Author Archives: Dawn

One of the most remarkable aspects of the Avatar’s film score is the integration of a wide range of traditional ethnic music elements derived from cultures across the world. Unique sounds from Swedish herding calls, Burundi greeting songs, Vietnamese work songs, and numerous other musical cultures were explored and incorporated into the film score. This amalgamation of global musical features is likely what gives listeners the experience of listening to the music of an unfamiliar, alien culture, and yet subconsciously arousing certain sentiments associated with the more readily recognizable “human” sounds.

As with many other Hollywood films, Avatar retains many conventional styles of film scoring, including the use of a leitmotif that can be heard throughout the film, and what is probably a standard orchestra to provide the background music. However, as mentioned earlier, James Horner, the late film composer for Avatar also incorporated many unorthodox elements into both the diegetic and non-diegetic music of the film. Listening to the music for the first time, I got the sense that I was listening to something that might resemble North American indigenous music. The primary features that most likely contributed to this perception are the distinctive drumming pattern, the chant-like singing, and the presence of a single flute voice and its musical behaviour in the score.

What makes the drumming an important component of the film score’s character is the level of attention that it receives throughout the film. While standard-sized orchestras typically have a percussion section, instruments in this section rarely featured at the forefront of a musical piece, most often, they supplement other instruments of the orchestra while remaining in the background. In the case of Avatar, the percussion instruments are given significant emphasis alongside the flute (they can be heard very clearly in tracks like “Becoming One of ‘The People’”). Added to this is the fact that the percussion instruments retain a very natural sound, as if the skins of the drums are made of original rawhide and are free of any “artificial” sounds that might be produced by its more metallic counterparts. Another unique feature that I quite enjoyed in this film score is the way the flute is used. I noticed that in almost every piece that the flute is featured, following the delivery of a musical phrase is a dwindling of the flute’s tune as if the notes eventually get lost in the depths of a forest. This is especially noticeable in “The Bioluminescence of the Night”. Similar to the flute in Titanic, the role of the flute in Avatar seems to be to provide the organic feel to an otherwise alien music. After all, while the Na’vi people are indeed alien, their culture is highly intertwined with their natural surroundings.

Yet, even with these musical features, the music as a whole only loosely resembles Indigenous North American music. Certain other musical features bring to mind images and feelings associated with completely different cultures. For instance, the funeral chant (“Funeral of Eytukan”) resembles something of a Gregorian chant from medieval Western music, each musical phrase following an upward trajectory and then returning to a lower tonic. In another instance, the overlapping sound of high-pitched wind chimes produces a more celestial sound, reminding listeners that this isn’t a story taking place on Earth, but on extraterrestrial soil.

This integration of musical elements from different cultures and different time periods is truly what makes the Avatar film score such a unique work of art. Given that authentic musical identity takes centuries to form, I can only imagine how complex the task was for Horner and his team to invent a new body of music unique to a fictional race and managing somehow to give it its own cultural identity.

In 2014, Hans Zimmer’s film score for the Christopher Nolan film, Interstellar, was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Original Score. While it ultimately lost out to Alexandre Desplat’s film score for The Grand Budapest Hotel, it was the first set of music from a film that piqued my interest in modern-day film scoring, demanding my attention on how modern film composers master their craft.

Despite the fact that much of the story in Interstellar is set in outer space, the music that accompanies these scenes are unlike what you would find in traditional space opera, or even the broader sci-fi genre that generally features heavier uses of trumpets and other brass instruments. If you’ve seen the film, you’d have likely sat through several action-intensive scenes in which the tempo of the piece noticeably quickens and the orchestra plays to a volume that is almost deafening. Yet, aside from these few pieces, the bulk of Zimmer’s film score maintains a quality that I can only describe as soul-stirring. The individual pieces enter very subtly into the scenes, but are somehow able to tap very powerfully into our innermost feelings of compassion, love, and pain. In contrast to the easily-recognised Star Wars overture in which there is a distinctive melody, the music in Interstellar places emphasizes the mood of the story rather than providing a clear melody or musical structure.

One of the most noteworthy things about this film score is the use of the pipe organ as the centre of attention. Considering that it is often associated with the church more than anything, a pipe organ in a sci-fi film is something of an eyebrow-raiser. Yet, it seems to fit well into a movie that on the surface, has no religious connection whatsoever. What it does have however, is a story that portrays the delicate relationship between a father and daughter, and humankind’s search for a home in the unknown. From a subsequent viewing of the movie, I can only surmise that the pipe organ was able to capture the feeling in both themes simply through its association with the church. The love and warmth felt in the father-daughter relationship is similar to that of a church-goer and his/her feelings toward God and his peers. Similarly, the mystical feeling of venturing into the stars beyond what is familiar is not unlike the feeling of interacting with an entity that is greater than yourself, such as one might experience in interactions with God.

Some other notable features of Interstellar’s film score is the use of relatively simple tunes when compared to the overall work, and the clock ticking effect present in a good portion of the score. For a movie that has an incredible story and corresponding visual effects, the tunes provided by the score are very simple. Take the leitmotif from the track “S.T.A.Y.” (see image below), the range of sounds are confined to just five pitches. On top of that, every other note is the same (high E) while the lower notes simply climb up one pitch at a time.

The tune of the leitmotif as can be heard throughout the film score.

In the context of the film, this technique seems to emphasize just how insignificant the human species when sized up against the universe. If the rich and full orchestra is the universe, then a simplistic 5-pitch melody is humankind. A section of the movie that very much exploits this technique is during the scene in which the spacecraft (in which the main characters reside) is tumbling through space at high speeds, yet it is seen on screen only as a tiny pixel moving slowly across the vastness of space, with the giant Saturn looming in the background. This sense of utter solitude evoked by this scene is only amplified by the simple piano tune. Secondly, the film score contains a favourite musical feature of Zimmer’s; that is, the use of a steady beat in the background. The effect is such that the listener gets an overwhelming sense of urgency as if a clock is ticking; in fact, this effect is not so subliminal as a metronome is used quite loudly to mimic the ticking sound of a clock. This can be heard very clearly in the track “Mountains” as the ticking appears right from the beginning and continues with this steady beat, becoming inaudible for a short moment as the rest of the orchestra crescendos, and then returning at a much quicker beat at the 2:35 mark.

As a whole, I’d say that these musical features worked exceptionally well in producing the emotional response that was intended of the story. On top of that, the inclusion of a church organ in an unorthodox setting added another dimension (pun not intended) to the listeners’ musical experience.

Polyphony, melisma, counterpoint, three words often associated with the ars nova and arguably the giant of the movement, Guillaume de Machaut. Who would have thought that medieval music could be heard in modern-day Vancouver? I certainly did not think for a second that obscure chansons from the 14^th century would be performed with any sort of regularity in such a metropolis, much less, draw in a sizeable crowd. Perhaps Machaut’s works are not as obscure to the average music appreciator than I had previously imagined.

Unlike the previous performances I had attended this semester, I was particularly eager to watch Le Remede de Fortune as it is an entire work by a composer that we had actually studied in class. As such, I was on the lookout for the aforementioned musical features of the ars nova, as well as the instruments and techniques the musicians would use to recreate the characteristic sound of medieval music.

Initially I presumed that Le Remede de Fortune was one of Machaut’s sacred works given that the performance was set to take place at Christ Church Cathedral, but soon after realized the work, which is a narrative poem (“dit”), is secular in nature, telling the story of the trials and tribulations of a man in love. Interestingly, of the seven lyric poems contained in this work, several of them are written and performed in the old style of music, ars antiqua, from the 13^th century. The others are written in the ars nova style and is absolutely what gives the entire work noticeably more musical texture and interest. Another point of interest is that, although I was seated behind a few towering heads, I noticed that one of the musicians on stage was playing the lute and hurdy-gurdy – authentic medieval music produced by authentic medieval instruments!

While the original work was composed entirely in Old French, the spoken parts were narrated in English and the parts that were sung were delivered in the original language but supplemented with English supertitles projected onto a screen. In terms of storyline, I found it to be quite amusing as the protagonist, the Lover, seemed to behave in what people today would consider melodramatic fashion. It certainly is a woe-is-me type story, except perhaps without nearly the degree of tragedy found in larger works of this genre, such as those in Opera Seria. At one point during the poem, the Lover is addressed for the first time by the love of his life but is overwhelmed with timidity that he runs away to a garden to sing a complainte (a song often associated with death). Here, he sings of the cruel fate that fortune has brought upon him and laments for his Lady. To my modern ears, and I think a great majority of us, I can find only humour in his response. Another interesting aspect of La Remede de Fortune is that contrary to what one might expect of gender roles during this time in Western history, the roles in this poem are in a way reversed, such that the man takes on a more cowardly demeanour, and the woman, if not a position of authority, then of poise and confidence. On top of that, the meeker role of the Lover is further accentuated by the use of a countertenor voice. Perhaps Machaut’s intent is to tell his listeners that everybody, even men (likely considered the superior gender at the time), are powerless against the whims and caprices of fortune.

Despite his exaggerated responses, and maybe because of them, Machaut’s message on courtship and the proper way in which to love someone comes across easily. Additionally, while much of the music was written in accordance with the ars nova movement and contained extensive melisma and a fair amount of polyphony, the complexity of the music when compared to the classical era and beyond is minimal. This lack of excessive instrumentation combined with a rather straight-forward plotline paint a wonderful picture of simpler times.

On March 17, I attended a theatrical work called The Soldier’s Tale (L’Histore du Soldat). Although this wasn’t the first time I had come across the name “Stravinsky”, it was a first for me to listen to a work of his, or any theatrical work of Russian origin for that matter, and so had little knowledge to base any sort of preconceptions on.

Unlike the Magic Flute in which a complete orchestra was present, the orchestra for The Soldier’s Tale comprised of only 7 instruments; 4 of which were woodwind instruments (clarinet, bassoon, trumpet, and a trombone), 2 of which were string instruments (violin and double bass), and a single percussion instrument. Given the scale of the orchestra, or more accurately called a “septet”, each piece throughout the performance was relatively simple in terms of texture – especially since only a handful of the instruments were played simultaneously at a time – and because of the type of instruments used, the musical numbers often gave me the sense that I was watching a marching band. However, unlike the often cheery and upbeat mood of a marching band, the pieces that played throughout the work were often in the minor key which contributed to the melancholic and sometimes downright frightening mood of the story. This tone generally carried throughout the whole performance.

In sharp contrast to the more spritely, conventional marching band tone of “Marche du Soldat”, played at the beginning and reprised at several other instances during the performance, “Pastorale” evoked a very strong sense of wistfulness. This piece begins to play when the protagonist (the soldier) learns that his three days of negotiating with the devil were in fact three years of his life gone by. The people of his village who had assumed his death now see him as a spirit and shy away in fear. It’s interesting that the tone of the music changed so drastically by simply isolating the instruments to just the bassoon and clarinet (heard in the early portion of the piece). Granted, I’ve read somewhere before that the clarinet is the saddest of instruments! Other ways in which the septet seemed to achieve this was by pairing a shrill-sounding instrument, either the violin or the clarinet, against the low-sounding bassoon that moved steadily over a very small range of pitches. While I have not studied music theory in any proper detail, it seemed to me that the instruments in “Pastorale” would sometimes “clash” in that the keys did not seem to harmonize well. This would seem to be responsible for the eerie mood of the scene.

Another interesting component of this theatrical work was the use of a narrator, sometimes speaking with the instruments in the background and sometimes without. Apart from the violinist who I thought did a rather splendid job, I found Timothy Christie, the narrator, to be one of the highlights the entire musical experience. While highly expressive and spoken with crystal clear diction, his parts were likely not sing-song enough to constitute recitatives. Even so, I found his voice to be an excellent complement to the other voices of the septet and at times, had a unique musical quality of its own.

If there is one criticism that I might have about the performance, it was the lack of a proper dancer during the “Trois Danses” segment of the performance. A real dancer would have made for an interesting visual component for the work as a whole, instead of a simple projection that was put on repeat. Regardless, I enjoyed the hour-long production enough that it has compelled me to explore other works by Stravinsky and other Russian composers. I’m interested in seeing what other common themes exist in Russian musical literature, particularly, whether many retain a similarly folky flavour to the The Soldier’s Tale, and how music might have evolved during certain important periods in Russian history (e.g., Pre-USSR, October Revolution).

The Magic Flute by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart showed from January 31 to February 3 at the UBC Chan centre. A friend and I had the pleasure of attending the very first viewing of the opera and seeing as it was my first experience at a live opera, we opted for seats close to the stage for optimal viewing. From the name of the opera and the feature picture (Queen of the Night) on the programme pamphlet, it was evident that we were about to watch a fictional story, likely with elements of magic and mythical creatures, not unlike the fairy-tale stories parents read as bedtime stories to their children today. Although, given that the opera was composed in 1791, a time in which children seemed to be less coddled, I expected the story to retain more of its darker elements.

A lovely overture started off the performance. With the orchestra out of sight and the actors still backstage, we had only the music to focus our attention on. The overture was undoubtedly a beautiful piece that contained in it a vast range of sound and colour; from high pitches to low ones, from grand fanfares to gentle melodies, from sprightly tunes to ominous ones, and so on. Despite the darker tones that arose from the use of a minor key, the overture ultimately ended with the major tonic key, an indication to me that the story to be told was ultimately a happy one. On top of this, there were a few instances in the overture where we first hear the sound of the magic flute. While its tunes were incorporated into the overture, its tunes seemed to be more of a glimpse of the magic flute from the story.

As the opera progressed, while there were many components of The Magic Flute that I enjoyed, admittedly, I was only able to appreciate it at a relatively superficial level. The music generally carried a light and cheerful tune, the humour was plentiful and accessible to virtually any audience (a feature characteristic of family movies), and the Queen of the Night’s solos were some of the best live vocal performances I’d ever had the pleasure of watching. Even still, The Magic Flute seemed more of an operatic version of a Disney movie than the towering work of art that it was meant to be. As with many Disney movies, the story was prone to arbitrary plot devices which quite frankly left me puzzled as to the moral of the story. For instance, why would the Queen of the Night select an evidently less powerful Tamino to bring back her daughter? Why was Papageno chosen as Tamino’s companion? Why were the weapons of choice a flute and silver bells? What were these references to Isis and Osiris? What exactly is the Temple of the Sun? Why were Tamino and Pamina required to undergo trials? What was Mozart trying to say?

Considering that I had a slew of questions after the curtains closed, I was convinced that I was missing a big piece of the puzzle that must’ve earned The Magic Flute universal acclaim. I was right. Upon further research, The Magic Flute turned out to be a story that is brimming completely and utterly with symbols (mainly masonic in nature), and is in of itself a symbol of Freemasonic initiation. In fact, as I re-watched recordings of The Magic Flute online (Performance at the Paris Opera, 2001), I noticed that the recurring key of the opera was in E-flat major, an apparent favourite key of the more musically-inclined freemasons.

Needless to say, many of my questions about the story were answered and my appreciation for the opera only grew as I re-experienced the story, the music, and the meaning behind each of Mozart’s and Schikaneder’s careful decision in putting together this work. On top of that, the shocking revelation of a hidden meaning in The Magic Flute spurred my interest in searching for music associated with Freemasonry or any kind of politically-driven music of the time.