Archive for the ‘Music’ Category

Resist the schmooze.

One of the tougher vices I try to resist—now that I’m in the golden land of Hollywood—is the insidious act of schmoozing. It’s been hard not to schmooze ever since I started getting access to B (and occasionally A)-list composers, but now that I have the ability to communicate with various celebrities (both garden variety and the film-score-nerd brand) via email, phone, and in-person, the temptation is all the more alluring.

By schmoozing, I mean glad-handing, sweet-talking, or sycophantically approaching someone who I think can elevate me in some way. It can include asking for favors or privileged access, or simply the act of talking to someone. Schmoozing can be for the purpose of advancing my career, worming through the right channels to get access to the top dog, or maybe just for bragging rights. These are all temptations, some more seemingly “legitimate” than others.

I struggle knowing where the line is between appropriate networking and schmoozing. It’s a simple fact that “who you know” often plays a huge role in getting the jobs and opportunities you want. There’s nothing inherently greasy about making beneficial connections. To avoid being a schmoozer, I do my best to put myself in the celebrity’s shoes, to avoid coming across like a used car salesman, and erring on the side of not being pushy enough. I actively keep my distance at times, or wait a little longer to call back, or discard that drafted email.

But beyond the pitfalls of the more accepted act of networking, too often I crave the sweet fruit of posture and position that I think comes with chatting up so-and-so or displaying the personal note so-and-so sent me. I hanker to just call X person up and see if they can do lunch…and I question my motives. Ideally I want to be friends with these amazing people, but am I approaching them as I would a true friend…or as a film music god with enough clout to make my follow-up tweet glisten in the sun? Am I arranging for a meet-up out of pure curiosity or enjoyment, or am I doing it just to fill my ego bladder to bursting?

Not only is schmoozing a reprehensible characteristic (and reputation) to have, but it can do serious long-term damage to the relationships I’m trying so hard to cultivate. Must…resist…the schmooze.

The reason film exists.

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.

A tree with roots as deep as eternity. Part I.

I typically don’t see or get swept up in the gales of polarizing art films. But few “art” films penetrate the bubble of pop culture quite like The Tree of Life. The top Cannes winner was foamingly anticipated before its release, and has been much pondered, discussed, and critiqued in the weeks since. Some found it overrated, some the second coming of cinema, and some a pretentious pile of camera droppings. I salivated over the film’s prospect simply because Terrence Malick’s previous film, The New World, is one of the most gorgeous, contemplative applications of sound and moving images I’ve ever seen. If Tree of Life was anything close in its offering—and with its broader, more cosmic story, it had the potential to transcend even higher—I knew I would love it.

For a film as unorthodox and open to interpretation as Tree of Life, subjectivity in response and opinion is inevitable. There is no conventional plot. Most dialogue is spoken (whispered) in poetic narration. And there are lengthy passages of (seemingly unrelated) visuals that require patience and an open mind. Still, after having heard sundry waves of feedback, I was surprised at how accessible the film was. Once you get beyond the more “galactic,” character-less moments, you have a fairly straightforward story about growing up—and all of the accompanying joy, suffering, confusion, temptation, and redemption therein. Only, that story is told in a more visual, organic style than the typical movie narrative.

I don’t know how to extract the essence of my feelings about The Tree of Life without gushing, without tripping over my words in breathless praise. I could easily laud Malick’s filmmaking genius, or the performances, or the superb use of music (unoriginal though it may be). But I think it would be better, and more honest, to talk about the film in terms of what it did inside of me. That’s where the subjective part comes in, and it’s why many people would strongly disagree with my opinion of the film. But this Tree put down roots deep into my spirit, and its impact on me—both in what it taught me and powerfully reminded me of—has been enormous. I wanted to love it, and I did. But I loved it for reasons I didn’t know to expect. Who knew that it would find its way past my head and my heart? Who knew a film had directions to my soul?

In Part Two, I’ll discuss in depth what The Tree of Life did to me.

Why I listen to music.

I’ve just finished reading Aaron Copland’s brilliant little book, What to Listen for in Music, which breaks down this amorphous, elusive art form into something chewable. It’s essentially a textbook of basic music theory condensed into a very succinct, breezy paperback, with doses of humble commentary by the great American composer. A passage that especially sparked thoughts for me was the following:

Why is it that the typical music lover of our day is seemingly so reluctant to consider a musical composition as, possibly, a challenging experience?…Most people seem to resent the controversial in music; they don’t want their listening habits disturbed. They use music as a couch; they want to be pillowed on it, relaxed and consoled for the stress of daily living. But serious music was never meant to be used as a soporific…It is meant to stir and excite you, to move you—it may even exhaust you.
The two thoughts prompted by this passage were, “I need to use the word soporific in conversation,” and, “Why do I listen to music?” It is the latter that I want to explore.

Copland’s statements are in the context of discussing the “contemporary music” of the 1950s—with its serialism, atonality, and the like. “Serious” concert music that defied the forms and palatable harmonies of times gone by. I admit that I’ve always held a very zealous attitude towards such music that would probably make Copland shake his head in professorial disappointment. I harbor very strong feelings of loathing toward music that wallows in atonality, that rejects traditional melodies, that attempts to redefine music as simply sound. But I’m afraid I’m rather picky, because I also don’t like the very traditional, very musical works of, say, Bach (too stuffy).

The reason I love film music so (though “film music,” as a genre, is quite an amorphous term) is because I love the sensibilities and language of 19th-century symphonic music that so many film scores speak in. I love strong melodies and clever development. I respond to the narrative structure of a good film score; it is a tone poem, an opera, and a symphony all in one. I love how a good film score tells me a story, dazzles my intellect, and gets stuck in my head. I guess those three criteria might, loosely, define why I listen to music. Or at least, why I listen to film music and why I prefer film music to all other forms.

The reasons I listen to “popular” music are different. Catharsis is probably the primary reason; channeling happiness, anger, falling in love, or a broken heart into a 3-minute experience that captures my feelings so well and so hummably. Another reason is the purely visceral, aesthetic pleasure of a catchy song—something to sing along with at my loudest volume or interact with physically (beating the rhythm on the nearest hard object or wailing on my air guitar). I suppose these reasons bleed into my reasons for listening to film music. Perhaps my motives are just as amorphous as everything else.

In the end, though, I don’t think I listen to music to be challenged. I don’t seek out music that forces me to stretch my concept of tonality, or develop new feats of patience. I don’t listen to music in order to overcome aesthetic prejudices. I’d like to think that I’m more intellectually and artistically mature than just to be seeking out a soft couch in my musical choices. I don’t want to let Mr. Copland down. But maybe that’s the best way to put it. I like music that makes me feel good, or that perfectly reflects my less-than-good feelings. I like music that I can hold on to and remember, music that is comfortable to ride in. I like music with just enough tension to reel me in, that then overpowers me with moments of glorious resolution. And yet, despite these seemingly soporific motivations, I completely accept Copland’s ideal contrast with couch music—music meant “to stir and excite you, to move you…even exhaust you.” I think those are the exact reasons why I listen to music. Why do you listen?

The music that makes fools.

An informal litmus test for my favorite pieces and moments of music is whether the music bypasses my inhibitions, and liberates me to act like an utter fool while enjoying it. A representative picture of this would be of me driving in my car, suddenly compelled to turn the music up to a deafening volume, crank up the air conditioning to the wind tunnel setting (for a physical rush that matches the emotional), and beat upon my steering wheel in rhythm with the song like a violent primate. Picture me doing this while singing along with abandon at my voice’s loudest register, eyes closed in euphoric bliss (but not enough to endanger myself or other drivers).

This is the portrait of a fool, unashamed, and it is the result in me of the best moments of music. Keep in mind that I am primarily talking about instrumental film music here, which makes the image of my “singing” along all the more profound (disturbing). Realize that this is not necessarily sick beats and infectious electric guitar licks under discussion (although those have their place); a piece need not have a pounding rhythm or arena volume to elicit such a response in me. It is simply the aesthetic and visceral power of really good music that renders me a fool.

An example. I recall several occasions when I enacted this general picture, driving through the urbanized bogs of Florida, listening to the track “The Family Arrives” which finishes off Jerry Goldsmith’s seductive score for The Russia House.

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No friend of the saxophone, and an ardent enemy of Kenny G jazz, I am nevertheless entranced here by the improvisational mastery of the instrument by soloist Branford Marsalis. Goldsmith’s pining theme, and the stepwise descent of the accompaniment, is one of my all-time favorites—and in “The Family Arrives” that theme gradually, beguilingly explodes into a fireworks show of syncopated, jazzy glory. During those precious weeks when I was first discovering this score, that finale consistently reduced me to a reveling, unapologetic fool at the wheel.

The sad part is, it’s hard for me to reclaim that all-too-brief window of bliss. I seem to suck all of the marrow off the bone, perhaps even more thoroughly because of these primal fool dances. I go back to these tracks and pieces and moments (which is sometimes literally all they are, a few seconds of sheer musical ecstasy), hoping for that same rush of self-abandoning pleasure—and I find that the little surplus of magic has gone. The back of the wardrobe has been boarded up.

You might say that I live to discover these moments, at least in my life as a music-lover. There’s a lot of music that I like, and a lot of music that I respect (on a technical, artistic, or conceptual level), but I am hungrily on the prowl for that rare dose of music that will clothesline me with its artistic and emotional might, sprawling me out on the proverbial pavement in absolute blind joy. I’m looking for music that removes my manners and self-consciousness, music that makes grown men act like fools.

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