87 years ago today, on March 12, 1925, Georges Delerue was born in Roubaix (in the northern tip of France). The son of factory workers, he overcame severe back problems, early resistance in the conservatory, and the cultural stigma of composing for film and television to become one of the most respected and accomplished film composers of the twentieth century…first in France, then America.

I’m nearing the end of several months writing about Delerue’s career in Hollywood (from 1980 to his death in 1992), and he is foremost on my mind today. I fell in love with his music only five or six years ago. I was at work, listening to a streaming film music station. His suite from Rich in Love (his final score) came on, a tapestry of various solo instruments assuming the gorgeous central theme. As the guitar gently took the reins of the melody, I had to stop what I was doing to listen. It was a moment of pure, unplanned surrender—one of those moments I chase after in film music. It would be the first of many with Delerue.

I used that piece of music in the film I created for my wedding, under images of Alison and I during our dating years. It thus became very personal.

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I met Georges’ wife, Colette, the summer of my wedding, while writing liner notes for Georges’ score for Maxie. That experience, combined with my adoration of his music, led to the thesis I’m writing. (It is the final chapter of what I hope to be his complete biography). In speaking to his wife, daughters, friends, and colleagues—and listening to hours and hours of his work—I’ve only fallen more irretrievably under the spell of Georges Delerue. And while I wish I could have known him in life, I feel like I’ve met him through the warm glow of his friends’ recollections…and especially through his music. Many people have said that Georges was just like his music: gentle, sweet, nostalgic, and full of life.

Here is an excerpt from the thesis, to honor Georges on his birthday.

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If a melody is a story, as suggested by composer Frederick Talgorn, then Georges Delerue was one of the great storytellers of the twentieth century.

His early music rode the “New Wave” of French films in the 1960s, and he resisted the direction of serialism, atonality, and what he saw as the increasingly inaccessible avant-garde concert music of his era. Rather, he wrote music with a kind of timeless European sensibility—instantly evocative, with an evergreen visceral power. He gave supreme attention to melody, that most eternal of musical organisms. Each Delerue film score is characterized by at least one distinct and memorable theme, so lyrical in contour that many beg for words.

In film music’s long and often conflicted struggle for acceptance as a serious art form, Georges Delerue plays an interesting role. He brought a formal conservatory education and a mind steeped in centuries of music to bear in his writing for film. He was a master craftsman who poured all of his faculties into his music, from the first stage to the last. The result is that the scores he wrote transcend their initial function (to dramatize and underscore movies), and contain an intellect in their writing, a formality, and an internal logic. His music is one of the twentieth century’s most persuasive arguments that film (as a venue) is, or at least can be, the rightful heir of ballet and opera—if not the concert hall itself.

At the same time, Delerue fully submitted to the demands and commercial restrictions of his trade. He was a humble collaborator, serving the needs of film and director. He took his music seriously, but did not take himself too seriously. Even when he knew a film he was being offered was bad, he usually scored it anyway, because he simply loved to write music. He was a proud artist, but not an artiste. Unlike other film composers who chafed at the descriptive prefix “film,” people like Bernard Herrmann whose high opinion of their talents made them very particular about what projects they accepted and very difficult to work with, Delerue wasn’t picky. As long as he was putting on paper the music in his head (and getting along with the filmmakers), he was happy.

Thus, we have a body of film music from Delerue (to say nothing about his symphonies, operas, and other concert works) that is pure, lovingly constructed, influenced by the classical masters who preceded him yet markedly his own. “The greatest strength in Delerue’s music is that outside of the movies, it became pure,” said French film composer Alexandre Desplat. “It’s the kind of music I listen to. I can listen to Debussy, or Ravel, or Herrmann, or Rota, or Delerue without asking myself the question, ‘Is it film music or just music?’ No, it’s music.”

I wanted to wait until I’d seen War Horse twice before writing a review. I watched it with eager anticipation back at Christmastime, and my gut reaction was to love it. (I can’t say the same for my philistine family who joined me in the theater…the less said about their artistic tastes, the better!). I had reason to expect great things; Steven Spielberg, to this point still my favorite director, crafting a story about nobility and bravery amidst war (one of his specialties), with a new and stirring score by John Williams. But four years ago I was burned by such high expectations with the fourth Indiana Jones movie, so I had as much reason for doubt.

And not everything in War Horse works. There’s a two-dimensionality to some of the characters—perhaps because we don’t spend enough time with them (and because the story isn’t really about them in the end), perhaps because of casting. Some of the interactions don’t ring completely true. The early scene between Albert and his buddy Andrew, for example, feels like a rejected scene from the Shire. But in the end these weaknesses are transcended by what the story is really about, and there is also a larger sense that we are watching a fairy tale, and the characters are no less two-dimensional than a Pinocchio or Peter Pan.

What the story is really about is that in war everybody loses, but against the backdrop of an incomprehensible hell goodness stands in stark relief. War (here World War I) is more than just the backdrop of War Horse; it is the subject. Spielberg chose a war that resonates in our time, a war of ambiguity, of faceless adversaries, of interminable duration, of confusion and a prevailing sense of senselessness. Perhaps Spielberg simply painted this war as ambiguous, but it’s true that there is no Hitler here, no Holocaust, no clear moral imperative to rally other than patriotism. There is no demonization of any nation or side here. There is simply war—bloodshed and gunfire and pointless suffering.

That is what our attention is directed at, and in the foreground is a series of vignettes, characters tangled in the unmerciful barbed wire of war. Here is the British officer who promises to look after a boy’s horse, only to be undone with enemy gunfire; here are two German boys trying to escape combat, only to be executed as deserters; here is a French girl who wants to ride, only to die in some vague way connected to the fight; here is her grandfather who will pay any price to cling to the shadow of her memory, only to find himself squared against a British soldier—not in combat, but in devotion. In war, everyone loses. Victors limp and bear the scars left by extinguishing a life; two good people stand in opposition over a valued horse, whether in No Man’s Land or in the auction ring.

War pits man against man, and he doesn’t always know why or who he’s fighting. It calls on human beings on both sides to murder. It leaves no one unscathed, whether man or horse. Caught up in the senselessness, men try to adopt bravery, deny cowardice, to fight with steel and valor. The smallest acts of compassion or courage stand as solid silhouettes against a blood red sky. In War Horse, war is revealed as nothing but hell, and every tiny flicker of heaven (displayed by gestures of kindness, sacrifice, loyalty, and humility—from the offer of wire cutters to the mercy of a coin toss) gleams all the brighter. The epitome of this contrast is Joey the horse—galloping through hell, showing no partiality, inspiring goodness and grace in every camp he passes through. Nor can he escape the cost of war, ensnared as he becomes in the very bowels of the fight. No one escapes, everyone loses, but the redemption is found in the contrast, in every bit of beauty seen against the mess. The goodness hardly justifies the war—it is simply more vivid because of it.

It’s no doubt disproportionately philosophical to think as deeply and agonizingly about The Muppets as I have the past few days, let alone write a critical essay about it. But the Muppets—being Jim Henson’s wonderfully dexterous family of puppets led by Kermit the Frog—played a huge role in my happy childhood days. We inherited a love for the Muppets from our mother, and while I only saw bits and pieces of the original Muppet Show growing up, I fed on a steady diet of The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper, The Muppets Take Manhattan, The Muppet Christmas Carol, Muppet Treasure Island, and Muppets from Space—not to mention Labyrinth, The Dark Crystal, Sesame Street, Fraggle Rock, Muppet Babies, and far lesser known offshoots (Muppet Classic Theatre, anyone? How about the album Kermit Unpigged?). I should hope I qualify as a fan.

Jim Henson was something special. Like Walt Disney, he had a massive imagination and the entrepreneurial gumption to bring it to life. The inimitable voice of Kermit, Rowlf, Ernie, and others, he created a distinct brand of entertainment—part wordplay, part sarcasm, part slapstick, part irony…all heart. Along with Frank Oz, Henson authored a world where felt-and-fur puppets interacted effortlessly and convincingly with the real world. The Muppets rode bicycles, drove cars, cooked, danced, bent iron bars in half, and broke the occasional human heart. Jim Henson brought a lovable family of misfits and drama queens to life, and we never believed for a minute that they weren’t real. He built an enduring piece of Americana entertainment, and imbued this goofy band of characters with such aching warmth and love that the term “Muppet” will always mean something far more meaningful and transcendent than “puppet.”

I was always aware of the shift that happened when Jim Henson (and Richard Hunt) died, drawing a line before A Muppet Christmas Carol and on. Not only was Kermit’s voice different (along with several other central characters), but the Muppets began assuming the roles of other characters—albeit with a Muppety spin. The timbre and quality of latter projects was admittedly inferior to the authentic, earthy zest of the Henson era, but I still found much of the same humor, warmth, and zaniness in them (Christmas Carol is an unparalleled Yuletide gem), and it was still largely the same people and voices underneath the characters. For me, as long as Frank Oz was involved it was still certified Muppets.

Then the franchise got sold around to different companies, eventually bought by Disney, and languished in embarrassing made-for-TV specials for years. Frank Oz took his hands out of Miss Piggy and Fozzie Bear, and I lost all interest.

News of The Muppets swirled around long before 2011, and the (annoying) campaign of parody trailers and ubiquitous TV appearances built anticipation for an unusually long period of time. I didn’t find the parodies funny, and I saw nothing in the glimpses of the film to get my hopes up. I was mostly ambivalent about the prospects, if not a little bugged by what seemed like yet another failed opportunity to do something special with these great characters.

Then the critical buzz began to overwhelmingly counter my blasé assumptions about the movie. Critics were almost unanimously praising the movie, lifting it to the darling status typically reserved for Pixar. (Even Kevin Clash—Elmo himself—assured me that they “got it right” when I shared my worry.) My expectations altered course, and I was actually excited to see the movie on Thanksgiving day—to see my beloved Muppets given their due on the big screen once again, and wash away all the mediocrity they’ve suffered over the past decade or more.

All this is to preface why I was so disappointed with The Muppets.

The movie simply didn’t work for me. That’s the most gracious way I can put it. It wasn’t a terrible movie, it wasn’t as bad as some of the junk I’ve seen the Muppets in, but it didn’t work. It promised to be a reverent reanimation of what the classic Muppets did so well, and (for me) it didn’t keep its promise. It was clearly created by fans; if anything, it almost sagged under the weight of all the Muppet Show / Movie in-jokes and self-aware references. I appreciate all that, on paper, but the execution was void of the charm and magic of the very thing at which the movie kept looking over its shoulder.

Yes, it bothered me that all of Frank Oz’s classic characters are now voiced by new people. It really bothered me that one of the last original guys standing, Dave Goelz (aka Gonzo), was given all of about three lines (or perhaps, like Oz, it was his choice to step back and play a diminished role). What resulted was predominantly imitations of the key characters that comprise the Muppets, and while that doesn’t necessarily spell doom (iconic characters like Goofy, Donald Duck, Winnie the Pooh, and countless others have been re-voiced to varying degrees of success), it prevented me from getting lost in the Muppet world, and contributed to the general vibe I got: that in fact the movie was just an imitation of a Muppet film.

The jokes, the human cast (does it get any more innocuous than Rashida Jones?), the Ben Foldsy songs, the Enchanted dance numbers—they all felt like they belonged to another movie. The story centers, at least initially, on Jason Segel’s character and a new Muppet (Walter), and really hinges on these two for a long while (Kermit and the gang don’t enter the picture until several sequences in). And because I failed to find Segel (or Amy Adams) appealing, and found Walter to be the most boring, anonymous Muppet ever created, the story was nearly dead on arrival. Once the real Muppets came on the scene, things picked up a little and steered closer to true Muppet territory, but again, they felt kind of like imposters. A few jokes worked (I liked Zach Galifianakis’ Hobo Joe, for instance, and Gonzo’s “destroy plumbing business” button), and the movie certainly had moments (it was special seeing a spot-on recreation of The Muppet Show opening, and how can you go wrong with “The Rainbow Connection”?). But more jokes fizzled than fired, elements like the Jack Black cameo felt lazy, and when the movie wasn’t piling up acknowledgments of Muppet heritage it was operating like a silly family movie from a completely different franchise.

I’m probably giving this way more thought than it’s worth. (Although, Jeffrey Overstreet’s thoughtful and touching reflections on the Muppets and their role in his development have inspired me to dig deeper into my love for Kermit and Company.) I’m just perplexed as to why this movie made a “rainbow connection” with so many fellow Muppet lovers (and is drawing praise from almost every film critic), when it missed my receptors by a country mile. I am truly glad there are still Muppet fans out there, and that a group of them made this movie in an effort to celebrate the warmth and nostalgia of the fuzzy troupe. ‘A’ for effort, as they say. But I wanted this movie to stoke the old Muppets fire in me, and it didn’t. I saw a bunch of kids lovingly paying homage to a great, great thing…but it wasn’t the real thing. The hands and voices have changed, and the enterprise has changed with them. The movie itself offers what might be the best metaphor for what I found: a Muppet tribute band.

Last night I watched Inception again (it was only my second viewing). I was, once again, sucked headlong into Christopher Nolan’s engrossing dream—my heart and mind fully engaged in the cinematic thrill ride. The film only improved on its second viewing, and I sat in awe of Nolan’s imagination and its expert, artful execution.

I recently waxed grateful about Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, a film of such a caliber that several critics praised it as the reason cinema exists. And while Inception is, in many ways, a crowd-pleasing summer blockbuster—replete with huge special effects, car chases, and bulleted ski sequences—where The Tree of Life is a quiet, poetic art film, I believe they share in common that laudatory comment.

For in no other medium could you achieve the alchemy of magic that these films concoct. While most films are novels that have sprung to life or simply more open-spaced stage plays, these two works rely on the unique combination of moving images, music, and effects achieved only in film. Both are non-linear, moving in directions and in the order of a deeper level of the mind. The Tree of Life travels into the deep recesses of memory—biased, half-remembered, elusive. Inception transports us into the equally slippery and half-remembered channel of our dreams. How do you tell a story that is not only about memories and dreams, but one that evokes the very nature and feeling of those things?

Through the miracle of cinema, these films do just that—one quietly, the other with blaring brass. After watching The Tree of Life I felt as if I had been washed in the memories and potent emotions of my childhood. When Inception ends, it is like waking from a deep, dream-filled sleep. A good book can certainly possess hypnotic qualities; theatre, music, and art carry the power to transport. But only in cinema can there occur this incredible chemical reaction created by music, performance, visual art, and words. And while many films inspire, delight, and move, The Tree of Life and Inception are in that rarified class of the medium: the reason film exists.