Some years ago, in the course of a lecture at the University of Southern California, I was trying to explain that empathy, or identification with the feelings of his characters, is an inner resource indispensable to a film composer. I suggested that talent for career in film composing might be partially assessed through a “Hecuba Test”. The reference was of course, to the soliloquy ("O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!”) in Act II of HAMLET wherein the Prince, his own feelings in deep bondage, marvels at the passion with which the First Player invests the contrived emotionality of a playwright. Says Hamlet:
“What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?”
Many are the Hecubas, from LAURA to AMBER, who have been accompanied by noises of my contriving. I have abetted their scheming with clarinets and attenuated their yearnings with cellos - molto vibrato. After seventeen years of composing for films, I have learned that empathy is often better tempered with restraint. But there is one character who, more than any other, made restraint difficult. This is George Hurstwood, the tragic lover of Theodore Dreiser's SISTER CARRIE.
In discussing Hurstwood with William Wyler, director of the film (now called CARRIE) I noted that where Dreiser had pitied the man destroyed by his need for love, Wyler had suffused him with the sympathy a man of today might feel for a brother condemned by the rigid morality of an earlier day. It is our compassion toward Carrie and Hurstwood that determines the nature and course of the music in this film.
Thus, the musical material and its development are concerned with expressing the great longing of Hurstwood, as when he plods slowly upstairs, after his son's departure. Again, the music discovers the awakening of Carrie's feelings as Hurstwood leaves, after their scene in the Drouet flat. In the sequence of their first embrace, in the carriage, the music is part of the physical passion, and later reaches out after Carrie as she walks quickly away from Hurstwood.
The sound track of the scene in the park in a tour de force of re-recording for which laurels must go to Leon Becker, sound supervisor of the film, and the Paramount dubbing crew. That marvellous actor, Laurence Olivier, had pitched his voice in an almost guttural register to avoid sounding like the cultured Briton he is. Such delivery and expressive music ordinarily do not mix, to the great detriment of the music. But, thanks to the gifted Mr. Becker and his cohorts, the music was able to tell its part of this scene, including a moment of joy when Carrie confesses her love, and a touch of foreboding when Hurstwood cannot find the courage to tell her the truth about himself - that he is married.
Inept dubbing, which afflicts so many pictures, is often responsible for the sad line one sometimes hears from his colleagues in discussions of their film music: “Let me play you the records one day - then you’d really hear the score”. But more often it is post-scoring cuts, and their effect upon the continuity and overall sense of the music, that give composers that Kafka look. Such cuts, which are inevitable, and sometimes even necessary, are made on grounds other than musical. And if there is a composer who can equal the dexterity with which a minor executive mutilates the form-and-context relationship of music to story, I have never met him. Fortunately for CARRIE the hand that did the bidding of the master was that of an artist. In my absence, Mr. Steven Caillag, whose ability as a music cutter approaches genius, made the necessary elisions and extensions. It was he who saw to it that the music of Hurstwood's flight from his wife and employer to Carrie remained intact as to form and meaning.
It was my hope that the music of CARRIE would bear the same relationship to the story that existed between the story and music of some of the wonderful silent movies for which my father conducted the orchestra at the old Metropolitan in Philadelphia. What a warmth there was between the screen and score in those days, when “heart-songs”, Kinothek music, and sometimes excerpts of masterpieces followed hard upon one another! The Saturday matinees when I sat in the orchestra pit and responded like a seismograph to the heavings of the Gish sisters had made a deep impression on my young mind, and somehow I now felt that in CARRIE Willie Wyler had made just such a fable as those I had loved. We agreed that the score should have this “chromo” flavor where feasible.
So the music of Hurstwood's flight does not endeavor to convey torment and urgency through dissonance. It is a kind of distraught aria accompanied by swift, syncopated afterbeats; and the color, which is not a trick of orchestration but a function of the dramatic line, remains the same for many, many bars.
Program notes and sermons upon music are always faintly ridiculous. I console myself that I am, in part, eulogizing a departed friend, for cutting has in places reduced the music to the state of that Priam over whom Hecuba wept:
“When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his sword her husband's limbs”.
A year and a half ago I may have been one with Hecuba, shedding helpless tears over what Pyrrhus was doing to my poor Priam. Since then, my empathy has receded, through the First Player, through Hamlet, to comparative objectivity. And now, seeing the film, and hearing the score (which I finished in February of 1951), in a projection room in June, 1952, I was moved by it, I thought my father and his generation would also have liked it, and I was, after all, glad to have composed the music of CARRIE.
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