’s bold fascination with American popular forms of jazz, a phenomenon he experienced within the circle associated with Boulanger, as well as in the café culture of Paris and Vienna.39 Copland was an outsider to Paris, so the idea of American popular music transplanted into European modernist culture created for him a new perspective on American culture.40 Moreover, the way the French consumed and hotly debated jazz showed Copland that such popular forms could cut across class boundaries through the diverse strands of French society. The distinction between high and low culture was becoming blurred.41 Copland was also surprised to find the wide-ranging presence and importance of Hollywood movies, which dominated theaters in Paris. To his parents,

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he expressed it as a sign of modernism.42 Even Boulanger, Copland’s teacher, went to the movies, an activity that Annegret Fauser considered one of several social factors that identified Boulanger as a “modern European woman.”43 This exposure to American culture in Europe demonstrated to Copland its intrinsic value and validated for him these forms of popular expression as viable artistic outlets, in distinction to prevailing views in the United States of high and low culture, views that critics like Seldes were beginning to question.44 Copland’s idol, the Russian-born composer Igor Stravinsky, provided another lesson while Copland was in Paris. As a Russian émigré, Stravinsky’s own outsider status in France gave him the conviction that as a twentieth-century composer he could invent his own tradition.45 This idea was fundamental to Copland because music in the United States, at least within the cultivated arts, relied on a European tradition. Without a musical history of its own either to reject or to rely upon, the concept of a truly American modernist aesthetic was still an empty book ready to be filled.46 When Copland returned to the United States after his studies, American modernist composers suffered a double burden: they were ignored by the mainstream concert communities, who viewed them as parochial because they were American, and as modernists they were disdained because the American public could not understand their difficult style.47 As Elie Siegmeister, a colleague of Copland’s, put it, “Modernism galvanized the young composers, but was royally rejected by major orchestras and the broad musical public, and survived in those tiny concerts attended by 100—always the same 100 people.”48 Part of the problem lay in the fact that much of the modernist music performed in the United States was European; that is, it was an imported art form that was bound to the culture’s own particular contemporary social and political conditions. Hanns Eisler’s reading of Schoenberg’s dodecaphonic music, for example, which I discuss below in the context of Eisler’s score for Hangmen Also Die!, was an evocative interpretation of the social problems in Europe following the war but did not pertain to the situation in the United States. Accordingly, the rebellious ethos that defined the European modernist aesthetic and its cultural significance found little relevance in the American context, a situation that compounded Copland’s resentment regarding the special privilege accorded European composers. Copland wanted to combat this problem by creating a music that represented a broader conception of American culture and address the values of a mass audience. Copland was extremely sensitive to the cultural politics involved in realizing such a goal. Some of the negative criticisms he received regarding his jazzinflected works during the 1920s, for example, revealed an underlying personal

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and ethnic hostility that arose from the allusions to African American culture and his own Jewish background.49 Critics drew lines of segregation between the highbrow culture of American concert life, which belonged to establishment Yankee culture, and Jews and Negros, who stood at the margins of American society’s cultivated establishment.50 As an outsider to the establishment, how might Copland bring to audiences a modernist musical ethos that embraced his own inclusive American ideals? These were his central concerns during the Depression. Because Copland and Jews in the United States generally maintained an outsider status in mainstream American culture, the motivation to participate in politics was underscored by its promise for a more egalitarian, tolerant, and pluralistic country.51 At stake was what Marc Dollinger has called “the politics of acculturation,” an opportunity for American Jews to help shape their own social inclusion and, in turn, be a part of mainstream American life.52 In 1936 Joseph Freeman, editor of the New Masses, a magazine closely tied to the Communist Party of the United States (CPUSA), expressed the notion that “if you are born into an oppressed nationality you are likely to think a great deal about oppression and about nationalism.”53 For Copland, the perspective seemed fitting, particularly as anti-Semitism began to rise following the Depression. Jews, especially those from emigrant families, had grown up with the promise of democracy free from the prejudices they had encountered in Europe.54 The political ideals of inclusion, particularly those associated with the Left, provided a more hopeful and genuine perspective of what the United States might look like for Jews, particularly secularized ones like Copland. Much of Copland’s writings, his music, and, as I discuss later, his score for Of Mice and Men address these themes and, as the crisis of the Depression advanced, the plight of the worker in relation to a nationalistic rhetoric associated with the Popular Front in the United States, “the people.”55 His creative efforts during this period contributed to the cultural movement that helped to sustain the US progressive political agenda.56 Copland’s validation of Hollywood in works like Of Mice and Men reveals how the industry could blur the distinction between the popular and the exclusive. Rather than deny their aesthetic limitations, Copland embraced the culture industries as a contemporary platform that strengthened, not weakened, his art. As Copland said in 1940, “The composer of today has a brand new audience to write for. The radio and the phonograph and the movies have broadened the democratic bases of music so suddenly that composers have been taken by surprise. . . . It is our job to give these new listeners a music that is fresh, direct, simple and profound. I can think of no better program for the composer of today.”57

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Hollywood: The State of the Industry

In 1939 critic Margaret Farrand Thorp published this thumbnail sketch of the tensions between industry and art in Hollywood: “‘It must be remembered that the production of motion pictures is not only an art but an industry.’ Or: ‘It must be remembered that the production of motion pictures is not so much an art as an industry.’ Or: ‘It must be remembered that the production of motion pictures is not an art but an industry.’ That sentence, in one of its variants, occurs in every discussion of the movies.”58 Copland and Eisler fully appreciated this condition only after they began working in the movie capital. By that time, the industry had already evolved into a powerful creative and commercial enterprise. Musical practice emerged from its historical position in relation to the progress of the industry as a whole, the development of technology, a distinctive narrative practice and mode of production, and stylistic preferences, all of which were shaped by a hierarchy of power relations and economic considerations. These conditions generated a musical culture that was forced to negotiate between artistic considerations and commercial dictates unique to Hollywood. In essence, Hollywood had its own way of doing business. With this in mind, I begin the discussion by considering the state of the Hollywood industry and the historical rationale behind its values, its working conditions, and its practices as Copland and Eisler found them and to which they responded. Though most histories glorify the coming of sound as a technological triumph, its aesthetic intrusion to film was by many accounts disruptive.59 Since the early 1900s, Hollywood filmmakers had developed a host of visual strategies particularly in editing that proved to deliver, from the perspective of the public, a highly persuasive narrative style focused upon a convincing seamlessness and coherence between film shots. The art of invisible editing or montage cultivated an illusion of naturalism and, in turn, the psychological notion of a visual reality on-screen, a key strategy that contributed to the style of classical Hollywood film. As technical innovations in sound film developed, they were used primarily to enhance dialogue (and sound effects) as they contributed to the aesthetic of on-screen realism.60 Because sound effects and music were recorded during postproduction, after image track and dialogue, they acquired the status of an afterthought within the filmmaking process, which had long-standing consequences for the plight of music.61 In particular, nondiegetic music, which does not emanate or cannot be implied from a source on-screen, functions outside the film’s narrative space.62 Therefore, the score cannot participate so readily

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in the realistic ideology that classical style was developing and indeed could be considered to undermine that realism. Because of these technical developments, studios positioned music as an add-on to the film’s artistic complex. Moreover, musical underscoring continued to be treated further down the aesthetic hierarchy in the mixing process because sound effects, like dialogue, were considered a part of the natural and realistic world and were therefore required to be heard over music. These conditions relegated nondiegetic music as an accessory to enhance the importance of existing screen events and a servant to narrative constructions instead of a full-fledged participant. Rather than including music as part of an integrated artistic conception that placed it on an equal footing (an approach commonly used in Europe and to which Eisler fully subscribed), Hollywood filmmakers often exploited nondiegetic scores as a means to cover up problems and rescue any of the editorial, acting, or dialogue flaws on the completed image track (or rough cut). Music was the fix, curing problems that potentially challenged the integrity of the screen. That the role of music should be reduced to such subservient and menial applications was, to Copland, an abomination.63 Practice: Music in Hollywood Film

Compared to the more concrete ideological demand to create realism onscreen, the functions assigned to music in its subordinated position focused on the less tangible, more enigmatic qualities, those like music itself, that could not be seen and therefore were harder for the audience to grasp. These qualities generated an alternative reality to the illusion of reality created by image and dialogue. Filmmakers used music to evoke characteristics that the image track or dialogue could not capture so readily, including psychological characterization, emotion, and the rendering of mood.64 Hollywood therefore developed a variety of functional and stylistic strategies that accorded with music’s subordinated position and played upon the audience’s human weakness, that of the ear, which Eisler understood to be a passive organ in comparison to the eye.65 To exploit music in these less tangible contexts and still maintain the goal of realism on-screen, the classical Hollywood film demanded that the musical score establish a type of invisible discourse, an auditory verisimilitude parallel to the visual illusion of naturalism established through Hollywood’s editing strategies. As a general convention, musical underscoring had to maintain a discreet and self-effacing presence in order to function in an unconscious way, in effect, to be “inaudible.”66 To support this goal, cinematographers and composers worked toward concealing both the technical apparatus (the sound and visual equipment) 16

Background Stories

and the technical processes of a motion picture in order to preserve the illusory character of realism on film.67 Like its visual counterpart in editing, the sound apparatus, such as microphones, speakers, the studio orchestras, or any sonic device generating music, was concealed from viewers. In cases where the physical sound apparatus was presented on-screen, the classical aesthetic would require that it be “naturalized”: the source of the music or the apparatus becomes part of the diegetic world visually presented on-screen, whether from a radio or other natural sound source, and therefore maintains the perception of realism. Nevertheless, how could filmmakers explain the ontology of music whose source was not part of the diegesis? This question continued to provoke heated aesthetic and theoretical debates on the role and function of Hollywood’s nondiegetic music during the 1930s and beyond. Conflicts arose over whether music should be heard, where it should be positioned, whether it enhanced or disturbed screen events, and the nature of the music itself, issues that Copland would address well into the 1940s.68 To deal with this conundrum, Hollywood film composers used a variety of compositional strategies to conceal the musical underscoring from the conscious awareness of the viewer.69 For example, they introduced or completed a musical cue by carefully preparing a soft lead-in, a strategy that was dubbed “sneaking” or “stealing” the music into the narrative in order not to draw attention to it, as Copland does in his score for Of Mice and Men, as I discuss in chapter 3.70 Similarly, to end the musical cue or tailing out, they might focus on a moment of shifting emphasis on-screen. Moreover, subtle melodic constructions remained discreet to restrict the audience’s direct apprehension, while complex rhythms were avoided and slower tempos were carefully controlled. Other compositional elements, such as orchestration, were subjected to the same aesthetic and ideological goals that fostered a fluid unobtrusive style. Copland keenly observed that composing for celluloid often required the avoidance of harsh or strident effects and articulations.71 Sensitivity toward microphone techniques was important, because instruments projected differently in recording.72 In response, Hollywood tended to exploit the wash of a full string section as a solution to the problems of reproduction, while woodwinds had to be treated unobtrusively because of their diverse and more idiosyncratic timbres, a convention that Copland thwarted.73 Essentially, Hollywood’s aesthetic and theoretical ideals of inaudibility governed most compositional problems in score writing and in turn became central issues in Copland’s and Eisler’s critical discussions. Copland, for example, admired Hollywood composers who showed expertise in creating what he called a depersonalized or neutral style, music that would not draw attention to itself particularly under dialogue, whereas Eisler (and Adorno), in comparison, loathed this type of banal music. 17

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The most common strategy aligned to the classical Hollywood aesthetic was to exploit music as a means of illustrating the materials initially introduced visually on-screen. In essence, music was made to be mimetic, functioning to establish close synchronization between image and music. The most extreme application of this approach was coined “Mickey Mousing” because it often occurred in cartoon scores. Max Steiner, though not alone, was among its most famous proponents in Hollywood: “The ‘Mickey Mouse’ scoring (my way of scoring) is a method which I consider the best for the screen, as it fits a picture like a glove.”74 Critics, beginning with Rudolf Arnheim, labeled the close synchronization between music and film as “parallel.”75 The processes of mixing and sound editing were also designed to support the established ideology by creating a homogenized flow, masking production and controlling the presence of the musical track by leveling the dynamics within a limited range and divesting the music of its distinctive articulations in what Eisler and Adorno called “neutralization.”76 Copland was also outraged that his efforts were reduced literally (rather than theoretically) to the point of inaudibility during the dubbing procedures.77 Ironically, the industry spent a great deal of money on the production, recording, editing, and mixing of music, only to render it “inaudible,” figuratively or otherwise, in the final product. The Composer and the Studio Music Department

When the new technology of synchronized sound was implemented across all studios and the mechanisms housed in theaters (the transition period is usually identified from 1927 to 1932), initially most films released from Hollywood were musicals.78 To service this need, studios established music departments, hired large orchestras, and attracted arrangers and conductors who typically came from the music theater industry: Tin Pan Alley, Broadway, and silent film.79 Even those who did have training within the art music tradition, such as Max Steiner, concealed these alliances and instead embraced the values and ideals of the commercial world. These musicians established the working culture and creative requirements that characterized the role of music in film and the values and ideals of the Hollywood studio music departments. Nathaniel Finston, who founded the music department at Paramount Pictures and became its first director, was a classically trained violinist who conducted in a variety of motion picture theaters in New York and Chicago before arriving in Hollywood.80 Alfred Newman, who eventually became head of the music department at Twentieth Century Fox studios, was a piano prodigy who, like Copland, studied at an early age with Rubin Goldmark but whose

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professional experience was cultivated on Broadway as a conductor before his Hollywood arrival in 1930. Max Steiner, who studied composition with Gustav Mahler and received his formal training at the Imperial Academy of Music in Vienna, composed and directed professionally for operettas in Europe and eventually on Broadway as copyist, arranger, orchestrator, and conductor before coming to Hollywood in 1929.81 These musicians acquired their professional experiences in the entertainment industries and adapted their skills to meet the new compositional needs of the motion picture enterprise. As Hollywood shifted its attention away from musicals toward the application of instrumental nondiegetic music, many of these musicians continued to work and experiment closely with industry executives, establishing a range of conventionalized practices, some of which I discuss above.82 Rather than bring the latest developments of modernism into the studio, a practice exercised to some extent in the European motion picture industry and certainly in the emerging American documentary movement, Hollywood composers shaped their scores with the familiar styles of entertainment music that traced their musical lineage back to the repertoires exploited in silent film: light classics, operetta, musical comedy, and popular song.83 This music complemented the ideals of industry executives who demanded what they believed suited public taste and mass appeal. That industry executives assumed control over their film product had been legally enshrined already in 1916. Charlie Chaplin pursued a court injunction against Essanay Studios and their distributor, V-LS-E, for tampering with one of his films, which he felt had been compromised. Chaplin lost his suit and with that set a precedent that would establish the employer’s rights of ownership (the studio) over the employee’s authorship (Chaplin’s creative contributions). In essence, the law solidified the control of studio executives over the artists they hired, a condition that would have important implications for composers working in Hollywood.84 The power structure of the studio system (ownership of production, distribution, and exhibition) and collective workforce reflected the imposition of a large bureaucratic management organization. During the 1930s, most of the studio’s administrative structures were formalized through intensely fought union negotiations with musicians (American Federation of Musicians) and arrangers (American Society of Music Arrangers, ASMA) but not with composers.85 And although unions helped to define the stratification of various professional tasks in each studio, composers were put in the position of negotiating their own financial contracts.86 Nevertheless, composers were considered employees, and their status as such legally nullified any of their individual rights or identification

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with the creative investment of the score, a condition that arose directly from the Charlie Chaplin v. Essanay Film Manufacturing Company case. Though film composers generally accepted their employee status within a collective unit, art composers, even those like Copland, who embraced the industrialized notion of American culture (Eisler did not) nevertheless found it difficult and professionally stifling. In Composing for the Films, Eisler published a standard contractual agreement, probably his own when he worked under Arnold Pressburger for Hangmen Also Die! The document exposes the weak legal position of the composer: “All material composed, submitted, added or interpolated by the Writer pursuant to this agreement shall automatically become the property of the Corporation, which, for this purpose, shall be deemed the author thereof, the Writer acting entirely as the Corporation’s employee.”87 Both Copland and Eisler, however, found ways to reuse materials they had developed from their Hollywood films to circumvent the question of creative ownership. In 1942 Copland wrote Music for the Movies, a suite that incorporated musical materials from his film scores, including Of Mice and Men. The brilliance of reusing these materials was not just out of prudence; it also transferred the programmatic meaning he had established from these films back into the concert hall, disseminating the central American musical trope that would define and make famous his identity as an art composer.88 In 1948 Eisler borrowed the opening musical gesture for East Germany’s newly created national anthem from a heroic and patriotic moment (music for the death of a Czech resistance leader) in his score from Hangmen Also Die! This self-borrowing reflects an ironic political and ideological twist in view of the differences between Hollywood, the most capitalist of American enterprises, and the newly formed country of East Germany, the most communist.89 Both composers boldly moved outside the legal constraints of the studio system to assert ownership over the music they created for it. The Artist as Businessman; or, How to Fit In

In 1937 J. B. Priestley, the famous novelist and an erstwhile screenwriter in Hollywood, provocatively described the internal professional tensions of the industry: “Its trade, which is in dreams and at so many dollars a thousand feet, is managed by businessmen pretending to be artists and by artists pretending to be businessmen. In this queer atmosphere, nobody stays as he was; the artist begins to lose his art, and the businessman becomes temperamental and unbalanced.”90 This characterization epitomized Nathaniel Finston, the founder of Paramount’s music department, who personified the business mentality that

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would drive artistic decisions in Hollywood. He made two significant statements in December 1929 regarding the future of film music in Hollywood that would have lasting implications. He affirmed that composers were tied to an industry and therefore required to shape their work according to the criteria determined by the “industrialist” and that the business model employed by the film industry paralleled the industrial standards of a factory. Hollywood, he said, required composers who were “different” from those in the art tradition.91 Like many other musical directors who later in the decade expressed a similar sentiment, Finston believed that to hire art composers implied individualism, an emphasis on the value of originality over public appeal and taste, and especially creative control.92 These were characteristics closely aligned to the historic ideals of romanticism and the values invested in art music, traditions that were irrelevant to an industry in pursuit of mass-market ideals and commercial expediency.93 As Max Steiner ashamedly revealed, far from acknowledging his musical training at the Imperial Academy of Music or compositional studies with Mahler, he emphatically stated, “I wouldn’t dare. They wouldn’t let me stay in Hollywood anymore.”94 Finston’s alternative to using art composers was to create a more specialized approach to the creative tasks of writing a score. Rather than assigning an entire film score to a single composer, he preferred that the task be achieved collaboratively through individualized tasks: each musical idea would be assigned to a highly trained expert, a specialist dedicated to writing one particular musical concept, emotion, or mood. The music director, like a factory foreman, would then coordinate the individual efforts to produce the full score. In fact, by the mid-1930s, most studios had developed Finston’s model, employing an efficient system that, relying on extreme specialization of labor, emulated a factory assembly line. According to one journalist, Finston got the idea from visiting the Armour and Company meat-packing plant in Chicago. Finston did not shy away from the comparison. In a conversation with composer Oscar Levant, Finston proudly characterized his music department as running “like a well-oiled machine. Every man a cog in the wheel.”95 It was a calculation that Finston made as a means to elevate musical standards: “Each [musical] number must be a peak of effort.”96 Nevertheless, many composers did not view these procedures in the same way. Hugo Friedhofer, for example, felt that he was typecast by this approach. Working for Fox Studios (from 1935 Twentieth Century Fox) during the early 1930s, he was often assigned to do mechanical-sounding music, that is, music with a rhythmically invested style to emulate typewriters, trains, planes, and so on.97 Ernst Toch, considered by Copland to be among the most distinguished German composers, was

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relegated to what Copland describes as the industry’s composer of “screwy music.”98 This was precisely the type of overspecialization that Eisler satirizes in his account of the MGM Studios when he visited in 1935, as I discuss in chapter 4. David Raksin, who also came to Hollywood the same year, wrote extensively about his experiences in the studio and unmasked the real meaning behind the collective process under which he worked at Twentieth Century Fox. Far from elevating musical standards, the process was designed, Raksin observed, to expedite the completion of the score, a goal that resulted from improvements in sound technology and the consequent demand for composers to create vast quantities of music.99 George Antheil and Copland, among many others, observed that speedwriting was an essential professional skill if one wanted to succeed in the industry. In 1935 Antheil proclaimed, however, that such methods discouraged originality and fostered what quickly became a highly formulaic approach to the techniques and strategies of film composition.100 Studios reused musical materials from one film to another, while composers often relied on common solutions in similar narrative situations for every film. The repetitive use of these proven techniques was consistent with the values of studio executives, who, secure with familiar formulae, resisted stylistic change and diversity. Few studios could tolerate the possibilities of risk that arose from new developments or experimentation because there was so much at stake, whether economic consequences or a studio’s reputation.101 The culture of the status quo, however, was not entirely created by studio executives. Part of the problem also lay in the film composers themselves; they were keenly protective of their professional domain. By preserving these conventions, they perpetuated a professional language and culture particular to industry insiders. Both Copland and Eisler in their writings exposed some of the political undercurrents that discouraged new blood in Hollywood and therefore new ideas. Even so, the industry understood that they needed to keep in place aspects of the score that proved successful with audiences while simultaneously innovating in order to stay competitive. One way in which Hollywood addressed these issues was to hire composers whose reputation outside the industry held cachet as a way to reinforce the prestige of their films. Over the objections of music directors like Finston, then, studios occasionally turned to composers from the art music tradition to raise the status of their productions. Paradoxically, the studios often assigned insiders from the music department to ensure that the art music composers did not move too far from the accepted norms.102

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Background Stories

It was a circular process that only in a limited way achieved the kind of dramatic innovation that studio heads claimed they were seeking. Copland and Eisler, however, were able to achieve a measure of innovation in the two film scores treated in this book because they worked for small independent studios where the filmmakers exerted more control over the creative processes. Lewis Milestone’s film Of Mice and Men, for example, was made and produced as a prestige picture to enhance the reputation of its filmmaker (Lewis Milestone), while Hangmen Also Die! was created by the independent Arnold Pressburger under the umbrella of United Artists. Innovation happened, but less frequently, because the industrial conventions were so rigidly entrenched, as Copland and Eisler found when they arrived in Hollywood. Oscar Levant, a classically trained and multitalented Hollywood musician known for his wit and intelligence, sarcastically remarked that Hollywood music departments were plagued by “a vicious circle in which the talented men do not have the experience, and the experienced men—largely speaking—have no particular talent. Thus, the same clichés are repeated over and over in the same lush tradition of over-orchestrating.”103 Such were the conditions that led to the theoretical notions and standardized practices of classical Hollywood scores to which Copland and Eisler would react both in their critical writings and in the first scores they produced for Hollywood.

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Copland on Hollywood

At the invitation of Iris Barry, curator of the Museum of Modern Art’s (MoMA) recently established Film Library (1935), Copland was asked to speak about his experiences composing music for his first film effort, the documentary motion picture The City.1 Between Barry’s invitation and the time of the lecture in January 1940, Copland was unexpectedly called to Hollywood to compose the score for Lewis Milestone’s feature film Of Mice and Men.2 Copland’s involvement in Hollywood had been “refreshing” and positive, and, he admitted, the immediacy of having worked there changed his perspective on film and the Hollywood enterprise.3 Now, for this lecture, he wanted to talk about it. Preserved as a fifty-eight-page typewritten transcript of his remarks, the MoMA lecture provides a critical and nuanced discussion of his theoretical and aesthetic views about Hollywood film music, its practice and practitioners, and his assessment of the industry as a commercial enterprise. This was a field Copland took seriously. He embraced Hollywood as an American cultural institution and wanted to legitimize it for the American modernist composer, an agenda that suited his nationalistic aims. The tone of the MoMA lecture, therefore, focuses on rescuing the industry from the worst transgressions of a commercial enterprise. Copland immediately sets this aesthetic agenda by establishing boundaries between “serious” American composers, namely, himself and his modernist colleagues, from “film composers,” those who work exclusively for Hollywood.

Copland on Hollywood

Copland was not alone in making this distinction. Various contemporary American composers and critics also separated the two communities professionally. The designation of “film composer,” however, from the perspective of those outside the industry, often implied a negative bias, suggesting that staff composers, “insiders,” those whose careers depended on the industry, were somehow inferior to “serious” composers whether because of their differences in training or because they lacked broader musical experiences within the realm of art music. Worse, “film composers” closely protected access to Hollywood. The perspective on this divide depended very much upon where composers stood in relation to the industry and where the industry stood in relation to them.4 The idea of validating Hollywood film remained controversial within highbrow institutions such as MoMA. For example, Barry encountered opposition among MoMA’s trustees to include Hollywood motion pictures in its Film Library, a skepticism they shared with many American modernist composers. She had to persuade the trustees that along with MoMA’s investment in European and documentary motion pictures, Hollywood films also had a place as an art form worthy of collecting, preserving, and studying.5 In this climate, many American modernist composers were reluctant to involve themselves in the “entertainment industry,” which they felt had the potential to sully their already precarious status as “serious” artists at home. Unlike their European counterparts, who more often successfully negotiated between their concert careers and work in the European film industry, American modernists felt professionally vulnerable and could not seem to achieve a similar balance. And while modernist composers found Hollywood inhospitable, it was a two-way street, because for the most part, Hollywood also found modernists unsuitable to the demands of its industry.6 The Hollywood film music community viewed itself as an autonomous and self-sufficient enterprise and was notoriously difficult to penetrate to the degree that modernist composer George Antheil described it as a “closed corporation.”7 In 1939 Virginia Wright, drama editor of a Los Angeles newspaper, summed up the perilous condition for composers imported to Hollywood: in an article announcing Copland’s arrival to score Of Mice and Men, she wrote, “The life of the modern composer in Hollywood usually is very short. In one of the town’s periodic progressive outbursts he may be signed, exploited, and set to work. But the cases of those who have been imported, and actually allowed to complete a motion picture score without dictation, are few, indeed.”8 Harold Clurman, an intimate friend of Copland’s working as a screenwriter in Hollywood, reported to him that Hollywood music directors, who were in control of artistic decisions, were still distrustful of art composers. Even

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directors who were considered more sympathetic, such as Paramount Pictures’ Boris Morros, who attempted to recruit Igor Stravinsky and Arnold Schoenberg, expressed the need for the art composer to be practical, to adjust, and to be flexible.9 Implied in Morros’s statement is the notion that art composers would not willingly conform to collaborative production requirements. To “adjust” meant to work within Hollywood’s norms and conform to a Romantic or post-Romantic idiom, exemplified by the work of Erich Wolfgang Korngold, Max Steiner, and their contemporaries. And though progressive composers working in Hollywood, such as Werner Janssen (The General Died at Dawn, 1936), George Antheil (The Plainsmen, 1936), and Ernst Toch (Peter Ibbetson, 1935), composed musical moments that stepped outside Hollywood practice and were considered innovative by some critics, their scores nevertheless still fit within the stylistic boundaries of studio expectations. Part of the disconnection between these two camps lay in the fact that most modernists knew nothing about Hollywood and its practices, to the astonishment of Copland, although the American popular press reported these developments in articles by journalists and occasionally by the film composers themselves.10 This lack of awareness discouraged meaningful critical engagement with the specialized nature of the industry. Their naïveté helped to perpetuate a mystique about Hollywood, one that continually focused on its negative aspects rather than on the professionalism and potential artistry and craft involved in the enterprise.11 Copland’s shift in perspective after working there is a case in point. In contrast, as Hugo Friedhofer and Oscar Levant reported, film composers studied and made it their business to be aware of the newest modernist trends, even though they did not adopt them during this period.12 The communities remained largely isolated from each other. Modern Music, published by the League of Composers and directed toward American modernist composers, constituted one exception, as it had commissioned articles that focused on the new sound film technology as early as 1926. Nevertheless, these authors (mostly composers) wrote primarily about documentary or European films, areas in which some modernists were actively engaged, and they largely ignored Hollywood, viewing it, one presumes, as an enterprise unworthy of consideration. In 1935, when the editors of Modern Music finally called on someone to address Hollywood from the perspective of the industry, they did it primarily through one voice, that of George Antheil, for whom Copland had great respect.13 Antheil’s observations provide both an interesting parallel and a foil to Copland’s own ideas on Hollywood, as well as sharing some perspectives with Eisler. An American who had gained notoriety as a modernist composer in Europe, Antheil had by 1933 returned to the United States as his career began to wane. 26

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He worked in various film studios as a way to generate income, first in New York and then, beginning in 1936, in Hollywood.14 Though not a central figure in the industry, nevertheless, his observations still carried weight among his modernist musical peers, including Copland, who benefited from his advice.15 After all, Antheil not only identified with them as a group and valued their ideals but also acquired modest personal experience and even some success within the industry. Not a true insider, still he embraced Hollywood as a viable and potentially lucrative professional platform. After publishing two articles on Hollywood, Antheil wrote a regular column for Modern Music entitled On the Hollywood Front (1936–39).16 The title seems apt and a loaded term, alluding to an ongoing military conflict, while the political overtones pointed to the ideals of the recently established Popular Front. Antheil writes with the ethos of an art composer and the tactlessness of a gossip columnist, offering critical assessments of the industry, as well as extensive practical, theoretical, and artistic comments, some useful and pointed, some unreliable. His column is filled with newsy tidbits, ranging from sage advice for his modernist colleagues to cynical criticisms that vacillate between the industry’s glories and its failings. His writings provided one of the few gateways to Hollywood for the modernist musical community, including Copland.17 While Copland’s writings about Hollywood often echo Antheil’s own sentiments and criticisms, nevertheless, Copland’s experience in Hollywood was by and large positive; therefore, he offers a far more encouraging outlook. “No one interested in wider publics, the education of the people, or the general emotional vibrations of the times, can leave motion pictures out of his calculations,” Antheil dutifully explains. Copland, however, was far more enthusiastic, emphasizing that film music is a “revolutionizing force . . . so new, and the possibilities so vast,” while he believes that, historically, Hollywood music “is certain to loom large in any stocktaking of filmdom’s musical achievements.”18 Copland’s working conditions were to some extent more privileged and not subject to the same limitations as those of Hollywood staff composers. He was the sole composer for Of Mice and Men, received more time to complete his projects, and, under Lewis Milestone’s directorship, certainly held more control over the music than most film composers in Hollywood.19 These conditions would have a bearing on his perspective. Copland and the Attraction of Hollywood

Now that Copland had entered the arena of Hollywood, his writings about film music functioned much like his publications devoted to American concert music: to legitimize the medium through critical engagement. He sought 27

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to promote film composition as an important part of the American cultural landscape, and he wanted to influence the dialogue about Hollywood. As he retrospectively queried later in his famous Norton lectures, “How are we to make contact with this enormously enlarged potential audience, without sacrificing in any way the highest musical standards?”20 His answer is embedded in these writings. Copland did not shy away from acknowledging the benefits of working in Hollywood: the emphasis is placed on living composers, the composers’ music is needed, they compose every day, their work is relevant, and they are paid well for it. The industry is, at least on the surface, “the most wonderful place for composers” and a “composer’s Eldorado.” Copland completes his positive discussion by hoping that “[Hollywood] might be at some future time for all composers,” not just film composers but also his modernist colleagues.21 He fosters this last position by publishing his first article on Hollywood in Modern Music, a significant decision because of the journal’s modernist orientation. To promote the revisionist history he was now perpetuating, Copland entitled the article “Second Thoughts on Hollywood.” Simultaneously, Copland also recognized the shortcomings of his contemporaries in art music. They seemed to carry the aesthetic burden of creating awe-inspiring objects or masterpieces devised to be admired historically.22 In this characterization, he invokes the term “reverential” and the more derogatory image of “embalmed” to express these notions in an effort to demystify some of the romantic ideals still embraced by the “serious” composer.23 Hollywood is not the place, according to Copland, for this mentality, because above all the film industry is a collaborative enterprise and does not tolerate complete self-expression, autonomy, or aesthetic control on the part of the composer.24 Even Copland, however, chafed at some of the compromises that collaboration in Hollywood demanded, as I discuss below. Despite his own positive experiences with Milestone, Copland nevertheless has made the point that in most cases, the direction of authority in Hollywood seemed to flow one way, from producer to composer, a dictatorial culture in which the studio, not the employee, legally held control over the product and authorship. He saw this system as flawed in the distribution of authority, because composers, not producers, who claimed to be “accurate barometers of public taste” (“If I can’t understand it, the public won’t”), should have the monopoly on understanding musical reception.25 In his writings, Copland employs language that elevates the composer, clearly positioning him as artist, not employee. In his words, once one is engaged, the producer or director should “let him [the composer] decide what is best for the film,” and “the only

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way to get the best out of any artist is to let him alone.”26 The comment reflects how Copland saw his own position in Hollywood, working with Milestone on Of Mice and Men, and what he hoped would become the norm. If the system were to change, he believed that “movie music” would in the future define both an artistic genre and a specialized musical style characteristic of the unique forms and strategies of the medium.27 But Copland saddles much of the blame for this working culture on the film composers themselves. They have become so obligingly attentive to everything the producer or director says because at the bottom line, their livelihood depends upon it. This harsh depiction portrays the Hollywood film composer as unprincipled and only concerned with “a house and tennis courts and all the other things that composers don’t usually invest in.”28 Simultaneously, Copland invokes the romantic notion of the starving artist while revealing a double standard, since he too concerned himself with Hollywood’s financial rewards.29 Nevertheless, film composers never unionized to protect some of their autonomy (as did other creative sectors within the industry) because they wanted to preserve the fiction of their artistic pretensions, a fiction many were more than willing to reinforce and perpetuate, as they did in their memoirs, particularly in regard to questions of musical authority and authorship.30 Despite this posturing, however, the reality of the matter was that the success of the film composer depended on his or her willingness to work within the industry’s authoritative structure. Yet the restrictive trends that coincided with the high economic stakes of a commercial production made it difficult for serious composers to adapt to the production modes of Hollywood. In comparison, European composers who worked in film, many from the art music tradition, such as Arthur Honegger, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, and Benjamin Britten, were not under the same controls imposed by the Hollywood studio system. As Copland put it, his European colleagues were able to create “serious” film scores because “they are all composers primarily, and film composers in the second place.”31 They subscribed to individualism and originality, while imitation seemed to be the requisite ideal in Hollywood. The truth, however, was that European composers were not threatened by mass-market production. Because their studios produced fewer films per year and spent much less money per production, there was less financial risk involved.32 Composers, therefore, could develop long-term relationships with directors, working together side by side in the production of each film, and they had the luxury to experiment. Copland felt himself to be very fortunate to work on Of Mice and Men, a motion picture that spoke to his own ideals

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and values.33 Immediately following his experience on this film, Copland was asked to write music for another, an invitation he declined because he felt the picture was not deserving.34 In comparison, Hollywood studio composers on contract were not in a position to make such decisions. In essence, Copland’s situation was exceptional. The “Serious Composer’s” New Dramatic Art Form

Copland viewed film as a hybrid dramatic musical form, a compositional category that borrowed heavily from some of the techniques of opera, including an adaptation of Wagner’s musical concept of the leitmotif. Yet while he recognized similarities between the two genres, he also saw that the requirements of cinema posed new and unexplored problems for the composer, some of which had yet to be solved by Hollywood’s composers. One of these was the leitmotif, a basic strategy exploited or perhaps corrupted (as Eisler and Adorno might say) in the earliest nondiegetic scores.35 In the hands of early film composers, the leitmotif became a musical signifier assigned to a character, concept, or scenic event; the leitmotif was closely keyed to screen events and reinforced by its repetition.36 Copland recognized that Max Steiner, one of the most celebrated early film composers in Hollywood, helped to conventionalize the use of the leitmotif in classical Hollywood film scores, but he felt that the technique was exploited indiscriminately and mechanically to save time rather than for artistic value. And although Copland later applied a loosely conceived form of what he called “leitmotif style” in the 1949 film The Heiress, nevertheless, his reaction to the practice remained highly critical. Copland pondered whether audiences were actually aware of the thematic device, which he felt operated as a redundancy in cinema.37 Copland explains that in cinema, if the leitmotif is taken out of the context of Wagnerian opera, where the device is integrated into a larger musical fabric and developed dramatically and psychologically, and strictly imposed as an audible marker, the results become farcical: “One theme announced the Indians, another the hero. In the inevitable chase, every time the scene switched from Indians to hero the themes did, too, sometimes so fast that the music seemed to hop back and forth before any part of it had time to breathe.”38 Here Copland is addressing the artificial and noticeable structural articulations that occur in the rapid shifts that he describes. The juxtaposition of contrasting musical themes brings them to the attention of audiences, paradoxically, and in turn breaks the screen’s illusion of reality, a contravention of Hollywood’s classical practice. Copland reveals that leitmotifs in a context of

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crosscutting and edits cannot sonically yield to the discontinuity inherent in montage. His solution is that if one subscribes to the use of a leitmotif, then it was more appropriate to connect the theme to a larger and more general underlying idea in order to express either the film’s overarching atmosphere or its narrative concept and not a specific character or scenic event.39 It was an approach that Copland employed in Of Mice and Men, where he used a recurring theme to portray the hopes and dreams of the two protagonists, as I discuss in chapter 3. Although Copland connected the theme to these two characters, each musical repetition, nevertheless, helps to develop the film’s larger concept of hope in a fallen world, and this is the theme’s stronger association. Used in a more subtle application like this one, the leitmotif can function as a powerful aspect of the film’s narrative construction in what Copland would later identify as an idea and a thought that cannot be seen visually in the screen events, the “psychological refinements—the unspoken thoughts of a character or the unseen implications of a situation.”40 In addition, Copland felt that Mickey Mousing, the musical rendering of physical actions on-screen, was absurd under dramatic situations.41 As with the leitmotif, the effect often elicited potentially humorous and unnatural attention away from the main dramatic narrative by reinforcing trivial visual elements. Steiner was best known for Mickey Mousing’s exploitation in dramatic films, and it was in this context that Copland criticized the technique. In his score for Of Human Bondage, for example, Steiner provided a musical gesture to depict and emphasize the clubfoot of the main protagonist, a medical student played by Leslie Howard. Because the handicap was a minor aspect of the film’s narrative, the musical gesture created a completely irrelevant commentary focusing on the character’s disability. Steiner’s music, in Copland’s words, was an “unfortunate effect.”42 Copland strongly felt that the industry’s musical pallet required far more stylistic diversity because it had become too familiar and clichéd, not least because of the constraints of time under which composers habitually worked.43 In view of the fact that film composers had drawn, for the most part, on the same strategies initially introduced by Steiner in the early 1930s, Copland lamented that Hollywood continued to employ a kind of stylistic borrowing, pastiche, or model composition based upon a limited range of musical sources that invoked the symphonic styles of Romantic and post-Romantic idioms. A variety of modern critics have explored the justification for the sustained use of those styles whether through precedents established in silent film, culturally through the influence of European émigré composers, or methodologically as part of film’s appropriation of Wagnerian principles.44 Copland, however, views the overuse

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of these styles in terms of reception, as a method that creates easy intelligibility and expressive emotionalism.45 In the opening chapter of his book Our New Music, he reiterates the idea that music lovers who are more familiar with nineteenth-century idioms will find the music easier to understand because it has the ability to exert an “almost hypnotic effect” and to “induc[e] psychological reactions in the hearer.”46 Later, in the second edition of What to Listen for in Music, Copland subscribed to the Marxist notion (coinciding with Eisler’s views) that listeners do not want to be disturbed by something provocative or innovative; instead, they want to be consoled from the stress of life by using music as a relaxant, a “soporific.”47 From Copland’s observations, romantic idioms would seem to suit the very nature of the classical Hollywood film, which the preamble to the industry’s Production Code defined as “entertainment” and, as such, typically centered on fantasy, illusion, romance, and escape.48 Although the political environment during the 1930s influenced filmmakers to create more realistic contemporary narratives (as was the case with Milestone and John Ford in his picture The Grapes of Wrath), many film composers within the authoritarian studio system, which feared musical innovation, persisted in overusing the thick symphonic idiom. This style had the tendency to evoke the same emotional reaction no matter the narrative, as Copland saw.49 His plea for differentiation was, of course, an appeal to modernist scores, especially in realistic dramatic portrayals such as Of Mice and Men, for which Copland of course provided a modernist score, or “hard-boiled” films like Golden Boy, a 1939 drama about boxing, which, unfortunately by Copland’s standards, had a conventional Hollywood score. Consequently, in order to muster a spectrum of emotional possibilities, scores needed to explore a variety of approaches and new styles; these, according to Copland, were imperatives.50 Finally, Hollywood brought composers into the production process only after the film was completed, as was the case for Copland, a condition he lamented.51 He only began work on Of Mice and Men once Milestone had completed the rough cut of the film, a circumstance that undermines what Copland himself would consider true artistic amalgamation and collaboration by isolating the composer from the narrative or visual process. Hanns Eisler shared this opinion. His experiences in European film conventionally allowed him to begin during the earlier preparatory stages of the film’s production process. Of course, as Copland acknowledged, working relationships depended on the nature of individual producers and their flexibility.52 American composer Werner Janssen, for example, reported that while working on The General Died at Dawn (1936) he participated in the early story conferences and so was able to work closely with the director and writer.53 The result was that the music 32

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and narrative could grow together, a symbiosis that helped to establish a more unified and integrated artistic design. Nevertheless, Janssen’s experiences were the exception and not the rule. The Process

Copland devotes a significant amount of discussion to describe the various stages in the process of creating a Hollywood film score, detailing the contributions of collaborators such as arrangers, music editors, and other personnel who facilitated each step. And while he recognized that filmmaking is a collaborative process, simultaneously, he undermined his collaborators and their efforts, retaining the romanticized perspective of the autonomous art composer. Copland, for example, portrays many of those who worked alongside him as “henchmen” rather than professional colleagues, unmasking the hierarchical nature of the process.54 Here, the image of collaboration invokes a dubious authority from the top that controls a community of followers whose sole purpose is to protect the studio methods from any creative notion that a modernist art composer might inflict on the score. Rather than acknowledging what Nathan Platte has described as the negotiated space, Copland instead saw his score purged and debased as the production took a toll on his independent and autonomous labors. He retained a negative perspective regarding certain aspects of the collaboration while also expressing his frustrated desire for control. The first task, according to Copland, was to provide a temp track, a temporary soundtrack using preexisting music as a stand-in until the completion of the commissioned score.55 Unfortunately, he provides no information concerning the choices he made for Of Mice and Men. In fact, Copland’s own description of the process starts in the projection room, where the producer, director, composer, musical director of the studio, and those involved in preparing the score negotiate the placement of music (called “spotting”).56 Once these decisions are made, a cue sheet is then prepared, normally by the music editor, who creates a written template of the screen events, notating editorial cuts, interpretive psychological or emotional descriptions as they relate to characters, sound effects, and exact timings of musical entrances and exits; in essence, a summarized, digested, and interpreted version of the film in written form.57 Steiner adopted the procedure primarily because of the time constraints imposed by studio schedules, constraints that Copland did not experience.58 Though Copland received cue sheets, he dismissed them and thereby disregarded the music editor’s distilled analysis of the film, viewing them as a superficial way to understand the film. Instead, he preferred to employ a moviola, 33

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a device normally utilized in the editing process. It allowed the operator (in this case, Copland) to view the film or sections of it repeatedly.59 Copland felt that the moviola allowed the medium of film to speak directly to him and provided stimulus for his creative ideas.60 It gave him freedom to labor over, digest, and interpret screen events directly from the rough cut. It also offered more immediacy with the film’s visual impression and montage while providing him the flexibility to control and view film sequences as needed: “By looking at it over and over again, I would allow the picture to induce the music inside myself, rather than push the music on something I had only seen superficially. It is good for a composer to let the picture work on him. If the composer gets excited, gets moved by what is happening to the characters, there is more of a chance that his music will show this in a fashion that refers to that particular film.”61 Because of time constraints, Hollywood music departments normally assigned orchestrators to realize the full score in preparation for recording. These individuals, besides deciding on instrumentation, sometimes inserted new segments of the score or deleted sections according to last-minute decisions from the producer or the head of the music department. Systems of orchestration, from harmonizations to instrumentation, were often conventionalized and continually reused, contributing to what Copland has called a common Hollywood stylistic palette.62 George Bassman, a seasoned orchestrator in Hollywood, was assigned this task for Of Mice and Men.63 Copland, however, maintained that he preserved control over this aspect of the process through the detailed instructions he included in his short score: voicings, instrumentation, and performance indications ranging from dynamics to specific instrumental articulations.64 He was adamant on this point: “If I dictate a letter and it is typed for me, who actually wrote the letter, me or my secretary?”65 A comparison of the short and full scores for Of Mice and Men justifies Copland’s position. Copland expressed, as have most film composers, that recording is the most fulfilling time of the production process because composers hear the fruits of their labors in “concert style.” Moreover, the technical and musical standards of the studio orchestras in Hollywood were considered of the highest caliber. As Bruno David Ussher, a musicologist writing in the New York Times, states, “There are in Hollywood probably more former ‘first chair’ players from leading symphony orchestras of the world than anywhere else.”66 As was the case for the orchestrator Bassman, Copland benefited from having another experienced Hollywood musician, Irving Talbot, conduct the score for Of Mice and Men.67 After all this careful preparation and skilled professionalism in performing and recording the score, much could be lost in the dubbing process. According

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to Korngold, “A movie composer’s immortality lasts from the recording stage to the dubbing room.”68 It is a statement that resonated with Copland, who felt that the dubbing process required a “moment for philosophy, a moment for control.” Most composers sensitive to their craft find dubbing a highly problematic proposition because they continue to see their endeavors minimized. Copland called it “a composer’s purgatory.”69 Here the score faded as the music was mixed with sound and dialogue, of which the latter was given sonic priority. Moreover, Copland complained that the sound engineers who controlled the process were not musicians and therefore had little sensitivity to musical nuance and were unable to take suggestions from the composer. The technical issues involved in dubbing made it impossible for the composer to communicate effectively with the engineer. Added to this problem was that once music was mixed, sound levels at theaters were not fixed or predetermined. Instead, the theater management rather than the film operator determined dynamic levels in order to ensure that audiences were comfortable.70 To the chagrin of Copland, control of the music became ever so distant from the composer. Composers in Hollywood

How does one create music that underscores and complements the picture without distracting from the film’s dialogue or screen action? This was a problem that Copland himself found challenging and one he discussed in the context of other prominent Hollywood film composers. His respect for Korngold as a trained art composer, for example, was evident; nevertheless, Copland criticized Korngold’s extremely dense symphonic textures and tendency to overdevelop a musical idea.71 Korngold’s approach was too complex, drawing too much attention to the musical materials, sometimes to the point of overwhelming the screen’s image.72 Instead, Copland felt that melody had to be subtly integrated in a manner that would not call attention to itself. Here, Copland acknowledged his willingness to subordinate the music to the image and therefore adhere to classical principles, a position, he admitted, that could be particularly difficult for composers of concert music. In comparison, Copland recognized that both Max Steiner and Alfred Newman, probably the most expert in their field, created sensitive treatments of mood and atmosphere by crafting subtle melodic materials that had the potential to weave in and out of the filmic texture. Ironically, Copland’s observation exposed Steiner’s unique Hollywood training. Oscar Levant reported that when Steiner first arrived in Hollywood, he prepared underscoring for films dubbed into Spanish. The language differences from English to Spanish created silent

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gaps in the dialogue, which Steiner felt had to be filled with music, but in such a manner that allowed the dialogue to be heard.73 It was a strategy that prepared him to work in subtle ways with dialogue but maintain a constant stream of music. Copland, however, was critical of what he called Steiner’s facile “over-formalized music,” essentially repeating formulaic solutions to scoring problems.74 Newman, on the other hand, was able to find an original way to deal with the issue of musical neutrality. He often isolated the strings to create a “depersonalized” style for sensitive moments on-screen.75 Copland admired Newman for composing music that artfully remained in the background of screen events while simultaneously enhancing them. This delicate balance, one that Copland himself found difficult to achieve, marked one of the special professional techniques of an experienced film composer. Copland may have been highly critical of film composers originally, but he later renounced some of these negative opinions, recognizing that the most successful of them possessed highly specialized skills. Several years later, he disclosed to distinguished film composer David Raksin his profound respect for the professionalism of Hollywood composers, which he deemed to be comparable or perhaps even superior to that of some of his modernist colleagues.76 After completing the MoMA text, Copland published the materials in a variety of forums, beginning with the article in Modern Music mentioned above. He also used the MoMA materials to publish several other articles directed toward the general public, most of which appeared in the New York Times, as well as chapters in his monographs Our New Music (1941) and the 1957 edition of What to Listen for in Music.77 Although he repeated much material, these publications differed to some extent: Copland adjusted the text to suit the particular venue or added something new as his views evolved over time. His evolving perspectives on the subject would help to bring the debate forward toward a seriousness about Hollywood and its potential as a professional venue for the modernist American composer. In 1941 the US government invited Copland to go on a goodwill tour of Latin America to promote US–Latin American relations. Part of the strategic agenda for the tour was to convince Latin Americans that the United States was neither culturally barren nor inferior to Europe. The choice to speak about his Hollywood experience indicates his opinion of its cultural significance and the merit he acknowledged in these films. According to his Latin American diaries, Copland’s film lectures drew large crowds and cultivated great interest from the public. It was this kind of enthusiasm he hoped his published works would generate.

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Film Function and Copland’s Theory of Film Music

In the 1957 revision of his monograph What to Listen for in Music, Copland included a new chapter on the topic of film music based largely on his MoMA lecture. Unlike the lecture, however, the chapter codifies five important principles to show how music can serve film while still preserving a critical attitude toward some of the strategies employed by Hollywood’s most influential film composers.78 What is compelling about Copland’s theoretical assessment is that, unlike Eisler and Adorno in their monograph, Composing for the Films, as I detail in chapter 4, these theoretical ideas largely endorse Hollywood’s classical practice of musical function. In essence, Copland acknowledges that music must be used to conceal filmic disjuncture, that is, to “creat[e] an illusion of continuity,” and reinforce narrative through music’s discreet presence.79 Copland had devoted an entire article in the New York Times Magazine in 1949 to the theoretical question of whether film music should be heard by audiences.80 The brain, he says, may register visual images immediately, but the ear is still the most direct path to one’s heart and feelings. Copland acknowledges that the invisible and intangible qualities inherent in music become a substitute for the psychological and emotional qualities, which the screen cannot necessarily depict. In comparison to music’s human qualities, Copland describes the raw completed film as having flat silences, interminable pauses, and disparate sequences moving rapidly from shot to shot. The screen, he says, is “a pretty cold proposition.”81 Such characterizations provide the framework underscoring Copland’s perspectives on film function. Copland’s first tenet was “creating a more convincing atmosphere of time and place.” Just as film narratives differ in genre, style, perspective, and epoch, Copland believed composers should exploit different styles in order to characterize the film appropriately. Already by 1940 film composers had begun to vary their compositional palettes in a limited way, a practice that Copland did not acknowledge in his MoMA lecture. In the horror film The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), for example, Franz Waxman integrated an atonal gesture woven into the musical fabric to express madness in the character of the protagonist, Dr. Pretorius, while Max Steiner, in his score for King Kong, exploited rising parallel minor seconds, underscoring the battle between King Kong and a brontosaurus.82 Still, in these contexts such departures were fleeting, moving in and out of the dominant idiom while characteristically being resolved in ways that confirmed their nineteenth-century identity, to which Copland speaks. Although by 1957 Hollywood had introduced new scoring techniques that appropriated

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a variety of styles, Copland’s perspective was directly associated with his own practical experiences from the early 1940s. The second tenet is “underlining psychological refinements—the unspoken thoughts of a character or the unseen implications of a situation.” Copland recognized that music’s ability to invest the screen with new meaning in what he terms “aural images” required music to function independently of the screen image and sometimes in contrast with it, that is, in counterpoint: “A well-placed dissonant chord can stop an audience cold in the middle of a sentimental scene, or a calculated woodwind passage can turn what appears to be a solemn moment into a belly laugh.”83 Music’s enigmatic qualities as an unseen aspect of the film enable it to amplify or comment on the narrative and its characters or situations. Third, Copland calls for music to be subordinated to the visual and narrative aspects of the screen, pointing out that the score should function as “neutral background filler.” He defines this as “music one isn’t supposed to hear.”84 This is the type of strategy Copland found difficult to achieve and that he admired in the scores of Steiner and Newman, as he discusses in the MoMA lecture. This inaudible effect can be far more manipulative than counterpoint because it operates subconsciously, a method that shapes audience perception of the screen events. In Of Mice and Men, Copland exploited this principle for the musical cue “The Wood at Night.” Here, the characters use a minimum of dialogue to allow for moments of contemplation, and as a result, the music comes forward and carries the narrative. The strategy softens the severity of the narrative moment and establishes a warmer, more humane quality compared to what Copland has described as “the deathly pallor of a screen shadow.”85 The fourth tenet is “building a sense of continuity.” The most important utilitarian function ascribed to music was to bridge disparate shots to establish a smooth transition and to fill uncomfortable gaps, whether they are between pauses in the dialogue or in editorial transitions: “Pictures are always in danger of falling apart from a lack of anything real, and music, which is an art which exists in point of time, can assist in helping give the picture a continuity which is not there.”86 In this context, Copland recognizes that music is entirely at the service of the visual medium; however, he also felt that the producer-director too often assigned music to be the savior of a picture, whether to hide bad acting, an uncomfortable pause in the action, or a poorly executed sequence of edits. Music, he warns, can only service the film’s dramatic and emotional values, and if the film is lacking, the composer cannot be an illusionist. The fifth tenet is “underpinning the theatrical build-up of a scene, and rounding it off with a sense of finality.” In classical Hollywood style, for example, films almost always end with a climactic musical passage. Music conventionally provides the pace and momentum to drive the narrative to its conclusion. Copland 38

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applies this concept in the final climactic segment in Of Mice and Men. Here, the underscoring begins by adopting a slow rhythmic tempo that eventually quickens, creating momentum toward a final climax and the resolution of the story. To Copland, the collision between serious composers and film composers was in many ways artificial, a barrier encouraged by some of the romantic ideals carried forward into the twentieth century by European modernists. Through his thoughtful and careful critique of Hollywood’s film music practice, Copland revealed that the movie capital could not be dismissed as a potential outlet for the modernist composer. It was too significant a platform for Copland and his modernist colleagues, particularly if they wanted to speak to the values and ideals of their own culture. Similarly, if Hollywood wanted to continue to innovate in order to elevate standards and maintain profitability, it needed to entertain the possibility of employing modernist composers who would incorporate into their scores the new musical resources that Copland, as well as Eisler and Adorno, advocated, as I continue to discuss below. This negotiation is something that Copland understood, as both his scores and his writings reveal. Perhaps his ability to present innovation within the ideals of classical style may in part provide a key to his enormous success as a Hollywood film composer. His observation that music functions on an unconscious level also coincided with his belief that a motion picture score had the power to elevate the musical taste of a nation and create a more sophisticated audience. Motivated by these ideals, he saw film music having great potential for artistic expression even within the boundaries of the genre and the context of a commercial industry. His writings helped to legitimize the industry for a modernist musical constituency by applying a critical perspective that addressed not only the faults of the industry as a commercial institution but also its merits. More importantly, his work set a precedent for American discourse about Hollywood film that today has become the foundation for more contemporary scholarship because of both its discriminating assessment and its theoretical content. For example, these five tenets provided the theoretical basis for Claudia Gorbman’s own principles of classical Hollywood style.87 As historical documents, Copland’s writings give us one of the few windows into the film music industry during the height of Hollywood’s golden era and its studio system. Not an insider, nevertheless, Copland took the industry seriously and recognized the professionalism and skill required to write for the medium. Most importantly, he saw that the implications of film music for future audiences would have tremendous cultural consequences and, motivated by these possibilities, looked to Hollywood as fertile ground.88

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Copland, Hollywood, and American Musical Modernism Of Mice and Men

Aaron Copland expressed the enthusiasm with which he greeted his first Hollywood film project with these words: “Here was an American theme, by a great American writer, demanding appropriate music.”1 In 1939 he signed a contract with director Lewis Milestone to compose the music for the film adaptation of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. The choice to use Copland for a Hollywood film score was daring: he was an outsider to Hollywood; his previous experience had been limited to a single documentary production, The City (1939); and his reputation up until 1939 had been based upon his prestige within the American musical community as a modernist art music composer. Copland began seeking a contract in Hollywood in the spring of 1937 with the help of his close friend Harold Clurman, who met with music studio directors Nat Finston of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios (MGM) and Boris Morros of Paramount. Morros had expressed interest in engaging art composers, and he pondered whether Copland might generate some publicity if he were associated with an important enough picture.2 Copland for his part was keen to work in Hollywood, not least because he hoped to benefit financially.3 But his interest also coincided with the political and aesthetic ideals he had developed through the 1930s, as I discuss in chapter 2. On Clurman’s recommendation and with an offer in hand, Copland visited the movie capital in June 1937 but came away without signing a contract after recognizing the limitations of Morros’s interest in truly hiring an art composer, one from outside the studios. Writing to his

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close friend Victor Kraft, Copland lamented that Hollywood was not really as concerned to hire art composers as his friend George Antheil had suggested.4 Instead, as several modernist American composers had done, Copland turned to the more sympathetic producers of documentary. Though documentary would not have the popular cachet nor reach as wide an audience as Hollywood film, nevertheless, the genre gave composers wider scope and flexibility for experimentation, and it focused on more substantive narratives of social concern.5 The City was directed and photographed by Ralph Steiner and Willard Van Dyke. Steiner had met Copland during the late 1920s through Alfred Stieglitz and later as part of the circle of progressive artists and intellectuals linked to Harold Clurman’s Group Theater. The City was written for the American City Planning Institute, commissioned by the Carnegie Corporation, and screened at the World’s Fair in New York on 26 May 1939; it addressed the significant, political, and timely issue of urban planning and its implications for family life. Not only did the film receive wide critical approval, but the positive reception of the score also gave Copland the encouragement he believed he needed to pursue Hollywood once again.6 In the fall of 1939, Copland finally signed his first Hollywood contract to score the music for Lewis Milestone’s adaptation of Steinbeck’s novelette.7 He was convinced that no matter how many symphonies, operas, and chamber works he had created as an art composer, it was his film credit for The City that gave him the legitimacy he needed to convince Hollywood of his skills.8 Milestone, the film’s director, who knew Copland through artistic and progressive circles, had apparently seen The City at the home of a friend and was eager to engage the composer for his new project.9 Of Mice and Men’s Political and Aesthetic Appeal

Copland’s arrival in Hollywood in October 1939 was greeted with excitement in the Pasadena Star-News by Bruno David Ussher, a musicologist and wellknown local music critic. He praised the composer’s musical achievements in a tone intended to mollify the fears of studio executives, who of course had a history of concern about the employment of modernist composers.10 The critic Virginia Wright similarly characterized Copland’s arrival as causing a stir and wrote a lengthy and flattering article about his commitment to writing for film.11 Of Mice and Men was an unusual and even shocking dramatic story in comparison with the standard fare of Hollywood’s commercially driven productions. Even after screenwriter Eugene Solow rewrote some of the profanity in the original script to conform to Production Code standards dictated by

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the Hays Office, critics found the film’s language and subject matter highly questionable for the early 1940s.12 After the film’s premiere, critics labeled the motion picture as a daring screen subject, not “ordinary” or “ephemeral entertainment.”13 Because of its politically sensitive subject, harsh language, and unique production values, Of Mice and Men was made as a prestige picture that might capture the attention of critics rather than necessarily appealing to the widest moviegoing public.14 Copland recognized the film’s significance and understood that it would be worthy of a more sophisticated musical approach.15 Moreover, the film’s theme appealed greatly to his political and nationalistic sensibilities, which largely coincided with Steinbeck’s own ideals. Steinbeck’s interest in appealing to larger audiences motivated him to create a piece that would stand up as both novel and play.16 He wished to address members of the working class who, he had seen, did not especially read novels but did attend plays, which, in the early years of the Popular Front activities, were often performed during labor union meetings for educational and propagandistic reasons.17 Similarly, Copland shared these political alignments starting in the early 1930s but particularly once the Popular Front was endorsed by the CPUSA as a nationalistic directive.18 Motivated in part by these political ideals, Copland aspired to create a new musical language that would achieve a simplicity and directness while also appealing to a wider audience, as I discuss below.19 Steinbeck’s interest in American narratives coincided with Copland’s own preoccupation at the time. The nature of the script and subject matter greatly appealed to Copland’s ideological and political sensibilities, challenging him to create “appropriate music.”20 The chance to collaborate with director Lewis Milestone became another significant factor in Copland’s interest in the film. Milestone’s reputation had been based initially on his technical achievements in camera editing and later on his ability to create literary adaptations of social concern and realistic montage, principally in the World War I film All Quiet on the Western Front (1930), which many critics also recognized shows sensitivity toward the use of sound. He characteristically exploited the artistic potential of the soundtrack through the use of early dubbing procedures.21 Moreover, Milestone was making the film under unique circumstances. He had long wanted to produce and direct Steinbeck’s novelette but was unable to raise the funds for the project. In a previous lawsuit against independent producer Hal Roach, Milestone received a settlement that included a cash payment and an agreement that Roach produce the film version of the play. Consequently, Roach had little investment in the undertaking, and so Milestone assumed full control over every aspect of the film’s conception.22 Further,

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Roach in 1938 signed on to produce films for United Artists, which had been established in 1919 as a prestigious distribution company by Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin, and D. W. Griffith. As its name implies, the motivation behind the company was to create motion pictures of greater quality and transfer control over production from a studio head to the filmmakers themselves. Under these circumstances, filmmakers stood to benefit from a share of the profits.23 Thus, Milestone was able to take more risks to achieve his artistic goals. The fact that Copland, who was unproven within the industry, formed part of the production team for the film also spoke to this value. In turn, Copland recognized his good fortune to work beside an independent producer. He possessed a direct line of communication with Milestone and a singular degree of autonomy, bypassing the administrative bureaucracy and chain of approval that characterized studios’ control and their fears of introducing anything unusual, political, or innovative.24 Benefiting from the kind of independence enjoyed primarily by composers writing for documentary film, Copland was in a unique position to consider alternative approaches to the score. And he found Milestone to be a unique director who could accommodate the independent ideas of a composer.25 Milestone, for example, had accorded Copland unprecedented freedom, even as far as extending the footage of the film in order to facilitate Copland’s score, a concession rarely granted in the context of studio productions: “One of my most cherished memories is the fact that Lewis Milestone added four seconds to ‘Of Mice and Men’ for the sake of the score. For a panoramic scene in which five barley wagons make their way across a field I had composed a melody which needed about four seconds more to play itself out. I put the problem to Mr. Milestone and without hesitation he added the necessary footage to the sequence.”26 The Politics of Simplicity and Americanism

Copland’s “Notes on a Cowboy Ballet,” originally written about Billy the Kid, equally reveals his attitude towards Of Mice and Men: “I don’t know how other composers feel, but as for myself, I divide all music into two parts—that which is meant to be self-sufficient and that which is meant to serve one of the sister arts—theatre, film, or ballet. I have never liked music which gets in the way of the thing it is supposedly aiding. That is why I began with one single idea in writing Billy—a firm resolve to write simply.”27 He embraced simplicity as a stylistic ideal to express the underlying ethos of the ballet and Of Mice and Men, as I discuss below. But functionality and narrative interpretation were not the

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only driving forces motivating him to move away from his previous stylistic proclivities, those that engaged in more dissonant and rhythmically complex idioms like the Short Symphony (1933) and Statements for Orchestra (1935).28 The basis for this change also resided in his desire to cultivate audiences, his embrace of technology and mass media, and the promulgation of an American aesthetic, all of which underscored his political sensibilities and a commitment toward Popular Front ideals.29 By the early 1930s, Copland had established close associations with various left-wing organizations. And by the mid-1930s his compositions had made a decisive turn, marked by an accessible, texturally simpler, and consonant musical idiom, as exemplified in his orchestral work El Salón México (1936), the children’s opera The Second Hurricane (1936), and the 1936 Prairie Journal Music for Radio.30 Copland spoke retrospectively in his Charles Eliot Norton Lectures (1951– 52) about his determination to link his musical language with a simplicity and even a “homespun” quality.31 Yet he was neither the first nor the only American composer to experiment with these ideas. Virgil Thomson had already moved in this direction by 1928 with his successful opera Four Saints in Three Acts, produced in 1934. More directly, in 1936 he wrote his influential score for Pare Lorentz’s documentary film The Plow That Broke the Plains, which stood as a model for Copland.32 Thomson set new standards for modernists with his highly original stylistic conception, which helped to create a distinctively American quality, a characteristic Copland found intriguing, particularly in his own more general musical American evocations. Consequently, when Copland began to write for Hollywood, aspects of Thomson’s approach emerged.33 In his Museum of Modern Art lecture, Copland compared Thomson’s musical approach in The Plow That Broke the Plains to the more “luscious” underscoring conventionally used in Hollywood: “It is a much simpler solution for the problems. You get an earthy and rather American quality by the fact that the music is rather thinly orchestrated, depending mostly on a tune that Thomson either borrowed from some native source or invented in the style of a native folk-tune.”34 Although Thomson’s documentary efforts may have initiated an American aesthetic of simplicity, Copland’s participation in Hollywood guaranteed him a much higher profile, beginning with the studio’s powerful commercial apparatus, publicity departments, and control over distribution and theater houses.35 But perhaps even more significant, unlike Thomson’s documentary efforts, later Hollywood composers duplicated Copland’s style, imitating his Hollywood idiom in their own motion picture scores in film narratives dedicated to American subjects, a situation that has helped to reinforce the music’s intrinsic meaning as American and disseminate its legacy to millions of filmgoers.36 44

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By the mid-1930s Copland’s shift toward an aesthetic of simplicity that also reconciled his ideological concerns of a socially relevant music had not, however, altered his modernist disposition. From his perspective, the language of simplicity was not a compromise to a contemporary aesthetic, nor did he believe it was stylistically weaker.37 Yet critics began to challenge Copland’s compositional integrity. In a letter responding to Arthur Berger in 1943, for example, Copland felt that the dichotomy Berger had made between Copland’s “severe” and “simple” styles had been exaggerated.38 In the score for Of Mice and Men, for example, Copland’s tonal complexion retains subtle modernist colorations, shown in his preferences for modality, while he highlights dissonances and exploits asymmetrical rhythms and phrase structures and unique orchestrations. In essence, what Copland was trying to capture was a new musical language that spoke to his nationalistic inclinations.39 Copland’s new aesthetic related to his compositional experiments working with existing folk melodies in El Salón México. Instead of repeating these simple folk melodies, which Copland found inadequate in the context of a symphonic texture, he developed a compositional approach that exploited a “potpourri” of materials through mixing fragments and extending small motivic gestures.40 Like the aesthetic of simplicity, which for Copland suited the very nature of film, these strategies also complemented the formal properties inherent in film montage.41 Applying a more transparent idiom through the use of leaner instrumentation and harmonic texture permitted the music to function more discreetly rather than competing with screen events. Moreover, through fragmentation and short motivic ideas, the music could operate synchronously with the screen’s constantly shifting images.42 Compared with the thick-textured, harmonically dense musical language of a post-Romantic style, such “economy of means” expressed Copland’s view that music in film should remain subordinate, particularly under passages of dialogue.43 And although Copland’s strategy contrasted with existing stylistic norms already in place in Hollywood, ironically, his ideas would nevertheless accord better with the industry’s ideological practice of effacing the score in favor of the image, as I discuss in the previous chapter. The aesthetic of simplicity, therefore, seemed to fit theoretically with the very nature and practice of the classical Hollywood film score. This bias may be one reason why Copland’s musical style was so readily admired and accepted by other Hollywood composers. Music of American Contemporary Realism

Beyond the idea of simplicity, Copland also contributed to Hollywood an authentic musical idiom more suitable for American subjects, unlike the 45

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conventional nondiegetic scores the industry had provided for such films.44 Those conventional scores, like the music composed for the American concert hall, owed their legacy to a foreign ideology. Both were dominated by European music, and in the case of Hollywood, the studios were founded and propagated by Europeans, who often exerted influence even into the details of film music. Within the studios themselves, the most influential composers were European, or if they were American, they modeled their work on symphonic European idioms from the nineteenth-century Romantic or post-Romantic styles.45 Such scores provided an anachronistic association with the more elite concert world that not only suited the industry’s inclination to create nostalgia and utopia but also elevated the film’s production qualities.46 Yet from Copland’s perspective, exploiting such Romantic or post-Romantic symphonic styles for the type of story expressed in Of Mice and Men was wholly inappropriate.47 Of Mice and Men did not belong to the nostalgic and utopian films normally presented in the bland, escapist, and family-oriented entertainments that had previously been prescribed in Hollywood and shaped by the Production Code of 1934. Instead, Of Mice and Men conveyed a vivid realism that focused on a contemporary political and social crisis. This, combined with the approaching war in Europe, transformed the impact these films would have for audiences, who were now coming to expect more realistic portrayals and were in touch with the growing concerns of the day.48 For most Americans, the themes in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men and later his Grapes of Wrath (1939) came to signify the dominant representation of Depression-era America.49 Steinbeck’s novels, released as motion pictures only a month apart, expressed the familiar narratives of the period’s social malaise: that of the Okie migration to California and the plight of the Californian migrant farmworker.50 Although these narratives coincided with real-life events, their dramatic power had far more to do with the mythic stature they attained in the imagination of the populace. Indeed, there were many significant stories related to the struggles of 1930s America, yet the plight of the Californian migrant was especially potent because of its evocations of California as the promised land of the nation and the betrayal of that promise. These migrant narratives inspired a range of artists on the left who created vivid portrayals with the intention of memorializing the events, and through these representations, the history of the Depression in California eventually acquired an iconography of almost mythic authority.51 As such, the potency of these narratives and the film’s imagery had provocative implications for Copland’s musical aesthetic and personal political sensibility. As a sonic distillation of Steinbeck’s themes and Milestone’s imagery, the score, a departure from previous Hollywood music,

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would be lodged in the imagination and the consciousness of the populace, emerging as the quintessential American musical idiom, a style for which Copland would become famous. Steinbeck, Milestone, and Copland: Narrative Imagery as Music

The themes in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, adapted in Milestone’s visual film realization, provided Copland with a vivid interpretation of America, one underscored by the real-life contemporary traumas of the period.52 Set in California’s Salinas Valley during the early years of the Depression, Steinbeck’s story is a grim portrayal of two migratory workers, Lennie and George, who must face perilous conditions. The narrative symbolic gestures evoke simplicity as a value for America, hope and the American Dream as unrealizable aspirations, and nature and landscape as a signifier of American power and abundance. The film reflects Steinbeck’s own personal response to the exploitation of workers in corporate agriculture and his commitment to left-wing political activism.53 In 1933 for example, conflict between the Associated Farmers (a consortium of antiunion factory-farm owners, canning companies, and railroads) and farmworkers’ union labor strikes prompted many young radical authors like Steinbeck to write articles and fictional accounts about the plight of these workers.54 These political crises became material for Steinbeck’s short stories “The Vigilante” and “The Raid,” as well as his three most famous novels, In Dubious Battle, Of Mice and Men, and The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck also wrote a series of articles about farm labor for the San Francisco News. These articles, reprinted in a 1938 pamphlet entitled Their Blood Is Strong, included pictures by WPA photographer Dorothea Lange, who had worked among the Californian migrant population recording their lives. Her pictorial accounts of bread lines, the dust bowl, migrant workers, labor camps, agricultural workers, May Day marches, and the Californian West all became emblematic of the period and contributed to an iconic vision of the Depression, especially to a sympathetic public.55 Milestone closely duplicated images from Lange’s work (fig. 3.1) in order to re-create Depression landscapes of the American West in Of Mice and Men (fig. 3.2), an idea also captured in another Hollywood film that same year, John Ford and Darryl Zanuck’s film The Grapes of Wrath.56 These pictures not only helped to establish a realistic and striking portrait of time and place but also blurred Steinbeck’s fictional account within the larger social and political context of contemporary America. To vivify the movie’s realism, Milestone filmed on

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FIGURE 3.1. Dorothea Lange, Towards Los Angeles, California, Library of Congress, Washington, DC. Milestone replicated Lange’s image in Of Mice and Men as George and Lennie walk to their next job.

location, capturing authentic ranch settings, while his camera angles were often shot at eye level, allowing the film audience to participate on a more human level, as part of the diegesis.57 Historically, there were primarily two types of migrant workers in California during the 1930s: the dust bowl refugees, who were depicted in The Grapes of Wrath, and a community of mostly white single migratory males who lived on the road traveling extensively from one job to another, following the ripening agricultural crops, the latter presented in Of Mice and Men.58 In his 1939 sociological profile, Factories in the Field, Carey McWilliams provides an almost parallel depiction of those expressed in Steinbeck’s fictional account: “The tramps, bindle stiffs, bums and hoboes of former years used to plod their way on foot and by freight cars. In fact, the tramp as such, the authentic hobo of California tradition, has never passed out of existence. Stubble-bearded, with his roll of blankets, he can be seen today [1939] plodding along the highway trying to thumb a ride.”59 Later, McWilliams includes observations from author Georgia Graves Bordwell in Sunset Magazine entitled “Who Says White Folks 48

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FIGURE 3.2. Lewis Milestone, Of Mice and Men. Lewis Milestone’s cinematic reproduction of Dorothea Lange’s photograph.

Won’t Work?” The references are uncanny in their resemblance to Steinbeck’s fictional version of George and Lennie: [They were] unattached men, without homes or land, constantly on the run, looking for something that they can never find. . . . [A]t the end of a few rainbow tinted years in the orchards of California, [they] see at the end a pot of gold in the shape of their own ranch where no one can snoop, where they can pile the boxes to suit themselves and in the fall of the year go up into the hills to hunt for the buck. . . . Instead of finding the pot of gold and the delicious buck, most of these white workers have found disease, starvation and disaster.60

Cultural historian Michael Denning has shown that depictions of people in nature, particularly by Lange and Paul Schuster Taylor in their Depression-era photo book, An American Exodus: A Record of Human Erosion in the Thirties, were used as metaphors to portray human destruction.61 In Steinbeck’s fictional prose, the narrative is also a treatment of the human condition, in which nature is presented as contradictory. On the one hand, nature is a raw and harsh force that overwhelms the story’s characters; on the other, it is a power that controls their lives and fates. Lennie, for example, is portrayed as animalistic; he exhibits animal-like traits and is identified with an old dog belonging to Candy, an aged bindle stiff in the story. In essence, the various protagonists are humanly 49

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degraded, reduced to “the lowest common denominator.”62 To capture these contemporary themes of human degradation, instead of a lush European symphonic score that audiences might expect, Copland employs modernist simplicity, lean instrumentation, and aimless melodic gestures combined with a subtle dissonant tonality, all of which evoke the emptiness and conflicts of the protagonists’ difficult lives. In contrast to these narrative depictions, Steinbeck and Copland rely on visual and sonic images of the pastoral, creating peaceful and soothing moments to elicit the dream of Steinbeck’s characters, that is, of owning their own small farm. It is an ambition at the heart of the American ethos and one that Copland dramatically distills. For literary critics, interpretations of the pastoral provided various symbolic possibilities, but one most suggestive for Of Mice and Men is the Garden of Eden, an image associated with the setting in the Californian West, although novelist and literary scholar Louis Owens identifies Steinbeck’s landscape as a fallen world in which the quest for an American Eden is illusive and illusory, a paradise that betrays the weakness of human nature.63 Steinbeck’s careful choice to situate the story close to Soledad, an authentic Californian town in the Salinas Valley, is also symbolic of the central theme in the narrative. The Spanish word soledad means “loneliness.”64 By expressing simplicity as a value for America, hope and the American Dream as unrealizable aspirations, and nature and landscape as signifiers of American power and abundance, Steinbeck’s symbolic gestures were closely linked to the harsh realities of Depression America. The literary and political qualities in Steinbeck’s novelette are carefully retained in Milestone’s film version, an ideal the director insisted upon.65 By emphasizing images of western landscapes, Milestone was able to express the natural and social contexts invoked by the story and establish the thematic balance between humans and nature.66 Copland responded to the director’s purpose by combining vivid sonic depictions of pastoral landscape with the more suspenseful moods of conflict that characterized the story’s human condition. These values are well encapsulated in the opening music cue for Milestone’s prologue. Here, the score evokes the gentle, almost naive pastoral qualities of nature only to be interrupted by the dramatic expressions of the often-cruel life in America lived by the bindle stiff. Prologue: The Treatment of Titles

Throughout the 1930s, filmmakers traditionally placed introductory titles outside the narrative space.67 The goal was to transport audiences progressively

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from the realities of the exterior world to the illusion and fantasy of the cinematic world. Milestone’s innovations for this opening sequence, however, were unusual for its time. He introduces a short, tension-filled vignette, without dialogue, as part of the film’s story rather than as an overture to it. In the minute and a half of action before the opening credits, Milestone foreshadows the human conflicts that drive the narrative. The immediacy of thrusting audiences into the film’s action, in medias res, as it were, forces audiences to confront realism, not fantasy, without the comfort of the gradual and conventional transition. Copland’s voice, in turn, dominates the moment, defining and shaping the film’s political and social views in what he considered one of the most significant musical moments in the film.68 The prologue encapsulates the central political theme of the film, conveyed through a series of competing dualities. The first is expressed at the outset by two contrasting images of nature: the sun and thunderclouds (see table 3.1, prologue, and section 1, Maestoso). The image provides a central metaphor that will be characterized in the divergent physical and emotional states of the two protagonists, Lennie and George, and becomes a symbol of the wider political themes of the story: hope in a fallen world. As we hear the sound of thunder ([DVD 0:00:02] recorded on a separate track), Copland’s score expresses the inherent conflict by exploiting two ascending fortissimo chords repeated

Table 3.1. Prologue ( 3.1) Musical segmentation

Scene descriptions

Measures

DVD timings

1. Maestoso

Clouds, animals, birds Thunder Image dissolves, quail and rabbit Lennie and George running Lennie jumps into the stream George and Lennie in the ditch Clouds again Posse running through the ditch Train Doorjamb, interior of train accompanied by Jew’s harp (diegetic) Credits begin against the doorjamb Title card: John Steinbeck Title card: Hal Roach Train moving away

mm. 1–7

mm. 8–19 mm. 20–22 mm. 23–26 mm. 27–28 mm. 29–36 mm. 37–52 mm. 53–67

0:00–0:24 0:00–0:30 0:00–0:30 0:24–0:37 0:38–0:40 0:41–0:43 0:43–0:47 0:48–0:56 0:57–1:14 1:14–1:29

mm. 68–80 mm. 81–88 mm. 89–117 mm. 118 to end

1:30–1:43 1:43–1:52 1:53–2:43 2:44–2:55

2. Allegro 3. Motive A

4. Faster 5. Motive B 6. Poco meno mosso

7. Misterioso 8. Motive C 9. Coda: octave bassline

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(G + D + F + A) and a sustained chord in the accompaniment (D-flat + A-flat + C-flat), creating pungent tritone and semitone dissonances (mm. 1–2). The musical ascent coincides with the camera’s point of view, which gazes upward toward the sky as the prevailing dark and destructive storm clouds shield the sun. As the image dissolves [DVD 0:00:15], the screen moves to a simple and contrasting pastoral scene where quail and a rabbit calmly nibble grass.69 The music here provides a complementary melodic voice that contrasts with the opening dissonant chords characterized by the general qualities musicologist Neil Lerner has identified as Copland’s pastoral trope: winds dominate over strings, simplicity expressed through open-sounding chords and disjunct melodic ideas. Here in the film’s prologue, Copland exploits clarinets and flutes (the latter an allusion to the shepherd’s flute) using disjunct motion, while the accompanying dissonant chord dynamically fades (m. 3) to expose the brief contrapuntal melodic moment, leaving a more peaceful complexion and creating contrast with the strongly accented chords that begin the scene. Copland extends the phrase (mm. 4–6) through imitative counterpoint, a strategy rarely heard in conventional Hollywood films. That technique, which he may have borrowed from Thomson, denotes the underlying complexity of nature, which becomes a central theme in the film.70 The music builds imitatively (mm. 4–7) as the woodwind texture becomes progressively more complex until measure 7, when the voices come together in a jarring homorhythmic scalar passage motivated by a crescendo that disturbs the pastoral calm of the animals (section 2, Allegro, mm. 8–19 [DVD 0:24–0:37]). Like the sun obscured by storm clouds, the moment revisits the duality: men run through nature and disrupt it. As the off-camera sound of running feet frightens the animals in the second shot, they scurry away, and two pairs of legs (those of Lennie and George) run past the camera. A dramatic chase sequence follows as George and Lennie fearfully flee from their pursuers, an action that symbolically captures the harsh life of the migrant worker. Lennie, though physically bigger and of imposing brute strength, is portrayed in this sequence as confused, physically clumsy, and awkward. He lags behind George, who is smaller, swifter, and nimbler, a man who we later learn is of quick mind and wit. In retrospect, one recognizes that Lennie will not be able to survive the next pursuit (presented as the last scene and end titles). Copland highlights the duality of the characters (m. 8) by exploiting rhythmic and metrical shapes that avoid a pattern of regularity and close synchronization with the screen action: the men are seen running, leaping over irregularities

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in the terrain, varying their pace and gait in the midst of the pursuit. The musical figure ascends through a broad two-octave range over two measures, repeated to form a four-measure unit. This aspect of the passage highlights the physical distinctions between Lennie and George, a theme that will be revisited throughout the narrative but varied musically by Copland. Here, the rhythmic demarcation depicts the two strides of the protagonists, as Lennie is being led and directed by George through the chase sequence.71 The larger span of time generated by the four-measure hypermeter provides slower motion, indicative of Lennie’s own sluggish pace, and it is reinforced by the accompanimental support of a weighted lower brass section. The heavy orchestration and the slow harmonic rhythm combine to inhibit the movement, giving it a languid, cumbersome, sluggish, and awkward quality that corresponds to Lennie’s own characteristics and slower, heavier pace as he lags behind George. In contrast, the measureby-measure surface rhythm of syncopated quarter-note leaps marks George’s faster gait. By measure 17 Copland has broken the symmetrical pattern by introducing a highly dissonant cluster (G + A-flat + B-flat) in combination with a quartal trichord (B-flat + E-flat + A-flat). This dissonant arrival underscores the image of Lennie’s face, which fills the screen as he turns twice to look back at the posse in panic. We understand that Lennie is primarily the one in trouble. As the chase montage dissolves (accompanied by motive A; see table 3.1), the film moves into yet another chase (DVD 0:55), although this time Lennie and George are seen pursuing an oncoming freight train in hopes of escape (section 5). Copland prepares us for this transition by introducing a new motive, B, at measure 37, still retaining the same rhythm as motive A. The visual impact of the moving train combines with the rhythm to provide a synchronous transition of continuity from shot to shot; the motion once linked to Lennie and George is now connected to the pulsation of the train and functions not only to imitate in musical terms the sound of the train but also to propel audiences forward toward the main titles. As Lennie and George jump into the open boxcar, they encounter the larger world of Depression-stricken America in the form of other migratory men and tramps hitching a ride. As one migrant plays the Jew’s harp, diegetic melds with nondiegetic music to integrate Copland’s score into the realities and fabric of the migrants’ world, while audiences have a moment to contemplate the harsh and brutal narrative that awaits them.72 George slides the boxcar door shut to reveal the credits, written on the door as if they were graffiti. Motive A is then recapitulated in measures 68, 72, and

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82, underscoring the full view of Robert Burns’s poem, from which Steinbeck drew the title and theme of his story (fig. 3.3): The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain For promis’d joy!73

The lower timbre of the bassoon solo in measure 68 functions as a subtle referential presentation of motive A and relates back to the posse, even though Lennie and George have seemingly escaped from their pursuers. The implication here can be found through the interpretation of the poem: Lennie and George are still not out of danger. The film’s opening chase sequence was a departure from Steinbeck’s original novelette. Combined with the parallel chase sequence that recurs at the close of the film, which recapitulates several of Copland’s thematic musical and symbolic ideas, the director exploits both to frame the film as a whole, emphasizing the significance of the pursuit and its symbolic theme of victimization. This

FIGURE 3.3. George slides the boxcar door shut to reveal Robert Burns’s verse as graffiti.

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notion of a cruel predatory world, one that thrusts itself onto the less powerful, is captured in the conflicts George and Lennie will experience as the film unfolds. Indeed, Lennie and George’s story reminds audiences of the wider social implications of capitalist exploitation, particularly in the struggles that occurred in the West. Copland’s title music presents musical materials associated with these larger themes of nature and landscape, which in turn provide contrast and context to the conflicts of Lennie, George, and the harsh conditions of the migrant farmworker. Mise-en-Scène and Music for “Death of Candy’s Dog”

Perhaps one of the most dramatic issues examined by Steinbeck in Of Mice and Men focuses on the human condition of loneliness and solitude. He contradicts the prevailing romantic image of American westward expansion, with its rugged individualism and capacity to overcome all obstacles, by depicting the realities of the human costs. This theme is most vividly expressed in the film’s musical cue entitled “Death of Candy’s Dog.” It is a poignant sequence, one that fully explores the psychological and dramatic effects of a solitary existence. As McWilliams does in his historical account, Steinbeck draws upon the brutal conditions facing the white male migratory worker. Reduced to a life of rootlessness and wandering, the single white male migrant worker has no family or ownership, man reduced to an animalistic state. This transformation occurs because the human spirit is crushed by the destructive and cruel nature of society, its mechanization, and its power over individuals.74 In the bunkhouse, a communal space where the workers live and where true closeness and intimacy are not possible within this society, the men consequently cling to their dogs for companionship, as one of the men states: “It ain’t a guy’s dog that matters, it’s the way a guy feels about his dog.” Carlson, one of the elder ranch hands, is among the characters portrayed without compassion, as insensitive and cruel, one of the “sons of Cain” who populate Steinbeck’s fallen world.75 Carlson’s own animal-like cruelty is expressed through his intolerance of Candy’s old dog. He wants Candy to kill it, yet Candy, an old swamper (an unskilled laborer from the South) himself, cannot face the task. Unable to shoot his dog, he agrees to let Carlson do the deed. The implications of Carlson’s act reflect back on both Candy himself and one of the protagonists, Lennie. Candy, like his dog, is old and lame, “no good to himself nor nobody else,” and has been reduced to swamping (washing or scrubbing down) the bunkhouse after having lost his hand in one of the farm machines. As Slim, one of the senior ranch hands, emphasizes, “I wish someone

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will shoot me when I get old and a cripple.” Lennie, meanwhile, is a simpleton who cannot control his brutal strength. He is perpetually embroiled in various conflicts, and in the end, like Candy’s dog, he dies, shot by George, his partner and keeper. It proves to be the only escape open to Lennie, as he is unable to withstand the difficulties his life presents. Milestone’s mise-en-scène techniques provide a cinematic realism that hinges on more natural camera angles and devices. These include the use of prolonged shots framing individual characters, as well as various extended interior long shots through bunks or other furnishings to establish a larger context for the drama (fig. 3.4). While the men wait for Candy’s dog to be shot, tension and anticipation build. Milestone suspends the moment not only by limiting dialogue but also through restricting editorial cuts and sustaining individual shots to slow the temporal motion within the montage. Dramatic action and dialogue are at a minimum, allowing Copland’s score to emerge and take on greater significance, becoming a signifier of emotion, controlling temporal space, shaping narrative, and injecting psychological and symbolic meaning. Perhaps what is most striking about Copland’s compositional language is the way in which he exploits a tonal idiom while simultaneously introducing

FIGURE 3.4. In the bunkhouse.

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Copland, Hollywood, and Modernism

modal inflections to evoke a modernist palate within a limited range of pitch materials. By strategically placing a single note within the texture, Copland varies the harmonies to create subtle shifts of color that align with the nuanced changes in screen events. The musical underscoring brings about a much more severe style than Hollywood normally tolerates, in keeping with the gravity of the dramatic moment. Copland emphasizes simplicity through the leanness of texture as his score belies sentimentality and the excesses of melodramatic convention (see ex. 3.1). The passage begins with a two-note descending semitone motive, performed as a viola section solo. It immediately follows Slim’s pronouncement, “Candy, you’d better let him go” (DVD 0:49:06). This point of sonic correspondence exemplified one of the challenges for composers; Copland identifies it as “stealing the music in.”76 Here, he carefully blends Slim’s deeper voice with an instrument that complements rather than contrasts his vocal timbre. The dark and muffled quality of the viola in its lowest register lends itself well to the somber mood of the scene, while the continuity established between Slim’s statement and the music allows the score to express what words cannot in such circumstances.77 The opening solo motive imitates a sigh and is repeated several times, expanding first to two and then three voices (mm. 3–6). This sense of return is important at both the foreground and background levels because it establishes a moment of cadence that allows both characters on-screen and audience members to absorb, reflect, and contemplate the implications of the scene’s dramatic and narrative consequences. Copland exploits subtle harmonic inflection and varied musical color to invoke Candy’s emotional states. For example, the opening section (mm. 1–18) pivots between the Aeolian and Phrygian modes. This alternating motion creates musical tension and release, which, in turn, reflect Candy’s psychological dilemma. He sadly vacillates between his feelings to protect his dog in order to fulfill his own personal desire or the resolve he needs to let the dog be killed. As Copland thickens the texture, he also increases the level of dissonance. The variation between the quality and quantity of dissonance in these trichords helps guide the audience in their appreciation of the character’s psychological turmoil. For example, the second statement (mm. 4–6) opens with a dissonant trichord that includes the tritone and the minor seventh, followed by a quartal trichord whose only dissonant interval is the minor seventh. Such alterations in harmonic color are all the more intensified in this scene, where action is largely suspended and dialogue is curtailed. For Copland, the inclusion of music in this

57

EXAMPLE 3.1. “Death of Candy’s Dog” (mm. 1–29,  3.2). Of Mice and Men. By Aaron Copland © 1939 (Renewed) Robbins Music Corp. Rights assigned to EMI Catalogue Partnership. All rights controlled and administered by EMI Robbins Catalog Inc. (Publishing) and Alfred Music Publishing Co., Inc. (Print). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Publishing, LLC.   In the process of seeking copyright permission to publish transcriptions from the manuscript scores for Of Mice and Men, I learned that there is an ongoing dispute over the rights. Once that dispute is resolved and the rights owners are confirmed, I will honor the appropriate permission in subsequent editions and publications.

Copland, Hollywood, and Modernism

scene was a necessary element to counterbalance a perceived lack of momentum in the diegesis.78 The entire section (mm. 1–18) is dominated by the repeated two-note gesture that Copland identifies with the notion of waiting.79 With repetitions of the motive and sustained resting points, as in measures 6–8, 11–13, and 16–18, the music functions to fill in moments of silence in the dialogue or intervals where action is suspended as the characters wait for Candy’s dog to be shot. The repeated idea establishes a mood of anticipation analogous to the marking of time and the atmosphere of impending death.80 Because the scene’s descending motive is characterized as a simple short rhythmic idea, continually repeated, it moves away from the more conventional concept of theme or melody and avoids calling direct attention to the musical underscoring that melody can often bring. This downward motion, used in conjunction with the force of an appoggiatura, is suggestive of the scene’s atmosphere, reinforcing the gravity of Candy’s fallen mental state. As the motive continues in its varied repetitions, Candy makes his way to the bunk and literally falls, collapsing on his bed at measure 24. Here, the last note of the gesture is no longer sustained; consequently, the music propels Candy to fall. Like the descending motion of the musical gesture, Candy is thrust downward both physically and mentally. 4 3 Copland also alternates the meter from 4 to 4 to suppress regularity over larger spans of time. This metrical displacement frustrates uniformity and balance and eliminates the sense of equilibrium, again reflective of Candy’s mental state. In place of traditional cadences, Copland provides static resting points, inhibiting forward momentum in the scene by literally suspending the moment. Within the narrative sequence, these resting points create two effects. First, when Candy hopelessly agrees to let the dog go, the suspension of time initiates a moment of collective reflection in which all the men in the bunkhouse ponder the ramifications of the deed for themselves. Milestone presents several shots linking individual characters (sometimes with their own dogs) to Candy, his dog, and Carlson’s action (mm. 4–18). By measure 19, Milestone presents a long shot of the entire group. Second, the music creates the effect of delaying Carlson’s action to kill Candy’s dog as one character responds, “What’s takin’ him so long” (m. 13). The intimate nature of this sequence is well reflected in Copland’s use of a small chamber ensemble to capture a personal, more reflective mood. His penchant to highlight individual instruments was also a practice often shunned by Hollywood composers because it had the potential to draw too much attention to the score. In particular, Copland creates the idea of solitude and loneliness with a single sustained note performed by a solo flute (mm. 8–9, repeated again in mm. 12–13 and 17–18) on the tonal center C. He doubles the flute with the 59

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unusual and ethereal timbre of harmonics in the violins and harp. The effect of the harmonics, combined with the inert timbral sound (here the flute performs senza vibrato), produces a lifeless quality, reinforcing Candy’s condition. Copland further draws the idea of isolation by establishing registral distance between the single high C against the lower and timbrally contrasting string accompaniment. In this way, Copland captures in the most literal and sonic terms the solitude and isolation of Candy in relation to the rest of the men in the bunkhouse who at least still have their dogs. The sustained note (beginning DVD 0:49:27) provides a moment of stasis that is contemplative and sad, yet anticipatory in character. Following the initial preview of the film, some spectators questioned whether Copland should have used music for the cue “Death of Candy’s Dog.” The film’s producers and its production team, however, responded, suggesting that without music the scene would prompt a sense of restlessness.81 Frank S. Nugent of the New York Times was critical because he understood the music as a conventional melodramatic treatment, “a modified Hearts and Flowers.”82 In view of the severe and simplified modernist style Copland applied to this scene, Nugent’s assessment seems misplaced, and it generated a response from both Copland and Paul Bowles. The latter argued that Copland’s score was “a sensitive departure from the sentimentality expressed in the blatancy of that old tune.”83 Music and the American Landscape: “The Wood at Night” and “On the Ranch”

For both Steinbeck and Milestone, the treatment of setting and landscape constituted one of the most vital aspects of the story. Such characterizations of nature and wide-open vistas capture the larger and broader geographical concept of America. On the one hand, historically, the American expansion of the West meant hope for a new life that could be obtained through the possession of land and gold. Single males who moved west, on the other hand, encountered a violent and difficult existence in the hope of realizing their dreams of adventure and opportunity.84 Representations of western landscapes not only have been a central theme in the history and identity of the United States but also have come to express a kind of popular mythology about the American West.85 Such mythology had a special interest for composers during the 1930s.86 Music that could capture “western” qualities reflected the desire to create an indigenous American aesthetic, particularly a “white” indigenous music removed from the influence of jazz. Beth Levy has shown that Copland’s own appropriation of the West began as a response by audiences to his 1936 piece Music for Radio.87 Though in this 60

Copland, Hollywood, and American Musical Modernism

case Copland did not employ folk melodies, and he did not model the music around such materials, nevertheless, to some audiences his music held intrinsic qualities that could evoke the West. In his 1938 ballet score Billy the Kid, Copland integrated known cowboy tunes to evoke the visual and narrative qualities of the West.88 He illustrated this landscape in the introductory prelude, which he described as “a pastoral theme harmonized in open fifths that gives the impression of space and isolation.”89 These developments helped to prepare Copland when, the next year, Milestone presented him with the opportunity to write the score for Of Mice and Men; the timing could not have been better. The narrative and pictorial imagery in Milestone’s film became a perfect vehicle for Copland to exploit his compositional ideas of an American landscape setting, particularly of the western variety. Steinbeck’s varied representations of nature and the land provided Copland with just as many opportunities to create contrasting music depictions. For example, his underscoring for the musical cue “The Wood at Night” (later repeated during the musical cues “In the Bunkhouse” and “The Final Narrative Episode” as George and Lennie restate their hopes for a dream farm) evokes the peaceful impressions of nature initially suggested at the outset of the opening title sequence, just before Lennie and George disrupt the pastoral moment. In “The Wood at Night,” Copland created a dichotomy between the dialogue, presented without underscoring, and the musical cue that follows. The absence of music emphasizes the dialogue, creating a stark and realistic portrayal. Here, George’s own voice is filled with optimism and encourages among audience members a collective belief that the hopes and dreams of the two protagonists are possible. When Copland introduces music only after the protagonists’ dialogue, the underscoring is linked much more with the pastoral and natural setting that surrounds George and Lennie. Caryl Flinn has suggested that one of the principal roles for classical Hollywood film music during the 1930s and 1940s was to project a utopian function. Although Flinn presents various definitions of utopia, one that she prefers emphasizes the nonrepresentational conception of utopia. It is an imagined place, a place that can only be talked about, alluded to, or described.90 According to Flinn, music has the ability to create an “impression of perfection and integrity in an otherwise imperfect, unintegrated world,” and she notes that some critics share the belief that music can elevate the audience to a moment of “allegedly more perfect times and memories.”91 As the musical cue begins (see ex. 3.2 and DVD 0:14:30), we hear the gentle and regular rhythm of the accompaniment (mm. 1–3), which establishes a lilting, almost hypnotic effect. The melody, which I call motive X, ensues (this motive returns during “In the Bunkhouse” and the Final Episode), performed 61

EXAMPLE 3.2. “The Wood at Night” ( 3.3). By Aaron Copland © 1939 (Renewed) Robbins Music Corp. Rights assigned to EMI Catalogue Partnership. All rights controlled and administered by EMI Robbins Catalog Inc. (Publishing) and Alfred Music Publishing Co., Inc. (Print). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Publishing, LLC.

Copland, Hollywood, and Modernism

EXAMPLE 3.2 (continued)

by the flute, which evokes the pastoral mood, in a peaceful pianissimo. As the lullaby-like rendition of this sequence is played out, Lennie and George begin to sleep. Here, music functions to elevate their dreams or to provide the utopian function, bringing the protagonists into that perfect natural world, a world that can be imagined, described, and “talked about” but that does not exist. Toward the close of the scene, as the underscoring nears its end, dialogue returns when Lennie prompts George to talk about their dream farm: “Let’s have different colored rabbits, George” (DVD 0:14:57). George responds as he drifts off to sleep, “Sure we will, red and blue and pink ones.” As the music seeps into George’s recitation of the dream-farm litany, it now invokes the utopian function to

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EXAMPLE 3.3. “On the Ranch” ( 3.4). By Aaron Copland © 1939 (Renewed) Robbins Music Corp. Rights assigned to EMI Catalogue Partnership. All rights controlled and administered by EMI Robbins Catalog Inc. (Publishing) and Alfred Music Publishing Co., Inc. (Print). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Publishing, LLC.

Copland, Hollywood, and Modernism

include audiences as well. It is a sanguine moment as Lennie and George dream about their hopes to work on their own farm. They enjoy their last peaceful night together in freedom before they begin working on the Jackson ranch. In two subsequent scenes, “On the Ranch” (DVD 0:19:29) and “Barley Wagons” (DVD 0:35:15), Copland’s music provides a stronger, less vulnerable mood. Here, he relies on Steinbeck’s vivid and panoramic images of farm life, set in an expansive Californian landscape and expressed in Milestone’s long shots as the music, through association, absorbs the screen image to establish an American intrinsic quality. The camera winds its way around buildings and terrain in order to incorporate the setting and its importance to the protagonists as they move toward the bunkhouse. During “On the Ranch” (duplicated later in “Barley Wagons”) the music uses a repetitive walking bass line moving in a simple, natural-paced moderato tempo in steady quarter notes (mm. 3 onward), corresponding to the promenade of the protagonists (see ex. 3.3). Against this, Copland applies a

EXAMPLE 3.3. (continued)

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simple triadic leaping melody evocative of western folk song. However, the music is presented under dialogue in a particularly low dynamic in order not to compete with the screen events. As the scene moves to the interior of the bunkhouse Lennie and George (and the audience) are introduced to Candy’s dog (beginning m. 33). Copland distinguishes the moment by replacing the triadic folk melody with a contrasting sustained chordal gesture in the upper voices, suspending the time in order to give the spectator a moment to gaze at the dog. The bass line, meanwhile, anticipates the unhappy fate of the dog by its long descent through a minor scalar passage extended over two octaves (mm. 33–40). As the volume rises and dialogue is silenced, the moment isolates the foreshadowing in musical terms of the story’s ominous plot development, the demise of Candy’s old dog, discussed above. Though the music for both cues, “On the Ranch” and “Barley Wagons,” is virtually the same and reinforces the visual connection with the ranch, nevertheless, the second cue links Copland’s musical materials more fully to images of the western American landscape. The music for “Barley Wagons” opens in full volume without dialogue, allowing the music to be featured in its fullest expressive possibilities (DVD 0:35:15). The cook rings the triangle not only to hail

FIGURE 3.5. The barley wagons ( 3.5).

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Copland, Hollywood, and Modernism

the barley wagons and ranchers for dinner but also to articulate and announce the opening musical moment. The music underscores extreme long shots of the barley fields, with their wide, expansive vistas of mountains and open, spacious beauty. The wagons move slowly across the screen, overwhelmed by the landscape. Milestone extends the shot, allowing the audience to contemplate the natural and slow pace of the action.92 Copland’s choice to apply wider intervals both as vertical sonorities (within the context of his harmonic voicing) and horizontally (in his melodic phrases) illustrates in the most literal and sonic terms the wide-open spaces of land and its vistas of the western landscape. As the barley wagons move across the plains, the film audience connects this image to scenes of frontier life, namely, the nineteenth-century images of the American Conestoga wagon carrying freight and transporting settlers to California, which became synonymous with western expansion. American audiences of the period would have been familiar with representations of the frontier myth and its landscapes in Hollywood westerns, particularly those made by John Ford. In that same year (1939), his film Stagecoach exploited similar depictions, with the cliff formations of Monument Valley as a backdrop, to create powerful scenes of American expansive western landscapes.93 The repetitive walking bass line in “On the Ranch” now accompanies the motion of the wagons as they move languidly across the land from east to west. Copland’s music also provides a distinctive parallel with Steinbeck’s larger political theme and narrative conception, expressed by the fate of the protagonists in the film. Disjunct motion in Copland’s melody suggests an aimless, unstable, and wandering quality and captures the realistic and harsh portrayal of the life of the roaming Californian migratory workers. Milestone dissolves the shot from the landscape setting to the interior of the barn, where the men, now finished with their work, are congregating and relaxing around some new pups. “In the Bunkhouse” and the Dream-Farm Litany

In comparison to the natural landscapes that are depicted in Milestone’s visual presentations and that portray the larger themes of man against nature, the interior setting of the bunkhouse brings to light the more intimate and personal conflicts that reflect the perils of man against man, a condition already expressed in “Death of Candy’s Dog.” These tensions are documented in a recurrence of the music from George and Lennie’s dream-farm litany, but this time, George’s evocation of it and Copland’s musical underscoring show the

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deterioration of this dream as it becomes more distant from the realities of the ranch ( 3.6).94 Prior narrative events, such as the death of Candy’s dog and the hostile living conditions, have already eroded Lennie and George’s dream. Consequently, George now reveals a less expressive and more mechanical tone, conveyed through the rhythmic tedium in his voice. But in continuing, he becomes more engrossed in the litany and begins to reflect back to a memory from his childhood (DVD 0:58:16): “You know—we’d have a few pigeons to go flying round the windmill, like they done when I was a kid.” George transcends the moment for himself, moving into his own personal utopian realm through reminiscence and reinforcing the dream state through this experience.95 As he continues, his gestures and vocal intonation become animated. Initially, his speech is not underscored; however, as he takes a short pause for reflection, the music enters (taken from “The Wood at Night,” mm. 1–12, motive X), sneaking in (DVD 0:58:03) to inflect George’s shifting attitude away from the mundane existence of the Jackson ranch toward the utopian state of the dream world. In comparison to “The Wood at Night,” this presentation exploits a single voice doubled at the octave by flutes alone in pianissimo, as if a faded recollection with its bleak and empty sound. When the music is invoked again during the Final Episode, as I discuss below, it becomes a modernist expression of a desolate world where happiness, companionship, safety, and freedom can never really be found. “The Fight”: Big Guys and Little Guys

The cruelties of the bindle stiff ’s world erupt in the brutal fight between Curley and Lennie, where Steinbeck’s pessimism about the forces that control human destiny nakedly confronts us. Curley, the ranch owner’s son, represents the brutal authoritative power that controls all aspects of life on the ranch. Portrayed as a “little guy” who hates “big guys,” he is small in stature, particularly in comparison to Lennie. Curley continuously badgers the men working on his father’s farm, jealously accusing them of pursuing his wife, Mae. In order to prove his manly prowess and maintain his power as the boss’s son, he attempts to provoke a fight and eventually chooses the unaware and weak-minded Lennie as his victim. Lennie, who is often portrayed as being in a world of his own, is still reeling with delight over his memory (from the previous scene) of his dream to own his own farm.96 A one-sided confrontation ensues until George orders Lennie to fight back. Ironically for this scene, Copland relies to some extent on the application of Mickey Mousing, an approach, as I discuss in chapter 2, that he thought

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absurd. Nevertheless, in this context Copland avoids mechanical matching between the screen action and the score and instead creates a rhythmic counterpoint between the two. The rhythmic precision and intensity that Copland establishes not only functions to express the brutality of the conflict but also creates momentum that propels the fight scene to its inevitable conclusion and heightens the climactic moment of the fight when Lennie grabs Curley’s hand and physically crushes it. The cue begins with short dissonant chords that are repeated in imitation of Curley’s physical blows to Lennie (DVD 1:04:25) (see ex. 3.4 and  3.7). As Curley punches, Copland juxtaposes a single sustained pitch (G-flat), performed on French horn, intermittently between chords, representing Lennie’s refusal to fight. The severe style of the music relies as much upon the silent pauses between chords as it does upon dissonance and penetrating articulation. Copland heavily articulates each chord on various weak beats (in m. 2, the second half of beat 1 followed by beat 4, and the same pattern in m. 4). By displacing the accents throughout the measures, Copland thwarts expectation and the anticipated effect of patterned repetition in order to create an effective imitation of a fighter who waits for the precise moment to punch. Yet the dissonant chords are not precisely synchronized with Curley’s punches. In fact, they function in counterpoint to the screen’s action and move at a slower, more deliberate tempo in relation to Curley’s repetitive physical punches. Copland further retards the tempo with the interjection of the sustained G-flat on French horn. The slower musical tempo against the faster screen action characterizes Lennie’s point of view, his inner diegetic voice, as he uncertainly responds to Curley’s blows. Milestone positions Lennie centrally within the mise-en-scène, focusing the audience’s attention primarily on him, with Curley’s back to the camera. By doing so Milestone highlights the difference in physical stature between the two fighters, which inverts the actual power relationship between the two: the shorter, almost inconsequential Curley dominates the much larger Lennie. As Milestone continues the montage, he injects several shots that crosscut from Lennie to various individual men in the bunkhouse who encourage Lennie to defend himself. These shots help to intensify the momentum of the screen action, propelling it forward. Yet the musical tempo does not reflect this intensification; rather, it steadfastly maintains its original slower tempo in order to internalize Lennie’s delayed and confused reactions. We begin to understand the close connection between Lennie and the music when George jumps onto Lennie, pleading with him to defend himself. Lennie, however, cannot absorb or comprehend George’s words, and his confusion

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EXAMPLE 3.4. “The Fight.” By Aaron Copland © 1939 (Renewed) Robbins Music Corp. Rights assigned to EMI Catalogue Partnership. All rights controlled and administered by EMI Robbins Catalog Inc. (Publishing) and Alfred Music Publishing Co., Inc. (Print). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Publishing, LLC.

Copland, Hollywood, and Modernism

is reflected in Copland’s underscoring. At this juncture, the music becomes mimetic in imitation of George’s rhythmic speech pattern in a gesture of penetrating sixteenth notes (mm. 17–20). The words are reduced to a semiconscious level in the more abstract form of a musical utterance; the music and its expression signify Lennie’s perspective and his particular mental state. As Copland initiates strict Mickey Mousing, Lennie becomes conscious of George’s voice and in response finally crushes Curley’s hand. At this moment, the camera’s eye becomes Lennie’s. Milestone brings Lennie’s perspective in focus, as it were, as the image is projected through the lens in a high-angle subjective point-ofview shot. Copland accompanies this climactic moment with a dissonant and prolonged chord (G + A-flat + C-sharp + E) above an F–G-flat trill beginning in measure 21 (DVD 1:04:56) that lasts for twenty seconds. The simultaneity is performed in tremolo to express Lennie’s bewilderment, his distress, the intensity of his physical action, and creates profound discomfort for the film audience. As Copland describes it, I used music there which I suppose is very dissonant by Hollywood and by any standards, and I did it purposely because it is an extremely tense moment and music, which if I played here without any picture, you would

FIGURE 3.6. George exclaims, “get ’em, get ’em!”

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all feel slightly upset about, because of its dissonant quality,—no one could possibly object to it in a film, everyone is already so tense that the addition of some dissonant chords being suddenly struck in rather jerky rhythms can only help that sense of tenseness. . . . That, I hope, is one of the more effective musical moments of the film.97

Copland reported that film critics were impressed with the way he used dissonance in this scene. Though Hollywood had used dissonance as a way to punctuate moments in the form of stinger chords or in fleeting passages of tension, they had not exploited so blatantly such unresolved dissonance in such a direct and prolonged manner. It was a daring approach and probably the most extreme example of Copland’s modernist idiom. Final Narrative Episode: The Dream Could Never Be

Copland identified four significant moments in Of Mice and Men in which the music forms a central part of the film’s impact, including the final narrative episode, which presents eight minutes of continuous music and little dialogue.98 This lengthy sequence functions as a recapitulation analogous to the opening chase sequence, but it ultimately determines the fate of the two protagonists and the film’s resolution in a quick succession of events organized around four musical cues (“Death of Mae,” “George Determined,” “Scene near the Brush,” and “Lennie’s Death”) and the end titles (see table 3.2). “Death of Mae” ignites the film’s climactic moment as Lennie unintentionally kills Curley’s wife, Mae. Lennie is now compelled to take refuge by the wood near the narrow pool of the Salinas River, a safe haven and return to the pastoral setting where he and George first revealed their dreams of owning a farm. Following on his trail are the men from the Jackson ranch, who after finding Mae’s body have formed a posse to pursue him. When George discovers Lennie has killed Mae in “George Determined,” he reverently decides, with the support of Slim, that he himself must save his friend from the brutality of the lynch mob. Driven by this concern, George runs ahead to find Lennie before the posse does. Copland introduces new material for “Death of Mae,” but as the episode unfolds he also exploits materials previously linked to the earlier scenes from “The Wood at Night” and “The Bunkhouse” (motive X). Rather than the strategy of the leitmotif, to which he strenuously objected, Copland here invokes a much broader musical symbolic quality that contributes to the film’s development, providing reflection, commentary, and eventually a resolution to narrative conflicts. Such musical injections not only create a juxtaposition of

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Table 3.2. Final Episode Scene descriptions and titles

DVD timings

Musical descriptions and measures

Film dialogue

1. “Death of Mae” (reel XA) Death of Mae

1:30:57–1:31:05 1:31:06–1:31:14

Lennie walks down the aisle of the barn; babble of offcamera voices of men playing a horseshoe game; he turns and runs toward the door Lennie opens the door

1:31:16–1:31:26

Litter of little pups

1:31:35–1:31:46

1:31:26–1:31:33

1:31:47–1:31:55 Candy comes and gives water to the pups

1:31:55–1:32:15 1:32:16–1:32:30

Embracing a pup, Candy recollects his own dog and finds Slim to ask whether he can have the pup

George and Candy rush to the barn and discover the body

1:32:31–1:33:18

Motive D arch shape bass line (mm. 1–2) Motive D open disjunct (mm. 2–4) Motive D oboe solo (mm. 4–8)

Diminution of motive D (mm. 9, 11) Motive D open disjunct (mm. 12–14) Motive D inversion (mm. 15–17) Transitional (mm. 17–23) Motive D open disjunct—oboe (mm. 24–28) Reference to “On the Ranch” (mm. 29–39)

1:33:19–1:33:32

Motive D open disjunct (mm. 40–45)

1:33:31–1:33:36

Trill (m. 46)

1:38:08–1:38:27

Motive D2 reference to “Death of Mae” fifths and sixths (mm. 1–6)

1:38:28–1:38:56

Motive D upper voice— oboe solo (mm. 7–15) Musical references from the Prologue (mm. 16–24)

2. “George Determined” (reel XIA) George lowers his head

Slim urges George to go Dissolve to scenes of nature and a rabbit Sharp cut to the posse walking through the brush with crosscuts to scenes of animals

1:38:57

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“George is goin’ to be plenty mad at him”

George: “Candy, did that dog follow you outa the barn”

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Table 3.2 (continued) Scene descriptions and titles

DVD timings

Musical descriptions and measures

Film dialogue

3. “Scene near the Brush” (reel XIB) Slim and George rush to the brush They turn their heads

1:39:18–1:39:27 1:39:28–1:39:32

1:39:34–1:39:52

“Lennie emerges from the brush”

1:39:53–1:40:23

1:40:24–1:41:07

1:41:08–1:41:30

“Posse again”

1:41:31–1:41:48

“Lennie and George again”

1:41:49–1:41:51

1:41:49–1:42:23

Posse reference (mm. 1–4) Motive D2 reference to “Death of Mae” fifths and sixths (mm. 5–6) Motive D open disjunct—upper voice (mm. 7–12) Motive X reference to “The Wood at Night” (mm. 13–26) Reference to “In the Bunkhouse” (mm. 27–44) Motive X reference to “The Wood at Night” (mm. 45–53) Posse reference (mm. 54–61) Motive D2 reference to “Death of Mae” fifths and sixths (m. 62) Motive D disjunct open (mm. 62–72)

1:42:24–1:42:47

Motive X reference to “The Wood at Night” (mm. 73–80)

1:42:48–1:43:03

Motive X reference to “The Wood at Night” (mm. 81–86)

“I did what you told me” “Is it ’cause I did a bad thing?” “Go on, George, say it” (minor second motto)

“Tell how it’s gonna be” (death imminent) “We’re goin’ to have a little place” (minor tinge) “Just keep lookin’”

contrasting and opposing elements that parallel the narrative complexity but also temper the film’s pace by delaying the drive to the film’s conclusion.99 As the scene begins, Lennie struggles to stifle Mae’s shrieks and with his brute strength accidentally kills her. The moment, articulated by cold silence, is followed by the abrupt entry of the musical cue “Death of Mae” (DVD 1:30:57),

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Table 3.2 (continued) Scene descriptions and titles

DVD timings

Musical descriptions and measures

Film dialogue

4. “Lennie’s Death” and end titles (reel XIC) Sound of Lennie’s fall

1:43:33–1:43:38 1:43:39–1:43:47 1:43:48–1:44:03 1:44:04–1:44:23

George alone, then Slim

1:44:23–1:45:20 1:44:31–1:44:49

1:44:50–1:45:11 1:45:12–1:45:17

Postlude; leaves begin to fall

1:45:21–1:45:56

End titles

1:45:57–1:46:19

mm. 1–2 Motive D arch shape (mm. 3–5) Motive D disjunct open (mm. 6–9) Posse reference (mm. 10–17 Motive D disjunct open (mm. 18–33) Bell-like notes, F-sharp– E–G-sharp–E (mm. 20–25) Motive D arch-shaped bass line (mm. 25–29) Motive D disjunct (mm. 30–33), diminution (mm. 31–32) Motive X reference to “The Wood at Night” bass ostinato (mm. 34–44) Repeat bass ostinato (mm. 45–52)

which is performed in a marked fortissimo (motive D) that envelops the audience as it articulates the horror of death. Lennie has already been portrayed as animalistic, and once again he is trapped by his own circumstance, unable to take control of the situation or speak for himself. As he becomes confused and frightened, the music captures the limitations of his mental state through the motive’s slow syncopated rhythm. It also reflects his forceful but cumbersome physicality by using heavy orchestration set in the lower tessitura with low brass and strings.100 The musical association is that of a rhythmically conventional funeral dirge, with its fixed, regular, and repeated rhythmic patterns and its laborious and macabre tempo (see  3.8.1). By measure 5 the tempo moves “slightly faster,” and the texture is reduced, amplifying Lennie’s impulse to move quickly away. But he is cumbersome, running indecisively in various directions, while his physical actions are always inhibited by his mental capabilities. Here, motive D is performed by a solo oboe

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EXAMPLE 3.5. “Death of Mae.” By Aaron Copland © 1939 (Renewed) Robbins Music Corp. Rights assigned to EMI Catalogue Partnership. All rights controlled and administered by EMI Robbins Catalog Inc. (Publishing) and Alfred Music Publishing Co., Inc. (Print). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Publishing, LLC.

(unusual for Hollywood), creating a closer, more intimate personification of Lennie. Motive D, with its empty and mercurial quality and its asymmetrical phrase structure, wanders harmonically and, like Lennie, is undirected, unpredictable, and isolated. Milestone emphasizes Lennie’s unstable condition by visually entrapping him. As Lennie turns in one direction we hear the babble of an off-screen horseshoe game the men are playing (DVD 1:31:16). Portrayed now as a caged animal, he runs away, alienated from the other workers and metaphorically from society. As Lennie escapes, Milestone cuts to a shot that captures the small litter of pups as Candy attends to them. Copland’s underscoring here (mm. 28–46) reminds us of the more hopeful possibilities of renewal while simultaneously referring to the memory of Candy’s old dog by invoking the chordal gesture from “On the Ranch” (mm. 13–24, repeated in mm. 33–46; see ex. 3.3). This time, however, he replaces the original descending bass line that anticipated the death of Candy’s dog with a suspenseful trill, creating a new tension. Now audiences understand that the promise represented by the pups will be thwarted. Once George and then Candy discover Mae’s dead body, we know that such dreams of renewal can never be achieved. As the old dog symbolizes the worthlessness of old Candy, the pup in this concluding scene foreshadows the inevitable demise of the childlike Lennie 76

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and, in turn, signifies a larger social problem: the fragile conditions faced by the migrant workers. When Mae tried to console Lennie about his dead pup just before Lennie kills her, she expresses this notion metaphorically: “Don’t you worry none. He was jus’ a mutt. The whole country is fulla mutts.” Mae’s words cast a resounding statement that symbolizes the human condition under Depression America. Like the mutt, Lennie and the other bindle stiffs are worthless. When Copland completes the musical cue for “Death of Mae” at measure 46 (DVD 1:33:36), silence establishes the strategic moment when George discovers Mae’s dead body. By way of its entrance and exit, then, music provides a structural demarcation that links Lennie and George. George immediately knows who has killed Mae and, in turn, understands the implications for Lennie and their dreams together. George’s discovery, however, is not musically underscored. Unlike Lennie, George does not require music to articulate his feelings. He can express himself and take control of the situation. George recognizes that he must save Lennie from the brutal killing in store for him by killing Lennie himself. With this realization, he lowers his head (DVD 1:38:08), setting in motion “George Determined,” music that will propel him to do the task ( 3.8.2).101 The integrity of the music imputes a solemn, almost religious overtone, with its simple isolated two-voiced dyad performed in parallel motion.102 The slow repetitive and steady syncopated rhythm (an idea retained from the opening musical materials of “Death of Mae” and imbued with motive D) is insistent and deliberate in its accented articulation, characteristics that define George’s purpose, his resolve. Milestone’s montage reinforces the solemnity of the drama and its wider implications by moving the camera from a close-up of George and Slim to a long shot tracking away from the characters. Copland fills in the orchestration at measure 13 and onward, this time moving the conflict from a level of intimacy between the two men to the larger context of nature (the screen dissolves to the woods and a shot of a rabbit here) and, symbolically, of society itself. The isolated parallel dyads that initiate “George Determined” in measures 1–6 now become the accompanimental gesture to motive D at measure 7, which, as it was presented earlier in “Death of Mae,” is performed by oboe this time a little slower, linking George to Lennie. The motive’s syncopated rhythm, a reference to the funeral dirge associated with Mae’s death, now provides a symbol for Lennie’s demise when it returns here in “Scene near the Brush” (mm. 5–6). As the scene dissolves to the wood it then makes a sharp crosscut to the posse now in pursuit (DVD 01:38:57). Like the image, the score brings us back to the opening Prologue and underscores shots of the posse, which are interjected briefly with the pastoral image of animals. Audiences recognize the 77

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recapitulation: the conflicts and thematic contrasts anticipated at the opening between nature and Steinbeck’s fallen world. When George finally enters the brush with Slim (“Scene near the Brush”),103 George has a chance once more to recite the dream-farm sequence to Lennie (m. 13), bringing us back to the setting of the quiet grove where George and Lennie first discussed their dreams to own a farm. The implications of Mae’s death now provide a very different perspective. As Lennie emerges from his hiding place in the brush to find George, Copland brings back motive X, from “The Wood at Night,” to express the tragic naïveté and simplicity of Lennie, who is now alone with his dreams. George has fully recognized that the dream farm can never exist and somehow was never possible, as he states when he discovers Mae’s dead body: “I should have know’d it. . . . Maybe way back in my head I did.” To capture the heightened mythological status of the dream litany at this juncture, Copland creates an abrupt contrast in mood from the darker, more solemn material associated with motive D and death (mm. 5–12) to motive X (m. 13), which is performed in a much faster, energetic, and animated tempo compared to previous statements. Copland transcends the moment by reverting to the brighter key of E major, which provides contrast with the preceding key of B-flat. The ostinato accompanimental bass line at measure 13 no longer suggests a peaceful lullaby, as it did in its original presentation (“The Wood at Night”); rather, its pervasive repetition, like the simplicity of motive X itself, adds a childlike quality to the formulation linked to the original setting of nature and the character of Lennie. Perhaps the single most effective strategy that Copland exploits to create a mood of fantasy or utopia is his style of orchestration, which he atypically borrows from Hollywood’s symphonic convention. Many classical Hollywood films conclude by building through a musical crescendo toward a sustained fortissimo (in operatic terms, a groundswell), which heightens the ending and drives the narrative to its finish.104 Rarely exploiting a full-bodied orchestration in the film, Copland uses this strategy here to create contrast, interrupting it momentarily to prolong the anticipated end. When Lennie prompts George to recite the litany one final time, beginning in measure 45, the musical underscoring drops to a personal, more intimate chamber setting as motive X is performed by solo oboe (doubled by the second violin section) and borrows from the ostinato accompanying figure recalled in the “The Wood at Night.” This time, Copland weaves a two-note idea (crafted from the three-note motto of motive X), assigned to the flute (doubled by first violins), and then distorts the motto by presenting it as a semitone (E–F-natural)

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instead of the expected major second. This modification (which is repeated in mm. 47, 49, 51, 53) creates an ironic tinge that reflects Lennie’s dementia and the tragic contrast between his dreams and his death. As George begins the litany for the last time (m. 73,  3.8.3), “We’re goin’ to have a little place,” the dynamic level is tapered down, and the orchestration is reduced to a single solo instrument for each part, creating an intimate and reflective mood. This time motive X, presented now in unison with solo oboe and violin, integrates a minor flavor to the passage to project the sad and inevitable fate of Lennie. George’s voice maintains a patterned regularity heard in earlier recitations. And as the music slowly escalates, it begins to overwhelm George’s voice. The effect produces a heightened mood of fantasy for Lennie and now for the audience, who begin to reach a collective sympathy for the protagonist. Copland employs full orchestration, and as the music gets louder and mounts in intensity (m. 81), the symbolic and metaphoric meaning of Lennie’s death radiates to include the larger, more universal collective belief, one that reflects Depression America and the hollowness of the American Dream. Once George kills Lennie, he has metaphorically been sent to his dream farm after all, or at least to a better place. The film’s music ends with a return to the “The Wood at Night” and the pastoral Eden that Lennie now inhabits. • • •

Of Mice and Men was an unusual story by the standards of Hollywood’s commercially driven productions. After its release, the film received superlative reviews and by some critics was considered more powerful than the stage presentation in its realization and interpretation on-screen.105 Milestone’s treatment, his sensitivity to Steinbeck’s literary intentions, and the prestige in the film’s production values placed it among the most respected films in the motion picture community during 1939. Copland’s score was singled out in particular, as critics devoted separate articles featuring critical commentary about the unusual nature of the musical idiom and in recognition of its effective contribution.106 “He has used new musical resources to emphasize the dramatic relationships of the characters and increased the effectiveness of their action with important rhythmical changes. . . . He has matched the brevity of their speech by short, laconic music statements definitely modern in orchestration and limited to precisely the right few instruments. Unlike some composers, Copland does not drag in a 100-piece symphony orchestra for an evening on a California wheat ranch just because he had the orchestra at hand.”107 Subsequently, Of Mice and Men was nominated for an Academy Award in the categories of both best film and best achievement in music, and it received the

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National Board of Review Award for 1940.108 Convincing as a model for other film composers, the score for Of Mice and Men revealed that it was possible within the Hollywood industry to establish a modern American idiom, one that did not have to depend upon the use of borrowed existing folk tunes to define its identity. Moreover, Copland revealed how his music could function as an agent of political expression. The veteran Hollywood film composer David Raksin once told Copland regarding the score to Of Mice and Men: “Not only was the score wonderful, you began something with that from which none of us have ever escaped: you created a definite style having to do with the Western film. Before that they used to think they were doing all right if they played ‘Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.’ And then all of a sudden, we were face to face with this absolutely clear and pure and wonderful style.”109 Appendix: Music cues in Of Mice and Men I-A II-A

Prelude and titles “The Wood Scene”

fol. 1 fol. 12

III-B III-A III-B

“The Wood at Night” “On the Ranch” “Threshing Machine” 1

fol. 15 fol. 17 fol. 19

IV-A IV-B IV-C

“Threshing Machine” 2 “Threshing Machine” 3 “Barley Wagons”

fol. 22 fol. 26 fol. 30

V-A V-B

“Mae at Home” Guitar track

fol. 32 fol. 37

VI-A VI-B VI-C

“Death of Candy’s Dog” Radio track “Mae in the Barn”

fol. 38

VII-A VII-B VII-C

“In the Bunkhouse” “Preliminaries to the Fight” “The Fight”

fol. 42 fol. 50 fol. 51

VIII-A

Violinola music

fol. 53

X-A

“Death of Mae”

fol. 58

XI-A XI-B XI-C

“George Determined” “Scene near the Brush” “Lennie’s Death” and end titles

fol. 61 fol. 63 fol. 69

fol. 40

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Eisler in America The Film Music Project and Composing for the Films

In 1947 Hanns Eisler collaborated with Theodor Adorno to publish a small but important book entitled Composing for the Films. The book, written in German but published in English, has been continuously reprinted in various countries and languages even as recently as 2006 and is a significant contribution to film studies, film musicology, cultural criticism, and the discipline of twentiethcentury musical practice. From a historical perspective, Composing for the Films is among the few extended texts from the 1940s that deconstructs Hollywood musical practice while probing the wider theoretical implications of motion picture music. Nevertheless, the book is contentious, an assault on Hollywood, its enterprise, and, by proxy, American culture itself. Adding fuel to the fire, the book has a shadowy history. The gestation of Composing for the Films from beginning to end was controversial. Collaboration between Eisler and Adorno became problematic, initially in the translation process, which Adorno controlled, and then through various political machinations, all of which were tied to authorship. Some of the conflicts were driven by the shifting political landscape in the United States, and later, after the war, they were intensified when Eisler and Adorno left the United States for East and West Germany, respectively. Moreover, these conflicts created a legacy that would not go away. During the 1960s, scholars resumed questions of authorship, but this time the battleground was drawn along disciplinary lines, with cultural theorists privileging Adorno. I too continue the discussion,

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but with the aid of new sources to solve some of the unanswered questions. More significant, however, is that through these varied political conflicts, we not only learn a great deal about Hollywood from a more challenging and difficult perspective but also discover much about the personalities who shaped the book, their identity politics, and the intimate struggles and entanglements of these two very different Marxist émigrés. I start this chapter, however, as a preamble to my discussion of the book by exploring Eisler’s initial reflections on Hollywood in 1935. At this time, he had already fled Germany, living as an émigré in Europe, and had embarked on his first visit to the United States, where he toured the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios (MGM). These observations culminated in a scathing and highly politicized Marxist critique of the industry. By 1938 Eisler had moved to the United States, and in 1940 he undertook a serious study of film music that permitted a much more substantive and formal critique of Hollywood. The Rockefeller Foundation supported this work as part of Eisler’s professorial research obligations at the New School for Social Research in New York, where he had been invited to teach. Eisler’s Film Music Project was unique in that it incorporated both scholarly commentary and compositions of original musical tracks composed by Eisler for new and preexisting films.1 The results would become the basis for a book promised to Oxford University Press. By 1942 Eisler, now in Hollywood, had begun composing film scores for the industry. The pressure to complete his book motivated him to recruit an old acquaintance from Berlin, Adorno, who was now living within the German émigré community in Los Angeles. These writings, those from 1935, the Film Music Project, and Composing for the Films all share commonalities, but they also reveal Eisler’s changing perspective as a Marxist émigré in relation to Hollywood. Initially, as a visitor, he is remote and detached, a posture that gives him the audacity to speak his mind directly; later, as a distant observer, he is measured and calculating, the European expert with a desire to gain a foothold in Hollywood; finally, he writes in collaboration with Adorno, negotiating between his professional posture and his coauthor’s cultural pessimism. “Hollywood Seen from the Left”

In May 1935 Eisler was invited by the English parliamentarian Lord Marley to present a series of lectures in the United States in support of the World Committee for the Relief of the Victims of German Fascism (established in 1933).2 Under the direction of Willi Münzenberg, the committee launched a

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campaign to recruit new socialist sympathizers worldwide. The political tour was organized in the wake of the Comintern’s new Popular Front policy, which was motivated by the fear of Hitler, by the potential concern over an alliance between Germany and the West, and by a desire to foster the popularization of communist causes and policies.3 As he crisscrossed the United States, Eisler mustered support for the communist antifascist agenda, lectured on the “crisis in music,” and critiqued the conditions in Germany under fascism while denigrating the ills of capitalism.4 The tour represented Eisler’s first direct exposure to American life, its culture, and its capitalist politics.5 Most important, the trip included a visit to Los Angeles and MGM, one of the bigger Hollywood studios. Because of Eisler’s political posture, he cast his initial reaction to Hollywood, the most capitalistic of enterprises, as an acerbic tale marked by humorous quips about how the industry functioned, a tale he presented in a radio broadcast speech titled “A Musical Journey through America,” which aired in Strasbourg on 7 June 1935 during the First International Workers’ Music Olympiad.6 Impressed by the studio’s technical mastery, he remarks, “We have nothing in Europe to compare,” but he then goes on to say that the musical standards are “abominably low.” Composers must confront a life of “hell” and the “prospect of becoming hopelessly dim-witted.” Here, Eisler is responding to the studio department’s highly rationalized, factory-like system of specialization. Readers will recognize the organization that Nathaniel Finston first imposed on the Hollywood music department (discussed in chapter 1), in which various experts must produce music within the narrow context of a single prescribed genre: one does “military music” (Eisler mockingly dubs this specialist a former German army musician), another “Vienna waltzes and operetta music” (a composer from the old school), and another “preludes and the accompaniments” (a serious music composer), as well as one for jazz and dance and yet another who produces only song lyrics.7 Not only is the work of the composers, whom Eisler sarcastically calls the “music office workers,” reduced to automated impersonal tasks that stultified the mind and any creative impulse, but the musical product as an outgrowth of the system becomes highly conventionalized through extreme specialization, which in turn negatively affects musical function. Consequently, music becomes an appendage to the film rather than being integrated into the whole, with the result that studio composers have no idea how their individual efforts contribute to the film or its impact. And though the musical standards in this factory-like environment suffer, nevertheless, the industry understands that such rationalization expedites the movie-making process, allowing for greater

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profits through reduced costs. In his concluding statement, Eisler cannot stop himself from revealing his Marxist orientation: “Although films could be an excellent means of entertainment and education in modern society, in the hands of private industry they are solely for profit and a means of lulling the masses.”8 It is no coincidence that Eisler follows this broadcast with observations about his experiences in Detroit, the center of the world automobile industry, where the assembly line originated and Fordism was hailed as the most efficient cost-cutting method of production for the mass market. In a parallel tale, he describes the inhuman working conditions of the Ford factory workers, who at the end of the day “fall into an exhausted sleep” from the monotony imposed by assembly-line tasks.9 One wonders how much these conditions differed from those at the Armour and Company meat-packing plant, which served as Finston’s inspiration for his vision of the Hollywood music department. By making these analogies and exploiting rhetoric like “music office workers,” Eisler reduces the occupation of a composer to a dehumanizing experience that swallows white-collar workers just as the automotive industry devours those wearing blue collars, all victims of advanced capitalism. In an article entitled “Hollywood Seen from the Left,” Eisler revisits many of the same issues but this time directly invokes the analogy of the music specialist as a “factory” worker who toils in an office and must punch in his hours. A so-called studio manager (Eisler’s term for the head of the music department), who in the opinion of Eisler is “an absolutely unmusical man,” makes all the final decisions and bases his assessment on the “hit” potential of a given work. Eisler’s formula for a “hit” is explained this way: “musical numbers that you can sing before you have even heard them,” an idea that his colleague Adorno would address subsequently in his now-famous article “On Popular Music” and that they would revisit together in their collaborative book, Composing for the Films.10 Eisler summarizes his initial impressions of the American film enterprise in this way: “The music department of a big Hollywood film company is a very peculiar place.”11 Of course, Eisler’s own film expertise and his ideas about film scoring, those connected to European and often Marxist film productions, subscribed to a different set of aesthetic and practical values. Hollywood’s goal, according to its Production Code, was to produce entertainment for the sake of entertainment. To Eisler, such notions constituted a bourgeois ideal that paralleled contemporary art music’s ideal of art for art’s sake, music that lacked purpose or function.12 The conventions of entertainment music, in particular, he notes, stifle one’s intellect. Used as a pacifier or narcotic, it is designed as escapist

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entertainment to divert audiences from the crisis in society, and it occupies the nonproductive activities of leisure. Eisler warns that film music should provide social commentary, not intoxicating effects that serve the interests of production and, in turn, form the “socio-economic basis for the peculiar form of musical practice in capitalism.”13 Eisler’s conclusions provide some of the earliest and most astute criticisms of the industry, which had only a few years earlier recognized the potential of integrating nondiegetic music into film. His view, however politically charged, proved to be especially perceptive, since many Hollywood composers would reach some of the same conclusions only a few years later.14 Although at the time Eisler had not contemplated Hollywood as a place to live and work, by 1938, as the political conditions in Europe were becoming dire, Hollywood and film music would figure prominently in his plans. The Genesis of the Film Music Project

During his 1935 tour, Eisler had been in contact with American composer Henry Cowell and his colleague, the musical intellect Charles Seeger.15 Seeger had been well acquainted with Eisler’s work and persuaded Cowell to invite him to lecture the following season (October 1935–January 1936) at the New School for Social Research, where they both taught.16 Eisler continued to pursue the opportunity, but not until 1938, when he fled Europe. At that time, Alvin Johnson, the New School’s director, helped to bring Eisler to the United States, offering him a teaching post at the New School and financial support to work on the Film Music Project, a research study that provided Eisler the financial means to continue his work. Johnson had previously made strong connections with the European intellectual community through his interests in the social sciences, and unlike most Americans, he understood the threat posed by Hitler.17 In 1933, in response, Johnson established the University in Exile, a graduate program offering imperiled scholars teaching posts and, in turn, legal entry through arranged visas to the United States. In 1938 Eisler benefited from Johnson’s interest in helping émigrés through an offer to lecture in the New School’s adult education program, and Johnson provided Eisler safe passage out of Europe.18 Once in New York, Eisler secured work among his political friends to write film scores for Joris Ivens (400 Million, 1939) and Joseph Losey (Pete Roleum and His Cousins, 1939, and A Child Went Forth, 1940).19 These opportunities offered Eisler exposure in the United States (Pete Roleum and His Cousins was shown at the New York World’s Fair, where The City, with Copland’s first film score, was also premiered); nevertheless, as documentary and experimental

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productions, they were divorced from the commercial expectations, methods, and values that Eisler would later encounter in Hollywood. Simultaneously, Eisler lectured at the New School, maintaining a close relationship with Johnson, whose support cannot be underestimated. In order to sustain the composer financially and solidify his creative and intellectual work in the United States, Johnson wrote supportive letters, helped him formulate and prepare a research project, and garnered grant funding from the Rockefeller Foundation. The task was challenging, since the US government was suspicious of communism and its sympathizers.20 Although as a guest in the United States Eisler restrained his outward political activities, Johnson was questioned about the composer’s connection to communism and his relationship to the “StalinTrotzky row,” a distrust that the agency continued to have even after Eisler was awarded a grant.21 Negotiations between Johnson, Eisler, and the Rockefeller Foundation ( John Marshall) initially focused on a book subvention for Eisler, as he had received a contract from Oxford University Press based upon his New School lectures, “Why Modern Music Is Hard to Understand.”22 Further discussions, however, resulted in a project that would focus on Eisler’s expertise in film music. The Rockefeller Foundation had already supported projects concerning media that included a study on the control of sound and light in theater; several documentaries by Losey; and sociologist Paul Lazarsfeld’s Princeton Radio Project, with which Theodor Adorno was associated. During the foundation’s inquiry on Eisler’s merits, Lazarsfeld was approached to assess the composer’s abilities. Lazarsfeld’s letter compared Eisler with Adorno and concluded that although they were both facile dialecticians and gifted critical interpreters of music and mass culture, Eisler was probably “easier to handle,” compared to Adorno.23 It was an ironic statement, given the problems that lay ahead for Eisler in his collaboration with Adorno on Composing for the Films, which I discuss below. Eisler’s proposed project on the relation of music to film fit well with the foundation’s interests in technology.24 By December Eisler had informed Oxford about the Rockefeller project on film music, hoping to obtain a second book contract with the press on the general subject (offering to subsidize fifteen hundred copies), a proposal the press accepted.25 On 1 February 1940, Eisler received a grant of $20,160 (equivalent to a generous $354,000 today) from the Rockefeller Foundation to begin the Film Music Project, which would be administered by the New School over a two-year period (later extended for an extra nine months). The study would be organized around four semiannual reports, each preceded by a practical demonstration of several brief existing

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film clips taken from documentaries, newsreels, and commercial feature films for which Eisler would compose new scoring to illustrate alternative possibilities.26 He also intended to measure audience reaction through questionnaires, designing the project not only as a critical response to film music but also as praxis, as a venue for his own compositional and artistic work. The foundation hoped the published book would have an impact on both specialists in the film industry and scholars.27 It was a timely project, especially since film and radio had just begun to receive scholarly attention in conjunction with public reception, and government agencies were expressing interest as the war began to escalate.28 Eisler hoped the Film Music Project would open doors in Hollywood, where, in time, he hoped to compose music for films.29 Many of his professional colleagues, who were now émigrés like himself, had already fled to the United States, some even to Hollywood. Moreover, by the late 1930s Eisler’s American left-wing friends, such as the playwrights Clifford Odets and Harold Clurman, had also departed for the movie capital.30 As Eisler had always done, he hoped to be able to renew his old political relationships, this time in Hollywood. The Film Music Project: A Framework for Style, Theory, and Practice

Eisler’s proposal was ambitious: he would examine the problems in exploiting film-scoring techniques, consider the relation between music and image, create a laboratory to experiment with methods of sound synthesis, produce a methodological outline for the investigation that would include a summary of the various compositional applications used in each of the practical examples, and illustrate those findings. Perhaps his boldest and even audacious proposition was to introduce contemporary musical materials to the film score, by which Eisler means, as we learn from other sources, Schoenberg’s twelve-tone method.31 Table 4.1 lists the source documents for the project and includes proposals and progress reports either written by Eisler or summarized as a written memo by the office of the Rockefeller Foundation and discussed in an essay published in Modern Music. Although Eisler initially designed the Film Music Project as a general response to the practice of film music in both Europe and the United States, by 1941, in his first progress report, the study seems to have shifted in focus to become a response more specifically to Hollywood practice.32 Typically, Hollywood was challenged by a small roster of “outsiders” with roots in the art music community. Accordingly, it was not altogether surprising when Eisler

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Table 4.1. Documentary Sources for the Film Music Project Date

Comments

Document title

1 Nov. 1939

General overview of project

5 Dec. 1939

Rockefeller Foundation

3 Jan. 1940 31 Jan. 1941

Summary by Rockefeller Foundation Report of expenses for 1940

May 1941 8 Jan. 1942

Published in Modern Music 18 Report concerning the project

15 Jan. 1942

Summation of project (interoffice)

31 Oct.1942

Final report

undated

Expenditures 1940–43

“Research Program on the Relation between Music and Films”1 “Music and Films: Proposed Research Project by Hanns Eisler Prepared for the Rockefeller Foundation”2 “Study of Music in Film Production”3 “Rockefeller Music Project Report of Expenses”4 “Film Music—Work in Progress”5 “Relationship between Music and the Movies”6 “Experimental Demonstration of Music in Film Production at the New School for Social Research”7 “Final Report on the Film-Music Project on a Grant by the Rockefeller Foundation”8 “Statement of Expenses Hanns Eisler— Rockefeller Music Fund”9

1. Typescript in RA dated 22 November 1939. The document accompanied a letter from Alvin Johnson to John Marshall dated 1 November 1939, RA. Published in Eisler, Musik und Politik, 3:137–40. 2. Typescript in RA, undated (handwritten on p. 3: “grant to begin Feb 1, ’39 [sic]”), accompanied letter from Johnson to Marshall, 5 December 1939. Published in Eisler, Musik und Politik, 3:142–45. 3. “Messrs. Alvin Johnson, Eisler, and Robin—Study of Music in Film Production,” interoffice memo, interviews, 3 January 1940, RA. 4. Typescript in RA. 5. Also published in Eisler, Musik und Politik, 3:146–51. 6. Typescript attached to letter from Alvin Johnson to John Marshall, 8 January 1942. “Report” published in Eisler, Musik und Politik, 3:152–53. 7. Typescript in RA. 8. Typescript in RA. Published in Eisler, Musik und Politik, 3:154–58. 9. Typescript in RA.

published his initial findings in Modern Music for a safe and uncontentious readership of mostly modernist American composers. Indeed, Eisler shared similar creative prejudices about Hollywood with his American modernist counterparts, but as a European Marxist, his perspective distanced him even more. Most American observers, such as Copland, may have been critical of Hollywood’s musical approaches, but they did not necessarily criticize the iconic authority of Hollywood as a cultural and political institution, as Eisler had. And though Eisler visited some of the studios, he had not yet worked in Hollywood as a composer, a weakness that in certain ways

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undermined his critical authority. As an outsider, he was not intimately familiar with the practical expectations of the system—working under its commercial pressures, writing for short deadlines, and appeasing film directors and music supervisors—a context that Copland explicitly described only after his own direct experiences in Hollywood, as I discuss in chapter 2. Consequently, Eisler’s critique seems almost naive in its goal to influence the closed community of Hollywood. Eisler’s naïveté was revealed at the outset when he tried to obtain studio permission and feature film clips in order to analyze and recompose new scores for the project’s demonstrations.33 Although he was successful in obtaining sequences from The Grapes of Wrath and The Long Voyage Home, two films directed by John Ford, nevertheless, in the final report of the study, Hollywood feature films are not well represented.34 For example, the “Report on the Film Music Project” in the appendix to Composing for the Films cites only The Grapes of Wrath.35 Even so, this picture was atypical of and unprecedented for Hollywood because it employed camera techniques and a style characteristic of documentary film.36 For the most part, then, Eisler had to rely on clips from documentary films, particularly by filmmakers with whom he had already worked closely.37 He also proposed to use newsreels, which would have presented a similar problem because they form a specialized category of documentary film.38 Because Eisler’s study primarily addressed Hollywood practice, these choices are problematic and artificial while simultaneously reflecting the particular environment in which Eisler was more comfortable. In his newly recorded examples for the study, Eisler demonstrated the viability of new musical materials by exploiting its most severe expression, the “advanced and complicated” (as Eisler puts it) twelve-tone techniques of Schoenberg.39 By 1941 most American composers neither fully understood Schoenberg’s method nor appreciated the musical possibilities of row composition. According to Copland’s own recollections in 1968, for example, most American modernist composers could not separate the method as a compositional approach from Schoenberg’s high-modernist style.40 Moreover, such difficult music contradicted the profit-seeking values espoused by Hollywood’s commercial enterprise, those that were tried and true.41 Eisler, however, had already shown the effectiveness of twelve-tone music by exploiting the method in scores he created for his American documentary efforts, such as 400 Million and The Living Soil, which were very well received by audiences unaware of the presence of the technique. As Eisler revealed, “Apparently advanced musical material, which average concert-goers may find indigestible and non-relevant, when applied to films loses something of its forbidding qualities.”42

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Eisler also addressed two recent Hollywood films in this report, The Long Voyage Home and The Grapes of Wrath, originally scored by Richard Hageman and Alfred Newman, respectively. In rescoring both films, Eisler’s goal was to avoid the sentimentality commonly exploited in Hollywood that encouraged audience identification and emotive responses. Instead, Eisler applied counterpoint in a sailor’s death scene in The Long Voyage Home to create music that evoked the hysteria, fear, and struggle of death rather than a somber emotional event. In The Grapes of Wrath, Eisler emphasized the heroic aspects of the epic struggle of the Joad family as they try to reach California, although he gave little or no musical details about his scoring strategy.43 What we can understand from these two examples is that for Eisler, the underscoring should be heard, avoiding the appeal to the emotive qualities inherent in the narrative or dramatic situation. In essence, the score should seek to express alternative values linked to the larger narrative or symbolic goals of a film, a strategy Copland had already expressed earlier (see chapter 2). On 29 January 1942, the Rockefeller Foundation approved a nine-month extension of the project (through 1 November 1942) in order for Eisler to complete compositional and recording elements that were lagging behind.44 The foundation recognized the limitations of Eisler’s project. As Marshall wrote, “With the practice of film production as rigidly controlled as it is, it may be too much to hope that Eisler’s findings will be utilized in Hollywood. On the other hand, we may be surprised in this point, for Eisler has considerable prestige and if his work should succeed in impressing someone in authority in Hollywood, it might gain unanticipated effect there.”45 Despite the delays, Eisler was supposed to mount a demonstration in April 1942 in Los Angeles and anticipated another for January 1943 for a wider group at the Academy of Motion Pictures.46 He also listed significant expenses under the rubric “2 Demonstrations” in his final accounting to the Rockefeller Foundation, which suggests that two such demonstrations took place.47 Eisler engaged a number of consultants for the Film Music Project, including Adorno, Bertolt Brecht, Charlie Chaplin, Harold Clurman, Fritz Lang, Clifford Odets, Charles Seeger, and Arnold Schoenberg. He chose the group shrewdly and included mostly close friends and colleagues, those who might help to generate interest in his work or those among the wider professional film community, and they did.48 Brecht and Adorno participated in Composing for the Films as I discuss below, and his first Hollywood film score was commissioned by Fritz Lang. Two versions of the final report on the Film Music Project exist. The first is a typescript that was eventually published as part of Eisler’s complete writings, and the second, written later, constitutes the appendix of Composing for

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the Films.49 The early version, which is schematic in nature, outlines the three constituent stages of the project and in fact constitutes an outline for the book promised to Oxford University Press. It includes topics such as the use of advanced musical material (twelve-tone technique), the adaptation of small chamber ensembles, dramatic treatment in relation to musical illustration, the implications of “neutralization” in the dubbing process, and the relationship between music and picture. Although the Film Music Project in itself had limited influence on the industry at the time, it was the resulting book, Composing for the Films, which included descriptive and musical examples from Eisler’s demonstrations, that would make a significant mark. The book now had to be written. Oxford had been pressuring Eisler to move forward on it because it was now long overdue. In July 1942, under considerable stress to complete the Film Music Project (due 31 October 1942), find work as a “Hollywood” composer, and write the promised book for Oxford, Eisler begged the editor, Philip Vaudrin, to have patience: “Please don’t rush me, I am a very unexperienced [sic] and slow writer of books.”50 Eisler, however, found a solution to his problems: he turned to Adorno, and together they began the long and arduous process of writing and eventually publishing the book. Adorno and Eisler: An Uncommon Relationship

Although Eisler and Adorno shared a great deal in common on intellectual, aesthetic, and theoretical fronts, and both were gifted critical interpreters of music and mass culture, nevertheless, it is difficult to discern exactly how such strongly opinionated individuals could agree to collaborate on Composing for the Films. According to his critics, though he was brilliant, Adorno was insular, arrogant, intolerant, socially awkward, and privileged, someone Eisler privately mocked.51 In comparison, Eisler was energetic, pragmatic, forthright, charming, and a celebrated musician with intellectual capabilities that could challenge even Adorno’s.52 As Marxists, they were of completely different stripes, a condition reflected in the book’s contents and the problems that ensued over its publication. Adorno grew up in a wealthy and protected bourgeois household that supported his musical and intellectual interests. He studied piano and received a broad university education.53 During the 1920s, he expressed great appreciation for Schoenberg’s music, particularly the atonal works, and published concert reviews and essays on the composer.54 Because Adorno held aspirations of becoming a professional musician, he persuaded Alban Berg to give him

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composition lessons and developed a close personal relationship with him.55 Once in Vienna, Adorno tried to insinuate himself within Schoenberg’s circle and through Berg met Eisler. But Adorno had to be satisfied with being a disciple on the fringes of Schoenberg’s circle through his writings as a critic.56 Rather than undertaking a compositional career, Adorno continued to write essays for various avant-garde publications, including the journal Anbruch, in which he critiqued several concert works by Eisler; he was not entirely supportive.57 According to one of his biographers, Adorno was “tormented” by Eisler. The source of his torment was not only the preferential treatment Schoenberg lavished on Eisler, even when Eisler was rebellious, but also Eisler’s own social success. Adorno longed for the “exclusive, coterie-like quality” of the Schoenberg circle, an ideal separating Eisler from him. 58 Whereas Eisler rejected the elitist pretense of such bourgeois groups, Adorno embraced them, and it was this attitude that would influence his posture toward American culture and its values of democratization. Once the Viennese Schoenberg circle began to change, Adorno returned to Frankfurt and pursued another small elite group, around Max Horkheimer and the Institute for Social Research.59 He was later invited to become a member when the institute moved to the United States. Although scholars of the institute theoretically drew from the Marxist tradition, they never involved themselves in the politics of the proletariat. Instead, Adorno was principally concerned with the utopian potential of modern society rather than any practical application or praxis in revolutionary party action that so consumed Eisler.60 Adorno was critical of Eisler’s revolutionary musical praxis, defending high culture and musical autonomy: “In artistic questions, a political stance should not make itself apparent in primitive immediacy—and this is the very opinion which accounts for the difference between myself and poor Hanns Eisler.”61 Adorno defended this position as “nicht mitmachen,” not playing along or compromising in the name of practicality.62 Yet, compared with most people, including Eisler, Adorno did not have to succumb to the practicalities or expediencies of finding employment, and so there was no financial impediment from his taking on a project like Composing for the Films.63 Ironically, however, the institute, established “to investigate the causes of poverty,” was funded by a wealthy grain merchant, and, as Eisler put it, “the source of the misery proves to be the wheat speculator. The scholars of the Institute can’t publish that, of course.”64 Adorno preferred to be in a state of naïveté and to maintain distance from the object studied in a so-called alienated state; for him, the position of outsider provided a “freshness of judgment,” particularly in regard to his work concerning American subjects.65 In comparison, Eisler’s livelihood most certainly

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depended upon his ability to compete, negotiate, and compromise, and as a consequence, no matter how idealistic Eisler might be, his perspectives were grounded in the practicalities of a situation. The differences between the two explain to some extent the dual qualities of practice and theory inherent in the Oxford book’s complexion. In 1938, in coordination with Adorno’s immigration to the United States, initially to New York City, Max Horkheimer arranged a half-time position for his colleague to work in the music division of the Princeton Radio Project, a study supported by the Rockefeller Foundation and directed by Paul Lazarsfeld. Adorno studied radio music programming and reception, a subject related to the collaborative work he did later with Eisler on Composing for the Films. However, Adorno worked uncomfortably under Lazarsfeld, and conflict arose over the project’s empirical approach of data collecting, which Adorno vehemently opposed.66 In 1940, having left the radio project, Adorno, with Eisler’s recommendation, approached Oxford to publish some of the results from his radio work.67 The editor, Philip Vaudrin (Eisler’s editor), rejected Adorno’s proposal, which was in English, on the grounds that he considered Adorno’s radio book “excessively erudite for what narrow interest the topic might attract.”68 Robert HullotKentor, who in 2009 published Adorno’s radio project results under the title Current of Music, suggests that Vaudrin’s rejection in part may have been tied to Adorno’s insulting and uncompromising critique of American culture. The charge is not without cause. Adorno, nevertheless, would reinvest the harsh critical tone he had adopted for the radio project into Composing for the Films, which he insisted on preserving throughout the prolonged editorial process, as I discuss below, as well as some of his ideas, including his stance against American culture and empirical data collecting. Unlike Adorno’s, Eisler’s earlier visits to the United States had prepared him much more for the American experience. His global perspective and the circle of international artists with whom he continually worked and associated provided an easier transition to life as an émigré in the United States. And, in contrast to Adorno, whose scholarly disposition resided in the traditions of German philosophy, psychology, and sociology, Eisler had to some extent abandoned certain aspects of his creative national roots: “But once you have been an emigrant for fourteen years, remembering this damned Germany, you get a different view of things. You look back—without sentimentality. . . . My remembering was ‘cool, polite, gentle.’”69 Rather than deferring to the continuum of German aesthetic ideals, Eisler valued the larger issues of the composer in modern society.70

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Although Adorno continued to write critically about mass culture in the field of music, such as his highly polemical and reactionary appraisal of jazz and popular music, his deeper critical evaluation and interpretation of the culture industry were to be expressed in a manuscript he was working on with Horkheimer. The book, Dialectic of Enlightenment, contained a chapter entitled “Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception,” written at exactly the same period as Composing for the Films; therefore, it provides a companion text that draws on parallel and related notions of mass culture analysis.71 The essay in Dialectic of Enlightenment is in essence an extension of earlier writings that continue the highly critical and negative response to the mechanisms of production and its effects on the mass public.72 Recently, scholars have begun to shift their views about Adorno’s relationship to film culture as a fruitful source to understand his critique. Adorno, for example, cultivated a relationship with some of the émigré members of the film community, especially Fritz Lang.73 This association suggests that Adorno was not as remote from his subject as he presented himself. Nevertheless, for Eisler and Adorno, Hollywood, at least from their vantage point during the 1940s, represented a dangerous evil, because both perceived its highly rationalized system as a manipulative and controlling power, one that was inescapable. These differences, whether critical, political, or even personal between Eisler and Adorno, did not stop them from collaborating; both had particular agendas to fulfill, all of which would be played out in the book’s publication history. In any event, by the time they agreed to collaborate on Composing for the Films, they shared a common plight: as Austro-German exiles living in Hollywood, the most capitalist of enterprises, they mocked America’s excesses while simultaneously abhorring the conditions at home. This shared predicament could make even some adversaries the best of friends.74 The Politics of Collaboration: Composing for the Films and Its Publication History

The publication history of Composing for the Films is complicated. Though coauthored by Theodor Adorno and Hanns Eisler, nevertheless, some versions of the book have appeared without acknowledging Adorno as coauthor, provoking erroneous assumptions about authorship, while others name both authors. Although scholars have speculated on who might have written what parts of the book, a question that can never really be untangled completely, we can uncover, through an interpretation of letters, details regarding the process of Adorno and Eisler’s collaboration that shed new light on authorship and the book’s publication history.75 94

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Although Composing for the Films initially received a few generally positive reviews, its untimely release in 1947 at the beginning of the Cold War damaged its reception. Its harsh critique of capitalism insured a limited readership, especially within the Hollywood community, where Red-baiting and the emergence of a blacklist had begun to jeopardize careers. Moreover, the anticommunist House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) further discredited Eisler personally, making him a target of scrutiny. Unlike Copland and other musicians and intellectuals who supported Eisler, Adorno chose not to and bowed out of the book project just before its release, withdrawing his name from fear of his association with Eisler.76 By 1948 Eisler had left the United States, as deportation had become inevitable, and his name and reputation were stigmatized for Americans. The ensuing period of McCarthyism led to the suppression of Eisler’s achievements in the United States, including Composing for the Films.77 Recently, however, the book has come into view again, generating detailed interpretations and raising questions of authorship from varying perspectives and disciplines.78 Its criticisms of American culture have profoundly influenced contemporary scholarly debates. This notoriety also coincides with Adorno’s rise as an authority on “the culture industries,” the subject of which occupies much of Composing for the Films. The iconic status of Adorno’s work, particularly for scholars in music most recently, has also impinged on perceptions of authorship.79 Despite the end of the Cold War, Eisler is still not well known, nor is the West particularly comfortable with him and his political engagements. Adorno and Eisler complicated the issue of authorship through their own political intrigues. For example, many scholars have uncritically cited Adorno’s cavalier and personal remarks in a letter to his parents, in which he states that he “not only wrote but conceived 90 percent of the book,” a statement that completely disparages Eisler’s theoretical and practical expertise and his previous published work on the subject.80 (This was not the first time Adorno exaggerated claims to his parents.)81 Adorno failed to inform them that the book was based upon the groundwork Eisler completed in the Film Music Project, a study that led directly to the book contract. Much of this project can be closely documented in Composing for the Films. Even Adorno acknowledges the close connection between the project and the book in correspondence with the book’s editor, Philip Vaudrin, as I discuss below.82 In addressing the question of who wrote what portions of the book, it is important to recognize that Adorno tightly controlled the book’s English translation from the original German manuscript, thereby imposing his rhetorical imprint on the way in which the book’s ideas were conveyed, a situation that has further blurred authorial ownership. Putting aside the private written statements to his parents, which were motivated by reasons of a personal nature 95

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and outside his professional audience, Adorno was known to be a prudent writer. A variety of scholars have noted, for example, that he rewrote materials a multiplicity of times and carried notebooks in which to jot down ideas, all of which were heavily reworked, revised, and edited.83 The correspondence from the Oxford production files reveals a similar obsession with details over translation and content.84 Consequently, we can uncover the process of Adorno and Eisler’s collaboration through an interpretation of letters that shed new light on the publication history and reveal the false claim that Adorno was primarily responsible for the book’s substance and contents. From the Film Music Project to Composing for the Films

Composing for the Films was the culmination of the project that began in April 1939 when Oxford University Press awarded Eisler a contract for a book on modern music, as I mention above. The proposal outlines two main areas of exploration that included modern musical materials and the development of modern music in its relation to the general social trends of modern times. Within these generalized topics, Eisler intended to pursue problems of the sounding picture, microphone technique, and music as commodity, all of which would be approached “from research-work in sociology.” Such topics reflect the wider intellectual concerns that preoccupied Eisler, beyond his pragmatic artistic endeavors as a composer, and comprise a central part of his political, philosophical, and artistic background, some of which were expressed in earlier articles.85 Nevertheless, Eisler’s proposed book on modern music was never completed; instead, as a consequence of receiving the Rockefeller grant, he published Composing for the Films. Although now centered on film music, the book’s new focus did not represent a complete shift from its original proposal. The authors tackle similar theoretical and social issues about modern music, but viewed in the context of motion pictures. Although these were ideas Eisler had previously contemplated, they also preoccupied many of the discussions he and Adorno held within their larger intellectual circles, a circumstance that impinged on the question of authorship and the book’s shared content. Many of these conversations, documented in letters and journals, concern film, commodity culture, capitalism, and modern music. Brecht, for example, accompanied Eisler to various seminars hosted by Adorno and the members of the institute. At one meeting, they read Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World as a point of departure to discuss the relationship between needs and culture, mass production, public reaction, and the authority of the state, issues related to the novel’s Fordist tenor and ideas closely connected to Hollywood as a

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“culture industry.”86 Huxley worked as a screenwriter in Hollywood, and his ideas (many introduced and published in the 1920s) saturate Composing for the Films, with and without the authors’ acknowledgment.87 Meanwhile, Eisler’s personal letters reveal that he was under tremendous financial pressure and was pulled in several directions.88 He may have turned to Brecht as a potential coauthor for the film music book. In May 1942, when Eisler reportedly consulted Brecht and Adorno (as well as Schoenberg) as part of the Los Angeles demonstration for his Film Music Project, Brecht reported that he was “making a few notes on film music for Eisler,” now published in Brecht’s collected works.89 Yet it is not clear whether these notes were made in relation to the Film Music Project or were an indication that Eisler initially asked Brecht to collaborate on his film music book. Through July and into the fall, Vaudrin was continuously badgering Eisler to complete the manuscript, which he was writing and fervently promised to submit but failed to do so by 10 November.90 The Film Music Project deadline was also looming (31 October, which he submitted on 21 November), while his letters to his wife show that each day Eisler contacted industry people, agents, film directors, and producers with the hope of obtaining a film-scoring contract.91 Discussions with Lang regarding Eisler’s scoring a film had begun already the previous July, but by 18 November there was still nothing definite.92 On 31 October Eisler’s stipend from the Rockefeller Foundation ran out. With all this pressure from deadlines and financial difficulties, it is not surprising, then, that Eisler turned to a collaborator to help him complete the book manuscript so that he could invest most of his efforts looking for and writing film scores. In the fall Eisler turned to Adorno, who agreed to complete the task.93 The partnership now made formal an intellectual relationship that had been brewing since Eisler’s arrival in Hollywood. On 27 November 1942 Eisler wrote to Vaudrin that he had been working closely with Adorno for “many weeks” and wanted to share authorship and royalties equally, this at exactly the moment when, finally, Eisler received confirmation that he would be writing the score for Lang’s film then titled “The Unconquered,” later Hangmen Also Die!94 “The status of Dr. Adornos [sic] co-authorship is not only a matter of honesty but also of expediency because I feel that without his intense collaboration the completion of the book may be considerably delayed or even endangered.”95 Without delay, the Press sent new contracts to both men.96 Adorno was delighted, writing to his parents on 21 December 1942: We have something pleasing to report: Hanns Eisler, with whom I am on very good terms . . . and who, as you probably know, is director of the Rockefeller

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Film Music Project, and now has to write a book about it, has asked me to write it together with him. The official confirmation from the publisher (Oxford University Press) came yesterday, stating that we both have the status of authors and will split the royalties 50:50. As I had made preparations long in advance, I will be able to manage it comfortably in my spare time. I think it will be a very substantial external success. Eisler is being extremely loyal.97

Adorno was eager to accept the invitation, since it allowed him to integrate some of the ideas he had already developed under the Princeton Radio Project, as the preface to the 1947 publication of the book reveals.98 Likewise, Adorno must have derived great satisfaction from this potential collaboration, since Lazarsfeld had forced Adorno’s dismissal from the radio project and, in addition, Vaudrin, the editor at Oxford, had rejected Adorno’s book proposal for Current of Music, as I mention above. In essence, the collaboration, at least on the surface, provided Adorno with vindication of his scholarly work. The collaboration could not have proved better. Once the German manuscript for Composing for the Films was near completion in the summer of 1944, Adorno had the audacity once again to promote his radio material with Oxford, aggressively taking advantage of a new editor while Vaudrin was engaged in military service. It is an indication of Adorno’s character that he integrated the request obliquely, blended with a progress report on the completion of Composing for the Films, as an enticement for the acceptance of the radio book. After several repeated (and persistent) queries from Adorno, Vaudrin returned to the press and immediately rejected it anew because “the market simply would not turn out to be large enough to justify such a book.” Adorno could not simply accept the rejection and in a haughty reply wrote back, “It may interest you in this connection that the whole edition of ‘Radio Research 1941’ half of which is devoted to musical studies for which I am responsible, has been sold out.”99 Oxford was already getting more than a glimpse of how difficult Adorno could be and finding him no “easier to handle” than Lazarsfeld did.100 The Collaborative Genesis and Publication

With Adorno’s formal participation, Eisler provocatively expanded his initial ideas in the Film Music Project, moving beyond the practical footing he enunciated in the study to a wider critical interpretation. Yet as promising as the collaboration was intellectually, the partnership quickly deteriorated, engendering a set of problems even before the book was published in the summer

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of 1947, only a year after Eisler and Adorno wrote to Marshall: “As early as late in 1942 we decided to pool our theoretical ideas and practical experience and to write the book together. The German manuscript was finished in summer 1944. Publication was held up by difficulties of translation. Now, however, the English manuscript is ready to go into print as soon as a few minor changes have been agreed upon between the Oxford University Press and ourselves. The book should be out not later than sometime in fall or winter.”101 In a now famous retraction and just weeks before the book’s publication, Adorno withdrew his name as coauthor. Thus questions concerning the book’s authorship have been closely intertwined with what became a complicated publication history. Three versions of the book were published under the direct supervision of one or both authors. The initial English (Oxford University Press, 1947) and German (Henschel, 1949) editions named only Eisler as author. A second German edition (Rogner und Bernhard, 1969) was published with both Eisler and Adorno named on the title page, and subsequent German editions continue to acknowledge both authors (see appendix to this chapter). Previous discussions of the subject tell us more about the scholars themselves than about the question of authorship. A symptom of this authorial problem is revealed, for example, in the published materials on Adorno and his work. Most Adorno scholars either do not treat Composing for the Films or mention the book simply in passing. Even Max Paddison, whose work specifically focuses on Adorno’s writings about music, devotes only a few pages to the contents of Composing for the Films.102 The few notable exceptions are Philip Rosen and Thomas Y. Levin, who discuss the book from the perspective of Adorno’s theories about culture, omitting Eisler from the theoretical equation; and Richard Leppert, who in a more balanced approach observes that the text “is unlike anything else [Adorno] ever wrote.” Perhaps Leppert perceived the traces of a collaborative text.103 Those writing about Eisler, on the other hand, more often try to bridge the two authors. Günter Mayer, for example, presents an analysis of their mutual and contrasting ideas in Composing for the Films, as do Eberhardt Klemm, Claudia Gorbman, and Johannes C. Gall.104 And though scholars tacitly agree that the book was authored collaboratively, questions continue to arise about how much of the book each wrote. Though it is doubtful that this question can ever be resolved definitely, it also obfuscates an important issue, namely, that even with their differences, they still shared much in common. As Klemm put it, the book constitutes “einen glücklichen Kompromiß” (a happy compromise).105 Instead, when both authors addressed the issue of authorship, they transformed it into a political issue. Eisler, for example, exploited the anti-American

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content of the book in order to profit from a second edition published in the East. It seemed to be a constant political issue for Adorno once he removed his name from the title page of the original American edition and once again in 1969, when the German edition of the book came out with full acknowledgment of his coauthorship. Yet Adorno’s claim that he wrote 90 percent of the book has received little scrutiny, while other scholars have added to the confusion by uncritically disseminating this statement.106 Most of the evidence concerning the role that each author played in the book appears in private correspondence between Eisler and Vaudrin at Oxford University Press, between Adorno and editors at the press, between Adorno and his parents, and between Adorno and Siegfried Unseld at Suhrkamp, his Frankfurt publisher. These sources suggest that, depending upon his audience, the time, and his motivation, Adorno presented conflicting claims of his authorial contributions to Composing for the Films. Although political and emotional forces in each case motivated his actions, his private statements reveal a concern to control the intellectual ownership of the book, particularly the critique of the culture industry.107 One of the most significant documents is a letter to Vaudrin dated 13 June 1946 and signed by Adorno alone: “The whole book has originated from Mr. Eisler’s Project and his contract was based on the idea that he should give an account of the Project—something which, incidentally, is doubtless expected by a large number of experts, and people interested in Mr. Eisler’s practical work in the movies, and as a composer in general.”108 It is difficult to overlook the force of this letter, since Adorno addressed it to Vaudrin, who had been working with Eisler since 1939 and knew more than a little about Adorno’s scholarship and approach to these subjects from the aborted radio book Adorno continued to propose, unsuccessfully, to Oxford and Vaudrin. Adorno was unlikely to exaggerate his claims of authorship to this particular addressee. When Adorno wrote this letter, he and Eisler were engaged in the final preparations of the book for publication in 1947. The letter goes on to review details of editing and content that include changing the terse language and expression, structural changes regarding the repetition of materials, questions of musical examples, and even the title of the book. Adorno took great pains to cast any editorial decisions as a collaborative process, fully acknowledging Eisler’s participation in phrases such as “I took at once the opportunity to talk over your suggestions with Hanns Eisler,” “We also agree,” and “Both Mr. Eisler and I feel.”109 At this stage, Adorno was still fully involved in the project with the expectation that his name would appear as coauthor.

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A different story emerges from correspondence between Adorno and his wife and Adorno’s parents already beginning in 1944. Gretel (Adorno’s wife) writes, “Archie [Theodor] has completed . . . two fine chapters for the Eisler book (i.e. in collaboration with Eisler),” while later in the same letter Adorno himself writes, “I wrote a long draft for a collaboration with Max and 3 chapters of the book on film and music with Eisler, which should soon be finished.”110 Jürgen Schebera reports a statement from Louise Eisler (Eisler’s wife) regarding the manner in which the two men worked through their collaborative process. Adorno and Eisler dictated the text while Gretel Adorno recorded it in shorthand.111 Since Mrs. Adorno witnessed the process and was integrally involved in it as a stenographer, her remarks above seem to confirm Eisler’s full participation, although Adorno’s statements suggest that he was sole author of the three chapters to which he refers. By 1945 Adorno had reported, “I am having to spend a lot of time assisting the translation of the book I wrote with Eisler (‘Music for the Movies’). It is coming along well, and the translator, Prof. MacManus [sic] from the university here, is a charming fellow and is making an enormous effort, but calls me about every trifle. Next time I shall write in English to begin with, the only reason for not doing so this time was the collaboration with Eisler, whose English is too poor.”112 Writing the book in German as their common language is a mark of the nature of Adorno and Eisler’s collaboration. Moreover, Eisler’s deficiency in English clearly placed Adorno in control of the final English draft of the book, and it is that control that would later have consequences for his perception of authorship. The Oxford production files provide a detailed account of the excruciating process that the press undertook in translating Eisler and Adorno’s German manuscript.113 Adorno’s desire to establish an English text that reflected his own tone and style became a problem that delayed the book’s publication for three years. During that period, the press worked with two translators, though Adorno controlled or did much of the translation himself, while the book was overseen by three different editors.114 At various junctures through the process, for example, Margaret Nicholson (the third editor) assured Adorno that she would “make sure that the quality of your own style is retained” and that “I personally promise that the ‘flavor’ for which you have worked so hard will not be removed in the polishing job.”115 Initially, when the book was completed in the summer of 1944, Adorno suggested that he undertake “a preliminary translation of 10 to 20 pages” to exemplify his translation skills, from which the press could “decide whether I should translate the whole book or whether this task

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has to be done by your staff.”116 Adorno abandoned the task of direct translation (but did not relinquish control, as subsequent correspondence shows) when the press, on Adorno’s recommendation, commissioned George McManus to undertake the task.117 By August 1945 Adorno had observed that the translation still needed polishing and suggested that the press “appoint a very competent and reliable editor” to bring “the manuscript into final shape,” someone who would be “considerate enough not to standardize and level down our book within the editing process—a danger which is invited by the unconventional character of the book itself.”118 Here again, Adorno emphasizes the importance of his distinctive language and style. McManus, writing to Margaret Nicholson in January 1946, admitted that he had given up the work voluntarily because “the manuscript is a very difficult one, but the difficulties were not insurmountable. They were intensified in part by the fact that the two authors wrote in entirely divergent styles.”119 These remarks subtly allude to the arduous task presented by Adorno’s fixation with the book’s translation, fully narrated in the correspondence between himself and the press. Before the end of 1945, Norbert Guterman had begun editing McManus’s translation.120 Subsequently, correspondence between Adorno, the press, and Guterman indicates the extreme frustration all parties experienced because of Adorno’s relentless insistence on controlling details of the English style.121 Even Adorno recognized that he was creating undue problems by agonizing over passages during the final stages when the text was supposedly considered complete. He comments, “Believe me that this is not pedantry on my part but that we have u r g e n t [his emphasis] reasons for every little change indicated.”122 Here, Adorno makes it clear that it is not he who is pedantic, referring to details of the translation; instead, he shifts the subject of his statement to “we have urgent reasons.” Adorno appears to be addressing accusations of pedantry from the press while conscripting Eisler to defend the changes. The urgent reasons for these changes reveal Adorno’s obsession with the unity of style and content. By the time Guterman submitted his final translation, he could not help venting his irritation with Adorno’s meddling. “Now Dr. Adorno will be satisfied; there will be no other insertion; the edited manuscript will receive the authors’ final OK, & will go to the printer; the book will be chosen by the Book of the Month Club, translated into 72 foreign languages (including Sanscrit), and we will be happy forever after.”123 It was clear that Adorno had invested a great deal of intellectual capital in the style and language of the translation, a condition that convinced him of his predominance in the authorship of the

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book, as he confirmed to his parents on 28 October 1946: “I completed the final manuscript of the film book yesterday; it is going to press now.”124 And here Adorno attributes authorship to himself, even though he refers to a finalization of the translation already prepared by Norbert Guterman.125 Moreover, in a letter to Nicholson of the same date, Adorno clearly delineates questions of translation, which he distinguishes by using the singular pronoun “I,” from questions of the book’s substance and context, where he uses the plural “we.” Adorno writes, “We have gone over it [the manuscript] very carefully and I am happy to return it to you under separate cover in a form which, as far as Eisler and I are concerned, is ‘final.’” Adorno goes on, “We tried to take care of all the points you made. I went even farther than you with regard to the elimination of offensive or otherwise objectionable passages.”126 On 20 November 1946, just before the final stages of the book’s production, Adorno began to contemplate the possibility of removing his name from the book as coauthor. He feared that the hostile criticism Eisler was receiving from the American press over the composer’s communist associations might damage his own reputation.127 During the fall of 1946 the newspapers released incriminating information about the communist activities of Eisler’s brother Gerhart, who had been working as a journalist in New York and was accused of being a communist agent.128 Eisler was stigmatized by association as reports against Gerhart began to emerge in the press. Government and press attacks took on momentum, and by 6 February 1947 HUAC had interrogated Gerhart as well as the men’s sister, Ruth Fischer, in Washington, just at the time that Adorno oversaw the final proofs for the book.129 By April 1947 the Hollywood film industry had become the target for the government’s anticommunist campaign, and Eisler was among the first within the community to be victimized. He was investigated initially in Hollywood on 12 May 1947 and later in September at a public interrogation in Washington.130 In fact, Adorno had already expressed some fear over the book’s political content because he and Eisler had been critical of Russian filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein. The filmmaker had fallen into disgrace in the Soviet Union, and Adorno feared that readers of his and Eisler’s critique of Eisenstein would consider them puppets of the Soviet Union.131 It reveals the extent of Adorno’s paranoia about political fallout. Finally, on 27 May Adorno officially withdrew his name from the book.132 The day his letter arrived, Eisler visited Margaret Nicholson, now editor at Oxford University Press, to discuss Adorno’s political concern over being linked with Eisler, and they resolved the matter.133 Nicholson further reported that Vaudrin, who by this time was again overseeing the publication, suggested the possibility that Eisler and Adorno

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postpone the book for three months or so with the idea that the political attention might subside, but Eisler was not amenable to the idea. By 13 June, a month after Eisler’s Hollywood hearing, Adorno reported to his parents that he had revoked his coauthorship. As for the film book, the Oxford press was very understanding: I will be mentioned very emphatically in the foreword, but not as the official co-author. It is a shame, as I in fact not only wrote, but also conceived 90 percent of it; but it is still better this way. If my “co-author” had been a little more loyal, he would have been the one to step down in the light of the true situation. But he is too vain for that, and on the other hand I can understand that, in his position, the publication of a purely scientific book under his name must be very important to him; and, after all, it was he who originally had the contract. So, let us leave it at that. You will receive it as soon as it is in print; it looks thoroughly decent in every respect. Except that film music is ultimately too limited and indifferent a subject to warrant an entire book. I did, however, incorporate various more peripheral matters that interested me.134

Adorno’s tone reflects his embittered disappointment in abandoning his coauthorship status. Eisler is no longer the “extremely loyal” friend who invited him to collaborate in 1942, on which he remarks in his letter of 21 December 1942, but instead has taken advantage of Adorno’s scholarly prowess. Adorno seems to be using a rather narrow definition of loyalty and exhibits a petulant tendency that undermines his credibility in the letters to his parents. When he claims to have conceived 90 percent of the book, he directly contradicts his statement to Vaudrin in which he acknowledges that the book emerged from Eisler’s Film Music Project. The letter of 13 June 1947 also contradicts previous statements made by him to his parents that reflect Eisler’s collaboration, including meetings they held together to work through the book.135 The only compensation that Adorno received for this authorial deficit was an acknowledgment in the preface, which he claims to have written in another letter to his parents.136 And Adorno grudgingly concedes that the book resulted from the contract that Eisler originally negotiated with Oxford. This last comment allows us to question exactly what Adorno’s own dispassionate and unemotional perception of the book’s authorship might be. Finally, Adorno, perhaps in frustration that his name will not appear on the title page, undermines the book’s value by dismissing its topic as too “limited” and “indifferent.” Writing to his parents two months later on 26 August 1947, he finally reports that the book appeared without his name as coauthor.137 Through this period, Adorno expressed sympathy toward Eisler and his political plight but maintained his position regarding his own contributions to 104

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the book.138 Only in private correspondence to his parents does Adorno compensate for his decision to remove his name from the project by appropriating authorship of the entire book. Years later, Adorno publicly addressed his own personal political concerns about his association with Eisler, stating in the postscript he added to the 1969 edition of Composing for the Films: “I did not seek to become a martyr in an affair that still had nothing to do with me. In view of the scandal, I withdrew my name from the book. At that time, I was determined to return to Europe, but feared I might have difficulties in doing so. Hanns Eisler fully understood.”139 Adorno’s actions betray a lack of integrity both intellectually and in relation to his public posture. The reason behind his withdrawal must have been not only fear of any association with Eisler but also anxiety over the exposure of the book’s critical Marxist content. The critique of the culture industry in Composing for the Films is closely related to that found in Dialectic of Enlightenment, as I mention above. The former, however, was available to American audiences through its publication in English, while the latter, published in Amsterdam, in German, and with Horkheimer as coauthor, was not, a situation that largely insulated Adorno from American criticism. The intense political attacks staged against Eisler finally resulted in his departure from the United States and eventual immigration to East Germany. Under financial burden and through his own self-serving political expediency, Eisler published a German-language version of Composing for the Films.140 At that time, he asked whether Adorno wanted his name to appear on the title page.141 Once again, however, the East German edition attributed the book to Eisler alone. According to Adorno, Eisler’s 1949 edition exploits a more popularized language, while the critical commentary concerning Sergei Prokofiev’s film score to the Eisenstein film Alexander Nevsky was “toned down.”142 Moreover, Eisler wrote a new preface that expressed a highly inflammatory anti-American rhetoric: “The culture industry of America has a monstrous power: it not only devastates and corrupts the world of perception of the American people but it also threatens to overflow the cultures of other people with its filth. Through its mass production of trash and kitsch it becomes the most dangerous enemy of cultural advancement of the entire world.”143 Adorno was concerned over the political implications that this new German edition would carry, especially if it were to become the basis for future editions and translations. In response to the 1949 publication, Adorno immediately wrote to Peter Suhrkamp giving him the rights over the book and specifying that a proposed French translation must remove the alterations that appeared in the German edition.144 In reply, Louise Eisler reminded Adorno that he had removed his name from the American edition “because of political grounds,” 105

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and that action left Eisler alone responsible for the text. Mrs. Eisler reveals here that the true terms of the issue are not intellectual, as Adorno would have it, but rather political in nature. It was Eisler who had to be accountable both in the United States and now to the East German government and its pro-Soviet policies, and therefore Mrs. Eisler insisted that the French edition “will come out with the alterations that Hanns found appropriate for Europe.”145 Interviewed years later, Eisler reflected on the circumstances: “At any rate the situation was that my erstwhile friend Adorno requested most earnestly that he might write the foreword when it was published. Well, I did not remind him of this the last time I saw him in Frankfurt, in order not to embarrass him. He would hardly show himself in public with me, let alone link his name with mine.”146 In 1968, six years after Eisler’s death, Adorno revisited the issue of authorship when he learned of a proposal to reprint the 1949 East German edition (by now long out of print) in West Germany at the publishing company Rogner und Bernhard in association with East German musicologist Eberhardt Klemm.147 The publishers planned to use Eisler’s 1949 edition as the basis for their own and asked Klemm to write a postscript without addressing the question of authorship. Klemm thought it prudent to communicate the publisher’s intention to Adorno, but not before the middle of December.148 By late September, however, Adorno had already received rumors of the potential edition and immediately wrote to Suhrkamp, annoyed at the news: “The pirated print should name me as author!”149 Hoping that Suhrkamp would consent to publishing a new edition, he proposed to include an explanatory preface written by himself, a newly edited version that removed the sections Eisler had added under the pressure of Soviet policy, and a note from Eisler’s son confirming Adorno’s new preface.150 Adorno believed that the book contained “remarkable things” and wanted to stake his claim as an expert on film.151 A central part of Adorno’s argument to convince Siegfried Unseld, his publisher at Suhrkamp, was his claim that he authored the majority of the book. He echoed the claim he had already made to his parents in 1947, mentioned above, of having written 90 percent of the book, but this time asserted that Eisler himself made this admission when he visited Adorno in the 1950s in Frankfurt, an assertion that cannot be confirmed from Eisler’s report of the conversation.152 The fact that Adorno’s claim, even placed in Eisler’s own mouth, is exaggerated and disingenuous emerges from two statements later in the same letter when he first claims “vollen Mitautorenrechten” (full rights as coauthor) and then insists that “the wording that we had fixed together and forms the basis of the American edition be restored.”153 Here, he is admitting to the collaboration with Eisler, a position that is consistent with the early correspondence to his

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parents from the mid-1940s and the key letter to Vaudrin at Oxford University Press of 13 June 1946. Moreover, he twice acknowledges in letters to Unseld that the chapter “Prejudices and Bad Habits” and the appendix on the Film Music Project originated from materials Eisler wrote and collected.154 Adorno also based his claims for authorship on stylistic and intellectual grounds: “Jeder, der mit meinen Arbeiten auch nur oberflächlich vertraut ist, wird an Stil und gedanklichem Inhalt mich ohne weiteres wiedererkennen” (Anybody who is even superficially familiar with my works will readily recognize me in the style and intellectual content).155 This evidence may say more about the close supervision Adorno maintained over the original English translation, or it may signify a revision of the original 1944 German text, which he states was not “eines strikt verbindlichen deutschen Textes” (a strictly binding German text).156 In any case, he was appropriating authorship through literary style and intellectual tone and not through the book’s content alone. In each case, Adorno felt he had to compensate for the intellectual loss he had endured since removing his name in 1947 as coauthor. There is no question of Adorno’s collaboration and his central authority in overseeing the Englishlanguage translation. For example, certain moments in the book, particularly in regard to chapter 5, “Elements of Aesthetics,” present a subject of critical engagement closely identified with Adorno’s philosophical work. Some of the ideas and even phrases in that chapter also appear in an untitled German typescript in the Eisler files housed at the Feuchtwanger Archives.157 These documents provide confirmation of Adorno’s coauthorship, but the content of the 1947 publication makes Adorno’s claim of writing 90 percent of the book impossible and unjustly lessens Eisler’s authority and his contributions. Many other aspects of the book, for example, rely heavily on practical examples drawn directly from Eisler’s Film Music Project and his experiences as a film composer, including the chapters titled “Function and Dramaturgy” and “Sociological Aspects.” Other chapters revisit Eisler’s discussion in the Film Music Project on new musical resources.158 On this point, Leppert found it perplexing that the book prescribed a “progressive musical praxis within mass culture,” because Adorno had not promulgated this perspective until late in his life.159 Eisler, on the other hand, had consistently subscribed to this ideal in his writings on film music and his film scores, including his Hollywood score Hangmen Also Die!160 Even the Marxist critique on the culture industry coincides with similar observations that Eisler made during his 1935 trip to Hollywood about the nature of the industry’s highly controlled and administered world. Adorno’s statements regarding his authorial contributions to Composing for the Films appear inconsistent and at times exaggerated. His most extreme

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statements occur in later correspondence to his parents, where he strikes an emotional tone to elicit sympathy after withdrawing his name from the book, and in his letters to Unseld at Suhrkamp in order to press home the case for an independent West German edition. In these letters he contradicts earlier statements he made to his parents, Vaudrin, and, above all, Suhrkamp where he insisted that the work had been collaborative. While Adorno lamented his circumstances, he nevertheless created them. The withdrawal of his name in 1947 was an indication of his lack of political conviction and, to use his own word, loyalty. Even so, his actions belie the nominally apolitical public stance that he habitually struck. Adorno described the book as “by no means political,” but his rhetoric is hypocritical, as the timing and tardiness of the publication of what Adorno labeled the “legitimate” 1969 coauthored version reveal, reflecting the ongoing political turmoil that the book created.161 Likewise, Eisler’s acidic remarks published in the introduction of the East German edition are fraught with political anti-American hyperbole that seemed tailored to appeal to communist authorities. Ironically, although Eisler may have been bitter about his departure from the United States, he was among the lucky émigrés to have profited from Hollywood. Throughout the Cold War, Composing for the Films remained a text with profound political ramifications in both East and West, as Eisler and Adorno tacitly admitted during Eisler’s last visit to Adorno in Frankfurt in the late 1950s. Mayer reported: “Eisler had arrived unannounced—they spent ‘an evening together, just like in the old days’ although admittedly they ‘as though by agreement did not touch on politics.’”162 Though Suhrkamp did not publish Composing for the Films, Adorno eventually sanctioned the Rogner und Bernhard edition and persuaded the publisher to make the modifications he had proposed to Suhrkamp.163 In place of a new preface, Adorno printed one signed by both him and Eisler, dated 1 September 1944, Los Angeles. Adorno had himself reinstated as coauthor and added a postscript, in which he summarized the history of the book. A paragraph originally conceived for the 1969 edition, in which Adorno discusses Eisler’s circumstances in the DDR at the time of the 1949 edition, was suppressed, apparently at the request of Eisler’s widow, Stephanie Eisler. That paragraph finally appeared in 1976, when Suhrkamp published Komposition für den Film in its collected edition of Adorno’s writings.164 In his postscript, Adorno confirmed that the 1969 edition reproduced the original 1944 German text, written in Los Angeles, though various annotations in the manuscript and typescripts were not integrated.165 Adorno felt compelled to publish the 1969 German version of Composing for the Films because both earlier editions were tainted by their political contexts. As he saw it, the 1947 edition was smeared in the West by American 108

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anticommunism because of the participation of Eisler, while he regarded the 1949 German edition as Stalinist propaganda. Despite his disingenuous remark that the book was “by no means political,” both the contents of the book and its reception continue to elicit political debate and ongoing controversy. Reaction to Composing for the Films

Composing for the Films had little chance of making an immediate impact on the Hollywood industry, which was, in part, the motivation behind Eisler’s study and certainly the rationale for the support from the Rockefeller Foundation. The notoriety of Eisler’s political views, like the impact they had on Adorno, affected the reception of the book; consequently, potential readers, critics, and those in the film industry were poised to dismiss or discredit him and the book: Composer Hanns Eisler earns his living by writing music for the movies. He dislikes both his work and his employers. According to him, “. . . No serious composer writes for the motion pictures for any other than money reasons.” Last week Left-Winger Eisler blamed Hollywood’s “moguls” for the sad state of film music. “They are afraid of their own shadows, which they mistakenly think is public taste. . . . I realize my remarks are a little risky, but I like risky remarks.” Eisler is riskier still in a new book, Composing for the Films (Oxford University Press; $3), just out.166

As scholars in the United States started to consider film music as an academic field of exploration, debate about the merits and failings of Composing for the Films began to emerge in the discourse. Some critics, particularly those in music studies, dismissed the book or gave it short shrift, always in the context of a brief discussion of the book’s content, still reacting strongly to its anti-American and Marxist position. Martin Marks, for example, in his critical survey of film music literature, makes the point directly: “Composing for the Films contains passages of Marxist rhetoric so high-pitched that they defy all notions of dispassionate research” and notes that “the ideological tone has turned more than one American reader away.” Roy Prendergast reacted similarly, rejecting the book as “testy and valueless,” while Robynn Stilwell dismissed the book as “so polemical and so rooted in modernist elitism and Marxist pessimism that it really provides no practical methodological model for contemporary film musicology.”167 These strong reactions may be attributed to the communist anxiety that still seems to resonate in the United States, even after McCarthyism became a political embarrassment, and, in the case of Marks and Stilwell, when the Cold 109

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War was no longer a threat to American security. But another aspect that has strongly provoked and antagonized critics—an aspect that also touches upon national political sensitivities—is the way in which the book demonizes the very nature of American culture, a society rooted in and identified not by its art music traditions but by its modernist identification to popular culture, technology, and the enterprise of commercialization, all of which are tied to the politics around American capitalism and the ideals of its democracy. Adorno scholars from a previous generation, led by Martin Jay, Edward Shils, Leon Bramson, and Herbert Gans, were critical of their subject for the perplexing contradiction of “a self-proclaimed leftist so contemptuous of democratic tastes and values” while simultaneously writing from a Marxist perspective.168 Adorno’s criticisms that touch upon the sensibilities of a nation and its political ideals resonate throughout the pages of Composing for the Films because of Hollywood’s central importance to American culture and the iconic influence it generated domestically and abroad. Though Composing for the Films outlines a much fuller, more encompassing cultural analysis of the film industry (admittedly with strong negative overtones) than do Copland’s writings, as I discuss above, what is most striking is that the authors often arrive at similar conclusions, even though they subscribe to fundamentally different ideological perspectives. Composing for the Films presents Hollywood from the perspective of two European Marxists whose experiences in the traditions of Western autonomous art music and German (film) culture permeate the book’s attitude and discussions. Their European perspective, biased though it might be, allowed them to be more detached and, in part, more critical generally of Hollywood. Ironically, by the time Eisler and Adorno wrote the book together, Eisler was simultaneously composing scores for Hollywood, including Hangmen Also Die!, from which he draws several trenchant examples for the book. Unlike Copland, who was enthusiastic about his initial Hollywood experience, Eisler believed that his work in the industry reinforced and deepened the negative impressions he already held; it colored his treatment of Hollywood and encouraged him to preserve his Eurocentric outlook and detachment from the industry. Adorno and Eisler’s shared European perspective sometimes overwhelms parts of the book, not only their complaints about the culture industry but also their criticisms, which stand at odds with American aesthetic sensibilities regarding popular music (whether the “popular classics” or commercial idioms) and cinematic style. Complementary to these cultural differences was Eisler and Adorno’s unwillingness to appreciate and even tolerate Hollywood’s underlying motivation: to realize profits. Nor did they fully understand the way the industry defined itself, as democratized “entertainment,” a universal

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commodity transcending political goals that could obviously be understood through American exceptionalism. As Will Hays, president of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, which authored the Production Code, stated in 1938, “Entertainment is the commodity for which the public pays at the box-office.”169 Eisler and Adorno’s intellectual isolation is reflected by a limited engagement with the works of other authors. When they do refer to other specialists, they cite Kurt London and the theoretical writings of Sergei Eisenstein, both drawn specifically from the European context; therefore, they do not address the particular issues of American cinema and the studio system. Perhaps one of the most egregious problems of the book is that it neglects to take into account the more progressive artistic achievements and critical responses to Hollywood and completely ignores documentary film scores by American composers, even though Eisler was active in this field himself and includes some examples from his own output in Composing for the Films. By 1944 George Antheil, Virgil Thomson, and even the budding Bernard Herrmann had all either published on Hollywood’s musical practice or created innovative modernist film scores.170 Such neglect is disturbing when one considers that many of the thorny issues in Composing for the Films coincide with those discussed by Copland, someone whom Eisler knew as early as the 1920s and with whom he maintained some connections socially while living in the United States. This was a criticism that Lawrence Morton raised in his review of Composing for the Films, one of the very few contemporary critiques published immediately after the book’s 1947 American release: Mr. Eisler fulminates against these evils as though he has discovered them. Yet they have been named and discussed many times before; they have been lamented and castigated and ridiculed by everyone from Bosley Crowther [film critic for the New York Times] to Samuel Goldwyn, from Oscar Levant to Aaron Copland, and by music critics from [Bernard H.] Haggin of the Nation to [Olin] Downes of the [New York] Times. Mr. Eisler is thus no revolutionist or iconoclast. He has merely thrown himself (and rather late at that) into a struggle of long standing. He has done a more nearly complete job than the others; and he has employed the most telling weapons—irritation, idealism, intelligence, musicianship, and a formidable power of irony and invective.171

For readers such as Morton, the book’s language and perspective were too offensive. Elsewhere in the review, Morton exhibits his irritation by saying the analysis is “biased, oversimplified, and impolite.”172 Here, Morton reveals his own American pedigree; he is angered by the famous Adornoesque “pessimism,”

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which casts such a negative shadow on the larger questions of American political, industrial, and social integrity. The consequence, of course, is that readers like Morton were led away from the central discussion of film music, unfortunately, and some of the more intelligent and discerning critical comments of the book.173 Even Oxford editor Vaudrin recognized difficulties in the language and its harsh tone. Adorno appeared to concede, stating, “As a matter of fact, I had planned to suggest to you a kind of ‘purge’ replacing the passages that could be constructed as being personally offensive by more politely worded statements.”174 The book’s reception suffered initially from Eisler’s political difficulties, but its remoteness from American culture in general was also expressed through its high language and derogatory tone, elements that are open to interpretation as arrogance. These inherent qualities of the book would continue to isolate it from American audiences. By the 1980s, however, as film studies developed and the American context shifted its ideological values, Composing for the Films began to resonate with critical readers. The Tradition of Shock

In view of the political crisis and traumatization that overwhelmed Eisler’s and Adorno’s lives, particularly Eisler, who was continually in the political line of fire, it is understandable that the book’s rhetoric, polemics, and ideas evoked anger, irony, and shock. Shock was one of the most important intrinsic qualities that characterized the aesthetics of European modernism. Many artists and musicians exploited the tendency as a contradictory response to their conditions, whether in reaction to the Great War, the excesses of nineteenth-century Romanticism, or what many felt were the stifling ideals of tradition.175 Shock became an important functional and political compositional ideal for a Marxist composer like Eisler. It served as a foil, functioning against the grain of the established order and becoming a strategy that could galvanize, disrupt, and, in essence, transform predictable forms into new contexts, defeating audience expectations and forcing them to react in more critical, acute, or perceptive ways. In Composing for the Films, Eisler and Adorno theorize shock as an alternative to combat the banalities of Hollywood’s perpetual and archaic (compared to film’s technological advances) use of musical clichés and standard practices. Audiences, they believe, had long ago become acclimated to or “intoxicated” by such conventions and as a result were unaware of or, even worse, subject to a kind of industry ensnarement. Many critics of cinema, like Aldous Huxley, Virginia Woolf, and Siegfried Kracauer, were already reaching similar conclusions in the 1920s.176 Eisler and Adorno point to the parallel between the practices 112

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used in advertising and these draconian and controlling film music strategies typical of various Hollywood conventions such as the studio’s opening title music. These conventions, they say, were sheer advertising. Motivated by the roar of the MGM lion, the music in this context follows as a fanfare, creating a momentous “triumphant” and “enthusiastic” feeling by appealing to the positive and uplifting characteristics of human nature, even if, in reality, the outside world was crumbling. The opening title music interprets the film for the “less intelligent” by way of these positive messages and musical slogans in the form of leitmotifs that would, through repetition, explain “persons, emotions, and symbols” to the audience.177 The authors’ Marxist political dispositions, shaped by their experiences in Germany, particularly Eisler’s, caused them to reject these strategies of banalization and intoxication and instead to advocate musical techniques that reflected a higher truth and challenged manipulation. Therefore, the compositional strategies they suggest rely to some extent on shocking audiences, positioning them to be engaged and to think in more critical ways. This type of shock or aesthetic challenge originated in the work of the Russian formalist critic Viktor Shklovsky and found its cinematic manifestation in the films of Russian directors Sergei Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov through their ideas of counterpoint.178 Eisler spent time in the Soviet Union and had familiarized himself with Russian film. Shklovsky advocates breaking convention by ostranenie, that is, by “making strange,” or defamiliarizing convention for aesthetic purposes.179 Bertolt Brecht presented a similar strategy, which he called Verfremdungseffekt, but applied it to break convention for political ends in order to create ideological distancing.180 These intellectual conceptions (Brecht’s, which was political, and Shklov­ sky’s, which was aesthetic) became a fundamental aspect of Eisler and Adorno’s tract and underlie many of the pragmatic ideas they suggest in the book.181 Their work in this area provided an important contribution in 1947, if for no other reason than by challenging the integrity of Hollywood’s classical aesthetic and the industry’s manipulative ideology. Accordingly, the musical recommendations presented throughout the book (many exemplified through scoring examples) are in part designed to elicit shock or sometimes irony as a perfect foil for all that is negative in Hollywood’s film music industry. Musical Illustration and Counterpoint as Shock and Reaction

Among the key strategies that Eisler and Adorno advocate is to present a distinctive musical voice that communicates an idea not necessarily conveyed 113

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directly on-screen, a concept theorized as counterpoint. Copland endorses this approach under particular conditions, expressing the “unspoken thoughts of a character,” for example, as I discuss in chapter 2. Yet Eisler and Adorno treat it far more extensively than Copland and embrace both aesthetic and especially political implications in line with Brechtian ideals. Rather than subordinating the music and using it to duplicate screen events, an ideal that I have previously discussed both in the context of Copland’s approach and more generally in chapter 1, Eisler and Adorno recommend that music interrupt audience identification with the screen’s illusion of naturalism (music, after all, does not underscore real life actions normally). Music that duplicates screen events cannot be so readily heard and can therefore manipulate, especially as Eisler suggests, because ears are passive organs of reception. Moreover, Eisler and Adorno recognize the substantive differences between the two media, visual and sonic, that render the idea of parallelism unachievable. A film score that functions independently offers truth; that is, it disassembles the film’s illusion of reality. There must not be “confusion between reality and reproduction,” a principle on which advertising often relies, and in film, it is a “confusion that is all the more dangerous because the reproduction appears to be more similar to reality than it ever was.”182 As effective as Eisler and Adorno felt this strategy could be, it also has its limitations. Because music does not possess intrinsic meanings and depends upon associations, often cultural, it does not necessarily convey the same meaning to all audiences, and so this connotative variability undermines the potential of an oppositional practice. Yet even if there is agreement that the music of a particular passage could stand in counterpoint to the film’s image, like any specialized technique, the novelty can wear thin with overuse, a concern of which Eisler was aware.183 Instead, the authors recognize a more open-ended analogy that characterizes the divergent relationship between screen and music as that of “question and answer, affirmation and negation.”184 And in order to assume this approach, counterpoint (like parallelism) requires strategic planning, particularly if the music is to stimulate or create a level of shock.185 New Musical Resources: Style as Shock

One of the principal arguments raised by art composers, one that limited their participation in Hollywood, is the industry’s fear of progressive musical techniques, as expressed by Antheil and Copland in their writings. The thorny question of exploiting progressive musical styles in film was an issue that Eisler had already initiated in his Film Music Project, but in Composing for the Films,

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it becomes a central ideological and political issue. Of the various contemporary musical resources that were practiced, the stylistic materials to which the authors give the most attention were those of Schoenberg. According to Eisler, “Thus I believe that precisely Schoenberg’s method can become extraordinarily important for a new social music if we can understand how to use it critically. It will be a matter of standing Schoenberg on his head somewhat, so that his feet are on the firm ground of our social links with the (historical) struggle of the masses for a new world.”186 Even as Eisler left Schoenberg’s circle to embrace the proletariat, he always maintained a deep appreciation of his teacher’s methods and the music’s expressive qualities. But how did Eisler rationalize the contradiction and tension between his desire to create a politically meaningful music for the wider mass proletariat public and the application of a highly complex and unyielding idiom, particularly since he had been critical of the music’s pretenses? Although Eisler began using the technique again after visiting the Soviet Union in the early 1930s, Joy Calico suggests that Eisler’s broad and inclusive conception of the Popular Front after 1935 motivated him to rationalize the use of twelve-tone music in the context of his political alliances.187 Eisler maintained that retaining “the most current, precise, and colorful expressions” kept the social movement relevant while defending artistic freedom in the face of Hitler’s call against modernist “degeneracy.”188 In 1935 Eisler offered a candid and pertinent interpretation of Schoenberg’s style: To the uninitiated listener Schoenberg’s music does not sound beautiful because it mirrors the capitalist world as it is without embellishment and because out of his work the face of capitalism stares directly at us. Due to his genius and complete mastery of technique, his face, revealed so starkly, frightens many. Schoenberg, however, has performed a tremendous historical service. When his music is heard in the concert halls of the bourgeoisie they are no longer charming and agreeable centers of pleasure where one is moved by one’s own beauty but places where one is forced to think about the chaos and ugliness of the world or else turn one’s face away.189

How might mass audiences become initiated into such a politically threatening but nevertheless expressive music? Eisler felt that film provided a practical vehicle to exploit difficult modernist styles. “Even the unaccustomed ear finds complex musical devices more understandable and effective when accompanied by visual images,” he conceded.190 The abstract nature of the music is especially susceptible to ideological encoding and within various contexts offers a deeper

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range of expressive possibilities and a multitude of new meanings that might include “quietude, indifference, and apathy.”191 The listener is “stimulated to grasp the scene in itself; he not only hears the music, but also sees the picture from a fresh point of view.”192 The radical style in itself, with its unresolved tendencies, plays an important part in creating shock and discomfort, thereby cutting through the banality of recognizable musical clichés.193 Whereas dissonance within tonality, to evoke the characterization of tension in motion pictures, had become defused by overexposure, atonality’s progressive qualities could speak to the vital and serious contemporary crisis. For Eisler, this held particular political resonance and truth: “The fear expressed in the dissonances of Schoenberg’s most radical period far surpasses the measure of fear conceivable to the average middle-class individual; it is a historical fear, a sense of impending doom.”194 As in the case of counterpoint, the new musical resources must be sensitively applied, planned, and well executed, or else they are susceptible to overuse, and they desensitize the audience to their potential effect. Because film is essentially the work of montage, it proceeds through its own abrupt and irregular shifts of visual tension that invoke various moods, tones, shots, and scene changes. Here, the authors believe that the atonal works of Schoenberg (written before he developed serial procedures) or the twelvetone methods of Anton Webern are most appropriate because the innovative structural and formal methods can be uniquely shaped to coincide with film’s quickly paced visual changes. Atonality and the methods of twelve-tone music can operate within condensed periods through means of more compressed and reductive procedures.195 Tonality, in comparison, is governed by a fixed system of references and depends upon the resolution of tension through temporal means of expansion, development, and repetition in order to confirm its tonal implications; therefore, such formal strategies may not coincide easily with the screen’s editorial shifts.196 This is precisely the effect that Copland achieved in Of Mice and Men during the “Death of Candy’s Dog” cue, where the use of a modal idiom catered to the abrupt shifts in emotional expression, which changed moment to moment. And because dissonance no longer seeks the justification of resolution and tonality itself is no longer a central point of reference, structural harmony becomes liberated from its need for measured periods and consistent textures. Neutralization

Eisler had just completed his first Hollywood film with Fritz Lang when he made this comment in a draft letter to Clara Mayer, the dean of the New School 116

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for Social Research: “The technical means for recording music are immense here, the machines, technicians, sound-cutters, engineers, down to the assistants, are so good that you become envious.”197 But with all of the technical wizardry Hollywood could muster, Eisler and Adorno were still extremely critical of what they called “neutralization,” a condition that levels music to a banal state caused by excessive adaptation and standardization, degrees of censorship, and recording procedures that homogenize dynamics, color intensity, and spatial depth.198 Copland described the process of recording as a leveling down, whereby everything is retained at a mezzo forte dynamic in order not to challenge the dialogue or screen events. The result is that the musical score is reduced to indifference and, in theoretical terms, functions as a redundancy, unnoticeable without an independent voice. Even before the recording process, however, the various musical stages of production in Hollywood, its factory system, contribute to this leveling-down process, which Adorno and Eisler described with acerbic sarcasm, even within the book’s more sober recommendations. It is reminiscent of Eisler’s humorous 1935 observations of the MGM Studios, with his penchant for aphorisms. Some of the most derogatory pronouncements in the book focus upon the dehumanizing plight of the various musicians in the system, especially the composer, who works under the heavy bureaucratic toil imposed by the “grotesque artistic incompetence of the heads” as “a regimented employee” who can be “discharged on any pretext.”199 This division of labor removes the composer effectively from the creative process.200 Like Copland, Eisler and Adorno felt that composing and arranging should be a unified task, but in Hollywood they are separated in order to expedite the process. The results produce standardized musical arrangements that carry “blurred middle voices” under “honeyed violins” and an “undifferentiated treatment of woodwinds,” in which the bassoon (according to the authors, only one is usually employed in a Hollywood orchestra) sounds like “the village clown,” the oboe sounds like “the innocent lamb,” and the bass sounds “feeble.” Yet even within this context the orchestra is arranged so that the strings and upper woodwinds generally perform in unison, removing any kind of “distinct polyphony.”201 Even the orchestral players, whom the authors recognize as of the highest caliber, nevertheless are demoralized by a stifling environment that forces them to become artistically reticent. They play “shabby cinema scores,” work “senseless working hours,” and perform over and over again “the same miserable sixteen measures for eight hours on end.”202 Even the application of a highly progressive musical style, like Schoenbergian atonality, and the most professionally performed and recorded score can yield to neutralization through the mechanisms of studio production, with its layers 117

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of processing, and the recording procedures themselves, which emasculate the overall acoustical properties and intensity of the score. This fact may be one reason why the complexity and difficulty of modern musical idioms in the concert hall become tolerated in film; in music’s neutralized state, audiences simply don’t notice it.203 The authors find such masking or neutralization intolerable because while the music may appear to be “inaudible,” it is in this state that it can also be the most manipulative. As an antidote to the problems of neutralization in all its varied forms, the authors advocate planning, which entails not only a close collaboration at the outset of the production with the director but also the adoption of a formal aesthetic particular to cinema, as Copland also proposed.204 In essence, Adorno and Eisler sought innovative structural properties that could unify the wider musical conception of the film rather than the arbitrary approach they felt was used in Hollywood, which focused on surface details or the reliance on leitmotifs. Planning requires elevating the judgment of composers to make them equal artistic partners (remembering that Eisler saw himself as a lackey in Hollywood) and thus focusing on the score as an integral part of the film’s conception rather than an afterthought, once the raw cut of a film was completed.205 In this way, the director would be open to varied approaches and a wide stylistic and functional pallet that considers the dramatic intent of the narrative. In the authors’ view, this strategy was the only way to satisfy the diverse requirements of a film’s overall design, but its implications would mean essentially dismantling the studio system itself.206 “Mere will to style is of no avail. What is needed is the free and conscious utilization of all musical resources on the basis of accurate insight into the dramatic function of music, which is different in each concrete case.”207 The Appendix: The Practical Examination

The final portion of Composing for the Films, the appendix, is meant to illustrate many of the conceptual and theoretical ideas presented in earlier chapters, but it also derives from Eisler’s work on his Rockefeller-funded Film Music Project. At the outset, the authors signal that the examples considered in the appendix are theoretical, removed from industry standards and possibilities. Consequently, one must ask what the relevance is of these examples if they do not consider at least some of the inherent values that underscore Hollywood narrative practice or even some of the exigencies of the working conditions. Many of these examples might seem less immediate to practitioners in Hollywood;

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nevertheless, the idea to lobby for improvement in the industry through such a publication is admirable, as critics pointed out in reviews of the book.208 What is revealed is a contradiction between theory and practice, a conflict that Eisler, together with Brecht, had criticized in Adorno’s own Marxist commentary, as I discuss above. Eisler’s Hollywood film scores do not always represent these utopian ideas, concepts that he applied in his European documentary or documentary-like productions; instead; they reflect what was truly possible under industry conditions.209 Consequently, when one considers that the Film Music Project and Composing for the Films were primarily directed toward the Hollywood film industry, the tone and attitude of the book in the first place presume an authoritative air regarding Adorno and Eisler’s suggestions and ultimately become a limitation in what are supposed to be the more practical recommendations for film composers in Hollywood. The most extensive practical contribution in the appendix is Eisler’s musical treatment for the film Regen, an avant-garde, highly original, and unusual picture made by his close friend Joris Ivens and so the product of a noncommercial environment. Ivens describes it as “a film of atmosphere,” for it portrays the various changing moods in the city of Amsterdam during rainfall.210 The continuity and structure of the film are organized in fourteen pieces visually defined by the natural depiction of rain as a shower begins, progresses, and finally ends. The range of emotions it captures, according to Eisler, extends from melancholy, expressed visually through large, heavy, dark, pear-shaped drops dripping across a window, to happiness, portrayed in a spring shower by bright, small, round droplets as they move or dance against various surfaces.211 Nevertheless, the film’s plotless narrative in a documentary style, or what the French critics called cinépoème, problematizes the theoretical notions that Eisler hoped to capture. Ivens produced Regen in 1929 as a silent film for which Eisler created a new score, entitled Fourteen Ways of Describing Rain, op. 70, as part of his Film Music Project. Because Ivens’s original picture was silent, music emerges as a dominant voice, and, unlike sound and narrative films, the absence of other sonic materials permitted the composer more audible freedom. He tested a range of theoretic effects in the application of twelve-tone musical techniques that extend from close synchronization, as in the parallelism associated with Mickey Mousing or illustrative procedures normally used in Hollywood, to the more extreme strategies of counterpoint, a method that Eisler believed allowed for comment on or interpretation of the narrative.212 Eisler hoped to show how one might emancipate oneself from the larger structural musical paradigms seen in traditional autonomous works but retain

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the surface details of motif, variation, repetition, transition, and conclusion without having to depend upon the formal properties intrinsic to the process of tonality. In short, Regen provided an ideal framework to use the constructive methods and stylistic qualities of twelve-tone music. Moreover, the film’s narrative structure, in short visual segments, allowed Eisler to conceive the score as a variation, which fostered a more precise relationship between music and film. The melancholy character of the film appealed to Eisler because he saw it as a discreet, politically symbolic theme that stood as a metaphor for the horrific events of the twentieth century. Regen also shares this mood with Schoenberg’s 1913 chamber piece Pierrot Lunaire, op. 21, which provides an interesting structural parallel with Eisler’s film score. Both scores employ similar instrumentation (flute, clarinet, violin, viola, cello, and piano), but Eisler uses no singer. As a further tribute to his teacher, Eisler also begins and ends Fourteen Ways to Describe Rain with a “cadenza-like ‘monogram’” outlining Schoenberg’s initials.213 This signature reinforces Eisler’s dedication of the score to Schoenberg. Eisler considered the chamber instrumentation ideal for a film score. After 1932 sound technology had improved to such an extent that composers were no longer restricted by the kind of instrumentation used in recording. The sharp and well-defined articulations inherent in a chamber ensemble, with its emphasis on the timbres of, for example, flute and clarinet, were a way to disrupt Hollywood’s lush symphonic standardized sound, a convention that contributed to neutralization. Eisler also felt it superfluous to compose a score of dense texture, as Hollywood was inclined to do, since he believed audiences could only absorb so much at any one given moment.214 Like Copland in his scoring for the scene “Death of Candy’s Dog,” in Regen nothing superfluous is retained, and the economy of the musical resources allowed for a more pointed and severe expression.215 Much of Eisler’s discussion, which focuses only on the third variation, describes the relationship between musical motifs and the image but fails to demonstrate how these points of intersection add to a deeper interpretive understanding of the film and its visual treatments.216 The principal formal strategy he employs to create commentary on the footage is sonata form, a contradiction to the recommendations he makes earlier in the book. Claiming to have liberated the music from the external formal properties of the sonata, he relies on the surface details of repetition, transitional segments, and the type of periodic structure he condemns in a tonal context as a means to comment on the screen events. What he seems to achieve in isolated moments is a close parallelism, such as in the highly decorative filigree in the violin that reflects

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the movement of the wind and the sharply articulated clusters performed by the piano that emulate the raindrops. Beyond these moments of musical representations, the formal connection between score and image seems random at best. The plotless nature of the film, together with music whose structure is difficult to apprehend (namely, the content of the row), suggests that any sequence of images could be combined with any passage in Eisler’s score to create equivalent effects. Eisenstein

Although scholars have devoted much attention to Sergei Eisenstein’s analytical graph of the sequence “Battle on the Ice” in Alexander Nevsky with music by Sergei Prokofiev, here I restrict my discussion to the comparative critique offered by Eisler and Adorno in relation to Eisler’s score for Regen and the arguments they present elsewhere in Composing for the Films.217 The counterexample offered by the authors is not a fair comparison. Eisler and Adorno are comparing apples to oranges. Each film belongs to a different genre, and the role of music takes on a very different function in each. Alexander Nevsky is a feature film with a strong narrative that plays an important contextual role in the audience’s intellectual and emotional understanding of the film. Although “Battle on the Ice” uses no dialogue or sound effects, the surrounding scenes do; therefore, music exists in a different sonic context. On the other hand, music provides the only sonic material in Regen, an avantgarde film without plot. If we are to understand the meaning behind the visual and musical intersections and their associative implications for audiences, as Eisler does for Regen in practice, he and Adorno ask us to do so without the benefit of the wider meaning of Eisenstein’s film. It is precisely this shortcoming they recognize in some of Eisler’s experiments in the Film Music Project: “Scenes severed from their context often lost the meaning they had had as parts of a whole.”218 Moreover, instead of comparing the two films directly, they critique Eisenstein’s abstract theoretical graph, an artificial analytical representation that privileges certain filmic elements at the expense of others in the service of defending a theory. It is a skewed presentation that filters the cinematic practice of Eisenstein and Prokofiev and fails to allow the film to speak for itself. Eisenstein’s graph was published in 1942 as part of an essay entitled “Form and Content,” after the completion of Alexander Nevsky (fall 1938).219 The filmmaker viewed montage as the artistic process of contrapuntal development (analogous with music, whereby a variety of equal but separate voices move

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simultaneously to weave an organic whole). When he began to address sound during this period, Eisenstein expanded his conception of montage, using the analogy of the musical score (Kevin Bartig refers to it more as a “storyboard”) to conceptualize the points of synchronization, which he called “vertical montage,” as he outlines in “Form and Content.”220 In his detailed pictorial/musical graph, Eisenstein provides twelve thumbnail frame enlargements from the film aligned with Prokofiev’s score (a piano reduction from his musical cue for the screen sequence “Daybreak”) to show the interrelationship between music and image. One of Eisenstein’s central theoretical ideas, which is documented in the graph, is a synthesis of the whole, a unity of the elements. This idea reflected his interests in Wagner’s ability to fuse the various artistic elements in his music dramas under the conceptual framework of Gesamtkunstwerk.221 Eisenstein had immersed himself in Wagner’s Die Walküre through his commission to produce the opera at the Bolshoi Theater in 1940. His attitude toward Wagner stood in marked contrast to Eisler’s perspective and his shared goals with Brecht in theater. Eisler and Brecht, for example, worked toward the separation of the elements to create conflict through irony and shock, as I discuss above. The entire premise of Eisenstein’s graph, then, would have evoked an unsympathetic reaction. Eisler and Adorno point out that the graph relies on static stills rather than time-based images and the musical notation instead of the sound itself. The graph therefore is unable to show the dynamic relationship between the moving image and the music as they progress in time, a complaint Eisler and Adorno share with many other critics.222 As the eye moves across the pictorial shot, we are meant to see a direct correspondence between the visual movement (which does not exist) and the musical articulation (which similarly is presented in static notation). Eisenstein’s organic approach, according to Eisler and Adorno, is too specific, dogmatic, and inconsistent. They further denigrate Prokofiev’s underscoring, describing it as “harmless,” composed “without much effort,” a piece that exemplifies conventional tactics in a style that is “ineffective.”223 Prokofiev’s score, which relies on nineteenth-century stylistic references, epitomized the easy comprehensibility against which Eisler (and Adorno) railed. Compared to the modernist musical resources they advocate elsewhere in the book and that Eisler used for the score of Regen, Prokofiev’s pedestrian music for Alexander Nevsky represents to them a lost opportunity. In the area of rhythm, for example, which the authors believe is largely a metaphorical concept within the filmic image (remembering earlier that they explain this relationship as indirect, one “of question and

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answer, affirmation and negation, appearance and essence”), they demonstrate that Prokofiev’s underscoring functions impassively as a time-keeper while the image transforms and develops.224 In static shots, however, such as the steeply sloping rock in shot V, the music progresses while the shot remains the same. Moreover, Prokofiev’s triadic formulation is so nondescript and presented as such that the spectator has no reason to associate the musical gesture directly with the image: “The musical formula used is so inconsequential that it might relate to anything or nothing at all.”225 The highly critical nature of Eisler and Adorno’s discussion (shared by most later commentators) suggests that Eisenstein’s musical understanding is rather simplistic and naive.226 But in the end, Eisenstein serves as a straw man for Eisler and Adorno. The two examples represent a collision of practice, theory, and abstraction. On the one hand, Eisenstein’s graph is a theoretical distillation, too literal and remote from the dynamic interaction of sound and image in the actual footage from Alexander Nevsky. On the other hand, Eisler presents his score for Regen as a practical demonstration of his theories, yet he executed the score as an experiment within the abstract confines of his Rockefellersupported Film Music Project. Because of these compromises, the comparison is weak if not outright false. Disseminating Their Ideas

Eisler and Adorno created opportunities to disseminate their ideas in anticipation of the book’s release. One important occasion came in October 1943, when the University of California (UCLA) in collaboration with the left-wing Hollywood Writers Mobilization (HWM) organized a congress to exchange ideas on how best to harness creative talent to win the war.227 Sponsored by several guilds associated with the media of radio, film, and journalism, the congress was attended by more than fifteen hundred people from both the intellectual and practical sides of these fields, bringing together military officers, script writers, publicists, scholars, actors, and composers. It was a platform that embraced new directions underscored by Popular Front actions (40 percent of the HWM were aligned with the communists, according to Ring Lardner Jr., a blacklisted Hollywood screenwriter), together with academic sensibilities and potentially pragmatic outcomes, all motivated by the war effort.228 One of the significant outcomes of the congress was to bridge the ideals of Hollywood Europeans with those of Hollywood progressives.229 Eisler’s eight-member panel, Music and the War Seminar, included both prominent Hollywood composers and modernists such as William Grant Still

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and Darius Milhaud. It was a perfect setting for Eisler to present his politically invested progressive ideas in a talk entitled “Prejudices and New Musical Materials” to an industry that had previously been less open, this at a time when Eisler had just written the score for the antifascist film Hangmen Also Die!230 The following year, Eisler participated in a roundtable discussion arranged by the advisory committee of the newly established Hollywood Quarterly. The journal, which reviewed Composing for the Films in 1947, emerged out of the productive alliance made by organizers of and participants in the writers’ congress. Like the congress, the journal reflected a collective membership from the motion picture and scholarly communities while being sponsored by the University of California and the Hollywood Writers Mobilization. It was among the first serious publications to focus on more intellectual, scientific, and critical questions about the Hollywood enterprise. The editorial board hoped for “genuinely important possibilities for the University, for Hollywood and for motion picture, radio and television.”231 Consequently, the roundtable was a reflection of these new critical directives and a departure from previous debates in the United States held by industry insiders, mostly through the medium of newspapers, or by art composers in the elitist progressive journal Modern Music. The general topic of the panel focused on music in relation to films. However, the connection between the questions posed for the evening’s discussions and Eisler’s own interests is more than coincidental, directly reflecting issues he addresses in Composing for the Films. Is contemporary film music really contemporary? Does it express today’s attitudes toward musical forms and aesthetics? Does it work to the advantage of the film? Has the use of music in American films kept pace with that of Europe, especially France and Russia? How can film musicians cooperate more closely with film writers? How soon can we expect recognition of the place of music as an integral part of film drama, and not merely as background or a technical bridge?

Such questions reveal to some extent a predisposition toward the values and ideals of European motion pictures, such as those produced in France and Russia, as mentioned above, or the questions related to more collaborative working approaches, ideas expressed by Eisler when he worked in documentary or documentary-like films with like-minded colleagues. At the same time, the panel demonstrated Eisler’s promise to disseminate the ideas he had developed in the Film Music Project to experts in the field. Although the expectation was that the contents of the talk would be published in the Hollywood

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Quarterly, Eisler instead incorporated his contributions into Composing for the Films.232 Composing for the Films remains an important critical contribution to film musicology and film studies, but it also continues to provoke. Part of the book’s mystique comes from the controversial profiles of its authors and the politics invested in their criticisms. Consequently, the book has been simultaneously embraced and vilified. Lawrence Morton in his review of the book encapsulates this duality. I cited above his critical reaction, but he also praises Eisler and Adorno’s endorsement of the adoption of modernist techniques, especially row composition in film music, perhaps the book’s most important contribution. Virgil Thomson’s review provides a similar critique, but his astute and colorful metaphorical comments reflect something that readers could not have known about the authors’ volatile personalities and the results of their tumultuous working relationship: “Composing for the Films is a grabbag, a fruitcake, a gefuelltefish, a shore dinner of bright ideas. It has little organization, and its language is appalling. Its ideas are not served up, moreover; they are thrown at you. Nor are they invariably of the best quality. But among the lot, and there are a lot, there are enough first-class ones to make up the most penetrating treatise on its subject your reviewer has yet encountered.”233 Appendix: Versions of Composing for the Films

Hanns Eisler and T. W. Adorno, German manuscript, 1944 Written between 1942 and 1944 in German, translated into English by George MacManus and Norbert Gutermann, who were supervised by Adorno in preparation of the 1947 Oxford edition. Two carbon copies of the typescript are housed at the Theodor W. Adorno Archives, Institut für Sozialforschung, at the Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität, Frankfurt am Main. Hanns Eisler, Composing for the Films (New York: Oxford University Press, 1947) Written in collaboration with Adorno but published under Eisler’s name only. Probably the most authoritative text, since it was published with the consent and supervision of both authors. Hanns Eisler, Komposition für den Film (Berlin: Verlag Bruno Henschel und Sohn, 1949) Published under Eisler’s name only and revised from 1947 to bring it into conformity with official Soviet policy. Hanns Eisler, Composing for the Films (London: Dennis Dobson, 1951) British reprint of the American 1947 version.

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Theodor W. Adorno and Hanns Eisler, Komposition für den Film (Munich: Verlag Rogner und Bernhard, 1969) Published in West Germany. Adorno claimed this edition was taken from the original 1944 German manuscript version, written in Hollywood. Includes a preface signed by both authors dated 1 September 1944, Los Angeles, and a postscript by Adorno alone. Hanns Eisler, Composing for the Films (Freeport, NY: Books for Libraries Press, 1971) A reprint of the 1947 English-language text. Includes a translation of Adorno’s 1969 postscript. T. W. Adorno and Hanns Eisler, Komposition für den Film, ed. Rolf Tiedemann in collaboration with Gretel Adorno, Susan Buck-Moross, and Klaus Schultz, Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 15 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1976), 7–155 Some revisions, with a postscript by Adorno alone; includes a restored paragraph. Second edition, 1996. Theodor W. Adorno and Hanns Eisler, Komposition für den Film, ed. Eberhardt Klemm, Gesammelte Werke, series 3, vol. 4 (Leipzig, 1977) According to the editor, this version is based upon both the 1944 manuscript version and the 1969 West German edition. Theodor Adorno and Hanns Eisler, Composing for the Films (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Books for Libraries Press, 1994; repr., 2006) Reprint of the 1947 edition with an informative introduction by Graham McCann. Theodor Adorno and Hanns Eisler, Komposition für den Film (Hamburg: Europäische Verlagsanstalt, 1996) A reprint of Adorno’s 1969 edition. Theodor W. Adorno and Hanns Eisler, Komposition für den Film, ed. Johannes C. Gall (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2006) A reprint of the 1976 Suhrkamp edition (with some restored readings from Adorno’s manuscript); includes a DVD that contains his interpretive reconstruction of Hanns Eisler’s Rockefeller Film Music examples under the direction of Johannes C. Gall. This edition also contains an afterword, “Modelle für den befreiten musikalischen Film,” by Johannes C. Gall.

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Eisler in Hollywood Hangmen Also Die!

When Eisler arrived in Hollywood, his friend Brecht expressed a momentary sense of relief: “when i see eisler it is a bit as if i had been stumbling confusedly around in some crowd of people and suddenly heard myself called by my old name.”1 Having devoted himself politically to combating capitalism, Brecht felt trapped and uncomfortable living under the shadow of America’s entertainment culture. For many German left-wing émigrés in Hollywood, the industry posed a contradiction: on the one hand, they loathed it on aesthetic and political grounds; on the other, they needed to survive financially and therefore pursued it for work. Eisler and Brecht found their first opportunity with fellow émigré Fritz Lang on his Hollywood picture Hangmen Also Die!, a film that contains among the most brutal depictions of Nazi occupation from World War II. Lang enlisted Brecht to help conceive the story and write the script and Eisler to compose the score.2 The film’s antifascist theme originated with Lang, who appeared to share many of the composer’s and playwright’s political and ideological interests. As the script developed, however, Lang excised many of the more overt political constructs Brecht wanted to introduce. This was a familiar story for many left-wing scriptwriters in Hollywood; they found that transferring political materials from script to screen provoked a constant battle with filmmakers and especially censors. One strategy used to overcome these hurdles was to

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present the more provocative political materials indirectly, in a manner that might “outsmart” the censors.3 Brecht, however, could not entirely succeed in his battles with Lang to politicize the script.4 As the conflict continued between playwright and director, Eisler’s score emerged as a defining political voice, compensating for aspects of the narrative that Lang weakened out of concern for the film’s commercial success. What Brecht could not do with the script, Eisler surreptitiously achieved in the music. Working with tones and not words allowed Eisler to negotiate more successfully, though not always easily, through differences of aesthetic and political values. The enigmatic nature of the musical art, with its highly specialized technical requirements, often forced filmmakers to trust the trained skills of a composer. Composers then, if they were crafty enough, might outsmart the producer, director, and censor more often than was the case for the scriptwriter. The score reveals that Eisler exploited music in the promulgation of the political agenda he shared with Brecht, ideas exhibited in their previous European collaborations. At times, Eisler presented some of the most provocative political moments subtly and even covertly, as an enigmatic but powerful code. Within these more concealed musical statements, Eisler showed that on the surface he could appeal to Lang’s expectations, those more in line with Hollywood, as I discuss below, but also retain his own personal ideals. Clever and skillful, Eisler resisted and appropriated Hollywood conventions simultaneously, a path steered by the most enduring of Hollywood émigrés. This perspective is what Lydia Goehr has called doubleness, an outlook that often plagues the dichotomous state in which exiles live. Such negotiations can generate conflict that finds expression in the exiles’ creativity: their ability to adapt to or resist new artistic situations, or to express themselves through insider or outsider perspectives, or even both possibilities by “holding onto the old as they negotiate the new.”5 Their conflict stimulates a perceptual dichotomy, that of the artists’ notion of “home,” whether psychological or sociopolitical, and of “estrangement.” The conflict also creates layers of tension and contradiction that polarized and problematized many of the émigré artists who were working in Hollywood. For Eisler, this double perspective provided a secretive and private way to resist the commercial and cultural values he so loathed in Hollywood. Eisler’s score moreover exhibits some of the values he also shared with Brecht, including their decidedly Marxist outlook. Eisler, for example, drew from the compositional methods of epic theater and exploited Kampflieder and counterpoint principles, techniques he employed in his previous European collaborations with Brecht and in his documentary-like films with his progressive

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circle of political artists. Eisler wrote Composing for the Films while working on Lang’s motion picture, as I discuss in the previous chapter; therefore, it provides an interesting foil, allowing us to compare the composer’s ideals in theory against the compromises he made in practice. Like Brecht, once Eisler came face to face with the studio conditions he previously criticized, his perspective became embittered. In Composing for the Films, he reveals contempt and even anger: “The truth is that no serious composer writes for the motion pictures for any other than money reasons; and in the studios he does not feel that he is a beneficiary of utopian technical potentialities, but a regimented employee who can be discharged on any pretext.”6 There is irony in his becoming one of the “office workers” he had previously mocked at MGM in his earlier observations from his 1935 visit. Such antagonism, however, became channeled into political and rebellious gestures that expressed strong symbolic and rhetorical signs, music that captured the complications inherent in the double life of an exiled artist who had to function between two political and cultural realms. Political Background: The Script

Lang, a great admirer of Brecht, had paid homage to the playwright by embracing some of Brecht’s conceptual and theoretical ideas in his 1938 American gangster film You and Me, though the film was not well received or understood by American critics or the public.7 That did not stop Lang from meeting with Brecht to discuss screenplay ideas when he arrived in Los Angeles. On 27 May 1942 Reinhard Heydrich, Hitler’s brutal Reichsprotektor in charge of Czechoslovakia, was assassinated. The story became the subject for what Brecht initially called their “hostage film.”8 Lang’s desire to produce a political propaganda film like Hangmen Also Die! coincided with Hollywood’s changing attitudes once the United States entered the war in December 1941. At that time, the government established the Bureau of Motion Pictures (part of the Office of War Information’s domestic branch) and issued an information manual providing a clear statement of how Hollywood should fight the war.9 Its influence galvanized Hollywood to produce a plethora of films on antifascist subjects.10 German émigrés like Lang were keen to work on political materials related to their own stories, histories, and experiences, and in turn, they became more valuable to the studios.11 For Marxists like Brecht and Eisler, antifascism provided a way for them to implement their own political efforts behind the war, especially after Germany invaded the Soviet Union in June 1941.12

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Hangmen Also Die! is a complex dramatic fictional narrative that concerns the heroic struggle of a united Czech people and their resistance to the brutal tactics used by the Nazi forces of occupation searching for Heydrich’s assassin. As the hunt proceeds, the Czech underground movement, with the support of the citizenry, attempts to sabotage Nazi efforts. The film’s main political goal, then, is to show that through courage and strength, the Czech people as a collective could fight and prevail over the oppressive tactics of fascist rule.13 While Brecht moved from story to script, the political and ideological differences between Lang and him began to widen, and their relationship deteriorated. From May to December 1942 Brecht vividly documented his tumultuous relationship with the director in twenty-three journal entries. Unlike the playwright, Lang was more intimately familiar with American expectations, while he had already experienced negative reception of his earlier Brechtian-like film, You and Me. This time, he would adapt the story into a Hollywood-style concept for commercial and propagandistic consumption.14 For Lang, Americanizing the film reflected his more positive and accepting outlook toward the United States and its culture, a posture that Brecht could not accept.15 In his journal Brecht wrote, “at lang’s. he again praises atlantis to the ersatz skies. he sees a special lifestyle where i only see high capitalism: possible that i can’t see the ‘real’ atlantis for the high capitalism; but he just obscures it. here you have the unadulterated version before you; development, without anything actually developing.”16 Brecht made no apology to Lang. He wanted to make a political film that aspired to his own ideals, an interest Lang did not share. Later in his journal, Brecht revealed that he wanted to apply the aesthetic ideals of epic theater and to focus on such political themes as the presentation of a modern tyrant, popular resistance, class conflict, anti-Semitism, and the collective will of the people, concepts that were reflected in Brecht’s original idea for the film’s title, Trust the People.17 Some of these themes that the playwright believed important for the political character of the film were retained. Lang, however, removed many key segments in favor of a melodramatic and formulaic approach in line with more conventional Hollywood genre pictures.18 Among the deleted materials for the American release of the film, for example, was a mass grave scene, considered to be the severest depiction in the film (fig. 5.1). Brecht’s intention was to create a searing narrative using realistic portrayals of prisoner camps in order to show in very direct terms the brutality of the SS and the victimization of the Czech people through Nazi terror.19 Such segments were strategic to what Brecht called in his journal his “ideal script,” a script that had not been censored by Lang.20 Eisler seems to have shared Brecht’s view of the importance of the grave scene by underscoring the sequence with music.21 His strategy, with which Brecht agreed, was to leave large portions of 130

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FIGURE 5.1. Film still of the mass grave scene, which was cut from the original 1943 American release.

the film musically silent and reserve music for politically important moments. Music should not be exploited as an accessory or a means to duplicate the film’s narrative screen events, as is common in Hollywood productions. In the final preparations before the American release of the film, however, Lang became uneasy about the scene’s reception and finally decided it would be too harsh for American audiences. By cutting it, he weakened the film’s political potency, as Brecht feared, as well as the propagandistic impact for Americans. Once the tension and conflict of writing the script became intolerable for Brecht, Lang brought Hollywood screenwriter John Wexley into the production to help see the script through. Wexley spoke German, was a member of the Communist Party of the United States (CPUSA), and had written one of the first Hollywood antifascist films, Confessions of a Nazi Spy.22 Despite Brecht’s and Wexley’s commonly held political values, Wexley’s approach to the film’s conception differed greatly from the playwright’s and eventually further antagonized him. Wexley did not share Brecht’s didactic approach. In comparison, Wexley wanted to appeal directly to the audience’s emotions: “I maintain (and still do) that the audience must be moved, emotionally held in the Greek sense, must experience catharsis.”23 131

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Rather than elicit empathy or create an illusion of reality, Brecht wanted to stimulate audiences intellectually, to engage them by creating a more rational and detached conception. Audiences, therefore, must not be made only to feel, a condition that paralyzes them. Instead, they must be in a position to contemplate and make judgments, to think and reflect, concepts related to non-Aristotelian drama. Just as Brecht objected to Wexley’s values, Eisler too felt that Hollywood film music conventions function similarly, with the goal to intoxicate, leading audiences into a passive state of identification with the drama, seducing them, and in turn preventing critical detachment, as he explained in Composing for the Films.24 Though the film’s narrative content ended up somewhat diluted, despite Brecht’s efforts, Eisler found opportunities to implement music in ways that coincided with his own ideals. Nevertheless, he often presents some of the more defiant political gestures in subtle, discreet ways that might remain undetected by American audiences (a strategy that compromises the more overt approaches exploited within epic theater) and in some cases certainly escaped the notice of the film’s director. Eisler, with the help of his compatriot Brecht, offers ironic twists and conflicting elements in the score that not only reflect their identity as skillful dialecticians but also capture the complicated negotiations that were inherent in artistic exile and in their double lives. Opening Titles to Hangmen Also Die!

Eisler’s music for the opening titles is among the most provocative in the film.25 It negotiates between Hollywood convention, at times in a highly ironic fashion, and innovation in a manner that reflects Eisler’s political and aesthetic ideals. Here, music becomes a central voice of influence that shapes the posture and attitude of the film audience. Eisler’s music treatment for the titles employs a two-part design that leads to a third short segment underscored with a climactic “stinger” (see table 5.1).26 Eisler boldly announces the film by invoking the conventional cymbal crashes and timpani tremolo and proceeds through an intricate constellation of dissonances, rhythm, and embellishment, a musical texture analogous to the film’s complex narrative web. The opening provides a musical parallel to Brecht’s own complaint that the script was “full of ‘surprises,’ little bits of suspense, tawdry sentimental touches and falsehoods.”27 The music isolates various presentations of the tritone, and the lack of tonal and linear direction, particularly in the opening moment of the cue (mm. 1–6), creates a severity that establishes the film’s dark topic. Although Eisler avoids leitmotifs, his clichéd,

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Table 5.1. Titles, Crawl, and Establishing Shots ( 5.1) Scene descriptions and titles

DVD timings

Musical descriptions and measures

1. Opening credits

0:00:31 0:00:51 0:01:09 0:01:22

mm. 1–6 [Czech national hymn] (mm. 7–9) Transitional (mm. 9–12) Solo trumpet (mm. 9–17) Clarinets in unison (m. 15)

0:01:42

Recapitulation from m. 1 (mm. 21–22)

0:01:52 0:02:32

Twelve-tone passage (mm. 9–14) mm. 14–18

0:02:43 0:02:49

Recapitulation from m. 1 (mm. 18–19) Dissonant “stinger” chord (scream) (mm. 20–21)

John Wexley “script” and Bert Brecht with Fritz Lang “adaptation and story” Hanns Eisler “composer” and Arthur Gutman “conductor” 2. Music for the crawl (Largo) Roll-up crawl Three establishing shots toward the castle 3. Inside the castle Portrait of Hitler

exaggerated designs seem a caricature of the bombastic style typical of standardized Hollywood openings, which Eisler loathed. It is an ironic twist to the searing attacks he makes in Composing for the Films.28 Even so, the score’s conventional approach at this juncture invites audiences into the film, preparing them for the unexpected second section in the titles (the roll-up crawl). After a transitional segment (mm. 9–12), the trumpet performs a sustained melancholy solo (DVD 0:01:09) that contrasts with its rhythmically active string accompaniment. The effect is that of the lonely assassin, anticipating the film’s narrative subject. For the first time, the music is simplified in its melodic and harmonic complexion as it moves through to the end of the general credits. But in Eisler’s witty ways, he provides musical quips such as the highly chromatic and embellished clarinet solo flourish (m. 15 [DVD 0:01:22]) that underscores the name of Brecht’s collaborator, the scriptwriter John Wexley. This bizarre and distorted, even cavalier, gesture suggests Eisler’s acrimonious posture toward Wexley, who he felt had “behaved badly” toward Brecht. Wexley fought for full scriptwriting credits, undermining Brecht’s efforts. The case went through arbitration, Wexley won, and Eisler ended his relationship with Wexley.29 Eisler also highlights his own name (mm. 21–22 [DVD 0:01:42]) by recapitulating in a more understated way the opening musical theme from measure 1, an arrogant, wry gesture linked to Hollywood’s most famous studio composer, Max Steiner, who always exploited the strategy in his scores.

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FIGURE 5.2. Manuscript score containing the Czech national anthem. HEA 68 fol. 2r, Archiv der Akademie der Künste, Berlin.

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Preceding the transition (mm. 7–9), Eisler employs the Czech national anthem, “Kde domov müj” (DVD 0:00:51), as part of the fabric of this musical design (see fig. 5.2). Yet his application once again appears ironic in view of his critical remarks in Composing for the Films: “When the scene is laid in a Dutch town, with its canals, windmills, and wooden shoes, the composer is supposed to send over to the studio library for a Dutch folk song in order to use its theme as a working basis. Since it is not easy to recognize a Dutch folk song for what it is, especially when it has been subjected to the whims of an arranger, this procedure seems a dubious one.”30 Eisler seems to have sent over to the studio library for the Czech national anthem, and he duly notes its presence in the manuscript score.31 Nevertheless, his presentation is, to quote Eisler, “not easy to recognize . . . [because] it has been subjected to the whims of an arranger.”32 In this case, Eisler (as arranger) has embedded the anthem within a thickly textured orchestration, inhibiting its direct apprehension. And even though his treatment includes a momentary move toward traditional tonality, in which the repetition of a V–I progression in the basses reflects the anthem’s original harmonic, melodic, and rhythmic identity and the melody is performed by a full horn section, nevertheless, the music as an auditory signpost is completely obscured. Eisler was against the notion of invoking nationalistic emblems. But then why would he exploit the anthem at all? Certainly the anthem’s title, translated as “Where Is My Home?,” invokes a symbolic link to the film’s narrative of German occupation. Perhaps, one might interpret the suppression of the Czech anthem as a metaphoric idea that captures the film’s narrative: the suppression of the Czech people through the tyranny of Nazi occupation. But I also think this is an ironic play, a personal statement that mocks Hollywood convention. Most American audiences would probably not have recognized the original Czech anthem, even if presented directly. In Hangmen Also Die!, Eisler nevertheless continues to use existing material, sometimes directly but, like his use of it here, often covertly, allowing him to exercise his personal political ideals couched in Hollywood’s clothing, as I discuss below. Hangmen’s Twelve-Tone Complexion: Music for the Crawl and Establishing Shots

As the title music draws to a close both dynamically through a decrescendo and instrumentally with an exposed passage in the flute, the score then pauses to introduce the second sequence, which will bring audiences gradually into the diegesis.33 A roll-up title or crawl projects a short dramatic text. It is followed by three establishing shots that move audiences progressively closer to the Hradčany 135

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Castle (among the most significant Czech monuments), high above the city of Prague, finally arriving inside its great hall, where the first scene takes place. The text of the crawl (DVD 0:01:52) conveys a gripping and stark description of the brutal Nazi occupation in Czechoslovakia, outlining the film’s political agenda. In many ways, the crawl functions in the same way as Brecht’s use of screens and titles in his epic theater productions, to remove the element of surprise. Actors were then required to offer something more than mimesis to draw attention to the incidents previously announced.34 The film’s crawl, in comparison, not only anticipates the harsh narrative about to take place but also establishes a particular attitude and posture for audiences: it exposes what Brecht had hoped to capture in his “ideal script,” namely, a characterization requiring audiences to confront the crimes of Nazism directly. Even the graphic presentation of this forceful and direct statement reinforces its affect by exploiting a black background in a simple, unadorned font that resists any commercial effect of spectacle and entertainment: Neither the betrayal of Czechoslovakia, nor the blood-bath loosed by Hitler’s hordes, could conquer the spirit of this people. A thousand years of flaming tradition burns in their hearts, and at this Freedom’s Fire is forged a secret brotherhood, a hidden army of avengers, sworn to rid their land of the Nazi invaders. Reinhard Heydrich ruled in Hitler’s name over all Czech lives. His reign of terror caused the people to call him “The Hangman.” He issued his orders of death from the Hradzin Castle that overlooks old Prague, capital of unhappy, but unbeaten Czechoslovakia.

As a bracketed transitional segment, the crawl functions as a detached moment from the film itself. The music provides a dramatic contrast in character to the previous title music: a slow, deliberate, and detached style, allowing audiences to redirect their thoughts, to contemplate the substance of the text as it unfolds. Because the text is inaudible and disembodied, it allows space for the musical voice to dominate the frame and speak directly in a more personal way to audiences. For Eisler, the depiction required a musical severity that could confront the brutality of totalitarianism; therefore, he reserved this moment to exploit new and unfamiliar resources, namely, a dissonant passage that exploits twelve-tone technique evocative of Schoenberg’s modernist style, an idiom foreign to the conventional treatments of 1943 Hollywood motion pictures. Nowhere else in the film does Eisler employ either the methods of twelve-tone composition or the stylistic characteristics associated with high modernism; the combination of these attributes singles out this important moment and its bold political agenda. Eisler was positioning audiences in high alert (see ex. 5.1). 136

EXAMPLE 5.1. Musical cue and analysis of Eisler’s twelve-tone passage. Used by permission of the Akademie der Künste, Berlin.

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This passage is among the first known uses of row composition in a dramatic Hollywood narrative; consequently, it carries important implications. The most obvious is its challenge to prevailing conventions. But far more provocative was the fact that by 1943 the modernist style and methods associated with these new resources were virtually unknown to the American public and only barely understood by a limited professional community of American composers in the United States, as I discuss in chapter 4. Twelve-tone composition was unequivocally associated with high German culture in the form of Schoenberg himself, as well as his disciples Berg and Webern (and Eisler too). This situation, combined with American anti-German sentiment, nationalistic concerns, and a desire to reach wider audiences during the 1930s, inhibited American composers from experimenting with Schoenberg’s method and its compositional possibilities. It was not until Leonard Rosenman’s 1955 score for The Cobweb, over a decade after the release of Hangmen Also Die!, that a composer again employed row composition in a Hollywood feature film.35 How, then, should we understand Eisler’s bold musical statement? Why does he invoke a high-modernist idiom, clearly unfamiliar to Hollywood audiences? And why, especially, does Eisler feel compelled to exploit the methods of row composition, a strategy that is literally inaudible to the film’s audience? These are difficult interpretive and aesthetic questions that are further complicated by the complexity and contradictions that seem to plague Eisler’s personal and professional history. As a Marxist composer, for example, how does Eisler interpret the intrinsic and functional values of Schoenberg’s high-modernist idiom when he vehemently expressed the notion that such music reflects the elite ideals of bourgeois culture, the principal reason why Eisler broke with Schoenberg in 1926? The answers may be culled from the deeper rhetorical and symbolic meaning linked to his cultural and political identity as a German émigré living a double life in Hollywood, and they emerge as part of the complexity of the score. Eisler begins the underscoring of the crawl in a much slower tempo (Largo), while he reduces the orchestration at first to a four-voice string texture with mutes, thus achieving a chamber-like intimacy. He begins the row by dividing it into two segments, each beginning with a descending tritone leap: a heptachord in the second violins and violas (mm. 1–3), which is later extended by violins I and II (mm. 3–4), and the complementary pentachord (mm. 2–4) in the cellos and basses form the entire twelve-tone aggregate. The initial statements of each segment overlap, beginning in measures 1 and 2, respectively. And because each begins with a descending tritone, as noted above, Eisler creates the effect of canonic entries. In fact, the row features only three interval classes (tritone,

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major second, and minor second), and Eisler exploits this aspect further in his serial treatment. The voice leading, after the initial tritone leap, most often moves stepwise because of the preponderance of major and minor seconds in the row and thus creates a sense of aimlessness in the melodic fabric. Rather than adhering to a strict presentation of the row after its initial statement (mm. 1–4), Eisler extracts shorter motivic but ordered fragments, repeating them within the canonic fabric.36 Confined to a limited range, the voices seem trapped while they are cast within an ambiguous chromaticism that evokes a sense of unpredictability, a characterization that reflects the film’s plotline of secrecy and fear. This idea is enhanced by the passage’s intimate, fragile-sounding chamber texture, which exploits a timbral quality uncharacteristic of most Hollywood film scores, particularly within opening credits. The homogeneous and subdued quality of the string chamber orchestration, performed con sordini throughout this sequence and in pianissimo, reinforces the forbidding quality of the passage as it gives way to the entry of the row, performed by a solo clarinet and oboe at measures 11–13. Here, the woodwind timbre blends into the underscoring, leveling the dissonant qualities that expose the passage’s high-modernist complexion. The final presentation of the row (mm. 13–15) coincides with the screen change while it reinforces Eisler’s ideas that twelve-tone structures function well in compressed visual moments (see the discussion in chapter 4).37 Here audiences move from the crawl to the three establishing shots of Hradčany Castle, the first of which occurs in measure 14 (DVD 0:02:32). With each progressive shot, audiences are brought spatially closer and increasingly faster toward the castle (establishing shot 1, m. 14; shot 2, m. 16; shot 3, m. 17). The music’s quiet and understated presence, combined with its unpredictable harmonic and motivic language, coincides with these nuanced changes in visual perspective as if with each shot the film “spectators” are secretly moving toward the castle, suspicious of their surroundings and watchful with every step. The effect foreshadows the secrecy intrinsic to the film’s theme of underground resistance. Eisler abandons the formal strictures of row composition during this juncture in favor of repetitive chromatic and stepwise gestures. These exploit interlocking presentations of major and minor seconds, which are characteristic of the row (mm. 13–17). The music elicits a sense of anxiety, perhaps for some audience members even estrangement, because it discourages them from identification through its lack of resolution and tonal center. Eisler described these new musical resources as having the potential to establish “a sense of fear, of looming danger and catastrophe,” thus referring to Schoenberg’s 1930 score for an imaginary film,

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Begleitmusik zu einer Lichtspielszene, op. 34, in which Schoenberg himself provides the subtitles “threatening danger,” “fear,” “catastrophe.”38 Eisler also identified other evocative qualities within the expressive potential of this modernist style that include “extreme tenderness, ironic detachment, empty waiting, and unfettered power.”39 Such characterizations are all appropriate allusions in the opening crawl for Hangmen Also Die! The unfamiliar nature of the style and its formal row design provide an asymmetrical, condensed, and unpredictable idiom that weaves through a musically contrapuntal texture to become an unending thread that frustrates easy intelligibility and arguably creates an unsettling quality. In this, Eisler may have been right when he said that such constructions force audiences to think about the musical materials or at least notice them.40 Eisler further explains that by creating surprise or “an appearance of strangeness,” one could “disclose the essential meaning beneath the realistic surface.”41 This strategy, adopted from Eisler’s and Brecht’s work in epic theater, directs attention toward the score and thereby challenges audiences to interpret the music through its Verfremdungseffekt.42 In comparison with the film’s interior diegetic space, the position of the crawl, part of the bracketed exterior structure of the film, helps to emphasize the music and, in turn, its ability to speak to the audience directly. In this context, then, Eisler’s treatment becomes an essential aspect of the narrative construction. And like Brecht’s idea concerning the “separation of the elements” (Trennung der Elemente), the music carries its own meaning, communicating as an equal yet distinctive partner that in turn stimulates critical awareness for audiences.43 Here was an opportunity to bridge the difficulties of an unyielding style with a meaningful social context. For Eisler, the style was a response to the political ills of Nazism and the consequence of a rampant capitalist society. Eisler believed that Schoenberg’s unresolved, nontonal dissonant style had the potential to create an extreme perspective, a characterization that had previously not been achieved in the Hollywood film score.44 The musical style may have created an intensity and critical voice on the screen, yet the constructivist principles of Schoenberg’s row technique are an intrinsic element that cannot be heard, a characteristic to which audiences were not privy. However, it was a strategy that allowed Eisler a personal and private way to retain his cultural and musical identity as a modernist political composer. In this way, his desire to exploit methods associated with high-modernist procedures may reflect a value held by many émigrés concerning the issue of compromise and continuity. As Lydia Goehr suggests, various composers who were required to compromise their artistic values in order to work also felt compelled to be “cultural ambassadors” or keepers of a tradition abroad. Ernst

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Krenek, for example, expressed a desire to continue working with twelve-tone techniques, even though they were not always well received, to continue the link with his past.45 In comparison, Paul Dessau exploited dodecaphony as an antifascist gesture of resistance, a sentiment that Eisler shared.46 The invocation of twelve-tone methods allowed Eisler to retain a sense of his musical and cultural identity with the tradition from which he came while creating a personal homage to his teacher Schoenberg. Schoenberg now lived in Hollywood, and Eisler, who had always respected his teacher, now restored his relationship with him. In an unpublished 1944 essay entitled “Contemporary Music and Fascism,” Eisler reports that the Nazis suppressed modernist music. He relies on a number of personal anecdotes, concluding that “modern music became the enemy of fascism,” while he unequivocally states that Schoenberg was the most hated among modernist composers.47 Eisler’s use of the twelve-tone passage in this film score, consequently, became a discreet and personal form of antifascist resistance, just as it had for Krenek and Dessau.48 The twofold agenda of tradition and resistance, emerging from Eisler’s application of Schoenberg’s methods, functions as an important symbolic parallel that mirrors the film’s main theme of underground resistance and is stated most emphatically in the opening crawl: “Neither the betrayal of Czechoslovakia, nor the blood-bath loosed by Hitler’s hordes, could conquer the spirit of this people. A thousand years of flaming tradition burns in their hearts . . . a hidden army of avengers, sworn to rid their land of the Nazi invaders.” It is ironic that Eisler’s approach would have worked so well to complement the epic principles that he and Brecht used. Brecht disliked Schoenberg’s music, joking sarcastically that it was “too melodious,” “too sweet.”49 Their aesthetic and ideological personalities differed widely; whereas Schoenberg’s modernism remained too highbrow for Brecht, Schoenberg publicly could not always reconcile music with politics, particularly before World War II. However, Brecht also respected the composer’s “clarity and logic,” a characterization reflected in the structural treatment Eisler had learned from him and uses here.50 Eisler, like Brecht, however, recognized the conflict between his convictions as a Marxist composer and his reverence toward Schoenberg’s craft. Nonetheless, the application of twelve-tone methods in Hangmen Also Die!, even in Hollywood, would solve some of these conflicting ideological problems by combining a powerful political message with a rarified and complex musical technique that was eminently suited to the technological aspects of montage. Following the three establishing shots, we finally reach the formal hall inside the castle for the final shot and third segment of the musical cue (DVD 0:02:43).

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We see a close-up of the Czech coat of arms. At this junction, the music segues to a recapitulation of materials initially presented in the opening section of the main title.51 The camera continues to pan down below the crest, exposing a large, ornately framed portrait of Hitler, who appears to be gazing down sternly at the activities that will take place in the banquet hall of the castle. Here, the score presents an unusual and highly dissonant chord performed by the full orchestral complement in a dramatic sforzando at fortissimo that is sustained for four beats until the chord makes an abrupt stop to complete the cue (m. 24). The effect creates a literal screaming, that of an expressionistic human cry in response to Hitler’s ominous portrait. Eisler refers to this final jarring chord in Composing for the Films as an example of the highly expressive potential of contemporary resources, evoking an affect that he says could hardly have been created through the use of traditional tonal means; it is remarkably similar to the dissonant chord that ends “The Fight” in Copland’s score for Of Mice and Men.52 Because the chord has no inherent pitch tendency, it can establish extreme tension and suspense, allowing the sequence to communicate the “idea of the chaotic and fearful present-day reality.”53 Though the chord is highly effective

FIGURE 5.3. Hitler’s portrait.

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within the film’s visual context, Eisler’s strategy is not altogether unique in Hollywood film scores. Gorbman, for example, points out that dissonant stingers became a common cliché in classical Hollywood films, particularly in melodramas and films noirs.54 In this case, however, I would suggest that Eisler’s presentation not only functions in the classical sense as a stinger but acts as a response within the collective perspective of the filmgoer, serving as a critical comment on Hitler’s portrait in a manner that takes on larger narrative consequences. Eisler’s Scoring Practices

Eisler’s advocacy for careful planning and execution of the score is reflected in the fact that many scenes in Hangmen Also Die! remain without music. Eisler railed against exploiting music as an accessory; instead, he shaped the score to heighten or establish political commentary.55 Two parallel scenes demonstrate this idea ( 5.2.1 and 5.2.2). The conflict between Nazi oppressors and the oppressed patriotic Czech people allowed Eisler the opportunity to create contrasting musical material to signify the two factions. In the first (DVD 0:12:56), Heydrich, the Nazi Reichsprotektor, is lying on his deathbed in a hospital, receiving a blood transfusion after the attempt on his life. The second sequence, which occurs later in the film (DVD 1:42:28), initially begins by showing Heydrich, now dead, lying in state, immediately followed by a parallel depiction of the leader of the underground Czech resistance, also lying dead (DVD 1:42:36).56

FIGURE 5.4. Heydrich on his deathbed.

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Both scenes suspend narrative action by extending shots of longer duration and limited dialogue, allowing the music to emerge and comment on the events. In order to reveal the political implications for each scene, Eisler provides what he believes is an oppositional underscoring, music that runs in counterpoint to the image presented. Yet, one wonders whether such theoretical strategies create the kind of impact Eisler had in mind for these particular scenes. He states that the music in the Heydrich scene had to function to suppress the possible narrative reading as a tragic or heroic scene. Heydrich, after all, was a brutal hangman; therefore, the underscoring must capture the sinister or ominous element of the German fascist character and, in turn, the larger context of the film’s subject matter.57 Eisler presents the music in brilliant, strident, chromatic flourishes, exploiting the high register of the piccolo, and he combines the effect with dissonant seconds in the high register of the piano (ex. 5.2).58

EXAMPLE 5.2. Musical cue underscoring Heydrich lying on his deathbed in the hospital. Used by permission of the Akademie der Künste, Berlin.

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In this scene Eisler hoped to convey Heydrich’s last moments, his final breaths, by musically illustrating the less noticeable visual portrayal of dripping blood. Blood is closely linked to death, while blood purity was an essential aspect of Nazism’s racial agenda. The rapid, unstable, and dissonant characteristics in the music evoke a mercurial, almost circus-like quality that Eisler suggests permits the audience to understand the menacing nature of this fascist character, even in his helpless state. Eisler felt that his musical depiction operated as “behavioristic,” invoking the term from psychology to address the Pavlovian effect that he hoped to summon.59 The behavioristic strategy was closely linked to Brecht’s ideas concerning the methods exploited in capitalism that could mindlessly convince people to consume.60 In this scene, the concept has a functional parallel, which Eisler confirms, stating that the “music makes for adequate reactions on the part of the listeners and precludes the wrong associations.”61 Eisler’s interpretation, however, remains ambiguous at best. Counterpoint theory only works well when the contrasts between image and music are easily

EXAMPLE 5.2. (continued)

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understood as divergent. In this context, such distinctions are difficult to gauge. Though one might argue that the music is not heroic, the stylistic character is rather vague in its definition, particularly when set against the image, which looks equally ominous. Eisler’s teacher Schoenberg may have been right when he said in 1928, “By what chord would one diagnose the Marxist confession in a piece of music, and by what color the Fascist one in a picture?”62 Of course, cultural context and an understanding of one’s audience play major roles in determining musical meaning, but Schoenberg’s statement suggests that music’s enigmatic nature cannot necessarily denote precise representational meanings. When music is used in a semiotic system of associations together with screen events, it can create variable meanings through “mutual implication.”63 One could just as easily have interpreted this cue as an example of musical illustration, contrary to Eisler’s intent. What is missing here is that Eisler may not have been so attuned psychologically to the American audience and their responses. Lang certainly felt that way about Brecht.64 Nevertheless, the second example (entitled “Bell Sequence”) is more conventionally conceived and therefore easier to read. The sequence, beginning in measures 15–19, provides a strong contrast to the earlier scene of Heydrich by capturing what is clearly the heroic and patriotic aspect of the diegesis. The leader of the resistance is now lying on his deathbed after being shot during a Nazi raid. The music is stoic, employing a slow harmonic rhythm, while the melody is characterized by a three-note descending sequential gesture motivated by a deliberate syncopated bassline, which repeats through each measure (ex. 5.3).65 The solemn but heroic expression captures the significance of the

EXAMPLE 5.3. Musical cue for “Bell Sequence.” Used by permission of the Akademie der Künste, Berlin.

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scene, which symbolizes the patriotism and heroism of the Czech people and their fight against fascism. Eisler later used this precise musical formulation in his patriotic song “Auferstanden aus Ruinen,” which became the national anthem of East Germany (Deutsche Demokratische Republik). Such patriotic sentiments in Eisler’s view seemed to function well whether they were in a Hollywood propaganda film (underscored by the most capitalistic of enterprises) or the communist East German nation; each context exploits the human collective political stoicism of audiences everywhere.66 Though in the final cut of the American release of the film Lang deleted the mass grave scene, it is worth mentioning that it brings together two important musical references that encapsulate the political message of the film. (More recent releases of the film on DVD include the scene.)67 The opening four measures of the sequence borrow the solemn melodic material performed as the leader of the resistance lies dead (mm. 1–4), whereas the next four measures quote both words and melody from the film’s final musical cue, “No Surrender” (mm. 5–8). This juxtaposition links the individual sacrifice of the leader with the collective sacrifice of the hostages, a value that was of great significance to Brecht.68 The Politics of Diegetic Music

The film’s diverse range of musical materials also includes diegetic musical cues, some with reference to existing music, that provide multiple layers of political meaning. Eisler employs two existing popular classical works: Smetana’s famous Vltava (The Moldau), the second of six symphonic poems from Má vlast (My Country), occurs in three separate scenes, each using a different thematic passage from the movement; and Wolfram’s song “O du mein holder Abendstern” from Wagner’s Tannhäuser. These musical choices, well known outside the context of the film, bring added subtle cultural and political value, enriching the film’s narrative conflicts through their common associations. Wagner’s significance to Hitler’s cultural program, for example, is well known; consequently, the song provides an obvious connection to the German occupation. The rendition exploited here, a “kitschy” (to invoke a term that Eisler himself uses) adaptation for muted trumpet and piano (DVD 1:39:13), inverts the piece from an example of high art to what Eisler would categorize as popular trash, manifesting his equal disdain for Wagnerian opera and popular music.69 Performed in the Deutsches Kabaret, a haven in Prague for Germans only, the piece is used to characterize Gruber, the Gestapo investigator, and his decadent behavior.

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Vltava is among the most popular and recognizable Czech musical emblems. Its application in Hangmen Also Die! signifies, with its layers of meaning, the crystallization of the values of Czech nationalism within the film’s theme while unifying the collective resistance to Nazi oppression. Many Czech nationalists during the nineteenth century saw in Smetana’s music a powerful response to Wagnerian influences, an appropriate parallel with the film’s narrative.70 Michael Beckerman has suggested that the notion of Czech identity in Smetana’s music was not so much bound within the musical language itself but instead linked to a larger, unified ideal that incorporated the diversity of what it meant to be Czech by capturing and uniting the nation’s past and its future through its musical associations. Beckerman’s insights are aptly characterized in Vltava through its programmatic evocations, which depict the river as it flows through varied Czech landscapes, connecting a country and unifying its people.71 These sentiments of patriotism were under siege during the Nazi occupation of Czechoslovakia. According to one eyewitness, during a performance of Má vlast on 11 May 1939 at Prague’s National Theater, audiences gave a fervent ovation while the conductor of the Prague orchestra held up the score and kissed it. Such episodes reflect the power of music as a national unifying force, an idea that the Germans well understood. They eventually prohibited any performances of Má vlast during the occupation.72 In Hangmen Also Die!, contrary to the realities of occupied Czechoslovakia, Vltava appears in varying roles, sometimes as a defying gesture that challenges Hitler’s prohibitions, sometimes discreetly, linking those in the film who participate in the Czech resistance. Among the scenes that were important to Brecht is one in which Svoboda, after attempting to kill Heydrich, takes refuge in a cinema to escape the Nazis’ pursuit (DVD 0:11:15,  5.4.1).73 There, spectators are depicted as shadowy figures under Lang’s dim lighting. Lang includes us within the film’s diegesis, as we too are watching the film being shown in the cinema. According to the screenplay, the scene is supposed to be presenting “a German cultural film on the ‘beautiful Rhine Valley’ with a German commentary and corresponding music.”74 The scene, however, omits the German commentary; instead, we hear what is arguably the most popular theme in Smetana’s Vltava. Although it is a momentary safe haven for Svoboda, and we understand this because of the music, nevertheless, the score seemingly contradicts images that purport to be German landscape scenes. In Composing for the Films, Eisler and Adorno describe the comfort that music gave to early cinema audiences as they viewed the images projected on-screen: “The pure cinema must have had a ghostly effect like that of the shadow play—shadows and ghosts have always been

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associated. The magic function of music that has been hinted at above probably consisted in appeasing the evil spirits unconsciously dreaded. Music was introduced as a kind of antidote against the picture.”75 Although the authors are speaking more generally about the role of film music, in the context of this scene, Smetana’s music represents an antidote to the film’s beautiful images of the German landscape, which casts an evil, shadowy gloom on its Czech audience. Yet the music in counterpoint provides a covert language that defies German authority on two fronts: in reality, German occupational forces would never have permitted Smetana’s piece to be performed; likewise, Má vlast resists the images of German landscape, a subtle reminder that the Czechs have not yet yielded to the Germans. The music functions to unify a collective Czech audience around the assassin. One of the strands in this complex narrative focuses on Mascha and her growing participation in the Czech underground, which will compromise her marital engagement. Standing with the grocer, Mrs. Dvorak (a name signaling another famous Czech composer), Mascha helps Svoboda escape the trail of the Gestapo by allowing him into the family apartment. Once Mascha brings Svoboda in from the cold, we hear the second presentation of Vltava (DVD 0:19:47,  5.4.2). We understand, through the music’s pronouncement, that Mascha’s household is a refuge. But unlike the earlier presentation of the Vltava theme, the music is taken from a later passage in the movement programmatically entitled “Venkovsk’a svatba,” or “Village Wedding.” A lesser-known, folklike theme in the piece, it consequently communicates a more discreet expression of Czech alliance. Moreover, it symbolizes the shadow cast over Mascha’s marriage by her involvement with Svoboda. We understand the music to be diegetic as it emanates from the family radio, an instrument that alternates between transmitting Nazi threats and important information from the Czech government in exile (through British Broadcasting). When Mascha’s mother sees Mascha and Svoboda, she looks back uncomfortably toward the radio, fearing that the music may disclose their Czech allegiance to this stranger. As they enter, Mascha’s father, who is listening to the radio with his ears closely against the speaker, quickly turns it off. Mascha clarifies that she and Svoboda are friends and therefore share Czech allegiance. In order not to expose Svoboda’s true identity and Mascha’s involvement, they invent a story that they met at the symphony, a setting that reveals the importance of music in matters of cultural identity. Svoboda goes on to explain that he took the score with him and is himself an amateur musician. Such remarks symbolize music’s role as a coded language that can only be truly deciphered through its cultural and patriotic evocations, a vivid reminder of real-life events

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when Má vlast was performed in Prague early in the Nazi occupation. In the context of the film, Smetana’s music provides a perfect covert language; though not always understood by everyone, it functions to unite those who participate in the resistance, whether directly (Svoboda and Mascha) or passively (Mrs. Dvorak, the hostages, and the Czech cinemagoers). In its third presentation (DVD 0:23:31,  5.4.3), Vltava is heard during a radio broadcast while Mascha and Svoboda are eating with her family around the table. Only Mascha and perhaps her father, Stephen Novotny, “an old rebel in the fight toward a Czech Republic,” understand that Svoboda assassinated Heydrich. During dinner, Novotny’s young son accidentally cuts himself with a knife. Novotny uses the incident to explain to his son that one needs courage, but its meaning is clearly a metaphor directed to Svoboda and in turn a confirmation of the importance of Czech insurgence. Underscoring the scene and emanating from the radio is Vltava’s climactic passage from the motif programmatically entitled “Vyšehrad.” The Roman fortress Vyšehrad overlooks the Vltava and the city of Prague, but the theme of this motif is also linked to an ancient bard’s song and functions within the larger symphonic poem as a unifying device when it is repeated here at the end of Vltava. It is the moment in the piece where the river has reached Prague and, according to Smetana, “where the Vyšehrad comes into sight and finally disappears in the distance with its majestic sweep into the Elbe.”76 This concluding passage is expressed with all its climactic force and fury, highlighted by a repeated trumpet fanfare that is synchronized at the moment in the film when Novotny declares in response to his son’s wound, “Fight on, my merry men all. I may be wounded, but I am not slain,” and continues with a repeated V–I bassline that motivates the music toward its tonic declamatory conclusion. This is the kind of triumphant and patriotic musical cliché from the nineteenth century that radiates nationalistic sentiments of glory, expressed through its program and its large instrumental forces. Abruptly, however, the announcer from the occupational forces interrupts the music to give the latest order. Those aiding the assassin will be executed. The scene makes concrete what the music has already implied: even under oppressive conditions, the Czechs will rise, no matter the harsh and repressive tactics used by the Germans. Here the music reveals the main narrative theme of this Hollywood propaganda picture. Americans, like the Czechs, would have to prepare themselves to uphold their culture and freedom. The idea of musical unification, then, within the context of these three scenes functions on two levels. Parallel to the programmatic imagery of Vltava, whereby the river runs through various Czech landscapes to unite a people,

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connecting its past and its future, the three different passages from Vltava within the film’s narrative also function to unite the Czech underground, its people, and its culture. Simultaneously, the music expresses a strong patriotic emblem that underscores moments in the film that require discretion because the characters are providing concealed refuge for Svoboda. In comparison to Eisler’s subtle, perhaps even personal reference to the Czech national anthem during the opening titles, the use of Smetana’s symphonic poem here functions similarly as a direct but discreet political statement of cultural identification. Final Scene: “No Surrender”

Like the opening main-title music, end titles suspend narrative and dialogue to provide an extradiegetic musical presentation while functioning transitionally to transport the audience back from the film’s odyssey to the bright lights of the theater. Within Hollywood’s classical style, films commonly used shorter, more loosely structured sequences with a restatement of the score’s most important leitmotif or theme and, like opera, provided a groundswell that continued through to its tonal resolution and the film’s conclusion. The goal was to create a climactic gesture using crescendo and fortissimo dynamics to establish an epic feeling that suggested to audiences that the film’s story was universally applicable and its message significant to their own lives, not simply to the fictional lives depicted in the film.77 The conclusion for Hangmen Also Die!, like its opening, depends upon an on-screen texted script, but this time, it is couched as an official Nazi report that is silently read by the Gestapo officer and that concludes the story’s investigation. Eisler describes the screen action as “quiet and matter-of-fact,” and because there is no dialogue, the music has an opportunity to dominate and control the film’s ending. Moreover, Eisler’s approach manipulates audiences to bring the more understated ideological Marxist politics that, as I have described earlier, percolates within the film’s larger antifascist agenda. Brecht and Eisler considered music and text a closely knit partnership and exploited various rhetorical strategies to establish the music’s political intent. In Hangmen Also Die!, among the most direct manifestations of their political approach was the exploitation of a marching song, or Kampflied, with music and text for chorus and orchestra, which they present in the concluding sequence. Eisler was a master of the genre. One of the important characteristics of his Kampflieder is their didactic potential and their searing and militant poignancy, which make them an essential participant in political demonstrations, mass meetings, and rallies.78 Eisler’s “Solidarity Song” (with lyrics by Brecht), which

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became internationally recognized, was placed at the end of the motion picture Kuhle Wampe (the 1931 film on which Brecht and Eisler collaborated), where it raised a revolutionary call to the collective proletariat to change the world. The example, of course, provided an important musical and political model for the use and meaning of Kampflieder in Hangmen Also Die!, only in this context, in relation to antifascism; with the collective efforts of everyone, the Czech population could bring down the Nazis. Two previous scenes help to prepare audiences for the conclusion of Hangmen Also Die! The first takes place in the hostage camp (DVD 1:06:04,  5.5.1). Although most Americans would probably not have understood the significance of the text and its Marxist imprint, the script nevertheless makes the point that the Czech hostages are from various social classes and have been assembled by the Gestapo to await execution. A worker has composed the words for a song entitled “No Surrender,” which he reads aloud to another hostage, the esteemed poet Nezval (in reality Vítězslav Nezval was an esteemed Czech poet and Communist Party member), who through solidarity supports it “just as it stands.” The song text is read once again by Professor Novotny (who represents the bourgeois) in order to highlight the collective solidarity of the entire group and, by extension, the film audience. This was one sequence in the script that pleased Brecht.79 The poetry makes a bold political statement, reinforcing the ideological intent of the film’s message. In a later scene (DVD 1:52:46,   5.5.2), the Nazis take a small group of hostages from the prison camp to their death in retaliation, since the assassin has not come forward. As the prisoners assemble, all the men in the prison camp sing “No Surrender,” exploiting the style of Kampflied, which functions to present the heroic stand of the Czech people.80 Now, at the end of the film, a Gestapo chief sits at his desk and reads the final official report concerning the investigation of Heydrich’s assassination (DVD 2:14:31,  5.6). The report states that Heydrich’s murderer has been arrested, though the Gestapo chief recognizes that the man convicted is a quisling, a trusted Czech agent of the Gestapo who has been framed by the Czech underground. Nevertheless, the Gestapo chief signs the report dispassionately, with no hesitation. In this scene, we hear once again the Kampflied (DVD 2:14:48), which had been presented earlier as the hostages were taken to their deaths. In this reiteration, however, the music begins with an introductory orchestral section followed by the entrance of a chorus singing a Kampflied.81 The music moves energetically in a rhythmic marching character as it builds toward its climax. Here a sense of solidarity is expressed through the unison

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chorus, presented nondiegetically and representing the invisible collectivity of the Czech people. They have fought and won their battle against Heydrich, although at the great cost of the death of the hostages.82 Eisler intended that the scene create a contrasting juxtaposition between the screen image of the Gestapo chief and the spirited choral singing in the underscoring. In Composing for the Films, he explains, “Here again the music acts as the representative of the collectivity: not the repressive collectivity drunk with its own power, but the oppressed invisible one, which does not figure in the scene. The music expresses this idea paradoxically by its dramatic distance from the scene.”83 The film’s symbolic theme of collectivity, so important a concept to Brecht and Eisler, becomes an essential function of the score. As the composer would say, “Our singing too must be a fight!”84 The Czech people’s hard-won victory is reinforced by the concluding camera shots, which use the same editing strategy as in the opening title music of the film, this time, however, in reverse. The film moves from the interior of the Gestapo headquarters in the Hradčany Castle to three exterior shots of the castle (DVD 2:15:12), each progressively more distant, ending with a long shot of the city of Prague. Behind this sequence, the music continues and functions as the disembodied voice of a unified and heroic Czech people. Eisler, however, employs two completely musical strategies in these sequences. Whereas the opening nontexted title music exploits chromaticism and features a sustained melancholy trumpet that establishes the film’s ominous and fearful character (suggestive of the lonely and anonymous assassin), the final sequence provides a dramatic contrast by using tonal simplicity and a strongly defined textual message that communicates its resolve directly in order to present a triumphant positive ending and the collective spirit of the people and the Czech resistance. After Brecht initially wrote the text for the chorus, there continued to be problems over its translation. Brecht felt that the translation functioned to stir up emotion rather than to elicit a rational and intellectually engaged rendition of the song for the audience: “A proletarian expresses himself in the bourgeoisie’s cast-off clichés, and the bourgeoisie swallows them with feeling.”85 What exacerbated the situation for Brecht was that Lang had employed Sam Coslow, a well-known American songwriter and lyricist, to revise Wexley’s translation. Brecht, of course, showed great disdain for Coslow, as well as for Lang’s decision to employ him to translate Brecht’s ideal German text: “Lang employs a highly paid hitparademan to translate the above song, and for $500 he instantly produces a piece of incredible crap.”86 So frustrated was Brecht over changes

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to the song’s text and the version that was eventually used in the film that he was compelled to create a written record of his original conception.87 Brecht’s version of “Song of the Hostages,” translated by Hugh Rorrison88

Coslow’s translated version89 Brother Patriot the time has come. Brother Patriot there is work to be done. Raise the invisible torch and pass it along Keep it burning! Keep it burning! Forward on the road that has no turning Die if you must for a cause that is just and shout to the end no surrender! Ever forwards no returning till the filthy butcher will be learning that his war isn’t won till the last battle’s done. carry on when we’re gone! No Surrender! No Surrender! No Surrender!

brother, it is time brother, be prepared pass on the invisible flag now! in dying you’ll still be the same as you were in your life you will not, comrade, surrender to them. today you’re defeated, which makes you a slave but the war only ends when the last battle’s fought but the war will not end till the last battle’s fought. brother, it is time brother, be prepared pass on the invisible flag now! violence or law, it’s still in the balance but when slavery’s day’s done, a new day will follow. today you’re defeated, which makes you a slave but the war only ends when the last battle’s fought but the war will not end till the last battle’s fought

Comparisons of the two versions reveal the contested differences. Brecht’s phrase “invisible flag” was translated into “invisible torch,” a term he felt carried no symbolic message.90 In one draft version of the script belonging to Wexley, now housed at the New York Public Library, Brecht’s frustration with such changes are expressed ironically in this script’s dialogue, a version that never reached the screen.91 At the end of the song’s text, written in the dialogue, one of the hostages states, “H’m . . . ‘Invisible Torch’ . . . I don’t know . . . Maybe.” This must have been an insider’s joke between Wexley and Brecht. Nevertheless, Brecht saw that a flag carried much more symbolic and patriotic sentiment 154

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for the people than a torch. Yet Coslow’s text retains much of the sentiment of the song. In fact, his use of “senseless butcher,” referring to Heydrich, the “hangman,” carries a more biting criticism than Brecht’s original text. Other changes reflect differences in political orientation. Brecht’s use of “comrade” was excised from the film version in order to remove the Marxist reference, which for some anticommunists would have invoked hostility and in a Hollywood film would have given the wrong message. The word “slavery” was also changed. For American audiences during the early 1940s, before the civil rights movement, such words might have confused the patriotic intent of the film. In his journal, Brecht notes that the song “Trust the People” is written to Eisler’s KI song.92 The reference is to one of Eisler’s most famous political battle songs, the “Kominternlied.” The song (KI), set to a text by Franz Jahnke and Maxim Vallentin and published in Eisler’s Sechs Lieder, op. 28, in 1929, had originally been composed to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the Communist Internationale, or Komintern, and was performed by Eisler’s agitprop group, Das Rote Sprachrohr. It became among the most popular and internationally recognized of Eisler’s Kampflieder. In fact, Eisler extracted three measures from the “Kominternlied” during the B section of “No Surrender” (mm. 27–29), although the middle measure (m. 28) is slightly modified to accommodate a transitional shift to repeat the gesture (m. 29, repeated at mm. 35–37) (ex. 5.4). The embedded allusion, like the opening reference in relation to the Czech national anthem, may have been an ironic gesture, because it is well enough hidden and not directly noticed.

EXAMPLE 5.4. (a) “Marcha del Quinto Regimiento”; (b) finale from Hangmen Also Die!, measures 22–30; (c) Eisler’s “Kominternlied.” Used by permission of the Akademie der Künste, Berlin.

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However, Brecht’s text in German to the song could not be easily scanned to the “Kominternlied” text. Instead, Eisler provided a much more direct musical quotation for the film’s chorus sequence by exploiting his 1937 political “Kampflied Marcha del Quinto Regimiento.”93 The Marcha, which Eisler applies to the refrain section of the chorus (DVD 2:14:48), was originally composed for the International Brigades, volunteer antifascist forces organized through Willi Münzenberg that were fighting together with the Spanish Republican Army. Eisler’s “Marcha del Quinto Regimiento” was set to a Spanish text and later translated into French to accommodate national groups within various battalions, an ironic twist, in view of the circumstances around the translated versions of “Song of the Hostages.” Eisler visited the front and worked closely with the volunteers, an act that was well publicized and about which he later wrote. Moreover, the Marcha was published in various songbooks, disseminated quite widely within socialist and communist circles, and therefore had a wide audience who knew the Kampflied and understood its political sentiment.94 By employing the Marcha for the conclusion of Hangmen Also Die!, like that in Kuhle Wampe, or on the front lines in Spain, Eisler’s Kampflied functioned to galvanize the people and, in this case, theater audiences. The Marcha’s original political and antifascist associations provided a subtle private reference to a song that resonated widely among communist circles but that was not necessarily known to American film audiences; therefore, it functioned to bridge the larger ideological divide. • • •

Hangmen Also Die! received excellent reviews at the box office and would become one of the most important anti-Nazi films to emerge from Hollywood from a multitude of war films during the period.95 It not only established Eisler’s credentials as a Hollywood composer (though he never became a Hollywood insider) but also proved successful for him. The score for Hangmen Also Die! was nominated for the 1943 Academy Awards, though it did not receive the coveted prize, losing to Alfred Newman’s score for The Song of Bernadette. Yet there is some irony in the fact that Eisler’s musical contribution was recognized by the institution that he so criticized. No doubt, he must have smiled. While the innovations he introduced, such as the twelve-tone passage, showed he was no conformist, he simultaneously proved himself no fool by achieving this recognition from the academy. In the aftermath of this success, he was able to secure a succession of Hollywood films, which helped his immediate economic situation.96 Eisler’s need to work in the context of his own terms while simultaneously creating scores that were acceptable by Hollywood standards

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speaks to the complicated negotiations required of émigré artists, whether those negotiations were aesthetic, political, or financial. Unlike Brecht, Eisler understood how to maneuver, for Hangmen Also Die! would represent Brecht’s only Hollywood film contribution, and it was not for lack of trying.97 Although Eisler’s writings have come to be acknowledged as an important critical contribution to film scholarship, very few people in the United States recognize his direct influence on Hollywood scoring techniques.98 But, of course, a full generation of Hollywood film composers from the 1940s onward would certainly not have confessed their direct appreciation and respect for such a political musician as Hanns Eisler, the “Karl Marx of Music.”99 In 1947, under the scrutiny of the House Un-American Activities Committee, Eisler and Brecht left Hollywood and eventually settled in East Germany, where they emerged as cultural icons of the communist regime.

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Today, film has become an eclectic repository for all kinds of music and musical styles that continue to play a central part of the narrative complexion. Recently, during the production of the blockbuster Marvel film Guardians of the Galaxy, director James Gunn requested that the composer Tyler Bates write a symphonic score before the film was shot, reversing the conventional Hollywood approach, while simultaneously the film features a compilation score (called in the movie “Awesome Mix #1”) as the central aspect of its narrative and its protagonist, Pete.1 These musical applications reflect the variety and alternative uses for music that the commercial film industry had already begun to exploit starting in the 1950s, in contrast with the professional environment Copland and Eisler encountered when they worked in Hollywood and wrote about their experiences. Nevertheless, their contributions hold important implications for our musical perceptions of Hollywood both critically and compositionally. More importantly, both found ways to express their political ideals and values, even if, in the case of Eisler, they had to be conveyed subtly or even covertly. Nevertheless, after the war the political landscape in the United States changed dramatically, and, in response, so did Hollywood. By 1947 Eisler had composed eight film scores for the industry, some of which were less overtly political; nevertheless, his days in Hollywood were to end. The US government subpoenaed him to appear before the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) and found him to be politically suspect. He

Epilogue

left in anticipation of deportation. Similarly, after Of Mice and Men, Copland continued to work in Hollywood until 1949. That same year he participated in the Cultural and Scientific Conference for World Peace in New York City at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, a gathering of intellectuals and artists concerned about America’s aggression toward the Soviet Union who were calling for peace with Stalin.2 The US government viewed the conference as Soviet propaganda, and those participating were placed on high alert. Copland’s attendance was highlighted in the popular Life Magazine, and his name was then published in the notorious entertainment blacklist publication, Red Channels. By 1953 Copland, like Eisler, had been called to address HUAC, where he was asked not only about his own affiliations but also about his relationship with Eisler. Later, when questioned why he never wrote another Hollywood film after 1949, Copland answered, “I was never asked.” McCarthyism made it difficult or even impossible for artists to work in the entertainment industry, a platform that was consumed by millions. Copland was not immune. Only in 1961 did the composer finally score another film, this time, however, for the independent and daring picture Something Wild, a film that received little attention but that reveals some of the most dynamic contemporary scoring practices by Copland. Peter Burkholder long ago reminded us that in comparison to twentiethcentury art music, the music of no other period has been “so hated, so ignored, so little played or understood.”3 Yet ironically, musical modernism has found a very secure place in the commercial genre of film, thanks in part to Eisler’s and Copland’s efforts. They brought innovative scores that drew upon, on the one hand, modernist simplicity and, on the other, the complexities of row composition, initiating some of the first steps toward Hollywood’s adoption of contemporary styles. At the same time, Eisler exploited music in new functional ways that contravened more conventional Hollywood approaches. Even when Copland adopted Hollywood’s classic practices in his scores, the simplicity, use of modal tonality, and open-ended approaches to dissonance shifted the industry’s paradigm. Filmmakers in Hollywood came to understand that when music is applied to motion pictures, modernist idioms are naturalized, accepted, and even appreciated by their audiences, for example, in contemporary horror films. Audiences knowingly or unknowingly consume the most difficult compositional styles, embracing them as an essential part of the cinematic experience. Eisler and Adorno certainly recognized this phenomenon when they wrote in Composing for the Films: “Even conservative listeners in the cinema swallow without protest music that in a concert hall would arouse their most hostile reactions.”4 After World War II, the changing face of the American film consumer in fact

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permitted composers to continue to exploit modernist styles. As the studios began to fall into decline, innovation, including scoring practices, became the key to market survival. Several important factors contributed to the demise of the studio system and a change of production values. By 1948 the government had brought an antitrust suit against the major studios, the Big Five (Paramount, Warner Bros., Loew’s MGM, Twentieth Century Fox, and RKO) and the Little Three (Universal, Columbia, and United Artists), as a result of their monopolistic business practices. Over the following ten years, studios were required to give up their theater chains and end block booking to allow for fair competition from independent production companies that had been hindered by these practices. Moreover, with suburban development, a vast population who had supported urban theaters was now moving outside the city centers and no longer regularly going to the movies. For these people, the primary form of entertainment was initially radio, but by the mid-1950s, television had become the largest threat to the motion picture industry. In 1954, for example, thirty-two million people watched television, and that number had almost tripled by the end of the decade.5 In order to compete with these new social and technological developments, the movie industry had to undergo a dramatic institutional change. Innovation became the driving force to meet the demands of competition. While the cheaper and more formulaic motion pictures often became the province of smaller independent production companies, more and more producers and directors with the bigger studios were willing to take risks to meet the needs of these new conditions.6 As a result, they made fewer films but focused on better quality and often more grandiose productions that exploited new technologies (CinemaScope, VistaVision, Panavision, Todd-AO) and stereophonic sound.7 These developments served to differentiate film from television and helped to maintain audiences. Simultaneously, in 1952 the Supreme Court decided that Hollywood films were protected under the free speech provisions of the First Amendment to the Constitution. Censorship could no longer be enforced so strictly.8 With films now unfettered by the Production Code, the industry began to explore a new range of narrative possibilities. To coincide with these new genres and narrative styles and to exploit the new technologies, composers began to draw upon an eclectic array of musical idioms, including some of the strategies used in European film.9 Both art and vernacular traditions in all their various idioms were juxtaposed in new ways analogous to the stylistic variety expressed by composers writing within the twentieth-century art music community. For

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film music, such eclecticism suited the very nature of the film medium, with its unlimited dramatic scope and variety. Though such values would dominate only after World War II, the early Hollywood contract composers had already contemplated them. As David Raksin, a veteran Hollywood composer, reminisced about the early days working in the Twentieth Century music department, “When we were together we talked about music, of all kinds; and we read scores and played recordings. Herb Spencer, Eddie Powell, Hugo Friedhofer and I would gather to listen to the latest recordings and to borrow contemporary scores from one another; I think we often had the new music before most people on the eastern seaboard were aware of it.”10 Many of the composers held a special fascination with modernism, and some even took lessons with Schoenberg. Just as composers have been embracing a diversity of styles, film audiences have come to appreciate a range of musical possibilities in film. As Gerald Mast eloquently observed in the 1980s concerning film and moviegoers, they are educated and regard cinema as the artistic equal of serious literature.11 This phenomenon has continued into the twenty-first century: movies remain the most significant platform for the cultivation and dissemination of music. With the emergence of the intellectual movie critic and the establishment of film studies within the academy, the critical engagement of film and one of its central components, film music, have acquired a position not only as products of our culture but also as powerful influences on that culture, attracting as much attention as any other art form.

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Abbreviations

BIFI CCLC FML OUPFile RA

Bibliothèque du Film, Archives Fritz Lang, Paris Aaron Copland Collection, Library of Congress Music Division, Washington, DC Feuchtwanger Memorial Library, University of Southern California Special Collections, Los Angeles Production File, Hanns Eisler Collection, Office Records, Oxford University Press, New York City Rockefeller Archive Center, Sleepy Hollow, NY Chapter 1. Background Stories

1. Michael Kammen, introduction to Seldes, The Seven Lively Arts, xxiv; and Denning, The Cultural Front, 39–40. 2. On mass art and culture as a central aspect of American culture, see Naremore and Brantlinger, Modernity and Mass Culture. On wider conceptions of modernism that take into consideration the vernacular, see film critic Miriam Hansen, “The Mass Production of the Senses,” introduced to me through Brigid Cohen’s discussion, which reconsiders modernism in light of Wolpe’s multifaceted compositional life in Stefan Wolpe, 8–9. On musical modernism, its boundaries, and its challenges, see Chowrimootoo, “Reviving the Middlebrow.” In 1927 Seldes became movie critic for the New Republic and later wrote extensively about Hollywood in An Hour with the Movies and the Talkies and The Movies Come from America.

Notes to Chapter 1

3. See, for example, League of Composers’ Modern Music, the central journal for the modernist musical community; and Martin Marks’s historical discussion of the literature in Music and the Silent Film, 14–15. 4. Raksin, David Raksin Remembers, 32–33; see also Wierzbicki, Film Music, 2–3. 5. George Antheil, On the Hollywood Front, Modern Music 15, no. 1 (November– December 1937): 50. 6. See Thomson, American Music, 8–9; and Wolfe, “The Poetics,” 354. 7. Gomery, The Coming of Sound, 135–36; Jurca, Hollywood 1938, 9, 20–24. 8. On Copland’s activities in communist-affiliated organizations and his response to the Popular Front, see Pollack, Aaron Copland, 270–87; and Crist, Music for the Common Man, esp. 3–13; and on Eisler’s, see Calico, Brecht, 90n64; also statements made by Eisler in Bunge, Brecht, 182–83. In reaction to Nazism, the Comintern (the international wing of the Communist Party) at its seventh World Congress (in the summer of 1935) adopted an inclusive policy that united all leftists against fascism; they called it the Popular Front, known in the United States as the People’s Front. On the shift from United to Popular Front, see Dimitrov and Stalin, Dimitrov and Stalin, 7–16; and Claudín, The Communist Movement, 171–207. For an interpretation of the Popular Front in the United States, see Klehr, The Heyday; and Ottanelli, The Communist Party, 83–106, esp. 101. 9. Thorp, Americans at the Movies, 1–3. On an analysis of the varied American audiences who attended films from the period, see Butsch, “American Movie Audiences.” 10. Denning, The Cultural Front, 42–43. 11. Eisler to Clara W. Mayer, [end of April or beginning of May] 1943, in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 256. 12. Antheil, “Good Russian Advice,” 54. 13. Huyssen, After the Great Divide, x. 14. The authorship of Composing for the Films remains a controversial issue, which I discuss fully in chapter 4. 15. Eisler, Composing for the Films, ix. Unless otherwise noted, references to this book are to the Oxford University Press 1947 edition, the book’s first. 16. Grosz, The Berlin of George Grosz; and Large, Berlin, 158–224. 17. Interview with Franz Boensch at www.wolpe.org. 18. According to Brecht’s biographer, it was Eisler who brought Brecht into Berlin’s working-class cultural revolutionary circle of the KPD due in part to the composer’s political family; see Parker, Bertolt Brecht, 238. On the Eisler-Brecht relationship, see Schebera, Hanns Eisler, 76–108; and Bunge, Brecht. 19. Brecht is known to have said, “My name is my trademark, and anybody who uses it must pay for it”; see Parker, Bertolt Brecht, 239. On an interpretation of his shrewd business practices, see ibid., 350; and Large, Berlin, 193. 20. Eisler outlines his revolutionary musical approach from this period in “Our Revolutionary Music,” in A Rebel in Music, 59–60. 21. As I discuss above in relation to Copland’s Paris experiences, American culture was embraced by Europe. The impact of American culture was even greater in Berlin, where

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they coined the phenomenon as Amerikanismus or Amerikanisierung; see Costigliola, Awkward Dominion. On Hollywood motion pictures in Berlin, see Saunders, Hollywood. 22. On Münzenberg’s distribution rights, see Welch, “The Proletarian Cinema,” 5–8; and Hartsourgh, “Soviet Films,” 137; on critical reaction to Battleship Potemkin in Berlin, see Welch, “The Proletarian Cinema,” 7–8; and Taylor, Film Propaganda, 139–40, who, like McMeeken, The Red Millionaire, 190–92, documents the infamous success of Battleship Potemkin with German audiences. On Münzenberg’s statement concerning film’s importance to the Communist Party, see Münzenberg, “Conquer Film!” 23. Kepley, “The Workers’ International Relief ”; and Horak, “Prometheus Film Collective.” See also Agde and Schwarz, Die rote Traumfabrik. 24. On Münzenberg’s political goals and policies that he hoped would underscore Marxist films, see his 1926 pamphlet “Conquer Film!” Kuhle Wampe, considered the most important proletariat film, was banned by the German government because of its revolutionary message; see Welch, “The Proletarian Cinema,” 13–15. 25. Eisler, “From My Practical Work,” in A Rebel in Music, 122. Trivas was born in Russia but immigrated to Berlin and then Paris. Eisler worked with him in Alexis Granowsky’s 1931 Das Lied vom Leben (The song of life), an experimental semidocumentary film that included performances by Eisler’s close collaborator, Ernst Busch. 26. Nenno, “Undermining Babel,” 288–89. 27. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 27. See also Faßhauer, “Film—Musik—Montage”; and Phillips, City of Darkness, 108–10. 28. Eisler arranged the music for Pagliacci, composing only a few original pieces. He also brought Brecht into the production. On the music for Abdul, see Eisler, “From My Practical Work,” in A Rebel in Music, 123. 29. Graham Greene, “The Marriage of Corbal,” Spectator, 5 June 1936, 1036, reprinted in Parkinson, The Graham Greene Film Reader, 107–8. 30. For Charles Seeger’s reactions and description of Eisler’s participation (among other activities with Eisler), see Seeger, Reminiscences, 214–17; see also Pollack, Marc Blitzstein, 103. On Eisler’s influence on the Composers’ Collective, see Fava, “The Composers’ Collective”; and Opler, “Music from the Vanguard,” 128–29, esp. nn. 8–9; and on Eisler’s observations of the collective, see “A Musical Journey through America,” in A Rebel in Music, 87–88. 31. Palmier, Weimar in Exile, 499–500. 32. Copland’s homosexuality has been addressed in Nadine Hubbs’s excellent study The Queer Composition of America’s Sound. Concerning Copland’s political identity and his music, see Crist, Music for the Common Man. Little has been written about Copland’s Jewish identity; see Pollack, Aaron Copland, 26–27; Pollack, “Copland”; Botstein, “Copland Reconfigured”; and Lipman, “Out of the Ghetto,” 60–61. Scholars have addressed issues concerning anti-Semitism in American musical circles; see Moore, Yankee Blues, 130–43; and Levy, Frontier Figures, 300–302. 33. Pollack, Aaron Copland; Crist, Music for the Common Man. 34. Copland, Our New Music, 228–30; see also Botstein, “Copland Reconfigured,” 453.

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35. Max Winkler described the practice of constantly repeating the same scores from film to film in the silent era, methods that would be applied in sound film as well: “But no matter how hard we pushed our composers, they had only twenty-four hours a day to put music on paper and that just wasn’t enough. . . . Extracts from great symphonies and operas were hacked down to emerge again as ‘Sinister Misterioso.’ . . . Mendelssohn’s wedding marches were used for marriages, fights between husbands and wives, and divorce scenes” (“The Origin,” 40). See also Levant’s description of musical codes in A Smattering, 134–39; and Kalinak, “Classical Hollywood,” 54–55. 36. See Lerner, “Copland’s Music,” 503. 37. See, for example, the response from John Kirkpatrick, Wilfrid Mellers, and Arthur Berger in Pollack, Aaron Copland, 354; Botstein, “Copland Reconfigured,” 440–41nn8, 11. 38. Copland, Our New Music, 78–79; Copland and Perlis, Copland, 56; Perloff, Art; Murchison, The American Stravinsky, 78–83; and on Copland’s admiration of Les Six, see Pollack, Aaron Copland, 66–67. 39. I use “jazz” as a generic term to denote a variety of popular dance idioms that embraced American syncopated rhythms likely heard in Paris after World War I; see Taruskin’s discussion concerning Cocteau’s involvement with Les Six and their stylistic ideals in Music in the Early Twentieth Century, 588–89. On the term “jazz” and the musical genres performed during this period in the French context, see Jordan, Le Jazz, on the word “jazz,” see esp. 43–44. On Copland’s experience of jazz in Vienna, see Copland and Perlis, Copland, 88. On the relationship between Les Six and American culture, see Perloff, Art, 45–64. 40. Copland, Music and Imagination, 100: “All of us discovered America in Europe.” See also Murchison, The American Stravinsky, 79. 41. Fauser, “Aaron Copland,” 530–31. 42. Copland to his parents, 25 June 1921, in Crist and Shirley, The Selected Correspondence, 11. 43. Fauser, “Aaron Copland,” 535. 44. On the perception of American culture in Europe as the representation of modernity, see Wollen, “Cinema,” 42–43. 45. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 73. 46. Copland gives his own overview of American musical history and the problems of exploiting a usable past in Music and Imagination, 100–106; see especially 106, where he says, “By the late twenties, our search for musical ancestors had been abandoned or forgotten, partly, I suppose, because we became convinced that there were none—that we had none. We were on our own.” For an overview of Copland’s thinking regarding a usable past as an aesthetic, see Pollack, Aaron Copland, 107–20. 47. On Copland, modernism, and New York following his studies with Boulanger, see Oja, Making Music Modern, 240. 48. Siegmeister, Lucier, and Lee, “Three Points of View,” 282. See also Copland, Our New Music, 142. 49. On Copland and his use of jazz, see Kleppinger, “On the Influence.”

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50. On the anti-Semitic reception of these pieces, see Taruskin, Music, 620–22; and Levy, who treats the negative and anti-Semitic responses from Copland’s friends and colleagues in Frontier Figures, 298–301. On anti-Semitism and the American musical establishment, including a critical reception of Copland’s jazz works, see Moore, Yankee Blues, 143–47. See also Murchison, The American Stravinsky, 134–40, who deals with anti-Semitism toward Copland in relation to other musical issues. 51. Wenger, New York Jews, 2, 7. 52. Dollinger, Quest, 4, suggests that the majority of Jews in the United States held liberal political policies (at least until neoliberalism). However, in “the politics of acculturation,” when faced with opposing government or societal agreement, Jews abandoned liberalism, fearing that it threatened their social status. Copland followed these inclinations throughout his life. When communism became a threat, he silenced his political positions, even in the context of his musical language; see Delapp-Birkett, “Aaron Copland.” 53. See Freeman, “What Is Americanism?” 54. Wenger, New York Jews, 200. Copland’s father characterized those values having come to the United States as a poor émigré and successfully established a department store in Brooklyn. According to Copland, his father’s accomplishments instilled in Copland a strong patriotic sensibility. See Copland and Perlis, Copland, 17. 55. Once the United States plunged into economic crisis, literary critic Kenneth Burke proposed the Left change its rhetoric from “the worker” to “the people.” This single phrase became a defining trope, embraced by the Popular Front and a fundamental image branded in the American consciousness of the mid-1930s until the end of World War II. See Burke, “Revolutionary Symbolism,” 89; George and Selzer, “What Happened?” 56. Denning, The Cultural Front, 29. 57. “WABC: Howard Barlow Series,” folder 41, box 216, CCLC, cited in Key, “‘Sweet Melody,’” 136–37. 58. Thorp, America at the Movies, 135. 59. Rick Altman’s perspective takes into consideration critics who also aesthetically praise the “intrusion of sound”; see “Introduction,” 35–36. See also Burke, “The Transition,” 58–59; and Lastra, Sound Technology, 92–93. The technological development of synchronized sound was a gradual and at times ad hoc transition and was dependent upon economic, aesthetic, and political issues, all of which took place from the 1900s to the late 1930s, though traditional histories tend to focus on 1927–33 (when the technology of amplification in theaters made it feasible to produce synchronized sound films); see Neumeyer and Buhler, “The Soundtrack,” 46. The most authoritative studies on the transition to sound include Altman, Jones, and Tatroe, “Inventing”; Barrios, A Song; Crafton, The Talkies; Gomery, Coming of Sound; and Lastra, Sound Technology. 60. Altman, “The Evolution,” 46–47; and Lastra, Sound Technology, 209. 61. Sabaneev, “Music,” 19–20; Wierzbicki, Film Music, 116–17; Slowik, After the Silent, 103, 106, 109–10; Lastra, Sound Technology, 209; and Kalinak, “The Classical Hollywood Film Score,” 271. 62. Altman, “The Evolution,” 46; and Doane, “Ideology,” 58.

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63. Flinn, Strains, 44–45, who cites various composers on the topic of rescuing the film through music but omits Copland’s discussion of the issue in What to Listen for in Music, 255–56. 64. Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 73; Doane, “Ideology,” 55. For other interpretations of Doane’s ideas, see Flinn, Strains, 6; Buhler and Neumeyer, review of Caryl Flinn, Strains of Utopia; and Kathryn Kalinak, Settling the Score; see also Kalinak, “The Classical Hollywood Film Score,” 269–70. 65. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 20–21. 66. On both the theoretical and compositional notion of inaudibility, see Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 73, 76–79. Jeff Smith challenges this notion in “Unheard Melodies?” Wierzbicki documents the debates over whether audiences should be aware of the motion picture scores in Film Music, 140–42, 145–58. See also Buhler and Neumeyer, “Music,” 34–35, who outline various ways Max Steiner, a central figure in the development of Hollywood’s nondiegetic musical conventions, developed acceptable ways to integrate nondiegetic music by applying a range of synchronization strategies, from Mickey Mousing to more loosely devised musical conceptions in relation to the film’s narrative. 67. Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 73–79. 68. Copland, “Tip to Movie-Goers,” 28; also Sabaneev, Music for the Films, 20. For an excellent overview that documents these debates principally through contemporary newspaper accounts, see Wierzbicki, Film Music, 113–59; see also Platte, “Before Kong Was King,” 312n1. 69. Kalinak, “The Classical Hollywood Film Score,” 271. 70. Sabaneev, Music for the Films, 20–21, 29; Copland, “Second Thoughts,” 142. 71. Copland, What to Listen for in Music, 259. 72. Antheil, “Composers in Movieland,” 67–68. 73. Levant, A Smattering of Ignorance, 121; and Kalinak, “The Classical Hollywood Film Score,” 271. 74. Max Steiner, quoted in Neumeyer, Flinn, and Buhler, introduction, 15. 75. Arnheim, Film as Art, 209. On the debate between parallelism and counterpoint, see Gallez, “Theories”; Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 15; Buhler and Neumeyer, review of Caryl Flinn, Strains of Utopia; and Kalinak, Settling the Score, 372n33. 76. See Eisler, Composing for the Films, 18. 77. Dubbing is the process by which the final mixing of dialogue, music, and sound effects is produced together onto one composite track, a postproduction procedure accomplished usually after the rough cut of the film is completed. See Karlin, Listening to Movies, 56–62. On Copland’s outrage regarding the dubbing process, see the transcript of the Museum of Modern Art lecture in Copland, “Film Music,” 25–26; and chapter 2. 78. Gomery, The Coming of Sound; and Altman, Silent Film Sound. 79. Babcock, “Tin Pan Alley”; and Wierzbicki, Film Music, 113–30. 80. Platte, “Before Kong Was King,” 314n9. 81. On Alfred Newman, see Palmer, A Composer in Hollywood, 68–93; on Max Steiner, see Rosenberg and Silverstein, The Real Tinsel, 387–400. See also Platte, “Before Kong Was

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King,” 314n8. Oscar Levant provides an acerbic assessment of Steiner’s abilities. Levant observed that Hollywood attracted show composers of the highest caliber, but after its intense activity with musicals, all came to a halt in 1929: “All the high-priced musicians were released at the end of their contracts, thereafter returning to New York. Steiner did not qualify for inclusion in this category, and his services were retained” (A Smattering, 96–102, quotation on 98). 82. Wierzbicki provides a wonderful historical account documenting the transition from musicals to the use of nondiegetic scores in Hollywood that relies on newspaper accounts from the period; see Wierzbicki, Film Music, 114–30. 83. Scheuer, “Musical Picture.” 84. Bordwell, Staiger, and Thompson, The Classical Hollywood Cinema, 140. 85. Flinn, Strains of Utopia, 30–31. Although professional societies were established to protect the interests of the film composer, these organizations only began to emerge in 1938, when the American Society of Music Arrangers included composers and thus became ASMAC. Though ASMAC was never successful in acquiring more control or royalties for its members, it was strategic in gaining screen credits for them and better fees. Only in 1945 did a branch of ASMAC emerge as the Screen Composers’ Association (SCA), to which every major composer in Hollywood belonged, though even then it was difficult for composers to control their artistic work. See “About ASMAC,” American Society of Music Arrangers and Composers, www.asmac.org. 86. Gomery, The Hollywood Studio System, 10. 87. For a longer excerpt from the contract, see Eisler, Composing for the Films, 55n6. 88. Music for the Movies reuses materials from The City and Our Town and incorporates the musical cues of “Barley Wagons” and “Threshing Machines,” as well as sections of the opening title music from Of Mice and Men; see Copland and Perlis, Copland, 366. 89. Bick, “Political Ironies.” 90. Priestley, Midnight, 191–92. 91. Schallert quoting Finston in “Screen Music.” See also Platte, “Before Kong Was King,” 315. 92. Mines, “Commerce and Art,” discussed in Platte, “Before Kong Was King,” 315–16. 93. Lampel, “The Genius,” 41–42; and Flinn, Strains of Utopia, 28–30. On Finston’s business-minded mentality toward the industry, see Platte, “Before Kong Was King,” 314–15. 94. Max Steiner in Rosenberg and Silverstein, The Real Tinsel, 388. 95. On the Armour and Company plant, see Platte, “Before Kong Was King,” 316–17; Levant, A Smattering, 110–11; Raksin, “Holding”; and Antheil, “Composers in Movieland,” 63–64. 96. Nathaniel Finston quoted in Schallert, “Screen Music”; see also Wierzbicki, Film Music, 119. 97. Atkins, “The American Film Institute’s,” 36. 98. Copland, “Film Music,” 24. 99. Raksin, “Holding,” 171–74. 100. Copland, “Second Thoughts,” 142; and Antheil, “Composers in Movieland,” 63–64.

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101. See Thorp, America, 137–38. See David Raksin to Harold Spivacke, Music Division, Library of Congress, reprinted in Prendergast, Film Music, 41–42; “The stakes were so great, in almost all respects (money, prestige, ‘the product,’ etc.) . . . the apprenticeship aspect was manifest in a limited encouragement to experiment (a studio with deadlines to meet can’t tolerate too many ineptly calculated risks).” 102. See Antheil, “Breaking,” 83. 103. Levant, A Smattering, 141. Chapter 2. Copland on Hollywood

1. On Copland’s score for The City, see Cochran, “Style,” 9–115; Widgery, “The Kinetic and Temporal Interaction,” 256–93; and Crist, Music for the Common Man, 92–110. For the transcript of the Museum of Modern Art lecture, see Copland, “Film Music.” 2. Pollack, Aaron Copland, 340. 3. Copland, “Film Music,” 5. 4. Marks makes this point in Music, 15. 5. Wasson, Museum Movies, 103–4, 110; and Sitton, Lady, 205–8. 6. Strauss, “What Music Has Charms?” 7. George Antheil, On the Hollywood Front, Modern Music 15, no. 1 (November– December 1937): 48; see also Palmer, The Composer, 22–23. 8. Virginia Wright, “cine . . . matters,” Daily News, 30 October 1939, folder 15, box 407, CCLC. 9. Harold Clurman to Aaron Copland, 5 April and 25 May 1937, folder 25, box 250, CCLC; Antheil, On the Hollywood Front, Modern Music 14, no. 2 ( January–February 1937): 106–7; and Modern Music 16, no. 2 ( January–February 1939): 130–31. 10. Copland, “Film Music,” 30; on the Hollywood community, see Wierzbicki, who documents the varied debates, citing an array of newspaper articles by critics and film composers (Film History, 133–59). 11. Still in 1949 art composers were both critical and naive about Hollywood; see Raksin, “Talking Back.” 12. For a list of Hollywood’s attempts to use high art, see Neumeyer, Flinn, and Buhler, introduction, 19; on film composers’ awareness of modernist trends, see Danly, “A Portrait,” 14; Levant, A Smattering, 122–23; and Raksin, “Holding,” 176. 13. Copland to Israel Citkowitz, reprinted in Copland and Perlis, Copland, 127. 14. Whitesitt, The Life, 54–55. 15. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 270. 16. Antheil, “Composers in Movieland”; Antheil, “Good Russian Advice”; and Antheil, On the Hollywood Front, Modern Music 14–16 (1936–39). 17. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 270. 18. Antheil, On the Hollywood Front, Modern Music 15, no. 3 (March–April 1937): 187; Copland, Our New Music, 260. 19. One exception to this pattern in Copland’s film career was related to his work on The Heiress for William Wyler, who told him to make changes to a score, a request

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he refused; see Pollack, Aaron Copland, 436; and Lochner, “‘You Have Cheated Me,’” 36–39. 20. Copland, Music and Imagination, 107. 21. Copland, “Film Music,” 5; Copland’s expression “a composer’s Eldorado” is taken from Copland, “Second Thoughts on Hollywood,” 141; some of these ideas are also expressed in Our New Music, 260; and Copland and Perlis, Copland, 300. 22. Copland, Our New Music, 133; Burkholder has made a similar point in “Museum Pieces.” 23. Copland, “Film Music,” 5. 24. Ibid., 14–15; see also Copland, Our New Music, 261. 25. Copland, Our New Music, 262. 26. Copland, “Film Music,” 29. 27. Aaron Copland, “Copland Views Movies as Strong Challenge to Modern Composers,” Capital News 6, no. 4 (April 1948), folder 18, box 219, CCLC; and Copland, “Music in the Movies,” folder 14, box 213, CCLC; see also Copland, “Tip to Moviegoers.” 28. Copland, “Film Music,” 28. 29. Copland’s correspondence reveals that he was, in Pollack’s words, a tough negotiator; see Copland to Carlos Chávez, 18 May 1937, Copland memory collection, http://hdl .loc.gov/loc.music/copland.corr0217; and Copland to Leonard Bernstein, [September or October 1939], both printed in Copland, The Selected Correspondence, 117–18, 130, respectively. See also Pollack, Aaron Copland, 91. 30. Flinn, Strains of Utopia, 32–34; and Platte, “Music for Spellbound,” 421. 31. Copland, “Film Music,” 35. Composer Miklos Rózsa shared Copland’s views (Double Life, 95). Rózsa was among the few art composers who could balance his Hollywood and concert careers. 32. George Antheil, On the Hollywood Front, Modern Music 16, no. 3 (March–April 1939): 194–95. 33. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 297–300. 34. Ibid., 300. 35. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 5–6. 36. On the adoption of the leitmotif by film composers, see Paulin, “Richard Wagner”; also Buhler, “Star Wars,” 41–44, whose interpretation is dependent on Eisler and Adorno’s work in Composing for the Films, 5–6. See also London, “Leitmotifs”; Huckvale, “Wagner”; Huckvale, “Twins of Evil”; Flinn, Strains of Utopia, 13–50; and Wierzbicki, Film Music, 144–45. 37. Copland, “Film Music,” 15; and Copland, “Second Thoughts on Hollywood.” See also Adorno, In Search of Wagner, 46. 38. Copland is referring to Alfred Newman’s score for Drums along the Mohawk, released in 1939 under Twentieth Century Fox, produced by Raymond Griffith, and directed by John Ford. Copland, “Second Thoughts on Hollywood,” 144; see also Copland, “Film Music,” 16. 39. Copland, “Second Thoughts on Hollywood,” 144.

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40. Copland, What to Listen for in Music, 256–57; and Buhler and Neumeyer, review, 376–77. 41. Copland, “Second Thoughts on Hollywood,” 144; and Copland, “Film Music,” 20–21. On Mickey Mousing, see Manvell and Huntley, The Technique, 42–43; and Neumeyer, Flinn, and Buhler, introduction, 15. 42. Copland, “Film Music,” 17. 43. Ibid., 26–28; Copland, “Second Thoughts on Hollywood,” 142–43; Copland, “The Aims”; and Copland, Our New Music, 262–65. 44. Baxter, The Hollywood Exiles; Altman, “Early Film Themes”; and Joe and Gilman, Wagner & Cinema. 45. Copland, “Film Music,” 12; Copland, What to Listen for in Music, 14. 46. Copland, Our New Music, 7, 10. 47. Copland, What to Listen for in Music, 249. 48. On the various versions of the code, see Doherty, Hollywood’s Censor, 351. See the 1938 version in Thorp, America, 274. 49. Copland, “Film Music,” 12. 50. Ibid., 12–13. 51. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 297. 52. Copland, “The Aims.” 53. Janssen, “Scoring.” 54. The people he includes are “the various orchestrators, the people who make out the cue sheets, anybody who has to do with the making and preparing of the music” (Copland, “Film Music,” 19). See Winters, A Film Score Guide, 7–15; for further discussion and full bibliographical references to other treatments, see Platte, “Music,” 419–21. 55. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 298; see also Sadoff, “The Role.” 56. Copland, “Film Music,” 19; Copland, “Second Thoughts on Hollywood,” 144–45; and Copland, Our New Music, 271–72. 57. Karlin, “Fred Karlin,” 16–17. 58. On Steiner’s approach, see Atkins, “The American Film Institute’s,” 42. 59. Musical cue sheets for Of Mice and Men, folder 40, box 100, CCLC; Copland, “Second Thoughts on Hollywood,” 145. 60. Copland, “Film Music,” 19–20. 61. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 298; quote from Copland, “Film Music,” 20. 62. Copland, “Film Music,” 13; Karlin, Listening to Movies, 194–95; on the collaboration between composer and orchestrator, see Winters, A Film Score Guide, 11–12; and in regard to Copland’s use of an orchestrator, see Morton, “Composing,” 201. 63. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 298. The manuscript full score for Of Mice and Men identifies Bassman as the orchestrator; however, the identification is not in Copland’s hand (pencil); see folder 40, box 113, CCLC. 64. Aaron Copland, “Of Mice and Men [ms. Open score, pencil],” folder 40, box 100, CCLC, www.loc.gov/item/copland.sket0018/. 65. Pollack, Aaron Copland, 341; and Previn, No Minor Chords, 89.

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66. Ussher, “Composing for Films.” 67. Pollack, Aaron Copland, 341; and Pacific Coast Musician 29 (1940): 77. 68. Korngold’s remarks quoted by Copland in “Tip to Moviegoers.” 69. Copland, “Film Music,” 23, 22. 70. Ibid., 25–26. Korngold makes the same point in “Some Experiences,” 139. 71. Korngold was best known for scoring epic pictures such as The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938); see Winters, A Film Score Guide. 72. Copland, “Film Music,” 30. 73. Levant, A Smattering, 97–98. 74. Copland, “Film Music,” 31–32. 75. Ibid., 32–33; Copland, Our New Music, 272–73. 76. Raksin, “Talking Back.” 77. Copland, “The Aims”; and Copland, “Tip to Moviegoers.” 78. Copland, What to Listen for in Music, 256–58. 79. Copland, Our New Music, 263. 80. Copland, “Tip to Moviegoers.” 81. Copland, “The Aims,” where he also refers to similar remarks made by Virgil Thomson. 82. Brown, Overtones and Undertones, 118–19; Buhler and Neumeyer, review, 384. 83. Copland, What to Listen for in Music, 257. 84. Ibid. 85. Ibid. 86. Copland, “Film Music,” 8; see also Copland, What to Listen for in Music, 257–58. 87. Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 73; and Neumeyer, Flinn, and Buhler, introduction, 15. 88. Copland, Our New Music, 260. Chapter 3. Copland, Hollywood, and American Musical Modernism: Of Mice and Men

1. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 297. 2. Harold Clurman to Aaron Copland, 5 and 18 May 1937, CCLC. 3. Copland to Carlos Chávez, 18 May 1937, see Copland memory collection, www.loc .gov/resource/copland.corr0216.0, reprinted in Copland, The Selected Correspondence, 117–18. 4. Harold Clurman to Aaron Copland, 5 May 1937, CCLC; see also Copland to Carlos Chávez, 2 June 1937, Copland memory collection, http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.music/copland .corr0217, printed in Copland, The Selected Correspondence, 119; Aaron Copland to Victor Kraft, June 1937, quoted in Pollack, Aaron Copland, 337, and printed in Copland and Perlis, Copland, 271. Copland describes these events in Copland and Perlis, Copland, 270–71; see also Levant, A Smattering, 239. 5. At a League of Composers concert in 1939 featuring film scores, Henry Cowell reported that Copland hoped that “documentaries will help them break into Hollywood” (“The League’s Evening,” 177). In contrast, Antheil stated that the industry viewed docu-

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mentaries as amateurish (“Breaking into the Movies,” 82–83). Clurman, however, believed that prior experience was important; see Harold Clurman to Aaron Copland, 5 April and 25 May 1937, CCLC. See also Thomson, American Music, 8–9. 6. For detailed interpretive and analytic examinations of The City, see Widgery, “The Kinetic and Temporal Interaction,” 256–93; Cochran, “Style, Structure,” 9–115; and Crist, Music for the Common Man, 92–110. For reviews of The City, see Griffith, “Films at the Fair,” 63–64; Paul Bowles, On the Film Front, Modern Music 17, no. 1 (October–November 1939): 62; Cowell, “The League’s Evening,” 178; and Simon, “Mr. Copland.” On Copland’s resolve to reopen negotiations with Hollywood, see Copland and Perlis, Copland, 291; see also Pollack, Aaron Copland, 337. 7. According to Pollack, Copland was a hard negotiator and received a $5,000 fee through his agent, Abe Meyer of MCA Artists (Aaron Copland, 91, 340). 8. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 297. 9. Dobrin, Aaron Copland, 145–46. 10. Bruno David Ussher, “Speaking of Music,” Pasadena Star-News, 30 October 1939, folder 15, box 407, CCLC. 11. Virginia Wright, “cine . . . matters,” Daily News, 30 October 1939, folder 15, box 407, CCLC. 12. Everson, “Thoughts,” 68–69. On the Hays Production Code, see Maltby, “The Production Code.” Susan Shillinglaw reports on some of the controversies surrounding the book’s offensive language and “degenerate” outlook that casts a shadow over the promise of the American Dream (introduction, xxv–xxvi). 13. Schallert, “Premiere”; and “Of Mice and Men,” Variety. 14. On defining Hollywood’s prestige picture, see Balio, “Production Trends,” 179–209; Neale, Genre and Hollywood, 224; and Hall, “Ozoners,” 346. 15. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 297. 16. Morsberger, “Tell Again, George.” 17. Steinbeck’s work was first performed as a play in 1937 by the Theater Union of San Francisco to support maritime workers in their struggle for unionization; see Hadella, Of Mice and Men, 4; also Loftis, “A Historical Introduction,” 47; and Morsberger, “Tell Again, George,” 111–17. Steinbeck’s novelette, published in 1937, was a best seller and was successfully performed onstage, winning the New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award as best American contribution for 1938–39 (“Of Mice and Men Wins Critics Prize”). 18. See Crist, Music for the Common Man, 19–27. Her interpretation of Copland’s political status within the Popular Front (like my own) relies on the work of Denning, The Cultural Front; see Crist, Music for the Common Man, 9–10, also 206n34. 19. Copland, Our New Music, 228–30; Berger, Aaron Copland, 26–33, 39–42; and Thomson, American Music, 9, 118. Beth Levy suggests that Copland’s move toward simplicity removed his ethnic and sexual traces and therefore branded him musically in ways that appeared more acceptable to the American musical establishment (Frontier Figures, 300–302). 20. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 297.

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21. Robinson, “All Quiet,” 16; Millichap, Lewis Milestone, 24–25; and Pollack, Aaron Copland, 340. 22. Higham and Greenberg, “Lewis Milestone,” 161. 23. Balio, United Artists, 162, 273. 24. Copland, “The Aims of Music for Films.” 25. Copland to Virgil Thomson, 15 February 1940, printed in The Selected Correspondence, 132. 26. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 297; Copland, “The Aims of Music for Films.” 27. Copland, “Billy the Kid.” 28. On the dating of the Short Symphony, Statements, and El Salón México, see Crist, Music for the Common Man, 42–43, 214n2. For a political interpretation of Statements for Orchestra as 1930s Cultural Front ideology, see ibid., 34–40. 29. Zuck, A History, 257–58. For Copland’s comments on cultivating audiences, see Our New Music, 228–30. Regarding Copland’s relationship to the political Left, see Thomson, American Music, 55; Berger, Aaron Copland, 26–29; Aaron Copland, cited in Rockwell, “Copland, at 75”; Zuck, A History, 258–62; Pollack, Aaron Copland, 270–82; and Crist, Music for the Common Man, 1–42. Vivian Perlis suggests that Copland’s leftist leanings arose from several factors, including the Depression, which had affected Copland’s family directly, and the lack of an audience for his most recent compositions (Copland and Perlis, Copland, 218–19). 30. On Copland’s style shift, see Berger, Aaron Copland, 30–31, 39; Berger, “Copland’s Piano Sonata”; and Smith, Aaron Copland, 184–221. Pollack, Aaron Copland, 552, warns critics about the dangers of categorizing Copland’s work into fixed time periods because the composer wrote various idioms and genres that stylistically overlapped throughout his life; see also Starr, “Copland’s Style”; and Oja, Making Music Modern, 363. 31. Copland, Music and Imagination, 109. Aspects of this quotation originated in a letter Copland wrote in response to criticisms that Berger leveled against him; see Copland to Arthur Berger, 10 April 1943, CCLC, printed in Berger, “Copland,” 573; see also Cone, “Conversation,” 64–66. 32. Lerner, “Copland’s Music,” 482, 486; Lerner, “The Classical Documentary Score,” 189, 272; Levy, Frontier Figures, 185–203; Rorem, Knowing When to Stop, 281, 322; and Pollack, Aaron Copland, 174. Leonard Bernstein also confirmed Thomson’s influence on Copland in a memorial article for the New York Times, reprinted in Tommasini, Virgil Thomson, 563, and discussed in Hubbs, The Queer Composition, 42. 33. Hubbs connects Thomson’s opera Four Saints in Three Acts more generally with Copland’s style (The Queer Composition, 36–43). Levy deals only fleetingly with the relationship between them (Frontier Figures, 204–5). Hoover and Cage show Thomson’s stylistic influence on Hollywood (Virgil Thomson, 86), but Antheil in his review of The Plow That Broke the Plains considered the score to be “amateurish” (“Breaking into the Movies,” 83). See also Copland and Perlis, Copland, 200; Thomson, American Music, 53–55; Rorem, A Ned Rorem Reader, 244; Rorem, Knowing When to Stop, 229, 231, 233–44, 281, 322; Rorem, “Copland’s Birthday”; and Pollack, Aaron Copland, 307, 552–53.

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34. Copland, “Film Music,” 45. 35. The Plow That Broke the Plains, produced under the auspices of the US Resettlement Administration, could not rely upon the distribution system set up by the Hollywood industry. Nevertheless, the picture saw over three thousand screenings around the country; see Wolfe, “The Poetics,” 367–70; also Levy, Frontier Figures, 185n27. Lorentz’s second film, The River, music by Thomson, was distributed by Paramount Studios and screened with other commercial studio films as an extra attraction; see Tommasini, Virgil Thomson, 283, 287; also Lorentz, FDR’s Moviemaker, 39–43, 51–59; and Hoover and Cage, Virgil Thomson, 86. 36. Lerner has documented this influence in “Copland’s Music of Wide Open Spaces,” 479–80, 499, attributing the influence not only to his film scores but also to Copland’s ballet Appalachian Spring; on Copland’s film scores in Hollywood, see Bushard, “The Very Essence.” 37. Thomson, American Music, 55–56. Copland discusses his critics in Music and Imagination, 108–9; also Copland and Perlis, Copland, 248; and see also Zuck, A History, 256–58. Crist outlines the critical commentary regarding Copland’s divisions of “modernist” versus “simplified” style in “Aaron Copland and the Popular Front,” 411n5; see also Crist, Music for the Common Man, 6–8. 38. Berger, “Copland,” 573. 39. Berger cites Copland in Aaron Copland, 26–27; and Berger, Reflections, 15. See also Copland and Perlis, Copland, 251. 40. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 246. 41. “Copland Views Movies as Strong Challenge to Modern Composers,” Capital News 6, no. 4 (April 1948), folder 18, box 219, CCLC. 42. This idea coincided with Eisler’s own perspective on modern musical idioms, as I discuss in chapter 4. 43. Copland, What to Listen for in Music, 257. 44. The film musical, which characteristically uses styles from Tin Pan Alley and Broadway and whose music is typically diegetic, provides an exception during this period. 45. Baxter, The Hollywood Exiles, 1–2. See also the documentary film by Jacobovici, Hollywoodism, based upon Neal Gabler’s book An Empire of Their Own; and Platte, “‘Regeneration,’” 169, 171, 176. 46. Flinn, Strains of Utopia. 47. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 298. 48. The New York Times film reviewer Frank S. Nugent responded to the film in this way: “We have the feeling of seeing another third, or thirtieth, of the nation, not merely a troupe of play-actors living in a world of make-believe” (“At the Cinecitta,” New York Times, 19 February 1940, folder 15, box 407, CCLC). 49. Hadella, Of Mice and Men, 15; and Denning, The Cultural Front, 259. 50. Darryl Zanuck’s film The Grapes of Wrath was released in January 1940, Of Mice and Men in December 1939. 51. Corey, The Decline, 518; and Denning, The Cultural Front, 261–64. 52. For a fuller treatment of Steinbeck’s narrative in relation to Copland’s score for Of Mice and Men, see Bick, Of Mice and Men, 439–41. 176

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53. Owens, The Grapes of Wrath, 3. 54. Denning, The Cultural Front, 258–69. 55. Ibid., 261. Their Blood Is Strong was published to raise money for the impoverished migrant workers. It is reprinted in French, A Companion, 53–92. 56. Guimond, American Photography, 302n34. For a political interpretation of the dust bowl image and its emblematic meaning for those on the left, see Denning, The Cultural Front, 265. 57. Milestone worked with art director Nicolai Remisoff and Steinbeck himself, who suggested using an authentic ranch for the scenes. Milestone rented for twenty-five dollars a day the Agoura ranch of William Randolph Hearst (“Movie of the Week”). Benson describes the antics involved when Steinbeck accompanied Milestone to find an appropriate setting for the location of the film (The True Adventures, 407–8). 58. See Loftis, “A Historical Introduction,” 39–40. For a social and historical account of the Californian migrant population, see Cross and Cross, Newcomers and Nomads; Webb, The Migratory-Casual Worker; McWilliams, Factories; Anderson, Men on the Move; and Daniel, Bitter Harvest. 59. McWilliams, Factories, 307. 60. Ibid., 197–99. 61. Denning, The Cultural Front, 266. 62. Levant, The Novels, 134; see also Railsback, Parallel Expeditions. 63. Owens, John Steinbeck’s Re-vision, 100–101; also Sachman, Orange Empire, 23. 64. Owens, John Steinbeck’s Re-vision, 101. 65. Shibuk, An Index, 3, cited by Millichap, Lewis Milestone, 23n10. For a discussion of Lewis Milestone’s directorial style, see Parker and Shapiro, “Lewis Milestone”; Millichap, Lewis Milestone, 92–105; and Millichap, Steinbeck and Film, 13–15. 66. Hadella, Of Mice and Men, 77; and Benson, The True Adventures, 407–8. 67. The analyses contained in this chapter depend upon two manuscript sources: a short open score in Copland’s own hand containing detailed orchestration notes with visual cues and references (folder 40, box 100, CCLC, www.loc.gov/resource/copland .sket0018); and a complete conducting score (folder 40.5, box 113, CCLC). I also consulted a pencil sketch (folder 40.1, box 100, CCLC, www.loc.gov/item/copland.sket0019/) in order to corroborate the written manuscript sources with the soundtrack and picture. This analysis is based upon two extant film versions: Of Mice and Men, directed by Lewis Milestone (Montreal: Audio Cine Films, 1992), 16mm; and Of Mice and Men, directed by Lewis Milestone (New York: Corinth Films ID4571CODVD, 1997), DVD. I give timings in the text and tables from the Corinth release, as well as DVD film examples, the latter housed on a companion website and indicated by the symbol  in the book’s text. Copland was particularly sensitive toward controlling his own orchestration (Copland and Perlis, Copland, 298). He left detailed notational instructions in the short score written in his hand; they were realized by Hollywood orchestrator George Bassman while the score was performed under the direction of Irving Talbot. 68. Copland, “Film Music,” 54–55. 69. See Copland’s short score, which notes “Animals.” 177

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70. See Lerner, “Copland’s Music,” 482–86. 71. The cue sheets for Of Mice and Men describe George’s face as he runs: “His breath labored and his face has a tortured look.” Musical cue sheet, main title, Of Mice and Men, reel IA, folder 40 misc., box 113, CCLC. 72. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 299. 73. Robert Burns, “To a Mouse,” ttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43816/ to-a-mouse-56d222ab36e33. 74. Johnson, Understanding, 15–16. 75. Lisca, John Steinbeck, 82; and Pizer, “John Steinbeck,” 13. 76. Musical entries and exits pose problems for composers because they bring attention to the underscoring and consequently away from the screen action (Burt, The Art, 80–81). Ernst Gold in published conversation with Burt suggested that in the earlier days of scoring, composers would choose physical actions in the narrative to begin a musical score, such as somebody closing a door. Instead, Burt argues, musical entrances should be justified by a change in dramatic line (ibid., 81). See also Karlin and Wright, On the Track, 49–50; for Copland’s views, “Second Thoughts,” 142, and Our New Music, 264. 77. Composers of film music have taken into consideration the potential suitability of various timbral and instrumental combinations, particularly in relation to dialogue and in terms of the technological limitations of sound equipment during the 1930s and 1940s. See Steiner, “Scoring the Film,” 226. 78. Copland, “Film Music,” 55. 79. Ibid. 80. Pollack, Aaron Copland, 343. 81. Copland, “Film Music,” 55. 82. Nugent, “At the Cinecitta.” 83. Copland, “Second Thoughts,” 142; and Paul Bowles, On the Film Front, Modern Music 17, no. 3 (March–April 1940): 187, respectively. By “that old tune,” Bowles is probably making a reference to a melodramatic piece called “Hearts and Flowers” by the New York Theatre musician Theodore Moses-Tobani, which became popular at the turn of the century, apparently selling a million copies by 1913 (Loesser, Men, Women and Pianos, 544). See also Long, Beautiful Monsters, 24–26. For another critical review, see Winter, “The Function,” 163–64. 84. Limerick, The Legacy, 97. 85. See, for example, Branch, Westward; Billington, Westward Expansion; and Murdoch, The American West. 86. Zuck, A History, 149; Burr, “Copland”; and Levy, Frontier Figures. In a 1976 interview for Newsweek magazine, defending his ability to create a western-sounding music, Copland explained, “Every American has a feeling of what the West is like—you absorb it” (Field, “Interview, Aaron Copland”). 87. Levy, Frontier Figures, 293–94. 88. Pollack, Aaron Copland, 320. 89. Copland and Perlis, Copland, 284. 178

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90. Flinn, Strains of Utopia, 10. 91. Ibid., 9. 92. Millichap, Lewis Milestone, 100. According to Copland, this is the moment when the director extended the shot for an additional four seconds in order to accommodate the musical score (Copland and Perlis, Copland, 297). 93. Thompson and Bordwell, Film History, 348. On the importance of landscape in John Ford’s western films, see Bronfen, Home in Hollywood, 97–98. 94. Hadella, “Of Mice and Men,” 33–63. 95. Flinn, Strains of Utopia, 10. 96. Steinbeck’s novelette states, “Curley glared at him. His eyes slipped on past and lighted on Lennie; and Lennie was still smiling with delight at the memory of the ranch. Curley stepped over to Lennie like a terrier. ‘What the hell you laughin’ at?’ Lennie looked blankly at him. ‘Huh?’” (Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men, 62). The film’s musical cue sheets also corroborate a similar interpretation of Lennie: “Curley’s attention is attracted to Lennie who is sitting on his bunk smiling, not at Curley, but about his own thoughts”; “Lennie, still smiling, looks at Curley dumbly” (7B, nos. 3 and 7, Men, Mss., c[1939], reel 1A, folder 40 misc., box 113, CCLC). 97. Copland, “Film Music,” 56. 98. Ibid., 54–56. 99. For the conclusion of the score beginning at the “Death of Mae,” see www.loc.gov/ resource/copland.sket0018.0/?sp=58. 100. Musical cue sheet for Of Mice and Men, 10A, nos. 6–12, folder 40 misc., box 113, CCLC. 101. For “George Determined” and the conclusion of the film, see www.loc.gov/ resource/copland.sket0018.0/?sp=61. 102. Hoover and Cage identify similar musical associations in the work of Virgil Thomson, often through the use of parallel fifths, evocative of ecclesiastical music (Virgil Thomson, 122). See also Lerner, “The Classical Documentary Score,” 92. 103. For the score of “Scene near the Brush,” see www.loc.gov/resource/copland .sket0018.0/?sp=63. 104. Kalinak, Settling the Score, 99; and Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 82. The operatic convention is discussed in Kerman and Grey, “Verdi’s Groundswells.” 105. Everson, “Thoughts,” 63–64. 106. See clippings in folder 15, box 407, CCLC: Richard Sheridan Ames, “Stage and Screen”; Bruno David Ussher, “Film Music and Its Makers”; W. E. Oliver, “Screen Scores to Escape Symphonic ‘Tyranny,’” Los Angeles Evening Herald and Express, 30 March 1940; and Virginia Wright, “‘Of Mice and Men’ Becomes a Great Motion Picture,” Daily News, 23 December 1939. 107. “Scoring of ‘Mice and Men’ Masterly Musical Effort,” Los Angeles Times, 7 January 1940, III5, folder 15, box 407, CCLC. 108. Steinberg, Film Facts, 272–74. 109. David Raksin, Los Angeles Philharmonic intermission tribute, broadcast 11 February 1986. Citation taken from Pollack, Aaron Copland, 347n27. 179

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Chapter 4. Eisler in America: The Film Music Project and Composing for the Films

1. On Eisler’s Film Music Project, see Bick, “Eisler’s Notes”; Gall, “An ‘Art of Fugue’”; and Schebera, “Research Program,” 73–89. Most of the original music/film examples from the Film Music Project are lost; however, Johannes Gall has attempted to reconstruct them in his edition of Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film, www.hanns-eisler.com/ DVD/index/index.php?Seite=Projekt&Sprache=en, and on the DVD that accompanies his edition of Composing for the Films. On the limited evidence for the reconstruction, see Gall, “Hanns Eislers Musik”; and Gall, “Modelle.” See also Gall, “A Rediscovered Way”; Gall, introduction, xxi–xxv; and Eisler, Alternative Film Music, 2–41. 2. See Eisler’s curriculum vitae contained in a letter from Alvin Johnson (director of the New School for Social Research) to John Marshall (Rockefeller Foundation), 8 July 1940, Music Filming 1939–41, folder 3095, box 259, series 200, RA. On Lord Marley and the World Committee for the Victims of German Fascism, see Taylor, “The Mystery”; and Koch, Double Lives, 65–66. 3. On the shift from a United to Popular Front in relation to Eisler’s cultural activities, see Willet, “Die Massnahme,” 84; and Calico, Brecht, 89–90. Münzenberg was able to recruit many renowned intellectuals and artists in his antifascist cause; see McMeekin, The Red Millionaire, 280. Eisler also proclaims the agenda of his trip in “Some Remarks on the Situation of the Modern Composer,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 113. 4. According to Betz, Hanns Eisler, 143–47, Aaron Copland, George Gershwin, and Cowell helped to sponsor Eisler’s 1935 tour. Eisler’s speeches for the tour are published as “Address to a Solidarity Concert,” translated into English by Elie Siegmeister, in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 69–73; Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 266–71; and Eisler, Gesammelte Schriften, 238–40. On Eisler’s tour from the American perspective, see Pollack, Marc Blitzstein, 106–7; and recollections of Sidney Cowell Robertson, “Memoir,” folder “Political and Communist Stuff,” box 73, Henry Cowell Papers, New York Public Library, New York. Eisler’s lecture on the “crisis in music” was originally issued by the Downtown Music School in New York for publication in Music Vanguard, April 1935, edited by Charles Seeger, reprinted in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 114–20. On 1 January 1936 the left-wing paper The Nation reported on a symposium presented at Town Hall on the “crisis in music.” Aaron Copland, Hanns Eisler, and Henry Cowell shared the podium to speak on the subject. See “Music: A Bright Evening, with Musicians,” Nation, 1 January 1936, 27, folder 56, box 219, CCLC. Eisler’s paper was considered a manifesto for several American proletarian composers, particularly Marc Blitzstein; see Oja, “Marc Blitzstein’s ‘The Cradle,’” 452–53. On Eisler’s US tour, see Boyd, “‘They Called Me,’” 41–72. 5. Eisler expresses his impressions of America in Eisler, “Letter to Ernst Hermann Meyer in London,” “A Musical Journey through America,” and “Hollywood Seen from the Left,” all in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 74, 82–94, 101–5, respectively; for German editions of “A Musical Journey through America” and “Hollywood Seen from the Left,” see Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 282–96, 302–6, respectively; and Eisler, Gesammelte Schriften, 255–66, 270–74, respectively.

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6. Eisler, “A Musical Journey.” According to Grabs, Eisler’s broadcast transmission was abruptly cut when he discussed the brutal working conditions of the workers at the Ford Motor Company (ibid., 94). 7. Ibid., 91. Years later, David Raksin, in “Holding a Nineteenth Century Pedal,” echoed Eisler’s observations regarding the assembly-line technique used in Hollywood, though without the humorous socialist perspective. 8. Eisler, “A Musical Journey,” 91. 9. Ibid., 92. 10. Eisler, “Hollywood Seen,” 103; see Adorno and Simpson, “On Popular Music,” under “Recognition and Acceptance,” “Plugging,” and “Structural Standardization.” Leppert evaluates the article in Adorno, Essays on Music, 336–48. See also Eisler, Composing for the Films, 6–7, 19. 11. Eisler, “Hollywood Seen,” 103. Oscar Levant reports the comments of Nat Finston, the music director of MGM Studios during the 1930s, in the same vein. See chapter 1, where Finston described his department as “a well-oiled machine. Every man a cog in the wheel.” Levant, who was seeking work as a composer, responded, “My greatest desire in life at this moment is to be a cog in the wheel” (A Smattering, 111). See also Kashner and Schoenberger, A Talent for Genius, 134–35. 12. Eisler, “The Builders of a New Music Culture,” and “Our Revolutionary Music,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 45 and 59, respectively. 13. Eisler, “The Builders,” 39; see also Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 116. 14. Levant, A Smattering, 1940; and Raksin, “Holding a Nineteenth Century Pedal,” 1989, reflecting back on his experiences in the Hollywood studies beginning in 1938. 15. For a more detailed discussion of the film music project, see Bick, “Eisler’s Notes.” 16. See Charles Seeger to Henry Cowell, Western Union May 1935 telegram, box 163, no. 11, Cowell Papers. On music at the New School in this early period, see Bick, “In the Tradition.” 17. Hagemann, introduction, 505. 18. Letter of offer from Alvin Johnson to Eisler, 29 March 1938, 4123, Hanns Eisler Collection, Stiftung Archiv der Akademie der Künste, Berlin. 19. On Ivens, see Schoots, Living Dangerously, 149–50; and Ivens, The Camera and I, 180–81. Losey studied with Brecht in Germany and was committed to Soviet agitprop theater methods. See Caute, Joseph Losey, 65–67. For a detailed analysis of Pete Roleum, see Boyd, “‘They Called Me,’” 115–27. Eisler discusses scenes from A Child Went Forth in Composing for the Films, 141–44. See also Ciment and Losey, Conversations with Losey, 55–59. 20. Johnson to Marshall, 13 October 1939, folder 3095, box 259, series 200, RA. Through Johnson’s efforts, the Rockefeller Foundation instituted two-year grants to provide émigrés with temporary assistance. At the end of the granting period, however, the foundation expected that recipients would find permanent positions elsewhere; see Fosdick, The Rockefeller Foundation, 14. Alvin Johnson to John Marshall, 1 November 1939, Music Filming 1939–41, folder 3095, box 259, series 200, RA. The Federal Bureau of Investigation files show that he was under constant surveillance by the government starting in February 1942.

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21. Alvin Johnson to John Marshall, 16 November 1939, Music Filming 1939–41, folder 3095, box 259, series 200, RA. 22. Memo to Walck, 6 April 1939; and memo from Philip Vaudrin (editor at Oxford University Press) to rp, 12 June 1939, which contains a short outline of the book, both in OUPFile. See Hanns Eisler, “Why Is Modern Music So Difficult to Understand? Oxford University Press, London and New York,” in Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 469– 70. On the subvention for Eisler’s book, see Johnson to Marshall, 13 October 1939, RA. 23. Paul Lazarsfeld to John Marshall, 2 January 1940, Music Filming 1939–41, folder 3095, box 259, series 200, RA. Lazarsfeld’s comment, that “he would be easier to handle than Adorno,” is in reference to Lazarsfeld’s differences with Adorno working on the Princeton Radio Project. On this dispute, see Leppert’s commentary in Adorno, Essays on Music, 214–18; and Jenemann, Adorno in America, 48–50. 24. John Marshall, “Alvin Johnson’s letter of November 1st about Hanns Eisler,” interoffice correspondence, 2 November 1939, Music Filming 1939–41, folder 3095, box 259, series 200, RA. 25. Philip Vaudrin, editor at Oxford University Press, memo, 6 December 1939; Eisler from Vaudrin, 5 March 1940; Eisler to Vaudrin, 14 March 1940; all in OUPFile. 26. John Marshall, 3 January 1940, interoffice correspondence, RA. From the “Rockefeller Music Project Report of Expenses” and the “Statement of Expenses,” it would seem that recordings were undertaken in July 1940, editing took place in November of the same year, and the screenings took place at the Preview Theatre in January 1941. At present, Eisler’s original audio recordings are lost, though Johannes Gall has discovered some apparently misattributed manuscripts housed in the Eisler Collection at the Berlin Akademie der Künste that he believes were composed for the Film Music Project demonstrations; see Gall, “Hanns Eislers Musik.” 27. Alvin Johnson to John Marshall, 5 December 1939, Music Filming 1939–41, folder 3095, box 259, series 200, RA. 28. In 1935, for example, the Rockefeller Foundation began to invest in studies related to radio and motion pictures. See www.rockfound.org/about_us/history/1930_1939.shtml. 29. In August 1940, while seeking film clips for the Film Music Project, Eisler contacted members of the film community, including Walter Wanger (film producer and president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences) and toured various studios; see Gall, “An ‘Art of Fugue,’” 16n67. 30. On the departure of Eisler’s German colleagues to Hollywood, see Heilbut, Exiled in Paradise. 31. Eisler, “Film Music,” 251; Eisler, “Report Concerning the Project,” in Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften Addenda, 142. 32. Eisler, “Film Music.” 33. On the examples Eisler chose for the project, see Schebera, “Research Program,” 79–85. 34. Eisler, “Film Music,” 253–54. 35. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 140.

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36. Wolfe, “The Poetics,” 382. 37. The other pictures Eisler cites in “Film Music,” 251–52, are 400 Million, The Living Soil, and White Floods. In the appendix to Composing for the Films, 140–41, 144–45, he cites The Children’s Camp (from Losey’s film A Child Went Forth), Forgotten Village, and Nature Scenes (from the film The Living Soil). 38. Johannes Gall suggests that Eisler never carried out the work with newsreels, citing a handwritten annotation from Eisler’s wife that confirms this suspicion; see Gall, “An ‘Art of Fugue,’” 133n71; also Doherty, “Documenting the 1940s,” 398. 39. Eisler, “Film Music,” 251. 40. See Cone, “Conversation,” 141. In 1938 Eisler lectured on methods of the twelvetone technique in his course entitled the Future of Music at the New School; see the New School for Social Research, Curriculum, Spring 1938, 48–49, http://digitalarchives .library.newschool.edu/index.php/Detail/objects/NS050101_ns1938sp. By the mid-1940s American composers had become much more interested in employing the compositional strategies associated with Schoenberg; see Bernard, “The Legacy,” 316–17, 351–52; and Feisst, Schoenberg’s New World, 235–51. 41. Hollywood composer David Raksin makes the general point that “the stakes were so great, in almost all respects (money, prestige, ‘the product,’ etc.), . . . [that] the apprenticeship aspect was manifest in a limited encouragement to experiment (a studio with deadlines to meet can’t tolerate too many ineptly calculated risks).” Quotation from a letter by David Raksin to Harold Spivacke, Music Division, Library of Congress, printed in Prendergast, Film Music, 41–42. 42. Eisler, “Film Music,” 251. 43. Ibid., 253. Eisler offers a broader nontechnical description of The Grapes of Wrath excerpt in Composing for the Films, 146–47. Johannes C. Gall has proposed a reconstruction of The Grapes of Wrath with Eisler’s score. Unfortunately, because Eisler gives no specific guidance regarding synchronization of his scoring with the film, Gall’s reconstruction must remain hypothetical; see note 1. 44. Rockefeller Foundation, interoffice memo, 29 January 1942, New School for Social Research—Music Filming, 1942–62, folder 3090, box 260, series 200, RA. 45. John Marshall, “Experimental Demonstration of Music in Film Production at The New School for Social Research,” 2, interoffice correspondence, 15 January 1942, New School for Social Research—Music Filming, 1942–62, folder 3090, box 260, series 200, RA. 46. See Eisler, “Final Report,” 156. For a published version of the demonstration talk that Eisler presumably gave at the University of California in Los Angeles and later in Hollywood, see Eisler, “Contemporary Music and the Film [II],” in Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 479–87. In his critical commentary (ibid., 478, 486), Mayer suggests that this document was initially revised from a “first copy” dated 22 October 1943, on the basis of which he proposes that Eisler probably presented the lecture-demonstration between early 1944 and the summer of that year. However, Mayer’s dates are only surmised and not substantiated. I would suggest, rather, that Eisler mistakenly wrote 1943 instead of 1942 on the document dated 22 October, since he clearly states in the “Final Report”

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that one lecture demonstration was “already presented” and another was planned for January 1943. By 1944 Eisler had already moved away from the Film Music Project, was well involved in completing Composing for the Films, and was working on the film score for None but the Lonely Heart. 47. See “Account of Rockefeller Music Project October 27th 1942,” 27 October 1942, Hanns Eisler Documents, FML, under “Demonstrations, etc.” $4,278.16, and under “Musicians,” $1,362.50, for a total of $5,640.66, or over 25 percent of the total budget; and “Statement of Expenses Hanns Eisler—Rockefeller Music Fund,” undated, New School for Social Research—Music Filming, 1942–62, folder 3090, box 260, series 200, RA, where the expenses for two demonstrations are itemized. Hanns Eisler also confirmed in a letter to John Marshall, 6 November 1942, New School for Social Research—Music Filming 1942–62, folder 3090, box 260, series 200, RA, “It may safely be said that the results of the project have met the keenest interest of the experts here. In December and January I am expected to present the whole material again to a some what larger group of people.” Letters between Eisler and his wife, Louise, during this period do not identify any kind of demonstration but do confirm that Eisler discussed and showed the film excerpt of Regen to Schoenberg (see Eisler to Louise, 25 April 1942, in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 203) and to Brecht (see Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 20 and 24 April 1942, 223–24), both of whom received consulting fees. 48. Eisler, “Final Report,” 154–58. Of these, only Brecht ($250) and Schoenberg ($300) received payment. In “Research Program,” 82, Schebera asserts that Adorno received $300, but the itemized list of expenses from 1944 includes no such payment. See also Hanns Eisler to John Marshall, 6 November 1942, RA. Brecht mentions Eisler’s Rockefeller project and a clip from Regen describing Eisler’s score as “taut music”; see Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 20 April 1942, 223. 49. The first exists as a draft typescript with handwritten revisions (Eisler Documents, FML) and two copies of the final typescript (Eisler Documents, FML, and RA), printed as “Final Report,” 154–58. The second version is published as the appendix in Eisler, Composing for the Films, 135–58. This version differs somewhat from the first version cited above. 50. Eisler to Vaudrin, 30 September 1942, in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 234. 51. With encouragement from Brecht, Eisler could be quite insulting toward Adorno; see Bunge, Brecht, Music and Culture, 15, 27; and Claussen, Theodor W. Adorno, 170. 52. In comparison to Adorno, Heilbut says, “Eisler’s abilities as a dialectician were more sophisticated” (Exiled in Paradise, 153, 187). See also Blake, “Recollections,” 462; and Pollack, Marc Blitzstein, 109, quoting Blitzstein on Eisler. On Eisler’s personal qualities, see Georg Eisler, “My Father.” On Eisler’s intellectual capabilities in comparison to Adorno, see Claussen, Theodor W. Adorno, 128. 53. Müller-Doohm, Adorno: A Biography, 38–55; Claussen, Theodor W. Adorno, 13–64. 54. For a list of Adorno’s early reviews of Schoenberg, see Paddison, Adorno’s Aesthetics, 334–35. 55. Adorno’s inability to be socially aware is illuminated in his initial encounter with Berg; see Hailey, “Defining Home,” 15–16. On becoming a professional musician, see Müller-Doohm, Adorno, 107.

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56. Adorno’s biographer Detlev Claussen summarized that after his death many critics saw Adorno as “a failed artist, leaving him to preside over theory in all its grayness” (Theodor W. Adorno, 2). On Schoenberg’s dislike of Adorno, see Geuss, “Adorno and Berg,” 38n2 (note on 265–66); and Smith, Schoenberg, 151. 57. Adorno received an editorial post in 1928 with Anbruch. On Adorno’s reviews of Eisler, see “Hanns Eisler: Duo für Violine und Violoncello, op. 7, Nr 1,” in Musikblätter des Anbruch 7, no. 7 (1925); “Eisler: Klavierstücke, op. 3,” Die Musik 19, no. 10 ( July 1927); and “Eisler: Zeitungsausschnitte, op. 11,” Anbruch 11, no. 5 (May 1929); all reprinted in Gesammelte Schriften, 18:518–21, 522–23, 524–27, respectively. 58. Claussen, Theodor W. Adorno, 108; and Jay, The Dialectical Imagination, 23. 59. Jay, The Dialectical Imagination, 23. 60. From the Marxist perspective, praxis brought theoretical considerations to bear upon revolutionary action; see ibid., 4. Eisler expressed his perspective in this way: “You can’t be a Marxist without politics—that’s one of the great pieces of wisdom that everybody should really bear in mind today. Even now when I read some of the Frankfurturists’ pamphlets, they still suffer, as far as I can see, from the central dilemma: wanting to be cleverer than the bourgeois theorists but not wanting to fight against them. They’re the privileged pupils of the downfall” (Bunge, Brecht, Music and Culture, 27–28). 61. Mayer, “Eisler and Adorno,” 137, quoting a letter from Adorno to Hans Bunge of 11 February 1964; and Jay, Adorno, 17. 62. Jay, Adorno, 16. Nico Israel points out that Adorno was not an “independent intellectual” and that he compromised or played along (“Damage Control,” 88). In contradiction to Adorno’s ideals, the salary he received from the Rockefeller Foundation while he worked on the Princeton Radio Project represented an investment of profits from capitalist conglomerates in intellectual life and culture; see Wiggershaus, The Frankfurt School, 281; discussed in Israel, “Damage Control,” 88n18. 63. Adorno, “Scientific Experiences,” 341. 64. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 12 May 1942, 230–31. Felix J. Weil was the son of a wealthy Jewish-born grain merchant who provided the funds to establish the institute; see Jay, The Dialectical Imagination, 5, 24. Bunge, Brecht, Music and Culture, 15. 65. Adorno, “Scientific Experiences,” 340–41. 66. Adorno, Current of Music, 2; Leppert’s commentary in Adorno, Essays on Music, 213–28. 67. Adorno to Eisler, 4 July 1940, printed in Theodor W. Adorno Archive, Adorno, 170–73; see also Gall, “Modelle,” 162; and Robert Hullot-Kentor, “Editor’s Introduction,” in Adorno, Current of Music, 31–32. 68. Adorno reports on Vaudrin’s reaction to the proposal in his letter to Eisler, 4 July 1940, cited in Adorno, Current of Music, 30–31. 69. Eisler and Bunge, Gespräche, 192–93; quote from Eisler, “Ask Me More,” 427. 70. Eisler’s international reputation was established with his famous political battle songs, such as “Forward, We’ve Not Forgotten” and “Comintern”; see Betz, Hanns Eisler, 84–85; and Weinstein, Solidarity Song. Regarding Eisler’s international political outlook,

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see, for example, Eisler, “Address to a Solidarity Concert” and “A Musical Journey through America,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 69–70, 82, respectively. 71. Adorno and Horkheimer, Dialektik der Aufklärung. 72. Most of Adorno’s discussions of mass culture primarily concern developments in the field of music. In Europe he wrote on jazz and popular music, as well as on the mass reproduction of art music. See, for example, Adorno, “Über Jazz,” 235–57 (under the pseudonym Hektor Rottweiler); Adorno, “Über den Fetischcharakter.” In the United States, his first writings on the topic were published in relation to Paul Lazarsfeld’s Princeton Radio Project; see Adorno, Current of Music. Adorno writes on film and mass culture in Composing for the Films, of course, in collaboration with Eisler; scattered remarks on film and the culture industry are included in his later works, which were written after his return to Europe and include Adorno, Minima Moralia; and a book of aphorisms and fragments begun in 1944, printed in Gesammelte Schriften, 18:13–44. For commentary regarding Adorno’s relationship to film, see Hansen, “Introduction to Adorno,” who deals with his later involvements; and Jenemann, Adorno in America, whose study relies on the investigation of Adorno’s social interactions with industry people when he lived in Hollywood as part of the émigré community. 73. Jenemann, Adorno in America, 105–48. On Adorno’s close relationship with Fritz Lang, see Claussen, Theodor W. Adorno, 162–75; and Müller-Doohm, Adorno, 312–13. 74. On the various meanings invested in “exile,” see Brigit Cohen’s summary and comment in Stephan Wolpe, 14–16. 75. I would like to thank David Culbert, who discovered and generously shared the correspondence between the editors and Adorno/Eisler from New York’s Oxford University Press. See Culbert, “How About?” Many of the letters from the production file are also quoted in Parsons, “‘The Exile’s Intellectual Mission.’” 76. On Eisler’s reaction to the hearing, see Eisler, “Fantasia in G-Men,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 150–54. On Adorno’s withdrawal from the project, see below. 77. The statement “the Karl Marx of music,” later used in various publications related to the Eisler case, was initially coined at his hearing in September 1947 by Robert E. Stripling, chief investigator, who stated that “the purpose [of the hearing] is to show that Mr. Eisler is the Karl Marx of Communism in the musical field and he is well aware of it.” Quoted in Calico, “‘The Karl Marx,’” 120. For more about Eisler’s hearing in relation to the committee, see Bentley, Thirty Years, 73–109. 78. Rosen, “Adorno and Film Music”; Levin, “The Acoustic Dimension”; Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 99–109; Gorbman, “Hanns Eisler in Hollywood”; Leppert’s commentary in Adorno, Essays on Music, 365–71; Gall, “Modelle,” 155–82; Parsons, “‘The Exile’s Intellectual Mission’”; Bick, “The Politics”; and Schweinhardt, Gall, and Dahin, “Composing for Film,” 141–50. 79. Publications that deal with Adorno’s work are too vast to list here. Richard Leppert has compiled a large volume of Adorno’s Essays on Music. 80. Adorno to his mother, 13 June 1947, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 287. See Leppert’s commentary in Adorno, Essays on Music, 365n86, where Leppert gives Adorno more

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authority over authorship: “Without question, however, Adorno wrote a great deal of it; in private correspondence he claimed to have written nine-tenths of it. Not only is the book fully reflective of his ideas on music, music sociology, and the Culture Industry, but the style of the writing in much of the text is close to his as well.” Leppert also provides a list of other scholars who have addressed the problem of authorship. 81. See, for example, Hullot-Kentor, who states that Adorno “claimed to know more than he did about technical aspects of radio acoustics and the structure of audition” (“Editor’s Introduction,” in Adorno, Current of Music, 27). 82. During the process of publication, Eisler and Adorno dealt with three different editors: initially Philip Vaudrin, by 1944 Harry Hatcher, and finally Margaret Nicholson. 83. Wiggershaus, The Frankfurt School, 598. 84. Culbert, “How About?,” 28. 85. Internal office document, signed PV (Philip Vaudrin, editor, Oxford University Press), 12 June 1939, OUPFile; and Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 469–70. See Eisler, “Builders of a New Music Culture” and “Some Remarks on the Situation of the Modern Composer,” both in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 27–31, 106–13, respectively, as well as his interests in visiting and writing about Hollywood in 1935. I discuss these writings above. 86. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 13 August 1942, 252. On discussions between Eisler’s intellectual circle, see ibid., 27 March 1942, 214; and Parker, Bertolt Brecht, 449–50. 87. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 119. On Huxley’s ideas about cinema, see Frost, “Huxley’s Feelies.” 88. Eisler to Charles Seeger, 2 March 1942, in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 196. 89. On Brecht’s notes about film, see his Journals 1934–1955, 2 May 1942, 226; and Brecht, “Über Filmmusik.” See also Eisler and Bunge, Gespräche, 24–25. 90. Vaudrin to Eisler, 14 July 1942, 9 September 1942, OUPFile; Eisler to Vaudrin, 20 July and especially 30 September 1942, in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 229, 234. 91. Eisler to Marshall, 21 November 1942, in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 241. As early as 10 March 1941, Eisler was appealing to agent Abe Meyer at MCA Artists in Hollywood (Meyer was Copland’s agent also) to seek job opportunities in the industry; see Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 168. The urgency to find film work increased immediately after he arrived in Hollywood beginning in 20 April 1942; see Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 200–240 passim. 92. Eisler to Louise Eisler, 6 July 1942, and Eisler to Odet, 18 November 1942, in Briefe 1907–1943, 224, 240, respectively. 93. Writing to his publisher in 1968, Adorno expressed his decision to collaborate with Eisler this way: “Er trug mir vor, daß es für ihn sehr schwierig sei, das Buch, das er versprochen habe, allein zu schreiben, und bat mich um meine Mitarbeit. Material wolle er mir zur Verfügung stellen. Angesichts der Parallelität, die zwischen den beiden Rockefellerprojekten bestand, war dieser Vorschlag durchaus plausibel, und ich ging darauf ein” (He reported to me that it would be very difficult for him to write the book, which he had promised, alone, and he invited me to be a collaborator. He wanted to make the materials [Film Music Project materials] available to me. In view of the parallelism that

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existed between the two Rockefeller projects this suggestion was absolutely plausible, and I did it). In Adorno et al., “So müßte ich,” 669–70, my translation. 94. On 10 December 1942 entertainment lawyer Leon Kaplan received a proposed agreement between Eisler and Arnold Productions for the picture “The Unconquered.” Consequently, Lang’s confirmation was likely made sometime between the end of November and the beginning of December; see Leon Kaplan to Hanns Eisler, 15 December 1942, Eisler Documents, FML. 95. Eisler to Vaudrin, 27 November 1942, Eisler Documents, FML, published in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 245. 96. Harry Hatcher (replacing Vaudrin as editor at Oxford) to Adorno, 14 December 1942, OUPFile. 97. Adorno to his parents, 21 December 1942, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 119, Adorno’s emphasis. Marshall wrote to Eisler on 22 July 1946 to inquire about the progress of the book. Together Eisler and Adorno responded to him on 27 July 1946, confirming their mutual collaboration, which they say began in late 1942 (folder 3090, box 260, series 200, RA). 98. Eisler, Composing for the Films, v–vi. According to Adorno, he alone wrote the book’s preface; see Adorno to his parents, 26 August 1947, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 292. 99. On the resubmission of the radio book, see Adorno to Hatcher, undated [8 June 1944] and 12 July 1944; Adorno to Bacon, 6 and 23 April 1945; Nicholson to Adorno, 4 and 26 February 1946; and Adorno to Nicholson, 5 March 1946; all in OUPFile. The quotation from Vaudrin and Adorno’s response both appear in this last letter. 100. See note 22. 101. Eisler and Adorno to Marshall, 27 July 1946, folder 3090, box 260, series 200, RA; also published in Jenemann, Adorno in America, 111. 102. Paddison, Adorno’s Aesthetics, 78–81, 273. 103. Rosen, “Adorno and Film Music”; Levin, “The Acoustic Dimension”; and Leppert’s commentary in Adorno, Essays on Music, 365–71, quotation on 365. 104. Mayer, “Adorno und Eisler,” 133–58; Klemm, “Zur vorliegenden Ausgabe”; Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 99–109; Gorbman, “Hanns Eisler in Hollywood”; and Gall, “Modelle.” Gall, whose article depends largely on Klemm, adds little to the discussion of authorship. 105. Klemm, “Zur vorliegenden Ausgabe,” 15. Max Paddison also sees a close parallel in thinking between Eisler and Adorno; for example, Eisler had written a dialectical theory of music history in 1931 published as “The Builders of a New Musical Culture,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 36–58, before Adorno’s essay “On the Social Situation of Music,” reprinted in Adorno, Essays on Music, 391–433 (originally published as Adorno, “Zur gesellschaftlichen Lage der Musik”). See Paddison, Adorno’s Aesthetics, 78–80. 106. See, for example, Adorno’s biographer Müller-Doohm, Adorno, 314, who goes as far as saying that Eisler should have “renounced his authorship.” 107. Adorno and Horkheimer formulated a text on the culture industry during the early 1940s and had completed Philosophische Fragmente by 1944, a mimeographed text contain-

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ing the culture industry chapter, which was eventually published in 1947 as Dialektik der Aufklärung: Philosophische Fragment; see Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 118, 120, 125, 317, 340; also Schmidt, “Language,” 24. When Composing for the Films was initially published in 1947, Adorno made no reference to his study of the culture industry, even though Dialectic of Enlightenment was published that same year. Only in the 1969 German edition of Composing for the Films did Adorno specify the relationship between the chapter on the culture industry and his work on Composing for the Films. 108. Adorno to Vaudrin, 13 June 1946, Eisler Documents, FML. 109. These quotations appear in ibid.; similar statements, however, are found throughout the OUPFile correspondence. 110. Gretel and Adorno to Adorno’s parents, 28 February 1944, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 172–73. 111. Schebera, Hanns Eisler im USA-Exil, 115. 112. Adorno to his parents, 31 May 1945, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 222. 113. For another interpretation of the Eisler/Adorno collaboration on Composing for the Films, see Parsons, “‘The Exile’s Intellectual Mission.’” 114. McManus to Nicholson, 19 December 1945, OUPFile. 115. Nicholson to Adorno, 25 April 1946, OUPFile. 116. Adorno to Hatcher, 8 June 1944, OUPFile. 117. Hatcher to McManus, 5 March 1945, OUPFile. 118. Adorno and Eisler to Hatcher, 21 August 1945, OUPFile. 119. McManus to Nicholson, 5 January 1946, OUPFile. 120. Adorno to Hatcher, 2 October; from Nicholson to Adorno, 19 October; from Adorno to Nicholson, 24 October; from Nicholson to Adorno, 5 November; from Nicholson to Guterman, 11 December 1945; all in OUPFile. 121. Adorno to Nicholson, 16 January; Nicholson to Guterman, 21 January; Adorno to Nicholson, 19 February; Nicholson to Adorno, 26 February; Adorno to Nicholson, 11 April; Adorno to Vaudrin, 5 August; Nicholson to Adorno, 8 October 1946; all in OUPFile. 122. Adorno to Nicholson, 28 October 1946, OUPFile. 123. See Culbert, “How About?,” 31; and Guterman to Nicholson, 7 October 1946, OUPFile. 124. Adorno to his parents, 28 October 1946, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 267. 125. Eisler, Composing for the Films, vi. 126. Adorno to Nicholson, 28 October 1946, OUPFile. 127. Adorno states: “I expect you know that the name Eisler has been all over the newspapers. It is a problem for me; coming at the very moment when a book that I wrote with Hanns E 2 years ago is finally being printed. But it will still be a few months before it appears, and then we shall see. Do not mention it” (20 November 1946, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 268). 128. See, for example, “Johnson Explains”; White, “Committee Demands.” See also Meeks, “From the Belly,” who provides detailed analysis on the Eisler brothers, their involvements with CPUSA, and the HUAC hearings.

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129. Ruth Fischer, Eisler’s sister, denounced both brothers and testified before HUAC against them. See newspaper clippings, “Sister Names ‘Hans Burger’ (alias Gerhard Eisler) as Russ Agent” and “Films Enrich Hanns Eisler, Bard of Reds,” 17 and 23 October 1946, folder 3090, box 260, series 200, RA; also Bentley, Thirty Years, 55–110. On Gerhart Eisler’s political activities in the United States, see Lamphere and Shachtman, The FBI-KGB War, 42–65. For a general overview of political profiles and activities of the Eisler siblings, see Haas, Forbidden Music, 131–33. See also Adorno to his parents, 20 February 1947, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 277. 130. On the activities surrounding the HUAC affair and Hanns Eisler, see Bessie, Inquisition in Eden; and Ceplair and Englund, The Inquisition, 79–80. A printed copy of Eisler’s hearings is available in Hearings Regarding Hanns Eisler: Hearings before the House Committee on Un-American Activities, 80th Cong., 1st sess. (Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office, 1947), 87–89; see also Mayer, “War der ‘Karl Marx der Musik’?” For Eisler’s own account of the ordeal, see “Statement [1],” “Statement [2],” “Extension of ‘Statements and Refutations,” 504–14; “Statement [III],” “Fantasia in G-men [Statement IV],” and “[Statement],” all in Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 501–30. 131. Adorno to Nicholson, 28 October 1946, OUPFile. 132. Adorno to Nicholson, 27 May 1947, OUPFile; printed in Culbert, “How About?,” 31. 133. Nicholson to Adorno, 4 June 1947, OUPFile. 134. Adorno to his parents, 13 June 1947, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 287, Adorno’s emphasis. 135. Adorno to his parents, 30 October 1942, “With Eisler, whom I see relatively often”; 8 March 1943, “In addition, my work with Eisler has progressed rather nicely this last week. This project would in fact be going superbly if both he and I had as much time as it requires. But as it is, we have to squeeze it into our hours of leisure”; 8 February 1944, “I am taking a break with a little work on the book with Eisler”; all in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 114, 128–29, 170, respectively. 136. Adorno to his parents, 26 August 1947, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 292. “The film music book has come out, without my name on the title page, but with all ‘credit’ in the foreword I myself formulated, and looks very decent.” A first draft of the English-language preface, only slightly different from the published version of the preface, is printed in Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften 1924–1948, 487–88. The first draft is preserved in the Eisler Documents, FML, and prepared on Adorno’s typewriter (compare the FML copy with Adorno to Vaudrin, 13 June 1946, FML). 137. Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 292. On the date of publication, see correspondence from Oxford University Press showing that the author’s copies of the book were sent to Eisler in August and that Oxford filed for copyright of the book in early September: Margaret Nicholson to Hanns Eisler, 27 August 1947, Eisler Documents, FML; Alison Walker (Copyright Department at Oxford) to Hanns Eisler, 15 September 1947, Eisler Documents, FML. 138. Adorno to his parents, 6 July, 30 November, and 22 December 1947, in Adorno, Letters to His Parents, 288, 306, 310, respectively.

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139. Adorno, postscript in Eisler, Composing for the Films (Freeport, NY: Books for Libraries Press, 1971), 167; original German in Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film (Munich: Rogner und Bernhard, 1969), 213. 140. Louise Eisler to Adorno, 25 February 1950, enclosed in Suhrkamp to Adorno, 10 March 1950. Louise Eisler’s letter outlines the financial arrangements surrounding the 1949 edition: “The advance was a personal friendly gesture for Hanns, who came to Berlin, had travel costs as well as a quantity of work that he also furnished on the book.” According to Wolfgang Schopf, editor of the Suhrkamp correspondence, Eisler received an advance of 2,700 DM; see Adorno et al., “So müßte ich,” 11 and 12n5. 141. Eisler to Adorno, 22 April [1948], Br. 348/I, Theodor W. Adorno Archiv an der Akademie der Künste, Berlin: “Du mußt Dich nur entscheiden, ob Du Deinen Namen auf dem Titelblatt willst” (You must only decide whether you want your name on the title page). See Gall, “Modelle,” 168n34. 142. Adorno, postscript in Eisler, Composing for the Films (Freeport, NY: Books for Libraries Press, 1971), 168. The 1949 edition also removed references to Adorno’s writings from the book’s text; compare, for example, Eisler’s discussion in Komposition für den Film (Berlin: Verlag Bruno Henschel und Sohn, 1949), 61–62, 85n11, with Eisler, Composing for the Films (New York: Oxford University Press, 1947), 59–60, 86. See also Adorno to Thomas Mann, 28 December 1949: “The German edition of the book on film music has turned out less agreeably, with a dreadful preface by the supposed coauthor, whose name alone officially appears on the book, and a host of unauthorized changes in the text” (in Adorno and Mann, Correspondence 1943–1955, 36). 143. “The American culture industry has a monstrous power; it not only devastates and corrupts the perceptual world of the American people, but it threatens to inundate the cultures of other peoples with its filth. With its mass production of trash and kitsch, it becomes the dangerous enemy of cultural advances throughout the entire world” (Eisler, Komposition für den Film [Berlin: Bruno Henschel und Sohn, 1949], 5; also in Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film, ed. Klemm [Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1977], 29). 144. “Ich stelle ausdrücklich die Bedingung, daß die vom Verlag ‘L’Arche’ in Paris geplante französische Ausgabe auf eine Reihe von Änderungen verzichtet, die die deutsche Ausgabe gegenüber dem Manuskript bzw. der amerikanischen Ausgabe aufweist, und daß das französische Manuskript nicht in Druck geht, ohne von mir gutgeheißen zu sein” (I expressly make the condition that the French edition planned by the publisher ‘L’Arche’ in Paris renounce a series of alterations that the German edition exhibits in contradiction to both the manuscript and the American edition, and that the French manuscript not go into print without my approval) (addendum to Adorno to Peter Suhrkamp, 7 February 1950, printed in Adorno et al., “So müßte ich,” 8. 145. “Was die französische Übersetzung betrifft, so wird sie mit den Änderungen herauskommen, die Hanns für Europa für richtig fand. Als Du aus politischen Gründen es für notwendig fandest, Dich selbst als Mitarbeiter auszuschalten, wußtest Du doch genau, was das zu bedeuten hatte. Jetzt ist ausschließlich Hanns verantwortlich” (As for the

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French translation, so it will come out with the alterations that Hanns found appropriate for Europe. Because you found it necessary on political grounds to remove yourself as coauthor, you know very well what this has to signify. Now it is exclusively Hanns who is answerable) (Louise Eisler to Adorno, 25 February 1950, enclosed with a letter from Suhrkamp to Adorno, 10 March 1950, in Adorno et al., “So müßte ich,” 11). 146. Eisler and Bunge, Gespräche mit Hans Bunge, 45, trans. in Mayer, “Eisler and Adorno,” 138. 147. Adorno to Unseld, 27 September 1968, printed in Adorno et al., “So müßte ich,” 652–53; see also Klemm, “Zur vorliegenden Ausgabe,” 8–9. 148. Klemm wrote to Adorno on 15 December 1968; see Klemm, “Zur vorliegenden Ausgabe,” 8–9n11. 149. Adorno to Unseld, 11 October 1968, in Adorno et al., “So müßte ich,” 655, Adorno’s emphasis. 150. Adorno to Unseld, 27 September and 11 October 1968, in ibid., 652, 655, respectively. 151. Adorno to Unseld, 27 September 1968, in ibid., 653. 152. “Eisler sagte mir, bei Gelegenheit des einzigen Besuchs, den er mir nach meiner Rückkunft aus der Emigration, in den fünfziger Jahren in Frankfurt abstattete, das Buch sei zu 90 Prozent von mir verfaßt” (Eisler said to me on the occasion of his only visit after my return from emigration in the 1950s in Frankfurt that up to 90 percent of the book was authored by me) (addendum to Adorno to Unseld, 6 February 1969, in ibid., 670; Eisler and Bunge, Gespräche, 45). 153. Addendum to Adorno to Unseld, 6 February 1969, printed in Adorno et al., “So müßte ich,” full rights as coaauthor, 670–71, collaboratively determined wording: “Der Wortlaut wiederhergestellt, den wir zusammen fixiert hatten, und der der amerikanischen Ausgabe zugrunde liegt” (ibid., 672). 154. Adorno to Unseld, 11 October 1968; and an addendum to Adorno to Unseld, 6 February 1969, in ibid., 655, 670, respectively. 155. Addendum to Adorno to Unseld, 6 February 1969, in ibid., 670. 156. Adorno, “Zum Erstdruck der Originalfassung,” postscript in Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film (Munich: Rogner und Bernhard, 1969), 215. The original German is as follows: “Daß die Sprache des mit Hinblick auf eine amerikanische Übersetzung locker formulierten Buchs nicht die eines strikt verbindlichen deutschen Textes ist, versteht sich.” 157. See Schweinhardt, Gall, and Dahin, “Composing for Film,” 143. Gall prints it in Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film, ed. Gall, 147–54, and assigns it the title “Theodor W. Adorno Entwurf zum Filmmusikbuch.” 158. Klemm, “Zur vorliegenden Ausgabe,” in Eisler and Adorno, Komposition für den Film, 14; and Bick, “Eisler’s Notes,” 18, 21. 159. Leppert’s commentary in Adorno, Essays on Music, 366. 160. See my discussion of Eisler’s earlier writings on film above. 161. T. W. Adorno, “Zum Erstdruck der Originalfassung,” in Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film (Munich: Rogner und Bernhard, 1969), 214.

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162. Adorno to Hans Bunge, 11 February 1964, printed in Mayer, “Eisler and Adorno,” 136. 163. Klemm, “Zur vorliegenden Ausgabe,” 11–16. 164. Tiedemann, “Editorische Nachbemerkung,” in Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film, ed. Tiedemann, 405–6; and Gall, “Modelle,” 170. The paragraph was first published in Tiedemann’s 1976 edition, 145; see also Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film, ed. Gall, 136–37. 165. Tiedemann, “Editorische Nachbemerkung,” in Adorno and Eisler, Komposition für den Film, ed. Tiedemann, 405; Gall, “Modelle,” 166, 169. 166. “Music: Left Face,” Time Magazine, 29 September 1947. Few contemporary reviews were published immediately following the book’s initial release; one was written by friend and fellow modernist composer Henry Cowell; a second by the distinguished Canadian film composer Louis Applebaum, a specialist of mostly documentary film scores (he was the musical director of the National Film Board of Canada, 1942–48); a third by Lawrence Morton, a well-respected music critic (with musicological training) of the Hollywood industry and professional orchestrator. Though all three were sympathetic to the book’s agenda of improving Hollywood musical practice and the first two were laudatory, Morton’s review nevertheless presented a highly critical and even hostile response to the book. See Cowell, review; Appelbaum, review; Morton, “Hanns Eisler.” 167. Marks, Music, 15–16; Prendergast, Film Music, 3; and Stilwell, review, 163. 168. Jay, Permanent Exiles, 121; for a list of representative writings from Shils, Bramson, and Gans, see also ibid., 286n9. See also Plass’s review of the literature, “Outbreak Attempts,” 160. 169. “The Production Code,” reprinted in Belton, Movies and Mass Culture, 141. Only by 1941 did Hollywood shift its goals to make propaganda films for the war effort; see the discussion in chapter 5 on Hangmen Also Die! 170. For example, Bernard Herrmann had already written several scores for Hollywood, including Citizen Kane (1941); Virgil Thomson had scored the documentaries The Plow That Broke the Plains (1936) and The River (1938) and made periodic comments about Hollywood; see, for example, Thomson, “How to Write a Piece”; Antheil wrote his regular column for Modern Music and several scores for Hollywood such as The Plainsman (1936). 171. Morton, “Hanns Eisler,” 209. 172. Ibid. 173. On Adorno’s “pessimism,” see Jay, Adorno, 121; see Hullot-Kentor, “Back to Adorno,” 29n17 (note on 275). Although Günter Mayer suggests that Eisler and Adorno avoided political discussion in Composing for the Films, his references rely on Adorno’s much later retrospective 1969 German version of the book. See Mayer, “Eisler and Adorno,” 143. Adorno’s pessimism is well scrutinized in various critical studies. 174. Vaudrin to Adorno, 10 June 1946; and Adorno to Vaudrin, 13 June 1946, both in OUPFile. 175. Flinn, The New German Cinema, 71–78. 176. See Frost, “Huxley’s Feelies,” 444–48, for a discussion of the pertinent writings.

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177. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 60–61, 4. 178. Philip Rosen has also made this point in “Adorno and Film Music,” 167. The most important discussions regarding sound theory came out in response to the “Statement on Sound” by S. M. Eisenstein, V. I. Pudovkin, and G. V. Alexandrov; see also René Clair, Basil Wright and B. Vivian Braun, Alberto Cavalcanti, Rudolf Arnheim, Bela Balazs, Siegfried Kracauer, and John Epstein in Weis and Belton, Film Sound, 83–144. On the parallelism/ counterpoint debate, see Gallez, “Theories”; and for a historical and critical overview, see Buhler, “Ontological,” 190–94. 179. Gorbman, “Hanns Eisler in Hollywood,” 276. 180. Brecht, Brecht on Theatre, 71. 181. Martin Jay (Adorno, 42) suggests that although Composing for the Films may borrow a Brechtian insistence on exposing mechanisms of convention, he goes on to say that Adorno would have been uncomfortable with the practical orientation of the book, which may be attributed more to Eisler. 182. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 123. 183. Ibid., 16–18. 184. Ibid., 69–70, quotation on 70. 185. Ibid., 11, 87–88. 186. Eisler, “Einiges über den Fortschritt in der Musik,” in Musik und Politik: Schriften Addenda, 394; trans. Hopkins in Betz, Hanns Eisler, 1. Eisler’s statement is couched in terms that recall a passage by Karl Marx in Das Kapital: “The mystification which dialectic suffers in Hegel’s hands by no means prevents him from being the first to present its general form of working in a comprehensive and conscious manner. With him it is standing on its head. It must be turned right side up again, if you would discover the rational kernel within the mystical shell” (Marx, Capital, xxx). See also Joy Calico’s discussion regarding Eisler’s coming to terms with his musical upbringing with his Marxist political agenda (Brecht at the Opera, 87–90). 187. Calico, Brecht at the Opera, 90, 212n64. In 1937 Eisler argued the importance of avant-garde art together with Ernst Bloch in an essay staged as an argument between a skeptic and an optimist; see “Avantgarde Kunst und Volksfront,” in Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 397–405, and translated into English as Bloch and Eisler, “Avant-Garde Art and the Popular Front” and “To Inherit Art,” 1–6, 6–12. Calico discusses the debate in Brecht at the Opera, 89–90. 188. The reference here is to the “degenerate” art and music exhibits launched by Joseph Goebbels in 1937 and 1938, respectively, to vilify modernist art and music. See Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 398; and Eisler, “Contemporary Music and Fascism,” in ibid., 489–93. 189. Eisler, “On Schönberg,” in Eisler, Rebel in Music, 75. 190. Eisler, “Film Music,” 251. 191. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 40. 192. Ibid., 35. 193. Ibid., 37.

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194. Ibid., 36. 195. Ibid., 39. 196. Ibid., 38–40. 197. Eisler to Clara W. Mayer, end of April 1943, in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 256. 198. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 85–87. 199. Ibid., 55, 91. 200. Ibid., 90, 105–6. 201. Ibid., 105–6. 202. Ibid., 111–13. 203. Ibid., 19, 85–87. 204. Ibid., 93–94. 205. Ibid., 55. 206. Ibid., 84–85; and Rosen, “Adorno and Film Music,” 176. 207. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 80. 208. Cowell, review; Appelbaum, review; Morton, “Hanns Eisler.” 209. Gorbman, “Hanns Eisler in Hollywood,” 280–83. 210. Ivens, The Camera and I, 35. 211. Ibid., 39. 212. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 148. 213. Ibid. 214. Ibid., 104–5. 215. Ibid., 152. 216. Ibid., 148–52. 217. There are too many analyses of Eisenstein’s graph to list here; however, among those on the musical perspective, see Prendergast, Film Music, 225–26, who duplicates Eisler’s and Adorno’s account almost verbatim; Widgery, “The Kinetic,” 42–57; Brown, Overtones, 134–41, one of the few commentators who find merit in Eisenstein’s analysis; Cook, Analysing, 49–56; and Hubbert, “Eisenstein’s Theory,” 134–41. For analyses from the film studies perspective, see Gallez, “The Prokofiev-Eisenstein Collaboration,” 224–25; Bordwell, The Cinema of Eisenstein, 187–89, who sees deficiencies in the diagram but nevertheless praises it both historically and technically; and Thompson, Eisenstein’s “Ivan the Terrible,” 224–25. 218. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 139. 219. Eisenstein, “Form and Content,” in Eisenstein, The Film Sense, 157–216. 220. See note 177 in regard to Eisenstein’s 1928 statement and earlier perspective of counterpoint. Bartig, Composing, 72. 221. Eisenstein, “The Embodiment of a Myth,” in Eisenstein, Film Essays, 85–86; Bartlett, “The Embodiment,” 60–61; see also Morrison, The People’s Artist, 236. 222. Bordwell, The Cinema, 188; and Kivy, Sound, 53–57. 223. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 157. 224. Ibid., 70. Julie Hubbert points to functional similarities concerning movement between Eisenstein and Eisler and Adorno, but I would suggest that Eisler and Adorno

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problematize such relationships, which Hubbert does not recognize; see “Eisenstein’s Theory,” 136n38. 225. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 153–54. 226. On Eisenstein’s response to Eisler (and Adorno), see Yampolsky, “The Essential Bone Structure,” 179–80. 227. Marc Connelly and Ralph Freud (cochairman of the Writers’ Congress Committee) to Eisler, 14 October 1943, Eisler Documents, FML, in which they thank him for his participation. 228. Casty, Communism, 82. 229. Giovacchini, Hollywood Modernism, 168–69. 230. Eisler, “Paper for the Writer’s Congress in UCLA,” “Contemporary Music and the Film I,” and “Contemporary Music and the Film II,” in Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 471–72, 472–78, 479–87, respectively; also in Hollywood Writers Mobilization and University of California, Los Angeles, Writers’ Congress. 231. Board of editors (Hollywood Quarterly) to Eisler, 10 April 1945, Eisler Documents, FML. This letter is also the source for the list of questions in the text. 232. Following Eisler’s Hollywood Quarterly discussion panel, Adorno also presented a report on Composing for the Films for the American Musicological Society’s Southern California Chapter meeting in June 1945; see Adorno, “Composing for the Films.” 233. Thomson, “Eisler.” Chapter 5. Eisler in Hollywood: Hangmen Also Die!

1. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 21 April 1942, 223. 2. The initial idea for the script is in ibid., 28 May 1942, 235. Eisler’s connection to Lang about the film is documented in a letter from Eisler to Louise, 6 July 1942, in Eisler, Briefe 1907–1943, 224; the proposed agreement between Eisler and Arnold Productions, Inc., is dated 10 December 1942; see the letter from his lawyer, Leon Kaplan, to Hanns Eisler, regarding the details of his contract (15 December 1942, Hanns Eisler Documents, FML). 3. Ceplair and Englund, The Inquisition, 306. 4. There has been much debate concerning Brecht’s contribution to Hangmen Also Die!, since the script underwent various changes and involved collaboration; see the evidence collected in Brockmann, Friends; Lyon, “The Original Story”; Lang and Brecht, “437!!”; and Mews, “Hitler.” See also Brewster, “Brecht”; and Schebera, “‘Hangmen Also Die’ (1943).” For contrasting narratives, see Smedley, A Divided World, 225–27; and Gemünden, Continental Strangers, 109–13. 5. Goehr, “Music and Musicians,” 68–71. See also Brigit Cohen, who discusses other ways of thinking about exile and its creative conflicts in Stefan Wolpe, 22–26. 6. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 55, and regarding the same issue, see also 114. Eisler, of course, was never considered a Hollywood “insider.” Not only did his ideological differences with Hollywood keep him outside the studio community, but he also worked as a freelance composer on a per-film basis, not directly for a studio. He did not accumulate enough film credits to be considered an insider.

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7. For his film Lang borrowed aspects of the Lehrstück (didactic theater works); see Calico, Brecht, 16–34, 180n6. On the critical reception of You and Me, see Smedley, A Divided World, 104–7. 8. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 28 May 1942, 235; and Life Magazine, 22 May 1944, 49–62; on Lang’s interest in and the sources surrounding the Heydrich story, see Gemünden, Continental Strangers, 102–6. 9. In his State of the Union address to Congress following the US entry into war, Roosevelt outlined six important categories that were adopted by the Office of War Information; they were integrated into a booklet under the Bureau of Motion Pictures. The categories include “1) Why we fight; 2) The enemy and his nature; 3) The United Nations; 4) Work and Production, the importance of industry to the war effort; 5) The Home Front sacrifices caused by the war; 6) The Fighting Forces.” Other criteria included films concerning the Four Freedoms and the importance of democracy and the American way of life ( Jones, “The Hollywood War Film,” 1–2). On the Bureau of Motion Pictures and its relationship to Hollywood, see Winkler, “Politics”; Koppes and Black, “What to Show,” 279–97; and Myers, The Bureau of Motion Pictures, esp. 61–83. The “Government Information Manual for the Motion Picture Industry” is available in manuscript form only; see Koppes and Black, Hollywood, 336n44. 10. During the three years after the American entry into World War II, the motionpicture industry released a total of 1,313 feature films, of which 374 were directly concerned with some aspect of the war; see Jones, “The Hollywood War Film,” 2–3. For a well-documented critical analysis regarding the production of Hollywood war films, see also Koppes and Black, Hollywood. 11. Gemünden, “Brecht,” 67. 12. Mayer, “Eisler and Adorno,” 143. For Eisler’s retrospective perspective on the political atmosphere of Hollywood in relation to his own views, see Eisler, “[Notice for Statement I] (1947),” in Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften Addenda, 159. 13. On a detailed interpretation of the characters and plot, see Gemünden, Continental Strangers, 112–14, 117–25. 14. Bogdanovich, Fritz Lang, 60; on the differences between Lang and Brecht, see Gemünden, Continental Strangers, 108–14. Gemünden, for example, suggests that Brecht wanted to emphasize mass scenes, while Lang wanted to focus on the heroic individual figure, the latter akin to Hollywood formulas (ibid., 112–13). 15. On Lang’s perspective of Hollywood, see Lyon, Bertolt Brecht, 21–39; Wallace, “Hangmen Also Die”; and Gemünden, Continental Strangers, 109–10. 16. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 19 January 1942, 193. 17. Ibid., 18 October 1942, 260. On the various cuts to the script, see Wallace, “Hangmen Also Die,” 45–46. Brecht addresses epic principles in relation to film music in “Über Filmmusik.” 18. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 16 and 22 October 1942, 259, 261, respectively; see also the various versions of and emendations to the script of Hangmen Also Die! such as “continue dialoguée,” “Never Surrender,” “Archives scénaristiques, Synopses,” “Archives scénaris-

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tiques, Documentation,” and “FINAL DRAFT, Oct. 16th 1942,” all in LANG 11-B11 and LANG 12-B12, Archives Fritz Lang, Bibliothèque du Film, Paris. See also “Hangmen Also Die! Screenplay by John Wexley, original story by Fritz Lang & Bertolt Brecht, FINAL DRAFT, Oct. 16th, 1942,” typescript, Special Collections, Library for the Performing Arts, New York Public Library, New York. For varied versions of the script for Hangmen Also Die!, see Schebera, “Henker sterben auch.” For a contrasting appraisal of the relationship between Lang and Brecht based primarily on Lang’s retrospective correspondence with James K. Lyon in 1971 and other versions of the script preserved in the Fritz Lang Archive, University of Southern California, and in the John Wexley Papers at the University of Wisconsin, see Smedley, A Divided World, 225–27. 19. Although it was common for directors to cut scenes at the last moment, Lang seems to have been concerned that some of Brecht’s so-called ideal scenes would not have received approval from Joe Breen of the Hays Office (Production Code Administration [PCA]); see Lyon, Bertolt Brecht, 62–63, 71. Patrick McGilligan reports that the scene would have been the first on-screen to portray Jewish victims of Nazi brutality. And according to Wexley, whom McGilligan interviewed, Lang, after considering using the mass-grave scene for publicity purposes, decided to remove it and every other reference to Jews: “There would be no mention of the Jewish victims of Nazis in Fritz Lang’s Hangmen Also Die” (Fritz Lang, 296). According to the British Board of Censors, the print was cut, but they do not specify which scenes. In 1943 the film was released in Britain; see www .bbfc.co.uk/releases/hangmen-also-die-1943#relatedWorks. The film was not released in any of the other European countries until after World War II, for obvious political reasons. In 2014 the film was restored (in collaboration with the British Film Institute) and released in the United States as a DVD by the Cohen Film Collection; see Cohen Media Group (134 mins.), which includes the mass-grave scene. See also Gall, introduction to Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” xxviiia. 20. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 14 September 1942, 257. 21. The Eisler Archives contain the composer’s full score for the mass-grave scene (recently published by Breitkopf & Härtel), though it was never used for the American release of the film; see Hangmen Also Die, Sketches and Scores, EHB 1.269, Hanns Eisler Documents, Stiftung Archiv der Akademie der Künste, Berlin. See also Niklew, Reinhold, and Rienäcker, “Inventar,” 220; for the published score, see Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 10, p. 67. On the various versions of the film, see note 21. 22. Birdwell, Celluloid Soldiers, 57–86. 23. Quoted in Lyon, Bertolt Brecht, 62. 24. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 24. 25. Although a complete full score was not available, various manuscript scores and sketches in Eisler’s hand, all fully orchestrated, are housed at the Berlin Stiftung Archiv der Akademie der Künste. The documents are listed in Niklew, Reinhold, and Rienäcker, “Inventar,” 220, EHB 1.269. These materials are now edited in Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die.” The thorny question regarding original film print and release is problematic. Hollywood films were often cut and released to suit various markets. Modern DVD

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and video versions vary somewhat. This study considers the 18 January 2000 DVD by Kino (134 mins., but no longer available), which does not include the mass-grave scene discussed above because it replicates the American release of the film. The timings in my discussion, however, derive from the widely available DVD issued by the Cohen Film Collection; see note 20. 26. For the opening title music, see Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” nos. 1–2, pp. 45–54. 27. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 16 October 1942, 259. 28. See Eisler, Composing for the Films, 19, where he states, “The violins must sob or scintillate, the brasses must crash insolently or bombastically, and the whole method of performance is based on exaggeration. It is characterized by a mania for extremes, such as were reserved in the days of the silent pictures for the type of violinist who led the little movie-house orchestra.” 29. Bunge, Brecht, 33. 30. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 14–15. 31. Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 1, p. 47, mm. 7–9, horns. 32. See figure 5.2, Hangmen Also Die, Sketches and Scores, EHB 1.269. 33. Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 2, pp. 52–54. 34. Brecht, Brecht on Theatre, 43–44. 35. The most detailed analysis of Cobweb is in Prendergast, Film Music, 119–23. 36. The final note in measure 12, violin II, is likely to be a scribal error caused by the intrusion of the note in the viola part, which is written in the same position on the staff, as frequently happens in the compilation of a score; see Eisen, “New Light,” table 1, p. 83. The music editor of the new collected edition has not corrected the error, nor does he comment on it; see Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 2, p. 53. On the soundtrack, violin II plays the G an octave above the G in violin I and viola, also not mentioned by Gall. 37. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 32–34. In 1935 George Antheil also raised the problem of writing music for quickly paced montage scenes; see “Composers in Movieland,” 62. On film music and “the art of compression,” see Marks, “Music,” 163. 38. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 37. 39. Ibid. 40. Ibid., 35. 41. Ibid., 36. 42. Ironically, the strategy has now become conventional for films of suspense and horror. 43. On the use of contrast, see Eisler, Composing for the Films, 24–26; and “From My Practical Work,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 124. 44. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 37–38. 45. Krenek, “Self-Analysis,” 32; and Goehr, “Music,” 77. 46. Petersen, “In Paris,” 428. For further bibliography on Dessau’s perspective, see Calico, Brecht, 210n55.

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47. Eisler, “Contemporary Music and Fascism,” in Eisler, Musik und Politik: Schriften, 1924–1948, 489–93. 48. On Eisler’s usage of twelve-tone method as an anti-Nazi statement, see Dümling, “Zwölftonmusik.” Calico, Brecht, 88, 210–11n56, notes Eisler’s views and offers various examples of composers who wrote twelve-tone music under the Nazi regime. Contrary to Eisler’s account, Pamela Potter states, “There were no concerted efforts to eliminate atonal or twelve-tone composition in Nazi Germany” (“What Is ‘Nazi Music’?,” 442). She suggests that émigrés were perhaps the most vocal in demonizing Nazism during the war as a way to reinforce their allegiance to their democratic host country, and their exaggerated accounts led to inaccuracies in postwar histories concerning Nazi musical policy; see Potter, “The Arts,” 94. 49. Eisler, “Bertolt Brecht and Music,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 173. 50. Bunge, Brecht, 47. 51. Compare Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 2, p. 54, mm. 22–23 with no. 1, p. 45, m. 1. 52. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 37. 53. Ibid., 36. 54. Gorbman, “Hanns Eisler”; and Eisler, Composing for the Films, 37. 55. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 28. 56. Eisler offers a technical discussion of the way the bells in this second sequence were recorded; see ibid., 102–3. 57. Ibid., 27–28. 58. Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 3, p. 55. 59. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 28. Behaviorism is an area of psychology that studies consumer reaction and industrial influence. On its implication in theater, see Brecht, Brecht on Theatre, 50. 60. Huxley explores the impact of behaviorism in society in his account of the future in Brave New World, a book that, as I describe in chapter 4, was the subject of a Frankfurt school seminar in the summer of 1942, which Brecht and Eisler attended following Eisler’s arrival to Hollywood; on the seminar, see the minutes of the discussions and the editorial preface in Horkheimer, Gesammelte Schriften, 12:559–86, esp. 561. 61. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 28. 62. Schoenberg, “Does the World Lack a Peace-Hymn,” in Schoenberg, Style and Idea, 500; see also Goehr, “Music,” 76, for an interpretation of Schoenberg’s statement and the idea of music as a powerful symbolic language. 63. Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 15. Scholars have continued to develop and theorize this idea; see, for example, Cook, Analysing, 82–104, 142. 64. Gemünden, Continental Strangers, 109–10. 65. Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 7, p. 62, mm. 15–19. 66. Bick, “Political Ironies.” 67. See, for example, the Cohen Film Collection DVD, distributed by the Cohen Media Group, released 2014 (DVD 02:13:12).

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68. Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 10, p. 67. 69. During his 1935 visit to the United States, Eisler outlined the difficulties facing American composers in this way: “These composers are struggling against antiquated, sterile music, against the kitschy kind of film and jazz music” (“A Musical Journey,” 8). 70. On the issue of nationalism in Smetana’s music, see Beckerman, “In Search,” 66–67, 70, 73; and Clapham, “The Smetana-Pivoda Controversy.” 71. Beckerman, “In Search,” 64–68. 72. MacDonald and Kaplan, Prague, 41; see also Wallace, “Hangmen Also Die,” 48. 73. Wallace, “Hangmen Also Die,” 43–56. 74. Ibid., 48. 75. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 75. 76. Smetana, Bedřich Smetana, 263–65. Originally published as Smetana, Smetana ve vzpomin-kach a dopisech. 77. Gorbman, Unheard Melodies, 81–82; and Kalinak, Settling the Score, 97–98. 78. On Eisler’s militant songs and political ballads, see Eisler, “On Revolutionary Music,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 59–60; Betz, Hanns Eisler, 58–93; and Elsner, Zur vokalsolistischen Vortragsweise. 79. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 18 October 1942, 260. 80. Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” no. 9, p. 66. 81. Ibid., no. 11, pp. 68–79. 82. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 25. 83. Ibid. 84. As quoted in Betz, Hanns Eisler, 71; see also Eisler, “Our Revolutionary Music,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 59–60; and Brecht, Brecht on Theatre, 38. 85. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 17 December 1942, 275. 86. Ibid., 274. Coslow, whose work was well known within the context of popular music, wrote songs such as “Cocktails for Two” and “My Old Flame.” 87. For Brecht’s original German-language version, see Brecht, Arbeitsjournal, 13 December 1942, 2:557. 88. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 13 December 1942, 274. 89. Transcribed from Eisler’s autograph. Wexley prepared at least two intermediary versions. The first is in the FML; the second is part of the complete “Final Draft,” NYPL. 90. Schebera, “‘Hangmen Also Die’ (1943),” 572. 91. Wexley, “Final Draft,” NYPL. 92. Brecht, Journals 1934–1955, 13 December 1942, 274. 93. Introduction in Eisler, Film Music to “Hangmen Also Die,” xxvia–b. 94. Eisler, “Brigade in Spain,” in Eisler, A Rebel in Music, 128–30; and Schebera, Hanns Eisler, 146–49. For the printed music, see Canciones de las brigadas internacionales, 8. 95. A. Cook, “The 10 Best Pictures”; “Hangmen Brutal Shocker.” For a comprehensive list of published reactions to the film, see Biesen, Blackout, 70–71n22. 96. On Eisler’s other Hollywood films, see the filmography in Betz, Hanns Eisler, 305–9; and Schweinhardt, Gall, and Dahin, “Composing,” 176–79.

201

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97. Lyon, Brecht in America, 43–80. 98. For a bibliography of the most recent scholarship concerning Eisler’s Hollywood film scores, see Schweinhardt, Gall, and Dahin, “Composing,” 177. 99. On Eisler as the “Karl Marx of Music,” see Calico, “‘The Karl Marx.’” Epilogue

1. Ryan, “10 Questions.” 2. On the impetus and political consequences for Copland around the conference, see Delapp-Birkett, “Decoding.” 3. Burkholder, “Museum Pieces,” 115. 4. Eisler, Composing for the Films, 87. 5. Thompson and Bordwell, Film History, 375. 6. See McCarthy and Flynn, Kings of the Bs. 7. Buhler, Neumeyer, and Deemer, Hearing the Movies, 336–60. 8. Thompson and Bordwell, Film History, 386. 9. Wierzbicki, Film Music, 165–86. 10. Raksin, “Holding a Nineteenth Century Pedal,” 176. 11. Mast, A Short History, 2–3.

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Archival Materials

Aaron Copland Collection, Library of Congress Music Division, Washington, DC Open score (www.loc.gov/item/copland.sket0018/), pencil sketches, full score, cue sheets, correspondence, writings, oral presentations, and documents Bibliothèque du Film, Archives Fritz Lang, Paris Scripts, documents, and photographs pertaining to Hangmen Also Die! Feuchtwanger Memorial Library, Special Collections, University of Southern California, Los Angeles Hanns Eisler Documents, correspondence and documents pertaining to film music project and Hangmen Also Die! New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, New York Cowell Collection, documents pertaining to Hanns Eisler Script to Hangmen Also Die!, John Wexley Oxford University Press, New York Office Records, Hanns Eisler Collection, Production File, correspondence pertaining to Composing for the Films Rockefeller Archive Center, Sleepy Hollow, NY Correspondence and documents pertaining to Hanns Eisler’s Rockefeller Film Music Project

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224

Index

Notes: HAD! stands for Hangmen Also Die! and OMM stands for Of Mice and Men. A page number followed by f indicates a figure, one followed by t indicates a table, and one followed by m indicates a music example. A page number followed by n refers to an endnote on that page. 400 Million (film, dir. Ivens), 85 400 Million (film score, Eisler), 85, 89 Abdul the Damned (film score, Eisler), 9 Academy Award nominations, 79, 156 Academy of Motion Pictures, 90 Adorno, Theodor W., 10, 91–94; authorship of Composing for the Films, 94–96, 99–109; editing and translating of Composing for the Films, 95–96, 100–103, 105, 107; Eisler and, 5–6, 81–82, 86, 90, 94–108 (see also Eisler, Hanns); intellectual isolation of, 111; Marxist identity of, 113; “On Popular Music” (article), 84; views of American culture by, 93–94. See also Composing for the Films (book, Eisler and Adorno) Aeolian mode, 57 agitprop, 6, 8, 155 Alexander Nevsky (film, dir. Eisenstein), 105, 121–23 Alexander Nevsky (film score, Prokofiev), 105, 121–23

Alexandrov, Grigori, 9, 113 All Quiet on the Western Front (film, dir. Milestone), 9, 41 American contemporary realism, 45–47 American Dream, 47, 50, 79 American Exodus, An (photo book, Lange and Taylor), 49 American Federation of Musicians, 19 American modernists, 12–13, 24–26, 88–89 American Society of Music Arrangers (ASMA), 19, 169n85 American West, 60 Antheil, George: on composing for films, 22; on documentary films, 2; on Hollywood, 4, 25–26, 41, 111; “On the Hollywood Front” (column), 27; The Plainsmen (film score), 26 anticommunism, 11, 109 antifascism, 129, 152 anti-Semitism, 11, 14 antiwar films, 9 Armour and Company, 21, 84 Arnheim, Rudolf, 18 art and Hollywood, 15–16 art composers: film industry and, 12, 27, 114; film studios and, 20–22; music directors and, 25–26; working in Hollywood, 2, 33, 35, 40–41. See also film composers; modernist composers artists and business, 15, 20–23

Index

arts in American culture, 1, 3–4 Associated Farmers, 47 atonality, 116–17; Schoenberg’s use of, 91; Waxman’s use of, 37 “Auferstanden aus Ruinen” (patriotic song, Eisler), 147 Baden Baden Festival, 10 Barry, Iris, 24–25 Bassman, George, 34 Bates, Tyler, 159 Battleship Potemkin (film, dir. Eisenstein), 8 Beckerman, Michael, 148 Begleitmusik zu einer Lichtspielszene, op. 34 (film score, Schoenberg), 140 “Bell Sequence” (HAD! scene), 146m, 146–47 Berg, Alban, 91 Berger, Arthur, 45 Big Five (studios), 161 Billy the Kid (ballet score, Copland), 43, 61 bindle stiffs, 48–49, 68, 77. See also Of Mice and Men; tramps Boensch, Franz, 6 Bordwell, Georgia Graves, 48–49 Boulanger, Nadia, 3, 12–13 bourgeoisie: Adorno and, 91–92; arts and, 4; Communist Party of Germany and, 8; European, 1; Hangmen Also Die! (film) and, 153; music and, 84, 115, 138 Bowles, Paul, 60 Bramson, Leon, 110 Brave New World (novel, Huxley), 96 Brecht, Bertolt, 10–11; Eisler and, 5–8, 10, 90, 96–97, 140–41 (see also Eisler, Hanns); Hangmen Also Die! (story), 5, 127–33, 136, 153; HUAC and, 157; Kuhle Wampe (script), 8, 152; Lang and, 130; “Song of the Hostages,” 154, 156; values of, 145–48; Verfremdungseffekt, 113; Wexley and, 131 Bride of Frankenstein, The (film score, Waxman), 37 Britten, Benjamin, 29 Bureau of Motion Pictures, 129 Burkholder, Peter, 160 Burns, Robert, 54 business and artists, 15, 20–23 Calico, Joy, 115 Candy (character in OMM film), 55–60, 76 capitalism: American, 10, 110; Brecht’s views on, 127, 130, 145; composers as victims of, 84; Composing for the Films on, 95; crisis of,

2–3, 6; Eisler’s views on, 83, 85, 115; exploitation and, 55; Metropolis depictions of, 8 Carlson (character in OMM film), 55, 59 censorship, 117, 127–28, 161 Chaplin, Charlie, 19, 43, 90 Charlie Chaplin v. Essanay Film Manufacturing Company, 20 City, The (documentary film, dir. Steiner and Van Dyke), 41 City, The (film score, Copland), 24, 40–41, 85 Clarke, Henry Leland, 10 classical Hollywood films: aesthetic of, 17–18; endings of, 78; romantic idioms and, 32; scores of, 16, 30, 45, 143; studio system and, 16–20, 21–23, 29–30, 32–34, 84; style of, 15, 16, 39, 151; utopian function of, 61. See also musical practice; musical style Clurman, Harold, 25, 40, 87, 90 Cobweb, The (film score, Rosenman), 138 Cold War, 95, 108–9 communism, 3, 6–11, 14, 83, 86, 160 Communist Internationale (Komintern), 155 Communist Party of Germany (KPD), 8, 10 Communist Party of the United States (CPUSA), 14, 131 Communist Youth League of Germany (KJVD), 6 composers. See art composers; film composers; modernist composers Composers’ Collective, 9–10 Composing for the Films (book, Eisler and Adorno): appendix of, 118–21; authorship of, 99–109; background of, 94–109; contradictions in, 119–21; controversies about, 81–82; dissemination of ideas in, 123–25; editing the text of, 100, 102; English translation of, 95–96, 99, 101–3, 105, 107; Eurocentric outlook of, 110; Film Music Project and, 96–98; neutralization, 116–18; publication history of, 94–96; reactions to, 109–12; shock and music, 112–14; status of composers, 20; versions of, 125–26; views of American culture in, 10–11 Confessions of a Nazi Spy (script, Wexley), 131 “Contemporary Music and Fascism” (unpublished essay, Eisler), 141 Copland, Aaron: American modernism and, 11–14; as art composer, 20; attraction to Hollywood of, 27–30; Nadia Boulanger and, 3, 12–13; communism and, 3, 14, 160; counterpoint, 38, 52, 69; film production and, 32; Latin American goodwill tour, 36; leitmotif

226

Index

style, 30–31; Marxism and, 11; modernist idioms of, 72; MoMA lectures, 24–25, 36–38, 44; moviola, 33–34; Norton lectures, 28, 44; “Second Thoughts on Hollywood” (article), 28; simplicity and music, 11, 44–45; studio music departments and, 20; theory of film music, 37–39; usable past, 166n46 Copland, Aaron, works of: Billy the Kid (ballet score), 43, 61; The City (film score), 24, 40–41, 85; The Heiress (film score), 30; Music for the Movies (suite), 20; Our New Music (book), 32, 36; Prairie Journal Music for Radio, 44, 60, 82; El Salón México, 44, 45; The Second Hurricane (opera), 44; “Second Thoughts on Hollywood” (article), 28; Short Symphony, 44; Something Wild (film score), 160; Statements for Orchestra, 44; What to Listen for in Music (book), 32, 36, 37–39. See also Of Mice and Men (film score, Copland) Coslow, Sam, 153–55 counterpoint: Copland’s use of, 38, 52, 69; Eisler’s use of, 9, 90, 116, 119, 128, 144–45, 149; shock and, 113–14 Cowell, Henry, 85 crawl (HAD! scene), 135–43 Crist, Elizabeth, 11 cue sheets, 33 Cultural and Scientific Conference for World Peace, 160 cultural expression, 149–51 Curley (character in OMM film), 68–69, 71 Current of Music (book, Adorno), 93 Czech national anthem, 135, 151, 155; manuscript score, 134f Czech people, 130 Dans les rues (film, dir. Trivas), 9 “Death of Candy’s Dog” (OMM scene), 55–60, 58m “Death of Mae” (OMM scene), 73t, 74, 76, 76m Denning, Michael, 49 Depression, Great, 2–5, 14; depictions in An American Exodus, 49; in Milestone’s OMM film, 53, 77, 79; in Steinbeck’s novels, 46–47, 50 Dessau, Paul, 141 Dialectic of Enlightenment (book, Horkheimer and Adorno), 93, 105 diegesis, 17, 48, 59, 135, 146, 148 diegetic music: in Copland’s OMM film score, 51, 53, 69; in Eisler’s HAD! film score, 147–51

documentary films: The City, 41, 85; Composing for the Films ignores, 111; Copland’s work on, 24, 40–41; Eisler’s work on, 8, 119, 124, 128; Film Music Project and, 87–89; modernist composers and, 2, 24–26, 40–41; Thomson’s work on, 44 Dollinger, Marc, 14 doubleness, 128 dream-farm litany in OMM, 61, 63, 65, 67–68, 78–79 dubbing, 18, 34–35, 42, 91, 168n77 dust bowl, 47–48 East Germany, 20, 147, 157 editing film: crosscutting, 31; by Milestone, 42; moviola and, 34; and sound, 17–18; strategies of, 15–16 egalitarianism, 1–2, 3, 11, 14 Eisenstein, Sergei: Alexander Nevsky (film), 105; Battleship Potemkin (film), 8; counterpoint by, 113; critique of, 103, 121–23; writings of, 111 Eisler, Hanns: Adorno and, 91–94, 94–108; on American culture, 10–11, 105; authorship of Composing for the Films, 94–96, 99–109; Brecht and, 5–8, 10, 90, 96–97, 140–41; capitalism and, 6; communism and, 3, 6–11, 83, 86, 103; counterpoint, use of, 9, 90; criticism of Hollywood, 88–89; cultural animosity of, 10; as European film composer, 5–11, 32; film technology and, 4; Hollywood and, 15–18; on Hollywood, 82–84, 94; HUAC and, 157; lecture tour in US, 10, 82–84; Marxist identity of, 3, 84, 113; McCarthyism and, 95, 109, 157, 160; “A Musical Journey through America” (radio broadcast), 83; studio music departments and, 20, 82–83; Wexley and, 133 Eisler, Hanns, works of: 400 Million (film score), 85; Abdul the Damned (film score), 9; “Auferstanden aus Ruinen” (patriotic song), 147; Film Music Project, 82, 85–91, 95–98, 107, 118–24; Fourteen Ways of Describing Rain, op. 70, 119–20; Hangmen Also Die! (film score), 132–57; “Hollywood Seen from the Left” (article), 84; “Kampflied Marcha del Quinto Regimiento,” 156; “Kominternlied” (battle song), 155; Kuhle Wampe (film score), 8, 152, 156; “A Musical Journey through America” (radio broadcast), 83; Niemandsland (film score), 9; Pete Roleum and His Cousins (film score), 85; Regen (film score), 119–23; Sech Lieder, op. 28, 155; “Solidarity Song,” 151; Song of Heroes (film score), 8.

227

Index

Gorbman, Claudia, 39, 99, 143 Grapes of Wrath (novel, Steinbeck), 46, 47 Grapes of Wrath, The (film, dir. Ford), 89–90 Great Depression. See Depression, Great Greene, Graham, 9–10 Grosz, George, 6, 7f groundswell (musical crescendo), 78, 151 Guardians of the Galaxy (film, dir. Gunn), 159 Guardians of the Galaxy (film score, Bates), 159 Gunn, James, 159 Guterman, Norbert, 102–3

Eisler, Hanns, works of (cont.): See also Composing for the Films (book, Eisler and Adorno); Hangmen Also Die! (film score, Eisler) El Salón México (Copland), 44, 45 end titles, 75, 80, 151 Essanay Studios, 19 European composers, 13, 25, 29. See also Eisler, Hanns: as European film composer; symphonic idioms: European Factories in the Field (book, McWilliams), 48 fascism, 82–83, 141, 147, 164n8 Fauser, Annegret, 13 “Fight, The” (OMM scene) , 69, 70m, 71 film composers: conflicts with art composers, 27–30, 39; in Hollywood, 25–32; status of, 20–22, 36; strategies of, 17, 30–32, 37; studio music departments and, 18–20. See also art composers; modernist composers film industry, 15–16, 21, 28, 161 Film Music Project (Eisler), 82, 85–91, 95–98, 107, 118–24 finale (HAD! scene), 155m Finston, Nathaniel, 18, 20–22, 40, 83–84 Flinn, Caryl, 61 folk melodies, 44–45, 61, 66, 80 Ford, John, 67, 89 Four Saints in Three Acts (opera, Thomson), 44 Fourteen Ways of Describing Rain, op. 70 (Eisler), 119–20 Fox Studios, 18, 21–22, 161 Freeman, Joseph, 14 Friedhofer, Hugo, 21, 26 Gans, Herbert, 110 General Died at Dawn, The (film score, Janssen), 26, 32 George (character in OMM film): “Death of Candy’s Dog” scene, 56; dream-farm litany and, 78–79; “The Fight” scene, 68–69, 71; Final Episode (scene), 72–79; “In the Bunkhouse” scene, 67–68; as migratory worker, 47–49; “On the Ranch” scene, 66; Prologue (scene), 51–55; “The Wood at Night” scene, 61, 63, 65 “George Determined” (OMM scene), 73t, 74t, 77 Gesamtkunstwerk (conceptual framework), 122 Gestapo chief (character in HAD! film), 152–53 Goehr, Lydia, 128, 140 Goldmark, Rubin, 18

Hangmen Also Die! (film, dir. Lang): American release of, 130–31; antifascist theme of, 127; closing titles of, 153; human condition in, 5; making of, 22; Nazi occupation in, 127, 130, 135–36; opening titles to, 132–35; reactions to, 156–57 Hangmen Also Die! (film score, Eisler): antifascist theme of, 127; “Bell Sequence,” 146m; crawl, 135–43; Czech national anthem in, 135; diegetic music in, 147–51; finale (scene), 155m; Heydrich’s deathbed, 144–45m; human condition in, 5; “Kampflied Marcha del Quinto Regimiento,” 156; “Kominternlied” (battle song), 155m; “Marcha del Quinto Regimiento,” 155m; Marxist values in, 128; “No Surrender,” 151–56; opening titles to, 132–35; scoring practices in, 143–47; twelve-tone passage, 133t, 135–41, 156 Hangmen Also Die! (script, Brecht and Wexley), 5, 127, 131–33, 154 “Hangmen Also Die!” (story, Brecht), 129–32 Hays, Will, 111 Hays Office and Code, 42, 198n19. See also Production Code Heiress, The (film score, Copland), 30 Herrmann, Bernard, 111 Heydrich (character in HAD! film), 129–30, 136, 143–46, 148–55 Heydrich’s deathbed (HAD! scene), 143–46, 144–45m high-modernist styles, 89, 136, 138–41 Hitler, Adolf, 9, 83, 85 Hitler’s portrait (HAD! scene), 142 Hollywood Quarterly, 124–25 “Hollywood Seen from the Left” (article, Eisler), 84 Hollywood Writers Mobilization (HWM), 123–24 Honegger, Arthur, 29 Horkheimer, Max, 92–94, 105

228

Index

leitmotif, 30–31, 72, 113, 118, 151 Lennie (character in OMM film): “Death of Candy’s Dog” scene, 55–56; dream-farm litany and, 78–79; “The Fight” scene, 68–69, 71; Final Episode (scene), 72–79; “In the Bunkhouse” scene, 67–68; as migratory worker, 47–49; “On the Ranch” scene, 66; Prologue (scene), 51–55; “The Wood at Night” scene, 61, 63, 65 “Lennie’s Death” (OMM scene), 75t Leppert, Richard, 99, 107 Lerner, Neil, 52 Les Six, 12 Levant, Oscar, 21, 26, 35 Levin, Thomas, Y., 99 Levy, Beth, 60 Life Magazine, 160 Little Three (studios), 161 London, Kurt, 111 Long Voyage Home, The (film, dir. Ford), 89–90 Losey, Joseph, 85–86

House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), 95, 103, 157, 159–60 Hullot-Kentor, Robert, 93 Huxley, Aldous, 96–97, 112 Huyssen, Andreas, 5 Imperial Academy of Music, 19, 21 “imposed simplicity,” 11 inaudibility, 16–18, 38, 118, 138 In Dubious Battle (novel, Steinbeck), 47 Institute for Social Research, 92 “In the Bunkhouse” (OMM scene), 67–68 irony, aesthetic/musical, 7, 113 Ivens, Joris, 85, 119 Jahnke, Franz, 155 Janssen, Werner, 26, 32–33 Jay, Martin, 110 jazz, 12–13, 166n39 Jews, 14 Johnson, Alvin, 85–86 Kampflieder (fighting songs), 7, 128, 151–52, 155 “Kampflied Marcha del Quinto Regimiento” (Eisler), 155m, 156 King Kong (film score, Max Steiner), 37–38 Klemm, Eberhardt, 99 “Kominternlied” (battle song, Eisler), 155, 155m Korngold, Erich Wolfgang, 26, 35 Kracauer, Siegfried, 112 Kraft, Victor, 41 Krenek, Ernst, 140–41 Kuhle Wampe oder: Wem gehört die Welt? (film score, Eisler), 8, 152, 156 Lang, Fritz: Adorno and, 94; American culture and, 11, 130; Brecht and, 130; cultural animosity of, 10; Film Music Project consultant, 90; Metropolis (film), 8; You and Me (film), 129–30. See also Hangmen Also Die! (film, dir. Lang) Lange, Dorothea, 47, 49 Lardner, Ring, Jr., 123 Lazarsfeld, Paul, 86, 93, 98 League of Composers, 26 Left, the, 3, 5, 14, 82–85, 167n55 left-wing groups: Composers’ Collective, 9–10; Copland and, 10, 44; Eisler and, 8–11, 87, 109–10; German émigrés, 127; Group Theater, 41; Hollywood Writers Mobilization (HWM), 123–24; Das Rote Sprachrohr, 6, 155; Steinbeck and, 47

Mae (character in OMM film), 72, 74, 76–78 Mahler, Gustav, 19, 21 “Marcha del Quinto Regimiento” (Eisler), 155m, 156 Marks, Martin, 109 Marshall, John, 86, 90, 99 Marxism, 3, 6, 32, 128, 151 Mascha (character in HAD! film), 149–50 mass grave (HAD! scene), 147 Mast, Gerald, 162 Má vlast (My Country, Smetana), 147–50 Mayer, Clara, 116 Mayer, Günter, 99, 108 McCarthyism, 95, 109, 160 McManus, George, 101–2 McWilliams, Carey, 48, 55 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios. See MGM Metropolis (film, dir. Lang), 8 Mezhrabpom-Russ, 8 MGM, 40, 82–83, 113, 117, 129 Mickey Mousing, 18, 31, 68, 71, 119, 168n66 migrant workers, 46–47, 55, 67, 77. See also Of Mice and Men Milestone, Lewis: All Quiet on the Western Front (film), 9; Copland and, 5, 27–29, 61; filming techniques, 59, 65, 67, 71, 76–77; mise-en-scéne, 56, 69; Of Mice and Men (film), 23–24, 32, 40–43, 47–51, 79; Of Mice and Men (novelette, Steinbeck), interpretation of, 78–79

229

Index

Milhaud, Darius, 124 mise-en-scène, 56, 69 modern American idiom, 80 modernism in American culture, 1–2 modernist composers: American, 13, 25–26, 89; audience and, 11; Eisler’s views on, 141; Hollywood and, 4, 39, 41; views on film music by, 1–2. See also art composers; film composers modernist music, 13–14, 27, 39, 122, 141 modernist styles, 60, 115, 160–62; high, 89, 136, 138–41 Modern Music (journal), 26–27, 28, 87–88 Morros, Boris, 26, 40 Morton, Lawrence, 111, 125 Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, 111 moviegoers, 42, 162 moviola, 33–34 Münzenberg, Willi, 8, 10, 82, 156 Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), Film Library, 24. See also Copland, Aaron: MoMA lectures “Musical Journey through America, A” (radio broadcast, Eisler), 83 musical practice, 15, 81, 85, 111, 193. See also classical Hollywood films musical style, 29, 45, 114, 117, 140, 159. See also classical Hollywood films Music and War Seminar (Eisler), 123–24 Music for the Movies (suite, Copland), 20 narrative imagery as music, 47–50 national anthems: Czech, 134f, 135, 151, 155; East German, 20, 147 National Board of Review Award, 80 Nazism, 136, 140, 145 neutralization, 18, 91, 116–18 Newman, Alfred, 18, 35–36, 38, 90, 156 New Masses (magazine), 14 New School for Social Research, 82, 85–86, 88t, 116–17 Nezval (character in HAD!), 152 Nicholson, Margaret, 101–3 Niemandsland (film, dir. Trivas), 9 Niemandsland (film score, Eisler), 9 nondiegetic music, 15–17, 19, 30, 46, 53, 85, 153 “No Surrender” (HAD! scene), 151–56 Nugent, Frank S., 60 Odets, Clifford, 87, 90 “O du mein holder Abendstern” (Wagner), 147

Of Human Bondage (film score, Max Steiner), 31 Of Mice and Men (film, dir. Milestone): appeal of, 41–43; chase sequence, 52–54; Copland and, 5; “Death of Candy’s Dog” scene, 56, 59; filming of, 47–48; mise-en-scène, 56; National Board of Review Award, 80; as prestige picture, 23; realism of, 46; reviews of, 79; treatment of titles, 50–51, 53 Of Mice and Men (film score, Copland): critical commentary of, 79; “Death of Candy’s Dog,” 55–60, 58m; “Death of Mae,” 72, 74–77, 76m; “The Fight,” 68–72, 70m; Final Episode, 72–79; “George Determined,” 77; “In the Bunkhouse,” 67–68; “Lennie’s Death,” 79; narrative imagery as music, 47–50; “On the Ranch,” 64–65m, 65–67; Prologue, 50–55; “Scene near the Brush,” 77–78; “The Wood at Night,” 38, 60–61, 62–63m, 63 Of Mice and Men (novelette, Steinbeck), 40, 47–50, 55 Of Mice and Men (script, Solow), 41 “On Popular Music” (article, Adorno), 84 on-screen images: of Jewish victims, 198n19; Mickey Mousing and, 31; music and, 36, 114, 148; of text, 151; visual strategies and, 8–9, 15–18 “On the Hollywood Front” (column, Antheil), 27 “On the Ranch” (OMM scene), 64–65, 65m, 65–67 Opus III (film, dir. Ruttman), 10 orchestras, studio, 34 orchestration: of Copland’s OMM film score, 17, 45, 53, 75, 77–79; in Eisler’s HAD! film score, 135, 138–39; systems of, 23, 34 Ottwald, Ernst, 8 Our New Music (book, Copland), 32, 36 Owens, Louis, 50 Paddison, Max, 99 Pagliacci (film music, Eisler), 9 parallelism, 16, 18, 114, 119, 120 Paramount Pictures, 18, 21, 26, 40, 161, 176 pastoral trope, 50–52, 61–63, 72, 77, 79 Pete (character in Guardians of the Galaxy, 159 Peter Ibbetson (film score, Toch), 26 Pete Roleum and His Cousins (film, dir. Losey), 85 Pete Roleum and His Cousins (film score, Eisler), 85

230

Index

Phrygian mode, 57 Pierrot Lunaire, op. 21 (Schoenberg), 120 Plainsmen, The (film score, Antheil), 26 Platte, Nathan, 33 Plow That Broke the Plains, The (documentary film, dir. Thomson), 44 political ideals, 1–2, 7, 14, 42 politics, of simplicity and Americanism, 43–45 politics and films, 127–28 politics of diegetic music, 147–51 Pollack, Howard, 11 poplar music, 12, 84, 94, 110, 147 Popular Front, 3; Antheil’s association with, 27; Copland’s association with, 14, 42, 44; Eisler’s association with, 83, 115; HWM and, 123–24 postproduction, 15 post-Romantic styles, 26, 31, 45–46 Prairie Journal Music for Radio (Copland), 44, 60, 82 “Prejudices and New Musical Materials” (talk, Eisler), 124 Prendergast, Roy, 109 Pressburger, Arnold, 20, 22 Priestley, J. B., 20 Princeton Radio Project, 86, 93, 98 Production Code, 32, 41, 46, 84, 111, 161. See also Hays Office and Code Prokofiev, Sergei, 29, 105, 122–23 proletariat, 8, 10, 92, 115, 152 Prologue (OMM scene), 50–55 Prometheus Film Collective, 8 propaganda, 8, 42, 109,129–31, 147, 160 Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 9, 113 “Raid, The” (short story, Steinbeck), 47 Raksin, David, 22, 36, 80, 161 Red Channels (publication), 160 Regen (film, dir. Ivens), 119–23 Regen (film score, Eisler), 119–23 RKO, 161 Roach, Hal, 42–43 Rockefeller Foundation, 82, 86–87, 90, 93, 96–97 Romantic styles, 26, 31, 45–46 Rosen, Philip, 99 Rosenman, Leonard, 138 Rote Sprachrohr, Das, 6, 155 rough cut, 16, 32, 34 row composition, 89, 125, 138–40, 160. See also twelve-tone music Ruttman, Walter, 10

Salinas Valley, California, 47, 50 Salón México, El (Copland), 44, 45 “Scene near the Brush” (OMM scene), 74t, 77–78 Schebera, Jürgen, 101 Schoenberg, Arnold: Adorno and, 91–92; Begleitmusik zu einer Lichtspielszene, op. 34, 138; composers and, 162; Eisler and, 3, 120, 138–41; Film Music Project consultant, 90; on meaning of music, 146; methods of, 115–17; Pierrot Lunaire, op. 21, 120; twelvetone method, 13, 87, 89, 136. See also twelvetone music Sech Lieder, op. 28 (Eisler), 155 Second Hurricane, The (opera, Copland), 44 “Second Thoughts on Hollywood” (article, Copland), 28 Seeger, Charles, 10, 85, 90 Seldes, Gilbert, 1–3, 13 self-borrowing, 20 Seven Lively Arts, The (Seldes), 1 Shils, Edward, 110 Shklovsky, Victor, 113 shock, aesthetic/musical, 7, 112–16 Short Symphony (Copland), 44 Shostakovich, Dmitri, 29 Siegmeister, Elie, 13 simplicity: as American value, 47, 50; in Copland’s OMM film score, 52, 57, 78; Copland’s use of, 11–12, 42–45, 174n19; in Eisler’s HAD! film score, 153; “imposed,” 11; modernism and, 160 Six, Les, 12 Slim (character in OMM film), 55, 57, 72, 77–78 Smetana, Bedřich, 147–48, 150 “sneaking/stealing in” music, 17, 57, 68 Social Democrats (SPD), 10 “Solidarity Song” (Eisler), 151 Solow, Eugene, 41 Something Wild (film score, Copland), 160 Song of Bernadette, The (film score, Newman), 156 Song of Heroes, 8 “Song of the Hostages,” 154–56 sound editing, 17–18 sound effects, 15–16, 33 sound engineers, 35 Soviet Union, 6; Adorno and, 103; Comintern, 3; Eisler and, 106, 113, 115, 125; films, 8; Germany and, 129; US and, 160 speedwriting, 22 “spotting” (placement of music in film), 33

231

Index

Stagecoach (film, dir. Ford), 67 Statements for Orchestra (Copland), 44 “stealing/sneaking in” music, 17, 57, 68 Steinbeck, John, 5, 40, 41, 46, 47–50, 55 Steiner, Max, 18–19, 21; cue sheets, 33; Hollywood and, 26; King Kong (film score), 37; leitmotif, 30; Mickey Mousing, 31; musical style of, 35–36, 133, 168n66; Of Human Bondage (film score), 31 Steiner, Ralph, 41 Stephen Novotny (character in HAD! film), 150, 152 Still, William Grant, 123 Stilwell, Robynn, 109 stingers (stinger chords), 72, 132–33, 143 Stravinsky, Igor, 13, 26 studio music departments: American modernism and, 12; factory approach of, 4, 21, 83–84, 117; film composers and, 17–20, 21, 24–26, 29, 31–33, 35–37; music directors and, 18, 21–22, 25–26 Suhrkamp (publisher), 100, 106, 108, 126 Suhrkamp, Peter, 105 Svoboda (character in HAD! film), 148–51 symphonic idioms: European, 50, 147; Hollywood conventions of, 2, 78, 120, 159; inadequacy of, 45–46; overuse of, 31–32, 35 syncopation, 53, 75, 77, 146 Talbot, Irving, 34 Taylor, Paul Schuster, 49 technologies: development of, 2; film, 4; modern culture and, 11; new, 7, 11, 15, 18; for sound, 22, 26 tenets of film music (Copland), 37–39 Their Blood Is Strong (pamphlet, Steinbeck), 47 Thomson, Virgil, 44, 52, 111, 125 Thorp, Margaret Farrand, 15 title music: conventions for, 113; for HAD! 132–33, 133t, 135–36, 137m, 151, 153; for OMM, 50–51, 51t, 53, 54f, 55 Toch, Ernst, 21–22, 26 tramps, 48, 53. See also bindle stiffs; Of Mice and Men Trivas, Victor, 9 “Trust the People” (song), 155 twelve-tone music: in Eisler’s HAD! film score, 136–39, 137m, 141, 156; Eisler’s use of, 115–16,

119–20; Schoenberg’s method, 87, 89, 136. See also row composition Twentieth Century Fox, 18, 21–22, 161 United Artists, 43 United States, industrialization of, 1 University in Exile, 85 University of California (UCLA), 123–24 Unseld, Siegfried, 100, 106–8 Ussher, Bruno David, 34, 41 USSR. See Soviet Union Vallentin, Maxim, 155 Van Dyke, Willard, 41 Vaudrin, Philip: Adorno and editing, 112; Adorno’s radio project and, 93, 95, 98; as editor of Composing for the Films, 97–98, 100, 103–4, 107–8; Eisler and, 91, 97–98; reaction to Composing for the Films, 112 Verfremdungseffekt (ideological distancing), 113, 140 “Vigilante, The” (short story, Steinbeck), 47 Vltava (The Moldau, Smetana), 147–51 “Vyšehrad” (Vltava, Smetana), 150 Wagner, Richard, 30, 122, 147 Wagnerian principles and influences, 31, 148 Walküre, Die (Wagner), 122 Warner Bros., 161 Waxman, Franz, 37 Webern, Anton, 116 Western films, 80 Wexley, John, 131–33, 153 What to Listen for in Music (book, Copland), 32, 36, 37–39 “Wood at Night, The” (OMM scene), 38, 61, 62–63m, 63 Woolf, Virginia, 112 World Committee for the Relief of the Victims of German Fascism, 82–84 World Film (magazine), 8 World’s Fair (New York, 1939), 85 World War I, 1, 3, 6, 9, 42 World War II, 127, 141, 160, 162 Wright, Virginia, 25, 41 You and Me (film, dir. Lang), 129–30

232

Sally Bick is an associate professor of music at the University of

Windsor.

Music in American Life Only a Miner: Studies in Recorded Coal-Mining Songs  Archie Green Great Day Coming: Folk Music and the American Left  R. Serge Denisoff John Philip Sousa: A Descriptive Catalog of His Works  Paul E. Bierley The Hell-Bound Train: A Cowboy Songbook  Glenn Ohrlin Oh, Didn’t He Ramble: The Life Story of Lee Collins, as Told to Mary Collins  Edited by Frank J. Gillis and John W. Miner American Labor Songs of the Nineteenth Century  Philip S. Foner Stars of Country Music: Uncle Dave Macon to Johnny Rodriguez  Edited by Bill C. Malone and Judith McCulloh Git Along, Little Dogies: Songs and Songmakers of the American West  John I. White A Texas-Mexican Cancionero: Folksongs of the Lower Border  Américo Paredes San Antonio Rose: The Life and Music of Bob Wills  Charles R. Townsend Early Downhome Blues: A Musical and Cultural Analysis  Jeff Todd Titon An Ives Celebration: Papers and Panels of the Charles Ives Centennial Festival-Conference  Edited by H. Wiley Hitchcock and Vivian Perlis Sinful Tunes and Spirituals: Black Folk Music to the Civil War  Dena J. Epstein Joe Scott, the Woodsman-Songmaker  Edward D. Ives Jimmie Rodgers: The Life and Times of America’s Blue Yodeler  Nolan Porterfield Early American Music Engraving and Printing: A History of Music Publishing in America from 1787 to 1825, with Commentary on Earlier and Later Practices  Richard J. Wolfe Sing a Sad Song: The Life of Hank Williams  Roger M. Williams Long Steel Rail: The Railroad in American Folksong  Norm Cohen Resources of American Music History: A Directory of Source Materials from Colonial Times to World War II  D. W. Krummel, Jean Geil, Doris J. Dyen, and Deane L. Root Tenement Songs: The Popular Music of the Jewish Immigrants  Mark Slobin Ozark Folksongs  Vance Randolph; edited and abridged by Norm Cohen Oscar Sonneck and American Music  Edited by William Lichtenwanger Bluegrass Breakdown: The Making of the Old Southern Sound  Robert Cantwell Bluegrass: A History  Neil V. Rosenberg Music at the White House: A History of the American Spirit  Elise K. Kirk Red River Blues: The Blues Tradition in the Southeast  Bruce Bastin Good Friends and Bad Enemies: Robert Winslow Gordon and the Study of American Folksong  Debora Kodish Fiddlin’ Georgia Crazy: Fiddlin’ John Carson, His Real World, and the World of His Songs  Gene Wiggins America’s Music: From the Pilgrims to the Present (rev. 3d ed.)  Gilbert Chase Secular Music in Colonial Annapolis: The Tuesday Club, 1745–56  John Barry Talley Bibliographical Handbook of American Music  D. W. Krummel Goin’ to Kansas City  Nathan W. Pearson Jr. “Susanna,” “Jeanie,” and “The Old Folks at Home”: The Songs of Stephen C. Foster from His Time to Ours (2d ed.)  William W. Austin Songprints: The Musical Experience of Five Shoshone Women  Judith Vander

“Happy in the Service of the Lord”: Afro-American Gospel Quartets in Memphis  Kip Lornell Paul Hindemith in the United States  Luther Noss “My Song Is My Weapon”: People’s Songs, American Communism, and the Politics of Culture, 1930–50  Robbie Lieberman Chosen Voices: The Story of the American Cantorate  Mark Slobin Theodore Thomas: America’s Conductor and Builder of Orchestras, 1835–1905  Ezra Schabas “The Whorehouse Bells Were Ringing” and Other Songs Cowboys Sing  Collected and Edited by Guy Logsdon Crazeology: The Autobiography of a Chicago Jazzman  Bud Freeman, as Told to Robert Wolf Discoursing Sweet Music: Brass Bands and Community Life in Turn-of-the-Century Pennsylvania  Kenneth Kreitner Mormonism and Music: A History  Michael Hicks Voices of the Jazz Age: Profiles of Eight Vintage Jazzmen  Chip Deffaa Pickin’ on Peachtree: A History of Country Music in Atlanta, Georgia  Wayne W. Daniel Bitter Music: Collected Journals, Essays, Introductions, and Librettos  Harry Partch; edited by Thomas McGeary Ethnic Music on Records: A Discography of Ethnic Recordings Produced in the United States, 1893 to 1942  Richard K. Spottswood Downhome Blues Lyrics: An Anthology from the Post–World War II Era  Jeff Todd Titon Ellington: The Early Years  Mark Tucker Chicago Soul  Robert Pruter That Half-Barbaric Twang: The Banjo in American Popular Culture  Karen Linn Hot Man: The Life of Art Hodes  Art Hodes and Chadwick Hansen The Erotic Muse: American Bawdy Songs (2d ed.)  Ed Cray Barrio Rhythm: Mexican American Music in Los Angeles  Steven Loza The Creation of Jazz: Music, Race, and Culture in Urban America  Burton W. Peretti Charles Martin Loeffler: A Life Apart in Music  Ellen Knight Club Date Musicians: Playing the New York Party Circuit  Bruce A. MacLeod Opera on the Road: Traveling Opera Troupes in the United States, 1825–60  Katherine K. Preston The Stonemans: An Appalachian Family and the Music That Shaped Their Lives  Ivan M. Tribe Transforming Tradition: Folk Music Revivals Examined  Edited by Neil V. Rosenberg The Crooked Stovepipe: Athapaskan Fiddle Music and Square Dancing in Northeast Alaska and Northwest Canada  Craig Mishler Traveling the High Way Home: Ralph Stanley and the World of Traditional Bluegrass Music  John Wright Carl Ruggles: Composer, Painter, and Storyteller  Marilyn Ziffrin Never without a Song: The Years and Songs of Jennie Devlin, 1865–1952  Katharine D. Newman The Hank Snow Story  Hank Snow, with Jack Ownbey and Bob Burris

Milton Brown and the Founding of Western Swing  Cary Ginell, with special assistance from Roy Lee Brown Santiago de Murcia’s “Códice Saldívar No. 4”: A Treasury of Secular Guitar Music from Baroque Mexico  Craig H. Russell The Sound of the Dove: Singing in Appalachian Primitive Baptist Churches  Beverly Bush Patterson Heartland Excursions: Ethnomusicological Reflections on Schools of Music  Bruno Nettl Doowop: The Chicago Scene  Robert Pruter Blue Rhythms: Six Lives in Rhythm and Blues  Chip Deffaa Shoshone Ghost Dance Religion: Poetry Songs and Great Basin Context  Judith Vander Go Cat Go! Rockabilly Music and Its Makers  Craig Morrison ’Twas Only an Irishman’s Dream: The Image of Ireland and the Irish in American Popular Song Lyrics, 1800–1920  William H. A. Williams Democracy at the Opera: Music, Theater, and Culture in New York City, 1815–60  Karen Ahlquist Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians  Virginia Waring Woody, Cisco, and Me: Seamen Three in the Merchant Marine  Jim Longhi Behind the Burnt Cork Mask: Early Blackface Minstrelsy and Antebellum American Popular Culture  William J. Mahar Going to Cincinnati: A History of the Blues in the Queen City  Steven C. Tracy Pistol Packin’ Mama: Aunt Molly Jackson and the Politics of Folksong  Shelly Romalis Sixties Rock: Garage, Psychedelic, and Other Satisfactions  Michael Hicks The Late Great Johnny Ace and the Transition from R&B to Rock ’n’ Roll  James M. Salem Tito Puente and the Making of Latin Music  Steven Loza Juilliard: A History  Andrea Olmstead Understanding Charles Seeger, Pioneer in American Musicology  Edited by Bell Yung and Helen Rees Mountains of Music: West Virginia Traditional Music from Goldenseal  Edited by John Lilly Alice Tully: An Intimate Portrait  Albert Fuller A Blues Life  Henry Townsend, as told to Bill Greensmith Long Steel Rail: The Railroad in American Folksong (2d ed.)  Norm Cohen The Golden Age of Gospel  Text by Horace Clarence Boyer; photography by Lloyd Yearwood Aaron Copland: The Life and Work of an Uncommon Man  Howard Pollack Louis Moreau Gottschalk  S. Frederick Starr Race, Rock, and Elvis  Michael T. Bertrand Theremin: Ether Music and Espionage  Albert Glinsky Poetry and Violence: The Ballad Tradition of Mexico’s Costa Chica  John H. McDowell The Bill Monroe Reader  Edited by Tom Ewing Music in Lubavitcher Life  Ellen Koskoff Zarzuela: Spanish Operetta, American Stage  Janet L. Sturman Bluegrass Odyssey: A Documentary in Pictures and Words, 1966–86  Carl Fleischhauer and Neil V. Rosenberg That Old-Time Rock & Roll: A Chronicle of an Era, 1954–63  Richard Aquila Labor’s Troubadour  Joe Glazer

American Opera  Elise K. Kirk Don’t Get above Your Raisin’: Country Music and the Southern Working Class  Bill C. Malone John Alden Carpenter: A Chicago Composer  Howard Pollack Heartbeat of the People: Music and Dance of the Northern Pow-wow  Tara Browner My Lord, What a Morning: An Autobiography  Marian Anderson Marian Anderson: A Singer’s Journey  Allan Keiler Charles Ives Remembered: An Oral History  Vivian Perlis Henry Cowell, Bohemian  Michael Hicks Rap Music and Street Consciousness  Cheryl L. Keyes Louis Prima  Garry Boulard Marian McPartland’s Jazz World: All in Good Time  Marian McPartland Robert Johnson: Lost and Found  Barry Lee Pearson and Bill McCulloch Bound for America: Three British Composers  Nicholas Temperley Lost Sounds: Blacks and the Birth of the Recording Industry, 1890–1919  Tim Brooks Burn, Baby! BURN! The Autobiography of Magnificent Montague  Magnificent Montague with Bob Baker Way Up North in Dixie: A Black Family’s Claim to the Confederate Anthem  Howard L. Sacks and Judith Rose Sacks The Bluegrass Reader  Edited by Thomas Goldsmith Colin McPhee: Composer in Two Worlds  Carol J. Oja Robert Johnson, Mythmaking, and Contemporary American Culture  Patricia R. Schroeder Composing a World: Lou Harrison, Musical Wayfarer  Leta E. Miller and Fredric Lieberman Fritz Reiner, Maestro and Martinet  Kenneth Morgan That Toddlin’ Town: Chicago’s White Dance Bands and Orchestras, 1900–1950  Charles A. Sengstock Jr. Dewey and Elvis: The Life and Times of a Rock ’n’ Roll Deejay  Louis Cantor Come Hither to Go Yonder: Playing Bluegrass with Bill Monroe  Bob Black Chicago Blues: Portraits and Stories  David Whiteis The Incredible Band of John Philip Sousa  Paul E. Bierley “Maximum Clarity” and Other Writings on Music  Ben Johnston, edited by Bob Gilmore Staging Tradition: John Lair and Sarah Gertrude Knott  Michael Ann Williams Homegrown Music: Discovering Bluegrass  Stephanie P. Ledgin Tales of a Theatrical Guru  Danny Newman The Music of Bill Monroe  Neil V. Rosenberg and Charles K. Wolfe Pressing On: The Roni Stoneman Story  Roni Stoneman, as told to Ellen Wright Together Let Us Sweetly Live  Jonathan C. David, with photographs by Richard Holloway Live Fast, Love Hard: The Faron Young Story  Diane Diekman Air Castle of the South: WSM Radio and the Making of Music City  Craig P. Havighurst Traveling Home: Sacred Harp Singing and American Pluralism  Kiri Miller Where Did Our Love Go? The Rise and Fall of the Motown Sound  Nelson George Lonesome Cowgirls and Honky-Tonk Angels: The Women of Barn Dance Radio  Kristine M. McCusker

California Polyphony: Ethnic Voices, Musical Crossroads  Mina Yang The Never-Ending Revival: Rounder Records and the Folk Alliance  Michael F. Scully Sing It Pretty: A Memoir  Bess Lomax Hawes Working Girl Blues: The Life and Music of Hazel Dickens  Hazel Dickens and Bill C. Malone Charles Ives Reconsidered  Gayle Sherwood Magee The Hayloft Gang: The Story of the National Barn Dance  Edited by Chad Berry Country Music Humorists and Comedians  Loyal Jones Record Makers and Breakers: Voices of the Independent Rock ’n’ Roll Pioneers  John Broven Music of the First Nations: Tradition and Innovation in Native North America  Edited by Tara Browner Cafe Society: The Wrong Place for the Right People  Barney Josephson, with Terry Trilling-Josephson George Gershwin: An Intimate Portrait  Walter Rimler Life Flows On in Endless Song: Folk Songs and American History  Robert V. Wells I Feel a Song Coming On: The Life of Jimmy McHugh  Alyn Shipton King of the Queen City: The Story of King Records  Jon Hartley Fox Long Lost Blues: Popular Blues in America, 1850–1920  Peter C. Muir Hard Luck Blues: Roots Music Photographs from the Great Depression  Rich Remsberg Restless Giant: The Life and Times of Jean Aberbach and Hill and Range Songs  Bar Biszick-Lockwood Champagne Charlie and Pretty Jemima: Variety Theater in the Nineteenth Century  Gillian M. Rodger Sacred Steel: Inside an African American Steel Guitar Tradition  Robert L. Stone Gone to the Country: The New Lost City Ramblers and the Folk Music Revival  Ray Allen The Makers of the Sacred Harp  David Warren Steel with Richard H. Hulan Woody Guthrie, American Radical  Will Kaufman George Szell: A Life of Music  Michael Charry Bean Blossom: The Brown County Jamboree and Bill Monroe’s Bluegrass Festivals  Thomas A. Adler Crowe on the Banjo: The Music Life of J. D. Crowe  Marty Godbey Twentieth Century Drifter: The Life of Marty Robbins  Diane Diekman Henry Mancini: Reinventing Film Music  John Caps The Beautiful Music All Around Us: Field Recordings and the American Experience  Stephen Wade Then Sings My Soul: The Culture of Southern Gospel Music  Douglas Harrison The Accordion in the Americas: Klezmer, Polka, Tango, Zydeco, and More!  Edited by Helena Simonett Bluegrass Bluesman: A Memoir  Josh Graves, edited by Fred Bartenstein One Woman in a Hundred: Edna Phillips and the Philadelphia Orchestra  Mary Sue Welsh The Great Orchestrator: Arthur Judson and American Arts Management  James M. Doering Charles Ives in the Mirror: American Histories of an Iconic Composer  David C. Paul

Southern Soul-Blues  David Whiteis Sweet Air: Modernism, Regionalism, and American Popular Song  Edward P. Comentale Pretty Good for a Girl: Women in Bluegrass  Murphy Hicks Henry Sweet Dreams: The World of Patsy Cline  Warren R. Hofstra William Sidney Mount and the Creolization of American Culture  Christopher J. Smith Bird: The Life and Music of Charlie Parker  Chuck Haddix Making the March King: John Philip Sousa’s Washington Years, 1854–1893  Patrick Warfield In It for the Long Run  Jim Rooney Pioneers of the Blues Revival  Steve Cushing Roots of the Revival: American and British Folk Music in the 1950s  Ronald D. Cohen and Rachel Clare Donaldson Blues All Day Long: The Jimmy Rogers Story  Wayne Everett Goins Yankee Twang: Country and Western Music in New England  Clifford R. Murphy The Music of the Stanley Brothers  Gary B. Reid Hawaiian Music in Motion: Mariners, Missionaries, and Minstrels  James Revell Carr Sounds of the New Deal: The Federal Music Project in the West  Peter Gough The Mormon Tabernacle Choir: A Biography  Michael Hicks The Man That Got Away: The Life and Songs of Harold Arlen  Walter Rimler A City Called Heaven: Chicago and the Birth of Gospel Music  Robert M. Marovich Blues Unlimited: Essential Interviews from the Original Blues Magazine  Edited by Bill Greensmith, Mike Rowe, and Mark Camarigg Hoedowns, Reels, and Frolics: Roots and Branches of Southern Appalachian Dance  Phil Jamison Fannie Bloomfield-Zeisler: The Life and Times of a Piano Virtuoso  Beth Abelson Macleod Cybersonic Arts: Adventures in American New Music  Gordon Mumma, edited with commentary by Michelle Fillion The Magic of Beverly Sills  Nancy Guy Waiting for Buddy Guy  Alan Harper Harry T. Burleigh: From the Spiritual to the Harlem Renaissance  Jean E. Snyder Music in the Age of Anxiety: American Music in the Fifties  James Wierzbicki Jazzing: New York City’s Unseen Scene  Thomas H. Greenland A Cole Porter Companion  Edited by Don M. Randel, Matthew Shaftel, and Susan Forscher Weiss Foggy Mountain Troubadour: The Life and Music of Curly Seckler  Penny Parsons Blue Rhythm Fantasy: Big Band Jazz Arranging in the Swing Era  John Wriggle Bill Clifton: America’s Bluegrass Ambassador to the World  Bill C. Malone Chinatown Opera Theater in North America  Nancy Yunhwa Rao The Elocutionists: Women, Music, and the Spoken Word  Marian Wilson Kimber May Irwin: Singing, Shouting, and the Shadow of Minstrelsy  Sharon Ammen Peggy Seeger: A Life of Music, Love, and Politics  Jean R. Freedman Charles Ives’s Concord: Essays after a Sonata  Kyle Gann Don’t Give Your Heart to a Rambler: My Life with Jimmy Martin, the King of Bluegrass  Barbara Martin Stephens

Libby Larsen: Composing an American Life  Denise Von Glahn George Szell’s Reign: Behind the Scenes with the Cleveland Orchestra  Marcia Hansen Kraus Just One of the Boys: Female-to-Male Cross-Dressing on the American Variety Stage  Gillian M. Rodger Spirituals and the Birth of a Black Entertainment Industry  Sandra Jean Graham Right to the Juke Joint: A Personal History of American Music  Patrick B. Mullen Bluegrass Generation: A Memoir  Neil V. Rosenberg Pioneers of the Blues Revival, Expanded Second Edition  Steve Cushing Banjo Roots and Branches  Edited by Robert Winans Bill Monroe: The Life and Music of the Blue Grass Man  Tom Ewing Dixie Dewdrop: The Uncle Dave Macon Story  Michael D. Doubler Los Romeros: Royal Family of the Spanish Guitar  Walter Aaron Clark Transforming Women’s Education: Liberal Arts and Music in Female Seminaries  Jewel A. Smith Rethinking American Music  Edited by Tara Browner and Thomas L. Riis Leonard Bernstein and the Language of Jazz  Katherine Baber Dancing Revolution: Bodies, Space, and Sound in American Cultural History  Christopher J. Smith Peggy Glanville-Hicks: Composer and Critic  Suzanne Robinson Mormons, Musical Theater, and Belonging in America  Jake Johnson Blues Legacy: Tradition and Innovation in Chicago  David Whiteis Blues Before Sunrise 2: Interviews from the Chicago Scene  Steve Cushing The Cashaway Psalmody: Transatlantic Religion and Music in Colonial Carolina  Stephen A. Marini Earl Scruggs and Foggy Mountain Breakdown: The Making of an American Classic  Thomas Goldsmith A Guru’s Journey: Pandit Chitresh Das and Indian Classical Dance in Diaspora  Sarah Morelli Unsettled Scores: Politics, Hollywood, and the Film Music of Aaron Copland and Hanns Eisler  Sally Bick

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FILM / MUSIC

“Sally Bick has given us a thoughtful, fair-minded, and unfailingly engaging study of radical undercurrents in 1930s and 1940s Hollywood, with an emphasis on two very different composers, Aaron Copland and Hanns Eisler. Bick has the rare ability to write about abstract and technical aspects of music in a manner that will enlighten both scholar and general listener.” —TIM PAGE, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for criticism “Engaging and informative study of film scores by Aaron Copland and Hanns Eisler within the larger artistic, intellectual, musical, and political climate of midcentury America. Bick’s work offers a significant contribution to the new wave of film music studies, which place equal emphasis on insightful and detailed music discussion.” —GAYLE SHERWOOD MAGEE, author of Robert Altman’s Soundtracks: Film, Music, and Sound from M*A*S*H to A Prairie Home Companion

The Hollywood careers of Aaron Copland and Hanns Eisler brought the composers and their high art sensibility into direct conflict with the premier producer of America’s potent mass culture. Drawn by Hollywood’s potential to reach—and edify—the public, Copland and Eisler expertly wove sophisticated musical ideas into Hollywood and, each in his own distinctive way, left an indelible mark on movie history. Sally Bick’s dual study of Copland and Eisler pairs interpretations of their writings on film composing with a close examination of their first Hollywood projects: Eisler’s score for Hangmen Also Die! and Copland’s music for Of Mice and Men. Bick illuminates the different ways the two composers treated a film score as means of expressing their political ideas on society, capitalism, and the human condition. She also delves into their often conflicted attempts to adapt their music to fit Hollywood’s commercial demands, an enterprise that took place even as they wrote hostile critiques of the film industry. SALLY BICK is an associate professor of music at the University of Windsor. A VOLUME IN THE SERIES MUSIC IN AMERICAN LIFE

Publication of this book was supported by a grant from the Henry and Edna Binkele Classical Music Fund. Cover illustration: Portrait of Hanns Eisler by Stefan Krikl Cover design by Becca L. Alexander