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CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION
‘The idea of musical dramaturgy seems clear to everybody…. However there is no firm unilateral definition for it.’
(Plotnikov, 2007, 1)
On one level, the term ‘musical dramaturgy’ is fairly straightforward to define. If dramaturgy refers to the techniques and principles employed in the design and presentation of dramatic works, then the added prefix simply separates elements that complete dramaturgical functions through music from those which do not. While such a definition is both accurate and adequate the specific concepts that this denomination distinguishes and designates is a more complex matter. Dramaturgy encompasses three separate, but intimately connected areas: application, theory and validation (Dahlaus, 2003, 74). Practitioners employ dramaturgical techniques in the design and presentation of dramatic works, philosophers propose the theoretical and conceptual principles applied in such endeavours, and scholars attempt to validate or refute the practice or claims of both parties through academic analysis. Although such a description makes broad assumptions in order to categorise these three areas, the classifications neatly introduce the analytical process adopted in this thesis.
The basic task undertaken in this project is to explore and identify connections between the poiesis (the act of making) and the poetics of musical dramaturgy. As the title indicates specific restrictions regarding medium, period, and location have been placed on the source material that provides the practical examples discussed. Consequently, if the poiesis has been constructed from theatrical productions that were performed in Britain during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century it would be both logical and suitable to compare these findings with theoretical ideas drawn from within the same boundaries. However, the scarcity of such material makes such a goal impossible to achieve. Indeed, even if the historical and geographical boundaries were lifted the limited amount of established (specifically theatrical) theoretical principles would still restrict the analysis of practice. As such, the existing interpretive categories are not adequate to explore or articulate the dramaturgical design, specified complexity and communicative purpose demonstrated in the practical examples cited. In comparison the study of film music has grown steadily over the last three decades and during this period numerous methodological approaches, theoretical interpretations and subject-specific vocabularies have been developed. Therefore, it is from this discipline that the poetics of musical dramaturgy has been borrowed.
The analysis of film music can be divided into two analytical branches: musicology and semiotics. Although in practice these disciplines do not entirely exclude each other, as musicological analysis will sometimes reference associations outside the music itself and semiotic analysis may incorporate musicological descriptions, when discussing the meaning inferred by a particular composition for the most part the two analytical practices are separate. Another distinction is that the music-centred focus adopted in musicological analysis inevitably inclines towards articulating the dramaturgy of music (rather than musical dramaturgy) whereas semiotic analysis focuses on what musical signs communicate within a particular dramatic context. Therefore, from a semiotic perspective musical meaning depends upon the relationship between aural material and other contextual factors that simultaneously influence how the signs are deciphered. Indeed, it is this focus on semiosis as a product of integration, rather than an investigation of the individual elements, which makes semiotics a suitable approach for the analysis of media like theatre and film as they are essentially a group of artistic elements fused together to produce a unified whole. As such, the semiotic approach is suited to the exploration of musical dramaturgy and it is this analytical method that has informed the research carried out in this thesis. Furthermore, theatre and film share a similar system of signification, or as Eco puts it ‘the same semiotic parameters can be applied to the semiotics of theatre… [and] of cinema…’ (1977, 117), and this correlation enables film music theory to be employed as a way of identifying and articulating theatre music’s dramaturgical functions.
Of course, using theoretical material from one medium to analyse practical examples from another does present certain obstacles. These issues stem from the inherent differences between film and theatre. Firstly, the ephemeral nature of a theatrical text ensures that any study of its component elements will be somewhat speculative; a particularly pertinent problem in a thesis that focuses on theatre from a period which predates the establishment of modern reproduction techniques. As such, even in the rare cases where the dramatic text, annotated promptbook, musical score, stage floor-plan and contemporary accounts pertaining to a particular production are available, this information still only provides the skeletal remains of the complete theatrical work. This problem is succinctly explained by Davis as follows:
In theatre and performance history, the encounter with ‘gaps’ is a major conundrum of the discipline: the ephemerality of performance, especially performance before our lifetimes, means that surviving evidence, even a playscript, is but a poor imitation of an actor’s labor, let alone the combined efforts of actor, scenographer, orchestra, and stagehands.
(Davis, 2004, 203)
In contrast a filmic text remains relatively unchanged once it has been released and therefore provides a more complete record of the artistic work carried out by everyone involved in the project. Or to put it another way, although new technology, cinema facilities and financial factors may have an impact upon how a film is presented and received, the filmic text reveals more about how the screenplay was realised than a promptbook does about the production of a dramatic text. Consequently, the dramaturgical analysis of film music which draws on empirically determinable evidence can be used to inform how data from a less complete source could be interpreted. From a methodological perspective this process of reconstruction through superimposition shares procedural similarities with forensic anthropology. Scientists from this field combine their anatomical knowledge of modern man with what they can ascertain from human skeletal remains in order to recreate the specimen’s physical appearance. Similarly while historical research unearths the fragmented vestiges of theatrical texts, the significance of these finds and how they are interconnected may not be overtly apparent. However, when this material is compared with a complete cadaver from the same semiotic species the similarities and differences are exposed thereby allowing positive identification of key characteristics. As such, the corroboratory evidence found within the theories, methodological approaches and specialist vocabulary developed for the production and discussion of film music illuminates and establishes the semantic role completed by similar aural material used in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre.
The main problem with this approach is that although the similarities between the semiotic structures of these media may be invoked to support using filmic poetics to analyse theatrical poesis, it does not necessarily follow that meaning is equally transferable. Meaning is a mutable concept and liable to change during the passage of time. Moreover, the meaning inferred by a sign is dependent on our current cultural viewpoint and as such may be very different to the reading the sign would have elicited within its original cultural context. Therefore, the dramatic meaning a modern film audience draw from a particular musical application may differ considerably from the interpretation produced when a similar technique was used in a previous historical period. In order to tackle this issue, the semantic conclusions arrived at through contemporary filmic analysis are contextualised with accounts from practitioners and critics written during this era as well as historical factors that would have affected the meaning particular musical material produced.
There are various reasons why it is important to identify the antecedents of musical dramaturgy in film. However, the primary justification stems from the belief that music is a fundamental element of theatrical expression; a view which is reiterated in the following editorial from a late nineteenth century edition of Stage:
To say that music is the handmaiden of the drama sounds like anything but an original statement; indeed, there is a ring of familiarity in the words which almost induces us to put the usual indication of quotation against them. Perhaps it is not too much to say that were drama bereft of its handmaiden altogether, it would also have to submit to the loss of one of its sturdiest limbs.
(Stage, 16th September 1887)
Although this citation indicates that even in 1887 the integral role played by theatre music was appreciated and few modern critics would argue against the idea that musical material served and supported dramatic communication, the specific dynamics of this relationship remain relatively uncharted. Indeed, the basic answer to the question of why such an analysis is necessary is that a key dramaturgical component developed in theatrical productions during this period has not yet been academically explored in enough detail.
Most publications that discuss theatre sound do not adequately explore the dramaturgical functions which music can provide. This is probably because sound in the theatre is generally regarded as a technical matter rather than a theoretical one. As such, existing literature on the subject is generally in the form of practical handbooks for theatre sound designers (these include Collison, 1976; Waaser; 1976; Burris-Meyer, 1979; Finelli, 1989; Walne, 1990; Kaye and LeBrecht, 1992; Bracewell, 1993; Fraser, 1993; Palmer, 2000; Leonard, 2001). There are a few publications which provide historical accounts and musicological analysis of the music employed in the performance of nineteenth-century melodrama (Gardner, 1980; Preston, 1994; Pisani, 2004; Hibberd and Nielsen, 2003). Probably the most well-known academic to write on this subject is David Mayer and as such his work is referred to frequently in this thesis. In Mayer’s three key publications (‘Nineteenth Century Theatre Music’, 1976; ‘The Music of Melodrama’, 1980; ‘Four Bars of ‘Agit’’, 1983) the evidence and analysis provided introduces the argument that music’s role in nineteenth-century melodrama was both integral and complex. While the analysis carried out in this thesis has been greatly influenced and informed by Mayer’s research this project’s dramaturgical focus, semiotic analysis and connections with film will further develop how the subject is articulated and understood. Furthermore, Mayer’s work focuses on non-diegetic music in melodrama and does not consider the semantic significance of the diegetic accompaniments that were also used. Indeed, it is probably this fixed perspective which leads him towards the conclusion that when the modern dramas by playwrights such as Henrik Ibsen, H.A. Jones and A. W. Pinero became popular, dramatic action was no longer accompanied by live music: ‘[S]erious drama, call it melodrama or tragedy, was suddenly music-free’ (Mayer, 1980, 49). However, although the tenets of naturalism may have demanded the removal of non-diegetic underscoring (as its presence endangered verisimilitude), theatre music survived this transition. Theatre practitioners transposed the dramaturgical functions of non-diegetic music into a diegetic format; a transformation which both supported and operated within the naturalistic frame.
In place of publications that focus specifically on theatre music many of the principles discussed in this thesis have been drawn from academic studies of film music (these include Manvell and Huntley, 1975; Weis, 1982; Weis and Belton, 1985; Gorbman, 1987; Chion, 1994; Buhler, Flinn and Neumeyer, 2000; Donnelly, 2001; Kassabian, 2001). Of these works Claudia Gorbman’s book Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music (1987) occupies a seminal position in this thesis. However, while there are a few examples and references to theatre music in Gorbman’s publication, specific analysis of particular applications are not focused on in any detail. Therefore, although Gorbman asserts that ‘music has gone hand in hand with dramatic representation ever since the ancient Greek theatre’ (Gorbman, 1987, 4) there is very little evidence or analysis provided to support these statements. Similarly, Gorbman’s description of the music used to accompany theatrical melodramas is limited to the identification of clear-cut practical techniques, rather than complex theoretical principles (ibid, 34). Consequently, despite the fact that Gorbman frequently refers to the theatrical roots of film music, like many of her contemporaries she does not identify or explore these cross-media connections and functions. Of course this limitation is entirely justified as Gorbman’s publication was only intended to focus upon narrative film music rather than its theatrical equivalent. However, the examples and analysis provided in this thesis will draw on many of the principles Gorbman introduced and thereby bring about a fuller understanding of the musical techniques employed and developed to create narrative meaning in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre.
This thesis is divided into two main parts: ‘Non-Diegetic Music’ and ‘Diegetic Music’. These two terms draw a distinction between music which is presented as existing within the storyworld (diegetic) and that which emanates from an external position (non-diegetic). Neither of these designations refers to a specific technique, rather they are the titles of two different categories into which specific aural applications can be divided. In order to explore fully the range of dramaturgic purposes for which music of either type is utilised in the theatre this primary division has been broken down further in accordance with the specific functions of music in different contexts. Although these functional divisions are not mutually exclusive such compartmentalisation offers a degree of magnification, in terms of objectifying the specific dramaturgical functions of a piece of music within a given narrative context, that has not yet been explored by existing publications from the field of theatre sound.
Although the terms diegetic and non-diegetic are taken from mid-twentieth-century narrative theory they provide a distinction which is particularly useful in the analysis of late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre music (or indeed any music used in a theatrical production). This is because the diegetic or non-diegetic status of music has a direct affect on the meaning it produces. Pavis recognises the analytical importance of this division in the following statement:
The analyst’s first task is to establish how and where musical sources are produced…The decision to make musical sources visible, or on the other hand to conceal them, has significant repercussions in the determining nature of dynamic relations between music and the rest of the mise-en-scène… It is not only a matter of the emotional influence of the music on the theatre performance, but also the impact of the stage on the music and the ways it is perceived…These phenomena of mutual reinforcement are little understood, because rarely has there been any examination of what changes in perception of a text, a space, a gesture when they are “accompanied” (or rather “animated”) by a musical intervention…
(Pavis, 2006, 141.)
Even though Pavis does not actually use the terminology diegetic and non-diegetic, the above citation highlights three key factors that help to explain why the musical material discussed in this thesis has been divided into these two categories. Firstly, the location from which the music emanates is the first question that any analysis of theatre music needs to resolve. From this perspective, diegetic and non-diegetic are terms which refer to two conceptual positions; they indicate whether the music is inside or outside the storyworld. As such, distinguishing the material in this way essentially answers the initial question Pavis cites. Secondly, this distinction also alters the way the audience interpret both the musical material and the events it accompanies. For instance, if a protagonist performs a piece of music this activity will initiate readings based around their compositional choices, delivery, and other character’s responses that are simply not applicable to non-diegetic underscoring. Equally non-diegetic music produces responses and draws on conventions that are specific to this type of accompaniment. Therefore, it is both useful and practical to approach the two forms as separate entities and explore the dramaturgical functions of each. Finally, as Pavis points out, very little research has been carried out in this area (particularly with regard to diegetic music) and although the following thesis does not rectify the situation, it does contribute to a more detailed understanding of the relationship between theatre and music.
In the last decade there have been a few articles from theatre scholars on the use of music which focus on theory rather than technology (Franz, 2000; Thomas, 2001; Dean, 2007), however it is publications discussing film sound that provide the main body of work detailing concepts associated with musical dramaturgy. Furthermore, the growing field of film music theory and the modern medium’s cultural popularity has even led some writers on theatre sound to indicate that their discipline has developed from cinematic roots. For example, in Kaye and Lebrecht’s book, Sound and Music for the Theatre the authors give the following definition of musical underscoring for the stage: ‘[O]ne variation on pure realism is a cinematic form – a design that incorporates a strong sense of ambiance, employing lush and detailed underscoring (1992, 17). This sentiment and lineage is also supported in Palmer’s Essential Guide to Stage Management Lighting and Sound during which the author states this form of musical accompaniment is a technique ‘borrowed from the cinema’ (2000, 213).
These two examples illustrate a misconception that needs to be rectified before theatre sound can develop as a discipline in its own right. Put simply, by proving that late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre music completed the same dramaturgical functions subsequently employed in film shows that instead of imitating cinematic conventions theatre sound practitioners and theorists have their own rich heritage to draw from. However, this aspect is often ignored or over simplified as many published works either neglect to mention the theatrical roots of film music, or are somewhat derisory about the supposedly unsophisticated functions the earlier form of aural accompaniment performed (Cavalcanti, 1939, 103; Vardac, 1949, 38; Johnson, 1974, 167; Buhler, 2001a, 24). In addition, all the examples of theatre music discussed during this thesis were performed live thereby establishing that music’s ability to convey dramatic meaning relies on convention, context and composition selection, rather than advances in mechanical reproduction. As such, the semantic potential of musical dramaturgy is only limited by a practitioner’s imagination and not the medium they are working in or the technology available.
However, this thesis does not set out to crown theatre practitioners as musical dramaturgy’s original innovators and highlight the illegitimacy of alternative claims to its conception. Nor is the project’s purpose a rectification between the supposed supremacy of the recorded sound film and implied inferiority of live theatre music. Rather the synthesis of film sound theory and theatre music practice that informs the analytical method adopted means that this study is essentially interdisciplinary. Indeed, Condee’s definition of interdisciplinary studies which emphasises the important results this approach can yield also describes the rationale behind this thesis:
The goal of interdisciplinary studies […] is not just to look at the same objects from a new perspective (as valuable as that may be), but to examine new objects that have previously not been considered noteworthy or sufficiently related to the discipline, and to do so in new ways.
(Condee, 2004, 239)
From this viewpoint, the ‘objects’ that have not been ‘considered noteworthy’ are theatrical applications of musical dramaturgy and the ‘new way’ to examine them is provided by film sound theory. Thus, a new discipline borne out of film studies is used to invigorate a hitherto underdeveloped branch of theatre studies.
Another useful description which establishes the potential ramifications a similar historical investigation into film sound would produce is also equally applicable to the field of theatre sound:
Re-evaluating the role of sound in film history and according it its true importance is not purely a critical or historical enterprise. The future of cinema is at stake. It can be better and livelier if it can learn something valuable from its past.
(Chion, 1994, 142)
Therefore, just as a reconsideration of the historical relationship between sound and film leads to a new understanding of past practices which can be applied in the present, the same is achieved through an analysis of comparable musical techniques developed within the theatre. The significance of the research and analysis presented in this thesis as well as the purpose behind identifying how theatre music developed during a specified historical period extends beyond providing a survey and comparison of aural applications. In addition to establishing musical techniques, similarities and patterns across theatrical genres, historical periods and narrative media, this research expands the boundaries of a discipline specific vocabulary. This is not only significant with regard to how it develops and reorients current understandings of musical dramaturgy in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre, the research also establishes an analytical and discursive framework that can be adopted for future investigations into how aural signs were used during any period within any medium.
METHODOLOGY
2. A. Introduction
The analytical procedure adopted in this thesis is informed by current methodological approaches to the study of film sound which have established semiotics as one of the main forms of aural analysis. This project explores how meaning is created through the relationship between signs within an internally structured system of codes. Therefore, the approach is Structuralist in that the analysis seeks to identify how musical dramaturgy functions as a constitutional element within theatrical language, and Saussureian because the aural signs are regarded as being dyadic; consisting of a ‘signifier’ and a ‘signified’ (Chandler, 2002, 18). It should also be noted that Peirce’s semiotic modes (icons, indexes, and symbols) are occasionally referred to in this study, however these terms are only employed as a means of discussing specific musical functions rather than informing the core methodology.
In order to aid the following discourse and clarify the parameters of the specific signification system under scrutiny a flow chart detailing the semiotic process is included on page 12 (Fig. 1). The construction of this graphic representation is based on Eco’s ‘elementary structure of communication’ (1976, 32-3), however for the purposes of this study the general procedure he established has been developed in order to highlight the aural communication process under analysis. Section A focuses upon the material from which the aural signs and their dramaturgical significance can be identified. The primary source in this case is the dramatic text as it provides both narrative context and specifies the musical requirements. Section B represents the theatrical text which is essentially a specific interpretation of the dramatic text that has been realised in production. Consequently, the theatrical text cannot be regarded as a simple animation of the dramatic text, rather it is a complex filter which will inevitably suppress, minimize, alter and enliven certain elements of the dramatic text. As indicated in Fig. 1, the formation of the theatrical text will be conditioned by a number of interpretative and external elements that disrupt the transparency of the rendering process. However, while explicating every aspect of a play’s developmental journey between page and stage is not possible when dealing with late nineteenth and early twentieth-century productions, there are some sources available that reveal the theatrical text’s composition. Therefore, wherever possible relevant information has been gleaned from promptbooks, reviews and personal accounts detailing specific productions in order to form an accurate picture of how the dramatic texts under analysis were actually staged.
Once the aural material becomes audible in the form of a soundwave the sign is received and decoded by the audience in relation to the context within which it is used and framed. This final process is represented in Section C which charts the final assignation of meaning or meanings to the aural signifier. While this deciphering process may be partially informed by an individual spectator’s abstract and idiosyncratic associations with the sign and situation, the codes discussed in this thesis are drawn from a more hegemonic perspective and assume spectatorial competency. In this chapter each stage of this process will be discussed in detail.
2. B. Dramatic Text
When attempting to identify the dramaturgical techniques and principles employed in playmaking there are two types of text that can be studied; the dramatic and the theatrical. Elam offers a good definition of the main distinction between the two textual forms with the observation that the theatrical text is ‘produced in the theatre’ and the ‘dramatic text’ is ‘composed for the theatre’ (1980, 3). Or to put it another way, the dramatic text is the script created by the playwright and the theatrical text is the actual performance of that script. There have been many challenges levied at attempts to explore theatre semiotics through analysing dramatic texts, indeed some scholars advocate the virtual abolition of the practice and propose that valid results can only be attained by studying the theatrical text (see Zich, 1931; Honzl, 1976; Bettetini and de Marinis, 1978; Ruffini, 1978; Lehmann, 1989). From this perspective, the dramatic text serves a catalytic rather than a dictatorial role in the theatre making process during which written source material is adapted for performance in ways that do not directly correspond with the directions or dialogue penned by the playwright. However, others have adopted what Pavis calls a ‘textocentric’ approach to theatrical analysis and for these theorists ‘…the dramatic text is all and the stage a simple illustration, a rhetorical aspect to “season” the text’ (2006, 203-204: see Mounin, 1969; Ubersfeld, 1977; Fischer-Lichte, 1985; Bassnett, 1991).
The problem with this dispute is that seeking to establish which text is subservient to the other ultimately imposes an analytical grading system that segregates two interdependent areas of study. In order to resolve this issue Pavis makes the following proposal:
…to review the principle elements of contemporary Western Mise-en-scène, and to conceive of the most appropriate analytical methods, one should quite naturally reserve a select place for the dramatic text – without however prejudging its status inside the performance; here the text is conceived as being within the performance, rather than above or beside it.
(Pavis, 2006, 199)
Pavis’ approach avoids questions of hierarchy by adopting a more holistic outlook which does not favour one source over the other based on an external overriding principle. Instead, the type and validity of the research material used depends upon the particular productions under analysis and the subject matter studied.
As the title for this thesis indicates there are two key areas that will be discussed; musical dramaturgy and late nineteenth / early twentieth-century theatre. Musical dramaturgy is a form of signification inextricably connected with the relation of narrative. Whether music is used to create a particular atmosphere, punctuate a dramatic event or indicate an emotional response, the meaning produced relies primarily on the narrative context within which it is framed. Consequently, the dramatic text is a document of primary importance in an analytical process that seeks to identify theatre music’s dramaturgical contribution within certain given circumstances. Indeed, in their paper ‘Music in Melodrama’ Hibberd and Nielsen’s analysis establishes that key ideas about the intended function of musical material can be identified by studying the dramatic text. Firstly, they propose the play script (in this case Thomas Holcroft’s Tale of Mystery, 1802) reveals ‘[T]he way in which the writer envisaged the musical component while preparing his text, and the means by which the music, text, and physical gesture and movement were integrated…’ (2003, 31) and then go on to conclude that ‘the author of the play would have had a clear idea of how and where music might be involved…’ (ibid.).
Because this thesis focuses on a historical period that predates the invention or general availability of modern audio-visual technology there is no definitive record which would enable the theatrical text to be analysed. However, if the dramatic text is regarded as a blueprint for performance and parity between word and action is assumed then it is essential that the correct version, translation and adaptation of the play is matched with the corresponding theatrical text. As such, all the examples discussed in the following chapters adhere to this standard and have been drawn from three main sources; promptbooks, the Lord Chamberlain’s Plays and historically validated translations (information detailing which of these three categories the dramatic texts referenced in this thesis fall into is given in Fig. 2 on page 21). When these dramatic texts are referenced in the following chapters the year given in parenthesis relates to the play’s premiere rather than the date of the particular interpretation connected with source material cited.
Promptbooks are a resource which can help to bridge the gap between dramatic and theatrical texts as they often contain additional handwritten notes indicating cuts, alterations and stage management cues. While it would be ideal to base all research around these documents such a decision would seriously limit the number of plays that could be discussed as few promptbooks from this period have been preserved. Furthermore, it should be noted that the level of annotation differs greatly between promptbooks depending on who they belonged to. For instance, Henry Irving’s promptbook for his production of The Corsican Brothers is filled with numerous directorial instructions whereas William Cuthbert’s script for The Streets of London contains only cuts and line changes made to the scenes he appeared in.
Where no promptbook version of the dramatic text is available the play citations have been transcribed from the collection of manuscripts known as the Lord Chamberlain’s Plays. The Stage Licensing Act of 1737 and the 1843 Theatres Act required that all plays were submitted for governmental examination before being performed in a public theatre, and only once any censorship issues had been resolved would the Lord Chamberlain grant a licence. All the plays subjected to this legal process between 1824 and 1968 (the year in which a new Theatres Act abolished theatre censorship) are now held in the British Library. While these records may not provide extra information regarding the actual productions themselves, a high level of fidelity between the scripts in this collection and the performances for which the licence was obtained can be assumed because the play’s producers had a legal obligation to ensure that the theatrical text corresponded with the dramatic text submitted.
A few productions discussed during this thesis were performed without a licence and therefore the corresponding dramatic texts are not included in the Lord Chamberlain’s Plays. During the last decade of the nineteenth century a number of independent theatre groups funded by subscription membership schemes were set up to avoid the censorship process. Because the audiences for these productions consisted of private members rather than members of the public a licence from the Lord Chamberlain’s office was not required. As such, the script itself cannot be physically retrieved and studied. Fortunately, because the plays performed by these groups that are discussed in this thesis were written by foreign playwrights historical records can be examined to discover the specific translation used. Therefore, where necessary these versions have been cited.
To maintain a tight analytical focus specific boundaries have been placed upon the type of play discussed and the historical period during which it was performed. Firstly, the project is confined to theatrical productions that fall within a generic classification best defined as ‘Realistic Drama’; which in this context encompasses not only naturalism and verisimilitude, but also melodrama and spectacle. Although the generic terms realism and naturalism are often regarded as being interchangeable this custom conceals important differences between the two modes. Realism is essentially an effort to portray the aesthetic elements of a production in a way that mirrors reality. In contrast, though naturalism utilises many techniques associated with realism, practitioners working within this genre sought to imitate physical properties of the real world and replicate human behaviour patterns governed by science, society and situation. Historically the production of melodramas followed the tenets of realism, while modern drama was generally naturalistic. Nonetheless, while the plays themselves are rooted in realism with regard to narrative and mise-en-scène, the aural accompaniment often transcended these boundaries while simultaneously serving the dual role of reinforcing them. However, the relationship between stylistic conventions conceived to create a realistic environment and the music which accompanies such presentations is categorically altered in plays which adopt a non-realistic mode of delivery. Therefore, although theatrical movements such as expressionism, surrealism, and symbolism developed during the period studied in this thesis, the music employed in plays belonging to these genres and the principles it served should be the subject of a separate research project.
The melodramas referred to in this thesis comprise four typical ‘sensation dramas’ by Dion Boucicault: The Corsican Brothers (1852); The Colleen Bawn (1860); The Streets of London (1864) and The Shaughraun (1874), together with eight other highly successful melodramas penned by various playwrights: W. S. Foote’s Bitter Cold (1865); August Daly’s Under the Gaslight (1867); T. W. Robertson’s Caste (1867); Leopold Lewis’ The Bells (1871); Paul Meritt and Henry Pettitt’s British Born (1872); William Muskerry and John Jourdain’s Khartoum (1885); Augustus Harris, Cecil Raleigh, and Henry Hamilton’s Cheer Boys Cheer (1895) and Lew Wallace’s Ben Hur (1899). Many of the dramatic texts which can be classed as ‘naturalistic’ or ‘modern’ have been taken from Ibsen’s oeuvre: A Doll’s House (1879); The Wild Duck (1884); Hedda Gabbler (1890); The Master Builder (1892) and John Gabriel Borkman (1896). Two dramas by Anton Chekhov are also examined: Three Sisters (1901), The Cherry Orchard (1904) as well as two of G. B. Shaw’s plays: Heartbreak House (1919) and Back to Methuselah (1921). The two other playwrights whose work is discussed in this study are A. W. Pinero and H. A. Jones. During the nineteenth century both these dramatists enjoyed success with a number of melodramas they had written. However, as public taste turned from the melodramatic to the naturalistic Jones and Pinero followed suit by adopting an approach to playwriting and theatrical production more in keeping with this ‘new drama’. In both cases it is these later dramatic texts that have been focused upon in this study. These consist of Jones’ play The Dancing Girl (1891) and Pinero’s drama, The Second Mrs. Tanqueray (1893).
The plays analysed in this study have been chosen because they contain scenes that exemplify the techniques and principles of musical dramaturgy. Moreover, they provide paradigmatic examples rather than an exhaustive account of every play that incorporated music for dramaturgical purposes during the given historical period. Indeed, while research for this project has revealed that musical dramaturgy in some form or another can be found in literally hundreds of plays staged in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, the analysis conducted and references given have been restricted to the twenty seven listed above. Although even this pared down amount may seem somewhat excessive it is important to remember that this thesis does not discuss these plays in their entirety, but focuses on one dramaturgical element. However, as narrative context is particularly significant, relevant synoptical information has been included regardless of how well-known or obsolete the play may have become. In most cases the synopsis is given when the play is mentioned for the first time, but on some occasions narrative descriptions have been withheld because initial references and examination did not necessitate the delineation of such information.
Another restriction placed upon selection of dramatic texts for this project is their geographic origin. All of the plays discussed (except Under the Gaslight by August Daly which was originally an American production that later appeared on the London stage) are European. These plays either premiered or were revived between 1860 and 1926. During these sixty-six years music remained a live element of theatrical production, however from the 1930s onwards recorded sound began to replace its ephemeral aural counterpart. These historical boundaries also encompass an era throughout which the theatrical traditions and dramatic conventions of the early nineteenth century were challenged by the new modern dramas that would come to dominate the stage in the years that followed. From a musical perspective the changes in the relationship between music and drama that took place during this period are extremely important as non-diegetic underscoring played by an off-stage orchestra gradually gave way to diegetic accompaniments performed by on-stage characters.
2. C. Musical Dramaturgy
The plays discussed in the following chapters have been selected because they contain paradigmatic or innovative examples of musical dramaturgy. This distinction indicates that the analytical focus will centre on the role music plays in the presentation and communication of dramatic material, rather than considering aural accompaniment from a technical, compositional or mathematical perspective. Therefore, the musical applications identified cannot be analysed as independent communicative components because the dramaturgical functions they complete are inextricably linked to narrative context and performance principles.
Although no individual publication claims authorship, the term ‘musical dramaturgy’ is most frequently employed in the analysis of operas. Although this terminological combination may seem perfectly suited to the examination of a medium which is both musical and dramatic, in practice the dramaturgical component has been minimised and moulded into a branch of musicological analysis. For instance, most existing academic works that refer to musical dramaturgy focus on subjects such as: how Acts are divided into arias, duets, ensembles and choruses or ‘musical dramatic units’(Grey, 2000, 36; Grey, 2003, 333-334; Brown, 1995, 95-97), tonal connections between musical sections (Brown, 1995, 101), the libretto’s affect on the music (Girardi, 1995) and compositional similarities between the music associated with different characters (Chusid, 1998, 1545-1546). Indeed, this apparent bias towards musicology supports Landy’s proposition that the appropriation of dramaturgy was born out of necessity rather than suitability: ‘The worlds of music have unfortunately never found a word similar to dramaturgy to be used in its own context’ (2007, 36).
The solution to the problem Landy concisely articulates does not require the invention of a new term. Instead, the issue is neutralised by recognising that the focus of a study into musical dramaturgy depends on the medium under examination and music’s status within it. In his paper ‘The Dramaturgy of Italian Opera’ Dahlhaus explains how the concept of musical dramaturgy should be applied to operatic analysis:
…if we regard the affects, the emotions, and the emotional conflicts expressed musically onstage in the form of arias, duets, and ensembles as the “true” musical drama, dramaturgical analysis of an opera should not start with the way a narratable action is reflected in music. Rather, quite the reverse, it should try to show how an action constituted as a drama of affects, primarily by musical means, comes to be based on a story line…in order to take shape on a stage.
(Dahlhaus, 2003, 73-4)
However, the opposite relationship exists between music and drama in the theatre. Put simply, an opera without music is just a spoken poem whereas a play without music is still a play (see Van der Lek, 1991, 8). Therefore, the approach Dahlhaus identifies as being inappropriate for examining opera is perfectly suited to the analysis of theatre and although the terminology remains the same, from a methodological perspective dramaturgy comes before music. Consequently, the understanding of musical dramaturgy adopted in this thesis is an inverted reflection of its operatic counterpart. Indeed, the approach implemented is more in line with Adorno and Eisler’s study of film music (although not from a political perspective) which references the term only once, but provides the following equally applicable procedural description: ‘[T]he musical solutions will be examined here solely from the point of view of dramaturgy, not that of purely musical structure and material’ (1947, 15).
2. D. Extra and Intra-Dialogic Stage Directions
Information regarding musical styles, cues, and specific compositions is contained within most dramatic texts in the form of extra and intra-dialogic stage directions. The ‘extra-dialogic’ and ‘intra-dialogic’ prefixes have been taken from the work of Aston and Savona (1991, 76). Extra-dialogic stage directions refer to the instructions that are clearly separated from the dialogue in the dramatic text. In addition to re-enforcing dialogically established factors, the content of extra-dialogic directions can also be used to inform (and in some cases replace) the dialogue thereby negating the need for a verbal referent to communicate meaning. Whereas intra-dialogic stage directions are imbedded in the dialogue itself; a facet which either necessitates or replaces the need for a corresponding event to take place on stage.
Whether studying such instructions provides valid results is a question that goes to the heart of the dramatic text versus theatrical text debate. On one side is the argument that there is no guarantee these authorial requests were ever realised in production. Indeed, the rehearsal process often involves the removal, rearrangement, and replacement of the playwright’s original stage directions thereby creating a theatrical text tailored to the director’s artistic vision, the performance space and the available resources. However, while these considerations cannot be disregarded, neither can the important role played by stage directions in the conveyance of dramatic ideas. This conclusion is supported by Aston and Savona’s proposal that: ‘[If], in the context of theatrical practice, it is less than necessary to accord canonical status to stage directions, it is equally unproductive to reject them on a principle of directorial autonomy’ (1991, 125).
Though stage directions may not be realised in the theatrical text they are still an element of the dramatic text which demands an artistic response whether that is adaptation, extraction or substitution. Furthermore, while some stage directions that detail characters’ positions and stage décor may be open to interpretation, other authorial requests are often connected with key aspects of the narrative and if they were excluded the events that unfold, the protagonists’ behaviour, and the storyline itself could lose cohesion and comprehensibility. Issacharoff and Jones even propose that these instructions should be regarded as ‘potential speech acts’ that contribute to ‘the cohesion of the dramatic script’ by providing a ‘non-verbal metadiscourse’ which is subsequently realised in the theatrical text (1988, 5). In addition, even though the dismissal of all extra-dialogic stage directions contained within a dramatic text may be quite straightforward as they are already typographically separate, the removal of intra-dialogic stage directions would entail the deletion of dialogue. Inevitably this begs the question at what point do alterations to stage directions stop being minor modifications for dramatic purposes and become a complete reworking of the source material?
It is also important to take into account the theatrical conventions in place when the plays discussed in this thesis were performed. The concept of a director’s theatre only began to take hold in the last few years encompassed by the historical boundaries placed on this study. In the nineteenth century, theatrical productions sought to attain high levels of verisimilitude while following Scribe’s principles regarding the ‘well-made-play’ and it was the playwright’s job to compose a complete blueprint that would fulfil these requirements when the dramatic text was staged. This was not a theatre of deconstruction and post-dramatic ideals. Therefore, while some adaptation inevitably occurred when scripts were brought to life on stage, the complete reconfiguration or rejection of stage directions was not an extensive or pervasive practice.
|Play (and premiere dates) |Cited Text |Production |Theatre |
|The Colleen Bawn (1860) |Promptbook: W. Cuthbert |Sept 1860 |Royal New Adelphi |
|The Streets of London (1864) |Promptbook: W. Cuthbert |Aug 1864 |Princess |
|Arrah-Na-Pogue (1864) |Promptbook: D. Boucicault |Mar 1865 |Princess |
|Under the Gaslight (1867) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays |July 1868 |The Pavilion |
|The Bells (1871) |Published Promptbook: H. Irving |Nov 1871 |Lyceum |
|British Born (1872) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays |Oct 1872 |The Grecian Salon |
|The Shaughraun (1874) |Promptbook: W.E. Raynor |Sept 1875 |Drury Lane |
|Bitter Cold (1865) |Promptbook: W. Cuthbert |Dec 1878 |Prince of Wales |
|The Corsican Brothers (1852) |Promptbook: H. Irving |Sept 1880 |Lyceum |
|Khartoum (1885) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays |Mar 1885 |Sanger’s Grand National |
| | | |Amphitheatre |
|A Doll’s House (1879) |Translation: W. Archer |June 1889 |Novelty |
|The Dancing Girl (1891) |Published Promptbook: H. A. Jones |Jan 1891 |Haymarket |
|The Master Builder (1893) |Promptbook: E. Robins |Feb 1893 |Trafalgar Square |
| |Translation: W. Archer and E. Goose | | |
|The Second Mrs. Tanqueray (1893) |Promptbook: P. Campbell |Nov 1893 |St. James’ Theatre |
|The Wild Duck (1885) |Translation: W. Archer |May 1894 |Royalty (Independent Theatre |
| | | |subscription performance) |
|Cheer Boys Cheer (1895) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays |Sept 1895 |Drury Lane |
|John Gabriel Borkman (1896) |Translation: W. Archer |May 1897 |Strand (New Century Theatre |
| | | |subscription performance) |
|The Wild Duck (1885) |Translation: W. Archer |May 1897 |Globe (Independent Theatre |
| | | |subscription performance) |
|Ben Hur (1899) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays |Apr 1902 |Drury Lane |
|Hedda Gabler (1891) |Promptbook: P. Campbell |Mar 1907 |Royal Court Theatre |
| |Translation: Not Specified | | |
|Caste (1867) |Promptbook: P. Campbell |July 1909 |St. James’ |
|Heartbreak House (1920) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays |Oct 1921 |The Court Theatre |
|Peer Gynt (1876) |Translation: W. Archer and C. Archer |Feb 1922 |Old Vic |
|Back to Methulusah (1922) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays |Feb 1924 |The Court Theatre |
|The Cherry Orchard (1904) |Translation: G. Calderon |Jan 1925 |Oxford Playhouse |
|Ivanov (1887) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays |Dec 1925 |Garrick |
| |Translation: C. Garnett | | |
|Three Sisters (1901) |Lord Chamberlain’s Plays Garnett |Jan 1926 |Barnes Theatre |
| |Translation: C. Garnett | | |
Fig. 2 Play texts discussed
2. E. Theatrical Text
Although the dramatic text provides a blueprint for performance it is also necessary to attain a historically accurate understanding of the theatrical text in order to provide evidence that the playwright’s plans were realised. This can be achieved by cross-referencing dramaturgical mechanisms contained within the dramatic text against artefacts, instructions and theories which provide an informed picture of the theatrical text. The integrated analysis of these two sources follows a methodological formula developed by Ubersfeld (1977, 24) which does not reject the dramatic text over the theatrical text simply because there is no guarantee that the latter will reproduce the semantic equivalent detailed in the former when transferred to the stage. Ubersfeld concluded that although the dramatic text is incomplete it is often impossible to view the theatrical text, let alone perform close analysis upon it. Therefore, the theatre semiotician must consider a third type of text that fills the gaps between blueprint and performance. The process Ubersfeld (ibid., 24) recommends in her formulative approach is to identify the theatrical text (P) by combining a close reading of the dramatic text (T) with material detailing the ‘mediated text’ (T1): ‘T + T1 = P’. However, although Ubersfeld’s equation is theoretically sound it inevitably leads to further deliberation regarding the composition and identification of this ‘mediated text’.
The practical solution adopted in this thesis has been drawn from Nikolarea’s interdisciplinary approach to theatre translation. Nikolarea (1994, 82-217) recommends that an investigation into the inherent structure of the dramatic text should be conducted alongside historiographic research that provides extratextual, paratextual and peritextual evidence relating to the theatrical text. The historical material researched and referenced in the following chapters falls into two main categories. Firstly, there is information which relates to the conventions that characterised theatrical production during the period under analysis. This consists of primary evidence taken from contemporary accounts regarding musical procedures and other indirectly related practices as well as secondary academic research on the subject. The second type of material discussed has been gleaned from historical records that are directly connected with specific theatrical productions. These include reviews, letters and promptbooks. Therefore, although the complete reconstruction of the theatrical text is not possible, all available and relevant resources have been collected and studied to confirm or support theories regarding how the dramatic texts under analysis were realised in performance. All the plays discussed in this thesis have been entered into the chronologically arranged chart on page twenty-one which provides the following information; play titles, premiere dates, the source of the dramatic texts cited, the month and year of the British productions discussed, and the theatre in which they were staged.
2. F. Soundwaves
The physical composition of individual soundwaves is a topic that has been avoided in this study as such aspects are more aligned with musicological or biological research that attempts to identify the affects produced by sonic signs independent from their relationship with other aural and visual elements. However, although these considerations are not a focal part of the analysis, information regarding the pitch, key, timbre, and other performative elements are discussed in relation to particular compositions and stage directions where relevant. This approach is in keeping with Chion’s proposed method of ‘audiovisual analysis’ which concentrates upon the ways sound and image are combined within a particular scene or dramatic unit. Chion asserts that the first stage of this analysis should be factual and ‘avoid any symbolizing interpretation of a psychoanalytic, psychological, social, or political nature’ (1994, 198) as such interpretative conclusions can only be deduced after the initial descriptions have been established. As Chion advises (and as indicated in Sections A and B of Fig. 1) the approach adopted in this thesis primarily subjects the source material to a syntactical analysis which identifies different types of musical signs, their ordering, and relationship with other production elements.
2. G. Ears
When the dramatic text and its theatrical interpretation are presented the final product is received by the audience. Obviously musical information is heard with the ears, however as Waters succinctly points out ‘the listener… [is] an interpreter, not merely a receiver’ (1994, 134). Consequently, the reception of these integrated aural signs and the meaning attributed to them by the spectator is another contentious analytical area which will be discussed in the following sections.
2. H. Deciphering
The attribution of meaning is potentially open to infinite permutations within each individual’s mind. Although the precise reading each interpreter arrives at is undeniably subjective, Hall (1999) suggests that the actual decoding process can be divided into three main categories; hegemonic, oppositional and negotiated. Hegemonic readings assume that spectators decipher and accept the dominant meanings suggested by the selection and combination of specific signs in a given context. However, this interpretation may be analysed further and lead to the formation of an oppositional reading based upon an alternative, external frame-of-reference. In this scenario the intended hegemonic interpretation is recognised and subsequently rejected by the spectator who comprehends a more dissenting exegesis. Alternatively, the audience members may arrive at a negotiated reading in which the hegemonic code is identified and for the most part accepted. However, the perceived meaning will also be modified as a result of the individual’s social position, political beliefs and personal interests.
In this study the interpretive stance adopted is concerned with identifying hegemonic readings of the texts analysed for two main reasons. Firstly, as the two other types of reading depend upon the dominant meaning being identified before any subsequent oppositional or negotiated readings are formed the hegemonic reading has an impact upon both alternative interpretations. Secondly, although the particular meaning of an aural sign will incite differing audience responses depending upon their personal experiences, viewpoints and backgrounds, these idiosyncratic readings are not the primary purpose behind the dramaturgical techniques employed. Indeed, dramatic codes and conventions are essentially the language through which playwrights and directors communicate their intended meaning.
2. I. Codes
The spectator’s comprehension of hegemonic readings, preferred meanings and inclusion in shared perceptions are inevitably dictated by the individual’s familiarity with the codes used. With regard to dialogue this deciphering procedure is fairly straightforward. Providing the audience can speak the same language that the characters do, the meaning each word signifies will be clear. Or to put it another way, the material sound pattern and the abstract concept it refers to is transparent (Weedon, 1992, 178; Chandler, 2002, 18). However, even this elementary transmission of information is directly influenced by the other signs that accompany it. The performer’s vocal delivery, their physical behaviour, where they are positioned on the stage and the narrative circumstances which frame the statement all impact upon the audience’s interpretation of what is being said. From this perspective, the words may state facts, but only the context reveals truths. Nevertheless, the audience need to decipher the initial linguistic meaning as it is from this that they will shape their final reading based on the other signs that influence its interpretation. When this principle is applied to musical signs rather than words the problematic relationship between music and meaning becomes clear. Unlike words, in which sound pattern and concept are fixed and stable, music does not have an inherent semantic transparency. Pavis describes this semiotic characteristic in the following way: ‘[W]hereas signs in setting, or speech refer to given things, music has no object; thus it can mean anything, its value being measured above all in terms of the effects it produces’ (Pavis, 2006, 140-141). This sentiment is reiterated by Agawu ‘…the nonverbal essence of music has proved resistant to facile domestication within a verbal economy’ (2009, 4) and Tarasti: ‘…musical meanings are not lexicographic, but always depend on the context in which they appear’ (2002, 8). As such, when attempting to decipher musical codes the meanings of the signs are inextricably linked to the context in which they are heard. Gorbman proposes that when an audience attributes meaning to film music their reading is based upon their experience and understanding of three different semiotic factors: pure musical codes, cultural musical codes and cinematic musical codes (Gorbman, 1987, 13). The same interpretative procedure and semantic categories are also applicable to theatre music (although cinematic musical codes are replaced with theatrical musical codes). Pure musical codes are those which operate within the music itself. In order to decipher the independent semantic significance of a particular composition ‘a formal structural analysis of rational, tonal music organised by certain compositional regulations’ is required (Frith, 2007, 246). Although this form of encoding can only really be identified and explained through musicological analysis, the affects such aspects have on the listener may occur on a subconscious, psychological or even biological level (see Chanan, 1994, 81-110; Sousa, 2006, 221-223; Levitin, 2006).
Although music’s inherent emotive affects had a catalytic influence on the role it would serve within society, it is the repetition and realisation of these functions and associations within a cultural context that ultimately reinforces and stabilises the relationship between signifier and signified. For instance, the different locations in which particular compositions are played, the occasions and activities it accompanies, and the groups of people it is popular with, all condition the meaning associated with the music. Therefore, the development of cultural musical codes is dependent upon how different music styles or specific compositions are incorporated into society and experienced by the listener. One way these codes have been successfully transmitted, established and reiterated is through the combination of music and drama. Buhler proposes that most of the cultural musical codes (which he refers to as ‘style topics’) that feature in film music have been derived from ‘…theatrical music… nineteenth-century opera, programme music and incidental music’ (Buhler, 2001a, 24) However, Buhler also asserts that these codes were not actually formalised until musical material was allotted a specific meaning or function in the published compilations intended to aid and inform the underscoring of silent film:
…until the rise of the silent film, the cataloguing of style topics consisted mainly in a few musical rules of thumb to guide the composer in producing an effective sonic image of stock scenes: a storm, a battle, a Spanish folk dance, and so on. It was the musicians of the early silent film who codified the practice of style topics. Detailed catalogues such as Erno Rapee’s Encyclopedia of Music for Pictures (1925) and Hans Erdmann and Guiseppe Becce’s Allgemeines Handbuch der Fim-Musik (1927) derive their indisputable value and influence from the effective way the order the standard repertory according to rubrics such as ‘love theme,’ ‘storm’, ‘hurry’, ‘neutral’, ‘dramatic maestoso’, and so forth.
(Buhler, 2001a, 24)
In this statement Buhler overlooks the fact that a similar programmatic system of musical signification was employed in nineteenth-century melodrama (see pages 61-74). Indeed, it is generally accepted that musical conventions adopted to accompany silent film were based on the codes developed through theatrical presentation (Preston, 1994, 27).
On one level, the recognition and translation of these theatrical musical codes depends upon the audience members previous experiences in the theatre. Put simply, have they seen enough plays to know what these particular musical sounds are supposed to mean (Kassabian, 2001, 34). From this perspective, the ability to decipher the theatrical musical codes depends upon associative learning. Thus, if a particular dramatic scenario is repeatedly aligned with a certain musical style or effect the music will eventually come to represent the emotional content of the narrative events it accompanies. Of course, in practice and over time music’s dramaturgical meaning has become far more complicated. Firstly, certain responses are a result of Pavlovian conditioning. In these cases an otherwise neutral situation is presented alongside a semantically charged composition thereby provoking interpretations based on musical association rather than what actually takes place (Hibberd and Nielsen, 2003, 33). Indeed, the purpose of such accompaniments often has more to do with maintaining dramatic momentum or focusing audience attention than communicating meaning. Secondly, the cultural history and role of a particular composition may symbolically encapsulate or indexically correspond with themes, characters and situations featured within the narrative. Thirdly, musical meaning could be developed intra-textually through the establishment and repetition of motifs. Alternatively, musical codes might be used to guide the audience towards a reading that will later be exposed as incorrect, or parody existing theatrical and cultural musical conventions.
Although these interpretations draw on and combine different musical codes their meaning is ultimately governed by one internal and one external factor. Firstly, the meaning is regulated by narrative context. Whatever the musical codes may signify in their pure, cultural or theatrical form, once they are integrated into a narrative all the constituent elements used to communicate that story influence the resulting meaning. The same principle applies to film music as Gorbman succinctly points out: ‘[U]ltimately it is the narrative context, the interrelations between music and the rest of the film’s system, that determines the effectiveness of film music’ (Gorbman 1987: 12). Secondly, the comprehension of musical meaning is dependent upon the ways in which the listener has experienced music and the associations they have developed as a result. This process of empirical cataloguing enables the listener to become competent in translating musical codes and provides them with the necessary cipher from which they can decode the music’s meaning within any given context. Although each individual may form personal associations with a particular musical style or specific compositions, for the most part the meaning is directly dependent on culture. From a semiotic perspective culture refers to a shared conceptual system which allows communication and interaction between members of a particular society (Fiske, 1982, 3). For instance, the ability to participate in or decipher verbal communication requires reciprocal understanding of the language used. With regard to the interpretation of music Tarasti sets out the following parameters: ‘[I]t is those who share a similar cultural and educational background and who thus share a similar musical competence. Music as a sign cannot exist without the competencies necessary for understanding it as such’ (2002, 5-6).
The analysis carried out throughout this thesis adopts the theoretical viewpoint of a competent spectator experienced in deciphering the dramatic material discussed and willing to accept the hegemonic meaning conveyed. In reality, such audience members may not exist as a spectator’s actual experience of the different sign-systems at work will be subjected to an ever changing sub-conscious hierarchy. Or to put it another way, every audience member is an individual and will have a subjective interpretation of the stimuli they are presented with based upon their own unique experiences. However, while hegemonic readings are unlikely to be comprehended or accepted by each and every spectator whenever they are instigated this does not invalidate their study. This is because an individual’s subjective association with a specific sign (or even their occasional failure to decipher a particular reading) does not detract from the audiences overall ability to comprehend the meaning and function of aural material when it is presented in a narrative context.
Another factor that needs to be taken into consideration is that meanings are fluid and liable to alter over a period of time (Barry, 1995, 64). Therefore, if musical meaning is based upon cultural associations and theatrical conventions, when the culture or theatre changes the codes do as well. As such, when attempting to identify and analyse the use of musical dramaturgy in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century it is important that this factor is taken into account. In this thesis the dramatic texts studied and referenced have been selected from historically validated sources. Similarly, records such as promptbooks, reviews and letters that are intimately linked to the theatrical text are incorporated. Further information has been gleaned from both contemporary and modern commentators’ theories regarding the use of theatre music. In addition, where relevant inter-textual connotations derived from a composition’s cultural life prior to and during this period are also discussed. Although these measures do not entirely remove the speculative aspects of musical analysis they do structure it around a historically supported framework.
2. J. Meaning Potential
One of the most frequently referenced criticisms cited in relation to any textual analysis concerned with identifying meaning is Wimsatt and Beardsley’s (1954, 3-21) ‘intentional fallacy’ theory. The two critics use this term to describe the error of assuming that authorial intention and the meaning produced are the same. Furthermore, they propose that such an assumption will inevitably lead to pointless and often unsubstantiated speculation regarding the author’s private or idiosyncratic objectives. Instead, a close reading of the text itself should be carried out and the resulting information used as the basis for any interpretations regarding meaning. The analysis conducted in the following chapters adheres with this procedure and although some material pertaining to authorial intention has been included, such references perform a purely augmentative capacity as they support and/or further illuminate theories derived from other sources. In such cases the possible intent finds validity when it corroborates with evidence of content.
Another analytical perspective that has informed how this study interprets what is signified through musical dramaturgy are the four types of meaning Bordwell describes in his publication Making Meaning: Inference and Rhetoric in the Interpretation of Cinema (1989). The different categories Bordwell puts forward are Referential, Explicit, Implicit and Symptomatic. Referential meaning is produced by signs that encourage the audience’s acceptance of the storyworld by reinforcing believability and verisimilitude. However, as Bordwell explains, the types of signs which operate within this category are not restricted to those which are directly or indirectly associated with the production and medium under analysis: ‘[I]n constructing the film's world, the spectator draws not only on knowledge of filmic and extrafilmic conventions, but also on conceptions of causality, space and time and on concrete items of information’ (1989, 8-9). Explicit meaning on the other hand is created when an easily recognised signification system is used to concentrate the audience’s attention upon a particular occurrence as a means of facilitating a particular reading. For instance, when the audience hear someone knocking at a door they inevitably consider who might be behind it and focus upon the imminent entrance. Furthermore, explicit meanings may be developed within the narrative itself that generate symbolic readings which are either specific to the production in question or take advantage of established, cultural conventions. While these first two communicative methods unambiguously direct audience understanding towards a particular reading, the remaining two terms refer to more opaque and subtle methods of dramaturgical semiosis hidden within the text. Implicit meaning is inferred by signs that foster symbolic readings which are not made overtly apparent through narrative exposition. In contrast, symptomatic meanings are involuntary and relate to authorial obsessions, psychoanalytical traits, or the social and cultural values surrounding the piece of work.
Referential and explicit meanings are relatively clear as they have a definite dramaturgical function which requires audience comprehension and therefore usually involves the adoption of mandatory, conventional or traditional signifying systems. In contrast, implicit and symptomatic meanings are less transparent and produce more speculative readings; a factor which Bordwell explains as follows: ‘[I]f explicit meaning is like a transparent garment, and implicit meaning like a semiopaque veil, symptomatic meaning is like a disguise’ (ibid., 8-9). Though this makes it very difficult to determine definite fixed meanings the potential semiotic value of the signs used and combined in a play or film can still be established and discussed. As Leeuwen explains, the sign’s position within a given dramaturgical context and culture enables the analyst to justifiably identify ‘meaning potential’ without being restricted by the consideration of mandatory, conventional and concrete communicatory codes: ‘[W]hen I try to formulate the semiotic values of the ‘choices’, I do not provide a code, with definite and fixed meanings, but a meaning potential which will be narrowed down and coloured in the given context’ (1999, 10). From this perspective, the dramatic and theatrical texts discussed over the following chapters provide a record of the musical choices made by practitioners involved in producing particular plays. The dramaturgic significance of such decisions has been explored by considering the potential meanings these musical signs carry within a given narrative, theatrical and historical context.
In this chapter the methodological framework within which the research has been carried out is clearly outlined as well as the limitations, criticisms and precautionary measures necessary to maintain objectivity when completing this type of project. It has also been established that extra and intra-dialogic stage directions recorded in the dramatic texts discussed are the primary information source on which the research and analysis is based. These findings are supported with historical information and existing academic material which corroborates the theories put forward and develops a detailed understanding of how musical signs create dramatic meaning. Although this study will inevitably be somewhat speculative and interpretational, such aspects do not invalidate the approach adopted. These limitations have been accounted for and the combination of sources provides enough information to construct an accurate picture that details how, when and why particular musical approaches were adopted by late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre practitioners. Therefore, while such research cannot provide incontrovertible, concrete readings generated by a transparent signification system, the following analysis does identify numerous examples of meaning potential which this thesis contends would have probably been realised in performance.
CHAPTER 3: NON-DIEGETIC MUSIC
3. A. Introduction
‘Non-Diegetic Music’ refers to music that an audience perceives as emanating from a position outside the diegesis or story world (Stam, et al. 1992, 61). The coining of this term and its antonym is often accredited to Claudia Gorbman who gave the following definition in her book Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music:
Music enjoys a special status in filmic narration. It can be diegetic (musicians can play in the story, a radio can be on) – in the trade this is called source music – or nondiegetic (an orchestra plays as cowboys chase Indians on the desert).
(Gorbman, 1987, 3)
Although Gorbman’s examples concisely identify and distinguish these two types of aural accompaniment, the descriptions she provides should not be perceived as relating to two diametrically opposed approaches that are only applicable to film music. Instead, diegetic and non-diegetic are both umbrella terms which encompass a plethora of interrelated musical techniques employed in the presentation of narrative media. Numerous publications on the subject of film sound briefly reference a genealogical connection between the use of non-diegetic music in nineteenth-century melodramas and the basic principles adopted in cinematic underscoring (see Gorbman, 1987, 33-4; Manvell and Huntley, 1975, 16-9; Williams, 1992, 133-34). However, the use of ‘melodrama’ as a titular abstraction referring to a specific type of drama was more of a terminological promotion from technique to genre than an etymological birth.
Before emerging as a genre the portmanteau combination of the Greek for song [melos] and the French for drama [drame] had previously referred to a technique employed in operatic composition which required the singer to speak their lines either in-between or during short musical passages (Sadie, 1980, 116). The first documented production to rely exclusively on melodrama as a musical technique was Rousseau’s Pygmalion which premiered in 1770. Although the composer described this composition as a scene lyrique its dramaturgical construction (which basically consists of a dramatic monologue delivered over a musical accompaniment) is better reflected in Rousseau’s own early definition of melodrama:
[Melodrama is]…a kind of drama in which words and music, instead of accompanying each other, are heard successively, and in which the spoken phrase is somehow announced and prepared by the musical one.
(Rousseau, 1766, 208)
Rousseau’s innovation gradually initiated and inspired a renaissance for this technique which gradually culminated in the birth and popularisation of melodrama as an operatic genre. Five years after Pygmalion Benda completed two melodramas, Medea (1775) and Ariadne auf Naxos (1775), the first of which is discussed by Mozart in the following review he wrote to his father:
[There is] no singing…only recitation, to which the music is like a sort of ‘obbligato’ accompaniment to a recitative. Now and then words are spoken while the music goes on, and this produces the finest effect.
(Mozart, 1778 cited in Anderson, 1938, 937)
Mozart’s praise and recommendation of what was then a novel technique continues throughout the letter which includes the composer’s observation that, ‘most operatic recitatives should be treated in this way — and only sung occasionally, when the words can be perfectly expressed by the music’ (ibid.).
In the following century Beethoven utilised the dramatic effect of mixing music with the spoken word in the second Act of his opera Fidelio (1805) and four years later he was commissioned to compose the incidental music for Goethe's Egmont (1787) by the Burgtheater of Vienna. What is particularly interesting about the relationship between Goethe’s play and Beethoven’s incidental music is that parts of it were composed in accordance with stage directions included in the dramatic text which make reference to non-diegetic music. A good example of this occurs towards the end of the play when the imprisoned Egmont falls asleep and the following action takes place:
Egmont: … (He lies down – Music.)
Sweet sleep! Thou comest like good fortune, unbidden, unentreated. Thou loosest the knots of stern thought, and minglest together all images of joy and grief. Unhindered, the circle of internal harmony flows on, and wrapped in a pleasing frenzy, we sink down and cease to be.
(He sleeps; music accompanies his slumber. Behind his couch the wall appears to open and discovers a glittering apparition. Liberty in a celestial garb, surrounded by a glory, reposes on a cloud. …She bids him to be of good cheer, and thus signifying to him that his death will give freedom to the provinces, acknowledges him as conqueror, and extends to him a crown of laurel. Martial music, with drums and fife, is heard at a distance, and at the first sound, the apparition disappears. The noise increases - Egmont wakes - the prison is partially lighted by the dawn – he stands up and looks around.)
(Goethe, 1787, 148)
The detail provided by Goethe in the dramatic text indicates a somewhat different relationship between the incidental music that was later composed to accompany Shakespeare’s plays by the likes of Mendelssohn, Schubert, Liszt and Tchaikovsky. This is because Goethe’s aural stage directions establish his clear intention to use non-diegetic (and diegetic) music as a dramaturgical element in his work whereas the scores written to accompany Shakespeare’s plays in the nineteenth century had no such justification. Although the conventions of Elizabethan and Jacobean theatre would have doubtlessly led to the use of non-diegetic music in the original performances of Shakespeare’s plays, the folios themselves contain no such directions. Goethe’s dramatic text includes clear instructions to the composer regarding the type of accompaniment required in the narrative context presented, the necessary duration of the composition, the visual images it will accompany, and the point at which the non-diegetic theme will be supplanted by diegetic music. Indeed, from this perspective Egmont appears to be a forerunner of the melodramas discussed in this thesis as the playwright himself issues specific aural instructions and in doing so displays an awareness of musical dramaturgy.
By the nineteenth century, melodrama had moved away from its operatic roots and developed into a popular theatrical genre characterised by a highly emotive mixture of non-diegetic music and dramatic action. As Mayer (1976, 115; 1980, 49) points out, theatre historians had assumed that melodrama’s ascendancy during this period was initiated by the introduction of a legal requirement to British licensing laws which prohibited all theatres (apart from Drury Lane, Convent Garden and the Haymarket) from presenting ‘straight drama’ (also see Hibberd and Nielsen, 2003, 30). This statute stipulated that all theatrical performances included five musical items or a musical accompaniment in each Act (see Booth, 1991, 151). Thus, in order to overcome these restrictions theatres introduced large amounts of music into their dramatic presentations, and when the law was finally revised in 1843 orchestral accompaniment had become an accepted and integral part of popular theatre. The fact that the use of music in the theatre before the law was changed can be interpreted as a legal requirement rather than an artistic component has to some degree informed the manner in which this form of aural accompaniment is regarded. Firstly, it presents the idea that these laws were followed somewhat begrudgingly and rather than fully integrating this component into a production the musical material was kept as basic as the law would allow. Secondly, because the law affected large and small theatre companies alike, it may be presumed that while the bigger, richer theatres had the financial means to employ a full orchestra, the minor theatres would have done without such an expensive ensemble. However, neither of these viewpoints take into account the fundamental role played by music in the writing and staging of melodrama and other forms of theatre produced during this period. The idea that the musical accompaniment to these plays was dictated by law and economics, being used only to avoid prosecution and configured in relation to a particular theatre’s budget, suggests that it was a supplementary aspect of nineteenth-century theatre production rather than an essential element of the dramatic form.
Unfortunately, such presumptions have led many experts from associated fields of study and practice to propose that the incorporation and artistic validity of non-diegetic music relies upon recording technology and cinematic innovation. For instance, Kaye and Lebrecht clearly align artistic musical designs for the theatre with a plethora of modern audio devices:
With reel-to-reel tape recorders, cassettes, CD’s, synthesisers, samplers, computers, and high-quality speakers now technologically and economically accessible, the sound designer can give a high level of sophistication to the music and sound for productions. There are now many choices of how best to execute the design…
(Kaye and LeBrecht, 1992, 8)
The above statement presents the idea that before this technology became available theatre music was less sophisticated and extremely restricted in terms of design. Although this may have been true of the ‘panatropes’ (an early form of record player that was used in the presentation of theatre and film) that the reel-to-reel tape recorders replaced, the same criticisms do not apply to live theatre music. This is because the semantic complexity of live theatre music depends on how the playwright or director dramaturgically integrates musical material as well as the skill of the composer and the musicians employed.
A more worrying anachronism is published in Palmer’s guide to stage management, lighting, and sound in the theatre which informs readers that the technique of ‘underscoring’ is ‘borrowed from the cinema...’ (. I2000, 213). Similarly, Peter Hall’s preface to a collection of incidental music used in Victorian and Edwardian melodrama begins by acknowledging music and drama’s important historical partnership and the vital role played by theatre music during the specified period. However, he goes on to suggest that the complexity and semantic capacities of this audio-visual relationship were not realised until the arrival of the sound film:
Music has always increased an audience’s perception, and made their understanding more acute. Victorian and Edwardian melodrama depended very much on music to sustain the huge popular audience’s attention and to guide them into richer areas of feeling. When the miracle of the movie picture arrived, it was natural that the actions on the screen should have accompanying music of the right atmosphere. And when the movies began to talk, the musical accompaniment became richer and more sophisticated.
(Hall, Preface to Mayer and Scott, 1983, v)
Although Hall begins by extolling the role of music in melodrama his concluding reference regarding cinematic soundtracks reiterates the commonly accepted idea that the relationship between drama and music only realised its full potential when sound could be recorded and synchronised with filmic images.
The first academic to highlight non-diegetic music’s artistic importance in nineteenth-century theatre was David Mayer who concluded that numerous assumptions held about underscoring were misinformed:
We have too readily accepted as definitive J.R. Planche’s assertion that it was once necessary ‘for piano to be kept tinkling in the orchestra throughout the representation of a tragedy or comedy.’ With this acceptance we have also condoned the implications that music was forced on the Minor theatres by a law both harsh and insensitive to aesthetic considerations and that the tinkling piano represented minimum compliance with an offensive act. On the contrary, there is now ample conflicting evidence that musical accompaniment was desirable and that orchestration was elaborate whenever a management could afford it.
(Mayer, 1976, 115)
Mayer continued his research into music and melodrama and four years later published another article on the subject, once again finding that the commonly held assumptions about this generic form were incorrect:
[T]he minor’s as well as the patent theatres employed and enjoyed accompaniment from full pit-orchestras rather than infrequent and unwished for chords struck from untuned pianos. Nowhere is the use of musical accompaniment more pervasive and continuous, from ten years before the start of the nineteenth-century until well after the First World War, than in melodrama.
(Mayer, 1980, 49-50)
A more recent study of theatre music during this period published by Michael Pisani in 2004 reaffirms Mayer’s conclusion and calls into contention the theory that non-diegetic underscoring was often provided by a single piano:
Although piano accompaniment was common in the early part of the nineteenth-century, I have found no evidence that a piano formed part of the professional Victorian theatre orchestra. Allardyce Nicoll noted ‘the tinkling of a piano.’ Although he didn’t specify his sources. Later in the century there are piano reductions for some of Irving’s productions at the Lyceum, Tree’s at Her Majesty’s, and Belasco’s in New York. But these were presumably used only in rehearsal as these three directors tended to use, if anything, larger orchestras.
(Pisani, 2004, 81)
While Pisani’s findings do not offer conclusive proof, they do provide further support for Mayer’s theories and are in-keeping with the idea that the relationship between music and theatre has continually evolved alongside the development of the medium itself. Therefore, it is apparent that while the legal requirements during this era may have, in some instances, been upheld with brief and simplistic musical interjections, on the whole the partnership between non-diegetic music and melodrama was not borne out of duress.
3. B. Composition Design and Standard Execution
Before identifying the various functions performed by live theatre music during the era under analysis and the extent modern film sound theory reveals the semantic purpose behind such applications, it is important to establish how the musical aspects of a theatrical production were approached by late nineteenth and early twentieth-century practitioners. The musical material used in the theatre during this period generally fits into one of the following four categories (see Mayer, 1980, 51-3; Preston, 1994, 26-7; Pisani, 2004, 76-77; Vardac, 1949, 209):
|a) An ‘original score’ that has been specially commissioned for the play. |
|b) A ‘compilation score’ consisting of pre-existing music which was originally composed for another purpose. |
|c) An accompaniment made up of stock musical phrases known as ‘melos’. |
|d) An ‘improvised musical response’ to the action on stage. |
Fig. 3 Categories of late nineteenth and early twentieth-century musical accompaniment
The four alternative approaches to sourcing theatre music listed in the table above may also be interpreted as following a sliding scale which indicates the perceived importance, complexity and precision of the aural accompaniment employed. Thus, the descent from original compositions to borrowed arrangements, stock phrases and unrehearsed interjections also reflects a decrease in the music’s quality and suitability. However, the semiotic analysis in this chapter will establish that such a conclusion is neither obvious nor correct when these techniques are considered in relation to the theatrical sign system within which they were applied.
The composition of entirely new musical material purposefully designed as an accompaniment for the visual images, dramatic action and spoken dialogue featured in a specific production is a process that has been frequently connected with Classical Hollywood cinema (see Kassabian, 2001, 2; Gorbman, 1987, 70-98; Bordwell, 1985, 33-5). Expectations regarding the composition of original music to accompany a film are that this process will produce a musical soundtrack that resonates in accordance with narrative themes, dramatic structure and character perspective as well as complementing the other aural and visual elements within the mise-en-scène. In addition, the composer’s credentials and reputation may also act as a mark of quality which elevates the production’s status and attracts audiences. Like many other musical characteristics associated with Classical Hollywood cinema this predication towards an especially composed soundtrack was shared by nineteenth-century theatre practitioners and as such there are numerous examples of original scores being commissioned for a play’s première or revival.
As the musical components from a number of Ibsen’s modern dramas will be analysed in detail during the second half of this thesis it is fitting to begin this study by considering the playwright’s instructions regarding the musical accompaniment for Peer Gynt (1867). Although the play was initially only intended to be read, nine years after it had been written Peer Gynt premiered in 1876 accompanied by Edvard Grieg’s suite of the same name. The first record of this collaboration between the playwright and composer is a letter in which Ibsen invites Grieg to write the music for the production. However, in addition to this request Ibsen also provides detailed directions specifying precisely which sections require musical accompaniment as well as describing the type of music he envisages and its intended effect:
Peer Gynt’s monologue on pages 23, 24, and 25, I wish to have treated either melodramatically or in part as a recitative. The wedding scene in the house (pages 28) must, by means of a ballet, be made into something more than is in the book. For this purpose a special dance melody will have to be composed, which is to be continued softly to the end of the Act. In the Second Act, the musical treatment of the scene with the three Saeter girls…must be left to the discretion of the composer – but there must be devilry in it! The monologue on pages 60-62 should, I think, be accompanied by chords, in melodramatic style, as also the scene between Peer and the Green-clad One, pages 63-66…The scene with the Boyg, which is to be given in full, must also be accompanied by music; the Bird-Cries are to be sung; bell-ringing and psalm-singing are heard in the distance.
In the Third act I need chords, but not many for the scene between Peer, the Woman, and the Ugly Brat, pages 96-100; and I imagine that a soft accompaniment would be appropriate from the beginning of page 109 to the foot of page 122.
Almost the whole Fourth Act is to be omitted at the performance. In place of it I think there should be a great musical tone-picture to suggest Peer Gynt’s wandering all over the world; American, English and French airs might occur as alternating and disappearing motives. The chorus of Anitra and the girls, pages 144 and 145, is to be heard behind the curtain, in combination with the orchestra. During this music the curtain is raised, and there is seen, like a distant dream picture…in which Solveig…sits in the sunshine outside her house. After her song the curtain is again slowly lowered, the music continuing, but changing into a suggestion of the storm at sea with which the Fifth Act opens.
The Fifth Act…must be considerably shortened. A musical accompaniment is needed from pages 195 – 199… On page 221 Solveig sings and the music continues, accompanying Peer Gynt’s speeches and changing into that required for the choruses, pages 222-225…On page 254, the people on the way to church sing on the forest path; bell-ringing and distant psalm singing are suggested in the music played during what follows. Then Solveig’s song ends the play; and whilst the curtain is falling, the psalm singing is heard again, nearer and stronger.
Theses are my ideas. Will you let me know if you are willing to undertake the task? If I receive a favourable answer from you, I shall write at once to the Management of the Christiana Theatre…to make sure, before we go any further, that our play will be performed.
(Ibsen, 1874, 270-71)
Both the length and specificity of Ibsen’s musical vision for this project clearly indicates the important role Grieg’s compositions were intended to play in this production. Indeed, Ibsen’s reference to ‘our play’ suggests that the theatrical adaptation proposed would be more of a joint collaboration between playwright and composer thereby further underlining the vital contribution he envisaged the music would make.
The language Ibsen employs reveals his understanding of musical techniques and their theatrical applications as well as suggesting that the production would adopt compositional approaches more commonly associated with opera. Firstly, Ibsen expresses his desire for Peer Gynt’s first monologue to be performed ‘melodramatically’ or as a ‘recitative’, both of which indicate the way in which the dialogue and music should be combined. In this context, the term ‘melodramatically’ does not relate to either a theatrical genre or a histrionic acting style, instead it describes an operatic device which features a spoken libretto accompanied by music (see pages 33-4). Similarly a ‘recitative’ is another technique associated with opera which refers to moments where the singer adopts rhythms and inflections of speech when vocalising sections of the libretto between arias (Randel, 2003, 707).
The next instruction requires a shift from music with a vocal accompaniment to a score which accommodates the performance of a choreographed ballet. In the dramatic text this section of the play follows Peer Gynt’s arrival at a wedding party as the guests dance to the music provided by a single on-stage fiddler (Ibsen, 1876, 29-49). Peer is shunned by all the girls he attempts to dance with before being goaded and mocked by the partygoers until he finally kidnaps the bride. By turning this scene into a ballet Ibsen adopts a more stylised approach to communicating these events which relies on movement rather than dialogue. As such, this request suggests that the composition would provide not only the necessary melodic and rhythmical impetus for the physical action, but also that it should attempt to relay the narrative in musical terms. The directions for the second and third Act invite Greig’s interpretation and therefore Ibsen provides very little compositional direction. However, the amount of text covered in the page numbers Ibsen gives makes it clear that large swathes of the action and dialogue were intended to have a musical accompaniment. Furthermore, it is interesting to note that the stage directions in Ibsen’s dramatic text relating to Peer’s encounter with ‘the Boyg’ (also described as a ‘voice in the darkness’) takes place in ‘pitch darkness’ (ibid., 83). Therefore, as all visual stimuli is removed the atmosphere created, the characteristics afforded to the Boyg, and the manner in which the audience interprets the events that unfold rely upon the communicative qualities present in the dialogic delivery and the musical material.
This reliance upon musical signification is further increased by Ibsen’s decision to replace the fourth act with a tone-picture. In the dramatic text this is the longest act, during which Peer is deserted on the Moroccan coast, battles with ‘a swarm of monkeys’ (ibid., 143) passes himself off as a prophet, travels to Egypt, is appointed the director of a lunatic asylum, and is finally crowned ‘Self-hood’s Kaiser’ (ibid., 192). Geographically speaking, this series of events take place in northern Africa, however during the first scene Peer discusses his previous travels with characters from America, France, Germany and Sweden. During this dialogue it is established that since leaving Norway Peer has made his fortune as a merchant trader exporting ‘negro slaves for Carolina, and idol-images for China’ (ibid., 126). Therefore, rather than staging the dramatic text Ibsen requests a composition which signifies that in-between Act III and V Peer has travelled the globe. In order to convey this Ibsen suggests that Grieg includes existing pieces of music conventionally associated with the particular countries mentioned. The form of inter-textual reference Ibsen describes not only conveys the various global locations visited by the main protagonist, but the fact that these musical phrases ‘occur as alternating and disappearing motives’ (1874, 270) also communicates the idea that Peer has repeatedly travelled from one location to another; a process in keeping with his chosen profession.
Ibsen then describes a musical effect in which non-diegetic music is performed alongside a diegetic chorus before providing a sound bridge between the ‘tone picture’ and the beginning of Act V, at which point the composition should morph into a musical representation signifying a tempestuous sea. Similar segueing techniques are also suggested for the final act. For instance, the music accompanying Solveig’s song continues during Peer’s monologues before transforming into a composition that corresponds with what Ibsen refers to as ‘the choruses’ (ibid., 271). Although it is reported that Ibsen was not completely satisfied with the score Grieg produced, the instructions contained in the letter cited are a testament to his understanding of musical dramaturgy. In addition, Ibsen’s post-production observation that the incidental music ultimately, ‘sugared the pill so that the public could swallow it’, (1876 cited in Watts, 1966, 16) suggests that he perceived the extent to which music could compel an audience’s concentration and perception; in this case rendering the difficult themes of the play more comprehensible, engaging, and emotionally immediate.
It was not until 1922 that Peer Gynt appeared on a British stage. Details regarding this production reveal two facts connected with the musical accompaniment used. Firstly, the cast list indicates that Act IV was performed in accordance with Ibsen’s dramatic text rather than following the playwright’s idea of using a ‘great musical tone-picture’ (Ibsen, 1874, 270). Secondly, the music composed by Grieg for the first production of the play also accompanied this British version. Over the decades that passed between the 1876 and the 1922 staging Grieg’s music had become popular in its own right. Therefore, when both appeared together for the first time on a British stage the pairing inevitably became the subject of speculation. However, the reviews prompted by this production claim that that despite reservations the coupling proved to be a resounding success:
…misgivings were proved uneccesary... Grieg's music, which had been adapted and was directed by Mr. Charles Corri, is now of concern only in its relation to the action on the stage. And the more familiar one is with both the play's text and with the music in its independent renderings, the more remarkable must appear the mutual strengthening of dramatist and composer when their work is given together.
(The Times, 7th March, 1922, 10)
Using familiar musical compositions to accompany theatrical productions is a subject discussed later in this and other chapters, but it is worth noting the unique combination described above. In a sense the music had come full circle. It was originally composed to accompany the staging of a text that the playwright conceived as a dramatic poem rather than a play. Then the music took on a life of its own and most people experienced it as a separate entity. Finally, almost fifty years later Grieg’s composition and Ibsen’s script were reunited in a London theatre and by this point both the composer and the playwright had become revered practitioners of their respective art-forms.
One of the most influential theatre practitioners during the nineteenth century was Henry Irving. In addition to being a celebrated actor/manager he also understood drama and music’s synergistic relationship and was an important advocate of commissioning original music for theatrical productions. Irving’s approach is exemplified in his employment of Sir Julius Benedict to compose a score for his 1882 production of Romeo and Juliet. Benedict was a well-known composer and conductor who had written a number of successful operas (the most popular being an adaptation of Boucicault’s melodrama The Colleen Bawn entitled The Lily of Killarney in 1862), various overtures, piano concertos and a symphony. Furthermore, Benedict had been the musical director of English Opera, firstly at the Lyceum and later at Drury Lane during the 1830s and 1840s. By employing a composer with Benedict’s skill and status Irving clearly signalled his intention to elevate the role of theatre music from mere accompaniment. Indeed, Benedict’s attachment to the production would not only utilise his operatic expertise, but also endow Irving’s interpretation with a certain amount of cultural prestige. This viewpoint is succinctly summed up by Bram Stoker who observed that through involving Benedict ‘not only would the play as a whole benefit enormously, but even its business aspect [would] be greatly enhanced by the addition of the new strength’ (1906, 95).
The impact of Benedict’s contribution is evident in the reviews that were printed following the first performance. For instance, Clement Scott commented that ‘the music of Sir Julius Benedict increases in charm with familiarity’ and gave particular attention to the music which played at the opening of Act IV, scene 4 (while the Nurse attempted to wake Juliet on the morning of her wedding) noting that it was a ‘number of special excellence and grace’ (1896, 244). In addition, the theatre critic for Era singled out the composition which accompanied the last three scenes of the play and described it as follows:
When the dialogue in Friar Laurence’s cell ended… A slender thread of mournful melody from stringed instruments sustained the continuity ... [then] from the churchyard came the voices of the friars chanting in measured cadence the prayers for the dead…The curtain slowly descended; the play was finished.
(Era, cited in Vardac, 1949, 98-99)
The music also received some attention in Percy Fitzgerald’s account of Irving’s production during which he stated that: ‘[N]ot the least pleasurable part of the evening was the romantic music, written in a flowing tender strain by Sir Julius Benedict, full of juvenile freedom and spirit, thoroughly Italian in character, and having something of the grace and character of Schubert’s Rosamunde’ (1893, 185). Although these reviews only briefly reference Benedict’s music (in contrast to the numerous pages that describe and dissect the acting and scenery) it is clear that the composer’s contribution was regarded as being entirely positive by the critics. Furthermore, the combined comments contained in the reviews also give some clear indications of the music’s role within this production.
While Scott’s references to Benedict’s score only establish its overall charm and quality, analysis of the other two reviews is far more revealing. From the account given in The Era it is clear that the musical example referred to had four main functions. Firstly, it signalled the emotional quality of the scene by providing a ‘mournful melody’ played by the string section. Secondly, the liturgical chant of unseen friars offering their ‘prayers for the dead’ empathetically underlined the two protagonists’ deaths and lent religious overtones to the concluding moments of the play. Thirdly, the music functioned as a sound bridge (see section 3.C.) that connected the final scenes of the production and thereby sustained narrative momentum and mood. Finally the term ‘measured cadence’ reveals that the friars’ voices were rhythmically matched with the orchestral accompaniment and the composition was constructed in such a way as to provide a sense of harmonic completion and narrative closure when the curtain descended. Fitzgerald’s review is equally revealing as it establishes how the music aurally represented particular aspects of Shakespeare’s play. First and foremost, it appears that the music acted as an indicator of the play’s geographical setting; a technique which prompts Fitzgerald’s statement regarding the accompaniment’s ‘thoroughly Italian… character’. In addition, the observation that the music was not only ‘romantic’ and ‘tender’ (both aspects in keeping with the dramatic rendition of a love story), but also ‘full of juvenile freedom and spirit’ suggests Benedict’s composition highlighted the youthful and unrepressed nature of the enamouring emotions experienced by the two young characters. Indeed, from these descriptions it is clear that the music complied with the statement of intent Irving wrote in the preface to the script where he stated that ‘[I]n producing this tragedy I have availed myself of every resource at my command to illustrate…the Italian warmth, life and romance of an enthralling love-story’ (Irving, 1882 cited in Stoker, 1906, 94).
These conclusions regarding the music’s semiotic attributes directly correspond with two of the key compositional characteristics Gorbman ascribes to the Classical Hollywood cinema soundtrack:
III. Signifer of emotion: Soundtrack music may set specific moods and emphasize particular emotions suggested in the narrative (cf. #IV), but first and foremost, it is a signifier of emotion itself.
IV. Narrative cueing:
- referential/narrative: music gives referential and narrative cues, e.g., indicating point of view, supplying formal demarcations, and establishing setting and characters.
- connotative: music “interprets” and “illustrates” narrative events.
(Gorbman, 1987, 73)[1]
The terms and descriptions given by the reviewers of Irving’s Romeo and Juliet establish that the music Benedict composed followed the criteria set out in both the categories given above. Firstly, it provided emotive underscoring concurrent with the events that take place during the play. Secondly, the music had a referential function in terms of establishing geographic setting. Of course, both these specifications could have also been achieved with pre-existing music that was conventionally associated with Italy, romance and death. However, because Benedict composed an original score for this play the signifiers appear to be less broad and more specific. Therefore, the romantic themes are attuned to Romeo and Juliet’s adolescence and their tragic deaths are underscored by religious music of a particularly catholic flavour.
Following the success of Benedict’s score for Romeo and Juliet Irving went on to commission original theatre music from a number of well-known composers including: Hamilton Clarke and Meredith Ball (Faust, 1885; King Lear, 1892), Sir Arthur Sullivan (Macbeth, 1888; King Arthur, 1895), Georges Jacobi (The Dead Heart, 1889), Edward German (Henry VIII, 1892), Sir Charles Stanford (Becket, 1892), and Sir Alexander Mackenzie (Coriolanus, 1901). The composers’ status and the quality of their work brought about an increased interest in theatre music. Indeed, on a number of occasions the press dedicated entire reviews to these compositions and even published interviews with composers (see Richards, 2005, 246). Irving himself made direct reference to the contributions made by musical collaborators and the importance of these original scores within his theatrical productions when addressing students from the Royal Academy of Music in 1900 during which he stated that: ‘drama owes a very great deal to music, and many plays at the Lyceum Theatre have been enhanced by the power of music, which I acknowledged, I think during my management by securing the services of many of our gifted composers…’ (cited in Mackenzie, 1905, 715).
Although it is clear that Irving recognised the important role of theatre music he was by no means the first nineteenth-century theatre practitioner to commission scores from well-known composers. Furthermore, it should be noted that this practice was not restricted to the staging of Shakespearean texts. For instance, Sir Henry Rowley Bishop composed the musical accompaniment for two melodramas: Charles Kemble’s The Brazen Bust (1813) and Isaac Pocock’s The Miller and His Men (1813); Jonathan Blewitt scored three: Guilbert de Pixérécourt’s, The Dog of Montargis (1814), Douglas Jerrold's Black-Eyed Susan (1829) and George Almar’s The Fire Raiser (1831); as did Michael Connelly; Henry Arthur Jones’, The Silver King (1883), and G. R. Sims’ The Lights O’London (1881) and The Romany Rye (1883). In addition, G. R. Sims had a particularly long standing collaborative partnership with the composer Henry Sprake who scored fourteen of the playwright’s theatrical works (Mayer, 1980, 53).
The practice of accompanying melodramas with commissioned compositions fulfilled the same roles as the original scores created for Irving’s Shakespearean revivals. Firstly, it offered a certain level of communicative precision (or indeed intentional ambiguity) with regard to the manner in which music signified particular themes, character traits, dramatic occurrences and geographic locations. Secondly, the fact that a particular production featured specially composed music provided a certain amount of ‘commercial currency’ which could be used to attract audiences. Indeed, many major theatres including the Adelphi, the Royal Court, the Lyceum, and the Haymarket referenced the newness and originality of musical accompaniments on their production posters (see Pisani, 2004, 84). For instance, the playbill for a production of The Colleen Bawn at the Royal New Adelphi Theatre in 1860 boasts that the performance will feature ‘ENTIRELY NEW MUSIC, INCLUDING AN OVERTURE, Composed and Arranged expressly to illustrate this Drama by Mr. Thomas Baker.’ Indeed, Pisani concludes that ‘the overwhelming majority of evidence from playbills suggests that, during most of the nineteenth century, actor-managers required new music for a new play…’ (2004, 77). As such, it is fair to assume that the incorporation of original theatre music functioned partly as a marketing technique which helped bring in larger audiences. Thirdly, the background and experience of the composer employed to score the music could also elevate the production’s status.
Just as Irving’s choice of musical collaborators (which included Sir Julius Benedict, Sir Arthur Sullivan, Edward German, Sir Alexander Mackenzie) displays his clear inclination towards those which were associated with opera and operettas, composers such as Sir Henry Rowley Bishop and Jonathan Blewitt who scored the music for four melodramas mentioned above also produced operatic works. These qualifications did more than simply ensure that the composers were capable; their credentials also connected the theatrical text they contributed to with the world of high culture. Furthermore, the composer’s status may have also inhibited criticisms from the press; a phenomenon succinctly encapsulated in Edward A. Dithmar’s review of Irving’s Coriolanus:
The music of Sir Alexander Mackenzie is generally unobtrusive and consistently solemn. One hesitates to say that it would not be missed if omitted, for the President of the Royal Academy of Music is such a great man he must know the kind of music needed.
(Dithmar, 1901, 7)
From this perspective, a theatrical production can be presented and promoted as a work of art based partially on the reputation achieved by the composer associated with its conception. This also applies to other design elements such as scene painting and costume design. Indeed, for the 1882 production of Romeo and Juliet Irving employed ‘Mr. Alfred Thompson, known as a popular designer of dresses for many plays…’ (Stoker, 1906, 94). Unfortunately, the designs Thompson produced were all rejected and Irving himself selected the costumes from ‘…old pictures and prints, and costume books’ (Stoker, 1906, 94). Nevertheless, rather than taking the credit for this Irving still named Thompson as the designer in the playbill and advertising material. Stoker refers to this as an example of Irving’s ‘characteristic generosity’ (Stoker, 1906, 94), however it seems likely that his decision had more to do with the designer’s existing popularity and reputation.
A similar type of kudos transference between music and a dramatic production has been identified in a number of publications that discuss the relationship between composers and Classical Hollywood cinema (see Kalinak, 1992, 66-110). For instance, Smith proposes that by employing composers such as Max Steiner and Erich Wolfgang Korngold, both of whom were well versed in musical romanticism and operatic arrangement: ‘added a High Art sheen to the work of Hollywood composers’ (1998, 6). Smith then goes on to state that this: ‘not only elevated film music in the eyes of film producers, it also enhanced Hollywood composers’ claims of authorship and creativity’ (ibid.). Because Smith’s study focuses on the cross-promotional relationship between recorded soundtracks and cinema most of his discussion revolves around how music is employed to increase a film’s commercial appeal and vice versa. This process is equally applicable to the composition of original scores for nineteenth-century theatre productions; on the one hand providing favourable publicity for the play and on the other showcasing the music and the composer. Indeed, in some instances this even led to the sale of printed scores and concert performances. The comparison also highlights the fact that beyond the financial business concerns of these two entertainment industries lay what is best described as either a self-conscious inferiority complex or a desire to distinguish certain productions as superior compared with their less refined counterparts. As such, practitioners from both media sought to remedy or achieve this by importing cultural credentials through the employment of composers associated with classical and operatic music.
Another element to take into consideration is the emotive effect generated through music created by composers that drew from the stylistic traditions of Romanticism. Historically speaking, the term ‘Romantic music’ refers to operas and symphonies which were written between 1815 and 1910. In terms of technical characteristics these compositions developed new chord progressions, extended melodies, modulation and dissonance. This expanded the formal structures of the classical era and produced a musical form which was increasingly passionate and expressive (see Plantinga, 1984, 20-2). Rather than carrying out an analysis detailing particular compositions and the theatrical material they were aligned with (which will be discussed in later sections) a useful explanation regarding the emotional reaction evoked when dramatic images are accompanied by this type of musical accompaniment is given below:
Music and epic feeling. Music, especially lushly scored late Romantic music, can trigger a response of “epic feeling.” In tandem with the visual film narrative, it elevates the individuality of the represented characters to universal significance, makes them bigger than life, suggests transcendence.
(Gorbman, 1987, 81)
Although Gorbman’s description focuses on Classical Hollywood cinema and in this context Romantic music may have been incorporated because it was nostalgic and upheld existing conventions, the idea that underscoring with these characteristics ‘lends an epic quality to diegetic events [and] evokes a larger-than-life dimension’ (Gorbman, 1987, 68) is equally applicable to both media. Therefore, when the principle Gorbman explains is considered in relation to a Victorian melodrama it becomes a technique which musically transforms characters that could have been perceived as one dimensional and stereotypical into potent archetypes of humanity.
The historical evidence and analytical interpretation provided so far begins to establish the composer’s role in nineteenth-century theatre as well as the direct and indirect implications of their contributions. Furthermore, these findings directly dispute the presumption predicated by Vardac that musical applications designed for theatre productions during this era were either superfluous, or less developed than those subsequently employed in film:
With the arrival of the feature film came improvement in the use of musical accompaniment. Stage melodrama and early screen melodrama had, of course, both used musical accompaniment to the action. It had been stereotyped, direct, and bold in its intention, oftentimes the impromptu creation of the pianist or organist bred to the work.
(Vardac, 1949, 209)
Vardac’s reference to the ‘feature film’ rather than the ‘sound film’ clearly indicates that from his perspective it was this development in silent cinema which heralded a more considered and artistically valid use of non-diegetic music. However, neither the silent feature, nor the early sound film succeeded in truly formalising the content or quality of non-diegetic musical accompaniment. This is because although a special score may have been carefully composed to accompany a particular silent film there was no guarantee that it would be used as intended, or even at all, when the film was projected at small provincial theatres. Instead, such considerations were dictated by economics and the availability of skilled musicians; a factor and result which is directly comparable to the fiscal pressures experienced by theatre managers staging melodramas in the previous century:
Away from the centre of London there was no predictable source of music when the melodrama’s script was obtained by provincial managers for performance at their theatres.
(Mayer and Scott, 1983, 3)
Similarly, although the relationship between musical source and image was formalised to a large extent when sound and picture were synchronised and later fused together in the form of ‘talkies’, recording and playback quality were dictated by the technology that studios and theatres could afford. As such, Vardac’s conclusion that the music incorporated by melodramas was in some way a lesser construct compared with its filmic successors is illogical because the same financial considerations which affected the underscoring of theatrical productions were equally applicable to the soundtracks accompanying cinematic projections. Therefore, just as cinema managers sought to either employ the best composers, conductors and musicians that they could afford during the silent era, or installed economically viable audio equipment when the sound film became popular, theatre managers also provided the best aural accompaniment their budget would allow.
In a number of publications focusing upon the historical relationship between music and melodrama Mayer repeatedly identifies money as the primary factor which determined whether a new play would be performed with an original score:
At larger London theatres, where expenditure on production was typically greater than at suburban and provincial theatres, it was frequently customary for full scores to be composed for each new melodrama.
(Mayer and Scott, 1983, 3)
[W]henever theatrical managements could afford the services of a composer-conductor and a theatre orchestra for him to conduct, melodrama was scored and elaborately orchestrated, and the score was carefully integrated with the text and with dramatic action during performance.
(Mayer, 1980, 50)
The use of music was neither random nor capricious, but closely related to the nature of the piece and to the effects sought…there is now ample conflicting evidence that musical accompaniment was desirable and that orchestration was elaborate whenever a management could afford it.
(Mayer, 1976, 115)
Mayer’s conclusions suggest a direct correlation between economic factors and musical quality; a large budget equals an original composition which is sophisticated, structured, and precisely integrated into the production whereas a small budget will necessitate alternative approaches and possibly result in it being simplistic, disorganised and loosely fitted around the dramatic events. Therefore, it is with these latter considerations in mind that the focus of this chapter moves on to ‘compilation scores’ and ‘melos’.
In ‘The Music of Toga Drama,’ Preston explains that surviving records detailing nineteenth-century theatre music are inevitably scarce because general practice did not necessitate the transcription of compositions used for particular productions. Furthermore, Preston proposes this somewhat relaxed approach to records management stemmed partly from the fact that melodramas in particular were commonly performed alongside a compilation score: ‘evidence suggests that the accompaniments to many melodramas were pastiches – cobbled together from pre-existing scores’ (1994, 23). Thus, rather than copying out a definitive musical document for each play the conductor’s manuscript would have been more like a folder containing an ordered anthology of selected scores which were then recycled and arranged to meet individual production requirements. Preston’s choice of words once again insinuates that this approach to theatre music was something of a slapdash affair necessitated by either financial constraints or creative indolence. To a certain extent Preston’s viewpoint is supported by Norman O’Neill in his paper ‘Music to Stage Plays’ as the composer states that music which has been ‘specially written for a play… is an essential part of the production’ (1910, 89) thereby implying that a ‘compilation score’ performs a less integral role.
These distinctions and expectations are similarly apparent within the field of film music which also holds original soundtracks in higher regard to compilation soundtracks. The theory behind this predisposition is that composing music with the express purpose of accompanying a specific film yields a score which resonates in accordance with narrative themes, structure and perspective as well as complementing the other aural and visual elements within the mise-en-scène or story world. In this context, the original score is like a couture fabric bearing a unique design which is then tailored to perfectly fit the body of work it was created for. As such, this attribute of specially commissioned scores directly highlights the problems associated with recycling pre-existing, pre-popularised music material. From this perspective, the fact the musical accompaniment is neither original nor created with the singular purpose of aurally illustrating specific scenes or dramatic events prevents it from supporting these moments with the same precision and innovation that a good composer can achieve.
In contrast, the research carried out by Pisani unearthed numerous examples of pre-existing music being borrowed for new theatrical productions thereby leading him to conclude that a compilation score was ‘not necessarily the result of hasty last-minute work’ (2004, 76). The tentative terminology used by Pisani is doubtlessly related to the scarcity of surviving artefacts and theoretical evidence from this period that could verify his claim, nevertheless the findings shown in the table below establish the type of music being recycled in Victorian melodramas (for a full account of these examples see Pisani, 2004, 76-7). Pisani’s hypothesis inevitably leads to the question of what function these musical applications performed if they weren’t simply used when an original score could not be afforded? One answer stems from a correlation between the music selected for these compilations shown in Fig. 4 (overleaf) and the composers employed to create original scores previously discussed. The shared affiliation in this case is opera; the compositions that make up the compilation scores given in Fig. 4 are taken from operas and the composers commissioned to score original theatre music had experience of writing operas. As such, the musical choices made by the chef d’orchestre may have been influenced by the same motives which led to the employment of composers associated with this highly respected art-form. In this context, the status of a melodrama is elevated because its musical accompaniment aligns the production with a more cultured theatrical medium. In addition, the selection of music by Romantic composers may have also been used to trigger the ‘epic feeling’ described by Gorbman (see pages 50-1).
|Play |Production |Compilation Sources |
|Fedora |1895 |‘Non piu andrai’ from Nozze di Figaro |
|(Victorien Sardou) | |Boccherini’s minuet |
| | |Gounod’s ‘Meditation’ |
| | |Letter reading music from Act 3 of La Traviata |
|Trilby |1895 |Schubert’s Rosamunde overture |
|(Paul M. Potter) | |Excerpts by Berlioz and Rubenstein |
|The Old Guard (Boucicault) |n.d. |Verdi’s Rigoletto and other Italian operas. |
Fig. 4 Examples of operatic compositions used in compilation scores
The same approach was also adopted by the early film industry and it became common for silent cinematic images to be accompanied with compositions that had an established cultural heritage and inter-textual meaning. Although this precise terminology is not used by Marks in his book Music and the Silent Film: 1895 – 1924 (1997) the material he provides clearly supports such an assertion (also see Davies, 1999, 18-23). Marks’ publication contains numerous references to historical sources that suggested suitable classical selections for particularly common dramatic events that occurred in silent films. It even includes recommendations regarding the musical accompaniment for film versions of Boucicault’s melodramas The Colleen Bawn and Arrah-Na-Pogue; in both cases advising ‘an arrangement of old Irish airs’ (Marks, 1997, 78). Preston also identifies similarities between the type of music used in nineteenth-century melodrama (particularly ‘Toga Drama’) and early film. Consequently, she even proposes that analysing how music was used in silent film will further our current understanding of this process due to the ‘close connections between the musical conventions of staged melodramas and those early films’ (Preston, 1994, 27). Immediately after making this substitutive link Preston puts forward the following assertion: ‘[F]or some films (but only for the longest and most important), full scores were commissioned; these circulated along with the film…This was however far from the norm. Much more common was the practice of assembling a musical pastiche from pre-existing scores’ (ibid., 27). Although Preston’s method and conclusions are in line with the processes and arguments explicated in this thesis, the underlying implication is that the adoption of a compilation score was a localised practice adopted when presenting less prestigious filmic texts. However, this should not be interpreted as supporting the idea that the use of existing compositions produced a score with a limited communicative capacity. Indeed, the inter-textual connotations surrounding the components of a compilation score initiates a unique signification process which cannot be achieved with a specially commissioned score.
The use of pre-existent and pre-popularised compositions to underscore a dramatic presentation has an additional attribute which sets it apart from original scores because these arrangements already carry a pre-ordained semantic charge. While some commentators may consider this another unavoidable problem with compilation scores, the communicative possibilities and additional semiotic dimensions such appropriation accommodates has been explored and identified in academic publications discussing film sound which focus on the how these established associations alter the meanings attributed to the visual signs they play alongside (see Powrie, 2005, 100-119; Smith, 2001, 407-30; Kassabian, 2003, 91-101). A simple description of the signification procedure analysed in these articles is that the music’s original context (when it was composed, the genre it belongs to, how it is musically constructed, the events, characters and images it was associated with) is combined with the narrative context (the events, characters and images the pre-existing music is used to underscore) to create a composite reading when that particular composition plays during a particular scene. This process relies entirely upon the spectator’s prior knowledge of the composition’s previous incarnations, as a viewer or listener that experiences the music for the first time will not be able to identify any direct inter-textual connections. This practice is exemplified in the stage directions of numerous melodramas which request specific non-diegetic compositions that exploit the audience’s existing associations with the music to amplify a dramatic moment’s emotional impact. Hibberd and Nielsen describe this technique in the following way: ‘[O]ccasionally the melody of a well-known song or aria would be quoted by the orchestra to add further clarification, or a new dimension, to the dramatic situation by means of unsung words’ (Hibberd and Nielsen, 2003, 31). Of course, these aural references only make sense if the audience have heard the composition before and are therefore able to recall the lyrics and decode their significance within the new narrative context.
One particularly recurrent composition that featured in British nineteenth-century melodramas with militaristic storylines was ‘Rule Britannia’. A good example of this practice occurs when the hero’s execution is prevented in Meritt and Pettitt’s British Born (1872). On the one hand British Born follows a fairly typical set of narrative events structured around the hero (George Seymour) and villain (Laban Brood) competing for the heroine (Mary Hope). In the prologue Brood’s attempt at framing his rival backfires and instead he is arrested for insurance fraud. However, by the first Act Brood has escaped and pursued Seymour, Mary and her father (John Hope) to South America so he can exact his revenge. The reason for this change in location is that John Hope has been appointed as the British Bolivian consulate, a post which inevitably leads to a clash with the Spanish governor of the province, Don Audre de Calderoue. Brood secretly organises an uprising of villagers working in the nearby silver mine and then informs Don Audre that Seymour is leading the revolt. Don Audre responds quickly and arrests Seymour who protests vehemently against the unfounded accusations levelled against him with a speech that establishes a theme of nationalistic superiority which will be developed further in the following scenes: ‘Villain! You shall learn that an English Gentleman cannot be insulted with impunity by a cowardly Spaniard – you shall answer this outrage with your life’ (Meritt and Pettitt, 1872, 20). From this point onwards the familiar melodramatic formula in which the amoral villain is pitted against an honourable hero and virtuous heroine is transformed into a piece of patriotic propaganda that demonstrates the British Empire’s dominance on the world stage.
Following Seymour’s arrest the Spanish governor decrees that his captive is to be executed without a trial. John Hope initially attempts to diplomatically dissuade Don Audre from his chosen course of action. Nevertheless, when it becomes clear that the tyrannical Spaniard will neither listen to reason nor recognise the British Consulate’s authority he adopts a more aggressive approach:
Hope: Don Audre, I cannot longer control my indignation. George is British Born – and free born subject of a country – whose proudest boast is that the poorest and humblest have liberty and protection – and she will exact for her outraged honour a bitter retribution.
(ibid., 26)
The manner in which Hope articulates the military action Seymour’s execution will provoke clearly evokes a powerful and vengeful female force that the audience would comprehend as a reference to the national personification of Britannia. In addition, Hope’s speech connects this symbolic evocation with what are presented as supposedly British ideals of freedom, egalitarianism, and citizenship. This conflict between Don Audre and John Hope is thereby elevated to a war of principles in which British liberty stands against Spanish tyranny. The dramatic tension increases further in the proceeding scene when George Seymour is led on stage by a firing squad and tied to a stake. However, just before the execution takes place John Hope enters and the following action ensues:
Officer: Soldiers –attention– present arms –at the word three –fire – one–two– th-
(Enter Hope…)
Hope: Hold!
Dou: Useless – I am resolved – Soldiers – one – two
Hope: Upon me – the representative of the British Empire.
Dou: Back – or remain at your own peril – soldiers – one – two –
Hope: Upon Geo’ Seymour – a free born British Subject –
Dou: Aside I say – or we will fire upon you all - Soldiers – one – two –
Hope: Then upon this (wrapping union jack around Seymour) the British Flag – fire if you dare.
(The Soldiers drop their guns. Curtain descends to ‘Rule Britannia’)
(ibid., 1872, 28)
In this scenario, the non-diegetic music aurally articulates the imagery and dialogue presented on stage by exploiting the audience’s existing associations with the selected composition. The sounding of this unofficial British anthem is used to stir patriotic fervor and draw a direct comparison between the dramatic moment presented on stage and the lyrics associated with the composition. Although James Thompson’s words do not actually accompany the rendition, this musical quotation from such a well-known song enables the playwright to actively conjure the lyrical spectre in the mind of the audience without having the words orated. Therefore, the narrative sentiment is reiterated through a musical accompaniment which reinforces the British Empire’s dominant position as the ‘dread and envy’ of other nations, and rejoices in the idea that it shall rise ‘more dreadful from each foreign stroke’ when battling with ‘haughty tyrants’ (Thomson, 1730, 69-70). Indeed, the story world presented in British Born is a land of nationalistic fantasy where the fear and respect afforded to Britannia is such that foreign soldiers would rather betray the commands of their superior than risk provoking her wrath.
William Muskerry and John Jourdain give the same orchestral cue in their melodrama Khartoum (1885) after the English navy defeat a regiment of Sudanese soldiers:
…gunboat works on left flying Union Jack and manned by blue jackets - a Gatling gun – opens fire on the Arabs as they are attacking the wreck. Arabs cower; English cheer. Music – Rule Britannia. Picture. End of Act II.
(Muskerry and Jourdain, 1885, 69)
Like British Born the triumphant music plays against a similarly foreign backdrop and is accompanied by the visual presence of the Union Jack as well as being cued to coincide with a British victory. However, on this occasion the composition does not underscore the successful prevention of one man’s death; instead it plays moments after an entire troop of black Islamic soldiers are either mown down with a machine gun or forced to surrender by superior British firepower. Although the combination of non-diegetic music and a naval victory communicated the message to the audience that Britannia did indeed rule the waves, the actual events that took place in Khartoum a few months before the melodrama premiered on the 14th March 1885 tell a very different story. On the 26th January 1885 the British garrison stationed at Khartoum experienced a crushing defeat and the province was not reclaimed from Mahdist forces until 1898.
Details, reactions and updates regarding the loss of Khartoum were frequently published in the press over the following weeks. Indeed, over the seven week period between the battle and the play’s opening night The Times printed one hundred and ninety two separate articles on the subject. Interestingly, the first detailed report revealed two very different reactions to this military defeat. On the one hand there are references to the ‘stupefaction and indignation [experienced] when the news was received’ and the patriotic belief ‘that England is bound to recapture Khartoum’ (The Times, 6th February, 1885, 5). However, the article also cites a letter describing the behaviour of British troops in the region which alleged that the soldiers: ‘gave Egypt the spectacle of the most shameless vices, and inflicted the greatest injury’ (ibid.). The journalist then makes reference to the following list of allegations: ‘shooting a fellah who refused to give a melon, pillaging and flogging refractory merchants, paying in Treasury bonds for wine or brandy, and besieging and occupying the brothels at Kleneh’ (ibid.).
The humiliation of defeat and the patriotic grief this brought about, alongside the controversy surrounding British military presence in the Sudan certainly suggests that Muskerry and Jourdain sought to exploit the current hot topic with a hastily produced melodrama. Indeed, the following letter written to the editor of The Times relays one reader’s concern regarding the play’s subject matter:
Sir,-Apropos of advertisements in the Press announcing the performance of Khartoum as a stage spectacle, it might be well to recall the conduct of the Athenians on a similar occasion. “The fall of Miletus soon followed the sea-fight. Most of the men were killed, and the women and children enslaved. The Athenians were deeply affected by the news, and when their poet Phrynicus brought on the stage his tragedy of The Capture of Miletus, the audience burst into tears, and he was fined 1,000 drachmas and forbidden ever to exhibit it again.
(The Times, 13th March, 1885, 12)
However, such concerns proved to be unfounded when the play opened the night after this letter was published as the battles depicted resulted in a British victory, a rousing rendition of ‘Rule Britannia’ and certainly did not include any unsavoury offences committed by British soldiers. In this context, the music and the dramatic event it underscored functioned as a potent piece of patriotic propaganda which was designed to reassure and remind the audience that despite recent reports Britannia still reigned supreme.
Although Preston briefly references this inter-textual signification system observing that familiar musical material used in early film and theatre ‘came equipped with emotional connotations that could be used for evocative purposes’ (1994, 28) the above analysis highlights the meanings implicitly generated when particular events were underscored with pre-existing compositions. Thus, rather than being an indolent or economic shortcut, incorporating popular compositions with established cultural connections had the potential to act as a potent purveyor of associative meaning. Moreover, the clear similarities between the use of pre-existent musical sources in melodrama and early film identified by Preston and Marks suggest that the semantic functions would have also been the same. Therefore, just as filmmakers emphasised specific interpretations through the cultural associations attached to particular compositions, nineteenth-century theatre practitioners also utilised the semantic potential of compilation scores for the same reason.
The preceding analysis regarding original and pre-existing music presents evidence which partially disproves Vardac’s proposition that the haphazard approach to underscoring initiated in the theatre did not evolve into a ‘complete musical accompaniment with specific predetermined cues’ (1949, 209) until silent feature films were released at the beginning of the twentieth century. Prior to this development, Vardac asserts that the music performed alongside theatrical and cinematic melodramas had been nothing more than a ‘stereotyped, direct, and bold’ appendage (Vardac, 1949, 209). The main principle behind Vardac’s polemic is that filmmakers’ attempts at formalising music for silent film, coupled with important technological developments, enabled the filmic form to ensure a level of consistency in the selection and timing of non-diegetic underscoring theatre had never achieved. Vardac even goes so far as to propose that the score constructed for D. W. Griffith’s film Judith of Bethulia (1914) exemplifies this advance in non-diegetic underscoring techniques (ibid.). A rather peculiar contention considering that the soundtrack is basically a compilation score and it even features a section from Grieg’s Peer Gynt suite which was created from the music he composed to accompany Ibsen’s play of the same name.
There are however, a number of accounts given by musicians working in the theatre during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century which appear to support Vardac’s criticisms. The convention they describe which seems to bear out Vardac’s accusations is the practical process of matching ‘melos’ with dramatic actions. A ‘melo’ is best described as an eight-bar phrase which has been composed to signify a particular emotion or affect. These musical fragments were not especially composed for a particular play; rather they were designed to be performed when the dramatic events in any production matched the composition’s emotive connotations. They were open-ended as this allowed them to be repeated for any required duration and christened with titles that clearly indicated the type of mood the music signified. During the nineteenth century, theatre music publishers printed catalogues containing large collections of ‘melos’ which covered the full emotional spectrum displayed by the characters on stage.
James Glover’s explanation of how ‘melos’ were used and the manner in which one theatre manager integrated them into a production illustrates a rather slap-dash approach to the musical component which seemingly confirms Vardac’s comments regarding extemporaneous and formulaic accompaniments:
[I] arrived at Birmingham at three, and took down a list of forty numbers to be written or scored, nearly a month’s work, and at six o’clock offered to get some idea of how it was to be done. ‘Nonsense,’ said Melville, ‘we produce a new drama tonight called Bitter Cold or Two Christmas Eves, and I want about sixty ‘melos’ numbers for that. Take them down.’ At this time musical directors travelled with a book of ‘agits’, i.e. agitatos, ‘slows’, - that is, slow music for serious situations – ‘pathetics’, ’struggles’, ‘hornpipes’, andantes – to which all adapted numbers called ‘melos’ any dramatic situation was possible. Armed with my chart of appropriate ‘melos’ I got through the middle of the evening when I saw a man writhing in agony on the stage. ‘My God! – I’m dying – curse her! She has poisoned me – but if there is justice in heaven may the rest of her life be a hell on earth-gug-gug-gug’, writhed the actor and down he fell prostrate. Just then the tube whistle blew hard. ‘Who’s there? Said I. ‘Melville’, was the reply. ‘Well, what of it?’ I answered. ‘Play up, old man.’ ‘I’ve no cue.’ ‘Cue be d - - d! Don’t you see a man dying on stage? Give us four bars of “agit”.’
(Glover, 1911, 225-6)
The manager’s demand for a short burst of agitato accompaniment and the rationale behind its inclusion indicates that the music’s cuing and composition was constructed in compliance with established conventions and utilised either recycled or improvised musical sequences. Indeed, Glover’s description and the approach to underscoring he presents is reflected by Shaw’s assertion that ‘the music man at the theatre seldom count[s] for more than a useful colleague of the gas man’; a comparison which clearly highlights theatre music’s mechanical function in nineteenth-century productions (1892, 11). Shaw’s observation also cleverly criticises the convention of reiterating virtually every dramatic moment presented on stage with a musical accompaniment; a practice which is described further in another actor’s anecdotal recollection:
At last, everybody having been supplied with his or her parts, and the leader of the band having arrived, the rehearsal really commenced. The play was one of the regular old-fashioned melodramas, and the orchestra has all its work to do to keep up with it. Nearly all the performers had a bar of music to bring them on each time, and another to take them off; a bar when they sat down, and a bar when they got up again; while it took a small overture to get them across the stage. As for the leading lady, every mortal thing she did or said, from remarking that the snow was cold, in the first act, to fancying she saw her mother and then dying, in the last, was preceded by a regular concert. I firmly believe that if, while on stage, she had shown signs of wanting to sneeze, the band would at once have struck up quick music. I began to think, after a while, that it must be an opera, and to be afraid that I should have to sing my part.
(Jerome, 1891, 33-4)
Similar sentiments were more seriously expressed by O’Neill in the following extract taken from his essay ‘Music to Stage Plays’. However, rather than focusing on the orchestral accompaniment’s constant presence or the attempt to match every action with a suitable ‘melo’ as Jerome does, O’Neill criticises both the lack of complexity and homogenising effect produced by this musical device:
…music to melodramas is usually of a most primitive kind, the numbers, or eight- bar phrases, more or less appropriate, being repeated ad libitum through long speeches without any regard for the changes of thought and expression in the dialogue. This repetition has no doubt become a custom on account of the difficulty of measuring the length of speeches and stage business, and fitting music to them. If eight bars are repeated ad lib., as long as music is wanted, it greatly simplifies the work of the composer, although it may exasperate some members of the audience.
(O’Neill, 1910, 90)
The approach outlined by Jerome, Glover and O’Neill paints a picture which seemingly justifies Vardac’s criticisms regarding theatre music during the period under analysis and casts doubt over Mayer’s proposal that ‘melos’ were carefully tailored to fit specific productions. In ‘The Music of Melodrama’ Mayer likens the process of composing a score from ‘melos’ with creating a mosaic. From this perspective, the musical material was selected from ‘ready made parts’ in the same way that ‘mosaics are fashioned from ready-cut chips of coloured tile’ (1980, 51). Thus, just as the mosaic artist chooses pre-prepared clay fragments of the right colour, shape and texture to define the required image, the chef d’orchestre selected existing musical segments that were specifically composed to aurally encapsulate a particular emotional hue or dramatic moment. Indeed, rather than casting negative aspersions Mayer highlights how practical and adaptable these functional musical phrases were and thereby counters O’Neill’s charges of homogeneity:
[A] majority of melos are composed without climactic final chords, so as to be endlessly repeatable, and can be stopped as action halts or changes, the conductor…[also] adjusted the playing length of the chosen pieces to the duration of the action on stage. In this respect it is important to note that, although each melo is identified by a declaration of tempo, there is no demand for exactness. A melo labelled a furioso may be slowed or hurried; an andante, to take advantage of on stage business, may be performed briskly. ..melos were composed in such a way as to be transposable from a major to a minor key and, where appropriate, where emotional colouring of the action would be enhanced by the now-familiar music cast in a sombre mode…
(Mayer and Scott, 1983, 4)
To a certain degree the points Mayer makes in the above citation outline a process that parallels the modern practice of recycling and modifying musical segments for dramaturgical purposes.
In her paper ‘The Sound of a New Film Form’ (2003), Kassabian discusses how the practice of using looped segments taken from existing musical tracks has been taken up by modern filmmakers. The paradigmatic example Kassabian focuses on is the music used in ‘Lara Croft: Tomb Raider’ (2001) about which she makes the following observation: ‘[I]n almost every cut, we hear not merely repetitions of the same phrase, but iterations of the same performance of the same phrase. There is no development, as there is in restatements of a phrase or theme in concert-hall music...’ (2003, 98). Kassabian’s article introduces two important ideas that relate directly to the main argument put forward in this thesis. First and foremost, the technique of matching short, looped musical phrases with visual stimuli is essentially post-modern as it represents a return to an underscoring process popularised in nineteenth-century melodramas. Therefore, although the modern procedure involves the use of modern recording technology, rather than written scores and live musicians, the principle remains the same. Secondly, Kassabian makes a distinction between the formats in which the loops are experienced by pointing out that recorded phrases are carbon copies of each other whereas playing an arrangement containing repeated phrases live has the potential for slight variations to occur. From a conceptual viewpoint this principle needs to be taken into account when considering the performance of ‘melos’ during nineteenth-century melodramas. This is because the effect and impact produced by a live orchestra performing a repeated eight bar phrase that modulates in response to the action on stage would provide a very different experience compared with the playing of a pre-recorded loop during the same scene. Indeed, while the former allows the music to become an organic and integral part of the production the latter can only provide a far more mechanical and synthetic accompaniment.
Like ‘melos’ the tempo, key, volume and duration of sampled loops can be altered and arranged to suit the composition in which they are included. Some critics may consider this comparison slightly flawed because modern musicians and filmmakers can at least make their musical selections from any source whereas nineteenth-century chef d’orchestres could only use the ‘melos’ they had access to. However, by the same token modern audio practitioners do not truly have complete artistic autonomy over the sources they select if their compositions are intended for public presentation as the studio or record label will have to take copyright into consideration and calculate how much the incorporation of a particular musical sample or excerpt will cost. These financial restrictions will inevitably affect the music that is eventually used and as such big budget studio productions can usually afford whatever aural accompaniments the director desires while independent filmmakers are often unable to hire well-known composers or pay for the use of particular compositions. Similarly, the economic differences between large city theatres and small provincial playhouses would have dictated the music used and the size of the orchestra that performed it. However, as Hibberd and Nielsen point out even small orchestras were able to provide the various emotive accompaniments required: ‘A large orchestra would be more capable of creating striking timbral effects, but strings were nevertheless extremely versatile, capable of singing lyricism, percussive chords and sinister tremolo effects’ (2003, 30). Financial considerations would also have affected the care with which the music was integrated because the musicians were paid for rehearsal attendance, thus shorter rehearsal periods reduced labour costs. When considered from this perspective the pre-prepared ‘melos’ used in the performance of melodramas seems to be a convention that is more directly linked with economics and geography than the genre itself. While this may be partially true an additional perspective is provided by analysing the semiological system within which nineteenth-century melodrama operated in order to identify the relationship between musical accompaniment and other methods of dramaturgical signification.
Firstly, it is worth remembering that the narratological construction of these plays were themselves formulaic with regard to their reliance upon stock characters, recurrent themes, spectacle scenes, dramatic rescues, incredible revelations and hyperbolic climaxes. As such, it seems logical that the frequent repetition of theatrical events, emotive content and character types produced a parallel musical system which could be directly factored into the dramatic equation. Or to put in another way, the dramaturgical and thematic conventions that define melodrama itself are reflected by the content of musical catalogues from which the accompanying scores were assembled. Secondly, this parallel is equally applicable to the style of acting which dominated the theatre during this period.
In contrast to the individualised and naturalistic acting style that was initiated in the late nineteenth century and developed throughout the twentieth century, an actor’s training for the stage had previously consisted of learning numerous preordained ‘passions’, ‘starts’, ‘points’ and ‘transitions’ (see Taylor, 1989, 34). A ‘passion’ is best described as a formal physical reaction to the dramatic events taking place or the emotions experienced by the character. While the ‘passion’ refers to the specific emotion the character experiences and the ‘point’ indicates the cueing of this dramatic expression (literally the ‘point’ in the play where the pose or gesture should be adopted). Finally, the ‘passion’ may be portrayed as a sudden unexpected experience known as a ‘start’, or a gradual shift from one emotion to another called a ‘transition’. The correct movements and poses required to encapsulate and communicate these emotional reactions could either be learnt through the observation and imitation of trained actors, or alternatively the inexperienced performer could study an acting manual on the subject.
Numerous detailed descriptions of how these passions should be portrayed are given in an early nineteenth-century publication entitled The Thespian Preceptor (Bliss, 1810), a work that also bears the following lengthy subtitle which clearly establishes the book’s content: ‘A full display of the scenic art including ample and easy instructions for treading the stage, using proper action, modulating the voice, and expressing the several dramatic passions’. The explicit nature of these directions is highlighted in the following examples which describe how an actor should portray grief and despair:
GRIEF…sudden and violent, expresses itself by beating the head or forehead, tearing the hair, and catching the breath, as if choking – also by screaming, weeping, stamping with the feet, lifting the eyes from time to time to heaven, and hurrying backwards and forwards.
(Bliss, 1810, 32-3)
DESPAIR, as in a condemned criminal… or one who has lost all hope of salvation… bends the eye-brows downward, clouds the forehead, rolls the eyes, and sometimes bites the lips, and gnashes with the teeth. The heart is supposed to be too much hardened to suffer the tears to flow; yet the eye-balls will be red and inflamed. The head is hung down upon the breast; the arms are bended at the elbows, the fists clenched hard, and the whole body strained and violently agitated. Groans expressive of inward torture, accompany the words appertaining to his grief; those words are also uttered with a sullen, eager bitterness, and the tone of his voice is often loud and furious. When despair is supposed to drive the actor to distraction and self-murder, it can seldom or ever be over-acted.
(ibid., 33)
Another extremely comprehensive work which contained instructions detailing numerous ‘passions’ was Henry Siddons’ translation and adaptation of J.J. Engel’s Practical Illustrations of Rhetorical Gestures (1822). What is particularly striking about the headings given in this manual is that in addition to the more general emotions featured such as Anger, Despair and Love the publication also contains illustrations of very precise communicative combinations.
For instance, ‘triumph’ and ‘astonishment’ may be portrayed in a ‘vulgar’ manner, while a gesture of ‘cunning’ is adapted especially for a ‘rustic’ character. There are also additional details regarding the way a character should move between particular emotional states (in this case ‘scorn’ becomes ‘sublimation’), instructions specifying how a particular intention should be portrayed as well as the response it provokes (‘Persuasion’ – ‘Persuasion repulsed’), and four different ways of physically representing a ‘false gesture’ (Siddons, 1822, vii-viii).
The descriptions contained within these handbooks establish the physical intensity of the gestural language which characterised melodramatic acting. Moreover, they exemplify the huge difference between this performance style and the more naturalistic school of acting which would come to replace it. Of course, by modern standards these passions seem antiquated, bombastic, and even comical because theatrical conventions and culture have changed. However, these stylised expressions of extreme emotional reactions were not performed without musical support and as Hibberd and Nielsen explain this accompaniment rationalised the actor’s behaviour:
…the full acting out of emotions, serves to give a clear and saturated representation of the moral extremes and conflicts involved, and thereby provides the semantic core of the ‘stuff’ of melodrama… it is important to understand music in performance as helping to give aesthetic logic to the extravagant and excessive gestures of melodrama.
(Hibberd and Nielsen, 2003, 35)
From this perspective, viewing an actor gesticulating their way through a series of passions with no musical underscoring is a bit like watching dance steps performed without music. In both scenarios music is needed to provide rhythm, structure, sensibility and emotional resonance. Indeed, as one ‘passion’ led to another through either a ‘start’ or a ‘transition’ the music would reflect this change of mood: ‘[F]or example a light hearted tune might begin in the major key then suddenly switch to the minor…’ (ibid., 31). Siddons’ publication also provides a treatise defending this prescriptive approach to acting in the form of letters which answer potential criticisms and justify the didactic purpose behind his translation. Firstly, Siddons counters the complaint that such training creates a performance style which is ‘…formal, stiff, embarrassed, and precise’ (ibid., 3) by comparing an actor practicing the ‘passions’ to a man first learning dance steps. Thus, just as the would-be dancer is unsure and clumsy when they walk through unfamiliar manoeuvres, an actor may appear equally awkward in the early stages of their training. However, by practicing the prescribed steps or gestures both performers will be increasingly able to master the required movements and repeat them with confidence, freedom and control.
Another argument Siddons counters is the complaint that despite the precise categories he provides the denominations given are still vastly outnumbered by the sheer variety of characters and situations that occur in the theatre. In response, Siddons explains that once an actor has learnt to enact the passions as illustrated they should then be modified in accordance with a particular character’s nationality, sex, age and other ‘individual qualities’. Siddons then goes on to conclude that an actor ‘may vary the manners, sentiments, and expressions in a thousand ways, without occasioning any alteration in the grand essence’ (ibid., 8). The line of reasoning put forward by Siddons presents the idea that the ‘passions’ were both formal and malleable. Therefore, while the published instructions provided the fundamental source, these delineations were subsequently modified depending on the performative context in which they appeared. Indeed, these historical records of the acting style adopted in nineteenth-century melodramas parallels Mayer’s description explaining how ‘melos’ were designed and incorporated during this era (1983, 4). Furthermore, the illustrated ‘passions’ and scored ‘melos’ used by actors and conductors completed the dual purpose of providing instructions detailing how a particular emotion or activity should be performed as well as presenting this information in such a way as to facilitate adaptation and interpretation. From this perspective, the source material was no more the finished product than a length of cloth and a pattern is a fitted suit. As such, the garment, characterisation or score is only complete once the tailor, actor or chef d’orchestre has adjusted the template in relation to individual requirements, cut the material and stitched the various sections together.
An additional similarity between this acting style and the use of ‘melos’ is the function they were intended to perform. The approach to signification adopted in the staging of melodramas placed primary importance on achieving immediate semantic clarity. This was not a theatre of subtlety and suggestion, it was one of transparency and convention, and therefore while villainous characters may succeed in hoodwinking other protagonists their true intentions were always made apparent to the audience. Melodrama dealt with a Manichean type of morality in which good and evil were clearly defined entities. The hyperbolic acting style and the emotional reactions which defined a character’s moral identity contributed to the transparency of the narrative’s parabolic message. As such, it is in this context that the use of ‘melos’ needs to be understood. Hibberd and Nielsen explain this principle in the following way: ‘[T]he emotions expressed are inextricably bound up with the unambiguous moral aspect of melodrama. A full understanding of the genre demands an appreciation that the music is not supposed to be complex in itself’ (2003, 33).
With regard to acting, the perceived necessity of this easily deciphered sign system is summed up in Edward Gordon Craig’s comments outlining his opinions on early nineteenth-century realism and Henry Irving’s performance style:
Irving followed the most ancient and unshakable tradition, which says that the dramatist is to take his audience into his confidence. The actor who fails to observe this fails as an actor. I have seen such actors recently in London. The villain of the play comes on to the stage smiling: he is quite alone; and though he remains alone for five minutes, he does not tell us that he is ‘the villain’ – has not dared to let any tell-tale look escape him; he has failed to explain anything to us. It is called realism – it is no such thing; it is mere incompetence – an incapacity to understand that everything has to be clearly explained to the spectators, and little or no thought paid to whether the other characters on the stage overhear or see.
(Craig, 1930, 61)
Craig’s attack on ‘realistic’ acting techniques highlights a presentational principle which values direct and unambiguous signs that instantly reveal a character’s true motives and emotional experience. This goal was achieved by ensuring that the meaning of an actor’s gestures and expressions could be immediately understood by the audience and therefore the musical codes that accompanied them need to be similarly transparent. Indeed, even the clothes worn by the characters followed established conventions as a way of further elucidating the role they would play in the narrative:
The very appearance of villain or hero, comic servant or evil henchman was enough to identify them, and although types of melodrama might range from the Gothic to the Modern Domestic, and from the Oriental to the Nautical, the colour code of black villain, scarlet woman, spotless maiden and motley fool was immediately recognised in their costumes.
(Taylor, 1989, 122)
Taylor’s observations regarding costume, combined with the preceding discussion of ‘passions’ and ‘melos’ establishes the fact that in Victorian melodrama the characters’ clothing, the postures the actors adopted and the music that accompanied these actions were essentially three different elements which worked together to achieve semantic clarity. This communicative system’s transparency depended on the quick recognition and contextual translation of these non-verbal signs by the audience. As such, the process was synergistic in the sense that its success was dependant on the combination of elements rather than discrete units of meaning. For instance, as illustrated in the previous examples, the enactment of the ‘passions’ was a complex affair which required practice and commitment. Furthermore, spectators would have also needed to be equally experienced so they could correctly decipher the precise emotion particular gestures signified. Indeed, such audience members were lampooned by Dickens in the following description of a ‘Theatrical Young Gentleman’ who prides himself on his ability to identify the particular ‘passion’ expressed by actors:
[The Theatrical Young Gentleman is] …very acute in judging of natural expressions of the passions, and knows precisely the frown, wink, nod, or leer, which stands for any one of them, or the means by which it may be converted into any other: as jealousy, with a good stamp of the right foot, becomes anger; or wildness, with the hands clasped before the throat, instead of tearing the wig, is passionate love.
(Dickens, 1907, 478-9)
Beneath the satirical commentary Dickens’ humorous description illustrates the main communicative problem with this type of acting. The gestural language articulated through the passions was more symbolic than iconic or indexical as the performer’s behaviour did not directly resemble the emotion being imitated. As such, it was not inexplicably linked to the experience the actions signified. Instead, the precise meanings were somewhat arbitrary and as such could only be fully deciphered by initiated spectators. This requirement highlights an apparent shortcoming in an acting style designed to achieve a high level of semantic transparency and clarity (see Booth, 1964, 46; Taylor, 1989, 122; Booth, 1991, 155; Sharp, 1992, 272).
Another account which illustrates the interpretative difficulties produced by this performance technique is given in W.C. Macready’s memoirs. In the anecdote below Macready describes how the famous romantic actor George Frederick Cooke attempted to impress a young fan by displaying his skilful command of the ‘passions’:
[Cooke] volunteered to exhibit to a young man sitting opposite to him the various passions of the human heart in the successive changes of his countenance. Accordingly, having fixed his features, he triumphantly asked his admirer, ‘Now, sir, what passion is that?’ The young gentleman with complacent confidence replied, ‘That is revenge, Mr. Cooke’, ‘You lie, sir! It’s love!’ was Cooke’s abrupt rejoinder.
(W. C. Macready, 1876, 51)
On the one hand, the youth’s mistaken interpretation of Cooke’s gesticulations may be regarded as either a failure on behalf of the actor (who was, as Macready explains ‘something the worse for wine or spirits he had drunk…’, ibid.) or an indication that the young man was not yet fluent in this symbolic physical language. An alternative explanation is that this mistake stemmed from the fact Cooke’s enactment was presented without the support of additional musical signification. In short, Cooke’s demonstration only provided one part of the semiotic equation. However, had the pose been accompanied by a ‘melo’ which corresponded with the emotion being portrayed the possibility of misinterpretation would have been significantly reduced, if not removed completely. In this context, conventionalised musical codes provided an essential co-ordinate which corresponded with the actor’s lexicon of gestural signs thereby enabling the audience to pinpoint the character’s current psychological experience. Furthermore, just as Craig deemed ‘realistic’ acting to be entirely unsuitable for the performance of melodrama because this approach disguised the character’s motives and feelings, music which was less conventional and more subtle in the message it conveyed would be similarly flawed as it hindered rather than enhanced semiological transparency.
The description of a ‘melodramatic actor’ given by George Henry Lewes in his 1875 publication entitled On Actors and the Art of Acting is equally applicable to melodrama’s musical component which was also ‘required to be impressive, to paint in broad, coarse outlines… [and] not required to be poetic [or] subtle’ (1875, 24-5). One argument Lewes puts forward is that the acting techniques used for the performance of tragedy are entirely different to those which should be employed when presenting a melodrama, as the latter is primarily concerned with communicating the ‘situation’ whereas in the former these circumstances ‘are the mere starting points, the nodes of dramatic action’ (ibid., 24). Lewes’ distinction between the performance techniques suited to these two genres, coupled with the theory that ‘melos’ complemented melodramatic acting conventions, supports the assertion of another hypothesis. In short, although ‘melo’s’ were the ideal accompaniment for melodramas as they clearly reflected the character’s predicament, original scores were deemed more appropriate when a tragedy (or a melodrama with tragic pretensions) was produced. From this viewpoint, Vardac’s observation that the music used to accompany melodrama was ‘direct, and bold in its intention….’ (Vardac, 1949, 209) is transformed from a criticism into a complement. This is because the characteristics Vardac identifies correspond with the intended function of the established musical vocabulary employed and the purpose behind the other sign systems adopted in melodramatic performance. Moreover, if this approach is viewed as a process during which musical samples were selected and matched with dramatic events, rather than being an entirely indiscriminate and artistically void process, the integration of live theatre music in nineteenth-century melodrama appears to be a far more structured and successful convention than critics such as Vardac identify.
The principle that musical accompaniment should primarily aid semantic clarity rather than provide depth and subtly has also been connected with the role of the soundtrack in Classical Hollywood Film. Indeed, this characteristic has not only been identified in academic publications which discuss this cinematic era (see Gorbman, 1987, 78; Kalinak, 1989, 35), leading contemporary composers were also acutely aware of the direct communicative function their scores were required to perform. For instance, the advice Max Steiner gives other practitioners working in this field is equally applicable to the use of ‘melos’ as he clearly favours simplicity and lucidity over complexity and ambiguity:
[B]eware of embellishment; it’s hard enough to understand a melody behind dialogue, let alone complicated orchestrations. If it gets too decorative, it loses its emotional appeal. I’ve always tried to subordinate myself to the picture. A lot of composers make the mistake of thinking that the film is a platform for showing how clever they are. This is not the place for it.
(Steiner cited in Thomas, 1979, 81)
Although Steiner’s comments focus on the compositional process rather than the incorporation of existing musical material his observations are still relevant to this discussion. The principle he cites highlights the fact that disregarding one form of accompaniment on the grounds that it aurally emulates visual stimuli in a manner which can be easily identified and understood is to misunderstand non-diegetic music’s communicative role. Moreover, the criteria used to critically analyse pure music is not applicable when considering the success or failure of theatre or film music. In such situations the music is merely one part of a gesamtkunstwerk and therefore the function and purpose it serves can only be fully appreciated when considered alongside the other sign systems operating within the entire production. Therefore, the suitability of a particular musical approach depends upon how these different elements work as whole and the extent to which it supports (or purposefully disrupts) a unified reading. From this perspective, the use of pre-composed ‘melos’ is a practice perfectly suited to the performative mode associated with nineteenth-century melodrama. These were not plays which developed a sub-text or intimated subtle implicit readings, instead the semiotic codes utilised were relied upon to render characters, motives and situations instantly recognisable. As such, this approach to underscoring cannot be criticised for dealing primarily in clichés or relying upon the audience’s ‘conditioned reflexes and automatic responses’ (Gorbman,1987, 07) because that was the very purpose of its existence. A sounder conclusion is that although there are different approaches to the composition and integration of non-diegetic music in both theatrical and filmic media, the preference for one over the other essentially depends upon convention and suitability rather than competence or indolence. Furthermore, it is worth remembering that clichés and stereotypes only come into existence through repetition, therefore once the innovative musical applications of one era become conventionalised they will inevitably be regarded as trite by the following generation.
The final compositional process that has been aligned with theatre music in the nineteenth century is improvisation. Although it is both possible and probable that on some occasions the non-diegetic accompaniment was spontaneously created by a musician, this should not be regarded as either common or preferential. Indeed, although the music itself may differ greatly depending on the budget, the musicians available and the company performing the play, most scholars agree that this aspect of the production was rarely left to chance (see Hibberd and Nielsen, 2003, 32; Mayer, 1980, 49). Preston proposes that although less prestigious productions would feature an amalgamation of compositional sources and therefore the final musical accompaniment was neither standardised nor predictable, it certainly was not an extemporaneous response to the events on stage:
It could be a combination of newly written music with, pre-existing compositions, and it could include a liberal dose of ‘melos’. Most toga plays – especially those mounted by touring companies in small or provincial theatres – were undoubtedly accompanied by a combination of these styles of music.
(Preston, 1992, 28-9)
However, while Preston’s description dispels the idea that theatre music was improvised, in the sense of it being an unrehearsed musician’s impromptu invention, there is another definition which fits the above account perfectly. Improvisation can also refer to the art of producing a desired result from what is available. Therefore, just as a chef may improvise a meal using the ingredients that are on hand, the chef d’orchestre would also sometimes adopt a similar improvisational process in which accessible musical material was combined to produce the final score. Further evidence which disproves the notion that nineteenth-century theatre music was a spontaneous creation is provided by Mayer in his paper, ‘The Music of Melodrama’ (1980). The examples Mayer provides in this article lead him to the conclusion that ‘the minor as well as the patent theatres employed and enjoyed accompaniment from full pit-orchestras rather than infrequent and unwished for chords struck from untuned pianos’ (ibid., 49). While Mayer’s polemical intention was to establish the fact that even in smaller, non-metropolitan theatres the music which accompanied productions was such an important element that it warranted the employment of an orchestra rather than a solitary piano player, the conclusion he arrives at also illuminates how improvisation should be regarded. Put simply, the very fact that the music was performed by a group of musicians negates the notion that it could be improvised as each ensemble member literally needs to be playing from the same sheet.
The contention that during this era theatre music was a carefully integrated dramaturgical element is also indicated by Rowell’s choice of words in his introduction to Late Victorian plays, 1890-1914 during which he describes the aural accompaniment as being ‘woven into the very fabric of stage performance’ (1972, xv). In addition, Rowell states that ‘…to imagine the nineteenth-century theatre without it would be about the same as watching innumerable modern films without the powerful emotional effect of their musical scores’ (ibid.). Surviving historical evidence also supports the argument that this ‘weaving’ was not extemporaneous nor did it take place after all other aspects of the production had been set. Instead, it is apparent that the music was included and developed during the rehearsal process and therefore must have been considered a dramatic element which needed to be integrated into the production as early as possible. For instance, Jerome K. Jerome discusses the first rehearsal for a production of The Noble Vagabond (1886) in his memoirs and notes that ‘scenery and props were not being used at this, the first, rehearsal, the chief object of which was merely to arrange music, entrances and exits, and general business’ (Jerome, 1891, 40). Another example of this practice was unearthed by Pisani for his paper on Victorian theatre music which includes a reference to ‘a surviving fragment of a rehearsal schedule in Dion Boucicault’s hand’ (2004, 83) in which the playwright frequently requests that the full band is present at rehearsals. In addition, O’Neill’s description of ideal theatrical procedure further establishes the early stage at which the composer could be involved in a production’s development:
When a play in which the music is to be an important feature is to be put upon the stage, the composer usually meets the author and the producer and discusses where it will be advisable to introduce music. The producer or “metteur en scene” of a play draws up a plan of the whole action in every detail, the scenic effects, and so forth, which he intends to employ. These will greatly determine the spirit and atmosphere of the production.
(O’Neill, 1910, 94)
The scholarly research and contemporary accounts discussed in this chapter directly contradict preconceptions about nineteenth-century theatre music which are typified by Kaye and Lebrecht’s assertion that non-diegetic underscoring did not become a carefully integrated and fully controlled production component until the latter half of the twentieth century:
[T]he first time sound was heard was often in the first tech, or technical rehearsal. In some cases, those who had creative input for a production never even heard the sound or music until the first public performance.
(Kaye and Lebrecht, 1992, 7).
Indeed, the evidence provided clearly establishes that musical underscoring in the theatre was not simply a last minute consideration cobbled together as an extemporary garnish to the action. However, accepting the proposition that non-diegetic music was a fundamental theatrical element in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre leads to the question of what functions it fulfilled and how were they achieved?
3. C. Musical Camouflage and Camouflaged Music
The term ‘musical camouflage’ describes the way aural material can be used as an element which disguises deviations from verisimilitude and other technical problems associated with theatre and film presentation. In contrast, ‘camouflaged music’ refers to how the physical sources of these sounds are concealed from the audience. The following section will identify the techniques developed by nineteenth-century theatre practitioners to achieve this invisibility and the various camouflaging functions non-diegetic music can provide. Much of this analysis will focus on the different ways in which non-diegetic music was used as a ‘sound bridge’. This term is most commonly associated with film sound and in the extract below Hurbis-Cherrier provides a good definition of the procedure it refers to:
Sound bridges are a very common sound editing technique involving any sound that overlaps from one scene to another… Sound bridges create a very strong and smooth connection between scenes by carrying over the emotional content of one scene into another.
(Hurbis-Cherrier, 2007, 444)
Hurbis-Cherrier’s basic description can be extended to incorporate sounds which span other developments and changes that occur within a filmic text. Therefore, in addition to linking scene changes, a sound bridge can also connect a film’s opening or closing credits with the action which follows or precedes them as well as camouflaging temporal disruptions and deviations from the central mode of presentation. Before the invention of film, musical sound bridges had been frequently used by theatre practitioners for similar purposes. The five different scenarios that demanded the employment of a sound bridge in a theatrical production are listed below (Fig. 5) and will also be discussed throughout this section.
|1) To mask extraneous noises created while moving scenic elements and presenting spectacle scenes. |
|2a) At the start of a production; willing a suspension of disbelief. |
|2b) At the end of a production; relieving that suspension. |
|2c) When unrealistic leaps in time are made in the narrative. |
|3) When the limitations of real-time are imposed on the narrative’s dramatic re-enactment (for instance, the time it takes to clear the last scene |
|and prepare the next one). |
|4) When the mise-en-scène depicts a change in dimension. |
|5) When time is momentarily suspended in the form of a tableau. |
Fig. 5 Scenarios requiring the use of a sound bridge
Claudia Gorbman’s seminal study Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music (1987) contains a table which lists the seven ‘principles of composition, mixing and editing’ associated with musical applications adopted in Classical Hollywood cinema:
I. Invisibility: the technical apparatus of nondiegetic music must not be visible.
II. “Inaudibility”: Music is not meant to be heard consciously. As such it should subordinate itself to dialogue, to visuals- i.e., to the primary vehicles of the narrative.
III. Signifer of emotion: Soundtrack music may set specific moods and emphasize particular emotions suggested in the narrative (cf. #IV), but first and foremost, it is a signifier of emotion itself.
IV. Narrative cueing:
- referential/narrative: music gives referential and narrative cues, e.g., indicating point of view, supplying formal demarcations, and establishing setting and characters.
- connotative: music “interprets” and “illustrates” narrative events.
V. Continuity: music provides formal and rhythmic continuity- between shots, in transitions between scenes by filling “gaps.”
VI. Unity: via repetition and variation of musical material and instrumentation, music aids in the construction of formal and narrative unity.
VII. A given film score may violate any of the principles above, providing the violation is at the service of other principles.
(Gorbman, 1987, 73)
The techniques Gorbman identifies can be split into two categories; those which are essentially communicative in that they provide the audience with narrative information (III, IV – these are discussed on pages 45-6), and those which are concerned with maintaining a cohesive cinematic reality (I, II, V, VI).
The first principle Gorbman identifies is ‘Invisibility’ which essentially requires the source of non-diegetic music to be hidden from the audience. Such concealment was gradually standardised with the arrival and subsequent development of sound film in 1927 as the aural elements could now be pre-recorded and synchronised with visual material and played back without the need for any live music. Indeed, the recorded sound film effectively combined music and image into a single cinematic package. One result of this was that musicians were no longer required to be physically present in the auditorium. This development helped to ensure that the music was not perceived as a supplement provided by an auxiliary unit because now the musical apparatus was not only invisible, it was entirely absent. Furthermore, by concealing the construction of its soundtrack the sound film essentially homogenises both diegetic and non-diegetic aural stimuli as all sonic material emanates from a single aural plane. However, this practice was not initiated through technological advances in sound recording or broadcasting as is often presumed. Although recorded sound conventionalised and simplified the process, alternative methods of disguising the musical apparatus which accompanied visual and dialogic information were adopted in the theatre prior to the invention of film.
By the latter part of the nineteenth century the theatre orchestra’s function was beginning to be revised. As the concept of realism took hold various practitioners decided that their attempts at evoking verisimilitude were hampered because the musicians accompanying the events depicted on stage were situated outside the story world. The solution Wagner adopted for the The Bayreuth Festspielhaus (constructed in 1876) was to simply hide the orchestra thereby eliminating their physical presence and giving the impression that the music emanated from the same location as the action:
Wagner’s approach to production: a hidden orchestra pit and double proscenium arches. The pit was sunken, and a part of it extended under the stage a distance of 17 feet. A curved wall at the front reflected sound toward the stage and hid the pit (including the conductor) from the spectators. (Wagner argued that seeing the conductor was as destructive of illusion as viewing a performance from backstage.) To increase this illusion…he would not permit musicians to tune their instruments in the pit.
(Brockett and Findlay, 1991, 30)
The same principle was applied by Steele MacKaye in his production of Hazel Kirke (1880) for which a special orchestra platform was constructed above and behind the proscenium arch so the audience could not see the musicians (Vardac, 1949, 140-1). A more elaborate development of this technique was devised and displayed at the New Lyceum Theatre in 1885. On this occasion MacKaye’s fixed platform was supplanted by a movable platform which was spectacularly flown into position (above and behind the proscenium) when the performance commenced (Ibid,141).
A similar desire for the visual concealment of musical apparatus during silent film presentations was expressed by Harry Alan Pontamkin in his article ‘Music and the Movies’ (1929). In this paper, Pontamkin proffers his derisory view regarding the use of visually present musical sources when screening films with the following somewhat anecdotal account describing an evening at the Colony Theatre:
When the program first began at the Colony, one was pleased to hear but not see the music. “Ah!” one thought, “at last the non-intrusive orchestra! At last a movie spectatorium, in place of a movie auditorium!” But no. It is just a device, a device of the jazz-age. The orchestra rises up from the depths and stands in our visual way…At the cinema the orchestra before the screen is an anachronism.
(Pontamkin,1929, 284)
Although Wagner’s architectural innovation, MacKaye’s mechanical inventions and Pontamkin’s apparent agitation may not illustrate the general feeling among practitioners and critics regarding the visual presence of musicians in the Opera house, the theatre or the cinema, such evidence does show that aural invisibility was desired, attempted and even achieved before recording technology simplified the process by allowing music to be easily dislocated from its live source. Indeed, from this perspective the sound film’s arrival and subsequent development brought about the realisation, simplification and ultimate standardisation of a technique first explored in a small number of theatrical productions.
Beyond attempts to make the musical apparatus itself invisible, music was also used in both nineteenth-century theatrical productions and the exhibition of silent film as a cloaking device which camouflaged the noise produced by non-musical equipment. In this context, the music which accompanied silent film was a technical necessity because it melodiously drowned out the unwanted sounds produced by early projection equipment and these mechanical emissions served only to remind the audience of the medium’s artificial nature. A similar purpose lies behind the role music played in the performance of melodramas which commonly included spectacle scenes that used noisy mechanical equipment to stage dramatic events such as train crashes, avalanches and naval battles. On such occasions, theatre music was used to conceal the unavoidable backstage sounds produced in the preparation and creation of these special effects. In both cases the non-diegetic accompaniment preserved the spell of illusory verisimilitude by aurally disguising the machinery required to create it. Or to phrase it another way, music rendered the source of the visual artifice invisible. Because modern audiences are generally accustomed to non-diegetic music in both film and theatre it is worth remembering what a strange form of logic this actually is. Put simply, the problem caused by the presence of extraneous noises is that they highlight theatrical verisimilitude’s synthetic composition. However, this can be counteracted with the presence of a far louder noise which also exists outside the diegesis yet is perceived as being directly connected to it. Furthermore, it is through this connection that music can attain what Gorbman describes as ‘inaudibility’; a phenomenon in which the aural material nullifies possible distractions without attracting attention to its own existence.
The second two principles cited by Gorbman describe a musical technique that has been adopted by theatre and filmmakers alike which can be used to lead the audience in and out of the story world when a narrative begins or concludes. Musical prologues and epilogues may attract the audience at a subconscious level, in the sense that they lull the spectator into engaging with, or disengaging from, the mediated form of reality set before them. Alternatively, this response may simply be a trained reaction to the convention based upon empirical knowledge of that particular media form. From this perspective, the audience have learnt that the opening music cues their suspension of disbelief and the closing music initiates a return to reality.
In nineteenth-century melodramas the first element that the audience would experience was usually a musical overture. The compositional content of the overture generally followed the potpourri approach adopted in operettas and light operas from the same period. These aural prologues were essentially musical collages containing segments from the themes that would be played during the play itself (rather than being a specially composed introductory section the likes of which are more commonly associated with Opera). Another approach to overture composition that effectively links the opening music with the drama it precedes is described in a review for Boucicault’s melodrama The Streets of London (1864). In this article the critic observes that Charles Hall’s overture to the play intermingled ‘the street tunes of the time’ as a means of gaining ‘the goodwill of the audience’ (Era, 1864, 10). Such observations suggest that on this occasion the overture linked the play with contemporary popular culture and thereby eased the audience’s perceptive transition from reality to theatrical realism as well as promoting the verisimilar aspects of the production. Indeed, Hall’s composition basically consisted of inter-textual reference points which were associated with the actual city streets to which the play’s name and its subject matter alludes. Furthermore, the play’s title and the locations depicted were also used to connect with local audiences; for instance The Streets of London became The Streets of New York when performed in America, while the Liverpool production was entitled The Poor of Liverpool. As such, it is seems likely that the street tunes selected for the overture would also be changed to match the geographical location of the theatre presenting the play.
The idea that the music engendered ‘the goodwill of the audience’ is also related to the dramatic concept commonly known as ‘a willing suspension of disbelief’. This phrase was first coined by Coleridge to describe the artistic aims of lyrical ballads in Biographia Literaria:
Lyrical Ballads …transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.
(Coleridge, 1817, 161)
Coleridge’s concept can also be applied to the construction and presentation of theatrical and filmic texts. Within this context it refers to the aesthetic and dramatic techniques utilised by both media forms as a means of soliciting and retaining the audience’s ‘dramatic faith’ in the artificial story world. Indeed, it is in the interests of achieving, preserving and releasing this suspension that overtures, entr'actes, exit music and sound bridges between scenes are used.
A particularly popular Victorian melodrama that adopted the aforementioned potpourri approach to overture composition was Henry Irving’s 1871 production of Leopold Lewis’ The Bells (which was adapted from Emile Erckmann and Pierre Alexandre Chatrian’s play Le Juif Polonais, 1867). The plot centres on an ex-innkeeper by the name of Mathias who has managed to become Burgomaster by secretly murdering a rich Jewish stranger that visited his establishment fifteen years ago. When the customer left town on his sleigh Mathias followed the traveller, killed him, stole the gold he was carrying and disposed of the body in a lime kiln. By the opening of the play Mathias’ wealth has enabled him to become the most important man in town and although the residents still discuss the stranger’s mysterious disappearance, no-one suspects that the Burgomaster was responsible. Furthermore, Mathias soon hopes to align himself with the right side of the law when his daughter (Annette) marries the local gendarme (Christian). However, Mathias is haunted by illusory visions and aural hallucinations which echo the sound made by the sleigh bells that were attached to his victim’s horse. After the marriage of Annette and Christian, Mathias retires to his bed and dreams that he is under trial for killing the Jew. During his trial the prosecution instruct a mesmerist to hypnotise Mathias and while in a trance he re-enacts the murder. The court finds Mathias guilty and sentences him to be hanged. At this point, the dream sequence ends and Mathias is discovered by family and friends trying to remove an invisible rope from his neck. Moments later Mathias dies and the play finishes.
When the play was staged in 1871 under Henry Irving’s management (Irving also played Mathias), instead of commissioning a new score or using pre-existent melo’s Irving decided to use the original music composed for the French version by Etienne Singla. Fortunately Singla’s score has survived the passage of time and can be analysed alongside the instructions recorded in Irving’s promptbook to establish the musical segments used and how they were matched with the dramatic text. Firstly, the overture introduced the audience to musical themes that would be repeated and adapted during the play. These segments were musically suggestive in their own right. As Nigel Gardner explains in Henry Irving and ‘The Bells’, the repeated alternation between light melodies and heavy chords helps to heighten audience anticipation (1980, 113). This is because the apparent clash of opposing musical atmospheres implies that the play about to be enacted will feature similar dramatic shifts in action and emotion. However, in semiotic terms this overture provides a chain of signifiers which although evocative are not yet fixed with regard to what they signify. In this context, the music is an incomplete communicative act. The overture poses questions; why the sound of sleigh bells, who might the softer melodies relate to, what events will the heavy chords accompany? However, it does not provide answers until the themes are repeated during the play. Therefore, only through witnessing the drama can the audience resolve the questions evoked by the overture. Consequently, the overture is not just a melodious prelude, it is the audience’s first point of contact with the play prior to any visual or dialogic information being presented and as such it initiates their engagement with the story world that lies veiled behind the curtain. Thus, the manner in which this overture heralds the beginning of the play creates a musical bridge that wills the audience to suspend their disbelief.
Act I
MUSIC (Overture). Curtain up at end of overture.
SCENE: Christmas Eve, interior of a village inn in Alsace – the residence of the Burgomaster Back of scene, with door and window. Doors R. and L. 3 stags’ heads on each flat R. and L……Pegs for hats R. and L. Stove up L. with pipe to go through L. flat with line and towels. Lighted candle on small table r. Lighted candle and wood matches and tobacco on tray, L. table.
(MUSIC 1 for curtain)
LIGHTS thus: 1st down to ¼}Borders
2nd Out }Borders
Foot ¾ down, blue, up gradually at beginning of scene to full.
(Catherine discovered at Spinning wheel. Hans passes window, and enters door R.F. He is covered with snow and carries a long gun and game bag across his shoulder.)
Hans: (At door, taking off his hat and shaking the snow off) More snow, Madame Mathias, more snow! (Places gun by L.F.)
Stop MUSIC 1.
(Lewis, 1871a, 35)
The above stage directions taken from Irving’s promptbook indicate that the overture finished before the curtain went up and another composition, which continued until the opening line had been spoken, was used to accompany the revelation of the stage space. As such, it is fair to assume that the first piece of incidental music begins almost immediately after the overture. When the stage setting is revealed the mood and atmosphere suggested by the music inevitably colours the audience’s perception of the location and activities taking place in it. Furthermore, this process also completes the conceptual transference from reality (audience members sitting in an auditorium) to fantasy (the story world behind the curtain) initiated by the overture.
Although the overture has aired a number of foreboding themes with galloping rhythms and orchestral blasts these musical characteristics are entirely absent from the opening theme which follows it. The music used in this section is best described as a gentle pastoral tune which lends a positive, relaxed and idyllic atmosphere to the on-stage setting and domestic activity depicted. In this scenario the music functions as a device which helps to set up the first narrative stage. While The Bells cannot be described as a conventional melodrama because the play does not feature binary characters that fulfil the roles of hero and villain, the narrative structure it follows is fairly typical. For the most part the story adheres to the key stages described by Todorov in his paper ‘Structural Analysis of Narrative’ (1969, 75). In this article Todorov puts forward the theory that narratives can be broken down into three constituent and consecutive phases: equilibrium established, equilibrium disrupted, and equilibrium reinstated. Brooks also identifies the first element of this tripartite narrative formula with his observation that plays from the melodramatic genre ‘typically open with a presentation of virtue and innocence’ (1976, 29). In this context, establishing a balanced environment at the beginning of the narrative becomes particularly important as it will ultimately affect how the audience respond when the equilibrium is threatened, dismantled and finally reinstated. Therefore, the gentle pastoral theme which plays when the curtain goes up and the fictional world on stage is revealed immediately indicates that at present everything is as it should be. Once this has been established the narrative then progresses by gradually dismantling the idyllic introduction and transforming the inferred equilibrium into an unbalanced and unpredictable state of flux.
Irving’s production of Boucicault’s melodrama The Corsican Brothers (1852) features a strikingly similar opening which also presents a female character alone at her spinning wheel. As occurred in The Bells, the performance begins with an overture quickly followed by another piece of music which plays while the stage set is revealed, however on this occasion the non-diegetic accompaniment leads directly into a song:
After Overture. Music to take up Act Drop - MUSIC 1
ACT 1
SCENE 1
Hall of the Chateau dei Franchi
Marie Diseou seated up RC at spinning wheel
SONG
Marie: Oh that I were a crowned king
Upon a throne of gold,
And mine was all and ev’rything
That I could there behold;
I’d give my thrown and crown away’
And all that I could see,
If I could woo Marie to say,}
She’d give her heart to me.} Repeat
La, la, andc.
Light at back
Bell (Bell without)
Somebody at the gate! Who can it be at this hour? Bell (Bell again) Griffo! Griffo! They seem in a hurry whoever they are. Griffo! Griffo! (Griffo up on steps R.)
Griffo: What’s the matter? Is the house on fire?
Marie: No, but there is somebody at the gate.
Griffo: Well, go and open it. (Crosses C.)
Marie: At this hour? – by myself? No, thank you.
Griffo: Timid Individual. (Exit L.H)
Marie: (Putting her spinning wheel off R.H recess) Go and open it? Very likely indeed! to be saluted by a pistol or a stiletto.
MUSIC 2
Who can it be, I wonder? There’s a horse at the door; some traveller, I suppose.
(Boucicault, 1852, 9-10)
The above transcription is taken from Irving’s promptbook for the 1880 production of the play in which he has written the musical cues and underlined the corresponding text. In most cases Irving writes the word ‘Music’ or ‘End Music’ followed by a cue number as well as underlining the specific line or stage direction to indicate the precise moment that the accompaniment should start and stop. However, in this example it is unclear at which point the opening music was intended to finish. This leads to two possibilities: either the music finished before Marie began singing or it continued throughout her song. If the first procedure were followed the music which plays while the curtains rise would come to an end and after a slight pause the song accompaniment could begin. However, in the second scenario the introductory music would have to segue into the musical accompaniment for Marie’s song; an approach that would also extend the musical span of the sound bridge. When this particular composition begins no visual elements have been revealed and although the music may carry certain conventional associations, to a great extent it exists purely as an arrangement being played by the orchestra in full view of the audience. Then the curtain goes up and the music becomes a decodable sign which infers a particular reading of the visual elements presented. Finally, if the character on stage uses the musical material as an accompaniment to a song the composition becomes aligned with the fictional story world thereby completing the bridge between reality and the synthetic construction of reality presented on stage.
The action which takes place immediately after the song finishes also illustrates the manner in which music was used to establish an initial state of equilibrium. As the extract indicates Marie’s opening song is interrupted by the frantic ringing of an unknown late night visitor to the Dei Franchi estate. Not only does the bell disturb the pleasant opening atmosphere, Marie’s speculation that the unexpected caller may be armed is taken up by a new piece of non-diegetic underscoring which continues until the visitor establishes himself as a friend. On this occasion it is fair to assume that the musical accompaniment evoked a different response in the listener compared with the composition which opened the show. Rather than inferring equilibrium the music would have been used to heighten tension and suspense before revealing that this insinuation was misleading.
As well as providing an aural prologue, non-diegetic music also created a bridge between a melodrama’s final moments and the transition back to the real world signified by the curtain, the house lights and the curtain call. In these circumstances, music connected the artificial dramaturgical representation of time (with all its temporal variants and fluctuations) to the point at which reality was restored. This technique parallels the function of theme music in twentieth-century film which is described by Frith as follows:
Theme songs work, first, as summary, they reprise a melody we’ve been hearing all through the film. Second, the songs capture the mood of an ending – romantic harmony, new wisdom, social uplift. And third, theme songs often seem to have a built-in sense of sadness or nostalgia: the film is over, we have to withdraw from its experience, get ‘back to reality’.
(Frith, 1984, 78)
Although Frith’s explanation focuses on songs rather than music the theoretical functions he identifies are equally applicable to the final composition used by Irving in his 1871 production of The Bells:
Chris: Give me that gun! Stand back!
(Chris, with increased hammering at the door, and the noise till the door is forced off its hinges, and hurled on the stage.)
MUSIC 16
(Chris rushes in, goes quickly to alcove, opens curtains with his hands, looks in, starts back in horror – closes them and half turning, waves back the others.)
(enter hurriedly with Chris, d.l Cath, Annette, Hans, Sozel and Walter.)
Cath: (C.) What has happened? Christian, speak! What has happened? (She rushes towards the alcove.)
Chris: (Warning her back) Don not come near! Do not come near!
(Catherine endeavouring to go past him)
(As Chris speaks to Cath., they gradually get over to C. leaving R. of stage open…BELLS as…Mathias rushes in till Curtain down.)
(Mathias rushes on dressed as he was at the time he retired behind the curtains. His eyes are fixed, and his appearance deathly and haggard. He clutches the drapery convulsively, and staggers with a yell to C., is caught in the arms of Chris, who places him in chair brought forward to C. hastily by Hans. Mathias sinks in chair, holds one hand to Annette L. then to Chris R.)
Math: Take the rope from my neck – take – the – rope – neck –
(Struggles and dies.)
SLOW CURTAIN.
(Lewis, 1871a, 76-77)
The composition which corresponds with Irving’s cue ‘Music 16’ is a melody that has already been played a number of times during the play. On the previous occasions this tune has been performed by the string section as an accompaniment to the tender moments shared between Mathias and his daughter Annette (see pages 141-6). It is first heard in Act I when Mathias gives Annette a necklace as an early wedding present and then sits her on his knee. After this Mathias tells Annette that his ‘only hope is to see you happy with Christian’ (Lewis, 1871a, 46) and then the music stops. The melody is played again in the second Act just after Annette enters. On this occasion it continues while Annette shows her Father that she is wearing the necklace he gave her and embraces him. Then Annette tells Mathias that she loves him and she leaves for church. Mathias watches his wife and daughter through a window and after he has blown them both kisses the music finishes. The same melody also accompanies an affectionate exchange between Annette and Mathias in Act III (ibid., 66).
These three scenes all present Mathias as a devoted and loving father thereby providing a direct contrast to the increasingly erratic, nervous, and guilt-ridden character seen by the audience on other occasions. Therefore, repeating this melody when Mathias dies at the end of the play makes a clear connection between these earlier moments and the character’s demise. Consequently, the music recalls Mathias’ positive attributes and appeals to the audience’s sympathy rather than reminding them of his cold-blooded crime by reprising the more foreboding composition that played when he was confronted by aural and visual hallucinations. With regard to the three characteristics of ‘Theme Songs’ Frith identifies the music which concluded The Bells can be regarded as a ‘summary’ because it featured a melody that had already been played in each previous Act. In addition, the selected composition provided an intra-textual reference to previous narrative events and thereby coloured the ‘mood’ at the end of the play through its association with the positive characteristics displayed by Mathias during these moments.
Frith’s third principle, that of ‘nostalgia’, is also achieved by this musical epilogue as it encourages the audience to remember earlier moments in the drama which were accompanied by the same melody. However, the way in which the audience are informed that the play has finished and that they ‘have to withdraw from its experience [and], get back to reality’ (Frith, 1984, 78) is not communicated through musical repetition. Instead, it is the new arrangement of the melody that prepares the audience for the curtain. As Mathias dies the music becomes very quiet, however once he is dead the strings return to full volume and for the first time the brass section takes up the tune. Then the music builds to a loud crescendo and finally both the penultimate and final notes are extended thus punctuating the dramatic finale. The adaptation of this established musical theme is clearly designed to signal that the play has reached its ultimate conclusion and as the curtain drops the underscoring provides a final aural bridge between the story world and reality.
As well as opening and closing plays nineteenth-century melodramas frequently used music to provide the aural accompaniment for scene changes and narrative developments which brought about unrealistic shifts in space and time. A good example that illustrates this technique occurs in George F. Rowe’s 1887 adaptation of David Copperfield (entitled Little Emily) which used music to accompany a complex scene change. On this occasion, a stage setting designed to represent the interior of Canterbury Cathedral morphed into a street scene which featured the Cathedral exterior as a backdrop. Rowe’s promptbook instructions establish that this transformation took place in front of the audience and the entire scene change was accompanied by non-diegetic organ music: ‘Organ before change. Calcium on at change. Organ begins before change. Scene changes slowly’ (Rowe, 1887 cited in Vardac, 1949, 32).
The ‘calcium’ reference relates to the lighting device used during this scene change which was known as a ‘calcium light’ (or a ‘lime light’), so called because it utilised the bright light produced when calcium oxide/lime is burned. In the early nineteenth century Thomas Drummond invented a special apparatus which allowed the user to control this exothermic reaction and focus the resulting light into a beam through the use of a lens. Drummond first unveiled his invention in 1816 and over the following century it was adopted by the theatre as an early form of spotlight until being replaced by more powerful carbon arc lamps. The calcium light enabled its user to illuminate small points on the stage, usually the area occupied by the principle actor, with a sharp shaft of light which also left the area outside the beam in darkness. With this in mind the intended effect of the scene change Rowe devised for Little Emily becomes clear. The organ music would have provided a sound bridge as the action switched from an interior setting to an exterior one. However, rather than initiating this change with an exit, blackout, or curtain drop, the calcium light illuminated the solitary character on stage. Consequently, the calcium light caused the audience to focus on the actor rather than the set changing in the shadows, while the sound created by this transformation was disguised by a musical accompaniment. Thus, when full lighting returned and the action recommenced it would appear that the character had been magically transported from the interior of Canterbury Cathedral to a new exterior location.
Another example of non-diegetic music being used to connect scenes takes place in Boucicault’s melodrama The Colleen Bawn (1860). In the opening Act it is established that the extravagant lifestyle and subsequent death of Baron Cregan has left his widow (Mrs. Cregan) and son (Hardress) with pressing financial problems and as such they have had to mortgage their estate. This arrangement was financed by Squire Corrigan, however the settlement date has passed and the Cregans still owe him eight thousand pounds. To avoid becoming destitute Mrs. Cregan plans an arranged marriage between Hardress and the wealthy heiress Anne Chute. Hardress agrees to the match although he has already secretly married a local girl by the name of Eily O’Connor and his close friend Kyrle Daly and Anne are becoming romantically involved. In order to cover his tracks Hardress tells Eily that she must give him their wedding certificate. However, before Eily hands it to him her friend Myles-na-Coppaleen and the local priest insist that she never relinquishes proof of their secret marriage. Meanwhile, Hardress’ devoted hunchback servant Danny Mann is trying to help his master marry Anne. Firstly, he convinces Anne that Kyrle is currently involved with Eily. Then later in the play Danny incorrectly interprets a conversation with Hardress as a coded instruction that he should kill Eily. Danny tries to drown Eily in a lake, but after pushing her from a boat he is shot by Myles and she is dramatically rescued. Eily’s survival is kept secret and she goes into hiding. Although mortally wounded Danny struggles home and as he dies reveals his belief that Hardress instructed him to murder Eily. Danny’s confession is overheard by Corrigan who fetches some soldiers and interrupts Hardress and Anne’s pre-marital celebrations with a warrant for the groom’s arrest. Fortunately Eily suddenly arrives on stage and the charges against Hardress are dropped after Danny’s mistake is revealed.
During the second Act, Boucicault combines non-diegetic music and a diegetic vocal melody as a means of retaining the dramatic tempo and concealing a temporal disjunction in the moments leading up to the scene depicting Danny’s murder attempt. At the beginning of Act II, scene 5 Myles enters singing a song called Brian O’Linn and explains that he is on his way to a secret whisky still hidden in a cave by the lake. After providing this piece of exposition (which explains his fortunate presence at the location where the attempted murder takes place and grants him the opportunity to save the heroine) Myles exits as follows:
Exit Myles singing, R. – Music till Myles begins to speak next scene.
Scene Sixth. A Cave; through the large opening at back is seen the Lake and Moon; rock R. and L. – flat rock, R.C ; gauze waters all over stage; rope hanging from C., hitched on wing, R.U.E.
Enter Myles singing, top of rock, R.U.E.
(Boucicault, 1860, 33)
There are two conclusions that can be drawn from these stage directions. Firstly, it is clear that the music provided a sound bridge which connected scenes five and six. Secondly, the instructions indicate that the music is still playing when Myles re-enters singing and it continues until his song is finished and he begins to speak. Consequently, it is unlikely that this combination of diegetic lyrics and non-diegetic music was either conceived or presented as being independent from one another. Instead, the music would have provided the instrumental accompaniment to Myles’ song. From this perspective, the scene change takes place as follows. Myles sings a song accompanied by the orchestra. The accompaniment continues as Myles exits and the setting for scene 6 is revealed. Then Myles re-enters and once again adds his vocal melody to the music. Therefore, the beginning and ending of Myles’ song take place in real time while his journey between A and B is unrealistically accelerated to coincide with the scene change. However, the non-diegetic music which plays throughout camouflages this increased temporal velocity.
Another nineteenth-century production that frequently used non-diegetic sound bridges was Irving’s 1880 revival of The Corsican Brothers. The brothers referred to in the title are identical twins Louis and Fabien Dei Franchi. Secure in the knowledge that Fabien will take care of the family estate Louis has moved to Paris after becoming enamoured with Emile De Lesparre. However, upon his arrival Louis discovers that Emile is married. Although the first Act is set in Corsica and features a sub-plot involving the resolution of a feud between two local families, the main narrative focus centres upon Fabien’s fear for his twin’s safety and the paranormal connection between the two brothers. At the end of Act I, their supernatural bond is further demonstrated when Louis’ ghost appears on stage and the back wall vanishes to reveal a scene depicting his death in a duel.
In Act II, the events which led up to Louis’ death are revealed. The plot revolves around a ruse designed by the notorious womaniser Chateau Renaud who lures Emile to a late night social gathering under the pretence of reuniting her with a long lost sister and returning personal correspondences. However, unbeknownst to Emile her arrival at the soiree will support Renaud’s claim that they are having an affair. Furthermore, if Renaud succeeds in coercing Emile to this location by 4:00am the conformation of their supposed relationship will win him a thousand Franc wager. Towards the end of Act II’s penultimate scene Renaud achieves his goal, but Emile protests her innocence and thereby rouses Louis to defend her. Renaud and Louis arrange a duel that takes place a few hours later in Fontainebleau Forest and the final scene of the Act opens to reveal the aftermath. Louis is lying in the arms of his second whilst being inspected by a surgeon who announces that it is, ‘[t]en minutes past nine’ and Louis ‘has not five minutes to live’(Boucicault, 1852, 43). After Louis has spoken his last words the back of the set dissolves again, but on this occasion the locations depicted in the Act I finale are reversed so Fabien and Madame Dei Franchi are now in the up-stage position. The third Act takes place five days later when Renaud and his friend Montgiron find themselves stranded in Fontainebleau Forest after their coach axle breaks on the very spot where the duel took place. Moments later they are confronted by Fabien, who they initially believe to be Louis’ ghost. Fabien demands a duel with Renaud in order to avenge his brother’s death and the two do battle. Just after Fabien has defeated and slain Renaud, Louis’ ghost appears and placing his hand on Fabien’s shoulder tells him not to mourn as they will meet again, at which point the curtain drops.
Like many other nineteenth-century melodramas, Boucicault’s play does not comply with classical, Aristotelian tenets regarding time and place. Consequently, the scenes are set in multiple locations, the narrative is non-linear, and the dramatic action takes place over a number of days. Indeed, if the play were presented in the order that the events are supposed to occur Act II would actually take place before Act I (see Fig. 6 overleaf). Unlike the first and last Act of the play that feature only one location, Act II is divided
[pic]
into four relatively short scenes which take place in the following locations; a Parisian Opera House, the Opera House lobby, Montgiron’s house and Fontainebleau Forest. Irving’s annotations in the promptbook for his 1880 production establish that non-diegetic sound bridges were used to connect each of these scenes. For instance, Irving underlines the last word of dialogue spoken in Act II, scene 1 to indicate where the music should begin. Irving also notes that the composition was to be played at a fast tempo and continue until the first eight lines had been spoken in the proceeding scene:
Mont: …I shall expect you at four o’clock, or sooner if you like.
Louis: I shall be there. Martelli!
(Martelli joins Louis, and they exeunt. Gallop in which Scene closes.)
MUSIC ‘SEGUE GALLOP 5 ½’
Scene 2: Lobby of Opera House
Enter Emile and Chateau Renaud.
Renaud: Emile so good of you to wait.
Emile: I am here at the risk of my motives being misinterpreted by you and by the world.
Renaud: What have you to fear? Behind that mask no-one can recognise you.
Emile: I have obeyed the conditions you requested; now keep your promise and restore to me those letters.
Renaud: Certainly, since you insist upon it.
Emile: Give them to me at once, and let me go.
STOP MUSIC
(Boucicault, 1852, 34-5)
The sonic camouflage provided by the music during the scene change would have been particularly important as the Opera House setting revealed at the start of Act II was a bombastic spectacle in its own right. Although Boucicault’s original intention may have been simply to represent a masked ball, both Dutton Cook’s and Clement Scott’s reviews of Irving’s 1880 revival describe a lavish, detailed and realistic recreation:
The surprising brilliance of this scene, with its flood of light and colour, its numberless dancers, its variety of costumes and characters, its real fountains and real flowers and shrubs, its spirit, its movement and spirit, mark the advance in stage management and inventiveness since the times of Charles Kean.
(Cook, 1883, 414)
Real private boxes, real curtains, hangings, and real people in the lodges, real trees and flowers, the floor of the mimic opera literally crammed with dancers and dominoes, merriment and masks, pierrots and pierrettes, polichinelles, clowns and pantaloons, shepherdesses and debardeurs, ballet girls, monks, pilgrims, and comic dogs. Such a sound of revelry goes up when the curtain rises, that dramatic action is made an impossibility, conversation a farce.
(Scott, 1896, 187)
From these accounts it is apparent that the noise created when the set was struck and the supernumerary army exited at the end of the scene would have destroyed the realistic illusion Irving had taken such efforts to create if the musical instructions given in the promptbook were not followed.
The musical accompaniment also smoothed out unrealistic temporal disruptions in the Act by disguising the lack of synchronisation between real time and dramatic events. During each scene in Act II characters establish what the precise time of day is within the story world. Time is an important narrative element in this Act as for Renaud to win his wager he must arrive with Emile at Montgiron’s party by 4.00 am. However, the actual duration of events and the speed at which time passes is unrealistically accelerated in order to maintain a fast paced dramatic tempo. For instance, just after the first scene has begun Louis makes reference to the fact that it is almost half past one (Boucicault, 1852, 30). Although the scene is relatively brief and the action between the first and second scene supposedly continuous, when scene 2 begins Renaud comments that it is already 3:45 am (ibid., 36). Therefore, Irving uses a sound bridge to disguise this temporal deviation and seamlessly sew the two scenes together. Indeed, Irving’s promptbook annotations establish that this technique was used during every scene change in Act II.
This application works because the rules of realism do not apply to musical material. As a result even though the orchestra are positioned outside the story world the music they produce can be used to disguise moments where the events on stage reject realism in the interests of dramaturgical cohesion. In addition, because one variable aspect of musical composition is its meter this can be manipulated to affect how the audience perceive dramatic time. Non-diegetic music essentially rationalises dramatic time and space by disguising deviations from reality and evoking an illusory reality in which the normal rules of logic are loosened. Indeed, Mayer touches upon this concept in his paper ‘The Music of Melodrama’:
[M]usic is an affecting and effecting device to underline and emphasise the emotional content of a play’s action…masking the improbabilities that we so often recognise in melodrama, and maintaining momentum of the play’s headlong rush from sensation to sensation, from crisis to emotional crisis.
(Mayer, 1980, 51)
The non-diegetic musical sound bridge exemplifies and extends the principles Mayer describes as it helps to retain a play’s ‘momentum’ during scene changes and backstage preparations as well as ‘masking’ how time is being manipulated in the interests of dramatising the events on stage. For instance, in the previous example Irving’s use of a musical gallop completes the three following functions; it indicates dramatic time has accelerated, ensures narrative impetus is maintained during the scene change, and heightens dramatic tension. A gallop is also used to connect scene 2 with scene 3, and on this occasion the sound bridge also disguises a small temporal leap that takes place within the scene itself. Irving’s promptbook establishes that the music which joins these scenes together begins on Renaud’s line ‘restore her to your arms!’ (Boucicault, 1852, 36). This accompaniment then underscores the last fifteen lines of dialogue in scene 2 during which Renaud informs the audience through an aside that the time is ‘Quarter to four’ (ibid.). However, in Renaud’s final line of the scene, which takes place approximately thirty seconds later, he states that it is ‘Ten minutes to four’ (ibid.). In essence the fast paced underscoring imposes its own rhythmical properties on the scene and thereby camouflages the fact that five minutes have been condensed to thirty seconds by loosening the bonds of real time. Therefore, the audience do not notice the temporal contradiction because they are caught up in the rapid flow of events being driven forward by the musical accompaniment.
The final musical segment in Act II begins at the end of the third scene and continues into the scene which follows it thereby providing a sound bridge which connects the two locations (Montgiron’s House and the Forest of Fontainbleau) and disguises the temporal leap (from 4:00 am to 09:10 am). However, on this occasion the orchestral accompaniment continues throughout scene 4 and plays until the curtain has dropped at the end of the Act. During the third scene Emile arrives at Montgiron’s party and realises she has been tricked by Renaud. Emile’s protestation that she was lured there under false pretences is met with disbelief and just after the non-diegetic music has begun she asks Louis to escort her home:
Emile: …Ah I recognise at least one friend.
MUSIC 13a
Monsinieur Louis dei Franchi, will you afford your protection to conduct me home?
Louis: My life is yours.
(Boucicault, 1852, 42)
Renaud objects and demands that as he arrived at the party with Emile only he has the right to leave with her. Undeterred, Louis stands by Emile and Renaud challenges him to a duel:
Louis: A challenge in the presence of a lady! O, sir, it lacked but this to finish your character. Madame, my blood, to the last drop, is yours.
(Exit with Emile)
Ren: Well, I suppose I have lost after all; but I shall sup with none
the worse appetite.
MUSIC ‘Gallop’
(Boucicault, 1852, 42)
Irving’s annotations establish that the music’s speed is increased to a gallop on Renaud’s last three words and this tempo should be maintained until the ‘curtains descend and close scene in’ (Boucicault, 1852, 42). In previous examples both the musical content and rhythm remained the same during the scene change, however on this occasion Irving indicates that a new segue should have replaced the ‘Gallop’ by the time the fourth scene begins:
MUSIC ‘Segue 14a’
Scene 4
Forest of Fontainbleau
(Louis discovered, lying wounded, supported by Martelli and Second. Surgeon felling his pulse. Chateau Renaud wiping his sword. Montgiron and Verner as Seconds.)
Surgeon: Ten minutes past nine. He has not five minutes more to live.
(Boucicault, 1852, 43)
The accompaniment Irving refers to as ‘14a’ continues until Louis dies and then the music segues into the slow ‘Ghost Melody’ which played at the end of Act I. As the music changes the back of the set opens up and reveals Louis’ brother Fabien staring at this scene from his home in Corsica thereby mirroring the vision sequence which occurred in Act I (ibid., 27-28).
If scenes 3 and 4 are placed within a linear time frame the musical underscoring spans a period which lasts from just after 4:00am until 9:10am as it plays continuously throughout the leaps in time, location and dimension depicted on stage. In terms of conventional musical instructions a ‘Gallop’ is the fastest speed a composition can be played at. Therefore, Irving’s annotations establish that the musical segue which takes place between scenes 3 and 4 would have inevitably involved a decrease in tempo.
In addition, Irving’s decision to alter the music during this scene change suggests that the function it performed differed from the previous sound bridges where the composition remained the same. The factor that prompted this change in composition was the clear narrative break between the action which concluded scene 3 and the events that had transpired by the beginning of scene 4. Not only have five hours passed between the two scenes, but the dramatic event the third scene built up to, namely the duel between Louis and Renaud, has already taken place when the fourth scene opens. Furthermore, the audience already know the outcome of this combat as they have previously witnessed it through Fabien’s vision in Act I. As such, the music is not required to heighten tension or maintain narrative momentum and therefore rather than preparing the audience for a swordfight between the hero and villain the music subtly subverts the third scene’s dramatic build up and primes feelings of sympathy before presenting Louis’ death.
Another application of the non-diegetic sound bridge was as an aural accompaniment to a tableau. These momentary freeze-frames were common in nineteenth-century melodrama and frequently appeared at the end of an Act to punctuate a climactic finale. However, the sudden cessation of activity and movement on stage would have also negated dramatic momentum and verisimilitude. Therefore, musical sound bridges were used to camouflage the temporary suspension of dramatic time and the silencing of all diegetic sound. In these scenes the non-diegetic music began before the tableau formed and continued until the curtain had dropped thereby disguising silence, and maintaining a level of rhythmic propulsion. The composition selected to accompany the tableau would also communicate the dramatic significance of the event depicted and therefore although the story world had become static and silent the musical element still actively engaged the audience.
The climax of the first Act in The Colleen Bawn illustrates this technique. By the close of Act I Hardress has been forced into a situation where he must commit bigamy or be financially ruined. Hardress chooses the former and attempts to retrieve his existing marriage certificate from Eily so he can destroy it. However, on the advice of her friends Eily refuses and an argument breaks out between Myles and Hardress which culminates in the former making the following exclamation:
Myles: …“Hardress Cregan, I make ye a present of the contimpt of a rouge.” (snaps finger)
(Music till end of Act. – Enter Father Tom, Sheelah and Danny R.U.E. – Hardress throws down paper – goes to table – takes hat)
(Boucicault, 1860, 20)
Hardress exits swearing he will not return until his ‘house is clear of these vermin’ (ibid.) and the local cleric (Father Tom) makes Eily vow never to give up her wedding certificate. After Eily has taken this oath the following action takes place: ‘Eily utters a cry and falls – Tableau. End of Act 1’ (ibid.). In this example, musical underscoring accompanies the events preceding the first Act’s dramatic conclusion as well as the momentary temporal pause that continues until the curtain drops. Therefore, the music effectively bridges three different time zones as it continues unchanged while the other elements move from dramatic time (the actual enactment of the play) into theatrical time (indicated by the tableau formation), and then finally the return to real time (when the Act finishes).
Non-diegetic music also camouflaged more menial set changes that occurred when particular props or groups of characters needed to be taken on or off stage. For instance, Act I of The Corsican Brothers features a sub-plot in which Fabien attempts to reconcile two feuding peasant families (the Orlandos and the Colonnas). Their dispute (which began over a chicken) has resulted in numerous deaths and injuries so Fabien arranges for the heads of each family to meet and sign a peace treaty. Like nearly all the action that takes place in this play, Fabien’s negotiations are accompanied by non-diegetic music. However, on this occasion Irving gives instructions for the music to change in volume.
Once the concerned parties have aired their objections and representatives of both families consent to sign the treaty Fabien gives the following command: ‘throw open the gates and admit them all’ (Boucicault, 1852, 24). The stage is then filled with the local peasant population so they can witness the contract being signed. At this point Irving’s notes indicate that the musical accompaniment becomes ‘Forte’ and does not return to the original volume until all the peasants are on stage. After exchanging olive branches, the heads of the respective families sign the agreement and the whole company exits except for Fabien, Alfred, Madame Dei Franchi and her servant Griffo. Irving’s promptbook indicates that the music should become louder at the beginning of this mass exodus and remain ‘forte till all off’ (Boucicault, 1860, 42). As such, the increase in volume Irving requests on both occasions is used to disguise the disruption caused by the supernumeraries’ entrance and exit. From a technical viewpoint the louder sections essentially camouflage the extraneous noises created by the crowd’s physical arrival and departure. Furthermore, this sonic boost also gives momentum and dramatic value to what might otherwise be perceived as a gap in the action.
The peasants’ entrance is comparable to a minor scene change in which the constituent elements of the stage picture are altered while the setting remains the same. In narrative terms, their arrival and departure is not important. They are simply human props and like the introduction or removal of inanimate objects from the mise-en-scène their entrance or exit is not of any dramatic significance in itself. Instead, the important consideration is the effect the new arrangement has on the stage picture once completed. From this perspective, the peasants’ presence turns the private space in which the truce was arranged into a public arena where inhabitants of the story world witness the treaty being signed. If these events occurred in a film then the actual arrival and departure of the crowd could be edited out. However, as theatre is a live medium this action has to take place in full view of the audience and as such real-time limitations are imposed on the scene’s enactment. Therefore, Irving uses a musical sound bridge to retain the scene’s dramatic tempo while the stage business is completed.
The bridging function provided by non-diegetic music was also utilised in the accompaniment of scenes which deviated from material reality. A supernatural ‘vision’ scene occurs at the end of both Act I and II in The Corsican Brothers (see Fig. 6). During the first Act a number of strange coincidences make Fabien fear for his brother’s welfare and he instructs Griffo to prepare a horse so he can post Louis a letter:
Fabien: … See! See! the clock! it points to the same hour. It must be later.
(Looks at watch) The clock has stopped! – ‘tis close on midnight.
MUSIC BEGINS
A second warning! Ah! Louis! Louis! To horse! To horse! Griffo, lose not a moment. I will write to Louis. Put the letter in the post the moment you arrive, ‘twill catch the steamer which starts for France to-morrow. Haste! Haste! I’ll bring the letter before your foot is in the stirrup. (Exit Griffo through curtains.) The sudden pang in my side, the strange coincidence of the clock – and my watch – but perhaps ‘tis nothing after all.
(Fabien sits at table and writes.) “My brother, my dearest Louis, if this
letter find you still alive, write to me at once, if only two words. I have
had a warning – write – write to me.”
MUSIC SEGUE GHOST
(On line ‘my dearest Louis’ – Lights out at back when Fab sits at table – my dearest Louis – White Float right down – Blue Float right down slowly)
(He folds and seals the letter, during which Louis has gradually appeared, rising though the floor; and, as Fabien is about to place his seal on the wax, Louis touches him on the shoulder.)
Fabien: (Looking up) My brother! Dead!
Madame Dei Franchi: (Appearing at door) Who uttered that word?
(Louis waves his arm towards the wall and disappears. At the same time the back of the scene opens, and discloses a vision of glade in the Forest of Fontainebleau. Chateau Renaud wiping his sword. Two Seconds near him. Louis on the ground, supported by two Seconds and a Surgeon.)
ACT DROP SLOWLY
MUSIC FINISH
(Boucicault, 1852, 27)
Boucicault reverses this visual arrangement in the following Act so while Louis dies downstage Fabien witnesses the vision of his brother’s demise from an upstage position. On both occasions a musical sound bridge accompanies these simultaneous depictions of two events that take place at different times in separate locations.
In the extract, Irving’s annotations indicate that the music which begins on Fabien’s line ‘tis close on midnight’ segues into another composition while Louis’ ghost materialises on stage. This change in music also coincides with the stage lighting being dimmed to a very low level. When the music begins it starts by underscoring Fabien’s alarmed reaction to the clock having stopped at midnight. Then as the accompaniment segues into the ‘Ghost Melody’ and the lighting state darkens the eerie atmosphere and dramatic tension are heightened in preparation for the ghost’s manifestation and the vision which follows. As well as elevating the scene’s dramatic atmosphere the music also provided a sound bridge which unified the geographically separated, but narratologically linked, events into one mise-en-scène. Therefore, the underscoring amplified and manipulated the audience’s emotional reaction to the apparition (an aspect discussed in more detail on page 112-3) and ensured the suspension of their disbelief even though this supernatural happening broke with material reality.
The music which accompanied the appearance of Louis’ ghost and the vision scene which followed it acted as a multi-functional sound bridge which incorporated many camouflaging techniques already discussed in this section. Firstly, the underscoring would have disguised the noise created by the machinery needed to facilitate the Louis’ spectral materialisation. A special device called the ‘Corsican trap’ was invented for this illusion which enabled Louis’ ghost to simultaneously glide across the stage while gradually emerging through the floor. The actor was positioned beneath the set on a small wheeled platform placed on rails which ran all the way up to the stage above. This one person carriage worked in conjunction with a ‘scrutto’ which was essentially a moving trap door that provided a hole for the actor to surface from. When the ghost needed to appear a manual winch system propelled the platform up the rails while the scrutto simultaneously travelled across the stage floor directly above the carriage. Therefore, the actor would appear to materialise out of the ground while gliding across the stage. Although there were other devices developed for the appearance of stage ghosts during the nineteenth century, the Corsican trap was used in both the original 1852 production as well as Irving’s revival twenty-eight years later. However, when Clement Scott reviewed Irving’s production the critic stated that the Corsican trap should have been replaced with a more modern method alternative:
We have improved in stage ghosts since 1852, but there is no reason why the Lyceum spectre should be that of the Princess’s: effective then, but dangerous now. And why should a ghost come up facing the audience in this stiff and stilted fashion? Is there any reason why he should not be a pathetic and pleading ghost, advancing with outstretched arms towards the brother, or introduced coming gradually along from the back of that enormous stage? Lime-light, and magic-lanterns, and Professors Maskelyne and Pepper can give us better ghosts than these.
(Scott, 1896, 181)
Scott’s first criticism regarding the ghost’s physical composure was an unavoidable aspect of the technique employed. As the actor is stood on a moving platform, the positioning of which must correspond exactly with a small hole also travelling across the stage, it would be important that they remained in a static position and did not allow any limbs to protrude until the journey was complete. Furthermore, if the other techniques Scott cites were used then not only would the actor be able to address the critic’s comments, but the extraneous noises made by the stage machinery would also be removed as the methods he mentions create ghostly illusions through the reflection and projection of light, rather than requiring actual physical propulsion via a manually driven rope and pulley system. Indeed, the visual effect created by the Corsican trap can be regarded as merely the tip of a complex mechanical iceberg. However, it was important that the audience were only aware of the figure rising from the floor and not the cumbersome equipment operating underneath. Therefore, the sound created by the machinery below the stage was camouflaged by non-diegetic music in order to preserve the supernatural illusion.
Irving also accompanied Louis’ spectral manifestations with the aptly titled ‘Ghost Melody’ which had been composed for the 1852 premiere of The Corsican Brothers. In addition, it is apparent from Scott’s review of Irving’s 1880 revival that the composition was incorporated into the overture: ‘the orchestra having given a dim, distant, and dreamy idea of the melody that is so soon to become familiar, the notes of preparation are sounded, and the curtain rises’ (Scott, 1869, 185). As the melody had already been heard in the overture its repetition during the first vision scene completed the communicative process which began before the play started by linking the initial aural signifier with its subsequent visual significant. Furthermore, as the melody continues to play until after the curtain has fallen on the first Act it also bridges the conceptual gap between story world and reality.
Sound bridges work because music has the capacity to produce a hypnotic suspension of disbelief in the viewer. As such, this characteristic can be exploited to ensure that the audience do not question the actual likelihood of certain dramatic moments. However, the actual musical category to which these accompaniments belong is ‘incidental music’. This type of music has often been described in a somewhat derogatory manner as the following quotation exemplifies:
[Incidental music] serves to drown and erase any thought present in the consumer's mind. As a result, one finds it more easy to identify himself with the characters and less vigilant to the lack of logic in the plot. Human civilization becomes infantilized and the consumer feels like he is part of a fairy tale.
(Vladimir, 2000, 22)
Vladimir’s argument and analogy is clearly devised to present this type of musical material and the effects it produces in an extremely negative light. However, the technique Vladimir derides actually occupies a far more integral position with regard to the construction and presentation of a theatrical text than he recognises. In fact, Vladimir’s observations establish the powerful potential of incidental music and its ability to neuter alienation and promote audience acceptance. As such, the relationship between incidental music and melodrama seemingly stems from the genre’s penchant for special effects, temporal disruptions and realistic settings in which incredible events occur.
The non-diegetic musical sound bridge is a device which actively and invisibly solicits a willing suspension of disbelief from theatre and film audiences alike. Indeed, Gorbman’s following explanation of this phenomenon is equally applicable to both media:
Music removes barriers to belief; it bonds spectator to spectacle, it envelops spectator and spectacle in a harmonious space. Like hypnosis, it silences the spectator’s censor.
(Gorbman, 1987, 55)
This musical application operates in complicity with the other signification systems working towards verisimilitude. However, rather than emulating reality the sound bridge disguises deviations from it. Thus, rather than attempting to project authenticity, non-diegetic music shackles audience and narrative together by enveloping them in the same aural milieu and thereby ensures their acceptance of temporal shifts and mediated reality. Appia’s writings on music in the theatre, which pre-date Gorbman’s by almost a century, also reference this type of spectatorial enticement:
The average audience will always ask to be deceived… [music] sweeps the audience along with the sheer force of its own rhythm. And in so doing it fulfils man’s need—a need in most cases impossible to satisfy—to escape from himself in order to find himself again.
(Appia, 1899, 33-4)
For theatre practitioners and filmmakers alike, time is a relative unit that seldom remains constant throughout the duration of a narrative. Both media forms use music to provide an inner cohesion which helps mask the synthetic form of reality created when a dramatic narrative is enacted on stage or screen. Sound bridges sew scenes together with an aural presence that preserves and promotes narrative momentum during breaks in stage action. They also signify shifts in dramatic focus and material reality, use repetition to connect the overture with later events, and conceal the theatrical artifice by ensuring the presence of mechanical apparatus remains aurally invisible. Therefore, as time and space is moulded for dramatic purposes the disjunctions this causes are disguised through a form of musical continuity editing which envelops and seemingly naturalises these transgressions.
3. D. Codes and Conventions
Consonant underscoring is an aural accompaniment which musically mirrors the readings suggested by visual and dialogic stimuli. It is a technique which uses conventional musical codes as a means of amplifying and reiterating the dominant semantic message communicated through other sign systems operating in a theatrical or filmic production. Although this approach may initially seem straightforward, simplistic and easily identified, further research reveals that the use of consonant underscoring not only encompasses numerous musical techniques, but it has also provoked varied critical responses. In O’Neill’s article ‘Music to Stage Plays’ (1910) the composer derides this form of ‘incidental music’ by suggesting that it is nothing more that a crutch created to support a poorly written play or an untalented actor. Furthermore, O’Neill implies that this type of accompaniment is outdated and directly connects it with melodramatic performance:
The music is simply called in to bolster up the weakness of the drama. It is used to stimulate (by what I may call unfair means) the imagination of the audience, and to help the actor in what for him might be some rather dangerous moments. It is supposed to be easier for an actor to “hold” his audience under these conditions than it is when he has to do all the work himself. This is, I think, one of the reasons why this type has survived so long. I do not think audiences particularly care for it, for I have a high opinion of the theatre public; it is the actor who clings to this tradition of melodrama.
(O’Neill, 1910, 89)
O’Neill’s indictment of consonant underscoring finds the practice artistically invalid, archaic, and even proposes that theatre audiences share his distaste for such musical conventions. However, it is difficult to accept O’Neill’s argument considering how prevalent the technique became in twentieth-century film.
In contrast, there are numerous publications on film sound that highlight the attributes of consonant underscoring. For instance, Cohen proposes consonant underscoring can ‘promote an appreciation for the content of the film’ (2000, 371) while Gorbman observes that this technique was used in Classical Hollywood cinema because it ‘magnifies, heightens, [and] intensifies the emotional values suggested by the story’ (1987, 98). Gorbman also connects the function of film music during this era with a principle she describes as ‘invisibility’; a tenet which required all elements to be narratologically subservient and avoid drawing attention to themselves:
‘The music’s mood must be “appropriate to the scene.” Classical composers avoid writing music that might distract the viewer from his/her oneiric state of involvement in the story; the point is rather to provide a musical parallel to the action to reinforce the mood or tempo.’
(Gorbman, 1987, 78)
Rather than outlining the problems associated with consonant underscoring Gorbman highlights two key attributes. Firstly, because the music mirrors events on screen it strengthens and clarifies the overall meaning transmitted to the audience. In a sense this accompaniment acts as hegemonic insurance which guarantees the audience will arrive at the intended interpretation of the scenes it accompanies. However, because consonant underscoring does not directly state meaning, but relies on the listener’s subconscious translation of conventional aural codes and their susceptibility to music’s affective characteristics, the didactic function it fulfils is disguised. Secondly, this type of accompaniment produces what could be described as an anti-alienation effect which encourages the spectators to fully immerse themselves in the story world by emotively magnifying all the events that take place within it. Despite the fact that there appears to be two directly opposed opinions regarding the use of consonant underscoring these seemingly conflicting arguments are not necessarily diametric. Although Cohen and Gorbman highlight the positive results this application can yield while O’Neill focuses on the negative aspects, both views are equally valid as the former pertains towards a skilled and considered use of consonant underscoring whereas the latter details what happens when careful integration is sacrificed for bombast and excess.
The communicative process completed through consonant underscoring is facilitated by a combination of two musical attributes. Firstly, certain aspects of the composition itself, such as the key, pitch, timbre and rhythm, carry an inherent semantic charge. Therefore, the music’s constitution can be used to arouse a certain response from the listener. This form of musical communication is described by Tarasti as being indexical: ‘in the sense that it evokes a certain emotional state, both in the composer who wrote and sent the sign and the listener who feels such a sentiment’ (2002, 11). Tarasti then explains that music may also communicate on a more arbitrary level as part of a symbolic sign system and in these instances the meaning produced is dependent upon the audience’s ability to decrypt the codes being used (ibid., 11). Both modes of signification are also directly related as the musical symbols would have developed from suitable musical indexes that were repeatedly employed and ultimately standardised in dramatic productions. Furthermore, this interplay between symbolic conventions and innate connections allowed the consonant musical language utilised in theatrical melodramas to grow into the transparent ‘reservoir of emotive signification’ (Gorbman, 1987, 7) which cinema would later draw from.
The development of consonant underscoring and its links with nineteenth-century melodrama is illustrated by the numerous musical instructions which adorn the dramatic texts penned and produced throughout this period. Indeed, even Thomas Holcroft’s play Tale of Mystery (1802), which was the first English play to be categorised as a melodrama, contained extra-dialogic stage directions which clearly described the empathetic musical support required. In the first Act alone Holcroft gives the following assortment of short musical instructions: ‘Music to express discontent’ (1802, 1), ‘Music to express pain and disorder’ (ibid., 9), ‘Music plays alarmingly’ (ibid., 15), ‘Confused Music’ (ibid., 15), ‘Hurrying Music’ (ibid., 16), ‘Music of doubt and terror’ (ibid., 17) and ‘Threatening Music’ (ibid., 17). This consonant connection between the musical underscoring and the events depicted on stage is further encapsulated by Holcroft’s direction that the accompaniment should begin ‘expressing first pain and alarm’ and then continue to reflect ‘the successive feelings of the scene’ (ibid., 19). The language Holcroft uses to describe the different types of accompaniment he envisages is not expressed in specialist musical terminology and therefore it is fairly straightforward to identify its intended form and function. As such, it is clear that he wanted the music to directly reflect the action taking place on stage.
By the middle of the nineteenth century many playwrights stopped including such specific musical instructions in the melodramas they produced (see Taylor, 1989, 125). However, this was not because consonant underscoring had become obsolete. Instead, its frequent and repeated usage over the last fifty years had ultimately led to the procedure becoming institutionalised. Or as Taylor puts it, ‘by that time accompaniment had become an unremarked convention’ (ibid., 125). Fortunately this observation only really applies to the dramatic texts produced during this period as details regarding musical cues, duration, repetitions, segues, and the type of compositions required were still recorded in the promptbooks during rehearsals. In addition, these documents reveal a lexicon of specialised terms that had been borrowed from operatic composition and developed for melodramatic performance. These references to tempo, technique, volume and rhythm in many ways reflect the theatrical language of melodrama itself. For example, in order to match the intense emotions portrayed during the various ‘passions’ that were performed, the frequent spectacle scenes presented, and the incredible narrative twists which occurred, theatre practitioners introduced new musical terms such as furioso and mysterioso alongside more traditional instructions like allegro and andante. The particular dramatic events which these different musical styles came to represent are described by Mayer below:
[F]urioso, i.e. ‘hurries’ or ‘agits’ (agitatos) for intense physical action, struggles, and combats; andantes or ‘slows’ or ‘pathetics’ for touching or melancholy or romantic moments; tremolos or ‘mysts’ (mysteriosos) for scenes of apprehension, terror, the appearance of visions or ghosts, for suspenseful episodes…
(Mayer and Scott, 1983, 2)
If the relationship between music and melodrama was restricted to aural mimicry which simply matched fast music with action scenes and slow music with poignant emotional scenes, the conclusion that this type of accompaniment was hackneyed and stereotypical seems relatively justified. However, beneath the formulaic equations Mayer sets out lie musical methods and techniques which illustrated, elucidated and elevated the dramatic effectiveness of the events underscored with a consonant accompaniment. During this section the following five musical devices which were used in the performance of melodrama and have subsequently been adopted by filmmakers will be discussed: tremolo, stinger, mickey-mousing, audio mixing, and dissonant harmony.
The tremolo effect frequently employed to increase and prolong moments of dramatic tension that occurred during nineteenth-century melodramas has been equally exploited in film soundtracks. Indeed, the emotive and practical function of this musical technique is aligned with film music by Chion in the following experiment he describes:
Try accompanying an image first with a prolonged steady note on the violin, and then the same note played with a tremolo made by rapidly moving the bow. The second sound will cause a more tense and immediate focusing of attention on the image.
(Chion, 1994, 14)
Chion’s observations echo those of Adorno and Eisler who discussed this aural affect and the technique’s frequent employment in film soundtracks (albeit from a very critical viewpoint) almost fifty years earlier:
The tremolo on the bridge of the violin, which thirty years ago was intended even in serious music to produce a feeling of uncanny suspense and to express an unreal atmosphere, today has become common currency.
(Adorno and Eisler, 1947, 10)
Although Adorno and Eisler connected this practice with ‘serious music’ rather than film music and proposed that the technique had been used since the nineteen tens, they neglected to identify the fact that tremolos (otherwise known as mysteriosos) were also frequently featured in the performance of nineteenth-century melodrama.
The tremolo creates a sense of apprehension because it resonates perfectly with scenes depicting ‘dramatic uncertainty’. These are events during which characters become unsure about the nature of what they are seeing and are therefore momentarily prevented from completely registering or responding to this occurrence. In these instances, the tremolo effect musically imitates this uncertainty by wavering between notes while the characters and audience await the outcome of a particular scenario. For example, the technique is a particularly effective accompaniment to a scene depicting the manifestation of a supernatural vision as it amplifies and supports the dramatic tension created by the visual illusion presented on stage or screen.
The ‘Ghost Melody’ which accompanied the materialisation of supernatural visions during The Corsican Brothers (see pages 103-4) was performed using the tremolo technique Chion, Adorno and Eisler describe. Furthermore, the affect this device had on the audience mirrors the properties described by these twentieth-century commentators. This sense of apprehension is nicely articulated in G. H. Lewes’ review which describes the non-diegetic underscoring used to accompany the vision scene that takes place during the first Act:
[N]othing can exceed the art with which this is managed; with ghostly terror, heightened by the low tremolos of the violins, and the dim light upon the stage, the audience, breath suspended, watches the slow apparition, and the vision of the duel succeeds: a scenic effect more real and terrible than anything I remember.
(Lewes, 1852 cited in Fawkes, 1979, 73)
Not only does Lewes identify the suspension and tension produced by the tremolo accompaniment, he also establishes that the music was only one element in a larger set of signs which all worked towards developing an unsettling atmosphere. From this perspective, it is the combined effect of three different elements; the ‘Ghost Melody’, the darkened stage, and the Corsican trap, that unify the scene’s impact. When The Corsican Brothers was revived by Charles Fetcher in 1866 and Henry Irving in 1880 both actor-managers retained the ‘Ghost Melody’ during the supernatural scenes that occur throughout the play; clearly a testament to the success with which the composition generated the necessary effect. In addition, further indications of the melody’s importance can be gleaned from Percy Fitzgerald’s observation that the composition ‘…became dear to memory and attained the greatest reputation’ (Fitzgerald, 1881, 285) as well as Clement Scott’s contention that ‘[T]he ghost melody and the ghost…could never be forgotten’ (Scott, 1896, 183).
The ‘Ghost Melody’ itself was merely one segment of a larger musical arrangement which played throughout this scene and as such the tremolo effect was not the only performative technique employed to create the required aural environment. In Nineteenth-Century Theatre Music Mayer provides a blow-by-blow account of the scene that explains how the music was cued and performed:
The first bars of the “Ghost Melody” are played as Fabien dei Franchai, agitated by a dreadful premonition of danger to his twin brother Louis, sits writing an urgent letter to him in Paris. As Fabien writes, Louis’s ghost, in shirtsleeves, his breast stained with blood, rises on the slow trap and stands beside his brother; then touches his shoulder. Here, the stage direction informs us, “the music changes”. Fabien is startled by the ghost who then gestures toward the upstage wall and abruptly vanishes down another trap. The wall, a gauze, becomes transparent to reveal a tableau of Louis’ death in the Forest of Fontainebleu. The act curtain slowly falls. Hughes’ melody for this action is not in the least complex. The effect obtains its power from the tempo (allegro agitato) and from the violins playing quietly (pp) and tremolo, the sound that G.H. Lewes referred to as “low tremolo”. The “change” of music specified in the script is an abrupt increase in volume. Then the music becomes slower, quieter, faint, and finally inaudible.
(Mayer, 1976, 120)
Unpacking the musical information Mayer provides and considering how it corresponded with the scene’s visual elements allows further insight into the way this section of underscoring worked. Firstly, the combination of a quietly performed melody with a quick agitated tempo and a wavering tremolo signals that something is out of joint. In addition, the narrative context and the diminishing light also prime the atmosphere of suspense just before the audience’s first encounter with a bloody apparition that glides towards the unsuspecting Fabien. Then the music suddenly increases in volume at the very moment Louis’ ghost touches Fabien’s shoulder thereby musically punctuating and emulating his initial shock and terror. Immediately after this the ghost vanishes and the back of the entire stage appears to dissolve into a supernatural vision while the loud, fast and perturbing music continues and in doing so simulates Fabien’s emotional reaction and stimulates a similar response from the audience. Finally, as the curtain slowly drops and the apparition gradually disappears behind it the music follows suit with a reduction in tempo and volume until both stage and sound are no longer discernable. In this example, the music should undoubtedly be classed as consonant underscoring due to the fact that it explicitly reinforced the events on stage. However, it is equally apparent that the musical accompaniment did not act simply as a form of melodic cast which encased an entire scene or dramatic moment. Instead, the terminology detailing the different ways this piece should be played during the performance illustrates that the music responded directly to the characters’ movements, gestures, and experiences as well as visual effects and narrative developments.
Another technique that musically reiterated the events taking place on stage was the sounding of a chord immediately after a dramatic event, or following an important dialogic revelation. This acts as a form of aural punctuation by providing a musical exclamation mark. A good example of this occurs during the first Act of Lewis’ melodrama The Bells. In the first scene a minor character called Walter provides a large amount of plot exposition regarding the night a Jewish stranger was murdered. While Walter paints a verbal picture by describing the clock striking ten, the stranger’s horse-bells ringing and the gold he was carrying, his spooky tale is accompanied by the sounds of a storm outside and the rhythmical drone made by ‘Catherine …at [her] spinning wheel’ (Lewis, 1871a, 35). Then at the moment Walter reaches the climactic part of his story the following musical cue is given:
Walter: After that he drunk his wine without speaking to anyone, and sat like a
man depressed, and who is anxious about his affairs. At eleven o’clock the night watchman came in. Everyone went his way, and the Jew was left alone!
(Chord of music – loud gust of wind – crash of glass off at L.-hurried music. All start to their feet. Music continued).
(Lewis, 1871b, 476)
Lewis’ directions regarding the timing of this single musical chord show that it was matched with the events on stage in order to amplify their dramatic effect. Therefore, rather than interrupting Walter’s eerie story with nothing more than the unexpected sound of wind and glass smashing, these sound effects are augmented by a loud staccato non-diegetic chord. The chord’s sonic construction has a very short ‘attack’ (the first part of a soundwave’s lifecycle which lasts until the noise reaches it’s loudest point known as the ‘peak’) and should therefore surprise the audience as they have not been aurally prepared for the sudden musical blast. This capacity to surprise the audience and the rather non-descript name given to the musical device in question is described by Fitzgerald in his 1881 publication The World Behind the Scenes: ‘what is called ‘A chord’ of startling character… [makes] listeners jump from their seats’ (Fitzgerald, 1881, 313). Indeed, Pisani’s research for his 2004 paper ‘Music for the Theatre: Style and Function in Incidental Music’ verifies that numerous Victorian and Edwardian promptbooks included annotations that simply requested a ‘chord’ to be played during particularly dramatic moments. Pisani then establishes that the ‘chord’ was usually either a ‘dominant-seventh’ or a ‘diminished-seventh’ depending on whether its primary function was to illustrate ‘surprise’ or ‘shock’ (2004, 75). Pisani then goes on to conclude that this ‘would remain a popular musical device to anchor key revelatory moments throughout the melodramatic tradition’ (ibid.). However, Pisani does not explicitly connect the practice with twentieth-century film or identify that this convention was also subverted by some nineteenth-century theatremakers.
Many academic publications on film music contain numerous descriptions of the same technique being used; however in these accounts the ‘chord’ has been renamed a ‘stinger’. Both Gorbman and Kalinak present this practice as a convention of Classical Hollywood cinema and refer to ‘stingers’ as sforzando chords which would be played when unexpected or sudden dramatic events occurred on screen (Gorbman, 1987, 88; Kalinak, 1989, 84). The same terminology is used by Buhler in the chapter ‘Analytical and Interpretive Approaches to Film Music’; however he does not connect the technique with any particular cinematic era. Buhler also observes that these non-diegetic musical bursts are commonly synchronised with a diegetic sound effect (2001, 52). In these instances, the ‘stinger’ is not simply a complete aural replacement for the sounds that occur in the story world. Instead, it is used to increase the sonic potency of the diegetic sounds it accompanies, particularly when the event depicted has important dramatic ramifications, but little aural impact (for instance Kalinak describes a ‘stinger’ which accompanies the ‘fatal thrust’ of a sword; 1989, 84).
In Lewis’ dramatic text for The Bells the ‘stinger’ is accompanied by two additional diegetic sound effects; a ‘loud gust of wind’ and a ‘crash of glass’ (1871b, 476). The combination of sonic elements Lewis employs to underscore this dramatic moment create an aural milieu that modern audiences would readily associate with horror films. Indeed, Donnelly directly connects the musical device with this cinematic genre when he refers to a ‘horror film’s ‘stinger’’ as a means of exemplifying an application in which ‘the audio and visual codes are intimately related’ (Donnelly, 2001, 3). The scenario Donnelly describes in which the ‘stinger’ coincides with a sudden appearance of something or someone which immediately endangers the characters has become such a well-known convention that modern filmmakers regularly analyse it to intentionally mislead the audience. For instance, all the signs (setting, music, dialogue, exposition) may indicate that a hidden intruder is about to assault the heroine. In this scenario the stinger is cued to sound at the very moment the attacker’s presence is visually confirmed. However, sometimes the audience’s expectations are not realised and their reading of the situation prove to be incorrect. On these occasions the ‘stinger’ can be used as a musical red herring that momentarily misleads the audience by tricking them into reacting to a sudden appearance which doesn’t actually take place. This Pavolvian manipulation of the audience is equally applicable to the way in which Lewis uses the ‘chord of music’ in The Bells. At the very moment Walter’s story about the Polish Jew’s mysterious disappearance reaches its climax a stinger sounds, glass breaks, wind howls and the characters jump to their feet in shock. A moment later it is explained that an open window had been blown shut and smashed thereby rationalising the diegetic noises and the characters’ responses. However, the audience have experienced a similar reaction themselves which was not caused by the diegetic sounds the characters heard. Instead, their response was produced with a cleverly timed sonic burst intended to mislead them through the subversion of a common musical convention.
Non-diegetic ‘stingers’ illustrate the extent to which music can be used as an emotionally manipulative device that transcends the conceptual boundaries between modes of signification positioned inside and outside the story world. Another musical technique which straddles these two zones is ‘mickey-mousing’. David O. Selznick is accredited with coining this term when he attempted to describe elements of Max Steiner’s score for John Cromwell’s film Of Human Bondage (1934). Selznick observed that during some scenes Steiner had matched non-diegetic music with the characters’ physical movements and that this form of synchronisation was the same underscoring technique used in Disney cartoons (Handzo, 1985, 409-10).
In the following example taken from The Colleen Bawn although the music is not connected to the actual physical movement of any characters, it is however precisely coordinated with the lighting effects produced by their actions:
Danny: I must be off, ma’am; here comes the signal. Music.
Anne: The signal?
Danny: D’ye see yonder light upon Muckross Head? It is in a cottage windy;
that light goes in and out three times winkin’ that way, as much as to say, “Are ye comin’?” Then if the light in that room there (points at house above) answers by a wink, it manes No! but if it goes out entirely, his honour jumps from the parlour windy into the garden behind and we’re off. Look! (light in cottage disappears.) That’s one. (light appears.) Now again. (light disappears.) That’s two. (light appears) What did I tell you? (light disappears.) That’s three, and here it comes again. (light appears.) Wait now, and ye’ll see the answer. (light disappears from window, L.) That’s my gentleman. (Music change.) You see he’s goin’ – good night, ma’am.
(Boucicault, 1860, 12)
In this extract non-diegetic music is synchronised with visual information as a means of adding emotional significance to the candlelight code through which Hardress and his secret wife communicate. While the couple are engaged in this activity Danny (Hardress’ devoted hunchbacked servant) attempts to mislead Anne by telling her that it is Hardress’ friend Kyrle Daly signalling his lover.
The theory that this scene’s musical accompaniment was conceived as a piece of highly synchronised aural punctuation is both confirmed and explained by Pisani in his paper ‘Music for the Theatre’ (2004) which provides a musicological analysis detailing the connection between dramatic text and musical score:
What follows are four agitato measures carefully composed (if performed correctly) to be timed to Eily’s three signals. Each time her light appears in the cottage window, the effect is punctuated by a sforzando chord in the woodwinds. The descending chromatic thirds in the strings suggest the light fading, as Eily moves her lamp from the window. The strings pause to tremolo for a moment of suspense on the more-typical diminished-seventh chord as Danny says “wait now, and ye’ll see the answer.” When the light goes out in Hardress’s room above, Danny comments “that’s my gentleman,” and the strings resolve to a delicate rendition of “Last Rose of Summer,” the melody taken by the flute. The traditional Irish folk song had earlier in the scene been linked with Hardress’s love for Eily…
(Pisani, 2004, 86-88)
Based on Pisani’s description, it is clear that the underscoring was metonymically linked to the lighting effect through the synchronisation of sound and image. As such, the meaning inferred by a non-diegetic accompaniment was transferred onto purely visual signs that appeared within the story world.
Consonant underscoring in nineteenth-century melodrama was not restricted to short musical bursts featuring a particular chord, tremolo or moment of synchronicity. Much longer musical sequences were frequently played to accompany soliloquies, conversations, entire scenes or even chains of scenes. However, this type of underscoring required the chef d’orchestre to carefully balance the music’s volume with the dialogue. Put simply, the music needed to be quieter when characters were speaking and louder when they became involved in a wordless activity. This process is described by Charles Reade in his account of rehearsals at the Lyceum:
[The chef d’orchestre was]…a musician who used to…watch the stage with one eye and the orchestra with another, and so accompany with vigilant delicacy a mixed scene of action and dialogue; to do which the music must be full when the actor works in silence, but subdued promptly as often as the actor speaks. Thus it enhances the action without drowning a spoken line.
(Reade, 1882, 36)
A similar technique is still used today by a variety of media forms that intersperse and simultaneously present dialogue and music, although the delicate process Reade describes is no longer necessary as an electronic device has been invented to attain the desired effect. This piece of equipment is known as a ‘noise gate’ and is frequently used in radio broadcasts because it automatically reduces the volume of a musical track by a pre-programmed amount when the disc-jockey speaks and then switches back to the original volume when they have finished talking.
Late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre practitioners also understood that matching music to a particular scene necessitated a precise knowledge of how the dialogue and action would be realised on stage as these factors would influence the musical requirements. For example, in O’Neill’s paper ‘Music to Stage Plays’ the composer provides a detailed description of the different aspects that need to be considered when music and dialogue share the same aural space:
Where music is to accompany the dialogue he must, before writing any music, know the tempo of the speeches, the pauses and business to be introduced, so that his music may coincide in the minutest detail with the stage rendering of the play. He will otherwise find his musical effects clashing or coming in the wrong place… Where there is dialogue the music should be timed to the stage. It is obviously much easier for the composer to accompany the actors in speeches, than it would be for actors to follow the music…When a running accompaniment of music is required for a long stretch of dialogue, the exact time of each speech, the pauses, entrances, and exits, must all be carefully measured…
(O’Neill, 1910, 94-6)
It is clear from O’Neill’s recommendations that in his opinion a good theatre composer needed to understand dialogue from a performance perspective and take into account its actual delivery. The words spoken in a drama are not simply recitations from a text; dialogue might be sporadically interspersed throughout an action sequence, the content of a soliloquy may require the actor to project various emotional states, or a fast paced conversation could suddenly conclude with a tableau. Therefore, consonant underscoring is not simply a matter of composing suitable material and deciding where it should stop and start. Instead, the music’s conception and delivery needed to navigate continual variations in the dramatic idiom. This is why O’Neill proposes that the musical accompaniment should emulate the dynamic performative pattern exhibited when characters articulate shifting emotions and enact various passions during given soliloquies, conversations and activities.
In order to facilitate this approach the composer requires precise details regarding duration, rhythm, intervals, entrances, exits and any other stage business that takes place during dialogic sections. Therefore, the method outlined in ‘Music to Stage Plays’ seems far more suited to the arrangement of film soundtracks than theatre music as the composer can watch the pre-recorded product before and during the compositional process. Indeed, the ideals O’Neill presents are reflected in the working practice adopted by the modern film industry which generally classifies soundtrack composition as part of the post-production process thereby enabling the composer to match musical material with dialogic delivery and action that are essentially preordained. However, because theatre is a live, ephemeral medium the composer cannot view the finished product until the opening night and even then the theatrical text is likely to be slightly different each time it is performed. O’Neill tackled this obstacle by initially discussing each section that would require musical accompaniment with the producer in order to ascertain stage business, character dialogue, scenic effects and the required aural atmosphere. Once these details had been established the composer could begin writing the music, but rather than completing this task independently O’Neill proposed that it should take place as part of the rehearsal process: ‘so the music grew with the production’ (O’Neill, 1910, 95). By adopting this approach theatre music is treated as an organic element which develops alongside the other dramaturgical components. This practice ensures that all the various visual, oral and aural sign systems are unified and integrated, rather than simply matching swathes of musical material with dialogic sentiments in accordance with established conventions.
The method O’Neill advocated recognised that the situations, activities, behaviour and emotions presented during a play were not fixed for the duration of a scene or even a particular event. Furthermore, because music frequently accompanied dialogue which did not overtly establish or explain why a certain event on stage was particularly significant the composer’s presence during the rehearsals would have granted a more attuned understanding of what the consonant underscoring should convey. For example, half way through the first scene of The Colleen Bawn the following conversation takes place:
Corrig: I am – mad in love with yourself, and that’s what I’ve been these fifteen years. (Music through dialogue till Anne Chute is off.)
Mrs. C: Insolent wretch! My son shall answer and chastise you. (calls.) Hardress!
Hard: (advancing) Madam.
(Enter Anne Chute and Kyrle, R.)
Corrig: Miss Chute!}
Hard: Well, mother?} (together)
Anne: Well, sir? }
Mrs. C: (aside) Scoundrel! He will tell her all and ruin us! (aloud.) Nothing.
(turns aside.)
Corrig: Your obedient.
Anne: Oh! (Crosses with Kyrle and exit, L.U.E. – Music ceases.)
Corrig: You are in my power, ma’am.
(Boucicault, 1860, 9)
Prior to Anne’s entrance, the villain of the play (Corrigan) has attempted blackmailing Mrs. Cregan into becoming his wife. This threat is based on the fact the Mrs. Cregan and her son Hardress mortgaged their home with Corrigan for eight thousand pounds, a sum which they cannot afford to repay. Consequently, Mrs. Cregan hopes to secure her family’s financial future through the marriage of Hardress and Anne Chute (a wealthy heiress and family friend). However, Corrigan has seen Hardress with another woman and threatens to tell Anne if Mrs. Cregan does not accept his proposal. Mrs. Cregan instantly rebuffs Corrigan’s advances and summons Hardress to ‘chastise’ her would-be suitor for making such an improper suggestion. However, they are suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Anne which gives Corrigan the upper-hand and places Mrs. Cregan in a very difficult situation. As the stage directions indicate, the musical accompaniment for this scene is closely linked to Anne’s entrance and exit. This is because Anne’s arrival gives Corrigan the opportunity to carry out his threat and tell Hardress’ future wife that her fiancé is already married. Therefore, while Anne is on stage Corrigan is in control, but once she exits the immediate danger dissolves and the music stops. Although Mrs. Cregan establishes her inner turmoil with an aside to the audience, this verbal information is only given at the very end of the encounter. In this scene, music is the initial and primary indicator of the character’s experience and the means by which dramatic tension is increased. Consequently, although the music accompanies dialogue it should not parallel the words spoken, instead the underscoring is required to exhibit a consonant connection with the unarticulated situation.
Another aspect to take into account when considering the relationship between music and the dramatic material it is paired with is that non-diegetic underscoring may continuously play throughout a series of events during which dialogue and action are interspersed and the emotional focus continually shifts. This is precisely what occurs in the climatic scene which closes Act II of The Colleen Bawn. When Hardress’ servant (Danny) learns of the family’s predicament he also misinterprets his master’s words and actions as a disguised plea for him to retrieve the wedding licence from Eily or ensure her silence by any means necessary. Danny tricks Eily into taking a boat ride with him under the pretence that Hardress will be waiting to meet her at their destination. However, when they reach a rocky outcrop in the middle of the lake Danny pretends that the boat is leaking and tells Eily to climb out. In the dialogue that follows Danny tries persuading Eily to give him the wedding certificate, but when she refuses he takes more drastic measures:
Danny: (seizes her hands) Give it up, and don’t make me hurt ye.
Eily: I swore by my mother’s grave, Danny. Oh! Danny, dear, don’t. Don’t, acushla, and I’ll do anything. See now, what good would it be: sure, while I live I’m his wife. (Music changes.)
Danny: Then you’ve lived too long. Take your marriage lines wid ye to the bottom of the lake. (He throws her from rock backwards into the water, L.C., with a cry; she reappears, clinging rock.)
Eily: No! save me. Don’t kill me. Don’t, Danny, I’ll do anything, only let me
live.
Danny: He wants ye dead. (pushes her off.)
Eily: Oh! Heaven help me. Danny – Dan – (sinks).
(Boucicault, 1860, 34-5)
Eily’s cries for help alert Myles who emerges from the nearby cave in which he keeps his whisky still. Myles then proceeds to shoot Danny and rescue Eily from the water. The musical accompaniment to this scene plays continuously from the first appearance of the boat until Myles resurfaces with Eily and the Act finishes. As such, it underscores dramatic events that move from verbal coercion, to a physical attack, which quickly becomes an attempted murder. The perpetrator is then shot and finally the victim is rescued. Boucicault’s stage directions indicate that there should be a clear change in the music when Danny turns from a bully into a murderer and forces Eily from the rock. Furthermore, for the accompaniment to successfully complete the conventional function of providing consonant underscoring matched with what occurs on stage other developments in the scene would have also initiated musical variations. For instance, Myles’ entrance, the shooting of Danny, Eily’s rescue as well as the frequent switches between action and dialogue all necessitate alterations to musical delivery and content.
Whether or not these aspirations were achieved would have depended on the composer’s ability and/or the production’s budget. However, the accounts published by practitioners such as Reade and O’Neill clearly establish that in their opinion adherence to such details elevated and legitimised theatre music as an art form. From this perspective, underscoring theatrical action and dialogue did not simply involve the identification of a particular scene’s dominant emotive content in order to match it with a looped ‘melo’. Instead, as the examples from The Colleen Bawn illustrate, nineteenth-century theatre music followed the ebb and flow of events on stage and thereby reflected shifts in action, dialogue and emotional focus. Consequently, consonant underscoring was not a process that immersed entire scenes into single homogenised aural containers. Instead, it was a fluid, responsive and malleable application which could be intimately connected with precise dramatic developments.
All of the techniques discussed so far achieve their aims by providing a musical accompaniment which is consonant with the events depicted on stage or the emotions experienced by characters. Indeed, this synchronous connection applies to music which mimics the visual plane, amplifies emotive content, and disguises elements that hinder the audience’s acceptance of the story world. By providing a consonant accompaniment the music essentially disguises its own presence and in doing so successfully realises the principles of invisibility and verisimilitude which governed both nineteenth-century theatre and classical Hollywood cinema. Indeed, this correlation is highlighted by the parallel principles reflected in London’s conclusion that film music ‘should be entirely unnoticed,’ (1936, 57) and O’Neill’s instruction that theatre music ‘should steal in and out so quietly, that the audience are no more aware of it than they are of some subtle change in the stage lighting’ (1910, 95). However, consonant underscoring in film was not universally accepted as the only (or even most suitable) form of musical accompaniment. By the late 1920s and early 1930s practitioners and theoreticians including Clair, Eisenstein, Pudovkin, Alexandrov, Adorno, Eisler and Grierson published papers and produced films that explored the semantic possibilities of asynchronous sound and musical counterpoint. The purpose of these anempathetic accompaniments is summarised by Pudovkin in the following statement: ‘[O]nly by such counterpoint can primitive naturalism be surpassed and the rich depths of meaning potential in sound film creatively handled be discovered and plumbed’ (Pudovkin, 1934, 91. Also see Grierson, 1934, 101-4; Adorno and Eisler, 1947, 40-3; Eisenstein, 1957, 177-178; Clair, 1963, 91-92).
The approach Pudovkin advocated produces an effect that subverts the traditional functions of consonant underscoring. For instance, Sonnenschien proposes that the clash between sound and image will build tension and create a ‘yearning in the audience for resolution’ (Sonnenschein, 2001, 176). Furthermore, the lack of clear correlation between music and event develops dramatic ambiguity and allows more varied and subtle semiotic messages to be conveyed. Within the published body of work that discusses this musical device numerous titular abstractions have been employed to describe the affect it creates including; counterpoint, asynchronous sound, anempathetic music and dissonant harmony. However, in this section the specific terminology adopted is taken from Chion’s concept of ‘dissonant harmony’ which he defines as ‘a momentary discord between the image’s and sound’s figural natures’ (Chion, 1994, 37). In Audio Vision, Chion uses the terms ‘dissonant harmony’ and ‘anempathetic music’ to describe underscoring which is not consonantly matched with the events or emotions it accompanies. Although Chion does not provide a distinction between the two techniques a logical interpretation can be formed by comparing the definition of one to the title coined for the other. Thus, while anempathetic music ‘…exhibit[s] conspicuous indifference to the situation’ thereby creating a ‘…backdrop of indifference’ (ibid., 8), dissonant harmony simultaneously resists and resonates with the scene taking place by providing an accompaniment which is ironically juxtaposed against the situation presented (ibid., 37).[2] Although the use of dissonant harmony did not comply with the conventional principles that governed non-diegetic underscoring in nineteenth-century melodramas (or Classical Hollywood cinema for that matter) there is some evidence which suggests theatre practitioners did occasionally employ this technique.
For instance, in W.S. Foote’s Bitter Cold (1865) the Heroine (Mary Manvers) is given an ultimatum by the villainous squire (Ralph Craven) who owns the farm she rents; either become his mistress or he will evict her. Mary decides that she would rather be homeless than betray her incarcerated husband and attempts to leave before she is evicted:
(Music, Piano, “Home Sweet Home.”)
Enter Mary from Farm.
Top: Hush! There’s poor Mrs. Manvers; where on earth can she be going on such a night? (they go up observing)
Mary: Ah! and must I leave thee forever, the only home I have ever known, the spot where all my happy girlhood’s days have passed, the scene of my love, my hopes, my joys; leave thee in sorrow and sadness, in grief and in misery, to go Heaven only knows where, with no one to guide, to shelter me, no friend in this wide, wide world to counsel me!
(Music – repeat “Home, Sweet Home”.)
Home! home! I have no home now! Villainy drives me from it to seek a roof beneath the broad belt of Heaven! Never more shall I know what home is. Farewell, homestead of my father, farewell forever! No, no! wretched as it has become I cannot leave it. Here in sight of that once sweet home, remembrance of kindred, husband, happiness all here, let me die! (sinks upon stage…)
(Foote, 1865, 21-2)
In this example (taken from the script used for an 1878 production of the play), ‘Home Sweet Home’ functions as an inter-textual reference point which evokes homeliness and belonging. Although the rendition is performed without words the lyrical spectre associated with the melody and the emotion it imparts signifies an idealised domestic situation which the audience would quickly comprehend because the composition was already well known.
The original incarnation of the song functioned as a repeated diegetic leitmotif which played throughout Henry Bishop and J. H. Payne’s operetta Clari; or, The Maid of Milan (1823). During Act I Clari sings ‘Home Sweet Home’ and sadly explains that ‘[I]t is the song of my native village’ (Bishop, 1823, 8). In addition, the composition is featured in the overture, performed as part of a play, sung by villagers celebrating Clari’s return home, and repeated during the musical accompaniment to the final act climax. However, the song soon transcended its operatic origins after the composition was purchased by a publishing house that released an arrangement of ‘Home Sweet Home’ aimed at the quickly growing market in parlour music. The song was an instant hit and according to Gabriel Harrison’s biography on J. H. Payne the song quickly gained international popularity:
It is a fact that upwards of one hundred thousand copies were issued by its publisher in London in less than one year after its first publication… It at once became so popular that it was heard everywhere. Whether in the streets or the concert or the theatre, it was always welcome to the ear. It has been heard in the cottage and the palace, it has been sung constantly by the humblest peasantry, and sanctified by the sweetest warblings of a Pasta and a Malibran. It has been quoted in sermons, and sung, with slight alterations, in places of divine worship. It is a favourite song of the exile, and is not unfamiliar in the desert wilds of Africa.
(Harrison, 1885, 107)
The fact that this composition moved so successfully from orchestral theatre music to the repertoire of sitting room pianists both reinforces and broadens the readings produced when it is used as an inter-textual reference. When ‘Home Sweet Home’ plays during Bitter Cold its associated lyrical sentiment connects directly with the real life experiences of audience members who have played, listened to, or sung the song in their own homes. Indeed, Foote’s stage direction indicating that the composition should be performed on a single piano ensures the rendition actively evokes such reminiscences. These aural connotations directly oppose the events taking place on stage and it is this bipolarity that creates an ironic contrast as well as a spectatorial desire for aural and visual equilibrium to be reinstated. As such, the music is not an indifferent ‘anempathetic’ diversion, nor does it provide a consonant ‘empathetic’ parallel. Instead, the underscoring is best described as an inverted reflection of the negative situation and emotions felt by the character on stage thereby emphasising the distance between her former happiness and current predicament.
The same composition also plays during the third act of Harris, Raleigh, and Hamilton’s military melodrama Cheer, Boys, Cheer (1895). As the Act unfolds Lord Chepstow arrives at a gold mine with six troopers and warns the manager (George Hilyard) that an armed force of Matabele warriors are preparing a violent revolt against the British and he must therefore return to Fort Salisbury. However, as they prepare to depart a priest arrives from a nearby Mission and informs them that the native army is already in the vicinity and has just slaughtered his entire congregation. While the priest sets out on horseback to raise the alarm and fetch the cavalry, the vastly outnumbered British party digs in and awaits the rebels’ arrival. The battle itself takes place against the following visual backdrop:
A ravine. Scattered boulders of rock, bush and trees. Forest and cover at back. Sunset waning to twilight at end of Tableau I. Twilight changing to moonlight for Tableau II. A stormy sky on back cloth.
(Harris, et al., 1895, 39)
It is in this foreign and foreboding landscape that the soldiers prepare for combat alongside their commanding officer Lord Chepstow and George Hilyard (the play’s other hero figure). As it is likely that none of them will survive the attack Chepstow hands out paper so the men can write some final words to their loved ones at home in England. While the men write the non-diegetic underscoring begins and continues throughout the ensuing scene:
(Music softly “Home, Sweet, Home!” As Chep: returns to him George finishes his note, folds it up and kisses it, and thrusts it into his tunic)
Chep: Finished, George?
George: Yes, I couldn’t put much. It unmans me to think, and I must do honour to the old country. Go on, Chepstow, you write.
(Chep. sits – George standing. Momentary pause while all writing – Quite a young trooper lets his head fall forward on his arms with a muttered sob. George crosses to him)
George: What is it, my lad. I know it’s hard, but try not to give way.
Troop: It – it isn’t that, sir, but it’s harder for me nor the others a bit – ye see –
I can’t write.
(Harris, et al., 1895, 41)
With ‘Home, Sweet Home’ playing in the background, George offers to write the letter and the Trooper dictates a short missive intended for his Mother:
Troop: “Dear old Mother – I shan’t never see you again – we’re expecting to die every minute, but you’ll read all about that in the papers. A gentleman is writing this for me… I hoped to have made you a home out here, and I’d ha’ tried to be a good son to you, but may be – Gawd –
George: Knows best!
Troop: Yes, sir, that’s what I meant – but will you please put as I’ve said my prayers what she taught me.
George: Anything else?
Troop: And – and – to look after my old dawg – and – and – love and kisses from your affectionate, dutiful son, John.
(Harris, et al., 1895, 42)
Moments after the Trooper finishes his dictation the battle begins and everyone apart from George is killed.
The choice of musical accompaniment for this scene does not follow the conventional approach to underscoring which would usually prescribe a composition that resonated with the themes and emotions displayed on stage. In order to achieve this music which highlighted pertinent themes such as danger, fear, bravery, patriotism, or even an aural indication of the foreign location could have been selected. Furthermore, from a dramatic point of view it would have been standard practice to accompany the moments preceding a climactic scene such as this one with a composition which amplified tension through the use of rhythm, tempo, volume and tremolo. Instead, the playwrights subvert these conventions and request that a specific piece of slow, soft, and peaceful music is used instead. This decision to clash with the other theatrical signifiers rather than reiterate them not only deepens the scene’s impact, it also capitalises on the composition’s existing semantic charge as a means of provoking readings which would have been lost if consonant underscoring had been employed.
Primarily, the music provides an aural counterpoint to the visual environment. Thus, while the music asserts pleasant domesticity, native surroundings, safety and belonging, the geographical and topographical setting depicted on stage places stranded characters in the barren terrain of a distant land as night falls and the enemy advance. Although the composition provides a counterpoint to the visual milieu it does connect with the activity the soldiers are momentarily occupied with. As such, the underscoring acts as an aural manifestation of their thoughts while they scribble a note to family members at home in England. This also has the effect of humanising the scene by indicating that these military men are not a regiment unified by pluck, patriotism and protocol, instead the common ground they share is a desire to be at home. However, if a more heroic composition had been used instead (such as a military march) the underscoring would infer that the soldiers were more than willing to fight insurmountable odds and lay down their life defending a far flung part of the British empire.
These examples indicate that nineteenth-century theatre practitioners did not limit themselves to the use of musical accompaniments which were wholly consonant with the dramatic situation they underscored. Therefore, although the general practice during this period usually sought to create an aural parallel with the events on stage, in some instances non-diegetic music was employed as a means of producing dissonant harmony; albeit on a more conspicuous level than practitioners such as Pudovkin prophesised. However, it is this very practice that O’Neill bemoans in ‘Music to Stage Plays’ when he describes the rendition of a composition with positive connotations during a distinctly negative situation:
Its use, if it can be so-called, is usually to remind the audience of a previous situation. When the hero lies in prison, for instance, memories of the "old home" and his first meeting with the heroine are called up, and of course the old tune turns up too. I need hardly say that both drama and music of this class have no great artistic value.
(O’Neill, 1910, 89)
3. E. Motifs
Musical motifs are used to complete a primarily communicative function in the conveyance of narrative themes, developments and action. There are two modes of signification that can be simultaneously utilised in order to achieve this. Firstly, the relationship between the motif and the referent may be derived from extra-narratological conventions. In such instances the compositional structure of the motif itself draws on existing musical conventions to suggest a particular emotion, social milieu, temporal position, and/or geographic location. This approach creates meaning by exploiting the audience’s existing associations with particular types of music or specific compositions.
A good example that illustrates this technique occurs during Edgar Stillman Kelley’s score for William Young’s stage adaptation of Lew Wallace’s novel Ben Hur which premiered in New York (1899) and then travelled to London (1902). The Middle Eastern location of the play, which would have been apparent in both the narrative subject matter and the visual scenic depictions, was also aurally established through the musical style adopted by Kelley. This characteristic of the underscoring is conveyed in a letter sent to Kelley’s wife by her friend Katherine Pease Norton commenting on the music and concluding that it was ‘so thoroughly oriental in character that it did much to give the whole production the proper atmosphere’ (Norton, 1900 cited in Preston, 1994, 25). The exotic quality identified by Pease Norton is further explored and established by Preston in her musicological analysis of Kelley’s composition:
Some of Kelley’s melodies are appropriately evocative of Middle Eastern music…The ‘Song of Iras’ (the play’s ‘hit tune’) is a good example of Kelley’s melodic style. A paean to Egypt, the song has a melody that is not so much modal (or ‘Middle Eastern’) as excessively chromatic, with oddly shifting harmonies. As such, it is Western in idiom, but at the same time somewhat odd- (or ‘foreign’) sounding.
(Preston, 1994, 25)
These musical conventions are used in conjunction with specific connections that are established within the production itself through the repeated alignment of a specific composition and a particular, location, character, or subject. Wagner is regarded as being the most influential exponent of this intra-contextual device as he not only utilised it in his operas, but also completed theoretical writings on the subject. However, the term ‘leitmotif’ most commonly associated with Wagner was not coined by him. The first time the term appeared in print was when Hans von Wolzogen used it to classify a particular aspect of Wagner’s technique (Wolzogen, 1877, 10).
In Wolzogen’s thematic guides to Wagner’s operatic cycle Der Ring des Nibelungen the author identified each motif and assigned them particular names that established their dramatic significance (these included Servitude, Treaty, Flight and the Spear). However, the manner in which Wolzogen interpreted the meaning and function of these motifs differed significantly from the intention and purposes subsequently outlined by the composer himself. Indeed, Wagner sought to highlight Wolzogen’s rather limited understanding of motivic applications in his publication On the application of Music to the Drama by stating that: ‘[Hans von Wolzogen] …has viewed the characteristics of what he calls my "Leitmotive" rather in the light of their dramatic significance, than in that of their bearing on musical construction…’ (1879, 11). Wagner then continues to explain this principle in more detail and replaces Wolzogen’s ‘leitmotif’ with the term ‘root themes’:
…dramatic music must have the unity of the symphonic movement; and this it attains by spreading itself over the whole drama, in the most intimate cohesion therewith, not merely over single smaller, arbitrarily selected parts. So that this Unity consists in a tissue of root-themes, pervading all the drama, themes which contrast, complete, re-shape, divorce and intertwine with one another as in the symphonic movement; only that here the needs of the dramatic action dictate the laws of parting and combining, which were there originally borrowed from the motions of the dance.
(Wagner, 1879, 11)
In this statement, Wagner contests the idea that motifs are straightforward dyadic signs which merely align musical material with specific significants, and instead he highlights the role they play within the entire composition’s overall musical structure. From this perspective, the ‘leitmotifs’ or ‘root themes’ cannot be isolated and treated as complete components simply because a connection between a musical sign and a corresponding referent within the drama has been made. Instead, these melodies belong to, and are shaped by, the complex network of notes, rhythms, timbres, phrases, pitches and pauses, contained with the entire symphony.
Another distinction between Wolzogen’s analysis and Wagner’s theoretical writings can be drawn from the composer’s description of the dramaturgical role ‘melodic moments’ play in conveying emotional content:
These Melodic Moments, in themselves adapted to maintain our Feeling at an even height, will be made by the orchestra into a kind of guides-to-Feeling (Gefühlswegweisern) through the whole labyrinthine (vielgewundenen) building of the drama. At their hand we become the constant fellow-knowers of the profoundest secret of the poet's Aim, the immediate partners in its realisement.
(Wagner, 1852, 172)
From Wagner’s perspective, the effect and purpose of repeating specific melodies should not be broken down into a straightforward equation in which an established musical sign is used to clearly infer meaning. Instead, these ‘melodic moments’ function on a primarily emotional level and their significance cannot be understood if they are divorced from the composition in its entirety. Furthermore, Wagner proposes that these musical devices can also create an almost metaphysical connection between composer and listener. In contrast, Wolzogen’s exegesis oversimplifies the potential of this practice by neglecting to identify the symphonic web within which motifs exist and the emotional nuances they create. However, as Darcy points out in Wagner's Das Rheingold, the fact that Wagner himself extols the attributes of ‘melodic moments’ does not necessarily mean that Wolzogen’s analysis should be entirely dismissed:
It is easy to criticize Wolzogen’s enterprise by pointing out that he recklessly transformed Wagner’s melodic moments of meaning into musical signs, thereby ascribing them a function never claimed by their composer. But we should be wary of using Oper und Drama as an authority for the analysis of Das Rheingold, let alone the later music dramas... In fact, a study of the music dramas suggests that Wagner did employ his musical motifs as signs, as much for their semantic content as for the emotions originally associated with them.
(Darcy, 1993, 47)
To a certain extent, the discrepancies between Wolzogen's practical analysis and Wagner’s theoretical ideals encapsulates the methodological issues at the heart of this thesis. On the one hand, a semiotician is attempting to establish the rules and techniques of musical dramaturgy by analysing the relationship between aural signifiers and the dramatic meaning they evoke. However, this endeavour is called into question by alternative musicological theories. A further distinction between these two schools of thought is that Wolzogen’s writings were conceived as functional guides which would assist the audience in identifying connections between musical material and dramatic content. In contrast, Wagner argued that such analysis oversimplified the complexity and integrity of the musical works discussed.
As Wolzogen and Wagner offer two opposing viewpoints it is important to initially identify which approach best describes how this type of musical material was incorporated into late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre productions. Preston’s paper ‘The Music of Toga Drama’ contains a short musicological analysis on Kelley’s score for Ben Hur and concludes with the proposition that the composer adopted a typically Wagnerian ‘harmonic vocabulary’ which featured frequent modulations and diminished chords (1994, 24). Furthermore, Preston suggests that Wagner’s influence on Kelley’s compositional style is reflected in his predilection for musical motifs:
Kelley’s frequent use of motifs (or, to use Wagner’s term, leitmotifs) is similarly Wagnerian. In the orchestral Prelude, for example, the composer introduces at least three musical motifs: Ben-Hur, ‘misfortune and ruin’ and ‘vengeance’; all reappear at later points in the play.
(Preston, 1994, 25)
Although Preston proposes that the motifs composed for Ben Hur were typically Wagnerian, her actual description suggests that Kelley’s approach had closer similarities with Wolzogan’s more pragmatic understanding of the technique. Like Wolzogen, Kelley allocates the motifs’ specific communicative roles that are encapsulated in the titles they are given and their position within the drama itself. Therefore, following the Prelude, intra-textual connections between the ‘Ben-Hur’ music and Ben Hur the protagonist were established by repeating the motif when the character was either on stage or the subject of discussion. Similarly, the motifs christened ‘misfortune and ruin’ or ‘vengeance’ would have been linked with dramatic depictions of the theme they refer to through repetition. Indeed, the very act of naming the motifs is a process which indicates the composer’s intention to literally define musical meaning, justify narrative positioning and limit semantic potential; all principles that Wagner opposed in the theoretical writings previously cited. As such, this underscoring technique more accurately matches the Wolzogian model which sought to establish the leitmotif as a stable prescriptive signifier.
The clarity and functionality provided by Wolzogen’s approach is more suited to the analysis of musical motifs in nineteenth-century theatre and twentieth-century sound film than it is operatic works. This is because operatic leitmotifs are fully integrated into a continuous symphonic work that is considered to be the sine qua non of the medium (see Van der Lek, 1991, 8). However, leitmotifs in theatre or film are part of an intermittent musical accompaniment and their purpose is to make explicit connections with narrative situations and emotional experiences depicted or articulated during the drama. For instance, the thematic conditioning of repeated musical information was a technique frequently employed in Classical Hollywood cinema. These motifs were used as transparent signifiers which ensured the audience arrived at particular conclusions about the events unfolding on screen. As such, the information they impart is supposed to be identified and understood from a primarily dramaturgical perspective; a principle London explains in Leitmotifs and Musical Reference in the Classical Film Score: ‘[M]usical themes and motifs within a film enable us not only to recognise character, place, and period; in so doing, they construct memory patterns within the narrative...’ (2000, 104). The relationship between leitmotifs and ‘memory patterns’ is exemplified when a particular melody is used to signify the approach, exit, physical presence, or remembered identity of a character. If each time a certain protagonist appears on stage or screen they are accompanied by a piece of easily identifiable music the short composition becomes the character’s aural equivalent. Therefore, whenever the motif is heard the audience are reminded of the character and their role in the drama, even if they are not visually present when it is played. Character motifs were frequently used by Max Steiner in his Classical Hollywood film scores. Indeed, in the following examination of Steiner’s music for John Ford’s film The Informer (1935) Chion makes the following observations:
Max Steiner based his Informer music on a principle that would subsequently dominate nine out of ten film scores- the principle of the leitmotif. Each main character or key thematic idea of the narrative is assigned a musical theme, which characterises the character or idea and acts as its musical guardian angel…These music themes are heard frequently in the orchestral score as “their” characters appear…
(Chion, 1994, 51)
Chion highlights the integral role motifs play in film music and postulates that ninety percent of all films incorporate them to support narrative signification. Although the descriptions provided by Chion and London are equally applicable to the use of non-diegetic music in nineteenth-century theatre, there is one key difference. In film, the visual information contained within the mise-en-scène frequently changes when different shots are edited together. This means that filmmakers can control the audience’s attention by cutting to a character’s entrance or exit, framing facial expressions and even seamlessly switching locations. However, as the theatrical form does not allow practitioners to dictate precisely what an audience will see and when they will see it, character motifs provide an alternative method of indicating who and what the audience should focus on. This function is also identified by Hibberd and Nielsen who conclude that the motifs used to ‘mark the entrances and exits of individual characters [were] …the equivalent of switching camera angles as attention is drawn in quick succession to different characters or even offstage action or approaching characters by sounding their signature tunes’ (2003, 34).
The frequent usage of musical motifs in nineteenth-century melodrama is also directly linked to the fact that during this period most playwrights complied with Scribe’s well-made-play formula. Indeed, Victorian Theatre’s devotion to Scribe’s tenets is highlighted by the adoption of the expression itself, as it implies that any play which does not follow the principles he set out is a ‘badly-made-play’. Scribe’s instructions stipulated that the narrative should unfold in such a way as to ensure that:
There is not one moment in the whole evening when the audience is not in a state of eager expectation, waiting for something to happen, for some secret to be uncovered, some identity revealed, some inevitable confrontation actually to occur… [Each play begins with] a short sharp exposition in which we are introduced to the dramatis personae and have all we need to now of their previous history…
(Taylor, 1967, 15-6)
Of the various devices that can be employed to achieve the affects Scribe prescribed, a character’s ‘entrance’ and ‘exit’ is particularly important. Furthermore, these arrivals and departures are given further significance when they are accompanied by a semantically charged motif. Omnipotent control over the comings and goings on stage grants playwrights the power to bring into play whichever character(s) they choose, at any opportune or inopportune moment. This enables dramatists to utilise the entrance as a device which increases tension, accelerates exposition, and maintains narrative momentum. Similarly, a well-timed exit can be used to focus audience attention on the character(s) remaining on stage, initiate private discussion and punctuate dramatic conclusions. However, characters’ entrances and exits can disrupt dramatic flow as the process inevitably changes the stage dynamic and this usually necessitates a reconfiguration of the characters that remain or appear on stage. Therefore, motifs camouflage these momentary gaps in action and dialogue by providing a sound bridge which helps to maintain the play’s momentum. In addition to this technical function character motifs also draw upon inter-textual musical conventions as a way of relaying information regarding the archetypal role a particular character will play. For example, in a typical melodrama an agitato would be used to accompany the entrance and exit of the villain, while a sentimental theme would be aligned with the heroine. Therefore, intra-textual connections established through musical repetition are only part of the full signified meaning which also draws upon inter-textual musical codes. Consequently, the classic dyadic Sausserian model which divides a sign into one signifier and one signified does not adequately illustrate the semiological design of musical motifs. Instead, the semiotic constitution of a motif is better represented as a tripartite system within which two signifiers work in tandem to communicate a single signified concept. This is illustrated in Fig. 7.
[pic] Fig. 7 Semiotic construction of a motif
It may be argued that the combination shown in Fig. 7 is an unnecessary amalgamation and that the communication process created through musical motifs would be better represented by two separate signs; one which aligns narrative integration with character and another that combines musical convention with archetype. However, such separation neglects to take into account the signifiers’ interdependency and the irreducibility of the subject signified. For instance, if a listener hears an agitato or a sentimental melody they will be able to decipher its intended emotive purpose; the former pertaining toward restless tension and the latter embodying peaceful equilibrium. However, this atmospheric reading takes on a more specific meaning when it is woven into the narrative and purposefully aligned with a particular character. In essence the music has moved from being a melody to a motif as inter-textual conventions and intra-textual repetitions combine for a shared semantic purpose. Furthermore, it would be inaccurate to split the concept of ‘character’ which the two signifiers represent into separate categories (such as archetype and physical presence) as from a dramaturgical perspective these facets are non-reductive. An audience do not hear a motif and decipher firstly that a specific protagonist is approaching and then separately deduce their morality based on the musical conventions used. Instead, all this information is deciphered simultaneously.
The motif functions as a form of musical shorthand which can be used to quickly establish which character is approaching, the archetypical category they fit into and even their current emotional state. As such, it allows the audience to follow the events taking place on stage and quickly comprehend the dramatic implications of a particular character’s arrival or departure without requiring additional dialogic exposition. The extract below taken from Lewis’ melodrama The Bells is a paradigmatic example of motivic signification:
Music – a sprightly military air. Christian passes at back, stops at centre window and taps upon it. Mathias looks round, with a start, he’s reassured upon seeing who it is, and says, “Ah, it is Christian!” – he ties up the bag and places it in the escritoire. Christian enters at door R. Mathias meets him half way – they shake hands. Music ceases. Christian is in the full dress of a quarter-master of gendarmes.
(Lewis, 1871b, 486-7)
Christian’s imminent entrance is established and supported by the musical accompaniment requested. Once the piece of music has been linked with this protagonist any repetitions will be deciphered as a reference to that character; either indicating their arrival and departure, or implying another character is thinking about them. At the same time, the music itself disguises the pause in action during which Mathias packs away the gold he was counting and crosses the stage to meet Christian when he enters.
The music which accompanies Christian’s entrance also initiates a sudden shift in narrative and provides a direct contrast to Mathias’ emotional state and preceding exposition. Before Christian arrives on stage Mathias admits his guilt in a soliloquy while he counts out Annette’s dowry. However, he is interrupted by the sound of ringing sleigh bells. At first Mathias presumes the sound is coming from the nearby mill and seeks reassurance from his servant Sozel, but she tells him that the mill is empty. In response to Mathias’ questioning Sozel explains that she was reading a story about a gang of thieves who were captured and hung twenty-three years after their crimes were committed. Sozel then shows her employer a picture depicting their execution at which point Mathias knocks the book from his servant’s hand and angrily commands her to leave. Mathias is deeply unnerved by the aural hallucination and fears that the fate of the robbers also awaits him: ‘[N]ot like that – not like that am I to be caught’ (ibid., 486). It is at this point that the ‘sprightly military air’ heralding Christian’s arrival on stage begins and in doing so quickly punctures the dramatic tension. Mathias regains his composure and the action switches to a discussion of the imminent wedding between Annette and Christian.
Although Christian’s motif is referred to by Lewis in the stage directions and Singla’s incidental music included a composition written to underscore the character’s arrival on stage, when Irving produced The Bells he cut both this and all other entrance music apart from that which accompanied the first appearance of Mathias and the Mesmerist. One explanation as to why Irving broke with this convention is put forward by Gardener in Henry Irving and the Bells:
Many pieces of incidental music were cut by Irving, as in his view they contributed little to the continuity and unity of the drama… Thus, by deletions, has Irving emphasised the role of Mathias, and all the music that is left – with the exception of the overture, certain dance music and the drinking song – has direct relationship to Mathias. In Act I music is cued for the entrance of both Annette and Christian, but both pieces were cut by Irving presumably as they bear no great significance to the characterisation of Mathias.
(Gardener, 1980, 111-2)
Irving’s promptbook and the corresponding score for the production indicate that only sixteen musical cues remained after this edit had been completed. These compositions can be split into three groups: diegetic music, non-diegetic arrangements that are only played once, and repeated non-diegetic motifs. Two of the sixteen musical sections are diegetic as they are performed by a small off-stage band during Annette’s wedding celebrations. Another eight fit into the second category and accompany the beginning of each Act, Mathias and the Mesmerist’s first entrances, Mathias succumbing to the Mesmerist’s hypnotic power, and the scene change between Mathias’ bedchamber and the dream sequence. The remaining six segments consist of a mysterioso that is played twice and a sentimental andante which is repeated four times. Both mysteriosos underscore two similar dramatic moments and are accompanied by the sound of sleigh bells. At the end of Act I, the bells ring and the mysterioso plays while Mathias is confronted by a vision depicting the murder he committed. Then in Act II, the same aural combination is used as Mathias counts his gold. In this context, the music is connected to the spectral (or subconscious) realm which threatens and finally consumes Mathias. As such, the mysteriosos heard in the first two Acts are intra-textually connected with the alternative reality Mathias alone experiences. Furthermore, if the compositions that introduce each Act are classified as introductory devices with the function of signalling the play’s recommencement, ushering audience attention and setting the atmosphere, then only Mathias’ entrance music and the andante motif can be regarded as non-diegetic underscoring aligned with natural (rather than supernatural) events presented on stage.
From this perspective, Irving’s cuts almost completely eradicated any music which may have jeopardised the realistic milieu created on stage. Indeed, although Irving still included five short musical passages which played during scenes depicting everyday reality, this heavily edited score would have been particularly striking at a time when it was conventional practice to accompany melodramas with virtually continuous underscoring. However, while Irving’s reduction of Singla’s score foreshadows the ever decreasing role non-diegetic music would play in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre, it is equally important to note that he retained the sentimental andante motif which is repeated four times during the play. The first event that the andante accompanies is a touching moment between father and daughter during which Mathias gives Annette a necklace he has bought her as a wedding gift:
Annette: (Crossing to Math.) Thank you, dear father. (Arms round him.) How good you are.
MUSIC 3 [Andante]
(Math. pauses, kisses her hands, looks up to her furtively and takes both of her hands, brings her round in front of him and then pulls her slowly on to his R. knee caressing her.)
Math: (Seriously) That’s my wedding present, Annette. I want you to wear it on your marriage day and preserve it forever. Do you think that in fifteen or twenty years you will remember that your father gave it to you?
Annette: Oh, yes, dear father.
Math: (Rising and kissing her) My only hope is to see you happy with Christian.
Stop MUSIC 3. [Andante]
(Enter Sozel with supper tray. Places tray on table L.)
(Brightly) And now for supper and some wine.
(Lewis, 1871a, 46)
In the following Act, Annette’s agitated mother is waiting for her daughter to finish dressing so they can leave for church. With the church bell ringing in the background Annette finally appears wearing the necklace Mathias gave her and the andante is played once again. The music plays while Annette embraces Mathias, pronounces her love for him and kisses him. This display of affection and the non-diegetic accompaniment continue as Father and daughter blow each other kisses while Annette exits. Once Mathias is alone on stage the andante finishes and Mathias observes that ‘[E]verything goes well’ (ibid., 53). The motif returns at the beginning of the third Act when Mathias is escorted to bed by his family following another aural hallucination during the wedding festivities. Once again the scene’s main focus is a demonstrative depiction of Mathias and Annette’s loving relationship and the musical accompaniment plays until Annette has wished her father goodnight and exited, at which point Mathias pronounces that, ‘[T]o-night I shall sleep with-out a fear haunting me!’ (ibid., 66).
From a semiotic perspective, the accumulative meaning attributed to this sentimental andante can be ascertained by identifying any other signs which are repeatedly presented alongside the motif. This analysis reveals that there are four common characteristics which connect the scenes with the composition. Firstly, Annette is always on stage and the centre of her father’s attention during each rendition. Indeed, the music appears to be cued by Annette’s involvement in the scene. The andante accompanies her receipt of Mathias’ gift in Act I, her entrance and departure during Act II, and in the third Act it plays until she exits. Secondly, on all these occasions Mathias and his daughter express their love for each other; for instance Annette tells her father how ‘good’ he is and Mathias explains that his ‘only hope is to see you [Annette] happy’ (ibid., 46). Coupled with these statements of parental devotion and filial admiration are the frequent physical exchanges between Mathias and his daughter which include embraces, caresses and kisses. Furthermore, during Act III the stage directions establish that Mathias completes some ‘business with Annette’ (ibid., 66) before she exits. This activity corresponds with an instruction in the musical score which indicates that it may be necessary to repeat the last eight bars of the andante (ibid., 129). Based upon the previous interactions between these two characters it is likely that the ‘business’ referred to is another tactile expression of affection which, judging by the musical provision provided, may have lasted some time.
The third common factor in the ‘andante scenes’ is that Annette and Christian’s marriage is both directly and indirectly referenced. In Act I, the motif plays while Mathias gives Annette a necklace he wants her to wear when she gets married. During Act II when Annette reappears wearing the matrimonial necklace the andante motif is heard again, this time accompanied by a church bell ringing in distance. Then the penultimate andante virtually overlaps with an off-stage rendition of the ‘Betrothal Chorus’ which played throughout the wedding celebrations depicted in the previous Act. Furthermore, each time the music finishes Mathias’ first line of dialogue establishes that the interaction with Annette has exorcised his demons and left him feeling positive and confident. After the first andante, Mathias ‘brightly’ pronounces ‘[A]nd now for supper and some wine’ (ibid., 46), following the second rendition he observes that ‘[E]verything goes well’ (ibid., 53), and the third repetition concludes with his statement ‘[T]o-night I shall sleep with-out a fear haunting me!’ (ibid., 66).
The repeated musical accompaniment, dialogic sentiment, narrative themes, character presence and intimate proxemics creates a set of scenes that temper how the audience view Mathias. During these moments, the murderous, delusional and dissembling burgomaster is transformed into a devoted, attentive and loving father. These scenes essentially confirm Mathias’ motive for killing the rich Jewish stranger by verifying the character’s claims that the murder and theft was a desperate attempt to protect his family from their impending financial ruin. In this context, the sentimental andante motif is used to amplify and reiterate Mathias’ virtuous qualities. Moreover, although the andante empathetically underscores the events on stage, it also juxtaposes previous and forthcoming negative revelations regarding Mathias’ unscrupulous behaviour and nervous disposition. As such, the andante motif is an integral part of a dramaturgical process designed to convert the amoral villain into a far more complex and ambiguous figure with a capacity for both savagery and sensitivity.
The character of Mathias subverts melodramatic conventions due to the fact that he is presented as the play’s hero and villain thereby eliciting both sympathy and scorn. Indeed, his double nature contradicts Brooks’ conclusion that ‘[T]here is no ‘psychology’ in melodrama…the characters have no interior depth, there is no psychological conflict’ (1976, 35). Instead, Mathias’ contrasting emotions and behaviour, which includes depictions of fatherly devotion, munificence, regret, panic, self-satisfaction and violent outbursts, all contribute to the character’s complexity. However, as Mathias’ sins clearly outweigh his virtues the andante has the role of amplifying the moments where his good nature is displayed. Furthermore, because the melody is a motif each time the orchestra repeat it the audience are simultaneously reminded of the previous positive characteristics Mathias has displayed. If the sentimental andante had been replaced with a conventional villain motif containing tremolo effects and diminished seventh chords, the music would imply that Mathias was feigning these affectionate displays. Indeed, such an accompaniment would quickly establish Mathias as a traditional dissembling melodramatic villain whose amoral activities have ‘unleash[ed] a cosmic betrayal of the moral order…’ and thereby brought ‘all appearances into question’ (ibid., 34). This reframing would indicate that Mathias’ fatherly concerns were actually duplicitous designs motivated by his belief that the marriage between Annette and the head Gendarme will insure his protection if anyone ever accuses him of the Jew’s murder. Instead, the motif Irving uses dispels any such doubts and the music provides an incontrovertible aural testimony which authenticates Mathias’ love for his daughter.
The subject of psychology in melodrama and music’s position within that relationship is described by Hibberd and Nielsen as follows: ‘On the whole, melodrama tends to present us with clear and unambiguous visible and audible signs whereas the signs of film are often buried within a complex psychological framework that is defined and supported by a multiplicity of musical meanings’ (2003, 32). Although Hibberd and Nielsen keep their theory open to exceptions the case of Mathias does invite a slight reconfiguration and continuation of their statement. This reworked conclusion should include the observation that when melodramas did present ambiguous situations and characters with complex psychological workings conventionalised musical codes were used to clarify the true meaning of contrasting events and behaviour.
The andante motif’s final rendition occurs at the very end of the play following Mathias’ courtroom nightmare in which he is hypnotised by the mesmerist and forced to re-enact the murder. After being released from the trance the court president decrees that Mathias is guilty and sentences him to ‘be hanged by the neck until he is dead!’ (Lewis, 1871a, 75). At this point there is a blackout and a large bell sounds an ominous death knoll which is accompanied by four bars of slow pianissimo underscoring. When the lights are reinstated they reveal that the set has returned to Mathias’ bedchamber. This transition from dream state to reality is also supported by the music and sound effects as the orchestra segues into a quick and lively composition while the solitary ringing becomes ‘a merry peal’ of wedding bells (ibid., 75). Throughout this scene change there has also been the sound of knocking which is eventually revealed to be Christian and others at Mathias’ bedroom door. As Mathias does not respond Christian breaks down the door and when he gains entry the andante motif begins to play:
Chris: Give me that gun! Stand back!
(Chris., with increased hammering at the door, and the noise till the door is forced off its hinges, and hurled on the stage.)
MUSIC 16 [Andante]
(Chris. Rushes in, goes quickly to alcove, opens curtains with his hands, looks in, starts back in horror – closes them and half turning, waves back the others.)
(Enter hurriedly with Chris. D.L Cath., Annette, Hans, Sozel and Walter.)
Cath: (C.) What has happened? Christian, speak! What has happened?
(She rushes towards the alcove.)
Chris: (Warning her back) Do not come near! Do not come near!
(Catherine endeavouring to go past him)
(As Chris. speaks to Cath., they gradually get over to C. leaving R. of stage open… Mathias rushes in till Curtain down.)
(Mathias rushes on dressed as he was at the time he retired behind the curtains. His eyes are fixed, and his appearance deathly and haggard. He clutches the drapery convulsively, and staggers with a yell to C., is caught in the arms of Chris., who places him in chair brought forward to C. hastily by Hans. Mathias sinks in chair, holds one hand to Annette L. then to Chris. R.)
Math: Take the rope from my neck – take – the – rope – neck –
(Struggles and dies.)
SLOW CURTAIN.
(Lewis, 1871a, 76-7)
Additional instructions given in the score relate to the actual performance of the motif during this scene. These cues establish that the last four bars were repeated on a loop which became gradually quieter and slower until Mathias died, at which point the aural accompaniment swelled in volume and the curtain fell.
The music in this final scene fulfils a particularly important role with regard to highlighting a specific interpretation of the concluding events. On one level, the aural and visual stimuli seem mismatched as a sentimental andante is by no means an empathetic accompaniment for a scene in which a daughter witnesses the agonising death of her father who claws at his neck desperately trying to loosen an invisible noose. In these circumstances an agitato or mysterioso would have been a far more conventional choice. However, the key element which sets Mathias’ death apart from other moments depicting emotional and physical distress is that this scene takes place at the very end of the play. One theory Brooks puts forward in The Melodramatic Imagination is that the semiotic language of melodrama is primarily concerned with establishing what he refers to as: ‘the sign of virtue and innocence’ (1976, 28). Brooks then goes on to suggest that: ‘[T]he repertory of dramaturgic and rhetorical devices, the stage settings and acting style, all concur in a dramatization of the trials and eventual victory of this sign’ (ibid., 28). The music used in this final scene and the intra-textual connections it completes exemplifies Brooks’ argument because the andante motif aurally presents the death of Mathias as the moment when virtue and innocence triumphs over sin and deception. Throughout the play this motif has been repeatedly used to underscore Mathias’ verbal and physical displays of genuine affection and love for his daughter. These scenes present the audience with a side to Mathias’ character that counterbalances his duplicitous behaviour and the villainous deed he is guilty of. Consequently, the andante motif carries a semantic charge which has been developed throughout the play and reminds the audience of the character’s positive attributes.
Mathias is both hero and villain and as such the dramatic conflict of the play centres on his inner psychological battle, rather than two separate characters locked in Manichean conflict. Based on this reading, the sounding of the andante makes perfect sense as it accompanies the moment when his virtuous side claims victory over its corrupt counterpart by sentencing and executing the host himself. Thus, when Mathias’ conscience succeeds in imposing justice the consequences are extolled by a musical signifier associated with the character’s capacity for paternal emotions and genuine affection. An entirely different reading would have been created if the music and sleigh bells which accompanied Mathias’ hallucinations were repeated instead, as such underscoring would infer that the protagonist’s sudden death was actually brought about by the Polish Jew’s malevolent spirit. Furthermore, this would indicate that Mathias’ iniquity was vanquished by a vengeful supernatural force, rather than signalling the victory of virtue.
At the beginning of this section two converging theories regarding motifs were discussed; Wolzogon’s interpreter friendly ‘leitmotif’ and Wagner’s transcendental ‘root themes.’ The preceding analysis establishes that the functional role of motifs in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century melodrama fits more closely with Wolzogon’s practical approach than Wagner’s more holistic ideals. However, it is equally clear that these repeated melodies did not only complete a single semiotic equation. Instead, motifs were a complex part of a play’s dramaturgic fabric. The choice of composition and the manner in which it was played drew upon established musical conventions that imbued the character with particular individual or generic qualities. This music also enlivened any silent stage business that occurred as the configuration of characters on stage changed, whilst simultaneously projecting and directing sudden shifts in narrative focus and development which took place when these different groupings were assembled or disbanded. Furthermore, as the relationship between Mathias and the andante motif exemplifies, the repetition, positioning and adaptation of these musical phrases could be used to subtly encourage more implicit readings. Consequently, motifs functioned as semantically charged intra-scenic sound bridges which enabled an audience to smoothly and instinctively navigate the ever-changing dramatic landscape.
CHAPTER 4: DIEGETIC MUSIC
4. A. Introduction
‘Diegetic music’ (also known as ‘source music’) refers to any music which emanates from a position within the diegesis or storyworld (Stam, et al. 1992, 60). There are a number of ways in which music can be established as diegetic. Firstly, the music’s source may be shown on stage (or screen) in the form of a character playing an instrument, listening to a recording, or attending a concert. Alternatively, the source may be off stage (or screen) and in these cases the music’s diegetic credentials are established through dialogue and/or physical responses which indicate that the characters on stage can hear it playing. In addition, once the music’s diegetic status has been fixed the source is free to move between on and off-stage positions without becoming non-diegetic.
During the twentieth century, various studies have been published that focus on the use of sound in theatre and film. Although some of these publications do reference non-diegetic music’s theatrical origins, many also conclude (or at least infer) that theatre practitioners did not realise the dramatic and technical possibilities music could offer until advanced and precise underscoring techniques were developed for the recorded sound film (see Vardac, 1949, 38; Johnson, 1974, 167; Cavalcanti, 1985, 103; Kaye and Lebrecht, 1992, 17; Palmer, 2000, 213). Throughout the previous chapter of this thesis such presumptions were shown to be incorrect; however in the following chapter such debunking is not necessary because diegetic theatre music has received so little academic consideration. Indeed, as Buhler explains below, it is not just the use of diegetic music in the theatre that has been ignored: ‘[R]egardless of disciplinary or ideological alignments, in nearly every case writers on film music have to date given precedence to non-diegetic orchestral music and to the dramatic feature film’ (2000, 18).
With regard to theatrical practice, the initial directions regarding the choice and timing of diegetic music are made by the playwright when the dramatic text is written (although these instructions may be developed, adapted or disregarded when the play is staged). Consequently, like the dialogue and visual directions included in a script, the diegetic music will also have specific dramaturgical functions. Also, because diegetic music takes place within the storyworld the significance of the accompaniment is directly connected to the characters’ responses when they hear it and/or their motives for playing that particular composition. These qualities enable a more concrete analysis of the various roles diegetic music plays within a production than its non-diegetic counterpart; a sentiment Irene Atkins echoes in her book Source Music in Motion Pictures: ‘[T]he fact that source music usually is justified makes its functions – the imparting of information to and the evocation of emotional response from the audience – more readily discernible than those of other film music’ (1983, 14).
One reason that diegetic music has been overlooked in academic analyses of film music is because the factors which govern its inclusion often have nothing to do with the narrative. Firstly, the use of diegetic music in film is often dictated by economic and commercial interests. In these instances, the choice of diegetic music is based on the potential sales a soundtrack album or single could produce, rather than being selected for their dramaturgical significance. Particular compositions may be chosen as a diegetic accompaniment for particular scenes in order to facilitate the release of a soundtrack album and produce a hit single. Furthermore, a successful soundtrack album and single will in turn generate more revenue for the studio and help to promote the film itself. However, this aim can only be achieved if the film contains enough musical excerpts from songs that will appeal to the film’s perceived market base. In some cases, this may mean that the compositions incorporated into a film’s soundtrack are dictated by how marketable the final collection of musical material will be. This process is explained by Smith in more detail below:
In most cases, source music functions as background to a dialogue scene and is mixed in a manner that subordinates it to narrative concerns. Moreover, each diegetic cue may be presented as a relatively brief snatch of a larger musical work, a melodic bit motivated only to the extent that it adds variety and commercial value to the soundtrack. …Because they issue from a primarily commercial impetus…source music adheres much more closely to the practices of product placement…the inclusion of brief snatches of tunes in these films seems to authorise their usage and make their function appear less nakedly commercial. (Smith, 2000, 253)
Although the music and songs used in some late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre productions were occasionally published and sold to the public this practice never reached the industrialised level Smith describes. However, the use of diegetic music in the theatre during this period was not always driven by purely narrative concerns.
Melodramas frequently included contrived scenes in which character/s would perform a piece of diegetic music purely for entertainment purposes. Although the diegetic credentials of these displays were established through character dialogue, rather than occurring sporadically as they do in musicals, the justification for their presence was often extremely tenuous. A good example of this practice occurs in Daly’s melodrama Under the Gaslight (1867). The play begins by establishing that the heroine (Laura Courtland) and the hero (Ray Trafford) are engaged to be married. However, Ray discovers that Laura is not actually related to the respectable Courtland family when he learns she was secretly adopted at the age of six after being caught stealing from Mrs. Courtland’s pocket. This revelation is instigated by the unexpected arrival of a violent criminal known as Byke who has previously extorted money from Mrs. Courtland by threatening to publicise Laura’s secret. Later in the play it also becomes apparent that Byke has a female accomplice called Judas and together they kidnap small children and then force the infants to steal for them. When Ray learns about Laura’s background he decides to call off the marriage fearing that polite society would spurn him if her story were discovered. Ray immediately writes to Laura cancelling the engagement, but has a change of heart and pockets the letter. Unfortunately, the letter falls out of his jacket at a social gathering and its contents are read and spread by the female guests. As a result, Laura runs away and attempts to start her life again, but is pursued by Byke and kidnapped. Believing that Laura is hiding from him Ray enlists the help of Snorkey, a one armed ex-soldier his fiancée had previously befriended.
During Act II Scene 4, Snorkey and a gang of street urchins appear on stage. In the previous scene Snorkey had been searching for the missing heroine when he met Bermuda (the leader of the homeless youths) who invited him to share their ‘hotel’ under the pier. Bermuda tells Snorkey that his gang have ‘jolly times every night’ (Daly, 1867, 39) and the extent of their nightly revelry is revealed in the proceeding scene when Snorkey enquires ‘what do you do before you go to bed’ (ibid, 42) and the following action ensues:
Bermudas: We’ll have a swarry. Say, one of you fellows, go down and bring
up the piany forty. (Peanuts goes into hole and gets banjo.) What’ll I give you?
Snorkey: Something lively.
(Music, nigger songs, and various entertainments – trained dogs, street acrobats, andc., ending with dance by boys, given according to capacity and talent. At the end of it a general shout of jubilee, when -)
Sergeant: (on patrol – outside L.) Here, boys! less noise.
(Daly, 1867, 42)
The performance provided by this supernumerary army is obviously inserted in the interests of entertainment and variety, and has more to do with providing the audience with an enjoyable spectacle than developing the narrative. Indeed, the instrument used and the songs requested in the stage directions indicates that this scene was intended to emualte the minstrels’ shows that had become a popular form of stage entertainment during the 1840s (Lott, 1993, 64).
Although it is tempting to regard this musical routine as a wholesale deviation from the narrative, the fact that it is diegetic and takes place within the storyworld has an inevitable effect on how the audience view the environment depicted. From this perspective, the ‘swarry’ scene presents the day to day existence of homeless and penniless children in a positive light. Thus, rather than seeking to highlight the plight of this juvenile underclass they are portrayed as buoyant, energetic and entertaining. Indeed, according to Daly’s description this scene supposedly represents, ‘[H]ow the lost tribes spend their evenings’ (1867, 4). While it is extremely unlikely that the audience would consider such behaviour true to life, or base their opinions regarding such matters on the events depicted, the function of the musical and physical performances extends beyond simple entertainment. As well as being enjoyable to watch this scene also provides an aural and visual diversion from the real plight of homeless children in Victorian society. Another issue surrounding this form of diegetic accompaniment is that such a clearly choreographed and orchestrated extravaganza jeopardises the audience’s suspension of disbelief. The scene which takes place in Under the Gaslight certainly does not correspond with the impromptu ‘swarry’ Snorkey describes or the otherwise realistic environment that the production would have tried to emulate. The same allegation can also be made against certain sound films which for the most part maintain verisimilitude, but noticeably loosen their adherence to this convention when music and characters interact.
In order to disguise musical artifice filmmakers generally incorporate diegetic compositions which comply with an audience’s aural expectations regarding the type of music which would (or could) be being played if the scenario on screen were really taking place. As such, the process of selection often relies far more on historical accuracy and easily deciphered musical conventions than it does dramaturgical design. Indeed, if the rationale behind the inclusion of diegetic music is purely economic or developed simply to reinforce verisimilitude, its exclusion from academic analyses seems relatively justified. Hopefully, growing interest in the relationship between music and film will eventually lead to a new understanding of the role played by diegetic music and its dramaturgical potential. However, at present the existing publications that discuss diegetic music in film provide a somewhat confused and incomplete picture of this aural device.
For instance, a few publications discuss diegetic music in relation to a concept known as the ‘halo effect’. This term describes how audience members re-experience a filmic narrative by listening to a compilation of the music used in the soundtrack. Gorbman discusses this phenomenon in her paper ‘Music in The Piano’ and makes an interesting statement that links the music which accompanied ancient Greek Theatre with the sale of twentieth-century soundtracks:
Though the halo effect is a rhetorical strategy in use since the ancient Greeks, the term itself comes from discourses on advertising. Movie music’s halo effect has long been marketed by the recording industry, but with particular fervour since the 1980’s. It is the reason that, for example, compact discs of compiled hits from the 1960s formerly languished in the bins in discount stores, until period movies like Forrest Gump (Robert Zemeckis, 1994) made these compilations of songs into best-sellers.
(Gorbman, 2000, 57)
The connection Gorbman makes between these two dramatic forms is not entirely justified. While the ‘rhetorical strategy’ Gorbman references may be an apt enough way to describe the purpose behind combining music and drama in early theatre productions, the actual comparison she makes is tenuous. Though a literal interpretation of the halo effect can be used to describe the collateral affect created when music and drama were simultaneously presented in Greek theatre (because the instruments’ sound would have enveloped events on stage and coloured the audience’s interpretation), that is where the similarities end. Firstly, Greek theatre music was not diegetic and secondly there is no evidence that it was performed or listened to outside the play it was used in so the audience could: ‘re-experience the story through listening to the music’ (Gorbman, 2000, 42). Moreover, these inaccurate connections between the modern sound film and theatre overlook the more striking sonic similarities that exist between the two media forms which have already been explored in this thesis.
Diegetic music is also discussed by Manvell and Huntley in The Technique of Film Music (though they refers to it as ‘realistic music’) and they propose that it is capable of creating a ‘dramatic and atmospheric effect…totally different from that music which steals up on the action of a film non-realistically’ (1975, 45). However, as Manvell and Huntley continue they put forward two historically incorrect presumptions directly linked to the invention of the sound film. Firstly, they state that the ability to use a pre-recorded soundtrack rather than a live one ‘superseded the blind use of a continuous background score’ (ibid.). Secondly, they assert that because sound films allowed the incorporation of diegetic music filmmakers needed to ‘invent a new discipline of musical composition’ (ibid.). With these two statements, Manvell and Huntley essentially dismiss both the integral communicative role performed by live non-diegetic music and the dramaturgical functions of diegetic music previously developed in the theatre.
In Source Music in Motion Pictures Atkins provides a somewhat different historical account and proposes that diegetic music was incorporated into the presentation of silent film. Atkins bases this theory on the fact that musicians during the silent era often attempted to reflect the musical milieux and dance tempos of scenes set in locations where music would have been played. Although this observation directly contends with Manvell and Huntley’s assumptions, because Atkins’ research does not go any further back into the annals of sound design history she eventually comes to the same conclusion: ‘[Diegetic Music’s] use as a preconceived part of the fictional film began with the inception of the sound era’ (Atkins, 1983, 28).[3] However, this thesis will argue that the musical conventions and dramaturgic techniques employed in the construction of diegetic soundtracks for modern film bear striking similarities to the devices and procedures previously adopted by late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre practitioners.
4. B. Naturalising the Artifice
Using diegetic music in a scene generates a number of considerations that do not apply to non-diegetic underscoring. Its presence leads the audience to ask, where is the music coming from, who is playing it, which type of composition has been selected, what does this choice reveal about the character who chose it, and how do other characters respond when it is played? This section focuses on the first of these questions by investigating the different techniques employed to establish music’s diegetic credentials. The most straightforward way of achieving this is to present the source within the mise-en-scène because, as Gorbman explains: ‘[W]hen the musical apparatus is visible, the music is “naturalised” as diegetic’ (1987, 75).
On one level, the reference Gorbman makes to naturalisation simply describes the way in which musical sources are established as being part of the storyworld thereby ensuring that any sounds they emit are regarded as customary occurrences. Ever since the music industry was conceived and recorded sound in all its forms became more and more popular, the ease with which this can be achieved has increased. Nowadays, virtually any location can justifiably support the inclusion of diegetic music since devices such as hi-fi systems, transistor radios, car stereos, jukeboxes, televisions and record players have spread throughout the world (see Atkins, 1983, 31; Garner, 2001, 188). This technology has made sound portable and thereby enabled recorded music to permeate every corner of society. As such, practitioners working within both film and theatre can incorporate diegetic music into virtually any scene where they think it might serve a useful dramatic or aesthetic purpose.
A more complex description detailing the dramaturgical possibilities this process facilitates can be identified if the scientific definition of naturalisation is taken into consideration. Naturalisation is the introduction of a plant or animal from one region into another and the measures taken to ensure it prospers within the new environment. This process of transference provides an analogy which can be used to explain the relationship between non-diegetic and diegetic music in the theatre. From this perspective, music is an indigenous aspect of dramatic expression and therefore its various semantic functions have evolved alongside the form itself. However, because these properties developed in a non-diegetic location the communicative and technical roles performed by music needed to be preserved and adapted when aural accompaniments became part of the diegesis. For instance, wherever non-diegetic music was used to signify period, location or social milieu, the same information could be conveyed with carefully selected renditions of diegetic music which did not require any support from a source positioned outside the storyworld. Therefore, the particular historical era in which a narrative is set may be established through the inclusion of a character that occasionally performs certain compositions readily associated with that period. Similarly, a scene may feature an on-stage band performing compositions which draw on pre-existing musical codes conventionally associated with a particular locale or region thereby inferring that the events depicted take place within a certain location.
Practitioners working in film or theatre during the twentieth century have consistently incorporated whatever musical sources the technological advances of the time would allow; ranging from the humble gramophone, to modern compact disc players. Indeed, there can be little doubt that in the twenty-first century mp3 hardware and other new digital technology will be similarly incorporated. Nevertheless, long before any modern portable hardware was invented, playwrights frequently exploited the dramaturgic potential of diegetic music by integrating a musician, band or orchestra into the storyworld.
It has already been established that during the nineteenth century various theatre practitioners hid the orchestra from the audience in order to conceal non-diegetic music’s external source (see pages 79-81). However, as the Victorian era came to an end, naturalism’s growing popularity and changes in public taste gradually brought about the removal of all elements which endangered the realistic environment presented on stage. During this period, non-diegetic underscoring began to be regarded as an antiquated technique and was even scorned by some practitioners who had formerly employed it in their productions. For instance, Pinero’s dissatisfaction with conventional orchestral accompaniment is encapsulated in a letter to the playwright’s producer and leading actor George Alexander regarding his new ‘modern’ play The Second Mrs. Tanqueray (1893):
As to incidental music, I can’t see that anything of this sort is required. Don’t you think “incidental” scraping vulgarises a piece that doesn’t belong to either “the kettle on the hob” or the “Blood-on-the-Bread-knife” order of play.
(Pinero, 1893c, 139)
Pinero’s terminology suggests that in his opinion non-diegetic underscoring is only fit to accompany melodramas (a genre which features heroines screaming like boiling kettles and murders carried out in domestic settings) and as such its presence would cheapen a ‘modern serious play’ (ibid., 136-7) like The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. These opinions are reflected in similar comments made by the nineteenth-century theatre critic William Archer who also expressed a deep dislike for non-diegetic music. However, as Dietrich explains below, this placed him in a somewhat contradictory position:
…the habit of musical accompaniment to drama persisted because it suited popular tastes, and so melodrama still announced the arrival of the villain with a thrilling piano, driving the young Archer to long for someone to shoot the piano player. Or at least drive him out of the “legitimate” theatre into the music hall and the opera hall. If Archer had only noticed that his beloved Ibsen, in 'A Doll's House', had merely put the piano player onstage, to accompany Nora’s Tarantella, he might not have laboured so diligently to separate imitation from passion.
(Dietrich, 1989, 13)
Dietrich’s reference to Archer’s ‘beloved’ Ibsen underlines the fact that he was a prominent supporter of the playwright’s work. Indeed, Archer was not only one of the first people to translate Ibsen’s work into English; he also founded the New Century Theatre with Elizabeth Robins in 1898: an organisation which bypassed theatre censorship laws and enabled Ibsen’s plays to be produced on the British stage (see page 16). Moreover, Dietrich makes a very important point regarding the way in which naturalistic playwrights began using music during this period.
Rather than hiding the orchestra or discarding musical accompaniment altogether, live musical sources were established as part of the diegesis. For example, the stage directions given at the opening of Ibsen’s play A Doll's House (1879) contain instructions for a diegetic musical source to be integrated into the naturalistic microcosm presented on stage:
A room, comfortably and tastefully, but not expensively, furnished. In the back, on the right, a door leads to the hall; on the left another door leads to Helmer’s study. Between the two doors a pianoforte. In the middle of the left wall a door, and nearer the front a window. Near the window a round table with armchairs and a small sofa. In the right wall, somewhat to the back, a door, and against the same wall, further forward, a porcelain stove; in front of it a couple of arm-chairs and a rocking-chair. Between the stove and the side-door a small table. Engravings on the walls. A what-not with china and bric-a-brac. A small bookcase filled with handsomely bound books.
(Ibsen, 1879, 3)
Although the piano provides no aural contribution until the second Act, Ibsen establishes it as part of the furniture in the first scene. On one level, the instrument’s presence performs the same function as the other fixtures and fittings; all of which work towards establishing a recognisably middle-class domestic environment. In this context, the books indicate that the inhabitants are literate, the engravings suggest artistic appreciation and the piano infers musical training, none of which are attributes commonly associated with the lower classes. The naturalistic aesthetic also disguises the musical purpose of the piano’s presence on stage by presenting it as an object in amongst numerous other objects, rather than an allowing it to stand out as an instrument. This process thereby enables the playwright to later utilise emotive, atmospheric and symbolic musical techniques more commonly associated with non-diegetic music, whilst still adhering to the tenets of naturalism.
Ibsen adopted the same approach for Hedda Gabler (1890) in which the piano is established as part of the set when the play begins, although it is only played during the last Act after having been moved into a back room (1890a, 1). Similarly, in John Gabriel Borkman (1896) before the piano is heard playing off stage Ibsen ensures that its presence within the diegesis has already been established to ensure that it is not interpreted as part of a non-diegetic soundtrack:
Mrs. Borkman: And then Erhart has arranged for her [Frida] to have lessons in music. She has made such progress already that she can come up
to – to him in the gallery, and play to him.
(Ibsen, 1896, 26)
Ibsen’s diegetic designs even accounted for the aural logistics involved in using a live on-stage piano. The difficulty with taking musical instruments out of the orchestra pit and placing them on stage is that when they are played live the noise they create may make any accompanying dialogue inaudible. Ibsen overcomes this by using either a pre-established instrument playing off stage (the technique employed in Hedda Gabler and Act I of John Gabriel Borkman) or by ensuring that the music finishes before the dialogue ensues (the approach adopted at the opening of Act II in John Gabriel Borkman). In A Doll's House, Ibsen solves the problem by positioning the piano between two up-stage doors with its back to a wall. This direction and location not only preserves sight lines and enables an efficient use of stage space, but as the sound is projected away from the audience it minimises the music’s volume. Therefore, these specifications ensure that the dialogue which accompanies the tarantella music in Act II remains audible. It should also be noted that these methods of integration were not reliant on whether any special facilities had been installed in the theatre where the play was performed. Providing the theatre had access to a box set, a piano and space off stage, all these directions could be followed. Indeed, although this thesis focuses on British productions it is likely that the procedures identified would have also been followed in European and American theatres.
‘Acousmatic’ is a Greek term used by Jérôme Pignot and Pierre Schaffer to describe a ‘sound one hears without seeing their originating cause’ (Schaffer, 1967, 91-99). In Audio-Vision: Sound and Screen (1994), Chion developed this idea further by exploring the different types of acousmatic sound used by filmmakers and the meanings such sonic material produced. Chion proposes that acousmatic sound creates either ‘off-screen space’ or an ‘in-the-wings effect’, both of which complete a communicative purpose devised to produce similar results: ‘[T]he opposition between visualised and acousmatic provides a basis for the fundamental audiovisual notion of off-screen space’ (Chion, 1994, 73).
In this statement, Chion identifies the fact that the audience will interpret diegetic music without a visual source as a signifier directly related to the area it emanates from. Therefore, because diegetic music is perceived as existing within the storyworld, when it emanates from an off-stage space this unseen area becomes an invisible extension of the theatrical microcosm. Or to phrase it another way, acousmatic music develops an imagined mise-en-scène that exists beyond the visual parameters of the stage or screen:
At these times we have the feeling, which is disconcerting to our normal sense of spectatorship, that we’re being encouraged to believe that the audiovisual space is literally being extended into the theatre beyond the borders of the screen, and that, over the exit sign or above the door to the restrooms, the characters or cars are there, preparing their entrance or completing their exit.
(Chion, 1994, 84)
Despite the fact that Chion’s terminology and description allude to the theatrical form, because the framing of a filmic image is a malleable process whereas in the theatre it is an architecturally specific facet, in some instances this may alter the relationship between acousmatic sound and what the audience actually see. Nevertheless, both media forms employ diegetic music to construct an aural milieu which exists outside what is depicted on stage or screen regardless of whether the format’s visual boundaries are fluid or static. As such, Chion’s theory regarding off-screen space created though acousmatic sound is equally applicable to the use of diegetic music in the theatre. Indeed, even though definite spatial boundaries were clearly defined by the box-sets used in numerous naturalistic productions, this self-enclosed location was not presented as a domestic island. Instead, both music and sound effects were used to establish that the room was part of a house, and the house part of a community which extended well beyond the proscenium frame.
Chion also proposes that acousmatic sound can be used to create two alternative situations: ‘either a sound is visualised first, and subsequently acousmatised, or it is acousmatic to start with, and is visualised only afterward’ (ibid., 72). It is important to consider the communicative difference between these approaches as they create two contrasting effects. For instance, visually establishing the presence of a piano before moving it from sight ensures that any music produced by the instrument will be interpreted as diegetic even though the source is no longer visible. As such, this technique produces ‘…an “embodied” sound, identified with an image, demythologised, classified’ (ibid., 72). However, if visual confirmation of the musical source is delayed then the aural signs it produces begin to take on additional meanings and in these instances; ‘[T]he acousmatic sound maintains suspense, constituting a dramatic technique in itself. …A sound or source that remains acousmatic creates a mystery of the nature of its source, its properties and its powers’ (ibid., 72). If this principle is applied to the examples given earlier it is apparent that the piano in Hedda Gabler provides ‘embodied sound’ whereas the music heard during the first Act of John Gabriel Borkman completes the more enigmatic functions Chion describes. Indeed, from this perspective the music provided by an unseen piano playing in the attic acts as a powerful dramaturgic device that initiates and heightens the audience’s desire for the source to be revealed. However, simply postponing the moment that this takes place does not automatically create either intrigue or anticipation.
For instance, in Act II of Chekhov’s play The Cherry Orchard (1904) Madame Ranevsky pauses from an emotional discussion with Gayef and states that she can hear music thereby instigating Gayef’s following explanation:
Mme Ranevsky: . . . Then suddenly I longed to be back in Russia, in my own country,
with my little girl. . . . (Wiping away her tears) Lord, Lord, be merciful
to me; forgive my sins! Do not punish me any more! (Taking a telegram from her pocket) I got this to-day from Paris. . . . He asks to be forgiven, begs me to go back. . . . (Tearing up the telegram) Isn't that music that I
hear? (Listening)
Gayef: That's our famous Jewish band. You remember? Four fiddles, a flute and a double bass.
Mme Ranevsky: Does it still exist? We must make them come up some time; we'll have a dance.
Lopakhin: (listening) I don't hear anything. (Singing softly) "The Germans for a fee will turn a Russ into a Frenchman." (Laughing) I saw a very funny piece at the theatre last night; awfully funny!
(Chekhov, 1904, 116)
As the ‘Jewish Orchestra’ Madame Ranevsky hears playing in the distance remains unseen, according to Chion’s criteria this lack of visual conformation will actively intrigue the audience and imbue both sound and source with enigmatic qualities. However, on this occasion the acousmatic effect is significantly reduced by the characters’ response to the music. The source is instantly established through dialogue and although Lopakhin interjects that he can’t hear any music, no-one else contests Gayef’s explanation. Therefore, any potential mystery surrounding the music’s origins is immediately neutralised. Similar explanatory information regarding acousmatic music is also imparted to the audience in Act I of John Gabriel Borkman through dialogue which establishes who the musician is, who they are playing for and where they are located. However, there is one key difference between these two sonic events and that is the way characters on stage react to what they hear.
In John Gabriel Borkman, the dialogue has frequently focused on the as yet unseen title character that can be heard relentlessly pacing above the stage. Then music is added to this acousmatic soundscape and the audience are both informed and hear for themselves that Borkman has (once again) asked Frida to play the Danse Macabre. Borkman’s choice of composition prompts Erkhart to leave the house and it is against this aural backdrop that Mrs. Borkman subsequently collapses. As such, it is these reactions to an unseen source, rather than its visibility or invisibility per se, that elevate the acousmatic tension. Furthermore, in this example it is not the instrument itself, or the musician that the audience want to be revealed, rather it is the architectural location and the unseen character ensconced within which are the focal point. In contrast, the acousmatic orchestra that plays during The Cherry Orchard is prevented from creating any similar enigmatic associations because none of the protagonists grant it the same status. Therefore, the music simply washes over the scene without raising questions or alarm in either the characters or the audience. However, if the distant music prompted various explanations regarding its source then the confusion on stage would instantly invest the sound with the type of dramatic significance Chion describes. Indeed, a little later in the Act another acousmatic sound is heard by the characters which provokes precisely this response:
They all sit pensively. Silence reigns, broken only by the mumbling of old Firs. Suddenly a distant sound is heard as if from the sky, the sound of a string breaking, dying away, melancholy.
(Chekhov, 1904, 121)
Unfortunately, there is no record of how this sound was created in either the Incorporated Stage Society’s 1911 production, or the Oxford Players 1925 version. However, when the play was staged at the Old Vic in 1933 the sound effects were designed and performed by Frank Napier who has since published a book which explains how he completed this particular sonic requirement:
(Breaking Harp-string Effect in “The Cherry Orchard”.) As I have mentioned this effect earlier, I must tell how it was done at the Old Vic, namely, with a musical saw. Any ordinary saw, except of course a tenon saw, will make a similar sound, but a proper musical saw gives the best results, being longer, heavier, and of special temper. For these reasons it is an expensive article, the cheapest costing fifteen shillings. To play the saw the performer sits gripping the handle between his knees. He grasps the other end and bends it over to the left. It is important that the bend should be correct. Having bent the blade over and down, he must bend the end upwards again, as though he were trying to snap it off, thus forcing the saw into an S curvature. He can then play it, either by striking the flat of the blade on its convex curve with a small padded stick (the method used for the harp-string effect) or by bowing with a ‘cello bow on the smooth edge.
(Napier, 1948, 86)
Although Napier’s musical interpretation of the ‘string snapping’ may not have been the technique used in earlier productions it certainly highlights the extent to which Chekhov’s somewhat ambiguous instruction demands a creative response.
To a certain extent, the actual effect and how it was created is less important in this context than the reactions it provokes as on this occasion none of the characters can agree on the sound’s source. Lopakhin concludes that it was the cable to a ‘lifting-tub’ breaking in a far off mine, Gayef suggests the call of a heron whereas Trofimov proposes an Owl (Chekhov, 1904, 121). Madame Ranevsky offers no interpretation, but interjects that there was ‘something un-canny’ about the noise, and finally Firs gives the sound a more prophetic status by indicating that is was a prelude to ‘great misfortune’ (ibid.). These explanations are neither rejected nor confirmed either visually or verbally at any point in the play and as such both the source and its meaning have become the subject of frequent speculation (see Styan, 1971, 337; Gilman, 1995, 241). However, whatever the answers to these questions might be the immediate affect created by this unfamiliar sound embodies the scene with an air of mystery and heightens dramatic tension.
From this perspective, the differences between the incorporation and purpose of two diegetic and acousmatic sounds are brought into focus. In the first instance, although the ‘Jewish orchestra’ is not deacousmatised through visual reinforcement it is objectified and naturalised by the dialogic reactions of the characters on stage. This establishes the existence of the orchestra and contextualises its presence in the storyworld thereby removing the need to visually introduce the musicians (even when they are heard again during Act III, see pages 252-8). Furthermore, the acousmatic accompaniment also creates the impression that the visual mise-en-scène only reveals a small section of the immediate surroundings within which the framed action on stage is being presented. In contrast, the source of the unidentified sound heard by the characters remains ambiguous and subjective. This inability to identify the noise is particularly peculiar as everyone on stage has spent most of their lives on this estate. Therefore, their reactions alert the audience that the sound is significant, but give no conclusive information as to what it signifies.
Another variant of these acousmatic techniques was used by Ibsen in The Master Builder (1892). In the play’s concluding moments an ageing builder (Solness) who suffers from vertigo attempts to lay a wreath on the tower of a new house he has built while the town celebrates below. However, the townsfolk, Solness, nor the building he climbs are ever fully revealed to the audience. Instead, the entire event is communicated through off-stage sounds and a running commentary provided by the characters on stage, which is only visually verified with momentary glimpses between the gaps in a line of trees:
(In the street a number of people has assembled, vaguely seen through the trees. Music of wind-instruments is heard far away behind the new house…)
Mrs. Solness: (to Ragnar) Are we going to have music too?
Ragnar: Yes. It’s the band of the Mason’s Union.
(Ibsen, 1892, Vol.3, 27)
The above dialogue establishes that the music is diegetic even though its source cannot be seen. This musical accompaniment continues until the final moment of the play, during which Solness falls from the roof and the following aural and visual action takes place:
(The ladies on the veranda wave their pocket handkerchiefs, and the shouts of ‘Hurrah’ are taken up in the street below. Then they are suddenly silenced and the crowd bursts out into a shriek of horror. A human body, with planks and fragments of wood is vaguely perceived crushing down behind the trees.)
Mrs. Solness
and Ladies: (At the same time) He’s falling! He’s falling!
(Mrs. Solness totters, falls backwards, swooning, and is caught, amid
cries and confusion by the ladies. The crowd in the street breaks down
the fence and storms into the garden. At the same time Dr. Herdal too,
rushes down thither. A short pause.)
Hilda: (Stares fixedly upwards as if petrified) My Master Builder.
Ragnar: (Supports himself, trembling, against a railing) He must be dashed to pieces – killed on the spot…
Another Lady: Call Someone
Ragnar: (Tries to call out) How is it? Is he alive?
A Voice: (Below in the garden) Mr. Solness is dead!
Voices: (Nearer) The head is all crushed. He fell right into the quarry.
(Ibsen, 1892, Vol.3, 31)
In this scenario, the function of the band is two-fold. Firstly, it makes the backdrop seem more realistic by supplying the necessary celebratory music associated with such an occasion. The music creates an aural environment that corresponds with the idea of a community celebration. Its presence promotes the idea that the town’s population are off stage expectantly awaiting the ceremony to begin and although they are hidden behind trees the aural signs that accompany the cheers circumvent such visual obstructions. Secondly, the contrast between celebration and terror is also emphasised by the music as it suddenly ceases along with the cheers when Solness falls thereby amplifying the tension and dramatic impact with an abrupt silence. Indeed, when Solness drops from the roof the subsequent stage directions which request silence followed by a ‘shriek of terror’, would not be as effective without the music. This is because the music creates not only a celebratory atmosphere, but also a particular rhythm and structure. Therefore, in purely aural terms when Solness falls from the roof the ordered musical material ceases and the sonic environment degenerates into panic, confusion and distress.
In The Master Builder, Ibsen uses the sounds created by the musicians and the onlookers as an expositional tool with which the dramatic action of the final Act is communicated to the audience. Because visual verification depicting the crowd reaction and Solness’ falling body remain indistinct, the cessation of the music and the townsfolk’s oral response supply the audience with the necessary narrative information. To amplify the dramatic effect the band and the onlookers fall silent for a moment before the screaming begins. This momentary silence occurs at a moment of high tension as the audience and characters wait to find out what has happened, and while it may be clear that Solness has fallen, the pause, followed by the witnesses’ distressed reactions suggest the accident was lethal and particularly gruesome. Indeed, this reading is clarified later when a voice is heard stating ‘his head is all crushed’ (ibid., 31).
Calderwood’s analysis of the play’s concluding moment ignores these aural signs and the communicative role they play. Instead, he attributes the lasting impression of Solness’ fall to the visual reactions provided by the characters on stage:
[Ibsen] compels us as an audience to build upon the visible presence of those who remain below (whose function of course is to suggest what is happening above) a transcendent image of the invisible Solness. Thus when the curtain falls, it can erase the visible theatre – actors, props, stage – but it cannot erase illusions in the mind.
(Calderwood, 1984, 633)
Although the audience would have undeniably used the characters’ reactions to help them decipher what was taking place off stage, the ‘illusions in the mind’ Calderwood references are actually created by the aural signs that accompany the dramatic action. Indeed, the characters’ combined reactions to Solness’ fall do not actually succeed in communicating the real result of his accident. Mrs. Solness faints, Dr. Herdal runs to help, Ragnar trembles and concludes that Solness ‘must be smashed to pieces’, but then asks ‘is he alive’, while Hilde stares upwards and ‘as if in quiet-spellbound triumph’ pronounces ‘he mounted right to the top’ (Ibsen, 1892, Vol. 3, 31). This behaviour clearly suggests that the characters on stage cannot actually see the result of the accident as their view, like the audience’s, is obstructed by trees. However, from an aural perspective it is a combination of the acousmatic music’s sudden cessation and the crowd’s response that gives this moment its dramatic impact and more directly informs the ‘transcendent image of the invisible Solness’ created in the audience members’ minds.
If this application is also considered in relation to Chion’s theory of passive and active off-screen sound it is apparent that the music actually switches between the two categories:
I shall give the name active offscreen sound to acousmatic sound that raises questions- What is this? What is happening? - Whose answer lies offscreen and which incite the look to go there and find out. Such sound creates a curiosity that propels the film forward, and it engages the spectator’s anticipation... Passive offscreen sound…is sound which creates an atmosphere that envelopes and stabilizes the image, without in any way inspiring us to look elsewhere or to anticipate seeing its source.
(Chion, 1994, 85)
The above definitions apply to the acousmatic music that plays at the end of The Master Builder in the following ways. Firstly, the sound of wind instruments played by the band merely provides a touch of atmospheric realism to an unseen event and therefore it can be classified as passive off-screen sound. However, the sudden interruption of this passive effect engages the spectator’s attention and the musical silence (combined with the screaming crowd) propels the audience to consider the questions Chion connects with active offscreen sound.
A more basic principle that can be drawn from this discussion is that in order for music to be acousmatic firstly the dramatist or director must establish it as diegetic. Because the sources which create non-diegetic music are invisible to characters that inhabit the storyworld, if they are seen or remarked upon the aural material immediately takes on a diegetic status. This observation also reveals that to a certain extent non-diegetic and diegetic domains are partially transferable. For instance, when music is played at the beginning of a play or film if its source is neither verbally nor visually established the audience will conclude the accompaniment is non-diegetic. Indeed, this reading will remain intact unless the source appears on stage or a character within the storyworld makes some reference to it and in doing so reclassifies the music as diegetic. When such a moment occurs the music essentially switches domains thereby forcing the audience to quickly reassess its significance as the sound now emanates from a position within the diegesis. This process of transference has been identified and described in relation to the experimental and innovative practices adopted in some early sound films. As Johnson explains, the pre-recorded and synchronised soundtrack was a technical innovation that could be used to: ‘deliberately confuse the audience about the source of the sound, introducing what seems like background music and then, after a time, surprising the spectator by revealing a source of that sound within the narrative space, as if mocking the more conventional use of musical accompaniment’ (Johnson, 1974, 180).
The technique Johnson identifies and the effect it creates may have also been used in the theatre prior to the invention of the sound film. Although there are no specific accounts which directly describe or request the procedure Johnson refers to, some stage directions do support such an interpretation, if only on a theoretical level. For example, Chekhov’s play Ivanov (1887) opens to the sound of music:
(As the curtain rises there is the sound of duet of a cello being practised indoors. Ivanov is sitting at a table. Borkin, wearing high boots and carrying a gun, comes into sight at the further end of the garden- he is a little drunk; seeing Ivanov, he advances on tip-toe towards him, and when he reaches him aims his gun at his face.)
Ivanov: (Seeing Borkin, starts and jumps up) Misha, what are you about? … You gave me a fright … I am worried as it is, and then you come with your stupid jokes … (sits down).
(Chekhov, 1887, 99)
Despite the fact that the diegetic and acousmatic credentials of the music are apparent in the dramatic text, when the scene is performed on stage the audience are not privy to such information. The music’s source is positioned off stage and out of sight and the characters on stage do not respond to the composition being played in any way. Chekhov makes no attempt to prevent the audience from incorrectly concluding that the music is non-diegetic and delays the moment its diegetic status is established for quite some time. This revelation finally occurs after Ivanov and Borkin have exited at the end of the first scene. At this point the music suddenly stops and the two as yet unseen characters that were playing it begin an off-stage argument:
(Shabelsky’s voice inside: “It is quite impossible to play with you … You have no more ear than a stuffed pike, and your touch is appalling!”)
Anna Petrovna: (Appears at the open window) Who was talking here just now?
(Chekhov, 1887, 101-2)
Significantly delaying the point at which the music is established as being diegetic leads the audience to initially conclude that they are hearing a non-diegetic accompaniment. This spectatorial deduction is also reinforced by the melodramatic opening of the play which depicts one character (Borkin) creeping up on another (Ivanov) with a gun. Although Chekhov does not specify a particular composition, the combination of the cellos’ timbre and an ostinato pattern would certainly provide a suitably consonant accompaniment for the murder which Borkin seems about to commit. However, no assassination attempt takes place and Ivanov is merely annoyed with Borkin’s tomfoolery rather than fearing for his life. Indeed, like Borkin, Chekhov plays a practical joke on his audience which only becomes apparent when the diegetic credentials of the music are revealed through Shabelsky’s off-stage comments.
In addition to simply tricking the audience into drawing an incorrect conclusion there may also be a more serious purpose behind the ruse. The use of music and the audience’s assumptions it provokes actually expose the artifice behind such conventions. From this perspective, the way in which the music switches domains functions as a statement of dramatic intent, clearly signifying that the play will break with traditional theatrical practice. Support for this theory can be drawn from Gilman’s close analysis of Ivanov which proposes that the play was purposefully designed to disrupt conditioned audience assumptions: ‘the play’s true “plot” is a series of moral and aesthetic decisions, the two united in the imagination, which work to sabotage literary and theatrical expectations’ (1995, 50). Although Gilman’s theory is based mainly on the extent Chekhov’s characters’ behaviour and dialogue transcended the Manichean models that dominated melodrama, the interpretation he provides also applies to the music that is heard when the play begins. As such, the message it gives to the audience is that they will misunderstand the purpose of the piece if they continue deciphering signs in accordance with established theatrical conventions.
Diegetic music’s capacity to reference and parody non-diegetic theatre music has also been utilised during scenes that feature a play within a play. To a certain extent, the music exists in two conceptual domains when these performances take place. The music is diegetic because it is performed by on stage characters, but at the same time it provides non-diegetic underscoring for the internal play they enact. This dual positioning can cleverly expose the artificial nature of non-diegetic musical support as it prevents the audience from being blindly receptive to the emotive musical conventions employed whilst simultaneously highlighting the contrived intentions behind its incorporation.
This technique is illustrated in Part V of Shaw’s play Back to Methulusah (1921) during which on-stage flute players provide a consonant accompaniment to the events unfolding on stage. At the beginning of the Act, Shaw establishes the music’s diegetic status in the following way: ‘Summer afternoon in the year 31,920 AD…A dance of youths and maidens is in progress. The music is provided by a few flute players seated carelessly on the steps of the temple’ (1921, 209). Throughout the scene various characters instruct the flautists to provide an accompaniment which is appropriately matched with the events taking place on stage. Although the music is relatively detached for the most part, towards the end of the Act the on-stage orchestra is asked to play while two characters slowly die on stage:
Male Figure: (Sinking to the ground) I am discouraged. Life is too heavy a burden.
Female Figure: (Collapsing) I am dying. I am glad. I am afraid to live.
Newlyborn: I think it would be nice to give the poor things a little music.
Arjillax: Why?
Newlyborn: I don’t know. But it would. (The musicians play)
Female Figure: Ozymandias: do you hear that? (She rises on her knees and looks raptly into space). Queen of queens! (She dies).
Male Figure: (Crawling feebly towards her until he reaches her hand) I knew
I was really a King of Kings. (To the others) Illusions, farewell; we are going to our thrones. (He dies… The music stops. There is a dead silence for a moment.)
Newlyborn: That was funny.
Strephon: It was. Even the Ancients are smiling.
(Shaw, 1921, 247)
The male and female figures have been created by Pygmalion as a scientific experiment and this scene follows the public unveiling of the two ‘automatons’. As a prelude to this exhibition Pygmalion explains the processes and purposes which lie behind his endeavour, however the audience that have gathered are more interested in seeing the creatures themselves. When the figures are finally revealed their entrance and appearance is stage-managed and overtly theatrical. Pygmalion begins the show by instructing the flautists to underscore the moment with a slow dance tune. Then when the couple actually appear they are dressed in costumes, or as Shaw puts it, ‘splendidly attired’; an aesthetic detail clearly drawn from theatrical rather than scientific practice. On Pygmalion’s command the ‘automatons’ perform a dance and when they finish the on-stage audience applaud and cheer. As the scene unfolds, the two figures display additional theatrical characteristics; for instance the male figure takes on the role of Ozymandias and refers to his female partner as Cleopatra whilst delivering a lengthy soliloquy. Finally, as shown in the extract above, the two figures die and their death is accompanied by music.
This aural accompaniment works in conjunction with the aforementioned theatrical signifiers to maintain the message that this exhibition is both devised and perceived as a piece of entertainment by the characters on stage. In this context, the musicans adopt the role of a non-diegetic theatre orchestra by underscoring the automatons’ melodramatic death with a suitably sympathetic composition. As such, Shaw uses this scenario to parody the contrived effects created through the traditional conventions of musical accompaniment. Indeed, the playwright mocks these techniques further by presenting the on-stage spectators’ reaction to this coupling as being one of amusement rather than empathy. In addition, by framing the automatons’ short lived existence within artificial modes of expression Shaw also highlights the extent to which such devices negate human potential and prevent audiences from identifying with any emotional reality beneath the façade. From this perspective, the visual and aural signs presented during the scene act as a comic indictment of the theatrical conventions they emulate.
The scene also acts as a dramatic illustration of an observation Shaw made almost thirty years earlier in his essay ‘What is the New Element in the Norwegian School’ (1892). As the title of the essay suggests Shaw’s intention was to investigate what it was that set the work produced by playwrights like Ibsen apart from British contemporaries. The conclusion he arrived at drew a divide between two types of practitioner and audience member; ‘The English cry of “Amuse us – take things easily – dress up the world prettily for us” seems mere cowardice to the strong souls that dare to look facts in the face…’ (Shaw, 1892b, 159). In this short sentence, Shaw identifies an anglicised attitude that values entertainment and simplicity, and compares it to a braver, more progressive outlook which confronts reality without restraint. However, rather than devising a scene which fulfils the aims of the latter position Shaw uses the ‘automatons’ presentation and treatment to mock the former predilection. In this context, the ‘play within a play’ exposes theatrical accoutrements that lack substance and sincerity as well as highlighting human susceptibility to such methods.
Shaw also used this technique to produce similar results in the third part of Back to Methulusah. Act II follows the conversation and actions of various characters that are gathered outside a temple waiting for their hosts to complete the necessary preparations so they can enter and question the Oracle. However, the artificial nature of these preparations and the proceeding ceremony is disdainfully established when their guide (a character known as Zoo) explains that her colleague: ‘has to dress up in a Druid’s robe, and put on a wig and a long false beard, to impress you silly people’ (Shaw, 1921, 188-9). Zoo also grumbles that she has to ‘put on a purple mantle’ (ibid.) and states her personal dislike of this theatrical behaviour: ‘I have no patience with such mummery…’ (ibid.). Zoo’s opinion and description of these ritualistic pretensions creates a comic context which provokes a humorous response to her subsequent entrance wearing a purple robe and accompanied by ‘a burst of orchestral music, through which a powerful gong sounds’ (ibid., 196). The third Act opens inside the silent temple, but when the ceremony begins a piece of acousmatic music starts to play which Shaw describes as ‘organ music of the kind called sacred in the nineteenth-century’ (ibid., 197). The music Shaw uses in this scene corresponds with Zoo’s earlier comments concerning the ceremony as it clearly complies with stereotypical expectations regarding the type of music suited to such a situation. Indeed, Zoo’s continual commentary reaffirms the ridiculous nature of this ostentatious display and prevents the Elderly Gentleman from maintaining his reverential response to the ritual:
Zoo: …This sort of thing is got up to impress you, not to impress
me.
Elderly Gentleman: I wish you would let it impress us, then, madam. I am deeply
impressed; but you are spoiling the effect.
Zoo: …All this business with the coloured lights and chords on
that old organ is only tomfoolery.
(Shaw, 1921, 198)
This aural parody of Western society’s ostentatious approach to formal occasions reaches its final anticlimax when the Oracle finally speaks:
(The oracle raises her hand to command silence).
All: Sh-Sh-Sh! (Invisible trombones utter three solemn
blasts in the manner of Die zauberflote)
Elderly Gentleman: May I –
Zoo: (Quickly) Hush. The oracle is going to speak.
The Oracle: Go home, poor fool. (She vanishes; and the atmosphere
changes to prosaic daylight. Zoo comes off the railing;
throws off her robe; makes a bundle of it; and tucks it under
her arm. The magic and mystery are gone…)
(Shaw, 1921, 203)
Shaw builds up dramatic tension and expectations as the Oracle prepares to speak and reveal the secrets of existence. The importance of this moment is emphasised (and ridiculed) by the solemn trombone fanfare. However, although this aural punctuation increases character and audience anticipation its dramaturgical purpose is the creation of a grand ritualised atmosphere that will be immediately destroyed when the Oracle simply calls the Elderly Gentleman a fool and tells him to go home.
In Back to Methuselah, Shaw used diegetic music to poke fun at both the conventions of non-diegetic theatre music and the role similar underscoring played within society’s rituals. During this play Shaw uses both on-stage musicians and an acousmatic musical source to articulate this ironic commentary. Firstly, Shaw creates scenarios which feature a theatrical performance within the play itself. These events incorporate music and provide non-diegetic underscoring from a diegetic position. The contradictory nature of this arrangement and the semantic transparency it creates demystifies and satirises the clichéd conventions presented. On both occasions, the diegetic status of the music allows characters to control and comment upon the aural accompaniment and in doing so expose the machinery and machinations behind the illusion. Indeed, if the musical sources were hidden and unmentioned the effect would be more melodramatic than sardonic. However, although Shaw employed this device to distance his modern, progressive dramatic works from more traditional theatrical productions, a similar technique was also used in some nineteenth-century melodramas.
For instance, T. W. Robertson adopts a comparable approach in the last Act of his domestic melodrama Caste (1867). The narrative of Robertson’s play focuses upon the marriage of Esther, a working-class actress with an unemployed alcoholic father (Eccles), to George D’Alroy; an upper-class army officer and the Marquise de St. Maur’s son. The other main characters are Esther’s sister Polly (who is also an actress), her fiancé Sam (a mechanic and tradesman) and George’s friend Hawtree (an upper-class army Captain). Despite the Marquise’s (and Hawtree’s) objections to this inter-class marriage the wedding goes ahead. However, only a few weeks later George is posted to India. At the beginning of the third Act it is established that George has been captured by Indian rebels and is presumed dead, Esther has given birth to a child, and Eccles has spent all the money George gave his wife before he departed. Any possibility of a happy ending seems lost until George suddenly appears on stage much to the surprise of Polly, Sam and Hawtree. Polly explains to George that when she was told about his capture and probable execution Esther was very weak after having given birth and the doctor believed the news would kill her. Therefore, Polly withheld the information until Esther had got her strength back. However, even after taking these precautions the news left Esther emotionally shaken and physically weakened; indeed when George arrives he is told that she is ill in bed. Because of Esther’s delicate state George is convinced by the other characters that his return must be gradually revealed to his wife:
Hawtree: We must break the news to her gently and by degrees.
(crosses behind fire, taking his tea with him)
Sam: Yes. If you turn the tap on to full pressure, she’ll explode!
(Robertson, 1867, 132)
The stratagem invented to gradually reveal George’s return is conceived by Polly. During the second Act, Esther had played a short movement from a ballet she refers to as ‘Jeanne la Folle; or, the Return of the Soldier’ and established that the first time George had seen her was when she performed in this production (ibid., 100). As the ballet’s title suggests the subject of its narrative is closely aligned with the events currently taking place on stage. With these connections in mind Polly devises her own impromptu pantomime version of the ballet to show Esther hoping that she will gradually decipher the hidden message:
Polly: […] Do you recollect Mademoiselle Delphine, Esther?
Esther: Yes.
Polly: Do you recollect her in that ballet that old Herr Griffenhaagen arranged? – ‘Jeanne la Folle’, or the ‘Return of the Soldier’? …Let me see – how did it go? How well I remember the scene! – the cottage was on that side, the bridge at the back – then ballet of villagers, and the entrance of Delphine as Jeanne, the bride – tra-lal-lala-lala-la-la (sings and pantomimes, Sam imitating her). Then the entrance of Claude, the bridegroom – (To Sam, imitating swell.) How-de-do, how-de-do?
Sam: (rising) ‘ow are yer? (imitating Polly, then sitting again)
Polly: Then there was the procession to church – the march of the soldiers over the bridge – (sings and pantomimes) – the arrest of Claude, who is drawn for the conscription (business; Esther looks dreamily), and is torn from the arms of his bride, at the church porch. Omnes broken-hearted. This is Omnes broken-hearted. (pantomimes.)
Esther: Polly, I don’t like this; it brings back memories.
(Robertson, 1867, 139-40)
Because the ballet has already been dialogically and musically connected with George and Esther in the previous Act, this second reference to ‘Jeanne la Folle’ creates an intra-contextual connection. As such, the audience immediately comprehend the memories Esther refers to and the conceit behind Polly’s performance. Unperturbed by Esther’s objections Polly continues her re-enactment of the ballet’s second Act during which the soldier that had been presumed dead is reunited with his wife (ibid., 140). Esther realises that Polly’s decision and determination to remind her of this story must be in someway connected with news about George and she asks the all important question:
Esther: […] Tell me – he is not dead?
Polly: No!
Esther: No?
Polly: No!
Esther: (whispers) Thank Heaven! (Sam turns on stool, back to audience.) You’ve seen him – I see you have! – I know it! – I feel it! I had a bright and happy
dream – I saw him as I slept! Oh, let me know if he is near! Give me some sign – some sound – (Polly opens piano) – some token of his life and presence! (Sam touches Polly on the shoulder, opens piano, takes hat and exits, door r. All to be done very quickly. Polly sits immediately at piano and plays air softly – the same air played by Esther Act ii, on the treble only.)
Esther: (in an ecstasy) Oh, my husband! Come to me! For I know that you are near! Let me feel your arms clasp round me! – do not fear me! – I can bear the sight of you! – (Door opens showing Sam keeping George back) – it will not kill me! – George – love – husband – come, oh, come to me! (George breaks away from Sam, and coming down behind Esther places his hands over her eyes; she gives a faint scream, and turning, falls in his arms. Polly plays the bass as well as treble of the air, forte, then fortissimo. She then plays at random, endeavouring to hide her tears. At last strikes piano wildly, and goes off into a fit of hysterical laughter...)
(Robertson, 1867, 140-1)
The stage directions given in this particular extract contain very precise instructions describing how the Jeanne La Folle motif should be played. At first, it is a soft rendition of the tune played only on the higher keys, and then when George and Esther embrace the bass notes are added and the volume increased. Thus, when Esther and George are reunited Polly’s diegetic rendition of non-diegetic music ironically emulates the underscoring that would have accompanied the husband and wife reunion in Jeanne La Folle. Finally, the emotion of the occasion overcomes Polly and she plays at random before striking the piano ‘wildly’ and falling ‘into a fit of hysterical laughter’ (ibid.).
In this scene, traditional non-diegetic underscoring is essentially naturalised; conventional aural signifiers are integrated into the diegesis whilst retaining their original affective functions. Therefore, Robertson is able to use the established musical language of melodrama without losing realistic integrity. This is because the transparency of the music’s emotive purpose is disguised by its diegetic status and the way in which the composition has been woven into the play. Consequently, the audience do not question the musical celebration of George and Esther’s reunion although its primary dramatic function is to heighten the scene’s emotional appeal by providing conventional consonant underscoring.
In Players and Performances in the Victorian Theatre, Taylor’s analysis of Caste leads to a similar conclusion regarding the use of music: ‘[B]y exploiting the character’s theatrical instincts, the production achieved the effect of musical accompaniment, without adopting the full-bloodied conventions of melodrama’ (1989, 116). Taylor’s identification of the ‘character’s theatrical instincts’ connects the careers Robertson created for Esther and Polly with the performance abilities such employment requires. This theatrical background (which is established when the sisters first appear on stage and the audience are informed that they have been rehearsing a play) supports any subsequent demonstration of their abilities. However, when Polly performs her version of Jeanne La Folle the acting technique she adopts also highlights Caste’s realism. From this perspective, Polly’s affected pantomimic re-enactment provides a direct contrast to the play’s otherwise realistic delivery. Indeed, for some contemporary theatre practitioners Robertson’s original production initiated the development of a new naturalistic acting style and aesthetic. W.S. Gilbert credited Robertson with founding ‘a school of natural acting which completely revolutionised the then existing methods’ while S. Bancroft observed that the realistic and detailed scenery designed for Caste ‘had never before been seen upon the stage’ (cited in Pemberton, 1893, 201 and 206). However, as demonstrated in the preceding analysis, Robertson’s concessions to realism were supplemented with displays of overt theatricality. Indeed, when Polly informs her on-stage audience that following Claude’s arrest everyone is broken hearted she verbally introduces the formal Passion which depicts this emotion (‘[T]his is Omnes broken-hearted’, Robertson, 1867, 139-40) and then strikes the necessary pose. Although Robertson’s representation of these conventions is far less acerbic than Shaw’s meta-theatrical moments, this last scene does seem to gently mock popular theatrical practices. As such, the play within a play that takes place in Caste has two related underlying functions. Firstly, it creates a comic contrast between contemporary melodramatic productions and Caste’s innovative realistic style, and secondly, the scene’s narrative context disguises Robertson’s simultaneous exportation and exploitation of musical techniques associated with the very conventions being sent up.
In the previous example, diegetic music was used to provide consonant underscoring that matched the events taking place on stage. This technique has been explored in various publications on film sound which focus on other specific applications of empathetically synchronised diegetic music (see Williams, 1985, 335; Weis, 1982, 41; Hanlon, 1985, 330; Litle, 1985, 313). Gorbman also discusses this procedure and in doing so identifies the main problem associated with diegetic consonant underscoring:
In standard narrative filmmaking, the rhythm and mood of diegetic music that
“coincidentally” plays with a scene has been made to match the scene’s mood and pace with an uncanny consistency. This practice in fact implies a departure of diegetic music from its naturalistic independence and a movement toward the action-imitating roles we might more readily expect of non-diegetic music…. We sense that the characters have been created, and they do not inspire us to identify with them. Contributing to a definite departure from psychological realism, the music employed acts ironically as a much stronger narrative intrusion, even though diegetic, than non-diegetic music.
(Gorbman, 1987, 24-5)
From this perspective, retaining the conventions and codes associated with non-diegetic music when the underscoring itself is actually diegetic inevitably highlights the implausibility of such coincidental consonance. Indeed, Gorbman reveals something of a ‘Catch-22’ problem. Although replacing non-diegetic music with diegetic music contributes realism, the repeated sounding of diegetic music which is empathetically related to narrative events taking place actually undermines verisimilitude. While Gorbman does make a valid point she neglects to observe that the audience’s response will depend upon two key factors; do the characters themselves notice the coincidence and is the music’s presence in the storyworld justified? To highlight the extent such considerations either disguise or expose this aural artifice the following analysis will focus on the incorporation of empathetic diegetic accompaniments in scenes from two different plays.
The first example occurs during Act I, Scene 3 of Daly’s melodrama Under the Gaslight. Daly’s stage directions describing the opening of this scene are as follows: ‘The blue room at Delmonico’s. Waltz Music as the scene opens. Waltzers in motion – Pearl [Laura’s sister] is dancing with Mrs. Van Dam’ (1867, 289). Although it is not established in the dramatic text whether the musicians are positioned on stage, off stage, or even if the pit orchestra provides accompaniment, the diegetic status of the music is signified by the dancing that is synchronised with it. The action which ensues revolves around the exposure of Laura’s criminal background and her subsequent ostracism from the upper-class society she has been brought up in.
Upon entering Delmonico’s, Ray realises that Laura has not yet arrived and decides to fetch her. However, he only gets as far as requesting a waiter to fetch his overcoat when Mrs. Van Dam (the wife of a rich banker) demands that he dances with his fiancée’s cousin Pearl. Ray obliges and while he is dancing Mrs. Van Dam throws his coat at a servant and instructs him to put it back in the cloakroom. This causes a number of letters to fall from Ray’s coat pocket. Mrs. Van Dam flicks through the envelopes and discovers the unsealed missive Ray had written to Laura calling off their engagement which she then reads aloud:
Mrs. Van Dam: (tremolo waltz music) A fair prize, let’s see it. (Music – takes and
opens it, puts on eye-glasses and reads.) ‘Laura,’ well, come, that’s cool for a lover, ‘I have heard all from’ – something scratched out – ah! ‘your sister, Pearl – your obscure origin – the terrible family connexions – the secret of the tie which binds you to a drunken wretch – my mother, society – will demand me a wife who will not blush to own her kindered – or start at the name of outcast and thief. – Signed, Ray Trafford.’ (All stand speechless and look at each other – all this time the rest have been dancing.)
(Daly, 1867, 290)
This discovery is the play’s dramatic turning point as the contents of the letter are immediately passed on from person to person and when Laura arrives she is publically humiliated and snubbed by Ray. As a result, Laura runs away and the rest of the play revolves around her subsequent capture and escape from the play’s villains (Byke and Judas).
Prior to Mrs. Van Dam’s recitation, the audience are already aware of the letter’s contents because Ray spoke what he wrote aloud while hastily penning the note in Act I. Furthermore, as the letter refers to the way ‘polite society’ will react if they discover Laura’s past, the audience are equally conscious of the potential consequences if Mrs. Van Dam reads it. Therefore, if this important narrative event were accompanied by traditional non-diegetic underscoring the music would be used to heighten the dramatic tension during Mrs. Van Dam’s discovery and subsequent reading of the letter. However, Daly both subverts and upholds this convention by using an established diegetic source to provide a tremolo effect; a non-diegetic musical technique frequently used as a way of heightening dramatic tension (see pages 111-4).
In terms of realism, this practice is somewhat problematic. Because non-diegetic music is accepted as an element that exists outside the storyworld this external position allows it to predict, punctuate and aurally imitate the events taking place on stage. Although diegetic music can also exhibit the same close relationship with the action, if this apparent connection is not convincingly explained verisimilitude becomes difficult to maintain. This rationalisation may take the form of characters indicating their musical motives or referring to the strange coincidence that music from an independent source is empathetically matched with their current experience. However, in Under the Gaslight none of these concessions to realism are made. Instead, the audience must simply accept that the diegetic waltz music is momentarily altered to better underscore an occurrence which the musicians and most characters are completely unaware of. Therefore, although the musical source has been naturalised and given narrative context, Daly’s recourse to non-diegetic conventions illustrates the problem of ‘narrative intrusion’ outlined by Gorbman (1987, 24-5). Put simply, if the characters do not notice coincidental consonance the theatrical artifice is exposed.
H. A. Jones’ play The Dancing Girl (1891) also features a scene in which diegetic music is used to create the aural atmosphere of a social gathering whilst simultaneously providing consonant underscoring. The Dancing Girl features two main protagonists; Drusilla Ives, a young Quaker girl that left her family home on the Island of St. Endellion to take up a domestic position in London, and the Duke of Guisebury, a young, cynical and somewhat dissolute aristocrat that is also Drusilla’s father’s landlord. After meeting Drusilla in London five years before the play begins Guisebury has become completely enamoured and provided her with anything she has asked for. This new metropolitan lifestyle has completely transformed Drusilla to the extent that she has adopted the pseudonym Diana Valrose and become a well-known dancer on the London circuit. However, Drusilla’s relationship with Guisebury and her chosen career have been hidden from her family. At the opening of the play both Drusilla and Guisebury are on the Island of St. Endellion; Drusilla is visiting her family while Guisebury wanders around the village accompanied by his steward’s daughter, Sybil Crake (also referred to as Midge). During his tour of the island, Guisebury is informed that unless a breakwater is built Endellion will soon be flooded by the Atlantic. Guisebury promises he will finance the building of necessary sea defences and appoints a local man called John Christison (who is also besotted with Drusilla) to oversee the project.
The second Act opens after two years have passed. Work has still not begun on the breakwater, Guisebury is facing bankruptcy and Drusilla has grown tired of his company. After considering these problems Guisebury concludes that the only sensible solution is to commit suicide. Under the pretence that he is emigrating Guisebury ironically celebrates his pending demise by throwing a lavish leaving party. Act three follows the events at this gathering for which Guisebury has employed a Hungarian Band, a famous Polish violinist by the name of Poniatowski, and arranged for Drusilla to perform. However, these performances all take place off stage and while the guests enjoy the entertainment Guisebury remains in the reception hall of his recently sold mansion.
Although Poniatowski’s violin music is played off stage, Jones ensures that it is perceived as being diegetic by establishing its source visually, dialogically and aurally; as shown in the three chronologically arranged extracts below:
Lady Brislington: Oh, there’s that dear Poniatowski!
(Enter Poniatowski, a Polish violinist L. C. ascending stairs and
going off L., violin under arm, followed by crowd…left and off
up stairs.) (Jones, 1891, 93)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Guise: […] Some more music. Tell Poniatowski to play again – keep it
up. (Jones, 1891, 93)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Solo ends, loud applause, crowd comes on from L. on gallery
applauding.) (Jones, 1891, 96)
The published version of Jones’ promptbook for this play contains a diagram depicting the set and furniture arrangement for Act III which is shown below (ibid., 76).
[pic]
Fig. 8 The Dancing Girl Act III stage plan (Jones, 1891, 76)
This scenographic blueprint combined with the stage-directions, dialogue and annotated musical cues (also contained in the promptbook) allows the theatrical text to be partially reconstructed. Firstly, it is apparent that the party takes place above the main performance area and off stage left. Jones uses Poniatowski’s entrance and subsequent exit to visually establish the whereabouts of this unseen location. Prior to the violinist’s entrance twelve guests have arrived through the double doors and taken up positions on the left side of the stage. When Poniatowski enters he emerges from the stage left door positioned beneath the gallery and moves through this throng of people in order to climb the staircase. Following Lady Brislington’s verbal identification of Poniatowski the guests all leave the main stage area and pursue the violinist across the gallery into an unseen room off left. In this one swift movement the minor characters are cleared from the stage, the existence and purpose of an off-stage location is established, and the musical source is naturalised before it is played.
From this concealed position, Poniatowski performs and the crowd applauds. However, while his guests enjoy the entertainment Guisebury remains on stage; a separation which underlines the character’s alienation from the family members and dignitary he has invited. At this point Sybil enters and Guisebury begins to discuss his feelings about death and funerals:
Guise: […] We think we are going to paradise and our friends wear black kid gloves, crape hat-bands and hire a dozen men in black. We can’t be going to a more comic world than this.
(Violin solo faintly heard in the distance L.)
Sybil: No, nor to a sadder.
Guise: I didn’t expect you, Midge, I thought you wouldn’t face the crowd!
Sybil: Oh, your rooms are so large. And I so much wanted to see Nero fiddling while Rome was blazing.
Guise: I haven’t provided that attraction. But there’s the Hungarian Band – and
Poniatowski – if he’ll do?
(Jones, 1891, 94)
Unfortunately, there is no record of what Poniatowski played at this point. However, even though the composition itself cannot be identified, the music that was selected would have corresponded with one of three broad stylistic categories. Firstly, it could have been an up-beat composition and thereby provided a musical counterpoint to Guisebury and Sybil’s conversation. Alternatively, Jones may have chosen an arrangement which had neither negative nor positive connotations. This would provide an anempathetic accompaniment and create what Chion refers to as a ‘backdrop of indifference’ against which the events on stage were played out (1994, 8). The third possibility is that the music was a poignant and mournful composition intended to consonantly underscore the discussion and emotions displayed on stage. Although there is no evidence that proves conclusively which type of music was used, Jones’ decision to have the scene accompanied by a violin solo does indicate that the last option is the most likely.
If this were the case, then the solitary violin would have provided a musical accompaniment that was empathetically matched with Guisebury’s current emotional disposition. Indeed, although Guisebury adopts an outwardly cynical and amused countenance the audience are aware that he is merely disguising his heartbreak, guilt and suicidal intent. From this perspective, the consonant underscoring highlights the pain and distress which lie behind the character’s mask of indifference. As such, the diegetic music performs one of the conventional roles associated with non-diegetic music. However, the extent this aural coincidence intrudes upon the realistic milieu is greatly reduced by Sybil’s reference to the ‘sadness’ of the scene she is witnessing. Sybil’s comment occurs just after Poniatowski begins playing, and although she doesn’t explicitly state that the music’s emotional tone corresponds with the subject of Guisebury’s morbid reflections, her response does appear to recognise the violin’s poignant contribution. The violin’s aural presence is also referenced in the analogy Sybil draws between Guisebury’s decision to throw a party during an emotional and financial crisis, and Nero playing the violin while Rome burnt. Sybil’s verbal references to the ironic presence of such a fitting musical accompaniment disguise the contrivance behind its inclusion and effectively neutralise the ‘narrative intrusion’ that may have been perpetrated. Therefore, the fact that this coincidence and connection are articulated establishes that the criterion used by a fictional character to judge and interpret diegetic music corresponds with the audiences’ own ‘realistic’ barometer.
The examples analysed in this section reveal a number of principles and procedures that highlight the dramatic potential and possible pitfalls connected with diegetic music’s incorporation into theatrical productions. Although establishing a piece of music’s diegetic credentials may simply require the source to be visually or verbally confirmed, the way in which this information is revealed as well as the relationship between the musical style and the events depicted on stage, is a far more complex matter. For instance, some theatre practitioners delayed the moment they revealed the source in order to either displace audience assumptions or engender the sound with a sense of mystery. Furthermore, once the diegetic status of the music has been established its ‘naturalisation’ does not guarantee its adherence to naturalism. Indeed, if the diegetic accompaniment follows conventions associated with non-diegetic underscoring then the transparency of these functions may displace the verisimilitude its presence was intended to create. However, this problem can be alleviated if the consonant connection between musical material and dramatic events is presented as being intentional (when a character purposely chooses a composition that will produce such a reading), coincidental (if the ironic nature of this concurrency is referenced in the dialogue), or institutional (where the diegetic music performs a non-diegetic role during and play within a play). Based on these findings, it is clear that incorporating diegetic music was not a process which simply transposed and assimilated conventional techniques of non-diegetic underscoring. Instead, the fact that this form of aural accompaniment occupied a position within the storyworld created problems and possibilities that required alternative and innovative approaches.
In her description of theatrical practices adopted at the end of the nineteenth century, Chothia refers to the way in which non-diegetic music was substituted by its diegetic counterpart: ‘[T]he tension-raising musical chords of melodrama are replaced by the strains of dance music to accompany splendid ballroom scenes or by an on-stage piano, played by a heroine trained in the finer social arts’ (1996, 29-30). Although Chothia’s observation that diegetic music served as a realistic substitute for non-diegetic underscoring is correct, her straightforward conclusion greatly oversimplifies the process. The assurgent mode of naturalism did not suddenly initiate a switch from non-diegetic to diegetic music. Nor did this transference process only facilitate the diegetic reproduction of musical meaning conventionally communicated through non-diegetic accompaniment. Instead, this section shows that diegetic music carries conditions and communicative capacities which were explored and developed by theatre practitioners before, during and after the naturalistic revolution. As such, Chothia’s comments display a narrow understanding of diegetic music’s multi-faceted functions and the various dramaturgic possibilities it provides (as well as limiting non-diegetic music’s role in melodrama to a simplistic device employed for the sole purpose of raising the tension).
4. C. Musical Physiognomy and Prosody
At the beginning of the previous section five considerations directly connected to diegetic music’s dramaturgical functions were set out (where is the music coming from, who is playing it, which type of composition has been selected, what does this choice reveal about the character who chose it, and how do other characters respond when it is being played?). In the last section the analysis focused primarily on the first of these considerations by outlining the different ways diegetic music had been integrated into the storyworld and how this affected audience interpretation. The remaining four factors share one common feature: they communicate the personality traits and emotional states of the characters that play or hear the music. This phenomenon is best described as musical physiognomy, a term which draws on the idea that a person’s temperament and character can be deciphered from their outward appearance. Thus, when this principle is applied to diegetic music it becomes the performance of, or response produced by, a musical arrangement that reveals a character’s emotional disposition.
Although the use of diegetic music and the semantic possibilities it creates are not medium specific, the historical boundaries which ground this thesis mean that all the compositions discussed in the following section were performed live. This is because during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century the technology to record, playback or broadcast sound was still in its infancy. As such, the apparatus required to play recorded material or receive radio transmissions was not yet a commonplace appearance in the domestic locations that were emulated on stage. The main difference between a character listening to a recording and a character actually playing an instrument is that the former process is relatively passive, whereas the latter pursuit is always active. This direct physical interdependency between character and sound creates a fundamental link that prompts the audience to interpret the musician’s personality and temperament based upon the type of music they play, how they perform it and the narrative context in which it is framed. Fischer-Lichte explains this signification process in the following way:
A’s music-making invariably denotes X’s music-making. With regard to this function the meanings to be assigned to the musical signs are directly related to character X, or to put it more exactly, they are related to the subject level. They can be employed and interpreted both as signs for X’s position in the room, his movement, or his special skill in music-making, and as a sign for his personality, mood, and feelings.
(Fischer-Lichte, 1992, 124-5)
In the following section these principles will be explored through the analysis of specific scenes that feature protagonists who provide their own musical underscoring.
The first example takes place during the third act of Pinero’s play The Second Mrs. Tanqueray (1893). For the most part, the play’s narrative focuses upon the problematic relationship between a respectable, wealthy, upper-class widower in his forties (Aubrey Tanqueray), the vivacious reformed courtesan he has decided to marry (Paula Ray), and Aubrey’s nineteen year old daughter (Ellean Tanqueray). In the first scene, Aubrey informs two male friends that he intends to remarry. Despite the inevitable questioning this revelation prompts Aubrey refuses to reveal his fiancée’s name. At this point, Aubrey’s closest confident (Drummle) enters and proceeds to account for his late arrival. Drummle explains he was detained by Lady Orreyed Senior after she discovered her son George was going to marry Mabel Hervey; a lower-class girl well known for having had intimate relations with numerous men, or as Drummle puts it a ‘curiously beautiful’ actress that is ‘everybody’s property’ (Pinero, 1893b, 256-257). Following some discussion regarding the Orreyeds’ pending expulsion from polite society, Drummle learns of Aubrey’s forthcoming marriage. After the other guests have left Drummle convinces Aubrey to tell him who it is he intends to marry. When Drummle learns that Aubrey’s fiancée is Paula Ray he immediately apologises for his comments regarding Mabel Hervey. However, Drummle’s expression of regret prompts Aubrey to reprimand him for assuming that the two women are ‘alike’ simply on account of their reputation: ‘You see in the crowd of the Ill-used only one pattern; you can’t detect the shades of goodness, intelligence, even nobility there’ (ibid, 265).
The second act takes place two months later. During the interim Aubrey and Paula have married, Ellean has left the convent, and the three of them have moved to the country. It is apparent from the outset that Paula is struggling with this provincial and isolated lifestyle. In addition, Paula has become jealous of Aubrey and Ellean’s relationship, and believes that her husband is purposefully preventing her from bonding with his daughter. Therefore, when Paula discovers that Aubrey has given permission for Ellean to visit Paris accompanied by their neighbour she is both offended and enraged. Paula retaliates by inviting Mabel Hervey and George Orreyed (now Lord and Lady Orreyed) to visit despite her husband’s protestations. By Act III, George and Mabel Orreyed have arrived, Paula will only talk to Aubrey when their guests are present, and Drummle has been drafted in to provide moral support. Furthermore, it is evident in the opening stages of the third Act that Paula’s decision to invite the Orreyeds has backfired as she finds their company both dull and distasteful.
While Aubrey and Drummle smoke on the veranda, Paula and Lady Orreyed sit in the drawing room wearing ‘sumptuous dinner-gowns’ accompanied by George who is fast asleep on the settee. Paula is clearly struggling to converse with her old acquaintance who describes a recent argument she had with George (or ‘Dodo’ as Mabel calls him) because he would not buy her a tiara:
Paula: Excuse the suggestion, perhaps your husband can’t afford it.
Lady O: Oh how dreadfully changed you are. Paula! Dodo can always mortgage something, or borrow of his ma. What is coming to you!
Paula: Ah! (She sits at the piano and touches the keys.)
Lady O: Oh, yes, do play! That’s the one thing I envy you for.
Paula: What shall I play?
Lady O: What was that heavenly piece you gave us last night, dear?
Paula: (searching amongst the music) A bit of Schubert. Would you like to hear it
again?
Lady O: (thoughtfully) You don’t know any comic songs, do you?
Paula: I’m afraid not.
Lady O: (settling herself) I leave it to you, then. (Paula plays…)
(Pinero, 1893a, 54-5)
While Paula plays the piano Aubrey and Drummle appear from the veranda and look into the drawing room. In the dialogue that follows the two friends conceive a scheme for Aubrey to distract the Orreyeds by proposing a game of billiards so that Drummle can talk privately with Paula on Aubrey’s behalf. The moment that they enter the room to execute their plan the following stage direction is given: ‘Paula abruptly ceases playing and finds interest in a volume of music’ (ibid., 55). Aubrey succeeds in enticing George and Mabel into another room and the couple exit the stage with their host. Immediately after her husband has gone Paula resumes playing.
If Paula’s use of the piano during this scene is considered in relation to the signification processes outlined by Fischer-Lichte the dramaturgical functions it serves are apparent. Firstly, the extent this musical activity conveys Paula’s ‘mood and feelings’ is indicated through the events that prompt her to begin, cease and resume playing, rather than being communicated through the performance of a particular composition. Throughout the dialogue leading up to the musical cue Lady Orreyed has dominated the conversation in a ‘mincing voice’ (ibid., 52) while Paula has contributed only short questions and monosyllabic answers.
The one-sided discussion itself revolves around Mabel’s success in finding the ‘perfect husband’, who is currently sleeping with ‘his head thrown back and his mouth open, looking hideous’ (ibid., 53), and her technique for getting him to buy whatever she asks for. In this context, it is Paula’s irritation and her struggle to remain civil that prompts her move towards the piano. Moreover, the act of playing the instrument essentially allows Paula to purposefully yet politely withdraw both mentally and physically from the conversation and her guests. Indeed, the action itself can be related to Fischer-Lichte’s observation that the music indicates the character’s position within a room. On one level such information is entirely unnecessary as the audience can see exactly where Paula is located for themselves. However, the activity she engages in also alters character proxemics and from this perspective Paula does not just sit and play the piano, she turns away from her guests and uses the music as an aural barrier intended to prevent any further conversation. This change in spatial dynamics and the apparent motive behind the musical diversion clearly illustrates Paula’s current mood. Similarly, Paula’s decision to stop in the middle of her recital the moment that Aubrey enters, and then wait until he has left before continuing, communicates the hostile feelings she has towards her husband. Therefore, Paula’s cessation and resumption directly informs both the audience and the characters on stage of the anger and resentment Aubrey’s actions have produced without the need for any expositional dialogue.
The type of composition Paula plays also provides an insight into her personality and to a certain extent this interpretation also depends on the backdrop the music itself is set against. In the first Act Drummle had been reproached for inferring that Paula and Mabel were alike simply because they had attained similar reputations. On one level, Drummle’s comparison seems entirely justified when the audience are presented with two young female characters that share a dubious past, have married wealthy older men, and are sitting in the same room wearing lavish gowns. However, as the scene continues the differences between the two characters become increasingly apparent and it is Paula’s piano playing that most succinctly emphasises this distinction. Therefore, whereas Mabel’s aristocratic pretensions are seemingly limited to the conclusion that someone in her position must ‘smother herself with hair ornaments’ (ibid., 54), Paula’s true refinement is made apparent through the music she plays. Indeed, Mabel’s request for a comic song and Paula’s response that she does not know any further confirms their differences. Even from a twenty-first-century viewpoint, less preoccupied with ‘class’ than in the Victorian age, the distinction between a character that plays ‘Schubert’ and one who requests ‘comic songs’ is clear. As such, the musical preferences and abilities of these two former acquaintances expose the cultural and social divide that separates them. Paula is presented as a cultured woman who exhibits a level of refinement and taste that befits her elevated social position, while Mabel is shown to be childish, vacuous and coarse.
Fischer-Lichte’s remaining observation that diegetic music also reveals a character’s ‘special skill in music-making’ is particularly significant when considered in relation to the theatrical text of The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. Although the specific composition Paula performs during this scene is not indicated in the dramatic text, there are various historical sources which help to establish the communicative effect it produced when the play was first staged. For instance, Paula’s musical abilities were referred to in a review of the play published by Punch and as the following extract indicates, it was both her skill as a musician and the musical selections she played that provided information regarding her background: ‘[S]he has learnt the piano, that is evident; she has refined taste, oddly enough, in music…’ (1893, 273). The above comments suggest that Pinero purposefully utilised diegetic music as an aural signifier in order to establish a particular aspect of the main protagonist’s former life (a theme strongly connected with the play’s narrative). Indeed, Pinero’s dialogue does indicate that Paula should play an arrangement composed by Schubert. However, a more in-depth line of enquiry reveals that the reviewer’s response may have had more to do with the actress’ musical skills than Pinero’s stage directions.
The actress that played Paula Tanqueray in the production referred to in the review was Mrs. Patrick Campbell (otherwise known as Mrs. Pat). Although Mrs. Pat went on to become an extremely well-known actress it was her role as Paula that propelled her into stardom. Before pursing an acting career Mrs. Pat had been trained as pianist and even won a scholarship to study at Leipzig; a fact apparently unknown to Pinero when he cast her. Therefore, rather than simply sitting at the piano and strumming a valse (as the original version of the script instructs) Mrs. Pat responded to Pinero’s musical demands with an interlude of a quite different class:
At last rehearsals reached the third act and the point in the play when Paula is required to sit at the piano and strum a valse. Stella [Mrs. Pat] took this bit of stage business seriously, begging to be excused until she had prepared something suitable. But Alexander had had enough of Mrs. Patrick Campbell’s whims. “We would like to hear whether you can play,” he said curtly from the stalls. Stella was offended and instantly on her mettle. Seating herself at the piano and holding up her blue-and-gold prompt book conspicuously in her right hand, she began to play with great skill and beauty a piece by Bach for the left hand alone. She was quite aware of the effect she was producing on the entire cast, and prolonged the surprise for about three minutes. At last an expressionless voice from the dark stalls said, “That will do, Mrs. Campbell. We will go on with the rehearsal, please!”
(Peters, 1984, 74)
Not only did Pinero’s leading lady’s indignant reaction produce a more effective and pronounced musical indicator of the character’s background than if she had simply followed the playwright’s stage directions, Mrs. Pat’s following account indicates that the actress knew precisely the affect her performance would create:
This moment quite changed the whole temper of rehearsals. Those who listened knew that my playing must be the outcome of serious study and some understanding of art; above all that my playing would invest the part of Paula with not a little glamour. (Campbell, 1922, 66)
In addition, Mrs. Pat’s promptbook from the production reveals that she did not play ‘a bit of Schubert’ as the dramatic text seems to suggest. Instead, the annotations indicate that Mrs. Pat played something in a minor key using only her left-hand. This evidence confirms that it was Mrs. Pat’s impromptu recital, as opposed to Pinero’s mastery of stagecraft, which should be credited with stimulating the reviewer’s response; a theory supported by Richard Faulkes in his following comments on her musical performance:
…it enabled Mrs. Pat to complete for Paula the genteel past Pinero had failed to suggest in his text – a matter of no little importance in a play about social barriers and eligibility. The Punch reviewer who asked ‘what was her bringing up? What ought by right to have been her position in life?’ found in Mrs. Pat’s playing his only clue to the character’s early history.
(Faulkes, 1992, 42-3)
This analysis of Paula’s piano playing during Act III reveals the hidden complexity that lies beneath the communicative principles Fischer-Lichte touches upon. Firstly, it is not simply the act of music-making and the composition selected that indicates the character’s location, skill, personality and emotional outlook. Rather it is the manner in which the music is integrated and connected with narrative themes that are simultaneously established through dialogic and visual stimuli. In this context, the music confirms Aubrey’s earlier contention that Paula and Mabel should not be regarded as similar simply on account of their past; an opinion that is also supported by the dialogue that precedes Paula’s musical performance. Secondly, Paula’s piano playing does more than establish that she is a competent musician, it also draws upon social and cultural connotations regarding the background and personality of a character that possesses such a polished musical ability. Thirdly, Paula’s choice of music and the conventional associations it draws on only partially indicates her mood as the physical act of playing the piano is a demonstrative sign in itself. From this perspective, Paula’s decision to play is presented as her way of escaping from a conversation she can no longer endure. Similarly, when she suddenly stops playing in the middle of her recital this abrupt break is interpreted as an extension of her resolution to cease communicating with her husband. Indeed, when Aubrey enters and Paula stops playing the piano becomes a substitute mouthpiece and the musical silence acts as an aural extension of verbal silence she is using to punish her husband.
The dramaturgical relationship between the spoken word and diegetic music extends far beyond events that cue or halt a musical performance. Diegetic music can also be used in the place of dialogic exposition. A term which can be used to describe the process of transference that occurs when a diegetic composition is used as a substitute for dialogue is ‘musical prosody’ (Ross, 2008, 251-3). Prosody is most commonly associated with linguistics and in this context it describes the way vocal intonations, inflections and rhythms can be used to communicate a meaning which is not merely a product of the words used.
Broadly speaking, prosody serves to aid the transmission of linguistic and paralinguistic (emotional and attitudinal) information in a manner that is efficient and appropriate in a given language community.
(Boutsen, 2003, n. pag.)
Boutsen’s definition can be adapted and applied to a particular use of diegetic music in the theatre. In this context, musical prosody functions as a form of language that the character orates through a particular instrument by drawing on established associations between specific words and musical phrases or by imitating verbal inflection. Through this technique the musician can communicate information that both the characters and the audience will duly decipher as being an emotionally indicative dialogic substitute.
The two following examples illustrate how this process was used in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre. In the first extract, taken from The Shaughraun (1874), Boucicault uses two diegetic musical phrases to facilitate a coded communication between the imprisoned hero (Robert) who is on stage and his violin playing friend (Conn) off stage:
Robert: […] (Conn playing outside.) Hark! ‘tis Conn! Do you hear? Poor fellow! he is playing “I’m under your window, darling”.
(Boucicault, 1874, 17)
This device is used again a little later when Conn musically confirms that Robert’s note outlining a daring escape plan has been received and he is willing to provide the assistance his incarcerated friend requires:
Robert: […] (Fiddle outside.) Hush! ‘tis Conn. He has got the letter. Listen- ‘I’ll be faithful and true!’.
(Boucicault, 1874, 17)
In both instances, the music’s meaning and the message it contains is derived from the name of the specific composition that Conn plays. Firstly, Conn lets Robert know that he is close at hand with a rendition of ‘I’m under your window, darling.’ Then Conn confirms the receipt of Robert’s note and affirms that he will do what it instructs by playing ‘I’ll be faithful and true.’ Therefore, although Robert reveals this information to the audience after he has deciphered it, the communicative purpose of Conn’s playing is predominantly verbal rather than musical.
Shaw uses a similar technique in Heartbreak House (1916) when he substitutes speech for a passage of flute music. Part way through Act III Lady Utterword bemoans the fact that Randall (a character who is in love with her despite being Lord Utterword’s brother) is ‘unsatisfactory’ and ‘contemptible’. During Lady Utterword’s critical account of her off-stage brother-in-law she refers to his musical taste and the rules she has set for him:
Lady Utterword: […] He actually plays the flute; but I never let him bring it into my house. If he would only – (she is interrupted by the melancholy strains of a flute coming from an open window above. She raises herself indignantly in the hammock). Randall: you have not gone to bed. Have you been listening? (The flute replies pertly)
[pic]
How vulgar! Go to bed instantly, Randall: how dare you? (The window is slammed down. She subsides.) How can anyone care for such a creature!
(Shaw, 1920, 92)
Shaw ensured that Randall’s musical response to Lady Utterword’s question communicated his intended meaning by including the short transcription shown above in the dramatic text. Although Shaw does not include an instruction establishing the musical tempo within the score itself, the pert reply he calls for indicates that the composition should be performed quickly. As such, Randall’s musical response presents a clear shift in rhythm from the melancholic strains played moments earlier. Furthermore, when the notes Shaw provides are played in quick succession the composition takes on a nursery rhyme like quality as the rhythm and cadence seem simple, familiar and inevitable. The best way of describing this effect is by comparing it with the well-known seven beat trope in which the call for a ‘shave-and-a-haircut’ is responded to by the answer ‘two bits’. This short arrangement is probably most well known as a musical phrase which either signifies the end of a musical performance, or punctuates the punchline to a joke (see fig. 9).
|C G G Aь G | R B C R |[pic] |
|Shave and a hair-cut, two bits. | |
Fig. 9 Shave and a hair-cut, two bits
The difference between this musical phrase and the one provided by Shaw is that the latter finishes without completing the natural sense of closure it seems to lead up to. Or to put it another way, it only provides the ‘two’, but not the ‘bits’. However, this missing piece of musical punctuation that the audience anticipate is actually rhythmically fulfilled when Randall slams the window shut. Therefore, the style and structure of the music as well as the final sound effect, are all communicative signs which aurally convey Randall’s side of the conversation. Although the music Randall plays does not summon a specific ‘lyrical spectre’ (see page 56-9) and thereby call certain words to the minds of those that hear it, the composition’s playful and childlike structure ensures that the reading communicated is not ambiguous. Randall uses the flute to taunt Lady Utterwood with a reply that is best described as a childish shout of ‘ner ner ne ner ner’. Consequently, Randall’s musical response can be described as musical prosody because the musical tone and style he adopts communicates the flautist’s intended meaning without the use of words. The sound of the flute itself also indicates that Randall is wilfully defying Lady Utterword’s rules, as he plays it inside the house even though she has banned him from using the instrument in her own home. Indeed, this disobedience is highlighted by Randall’s initially rebellious musical response when Lady Utterword asks if he has been eavesdropping.
In these instances, the instrument itself acts as a mouthpiece and the sounds it produces articulate the character’s intended meaning. Therefore, both the narrative context and the way a character plays a particular musical phrase provide a form of signification that is as important as the specific composition they select. On the subject of substituting dialogue with music in film Gorbman makes the following observation: ‘[T]he real reason for music is that a piece of film, by its nature, lacks a certain ability to convey emotional overtones. Many times in many films, dialogue may not give a clue to the feelings of a character…’ (Gorbman, 1987, 67). In contrast the theatre has traditionally employed two additional forms of verbal expression to provide emotive exposition that extends beyond dialogue: the soliloquy and the aside. Both these conventions enable characters to directly articulate the inner workings of their mind through speech. Furthermore, these devices allow playwrights to develop dramatic irony by creating a distinction between what the characters say to each other and the actual feelings or intentions they share with the audience alone. However, these theatrical conventions were at odds with the tenets of naturalism because real people do not recite lengthy speeches about themselves when they are alone. Nor do they have the ability to pronounce private opinions in the middle of a conversation without anyone hearing. In addition, both non-diegetic underscoring and the physical performance of prescribed passions, two conventions traditionally used to communicate a character’s emotional state, also conflicted with the new naturalistic approach. Therefore, in place of the old melodramatic acting style which signalled emotional states through established theatrical conventions, the naturalistic approach sought to reflect how people actually behaved in such situations. As such, the audience could interpret these actions based on their experiences in the real world rather than their experiences in the theatre.
Diegetic music also played an important role in the development of this new dramatic language that extended beyond simply placing musicians on the stage so they could recycle established musical conventions from a position within the storyworld. Of course, such musical applications could be formulaic and follow the same conventions associated with non-diegetic underscoring in melodrama. Therefore, if a playwright wanted to indicate that a protagonist was upset the stage directions could specify that they perform a piece of melancholy music in a minor key whereas a happy character would play a more up-beat composition in a major key. However, the connection between diegetic music and emotional signification is by no means limited to such programmatic applications. For instance, when Ibsen uses this technique during Act II of The Wild Duck (1884) the instructions regarding musical style and the narrative context which frames the performance creates a far richer scenario for the audience to interpret.
The first Act concludes with sounds of laughter and noise from the guests at a dinner party being held by the wealthy industrialist Hakon Werle and his son Gregers. This provides a direct contrast to the second Act which opens in the tranquil quiet of an apartment/studio inhabited by the fiscally challenged Hialmar Ekdal and his family. Hialmar’s wife (Gina) is sewing and his daughter (Hedvig) is reading when Hialmar arrives home from the dinner party. This calm domestic milieu is disrupted when Hedvig asks for the food her father said he would bring back from his meal. As Hialmar has forgotten to save anything for his daughter he gives Hedvig a copy of the menu instead. Hedvig’s visible disappointment prompts a defensive response from Hialmar, but his anger is soon replaced by guilt and tears: ‘Here have I been feasting at the rich man’s table, - battening at the groaning board ------! And I couldn’t even -------!’ (Ibsen, 1884, 247). Following this emotional outpouring Hedvig fetches Hialmar his flute and he proceeds to play a piece of music which Ibsen describes in the following extract:
Hialmar: […] With my flute in my hand and you two at my side – ah ------!
(Hedvig seats herself at the table near Gina Hialmar paces backwards and forwards, pipes up vigorously, and plays a Bohemian peasant dance, but in slow plaintive tempo, and with sentimental expression.)
(Breaking off the melody, holds out his left hand to Gina, and says with emotion:) Our roof may be poor and humble, Gina; but it is home. And with all my heart I say: here dwells my happiness.
(He begins to play again…)
(Ibsen, 1884, 247-8)
Unfortunately, there is no record of a specific composition that Ibsen anticipated would be played at this point. Neither are there any historical records or descriptions relating to the music used in the late nineteenth and early twentieth-century English language productions of the play. However, critical responses to separate performances of The Wild Duck provided by Archer and Shaw, alongside a close analysis considering the way Ibsen’s stage direction is phrased, ultimately reveals the semantic function behind this musical interlude.
Archer’s account describing the Independent Theatre Group’s 1894 production focuses on Ibsen’s comic intentions and the extent to which they were brought to life by the portrayal of Hialmar. The critic’s article (entitled ‘The Humour of The Wild Duck’) was prompted by Clement Scott’s review for the Daily Telegraph which claimed that the audience ‘roared with laughter at the scenes intended to be serious’ particularly during moments featuring the ‘silly vapourings of the self-conscious photographer [Hialmar]’ (Scott, 1894, 317-8). As a response to Scott’s critical description of the play Archer published the following plea: ‘I would beg playgoers to take heart of grace and believe that when Ibsen draws a comic character he intends him to be laughed at’ (Archer, 1897, 151). What both accounts have in common is the identification of Hialmar as a comedic character; although one interprets this as an oversight on Ibsen’s behalf and the other outlines the dramatic purpose behind the humour. Despite the frequently foolish behaviour and thoughtless comments of the central character, this play cannot be categorised as a comedy considering the themes it tackles and the events that take place during the final scene (in which the misguided Hedvig shoots herself to prove how much she loves her father). Indeed, it is this combination of humour and tragic content that Shaw refers to when he describes his experience watching the Independent Theatre’s 1897 revival: ‘To sit there getting deeper and deeper into the Ekdal home …to look on with horror and pity at a profound tragedy, shaking with laughter all the time at an irresistible comedy’ (Shaw, 1897, 138). With this statement Shaw describes the way Ibsen juxtaposes two emotionally opposed types of dramatic content to produce an overall effect that is essentially tragicomic; a conclusion that has been explored further in numerous academic publications (see Guthke, 1966, 144; Marker and Marker, 1989, 127; Foster, 2003, 27). Furthermore, if this interpretation is considered in relation to the instructions Ibsen gives regarding the flute music then the function the diegetic accompaniment serves and the overall reading to which it contributes becomes clear.
Initially it may seem that the stage directions contained in the dramatic text contradict one another. On the one hand Hialmar ‘vigorously’ plays a ‘bohemian folk dance’, which suggests that the music should be a lively polka of some description (Randel, 1969, 668-7). However, the instructions also state that what Hialmar performs has a slow tempo and a mournful tone; two characteristics rarely associated with either the polka or an energetic performance. Nevertheless, this seeming disparity is not a mistake or an oversight. One reading produced by Hialmar’s mismatch of musical form and tempo is that he simply gets it wrong and in this context the mistake highlights the character’s unwarranted belief in himself as an artist. An additional and more interesting interpretation is that Ibsen purposefully warps a well-known musical style in order to imbue Hialmar’s performance with an emotional resonance that is both comedic and melancholic.
Retarding the rhythm of an up-beat composition usually causes it to take on the emotional qualities associated with slower music. Therefore, by drastically reducing the polka’s tempo Ibsen subverts conventional musical associations and creates a form of structural counterpoint within the composition itself. Or to put it another way, the tune Hialmar plays is party music played as if it were a melancholic elegy. Furthermore, this musical performance also contradicts the dialogic sentiment expressed by the character. For instance, although Hialmar holds out his hand to Gina and states ‘here dwells my happiness’ (Ibsen, 1884, 248) the music he performs gives the opposite impression. Consequently, this scene infers that even when Hialmar tries to be positive and make those around him happy, his outlook and nature is so pessimistic and morose he actually turns up-beat music into a depressing dirge. As such, this clash between musical style and the protagonist’s personality produces a dramatic moment that is simultaneously tragic and comic. From this perspective, the conventional construction of a traditional musical form has been subverted by the player’s personality and mood and it is this ironic conflict between form and delivery, intention and reality, confidence and ability, and ultimately the tragic and the comic that the audience draw meaning from.
In Ibsen’s later play Hedda Gabler (1890), the titular character performs two musical segments on a piano. The play begins with the arrival of two newlyweds (Hedda Gabler and George Tesman) who have returned to their hometown following a six-month honeymoon. Thinking that it would please his wife, Tesman previously purchased the former home of a cabinet minister for them to live in and while the couple have been away it has been furnished with their belongings. However, the only items in the house that belong to Hedda are an old piano, a portrait of her father (General Gabler) and his pistols. During the first Act, Hedda makes the following reference to the instrument after Tesman asks her if something is bothering her:
Tesman: (After a pause) Is there anything the matter with you, Hedda? Eh?
Hedda: I’m only looking at my old piano. It doesn’t go at all well with all these other things.
Tesman: The first time I draw my salary, we’ll see about exchanging it.
Hedda: No, no – no exchanging. I don’t want to part with it. Suppose we put it there in the inner room, and then get another here in its place. When it’s convenient I mean.
Tesman: (A little taken aback) Yes – of course we could do that.
(Ibsen, 1890a, 15)
Since arriving on stage, Hedda has already displayed annoyance that the maid opened the veranda door, expressed irritation when she notices someone’s bonnet left on a chair, and been characteristically dismissive of Tesman’s sentimental attachment to the slippers his sick Aunt embroidered for him. In this context, Hedda’s comment regarding the piano does not appear to be a straightforward statement of aesthetic opinion. Instead, it is interpreted as another thinly disguised criticism which can be added to her growing list of complaints.
Hedda’s reference to the piano also holds a deeper significance because it is one of the few objects she has retained from her past. The piano, the pistols and the portrait are directly interlinked with Hedda’s personal history and this facet elevates their presence from mere stage furnishings to symbolic emblems which represent her former life. Therefore, Hedda’s observation that her piano does not fit into these new surroundings is in some ways a simultaneous admission that she does not either. Hedda’s retort essentially creates a direct analogy between the protagonist’s own sense of dislocation from her new home, and the piano’s incongruous appearance in these surroundings. This reading is developed further when Hedda instructs Tesman that the instrument should not be exchanged, but moved into an inner room and a new piano purchased to fill the position it currently occupies in the drawing room. The sub-text behind this direction is that Hedda intends to publicly fulfil the role of Mrs. Tesman, but retain her own identity in private settings; she is after all as Ibsen explained ‘her father's daughter [rather] than her husband's wife’ (Ibsen, 1890, 435). This analogical connection between Hedda’s feelings of displacement and the piano’s position within the mise-en-scène is further highlighted by an alteration to the set that takes place between the first and second Acts: ‘The room at the Tesman’s as in the 1st Act, except that the piano has been removed away and an elegant little writing table with bookshelves put in its place…’ (Ibsen, 1890b, 1). On this occasion the change in status represented by the piano’s relegation from an on-stage feature to a room off stage is symbolically aligned with Hedda’s own feelings of demotion, marginalisation and her personal withdrawal from the family she has become bound to.
During Act I Hedda is visited by an old school friend (Mrs. Elvsted) who has left her husband to pursue the man she has fallen in love with; a recovering alcoholic and writer by the name of Eilert Lovborg. Unbeknownst to Mrs. Elvsted the man she is seeking was once an ardent admirer of Hedda and although their relationship was not sexual the audience are given the impression they shared intimate and personal experiences. Since Hedda last saw Lovborg he has stopped drinking, recently published a popular book, and completed a new manuscript which Mrs. Elvsted transcribed for him. However, by the end of the second Act Hedda has manipulated Lovborg into drinking alcohol and convinced him to attend a party being held at Judge Brack’s that evening. At the beginning of the following Act Tesman returns home after the party and tells Hedda that Lovborg got extremely drunk and lost his manuscript. Tesman then produces the document and explains that he found it on the roadside. However, before he is able to return it a letter arrives informing him that his Aunt Rina is dying. While Tesman is visiting his Aunt, Lovborg arrives and despairingly explains to Hedda that he has lost his manuscript. Rather than returning his work Hedda gives Lovborg one of her pistols and encourages him to kill himself. Hedda also makes Lovborg promise that his suicide will be carried out ‘beautifully’; an instruction which she repeats three times. Then after Lovborg has left Hedda burns the manuscript.
Throughout the first three acts the piano has remained silent and it is not until the opening of the fourth act that Hedda plays the instrument:
The same room at the Tesmans’. It is evening. The drawing room is in darkness. The back room is lighted by the hanging lamp over the table. The curtains over the glass door are drawn close. Hedda, dressed in black, walks to and fro in the dark room. Then she goes into the back room and disappears for a moment to the left side. She is heard to strike a few chords on the piano. Presently she comes in sight again and returns to the drawing room.
(Ibsen, 1890d, 1)
Because the piano was both present on stage and the subject of discussion in first Act, the audience will instantly perceive that the music is diegetic. However, as Ibsen neglects to designate a specific composition, style, or set of chords in the stage directions it is inevitable that Hedda’s short musical performance will vary between productions. Furthermore, neither Elizabeth Robins’ nor Mrs. Pat’s promptbooks from the 1891 and 1907 British productions in which they respectively played Hedda contain any additional annotations regarding the piano music. Nonetheless, if the broad compositional approaches which could have been adopted are considered in relation to narrative context and the musician’s current emotional state, the semantic effect of these different tempos, keys and sequences can be identified.
For example, the reason behind the lack of light and Hedda’s attire is explained when Tesman’s Aunt enters and establishes that her sister has died: ‘Yes Hedda, here I am in mourning and forlorn: for now my poor sister has at last found peace’ (Ibsen, 1890d, 1). This exposition leads the audience to connect Hedda’s musical interjection at the beginning of the scene with the new piece of narrative information that has just been revealed. Consequently, the music is turned into a sign which indicates Hedda’s emotional response to the bereavement. Therefore, if the chord sequence had been in a minor key and played at a slow tempo the plaintive music would consonantly underscore the visual atmosphere created on stage and infer that Hedda has been moved by this loss of life. However, such an empathetic display is not concurrent with the other facets of Hedda’s personality that have been established during the previous Acts. Moreover, because Hedda’s past behaviour has betrayed her obvious dislike of Tesman’s family, the idea that she is touched directly by his Aunt’s death, or that she feels sympathy for those grieving seems entirely atypical. The opposite possibility is that Hedda plays a lively string of chords in a major key. Indeed, a short up-beat composition would clash with the stage milieu and the sad news about Tesman’s Aunt thereby creating a kind of pre-emptive aural counterpoint entirely in keeping with Hedda’s behaviour during the last three Acts. In this context, the music Hedda plays would illustrate her emotional detachment from the family she has married into.
This interpretation of Ibsen’s musical instructions is further justified by the physical stage directions that accompany them. These prescribed actions conflict with how the audience would expect someone to behave if they were grieving the death of a family member. Hedda is not upset, emotional, in shock or sitting still; instead she paces around for a while and then wanders into an inner room and plays the piano. However, rather than reciting a full piece of music, she merely strikes a few chords and then stops. This apathetic action indicates that she becomes disinterested in playing the piano after only a few moments. Such despondency physically and musically exemplifies Hedda’s earlier description of herself:
Hedda: …I often think there is only one thing in the world I have any turn for.
Brack: (Drawing near to her) And what is that, if I may ask?
Hedda: (stands looking out) For boring myself to death.
(Ibsen, 1890b, 13)
Indeed, it is Hedda’s propensity towards boredom that drives the play’s narrative as she alleviates this monotony by manipulating other characters and thereby becomes the architect of her own downfall. As such, Hedda’s seemingly blasé statement becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy at the end of the play when she commits suicide just after performing a ‘wild dance’ on the piano (Ibsen, 1890d, 20-1). This relationship between Hedda’s disposition and her instrument is perfectly summed up by Finkle in the following description: ‘Hedda's piano playing -- something she does to kill time, right up to the moment before she kills herself -- becomes an emblem of tedium.’ (Finkle, 2004, n. pag.)
There is, however, an alternative reading of the significance attached to the first musical cue in the play which draws meaning from the instrument’s role as a symbolic signifier associated with Hedda’s former life and her relationship with Lovborg. In the closing moments of Act III Lovborg exits with Hedda’s pistol after she has encouraged him to commit suicide before secretly destroying his manuscript. As nothing occurs on stage in-between these events and the following Act, the audience are primed and waiting to discover the outcome of what went before: did Lovborg shoot himself, is he dead, has Hedda’s destructive deed been discovered? It is with these questions in mind that the initial significance of Hedda’s attire, pacing, and piano playing are viewed. Indeed, when Act III finishes the death or survival of Tesman’s Aunt is the only loose end Ibsen leaves untied that the audience do not care about. The pause between the two Acts builds suspense which is primarily focused on whether or not Lovborg has followed Hedda’s instructions, and it is with this central consideration in mind that the audience will interpret the character’s physical and musical actions. Therefore, when the fourth Act begins the audience are waiting to discover the outcome of Lovborg’s potential suicide attempt and it appears from her distracted behaviour that Hedda shares the same fixation. However, while the audience wonder whether Lovborg is alive or dead, Hedda’s anticipation is more complex.
Hedda’s repeated requests for Lovborg to kill himself ‘beautifully’ indicates that she is more concerned that the suicide is carried out in accordance with her warped personal fantasy, rather than actually considering the reality of his death. As such, Hedda’s obsessive fixation and her corresponding expectations reveal another possible function of the music. From this perspective, if the chord sequence Hedda plays emulates the stylistic traits of romanticism associated with the grand death scenes featured in opera for instance, then the music would aurally illustrate the idealised self-sacrifice she envisages. Or to put it another way, Hedda’s brief musical performance would be transformed into a consonant accompaniment which matches her personal vision of the heroic demise she orchestrated.
The information Hedda and the audience have been waiting for is finally revealed when Judge Brack enters and informs the Tesmans and Mrs. Elvsted that Lovborg has committed suicide. Hedda’s immediate concern is that Lovborg shot himself in the chest rather than the temple. However, after reconfiguring her mental picture of Lovborg’s dying moments she is content that a shot to ‘the breast is a good place, too’ (Ibsen, 1890d, 11). Tesman and Mrs. Elvsted respond to the news by gathering the surviving notes from Lovborg’s lost book so they can re-write it. While they are otherwise occupied Judge Brack privately reveals the actual circumstances of Lovborg’s death to Hedda. Brack informs Hedda that the pistol went off inside Lovborg’s breast pocket and consequently he died from gunshot to the stomach. (Archer uses the word ‘bowels’, however this has been scribbled out and changed to ‘stomach’ in the promptbook. It is also worth noting that in the original Norwegian version Ibsen used the word ‘underlivet’ which actually means ‘sexual organs’.) The whole debacle is far from the beautiful and brave act Hedda had hoped for and she immediately responds by lamenting her own misfortune: ‘What curse is it that makes everything I touch turn ludicrous and mean’ (ibid., 16). Brack then makes it clear that he knows the pistol in Lovborg’s pocket belongs to Hedda. Furthermore, he insinuates that she can avoid this becoming public knowledge if the two of them come to some kind of mutual understanding; a proposal which both Hedda and the audience interpret as meaning a sexual affair. At this point Hedda exits into the back room where her piano is kept and draws the curtains:
Hedda: …I am tired this evening. I will go in and lie down a little on the sofa.
Tesman: Yes do, dear - sh?
(Hedda goes into the back room and draws the curtains. A short pause. Suddenly she is heard playing a wild dance on the piano.)
Mrs. E: (starts from chair) Oh – what is that?
Tesman: (Runs to the doorway) Why, my dearest Hedda – don’t play dance-music to-night! Just think of Aunt Rina! And of Eilhert too!
Hedda: (Puts her head out between the curtains) And of Aunt Julia. And of all the rest of them. – After this, I will be quiet. (Closes the curtains again.)
(Ibsen, 1890d, 20-1)
Moments later a shot is fired and Tesman pulls back the curtains to discover Hedda lying ‘stretched on the sofa’ after having ‘[S]hot herself in the temple’ (ibid. 21).
Once again Ibsen only supplies guidelines as to what piece of music should be played at this moment. Furthermore, there are no annotations regarding the music in the aforementioned promptbooks and none of the reviews relating to the 1891 or 1907 productions mention the piano either. For the most part, contemporary British critics were united in both their disapproval of the play and their admiration for the actresses that played the title role. The review that appeared in The Times focused mainly on Hedda’s behaviour and from her actions the reviewer determined that Ibsen’s play was actually a study of insanity:
[Hedda Gabler]…is really a demonstration of the pathology of mind, such as may be found in the pages of the Journal of Mental Science, or in the reports of the medical superintendents of lunatic asylums. The author is satisfied with bringing Hedda Gabler's insanity very plainly before us. It is suggested in her inconsequent actions, in her callous behaviour, in her aimless persecution of all around her, and it is finally proved by her motive-less suicide…There is no reasoning as to a lunatic's behaviour; and Hedda Gabler is manifestly a lunatic of the epileptic class, among whom callousness to the sufferings of others and indifference to their own fate are frequently observed.
(The Times, April 21, 1891)
Judging from the views expressed in this review it seems probable that Hedda’s up-beat musical prelude to her own suicide would have been regarded as simply another indication of her mental instability. Indeed, Hedda’s ‘wild dance music’ is certainly an unconventional choice of arrangement for someone to play moments before committing suicide. However, the ideas and analysis put forward in this section regarding Hedda’s obsessive desire for an exquisitely carried out suicide (a yearning which admittedly supports the notion that she is mentally disturbed) suggests that her strange behaviour is not simply the result of a fevered mind. Hedda does not leave the stage just to kill herself. Instead, she exits with the intention of carrying out the ‘beautiful’ suicide Lovborg failed to provide. From this perspective, Hedda uses the piano to manufacture a personalised musical backdrop as a means of introducing and setting the tone for her final Act which reaches its crescendo when she shoots herself in the temple. Indeed, the significance of this action would be substantially amplified if Hedda’s up-beat eulogy incorporated the same chord sequence she played earlier in the Act (a repetition that would also give the music intra-contextual meaning).
Further support for this interpretation can be drawn from two contemporary accounts of the play. In Desmond MacCarthy’s review of the 1907 production the critic observes that Hedda ‘is a kind of inarticulate playwright… who gratifies at once a longing for power and a love of excitement by using human beings as puppets’ (1907, 42-3). An earlier review, this time discussing the 1891 production, accuses Ibsen of clumsily incorporating clichéd stage devices. The reviewer’s criticism revolves around Ibsen’s inclusion of ‘Hedda’s melodramatic pistols’ and it is to these props that the following comment relates: ‘we recognise in them nothing more than a modernized survival of the violent expedients whereby many an old world playwright of no philosophical or didactic pretension whatever has deliberately set about his flesh-creeping task’ (Observer, 26th April, 1891, 6). However, if these criticisms are reconsidered and connected with the idea put forward in the previous review that Hedda is an ‘inarticulate playwright’, then it is not Ibsen, but his creation which displays this predilection for melodramatic devices. Therefore, from Hedda’s perspective the pistols are not weapons; they are the key theatrical props upon which her ‘old world’ drama relies. Consequently, when the character Hedda has cast as the tragic hero does not die in the manner she intended, the playwright is forced to take up the role herself. As such, when Hedda plays the piano at the end of the play, although the music is diegetic, from her distorted perspective it is the non-diegetic accompaniment she has chosen to underscore the final theatrical moments in a drama she created. If all these factors are taken into consideration, Hedda’s piano playing becomes a sign which is interconnected with various aspects of the character’s disposition that have been established and developed during the play. These include her low boredom threshold, her disregard for the feelings of others, her former life as General Gabler’s daughter, and her attempts to shape reality so it corresponds with her own warped fantasies.
The analysis carried out in this section has shown that musical signification takes on a new dimension when an instrument is placed in the hands of a protagonist. On one level, the physical act of playing becomes semantically charged and the audience draw meaning from the musician’s bodily movements, the effect the activity has on proxemics as well as any intra-textual qualities that have been attributed to the instrument. Then there is the manner in which the music is performed. With regard to Paula, the skill and training of the actress that played her indicated the character’s upbringing. Whereas Hialmar’s peculiar combination of rhythm and style, and Hedda’s eccentric musical response to dramatic events highlighted certain personality defects. In addition, the actual compositions the characters play and when they choose to play them provides a form of signification that is designed to be either transparent or ambiguous. For instance, Randall’s response when Lady Utterword tells him off, Conn’s recital of recognisable melodies, and even Paula’s decision to interrupt her own piano playing are all communicative acts. However, although they use diegetic music (or its cessation) in the place of dialogue, the meaning communicated is completely clear. In contrast, when Hialmar and Hedda play their respective instruments the musical contribution they provide initiates a variety of questions due to its apparent unconventionality.
Although some theories outlined in this section are unverifiable because precise records of what was actually played are not available, the analysis and discussion undertaken reveal two key facts about diegetic music’s dramaturgical facets. Firstly, there is a semantic connection between the diegetic music a character plays, how they perform it, and the narrative context which frames the activity, that provides a form of wordless exposition. Secondly, although this associative rendering can be used as a way of communicating explicit readings that clearly articulate a character’s intended meaning, the link between composition, performance and circumstance also has the potential to subtly (and sometimes ambiguously) create complex analogies and implicit connections without substantiating any specific meaning through dialogue.
4. D. Inter and Intra-textual meanings
In the previous section the terms ‘musical physiognomy’ and ‘musical prosody’ were used to describe the process of signification initiated when a protagonist provides diegetic music. Although both these approaches draw meaning from the musical conventions adopted, the dramatic significance of a protagonist’s recital is also intimately attached to the visual signs that accompany the activity and narrative context which frames it. From this perspective, the signification system employed is primarily intra-textual because meaning is developed within the narrative itself. Another observation which applies to most of the examples discussed in the previous section is that the extra-dialogic stage directions cited do not request a particular composition. Instead, the majority of them merely cue the music and indicate a particular style or approach. Therefore, the following section will focus on the how this predominantly intra-textual mode of musical signification changes when a composition with specific inter-textual connections is given diegetic status.
There are two main viewpoints that have developed within film music theory regarding the use of pre-popularised musical material which already carries its own cultural connotations. From one perspective, the practice is seen as being somewhat problematic. This is because the music is already imbued with particular meanings that are autonomous and often override any attempts at initiating a new interpretation. Therefore, the filmmaker does not have independent control over the external associations the music may invite. Indeed, the precise meaning these musical references evoke for individual spectators will depend on their familiarity with the particular compositions used. This problem is explained by Manvell and Huntley in the following way: ‘[T]he chief disadvantage is that it [pre-popularised music] has an artistic vitality independent of the film. Its familiarity to the public has already made it into a breeding-ground for emotional responses which may or may not help the particular atmosphere or situation in the film’ (1975, 75). In this statement Manvell and Huntley briefly touch upon the idea that the associations pre-existing music creates can be regarded as either a positive or negative characteristic. On the one hand, there are concerns that importing musical material will infect the purity of the signification process because it carries an external semantic charge which inevitably influences the meaning imparted by the film’s indigenous original elements. For example, if a protagonist plays a piece of well-known music then the audience’s previous associations with that particular composition will to some degree colour how they view the character that performs it. However, this semiotic facet is not necessarily problematic, in fact for some practitioners the meanings connected with pieces of previously released music are actually communicative assets that can be intentionally employed to influence, expand and challenge the way certain characters are perceived. Weis provides a good description of this process in The Silent Scream and proposes that pre-existing compositions can be used to ‘manipulate the audience’s familiarity with and expectations about popular music as a way of defining character and controlling our responses without having to introduce any extraneous element’ (1985, 300). Although Weis’ publication focuses exclusively on the work of Alfred Hitchcock the technique she describes was also used in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre. As such, the potential effects Weis sets out provide the semiotic criteria against which the examples analysed in this section can be assessed.
In Jones’ play The Dancing Girl (1891) the popular hymn ‘Old Hundred’ (also known as Old Hundreth) is played on two occasions. The tune is first heard during Act I just after Guisebury has vowed to save Endellion and its inhabitants by funding the building of a breakwater. Mrs. Leddra (one of Endellion’s residents) thanks the Duke ‘hysterically’ for having ‘saved my husbands life’ (Jones, 1891, 38), however her praise and thanks is met with cynicism:
Guise: (Very much amused) Midge. I’ve saved a man’s life!
(Harmonium in meeting house R. “Old Hundred.”)
(Jones, 1891, 38)
The inter-textual significance of this tune is directly connected to the composition’s historical roots. Prior to the sixteenth-century protestant reformation singing hymns was not an inclusive part of worship. Instead, psalms were performed in Latin by choirs consisting of monks and priests. John Calvin sought to change this practice by translating the psalms into vernacalur languages and providing ‘a distinct tune for every psalm, so that each psalm would have its own identity [and] …[E]very tune would then bring to mind a particular psalm’ (Brink, 1998, 31-2). This project led to the publication and circualtion of Pseaumes Octante Trois de David in 1551 (also known as the Genevan Psalter). The book contained a musical arrangement for each psalm and the corresponding words had been tranlsated into a type of vernacluar poetry which rhymed and followed a metrical structure. It is in this publication that the tune which would later become known as ‘Old Hundred’ first appears as the musical accompaniment for Psalm 134. However, as the Genevian Psalter had been written in French another version needed to be produced for the English-speaking church. Therefore, ten years later The Whole Book of Psalms or the Anglo-Genevan Psalter (1561) was published and it was in this collection that William Kethe’s metrical adaptation of Psalm 100 became matched with the tune originally composed to accompany Psalm 134 (see Westermeyer, 2005, 96). Over the centuries the Anglo-Genevan Psalter has been replaced by song books which are filled with new original hymns, rather than vernacular translations of psalms. However, ‘Old Hundred’ was one of the few metrical psalters to survive this transition and it has remained in common usage since the sixteenth century. Moreover, the fact that the musical composition and numerical position of the psalm it is associated with have become fused together and entered into common language bears witness to its popularity and reputation for being: ‘one of the best-known tunes in the church’ (ibid.).
This brief discussion outlining the historical development of ‘Old Hundred’ reveals the composition’s core semiotic value. Certainly the rendition of any hymn carries religious associations and ‘Old Hundred’ is no exception to the rule, however the composition’s heritage and popularity do have a bearing on the reading it produces. Firstly, the composition carries the weight of tradition; not only is it directly connected to the protestant reformation, but the words which are associated with the tune are taken from the Bible. Indeed, the prefix before the psalm’s numerical position is a reference to the fact that it is taken from the ‘Old Version’ of English hymns. Although the composition itself was not specifically mentioned in any contemporary reviews of The Dancing Girl, the theatre critic for The Times did comment upon the play’s distinctly religious flavour and observe that the playwright invoked Puritanism ‘as an element of drama’ (1891, 3). In addition, the critic also noted the apparent disparity between the characters' conduct and the religious context against which these actions were set:
…in The Dancing Girl Quakerism is made to serve as background for a story of fashionable libertinage and cynicism, carrying with it nevertheless a moral which the pulpit itself would not disdain to inculcate- namely, that though there may be many systems of morals, there is but one truth…
(The Times, 1891, 3)
The development of this religious background serves two key dramatic purposes. Firstly, it is a source of conflict both between and within protagonists. Therefore, in addition to the expected clashes between religious and non-religious characters, the consciences of individual protagonists are also a battle ground for ethical issues. Secondly, it provides the play with a moralistic and didactic framework which encourages the audience to base their interpretation of the events and behaviour displayed on whether certain religious principles have been adhered to or subverted. As such, the signs which are used to create this religious environment are of great importance. The ‘Quaker Style’ costumes make a visual contribution, verbal references to religious practice introduce this theme through dialogue, and the rendition of a hymn creates a suitably reverent aural atmosphere. Furthermore, ‘Old Hundred’ is a composition that carries associations with protestant worship, religious traditions and moral values; all of which are principles that will be rejected by Drusilla (the lead female protagonist and former Endellion resident) and discovered by Guisebury (the lead male protagonist and owner of Endellion) during the play. Another factor to consider is that Jones specifically selected a composition the audience would instantly recognise, rather than incorporating an original arrangement which emulated church music or requesting the performance of a less well-known hymn. By making this choice Jones not only guarantees that the musical sign and the religiosity it signifies are semantically clear, he also ensures the reference itself is memorable; an aspect which will be particularly important when the tune is repeated later in the play.
The other two instructions contained in Jones’ short stage direction indicate where the music is coming from and the instrument on which it is played. From the diagram overleaf (Fig. 10) detailing the original set design used for the first production of The Dancing Girl it is apparent that the meeting house Jones refers to was a location on stage (Jones, 1891, 8). Prior to ‘Old Hundred’ being played there has been a steady stream of characters, many of whom are dressed in ‘Quaker Fashion’, crossing the stage and entering the meeting house thereby visually establishing the building’s presence and religious significance. This general gravitation towards the meeting house brings the location to the audience’s attention and in doing so guarantees that the acousmatic music which will later emanate from it is perceived as being diegetic. In addition, Drusilla has assisted the hymn’s pre-emptive naturalisation by dialogically establishing that it is the Sabbath and referencing the distinctive instrument which accompanies the religious services on Endellion (‘I could not live in an island where they play harmoniums on Sunday afternoon’, ibid., 15).
[pic]
Fig. 10 The Dancing Girl Act I stage plan (Jones, 1891, 8)
Jones’ instruction that ‘Old Hundred’ should be played on a harmonium also creates an inter-textual connection between the use of this instrument in the real world and its role within the storyworld. Because the harmonium had a similar timbre to a traditional pipe organ, but was significantly smaller and cheaper, the instrument proved extremely popular with small churches and chapels in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century (see Doktorski, 1998). In his account of the harmonium’s historical and cultural development Ord-Hume makes reference to its acceptance as a religious instrument during this period and notes that, ‘there was a certain added benefit in owning a religious instrument which could be used to play religious music with some of the timbre of the chapel organ. Indeed, ownership of a harmonium could be justified to the piano-conscious snob on the grounds of it being a devotional instrument’ (1996, 86).
If Ord-Hume’s findings are applied to the first rendition of ‘Old Hundred’ that occurs in the The Dancing Girl it becomes clear that the harmonium’s distinctive timbre also acted as an important aural signifier. Firstly, the sound would have reflected the religious roots of the composition by providing a sonic quality readily associated with Christian liturgy. Secondly, the installation of a harmonium in a small religious meeting house emulated reality and thereby reinforced verisimilitude. Thirdly, the fact that the harmonium was a cheap alternative to more expensive ‘devotional instruments’ underlined the island’s inhabitants financial struggles. (Although the third reading does not necessarily reflect the audience’s primary response to the sound of a harmonium, it is nonetheless worth noting that their economic problems would be somewhat contradicted if the music were played on a grand piano.) Finally, there is the reaction the instrument provokes from Drusilla who expresses her dislike for the island as being partly linked to the ‘epidemic of harmoniums’ on Endellion (Jones, 1891, 43 and 15). Indeed, to use Ord-Hume’s terminology Drusilla is clearly a ‘piano-conscious snob’ (1996, 86). These four readings and the different semantic connections they give rise to employ a variety of signification systems. For instance, the first three readings are primarily inter-textual and referential as they draw on existing conventions which support the realistic rendering of the storyworld. However, Drusilla’s remarks regarding the instrument, the composition and the island’s inhabitants introduce the audience to a key aspect of her character and lay the groundwork for an intra-textual reference which will be developed later in the play.
The music also affects how the audience interpret the events it accompanies. Firstly, because this well-known religious tune follows Guisebury’s ‘amused’ response to the sincere thanks he receives from the islanders after promising them a breakwater, the accompaniment has a somewhat ironic connotation. Essentially the music momentarily casts Guisebury in the role of a conscientious and moral benefactor, rather than a neglectful and wasteful landlord, because the acousmatic accompaniment imitates non-diegetic musical conventions and empathetically underscores the protagonist’s pledge as if it were an epiphany. Secondly, the manner in which ‘Old Hundred’ is introduced and the function it serves also creates a direct connection between the composition and the residents of Endellion. Not only does this piece of music provide a melodious response to Guisebury’s announcement that he will save the Endellion from complete erosion and submersion, it also emanates from the island’s chapel and summons the community to prayer. As such, an intra-textual link between the composition and the location is established.
In this example, the broad meaning of the music stems from pre-existing associations, but its specific significance is developed inside the storyworld. Therefore, the music’s communicative potential is not pre-ordained by the composition’s cultural history. Instead, these inter-textual connections provide the dramatist with raw semantic material that can be adapted and developed to create new readings in alternative contexts. The meanings that are created through this process will be shaped by the thematic similarities (or differences) that connect (or challenge) pre-existing musical associations and the situations, events, behaviour and dialogue presented on stage. Furthermore, the different types of meaning produced by inter-textual and intra-textual references can be used in unison to produce a complex aural signifier that utilises existing meanings already associated with a composition as a starting point from which more complex, or even alternative readings, can be created within the narrative itself.
Two years pass between Guisebury’s promise in Act I and the opening of Act II. During this period Drusilla has returned to London with Guisebury and broken all ties with her family. However, this decision has prompted her father and sister (Faith) to leave the island and search for her. In addition, despite Guisebury’s assurances that he would finance the building of a breakwater, the construction work has still not begun. The Act itself takes place in Drusilla’s London boudoir (see Fig. 11 overleaf, Jones, 1891, 47) and opens with the arrival of John Christison:
[pic]
Fig. 11 The Dancing Girl Act II stage plan (Jones, 1891, 47)
During Act I, John was employed by Guisebury to oversee the building of the breakwater and since making this arrangement he has been living in London and receiving a wage from Guisebury. Nonetheless, the fact that his employer appears to have no intention of ever beginning the project has finally proven too much for John’s Christian conscience. Consequently, John informs Drusilla that he is returning to Endellion with the intention of completing the building work himself:
John: I’ve taken the money, and I’ve not done one hour’s work for it. I’ve
lied to my dead father! I’ve broken my promise to him!
Drusilla: (Playing piano softly) You mean you haven’t kept it at present.
There’s plenty of time.
John: Yes-there’s plenty of time to repent-hereafter!
Drusilla: Friend John, you are very foolish – why should you trouble
yourself? (Plays a brilliant passage, stops, turns on music stool.)
Tell me about my father and Faith.
John: They are terribly distressed because they cannot find you. Your
Father seems broken-hearted.
Drusilla: Why couldn’t they stay at Endellion! The climate and the meeting-
house suited them so well!
(Plays sad strain softly. Plays ‘Old Hundred’)
(Comes up to him, puts her hand on his shoulder, caressingly.)
Friend John, I want you to do me a little favour
John: What?
Drusilla: Persuade them there has been some mistake, and get them quietly
back to Endellion.
(Jones, 1891, 50-1)
Throughout this brief exchange, Drusilla provides diegetic underscoring which reflects the protagonist’s personality and exposes her inner thoughts to the audience. The fact that Drusilla begins playing the piano in the middle of a conversation with a very distressed friend encapsulates the character’s selfish and flippant nature. Furthermore, the furniture arrangement shown in Fig. 11 indicates that the piano was pushed up against the left wall of the box set and therefore when Drusilla plays the instrument she both literally and metaphorically turns her back on John.
Another important factor is the way the musical accompaniment develops alongside the dialogue and action. At first Drusilla plays ‘softly’ and thereby provides an anempathetic accompaniment to John’s flurry of self-deprecating exclamations as well as signalling her emotional distance and disinterest. The emotional gulf between the two characters is shown to be even greater in the next exchange. John cites a well-known puritan principle that has been published and preached in a number of forms. A good example of this religious standard was recorded by the nineteenth-century theological writer David Clarkson who described and countered a ‘common’ excuse given by people that were too busy for repentance: ‘I will repent hereafter, it is time enough; I am so full of business I cannot attend it now’ (Clarkson, 1864, 57). However, while John turns to religious dogma Drusilla responds by calling him foolish and performing a ‘brilliant passage’ on the piano. This musical counterpoint gives rise to a number of readings. For instance, Drusilla may simply be more interested in playing the piano than listening to John’s moralising. Alternatively, the character could be mocking John’s puritan beliefs with an ostentatious display of musical talent. Another interpretation is that Drusilla uses the music to emotionally distance herself from the feelings stirred up by John’s references to Endellion and the religion she once practised. Indeed, the contrast between John’s dialogue and the musical material produced by Drusilla creates a dramatic situation which simultaneously gives rise to all these interpretations.
Immediately after playing this ‘brilliant passage’ of piano music Drusilla’s demeanour suddenly softens and she turns away from the instrument to face John and ask about her family. When John informs Drusilla that they are ‘distressed’ and ‘broken-hearted’, rather than expressing any regret or sensitivity she adopts an aggressively defensive stance and turns back to the piano. However, while Drusilla’s words are steeped in anger and resentment the music she begins to play at this point highlights the tender emotions lying beneath. While the ‘sad strain’ sets the elegiac tone, the rendition of ‘Old Hundred’ acts as motif which provides a non-verbal, intra-contextual link to Endellion, the meeting-house and her family. With this musical prompt the audience recollect the readings created when ‘Old Hundred’ was played in the first Act; religious piety (based on the choice of composition and the instrument it was performed on), anthemic status (the symbolic link between Endellion and ‘Old Hundred’), and an earnest oath (Guisebury’s promise to fix the breakwater). The audience may also recall Drusilla’s dislike for harmoniums and equally contemptuous attitude towards the residents of her former island home. In this new context, the hymn’s religious associations are no longer the semantic focus. Instead, an alternative reading is produced based on these reminiscences and the music’s intra-contextual connections with a particular character and location. Though the communication of this new reading is still dependent upon its earlier application, the musical repetition acts as multi-purpose motif that coheres to, but does not converge with, the readings it produces. Put simply, the music lets the audience know where Drusilla’s thoughts are.
The ‘Old Hundred’ melody is performed once again a little later in the scene when Drusilla exits:
John: …Oh, I’m lost anyhow.
Drusilla: Yes, friend John, we are lost! (Laughing merrily) But never mind we
shall be in very good company!
(Exit humming “Old Hundred,” L. Door.)
(Jones, 1891, 51)
Drusilla’s final rendition of the melody fits neatly with the opinion that she orates. Thus, while Drusilla’s dialogue and laughter establishes that she is unconcerned about being ‘lost’, the ‘Old Hundred’ motif cites the alternative; return to her home, family and religion. The clear emotional difference between this casually hummed version and the ‘sad strains’ of the previous rendition also indicates that Drusilla has exorcised any thoughts she may have had about going back to her former life.
The short bursts of diegetic music in this scene are essentially naturalistic asides which allow Drusilla to subtly intimate, rather than directly orate, her emotional unrest. Consequently, the music that Drusilla plays offers a more direct insight into her thoughts and feelings than the words she speaks. In addition, the repetition of ‘Old Hundred’ alters the composition’s status. This is because when it was heard for the first time in Act I the music provided diegetic underscoring which drew meaning from inter-textual associations. However, once the melody is repeated in Act II the tune becomes a motif and the readings it produces are based on intra-textual connections. Furthermore, whereas the repetition of a specially composed motif may only be noticed by a listener with a keen ear or someone who has studied the score, a reoccurring pre-popularised melody like ‘Old Hundred’ is far easier to spot.
Diegetic motifs function in much the same way as their non-diegetic counterparts (see section 1.A). Both devices rely on repetition and are used to intra-textually align a piece of music with a character, place or period. However, unlike its non-diegetic counterpart the diegetic motif has received very little attention in the academic analysis of either film soundtracks or theatre music. Diegetic music is usually only connected with motivic signification when a character provides the first rendition of a composition which is subsequently developed into a motif through non-diegetic music (see Van der Lek, 1991, 36; Atkins, 1983, 14, Marks, 2000, 174). Therefore, because music can only become a motif through repetition (Kassabian, 2001, 57), the diegetic component does not fully participate in the accumulative signification process it initiates. One publication that does provide an in-depth analysis of diegetic motifs is Weis’ book The Silent Scream. Although Weis focuses exclusively on Hitchcock’s use of sound she identifies two universal characteristics of the diegetic motif that set them apart from their non-diegetic counterparts. Firstly, because the characters can hear the diegetic music they are able to verbally state or infer a thematic connection between music and narrative that may or may not already be apparent from the inter-textual significance of a particular composition. Secondly, the characters themselves can instigate and participate in the motif themselves. In such cases, the protagonist may perform a particular arrangement on an instrument, provide the accompaniment orally, or request another character to play a specific composition (see Weis, 1982, 115-6).
In A Doll's House, Ibsen uses these techniques to create a musical reference point which resonates throughout the whole play. Ibsen’s drama focuses on the marital relationship between Nora and her husband Helmer. There are three other main characters: a bank clerk called Krogstad, Nora’s old school companion Mrs. Linden, and Dr. Rank, a friend of the family. During the first Act it is established that prior to the beginning of the play Helmer had become very ill and was only able to make a full recovery by recuperating in a warm climate. However, as the couple could not afford this trip Nora secretly arranged to borrow funds from a moneylender. Unfortunately, Nora’s plan was jeopardised when her father died because he could no longer act as guarantor. Therefore, Nora secretly forged her father’s signature in order to secure the loan and the couple were able to visit Italy for a year. When the play begins Nora’s loan is almost entirely repaid and Helmer has just been made manager of the local bank. One of Helmer’s first managerial acts is to dismiss a bank clerk called Krogstad; a character who is also the moneylender Nora borrowed from. In response Krogstad visits Nora and informs her that if she does not persuade Helmer to reinstate him he will report her for fraud and submit the contract bearing the forged signature as evidence. Despite her best efforts Nora’s attempts to get Krogstad his job back fail and he writes Helmer a letter revealing all. During the second Act, Nora makes a desperate attempt to distract her husband from checking his mailbox and discovering Krogstad’s communiqué:
Nora: Torvald, I beg you not to. There are none there.
Helmer: Let me just see. (Is going)
(Nora at the piano plays the first bars of the tarantella.)
Helmer: (standing still) Aha!
Nora: I can't dance tomorrow if I don't rehearse with you first.
Helmer: (going to her) Are you really so nervous, poor Nora?
Nora: Yes dreadfully. Let me rehearse at once. We have time before dinner. Oh! Sit down here and accompany me, Torvald dear; direct me as you used to.
Helmer: With all the pleasure in life, if you wish it.
(sits at the piano.)
(Nora takes tambourine, drapes herself in shawl then with a bound comes to the centre of the stage.)
Nora: Now you play and I will dance.
(Helmer plays. Nora dances. Rank stands at the piano behind Helmer watching.)
Helmer: (Playing) Slower! Slower!
Nora: Can’t do it slower.
Helmer: Not so violently, Nora.
Nora: I must! I must!
(Ibsen, 1879, 103-105)
Because Nora is dancing too fast, Helmer gets Dr. Rank to take his place at the piano so he can instruct Nora more closely:
(Rank sits down to the piano and plays; Nora dances more and more wildly. Helmer stands by the stove and addresses frequent corrections to her; she seems not to hear. Her hair breaks loose and falls over her shoulders. She does not notice it, but goes on dancing. Mrs. Linden enters and stands spellbound in the doorway.)
Mrs. Linden: Ah - !
Nora: (dancing) We’re having such fun here, Christina.
Helmer: Why, Nora dear, you’re dancing as if it were a matter of life and death.
Nora: So it is.
Helmer: Rank, stop! This is the merest madness. Stop, I say!
(Ibsen, 1879, 105-106)
If the possible symbolic and dramatic readings are set aside for the moment, what remains is the type of ‘song and dance’ routine more commonly associated with melodrama. Indeed, it is this link with conventional theatrical practice which Archer referred to when he proposed that the tarantella scene: ‘belongs to an inferior order of dramatic effects’ (1892, 22). Archer’s opinion was shared by Elizabeth Robins (the actress that played Nora in the 1891 English language production), who described the tarantella as: ‘Ibsen’s one concession to the effect-hunting that he had come to deliver us from’ (Robins, 1928, 13).
In addition to the tarantella Ibsen employs other dramatic techniques that are entirely in keeping with the conventions of melodrama. For instance, at a rudimentary level the characters and their relationships adhere to melodramatic stock types; there is a villain (Krogstad), a woman with a past (Mrs. Linden), and the implication of a love triangle (between Nora, Helmer and Dr. Rank). Even a small detail like Ibsen’s instruction that Nora’s ‘hair breaks loose and falls over her shoulders’ seems to draw on melodramatic acting conventions and recreate a Passion known as ‘black hair’ which signified the ‘onset of madness’ by having the character release their hair and shake it wildly (see Moi, 2006, 238 and Meisel, 1983, 8). Furthermore, when Ibsen’s original drafts for the play are compared to the final dramatic text it is revealed that the tarantella was not added until much later (examples of these drafts can be found in Innes, 2000, 78–81). One explanation for this is that the tarantella scene was introduced simply because the first actress to play Nora was a trained dancer:
The biggest change to Ibsen’s original framework…[and] the most significant change in the final text is the introduction of the Tarantella. …the dance may have been brought in to capitalise on the abilities of Betty Hennings, the first actress to play the role (at Copenhagen Royal Theatre, 1879) who had been a ballerina.
(Innes, 2000, 81)
In many ways Ibsen’s narrative framework also appears to follow Scribe’s tenets for the ‘well-made-play’ which stated that dramas should be structured ‘so that there is not one moment in the whole evening when the audience is not in a state of eager expectation, waiting for something to happen, for some secret to be uncovered, some identity revealed, some inevitable confrontation actually to occur…’ (Taylor, 1969, 15). However, although Ibsen adheres to this formula he also disguises the dramatic components that make up the equation. Nicoll describes this process of adaptation as follows: ‘[Ibsen] has learned how to modify the Scribe formula so as to retain the thrillingly effective and at the same time to hide the presence of the machinery’ (1949, 536).
Nicoll’s description is illustrated by the way Ibsen simultaneously preserves and disguises a conventional music and dance routine by naturalising the source and rationalising its inclusion. The piano on which the music is played is part of the furniture on stage; the fact Nora will be performing the tarantella the following evening has been established through a conversation with Mrs. Linden in the first Act; and her impromptu rehearsal is presented as a desperate diversionary tactic to prevent Helmer from discovering the secret around which the whole plot revolves. Even Nora’s knowledge of the dance is explained and linked directly with her current predicament; the loan from Krogstad financed the trip to Italy where Nora learnt the tarantella (Ibsen, 1879, 66) which she now performs so Helmer will not discover she borrowed the money. As such, the recital and performance exploits existing inter-textual connections between the tarantella and Italy, and attaches them to the character’s own personal associations with this location. Furthermore, if the dynamics of Nora’s relationship with Helmer are taken into consideration it seems entirely fitting that she would choose and succeed in distracting her husband by performing for him, or as Moi puts it ‘deliberately turn[ing] herself into a spectacle in order to divert Helmer’s attention from the mailbox, thus acquiescing in her own status as a doll’ (2006, 237). All these factors justify and support the tarantella’s inclusion and ensure that it is perceived as an integral part of the narrative, rather than a transparent concession to conventional theatrical entertainment. However, the history behind the music and the dance also create inter-textual associations that expand the tarantella scene’s significance far beyond its apparent role as a cleverly conceived plot device.
The origins of the tarantella date back to an Italian legend that first appeared in the fifteenth century. According to Italian folklore, many centuries ago a swarm of tarantulas suddenly appeared in Taranto (hence the name) and began attacking the inhabitants. Most victims were women (though never upper-class or aristocratic) and following the bite they fell into a trance which could only be cured by frenzied dancing. This cure would only work if the dancer moved their body to an erratic and unpredictable rhythm. Therefore, a number of musicians would play various instruments at different speeds and the ‘patient’ would try to follow the beat with their body. It is from these beginnings that the tarantella evolved into a well-known routine, combining graceful and energetic music with a dance of light, quick steps and passionate gestures (see Kassing, 2007, 76). There are however two key flaws in the tarantella legend. Firstly, despite the etymological connection between the location and the insect there is no evidence that tarantulas ever inhabited Taranto. Secondly, there are no historical records which make reference to the supposed epidemic. As such, some scholars have postulated alternative theories regarding the origins and function of the tarantella which attempt to identify its sociological function and symbolic meaning. For instance, Heilmann proposes the tarantella was primarily a ritualised outlet for female repression and claims that: ‘[I]n Southern Italy the Tarantella dance served to provide cathartic relief from the psychological wounds inflicted by patriarchy as symbolised in the tarantula spider’s bite’ (Heilmann, 2004, 42; also see Cixous et al, 1996, 19-20).
Nora’s tarantella in A Doll’s House links the protagonist with both the Italian legend and Heilmann’s modern interpretation of the dance’s origins. The dancer is female, she is not upper-class, and two different musicians supply the rhythm, while Nora moves with excessive enthusiasm (or desperation) in an attempt to find the dance that will save her. Equally the situation that Nora finds herself in prior to, during, and after the tarantella places the performance she delivers within the wider context of gender relations. Nora’s request to perform the tarantella is the only way she can exert any control over her husband. This act in itself epitomises Nora’s social position as she is only able to influence the events that shape her life by assuming an inferior role. In this instance, Nora simultaneously plays the part of pupil and entertainer by dancing for her husband and his friend under the pretence that she is seeking choreographical guidance. However, rather than presenting an aesthetically pleasing performance of this exotic dance Nora becomes intoxicated by the tarantella and although she initially requests Helmer to instruct her, as the dance continues his directions are ignored. The dance Nora performs is not a sanitised and graceful interpretation of the tarantella, it is an authentic, liberating, and cathartic version that she imposes on her spectators, or as Moi puts it: ‘Nora’s tarantella is a graphic representation of a woman’s struggle to make her existence heard, to make it count’ (2006, 238).
In Ibsen’s dramatic text it is apparent that there is a clash between the speed and vigour with which Nora dances and the more sedate pace and graceful movements Helmer believes his wife should adopt. Therefore, the dancer and musician are at odds with each other and this conflict should be apparent in the lack of synchronization between the two performances. It is also important to remember that while Nora dances she simultaneously provides a rhythmical accompaniment on the tambourine. The aural and visual exhibition this divergence creates corresponds with Solomon’s analysis of the scene which introduces the idea that the tarantella ‘marks the ferociousness with which she [Nora] must overstep proprieties if she is, in fact, going to live’ (1997, 54). From this perspective, the tarantella scene is not supposed to be a highly polished routine incorporated for entertainment purposes, instead it is the point at which such conventions collapse in the face of a real emotional release. Nora physically and musically rejects the uniform pace set by her husband by dancing to and providing her own rhythm. This presents the musician/husband with an option; either keep up or fall behind. Helmer adopts an alternative tactic and attempts to assert control over the situation by having Dr. Rank play the piano so he can more closely instruct Nora. However, his ‘frequent corrections’ go unheard and are met with increased physical ferocity. Based on this analysis it is clear that if the stage directions Ibsen provided were followed then the music which accompanied Nora’s dance would have supported and developed the interpretations previously outlined. In this context, the tarantella scene functions as a polysemic signifier that draws meaning from inter-textual associations which connect the historical origins of the dance and its musical accompaniment with Nora’s visceral interpretation and the narrative context surrounding it. Though Ibsen left no records clarifying his motives for including the tarantella, it is not overly presumptuous to assume that a playwright who had formerly been employed to research folk stories (Meyer, 1971, 196-97), and also spent four years living in Italy (ibid., 219-79), would have had knowledge of the legend and understood the symbolic readings its incorporation would create. These associations between the dance and the narrative also seem to have been captured in two reviews of the 1894 English language production which stated that ‘the tarantella is the play’ (cited in Myer, 1985, xxxi) and commented upon the ‘true drama in the episode of the tarantella’ (Warning, 1894, 164).
When the musical element of the tarantella scene plays again during Act III this repetition initiates an intra-textual mode of signification. On this occasion the music is acousmatic as it emanates from the fancy-dress ball taking place off stage. It is also apparent from Helmer’s comment when he arrives on stage after the dance that Nora did not alter her performance in accordance with his instructions and preferences; thereby indicating the tempo Nora previously marked out with her body and tambourine during the previous Act was maintained:
Helmer: She dances her tarantella…though there was perhaps, a little too much nature in her rendering of the idea – more than was, strictly speaking, artistic.
(Ibsen, 1879, 121)
Whilst Helmer and Nora attend the party, Nora’s friend Mrs. Linden remains on stage and meets with Krogstad. As they converse it is revealed that Krogstad courted Mrs. Linden a number of years ago, but she had rejected him and married a more wealthy man. This union never produced any children and since the death of her husband Mrs. Linden has lived an entirely independent life. However, rather than being liberated by this turn of events Mrs. Linden confesses to Krogstad it has left her ‘aimless and forlorn’ (ibid., 115). Therefore, she presents Krogstad with the following proposition:
Mrs. Linden: I need someone to be a mother to, and your children need a mother. You need me, and I - need you.
(Ibsen, 1879, 116)
Ultimately, Mrs. Linden rejects her autonomy in favour of a more traditional and conformist female role. As Krogstad and Mrs. Linden talk, un-specified ‘dance music’ from the party upstairs can be heard. However, after a short while the music changes into a reprise of the tarantella thereby prompting Mrs. Linden to usher Krogstad out of the house: ‘Hush! The tarantella! Go! go!’ (ibid., 116). In the dramatic text Ibsen does not specify a particular composition that should be played. Nevertheless, it is possible to postulate the way either up-beat dance music (such as a Polka) or more formal dinner-dance music (such as a Waltz) would alter the audience’s reading of the event taking place off stage. For instance, if the dance music was up-beat then it would act as an ironic counterpoint to the climax of Act II, in which Nora orates the idea that she is awaiting her death (‘Nora: Thirty one hours to live.’, ibid. 109). Alternatively, the dance music could take the form of a more reserved, formal dance which would provide a direct contrast to the sounds and rhythms created by the wild tarantella that immediately follows it.
The tarantella music lasts for approximately twenty brief exchanges between the two characters on stage and finishes when Mrs. Linden exclaims: ‘Make haste! Go, go! The Dance is over; we’re not safe another moment’ (Ibsen, 1879, 118). In addition to information regarding the timing and duration of the tarantella, Ibsen’s instructions indicate that the conversation between Krogstad and Mrs. Linden should continue throughout the entire dance. It could be argued that this creates a conflict of interest as the audience are supposed to imagine Nora’s ordeal off stage and simultaneously concentrate upon the relationship developing between the protagonists on stage. The basic crux of this theory is highlighted by the fundamental semiotic difference between the tarantella and the dance music that precedes it. While the non-specific dance music acts as an indexical sign which indicates that a party is taking place off stage, the tarantella’s symbolic significance, narrative importance and established connection with Nora, may detract attention from the action on stage.
However, the use of the tarantella motif to underscore Krogstad and Mrs. Linden’s conversation actually expands the readings which were previously restricted to Nora’s character and predicament. This semantically charged accompaniment sets Krogstad and Mrs. Linden’s relationship within an aural frame that previously analogously encapsulated the plight of an independent woman trapped in a subservient behavioural pattern. Consequently, as Quigley explains in ‘A Doll’s House Revisited’: ‘one of the functions of the tarantella analogy is to make us think about the Nora/Torvald relationship and its connection with the Mrs. Linden/Krogstad relationship in ways that only this analogy and the others with which it interacts can suitably provide’ (1984, 596). From this perspective, the action taking place on stage during the acousmatic rendition of the tarantella encourages the audience to consider the domestic trap Nora is caught in, and compare it with Mrs. Linden’s and Krogstad’s negotiations. The potential interpretations this produces are manifold, but in essence they all stem from the answer to one central question: does the motif highlight the differences or similarities between the couples? For instance, from one perspective Mrs. Linden begins her relationship with Krogstad by openly and frankly stating her needs. As such, Mrs. Linden’s honest admission and dignified behaviour are in direct contrast to the secrets Nora hides and the role she assumes by performing the tarantella. An alternative reading is that the music which accompanied Nora’s instinctive defiance of Helmer’s instructions and marked the moment when she ‘ma[d]e her existence heard’ (Moi, 2006, 238), now ironically underscores an independent woman’s voluntary return to a patriarchal institution. Both these readings and many others are initiated by the recurrence of the tarantella motif in this context. Indeed, the very purpose of the music in this scenario (and some may say the rationale behind the play itself) is to provoke subjective responses and stimulate the audience so they ask questions for which there are no easy answers.
With this final repetition of the tarantella Ibsen employs a technique best defined as ‘aural deep focus’; a term first used by Weis in The Silent Scream. Weis identifies a number of examples from Hitchcock’s films which illustrate how this device creates and develops meaning. One such analysis, focusing on the diegetic soundtrack conceived for Rear Window (1954), contains a procedural description of this technique which is comparable to the tarantella motif Ibsen uses in A Doll’s House:
The main function of Hitchcock's aural deep focus is irony. He achieves a depth of meaning that derives from the juxtaposition of one sound against various images. To be more specific, a given song takes on a new and frequently different meaning as it is associated with each neighbour, as well as with Jeff's own situation. For example, the first night's activities are accompanied by the song "Lover," the source of which is unspecified. Its first line— "Lover, when you're near me"—has ironic references to at least three couples. The first is a couple sharing a mattress on a fire escape. The second is Jeff and his fiancee, who has just walked out on him after a quarrel. The third is Thorwald and his wife; it is her perpetual nearness—she is an invalid—that presumably drives him to murder her later the same night.
(Weis, 1982, 113)
Although Weis illustrates her theory with an example that creates ‘aural deep focus’ through lyrics rather than music, the communicative process she describes is equally applicable to the various readings Ibsen initiates with the second rendition of the tarantella. Of course, Hitchcock’s and Ibsen’s approaches are slightly different; the film director moves from one character situation to another during an unbroken musical accompaniment while the playwright uses two separate performances of the same composition. Similarly, it could be argued that the ironic contrast highlighted by Hitchcock’s shift in focus is explicit and objective whereas interpretations of Ibsen’s underscoring are implicit and subjective. However, from a semiotic perspective, both practitioners develop the aural signs they use by layering one reading on top of another. Through this process the residual meaning of the music’s initial sounding brings any secondary applications into relief. In addition, although Hitchcock’s reorientation of a lyrical sentiment to various scenarios produces a unified reading whereas the responses provoked by the tarantella’s repetition will depend upon the characters’ portrayal and the various interpretations this has given rise to, the irony remains a constant factor. Thus, whether the tarantella motif prompts audience members to notice either similarities or differences between Nora and Mrs. Linden’s character, situation and behaviour, the comparison will always be somewhat ironic. In this context, there is very little difference between the signification process Hitchcock and Ibsen employ as a means of linking and developing intra-textual connections between diegetic sound and action.
This analysis highlights the complex communicative functions of the diegetic music used in A Doll’s House. When the tarantella is first played in Act II it is introduced as a plot device. However, the history of this composition (from both an inter-textual and intra-textual perspective) also infers an analogous relationship between Nora and the accompaniment she dances and contributes to. The acousmatic rendition of the tarantella in Act III develops the music’s symbolic significance further and expands the analogy to incorporate the play’s other female protagonist.
Ibsen employed a similar technique in John Gabriel Borkman by using the cultural history associated with a specific musical arrangement as a starting point from which alternative readings of the aural material could be developed. The play’s narrative follows the last days in the life of John Gabriel Borkman, a former bank-manager who was imprisoned for speculating investors’ money illegally. After serving a prison sentence he has spent the last eight years living on the upper-floor of a house owned by his sister-in-law (Ella Rentheim). The ground floor is occupied by Borkman’s wife and though her husband is not physically introduced on stage until the second Act, the sound of his footsteps can be heard pacing back and forth through the living room ceiling during the entire first Act. Although this sound cue is not mentioned in the extra-dialogic stage directions, when Ella refers to the footsteps a few minutes into the play, her words clearly establish that the sound has been present since the start:
Ella Rentheim: […] I can hear his footsteps overhead.
Mrs. Borkman: (With a rapid upward glance.) Up in the long gallery?
Ella Rentheim: Yes. I heard him walking up and down there ever since I came.
Mrs. Borkman: (Looking away from her.) That’s not Erhart, Ella.
Ella Rentheim: (Surprised.) Not Erhart? (Divining.) Who is it then?
Mrs. Borkman: It is he.
Ella Rentheim: (Softly, with suppressed pain.) Borkman? John Gabriel Borkman?
Mrs. Borkman: He walks up and down like that – backwards and forwards – from morning to night – day out and day in.
(Ibsen, 1896, 19)
Ella initially thinks that the footsteps belong to Borkman’s son Erhart who she brought up while his father was in prison. Erhart is due to return home from the city and both Ella and Mrs. Borkman have separate plans for his future. Ella wants to officially adopt Erhart and have him move in with her until she dies of a recently diagnosed terminal illness. Mrs. Borkman on the other hand hopes her son will somehow save her from a daily existence she can no longer bear. However, Erhart will ultimately reject both women and leave his home town with a divorcee (Mrs. Wilton) he has become involved with and a young girl called Frida who plays piano for his father.
Frida arrives at the Borkmans’ towards the end of the first Act and immediately goes upstairs to play the piano. Moments later, the sound of Borkman’s footsteps are supplemented with piano music which also emanates from the gallery above. At the end of the first Act this acousmatic backdrop increases in volume and produces the following response from Mrs. Borkman:
Ella Rentheim: […] Goodnight, Gunhild. (She goes out by the hall. The music sounds louder from above)
Mrs. Borkman: (Stands still for a moment, starts, shrinks together, and whispers involuntarily.) The wolf is whining again - the sick wolf. (She stands still for a moment, then flings herself on the floor, writhing in agony and whispering) Erhart! Erhart – be true to me! Oh come home and help your mother! For I can bear this life no longer!
(Ibsen, 1896, 61)
To ensure that the naturalistic dialogue was comprehensible the music would have been relatively quiet up until this point. However, at the close of Act I Mrs. Borkman is alone on stage and speaks only a few short lines. Therefore, the volume of the music can increase without aurally concealing any oral exposition. In addition to the volume change Mrs. Borkman’s reaction also focuses the audience’s attention on the music. Both these actions pull the background sounds into the foreground and thereby alter the dramatic status of the diegetic underscoring. This further exploits the fact that the audience have not been visually introduced to Borkman. Delaying the moment that the source of a sound is actually revealed inevitably prompts audience speculation. Chion explains this principle in the following way:
The acousmatic sound maintains suspense, constituting a dramatic technique in itself… A sound or source that remains acousmatic creates a mystery of the nature of its source, its properties and its powers, given that causal listening cannot supply complete information about the sound’s nature and the events taking place.
(Chion, 1994, 72)
Because Borkman’s presence is initially established and then subsequently maintained through the sound created by his pacing and the musical composition he chooses, the lack of any corresponding visual information imbues the character with enigmatic qualities. As such, the audience’s desire for the human source to be revealed is increased and the unseen protagonist is awarded a position of high dramatic status without even appearing on stage. This effect is heightened further by Mrs. Borkman’s seemingly melodramatic reaction to the acousmatic sounds above her when she is alone on stage at the end of the Act. Indeed, rather than being solely indicative of her own emotional state Mrs. Borkman’s behaviour will also be interpreted in relation to what it reveals about her husband. Furthermore, because the sounds produced by Borkman’s activities are presented as an unwanted and upsetting imposition upon the space inhabited by the characters on stage they also create an effect Weis refers to as ‘aural intrusion’.
Weis uses this term to describe a particular technique used by Hitchcock in his ‘single-set films’ (these include Lifeboat, 1943; Rope, 1948; Dial M for Murder, 1954; Rear Window, 1954). In these films the visually rendered location occupied by the characters on screen is intruded upon by acousmatic aural material which ‘creates tension between on-set and off-set space’ (Weis, 1982, 23). Weis goes on to explain that the noises which emanate from outside the frame signify ‘either menace or salvation’ (ibid., 23). Consequently, when the sound source is finally ‘deacousmatised’ (Chion, 1994, 132) and appears on set its physical presence will have either a negative or positive effect on the characters brought into direct contact with it. Furthermore, the initial sonic disturbance and the characters’ reaction to it often establishes the authority of the creator over the listener, or as Weis puts it; ‘[I]n most cases aural intrusion suggests a power relationship between intruder and victim’ (Weis, 1982, 127).
All the features Weis identifies in these descriptions are applicable to acousmatic aural material heard throughout the first Act of John Gabriel Borkman. Although the entire play does not unfold in a single set, the drama does consist of four ‘single-set Acts’. The boundaries of the spaces depicted in the first two acts are particularly important as although Mr. and Mrs. Borkman live under the same roof they have essentially split there home into two parts; the wife occupying the ground floor and her husband ensconced upstairs. In McFarlane’s analysis of the play he observes that this segregation highlights the couple’s estrangement as ‘[D]ownstairs and upstairs become terms of irreparable alienation…’ (McFarlane, 1994, 147-8). McFarlane then goes on to state that at the beginning of the play these spatial restrictions create ‘a kind of deadlocked equilibrium’ (ibid.) between the characters. Although the situation may be ‘deadlocked’ the idea that it is in a state of ‘equilibrium’ neglects to take into account Borkman’s aural intrusion. Indeed, despite the fact that the couple’s living quarters have been shared out equally this perpetual sonic disturbance clearly swings the balance of power in Borkman’s favour. In this context, the combination of Borkman’s footsteps and the music he has played acts as a ‘source of menace’ which he cruelly inflicts upon his wife (and son). Consequently, the fact that the actions and habits of this physically absent character elicit such a passionate and tormented response from Mrs. Borkman clearly establishes the emotional influence he has over his wife.
Mrs. Borkman’s overwrought reaction to what she (and therefore the audience) perceives as aural intrusion is based upon her own interpretation of what these aural signs reveal about the character hidden away upstairs. This reading is both informed and supported by the inter-textual connections associated with the specific piece of music to which Borkman repeatedly listens. In the dramatic text, Ibsen specifies that the music which emanates from upstairs is the ‘Danse Macabre’ (otherwise known as the ‘Dance of Death’). The title of this composition (or musical style) dates back to the late medieval period in Western Europe. During this era, death’s all-conquering and equalising power was frequently expressed in allegorical forms, one of which became known as the Danse Macabre. The Danse Macabre has its origins in late thirteenth and early fourteenth-century poems that referred to the inevitability and impartiality of death. This theme developed into a public performance that took place inside cemeteries, courtyards and churches which featured actors dressed as skeletons playing various instruments and singing (see Eichenberg, 1983, 14-15). These ideas were subsequently illustrated in pictorial representations of a procession, or dance, containing both the living and the dead. To highlight the fact that death made no distinction between rank or class, the living characters being led by the dead to their graves were from all backgrounds and walks of life.
The composition’s history and the inter-textual connections it creates will help to inform the audience’s initial interpretation of Borkman’s character. Though Borkman has not yet appeared on stage it will be assumed that he, like the other characters and the audience, directly associates this piece of music with death. Therefore, his obsession with the arrangement plainly implies that the character has a morbid fixation. Furthermore, the manner in which the protagonists on stage respond to the composition further contributes towards the audience’s opinion of Borkman’s temperament and behaviour:
Erhart: (Writhing as if in pain) Oh, I can’t endure this! (Looking round.) What have I done with my hat? (To Ella Rentheim) Do you know the air that she’s playing up there?
Ella Rentheim: No. What is it?
Erhart: It’s the Danse Macabre - the Dance of Death! Don’t you know the Dance of Death Aunt?
Ella Rentheim: (smiling sadly) Not yet, Erhart.
(Ibsen, 1896, 57)
Erhart reacts with immediate abhorrence to the composition and the subject it conjures. Indeed, he even goes on to inform his mother that the music is driving him out of the house’ (ibid., 58). Ella Rentheim’s response when questioned if she knows the Dance of Death is also based on a similar interpretation of the composition’s significance. In this context, her sad smile and suggestive answer relate to the fact that she is terminally ill. However, although the dialogue during Act I reaffirms and develops these inter-textual connections with death, the audience’s original reading of the aural information and its relation to Borkman’s character is challenged when the music is repeated in Act II:
The great gallery on the first floor of the Rentheim’s House. The walls are covered with old tapestries, representing hunting-scenes, shepherds and shepherdesses, all in faded colours. A folding-door to the left and further forward a piano… John Gabriel Borkman stands with his hands behind his back, beside the piano, listening to Frida Foldal, who is playing the last bars of the “Danse Macabre”…The music ceases. A pause.
(Ibsen, 1896, 63)
Ibsen’s instruction that there should be a pause between the last note Frida plays and the first line of dialogue contributes to the initial atmosphere created on stage. Because a piano naturally sustains the notes played on it (which can also be extended through the use of the right pedal), even when Frida has finished her recital the sound will linger for some time until silence finally ensues and Borkman speaks. This will not only focus the audience’s attention and ensure that the dialogue does not have to compete with the piano, it will also create a particularly poignant, solemn and eerie effect as the piece of music (which is inextricably linked with death) finishes and slowly fades out. However, when Borkman speaks to Frida about the music it soon becomes clear that his interpretation of the composition is very different from the descriptions and responses previously presented:
Borkman: Can you guess where I first heard tones like these?
Frida: (Looking up at him) No, Mr. Borkman?
Borkman: It was down in the mines.
(Ibsen, 1896, 63)
Borkman goes on to establish that from his subjective perspective the composition does not carry morbid associations with death; instead the music reminds him of mining metal:
Borkman: (Nodding) When it’s loosened. The hammer strokes that loosen it are the midnight bell clanging to set it free; and that’s why the metal sings – in it’s own way – for gladness.
(Ibsen, 1896, 64)
The words that Borkman uses to describe the memories evoked by the ‘Danse Macabre’ establish that in his mind the composition is a musical emblem signifying freedom and happiness. As such, Borkman’s explanation directly challenges the other characters’ responses to the music and provides an alternative interpretation based on his personal reminiscences. However, this new reading is not necessarily an antithesis of the initial meaning attributed to the music.
An important key to understanding the similarities between the two viewpoints can be found in Ibsen’s poem The Miner:
Rock-face, burst and boom and ring
to my heavy hammering!
Downwards must I burrow, pounding
till I hear the metals sounding.
Deep in mountain’s night obscure
treasures beckon and allure,
diamond and stones past pricing,
veins of gold, red-branched, enticing.
Hammering and hammering
to the last day life shall bring.
Never beam of brightness dawning,
never sun-of hope’s full morning.
(Ibsen, 1851, 27-28)
Ibsen’s poem helps to illustrate the significance of Borkman’s actual and analogous connection with mining. While the first stanza expands Borkman’s analogy of singing metal, the last stanza discloses the miner’s inevitable plight; he will hammer until he dies.
Rather than tunnelling into the mountains as he did in his youth, Borkman now burrows into his psyche. The repetitive rhythm he once created with a hammer has been replaced by the continuous beat of his own footsteps accompanied by a musical aide memoire which emulates ‘the metals sounding’. However, as the ‘Danse Macabre’ seems to predict, Borkman’s mental excavation and the process of mining precious metal that he romanticises carry the same sentence; both the miner and the thinker will inevitably chisel away until they are relieved from their duties by death.
During the scene preceding Borkman’s death, the sound of the ‘midnight bell’ and the singing metal Borkman associates with the ‘Danse Macabre’, finds a literal aural representation in an acousmatic sound effect:
Mrs. Borkman: […] (Listening.) Hark! What is that?
Ella Rentheim: (Also listening.) It sounds like sledge-bells.
Mrs. Borkman: (With a suppressed scream.) It is her sledge!
Ella Rentheim: Perhaps it’s another.
Mrs. Borkman: No, no, it’s Mrs. Wilton’s covered sledge! I know the silver bells! Hark! Now they’re driving right past here, at the foot of the hill!
Ella Rentheim: (Quickly.) Gunhild, if you want to cry out to him, now is the time! Perhaps after all –! (The tinkle of the bells sounds close at hand, in the wood.) Make haste, Gunhild! Now they’re right under us!
(Ibsen, 1896, 173)
Though the dialogue establishes the source as Mrs. Wilton’s silver sledge bells, the sound’s significance is more profound. The responses of the characters’ on stage imbue the sound with symbolic qualities that extend beyond its indexical function as a sign which indicates a vehicle driving away:
Mrs. Borkman: They sounded like funeral bells.
Borkman: (With a dry suppressed laugh.) Oho – it’s not for me they’re ringing tonight!
Mrs. Borkman: No, but for me – and for him who has gone from me.
Ella Rentheim: (Nodding thoughtfully.) Who knows if, after all, they may not be ringing in life and happiness for him, Gunhild?
(Ibsen, 1896, 173-4)
Despite being chronologically separated the sleigh bells and the ‘Danse Macabre’ are thematically linked by the dialogue that follows and precedes them. Indeed, the two pieces of aural information are both subjectively interpreted by the four main protagonists. A summary of these readings and connections is given in Fig. 12:
|Character |The ‘Danse Macabre’ |Sleigh Bells |
|Erhart |Establishes a conventional inter-textual interpretation which|Indexically signifies the transportation |
| |connects the music with death. |Erhart is using to free himself from his |
| | |family. |
|Borkman |Attributes the sign with a personal and symbolic reading that|The bells are a literal representation of|
| |provides an alternative to the conventional interpretation. |‘singing metal’ and therefore |
| |From his perspective the music aurally represents metal |symbolically linked to the freedom and |
| |singing joyously when it is freed by the miner. |joy Borkman describes in Act II. |
|Mrs. Borkman |The music underscores her short soliloquy at the end of Act I|Provides a negative interpretation of the|
| |during which she makes the following plea: ‘Erhart! …come |sound by comparing it to funeral bells |
| |home and help your mother! For I can bear this life no |thereby associating Erhart’s departure |
| |longer! (Ibsen, 1896, 61). |with death. |
| |Therefore, from this character’s perspective the music is an | |
| |aural intrusion that epitomises and contributes to the daily | |
| |existence she deplores. | |
|Ella Rentheim |Connects the music’s significance with her own imminent |Suggests that the sound may be a positive|
| |demise. |prediction of life and happiness. |
Fig. 12 Thematic links and character responses to the ‘Danse Macabre’ and sleigh bells
From Mrs. Borkman’s perspective, the ‘Danse Macabre’ is a repetitive aural intrusion over which she has no control. It prompts the character to plea for Erhart’s return home in the hope that his presence will radically improve her life. However, by the final act the sleigh bells signify that this wish will never be fulfilled. Ella Rentheim connects a conventional reading of the ‘Danse Macabre’ with her own death, but interprets the sound that accompanies Erhart’s departure as a sign heralding good fortune. For a young man such as Erhart who wants to ‘live, live, live!’ (ibid, 140) the negative associations with death signified by the music are vehemently decried and quickly avoided. Therefore, in order to fulfil this desire for life Erhart leaves his family and the sleigh bells underscore the character’s escape. From Borkman’s perspective, the music symbolises another form of liberation which he associates with the sound created when metal is freed from rock. Ironically, when Borkman hears a literal manifestation of this metallic resonance, although he does not connect Mrs. Borkman’s interpretation with his own death, moments after the sound has faded away he quietly dies. As such, the father and son’s opposing associations with the ‘Danse Macabre’ are ultimately united when Borkman finally finds peace in death and Erhart’s liberation is signified by singing metal.
In Act I, Ibsen uses the ‘Danse Macabre’ to initiate comments and actions from the characters on stage as a means of directing the audience towards particular conclusions regarding Borkman’s character. These preconceived ideas are then challenged in Act II when Borkman explains to Frida that the memories and feelings this tune conjures are not morbid or distressing. In fact from his perspective it inspires memories of honest work and freedom. As such, the characters downstairs base their interpretations on inter-textual associations which are subsequently challenged by Borkman’s subjective description of the composition. Once again, Weis’ analysis of Hitchcock’s sonic techniques provides a procedural and functional description that illuminates the semantic purpose behind the oppositional interpretations of the ‘Danse Macabre’. Weis proposes that in certain scenarios Hitchcock used the way his characters responded to aural material as a signifying device which would purposefully deceive audience members. The purpose of this ‘stylistic tactic’ is explained by Weis in the following citation:
…to show how easily a character—and the viewer for whom he is a surrogate— can mis-interpret events according to his own preconceptions. The most persuasive way of demonstrating the seductiveness of such misinterpretations is to let the viewer make the same mistake as the characters. Having been seduced into adopting a character's point of view that is later exposed as illusion, we should then be able both to sympathize with the character's weakness and to recognize it in ourselves.
(Weis, 1982, 107).
From this perspective, when the ‘Danse Macabre’ is heard during the first Act the audience initially accept and adopt the viewpoints expressed by the characters on stage because they match their own existing knowledge of the composition’s meaning. However, when Borkman is physically introduced in Act II he provides an alternative idiosyncratic reading that forces the audience to question their initial conclusions about his morbid disposition. As such, the signification process initiated by the music suddenly shifts from an inter-textual deduction completed by on-stage characters and audience, to a subjective interpretation articulated by the main protagonist. Therefore, when the audience actually meet Borkman and hear his description of the music they are presented with a reading that counters their former presumptions. This revelation does not just establish an alternative reading of the aural material, it also increases the audience’s sympathy for the characters. Firstly, the audience can empathise with Borkman’s family because throughout the first Act both characters and spectators have harboured a similar misconception based on preconceived associations. Secondly, when Borkman’s actual motivation is established this revelation casts the character in a sympathetic light as he appears to be an unfortunate victim of misinterpretation, rather than a domineering perpetrator of aural intrusion.
The examples discussed so far in this section have all been taken from plays that were conceived as being a modern naturalistic antidote to the melodramatic dramas that dominated nineteenth-century theatre. As such, in order to support verisimilitude all non-diegetic underscoring was removed and replaced with brief segments of diegetic music. Furthermore, the preceding analysis has shown that this process of substitution enabled playwrights to construct complex aural signifiers which drew from and then built upon inter-textual associations. However, while this technique may have been developed by more modern playwrights, a number of precedents can be found in some traditional melodramas.
For instance, in terms of narrative structure, plot devices and character types Boucicault’s Arrah-Na-Pogue or The Wicklow Wedding (1864) follows fairly typical melodramatic conventions. The villain (Michael Feeny) has amorous designs on the heroine (Arrah Meelish) who is already engaged to another character (Shaun-the-Post). When Arrah rejects Feeny he vows to bring about her financial ruin. To show that Feeny’s threats are inconsequential Arrah produces a large amount of money she has been given as an early wedding present. Arrah’s generous benefactor is her exiled foster brother Beamish MacCoul who has secretly retuned to Ireland from France and is currently hiding out in his sister’s barn. Unbeknownst to Arrah the money Beamish gave her was stolen from Feeney the night before. Feeney realises this and also catches a glimpse of Beamish. The local magistrate is informed of the theft and Beamish’s whereabouts by Feeney and soldiers are dispatched to arrest Arrah and her brother. In the meantime Arrah and Shaun’s marriage goes ahead and their wedding reception provides the setting for the last scene of Act I. The celebration is attended by numerous well wishers and features a jig accompanied by on-stage fiddlers which is followed by a song sung by the groom. However, the festivities are suddenly interrupted when the soldiers arrive. Beamish escapes through a trapdoor, but Arrah is arrested and in order to protect his new wife Shaun falsely confesses that he committed the robbery. Then during the following Acts Feeny’s plans are foiled, Arrah is reunited with Shaun, and Beamish is pardoned for his previous exploits.
Although this play follows standard melodramatic conventions, the overtly political backdrop to the narrative sets it apart from similar plays produced during this period. In addition to being set in Ireland Arrah-Na-Pogue also features a hero who is an Irish rebel previously exiled for insurrection against English colonial rule. Furthermore, the drama unfolds in the Wicklow Mountains during the United Irishmen uprising of 1798. Indeed, without becoming too embroiled in a discussion of this contentious historical period it is important to note that both during and following this rebellion the Wicklow County Mountains were controlled by loyalist guerrilla forces (see Bartlett and Jeffery, 1997, 288). Moreover, if this historical and political context is taken into account when considering the inter-textual connections initiated by the musical material performed during the wedding celebrations, it becomes clear that the accompaniment transcended mere entertainment.
During the first part of the scene, Boucicault establishes a celebratory atmosphere with music performed by ‘a piper and Fiddlers’ (Boucicault, 1864a, 18). According to the cues recorded in Boucicault’s promptbook the musicians provided diegetic underscoring that accompanied the entrance of the wedding party, Shaun’s welcoming speech, a mass exit into an inner room where the ceremony takes place, and the crowd’s subsequent return. Once all the guests are assembled on stage Shaun calls for the fiddlers to play a jig:
Shaun: …There’s a one-pound note among the fiddlers if the lady is plazed wid
the tune of it.
(16)
All: Hurroo!
Shaun: Now, ye scrapin’ thieves, pull out the plug and run it sthrong.
(Dance. A jig by Katty and Tim Coogan)
Whoo! That’s iligant! Welt the flure, Katty.
Oiny: Hould up to her, Tim.}
Shaun: Cover the buckle fair, ye ould schamer.}
Regan: Kildare for a tinpenny.}
Shaun: Ah, don’t decave yerselves; Katty is only jokin’. Wait till she offers her
fut to him. Whooo! That’s the sthroke!}
Regan: Hould up the credit of the country, Tim.}
Shaun: Put your back into it, Katty; his off-leg is a Quaker}
Stick it to him, my jewel, he’s goin’; he’s goin’.
(Tim falls exhausted. A shout from all the crowd)
Katty: Whoo! (Dances round him amidst general applause…)
(Boucicault, 1864a, 21)
The two characters that perform the jig are of little narrative importance; indeed, this dancing duel is arguably their most important contribution to the play. It is clear from Shaun’s instruction for the musicians to ‘pull out the plug and run it sthrong’ as well as the crowd’s response and Tim’s exhaustion, that the music was merry, lively, and fast. In addition to providing entertainment for the characters and the audience, the jig performed by the fiddlers and the two dancers would have also drawn on Irish folk traditions (Ling, 1997, 194). However, all this exuberance and frivolity is suddenly brought into contrast when Regan calls for a particular song to be sung immediately after the jig:
Regan: The “Wearing of the Green”
All: Hurroo!
(16 ½ )
Shaun: Whisht, boys, are ye mad? is it that song and the soldiers widin gunshot?
Sure there’s sudden death in every note of it.
Oiny: Never fear; we’ll put a watch outside and sing it quiet.
Shaun: It is the “Twistin’ of the Rope’ ye are axin’ for?
Regan: Divil an informer is to the fore – so out wid it.
Shaun: Is it all right, outside there?
Oiny: (Advancing) Not a sowl can hear ye, barrin’ ourselves.
Shaun: Murdher alive! kape lookin’ out.
SONG (17)
All: Hurroo! (18)
(Boucicault, 1864a, 21-2)
Boucicault’s promptbook contains numerical annotations (shown above in bold) which establish that the song was accompanied by music. Furthermore, it is fair to assume the musical material would have been performed by the on-stage musicians that provided the last five segments of diegetic underscoring. This theory is supported by floor plan given in the promptbook which indicates that the musicians remain on stage (Fig. 13, ibid., 21).
[pic]
Fig. 13 Arrah-Na-Pogue Act I wedding party stage plan (Boucicault, 1864a, 21)
‘The Wearing of the Green’ is an Irish street ballad from the 1790s which refers to a law imposed on the Irish people by English governors which outlawed the wearing of either green clothing or a shamrock. The rationale behind criminalising these acts was that they were considered to be symbolic gestures indicating revolutionary intent and support for the Society of United Irishmen. As such, sporting this colour was regarded as an act of treason and carried a death sentence. While the attempt to suppress this expression of national identity may have been successful, in as much as it aggressively dissuaded people from conveying patriotic solidarity by wearing green clothing, the excessively punitive stance also prompted the appearance and propagation of a song which was both defiant and nationalistic. There are numerous variations of the lyrics to ‘The Wearing of the Green’, but the most well-known adaptation was penned by Boucicault for this play:
O Paddy dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground;
St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep, his colour can't be seen,
For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the Green.
I met wid Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's dear ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they're hangin' men an' women there for the wearin' o' the Green.
(Boucicault, 1864b, 492)
While earlier versions recite a fictional conversation between Napoleon Bonaparte and the singer, Boucicault substitutes the French emperor with an Irish rebel leader by the name of Napper Tandy who fled Ireland in 1792 (see Ingram, 2008, 82). This alteration not only replaces the Emperor of France with an Irish hero, it also infers a connection between the real life republican activist Napper Tandy and the play’s fictional hero Beamish, who is also an exiled rebel leader.
It is within this political context of repression, imperialism and draconian justice that the song’s significance and dramatic purpose can be identified. Firstly, its potency is amplified because of its positioning within the scene’s structure. The song is essentially the last segment of a much longer musical section which up until this point has entertained the audience with lively and cheerful traditional Irish folk music. However, this apolitical manifestation of Irish culture culminates in a song which expresses a deep yearning for freedom of expression and mourns the aforementioned attacks on national identity. Indeed, this progression from traditional customs that are deemed acceptable, to a subversive anthem that references colonial laws aimed at dismantling that culture acts as a powerful illustration of underlying duplicity in Anglo Irish relations. Put simply, the music presents the audience with two sides of one coin as the same performers that initially drew on established cultural codes to provide harmless entertainment, conclude by expressing revolutionary republican sentiments.
The danger and potential retribution that may be incurred by singing this song is made overtly apparent by Shaun’s anxious reaction to Regan’s request and his fear that armed soldiers might hear. Even when Oiny tells him that they’ll sing it quietly and offers to stand guard outside, Shaun still proposes an alternative Irish folk song called ‘The Twisting of the Rope’ which tells the story of a harpist who falls in love with a farmer’s daughter. Indeed, considering the occasion being celebrated this song is clearly a more suitable choice. However, Shaun finally consents and after instructing Oiny to ‘kape lookin’ out’, he and the musicians begin the song. Shaun’s nervousness and the precautions the characters take raise the song’s dramatic status and it becomes a tool of suspense. Furthermore, the audience know that a group of English soldiers have been dispatched to arrest Arrah and Beamish. Therefore, the possibility that the guests will be caught and punished for singing the song seems both likely and imminent. In addition, the list of costumes given in the back of Boucicault’s promptbook establishes that Shaun is actually wearing a ‘green square cut coat’ (Boucicault, 1864a, 59) and is therefore breaking the very law the song refers to.
Immediately after the song the dramatic text gives the following stage direction: ‘[T]hey take their places for a jig, the fiddlers commence playing’ (ibid., 22). However, in Boucicault’s promptbook this instruction has a line drawn through it thereby indicating that instead of beginning another jig the music and cheers for ‘The Wearing of the Green’ are suddenly followed by a sound outside the barn which signifies the English soldiers’ arrival: ‘A drum heard outside; general consternation’ (ibid., 22). Removing the action and music that would have taken place between the song and the soldiers’ entrance maintains and exemplifies the subject of military occupation and subjugation that had just been expressed in the lyrics. Or to put it another way, if the soldiers interrupt a jig their entrance is an unprovoked imposition, however their sudden appearance after the oration of a revolutionary anthem suggests that Shaun’s fears were well founded and severe punishments will follow.
The political implications communicated through Boucicault’s incorporation and adaptation of ‘The Wearing of the Green’ actually led to his version becoming known as the unofficial anthem for the Irish freedom movement. Indeed, the synonymous links between the song and this revolutionary faction meant that Boucicault was requested to cut it when the play was revived because of events that had recently taken place in the real world:
After a revival of the play two years later, in which Agnes and Boucicault repeated their original roles, an explosion at Clerkenwell Prison, which killed twelve people and injured 120, led to its begin banned throughout the British Empire, and when Boucicault returned to Dublin with the play he was asked to drop the song on the grounds of expediency.
(Fawkes, 1979, 158)
A republican society that sought Irish independence known as The Fenian Brotherhood claimed responsibility for the attack. This violent crime provoked a reaction from the press encapsulated in the article overleaf which emphasises the destruction caused, demonises the perpetrators and organisation they belong to, and advocates the complete elimination of the whole group before others join their cause. Furthermore, the writer also articulates his concern that unjustified acts of vigilante retribution may be unleashed on the Irish people and reminds the reader that those responsible are in the minority:
A crime of unexampled atrocity has been committed in the midst of London. … Till yesterday we could not have believed that there lived among us men capable of planning such a deed as has just spread destruction over a whole neighbourhood. …We feel that the Fenians have filled the cup of wrath, and that in dealing with them public opinion will need rather to be restrained than instigated. We would impress upon our readers the duty of looking at these events with as much calmness as is consistent with human nature, of remembering that not every Irishman… is a Fenian. This conspiracy to which these Clerkenwell assassins belong is probably directed by a few, and its active conspirators may be only some thousand in the whole kingdom. This leaven might, indeed, if left to itself, soon leaven the whole lump; and it is therefore necessary to remove it at once. But, while doing strict and stern justice on the guilty, we may separate them in our minds from the excitable and deluded. It may be that this great crime will cure many who have taken the infection of Fenianism.
(The Times, 1867, 6)
Considering both the anger and caution expressed in this single article it is easy to see why Boucicault omitted the song from performances of Arrah-na-Pogue while feelings were running so high. However, rather than simply removing ‘The Wearing of the Green’ from the scene so the soldiers arrived after Tim and Katty’s jig, Boucicault substituted it with an alternative Irish folk song.
The replacement Boucicault chose was ‘The Shan Van Vocht’; a composition with an equally political focus that laments Ireland’s subjugation. ‘The Shan Van Vocht’ is a protest song which first appeared during the civil unrest in Ireland at the end of the eighteenth century. Like ‘The Wearing of the Green’ there were numerous versions of the lyrics, however the song’s basic structure and subject always remained the same. The ‘shan van vocht’, which translates as ‘the poor old woman’, is a personification of Ireland and in the song she expresses her belief that the country will soon be liberated from colonial rule when allied forces arrive from either France or America. A new version of the song written by a prominent member of the Fenian Brotherhood called Charles Kickham was published in an anthology entitled Street ballads, popular poetry, and household songs of Ireland the year after Arrah-na-Pogue premiered (Duncathail, 1865, 152-4). In the following year Kickham was sentenced to ten years penal servitude (though some conflicting sources state fourteen years) along with two other executive officers of the Fenian Brotherhood (see The Contemporary Review, 1866, 495). As such, Boucicault not only swapped one protest song for another, the replacement he selected had been reworked by a recently jailed leader of the group connected with the explosion at Clerkenwell prison. Therefore, rather than neutralising the scene’s political implications Boucicault’s replacement actually amplified the connection between the play and Irish freedom movement by adding contemporary resonance. Indeed, what could initially be interpreted as the playwright’s willingness to sacrifice controversial dramatic content that may have provoked unsavoury responses, was in actuality an action which overtly opposed the very type of cultural repression the original scene depicted.
In the scenes discussed during this section the audience’s comprehension of the inter-textual parallels between a specified composition and the events occurring on stage is reliant upon their prior cultural knowledge. The audience must be able to identify the composition and be aware of its original incarnation as this information reveals the music’s symbolic pertinence. When the music is acousmatic the sound and the meaning associated with the chosen composition may also act as a form of aural intrusion. In A Doll’s House the semantically charged tarantella intrudes upon either the private beginning of a romantic union, or the relinquishment of female independence, depending on the viewpoint adopted. However, in John Gabriel Borkman the ‘Danse Macabre’ drives one character off the stage and another to distraction before an alternative subjective interpretation is revealed. The positioning and rendition of ‘The Wearing of the Green’ was also dramaturgically crafted to create a scene that transcended mere entertainment and produced a theatrically exciting and politically relevant moment. Subsequently, the song took on new associations outside the play and future events ultimately coloured the implication of its sounding and altered how characters who chose to sing it would be regarded. Indeed, the request for Boucicault to censor a song which was essentially about censorship ironically corroborates his success in incorporating this musical segment. In conclusion, it is apparent from these examples that some nineteenth-century playwrights carefully considered the inter-textual associations certain compositions would instigate and selected diegetic music that carried semantic implications which could be developed alongside the narrative themes and character situations it accompanied.
4. E. Dissonant Harmony and Anempathetic Underscoring
A number of examples discussed in the previous sections on diegetic music have created an effect which could be described as either dissonant harmony or anempathetic underscoring. These include the wild dance music Hedda Gabler plays before committing suicide, the brilliant passage on the piano Drusilla performs while John Christison reprimands himself for moral turpitude, and Hialmar’s declaration of happiness interposed with his plaintively performed polka. In all these scenarios the aural signs provided by the characters/musicians do not seem to correspond with the dialogue and behaviour which precedes, accompanies and follows them. The basic principles and effects produced through this technique have already been discussed and established with regard to non-diegetic music in section 3.D (see pages 124-30). Therefore, the following chapter will identify and analyse examples which feature similar clashes between diegetic music and dramatic events.
Although the naturalistic aesthetic prohibited the use of non-diegetic underscoring and therefore initiated new approaches to diegetic music, the dramatic effect created by a contrapuntal aural accompaniment positioned within the storyworld had already been exploited in some melodramas. For instance, in the last act of The Colleen Bawn the clash between visual and aural signs is used to create tension between the events taking place on and off stage. In the final stages of the play the narrative works towards its climax as Corrigan prepares to march into Anne Chute and Hardress’ wedding party with numerous soldiers and evidence that will secure the groom’s arrest. Corrigan’s plan and the imminence of the raid are established as follows:
Scene Fourth. Outside of Castle Chute. …
(Enter Corrigan and six Soldiers, R.1 E.)
Corrigan: Quietly boys; sthrew yourselves round the wood – some of ye at the gate beyant – two more this way – watch the windies; if he’s there to escape at all, he’ll jump from a windy. The house is surrounded.
(Quadrille music under stage. – Air, “The Boulanger.”) Oh, oh! They’re dancin’ – dancin’ and merry-making, while the net is closin’ around ‘em.
(Boucicault, 1860, 44)
In this example, the music completes two functions. Firstly, it has the practical role of aurally locating the wedding party taking place off stage, as well as creating a suitably up-beat atmosphere to underscore this happy occasion. The style of music specified in the stage directions would have indexically signified that the unseen guests were dancing (both the ‘quadrille’ and ‘The Boulanger’ are dances preformed in groups rather than couples). Corrigan gleefully corroborates this reading and callously highlights the disparity between the plan he has orchestrated and the celebration happening off stage. It is this juxtaposition that creates tension as the ‘good’ characters are clearly pre-occupied and oblivious to the villain’s wicked machinations. Therefore, while Corrigan takes steps to ensure Hardress cannot escape, the sound of the party continues until the soldiers move in and the acousmatic music is replaced with a ‘tumult’ (ibid., 46).
Two alternative variants of anempathetic underscoring were also employed in Harris, Raleigh, and Hamilton’s melodrama Cheer Boys, Cheer. During Act II, a conman and opportunist by the name of Reginald Fitzdavies, joins forces with Lord Chepstow’s sister-in-law (Lady Ughtred Kesteven) and they hatch a plot designed to ruin the heroine’s (Blanche Lindsay) reputation. Blanche is engaged to Lord Chepstow and Lady Ughtred is concerned that if the marriage goes ahead her own influence over him will be greatly diminished. Fitzdavies convinces Blanche to secretly visit his office under the pretence that he will reveal who stole twenty-thousand pounds worth of bonds from her. However, moments after she has arrived Lady Ughtred enters with Lord Chepstow and despite Blanche’s protestations of innocence the two conspirators convince him that Fitzdavies and his fiancée are having an affair. Chepstow subsequently calls off the engagement and Lady Ughtred spreads news of the scandal through the press.
Blanche’s guardian (Lady Hilyard) refuses to accept the accusations and organises a party believing that the guests she invites will express their solidarity by attending. However, Lady Hilyard’s faith in her peers proves to be misplaced as very few guests actually turn up. Furthermore, those that do arrive are mainly men who make up excuses for their wives’ absences and then proceed to gossip amongst themselves. During this scene the stage directions establish Blanche is ‘very pale and tottering’ (Harris, et al., 1895, 60) thereby indicating that the whispered conversations and conspicuous lack of female support is proving too much for her. Nevertheless, Lady Hilyard is determined to keep Blanche cogent and sends for smelling salts before explaining that she must smile and ‘face it out’ (ibid., 1895, 61). While the virtuous heroine suffers and Lady Hilyard becomes increasingly annoyed by her guests’ behaviour, the ‘eminent pianist’ and cellist she has employed for the occasion continue to play classical selections and receive ‘general murmur[s]’ of thanks and appreciation.
In this context, the diegetic musical accompaniment provides a number of readings. Firstly, the rendition of classical compositions highlights the fact that this is an upper-class gathering (although the guests do not display the courtesy or refinement Lady Hilyard had hoped). Another important factor is the reputation of the pianist Lady Hilyard has employed to entertain the numerous guests she presumed would attend. The musician Lady Hilyard refers to was a famous Polish virtuoso who had first performed in London five years before the play was written. Since his debut in 1890 Paderewski had achieved both fame and critical recognition. Obviously Paderewski himself did not actually appear on stage, however the stage direction which requests that the actor who played him should be ‘made up a la Paderewski’ (ibid., 60) establishes the intention to impersonate his appearance (probably by imitating the pianist’s distinctive hairstyle and moustache). The spectacle of this famous musician entertaining a small audience who appear more interested in spreading scandalous gossip than enjoying the virtuoso’s performance further emphasises the discrepancy between Lady Hilyard’s intentions and the actual events taking place. Paderewski’s contribution also breaks with the traditional conventions of underscoring. Rather than echoing the protagonists’ emotional experiences with a consonant accompaniment, or accentuating the party’s failings by featuring a poor quality musical act, the diegetic accompaniment is of the highest standard and continues to play without any regard for the situation developing. Therefore, the music itself can be classed as ‘anempathetic’ because it creates a ‘backdrop of indifference’ against which the events play out (Chion, 1994, 8).
The Act reaches it dramatic climax when Lady Hilyard can endure the façade no longer and after abruptly silencing the musicians she takes the floor to deliver a lengthy speech condemning her so called friends:
Lady H: … (Turning to Musicians at piano) Stop that music.
(Musicians break off; murmur of astonishment among guests)
And you, gentlemen, if that’s what you call yourselves, listen to me instead, while I tell you what you’ll very seldom hear in good society – the plain truth. You’ve come here to-night like a pack of cowards as you are, to insult me, your hostess, - to insult an innocent, defenceless girl – Stand up, Blanche, my dear, and face them!
(Harris, et al., 1895, 64)
After turning out all her guests and denouncing the ‘spite and malice and cowardice’ of polite society she decrees that Blanche, George and herself will leave England and return to her childhood home in Africa: ‘a land where people may be rugged but at least they are true’ (ibid, 66). Lady Hilyard then sits at the piano herself and begins to play and sing ‘Cheer Boys, Cheer’ which is subsequently taken up by the orchestra as the curtain drops on Act II. This musical shift from classical compositions performed by Paderewski to Lady Hilyard’s impromptu rendition of James Lindsay’s popular broadside ballad essentially prepares the audience for the African adventure which begins in Act III. However, the circumstances and manner in which ‘Cheer Boys, Cheer’ is performed also provides a moment of dissonant harmony.
The stage directions given in the dramatic text establish that when Lady Hilyard reaches the song’s chorus she ‘breaks down and sinks her head on the piano, sobbing’ (ibid, 66), rather than adopting a posture or passion which reflects the triumphant lyrical sentiment. Indeed, the final tableau that immediately follows this recital does not depict a group of characters preparing to leave England and travel ‘to the bright tomorrow…in search of fortune’ (Lindsay, 185-). Instead, the audience are left with the image of Lady Hilyard weeping with Blanche kneeling at her feet and George trying to comfort her. Furthermore, when the diegetic rendition abruptly ends because Lady Hilyard is overcome with emotion, the orchestra pick up where she left off. However, rather than adopting a slow tempo, soft volume or minor key in sympathy with the characters on stage the stage directions indicate that ‘Cheer Boys Cheer’ should be performed fortissimo (ibid., 66).
The clash between music and action that occurs in these examples illustrate the most elementary rule of dramatic construction. Put simply, drama is created through opposition. In melodrama the most obvious manifestation of this principle is a moral or physical clash between heroic and villainous characters. However, this form of diametric dramatic conflict was also signified through musical counterpoint. For instance, the cheerful acousmatic music that represents the ‘good’ characters’ wedding celebrations in The Colleen Bawn is juxtaposed against a visual and dialogic reminder of the villain’s vengeful plot and cruel nature. Similarly in Cheer Boys, Cheer the disparity between the composition Lady Hilyard selects and the emotional breakdown she experiences whilst playing it indicates that the villainous characters’ plans have succeeded for the time being. This relatively straightforward approach to creating dramatic opposition by incorporating diegetic music that functions contrapuntally in relation to the narrative/action was adopted and developed by modern naturalistic playwrights in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. These innovations and modifications are particularly apparent in Chekhov’s plays The Cherry Orchard and The Three Sisters (1901).
In the following example from The Cherry Orchard (1904) it is the motives of the character who instructs an acousmatic band to play and the reactions this precipitates, rather than the musicians’ own intentions, which informs how the audience interpret the scene. The play’s narrative follows the gradual decline and eventual sale of the Ranevsky family estate. This transaction is necessitated by the family’s debts and the ownership of a cherry orchard which is no longer economically viable since the serfs were emancipated. Although various solutions which would allow the family to keep their estate are suggested, neither Madame Ranevsky nor her family seem to comprehend the necessity for action. The most practical solution is put forward by Lopakhin, a wealthy neighbour who was formerly a serf, who offers to loan the family 50,000 rubles so they can pay off their debts and keep the estate. However, Lopakhin’s proposition carries the caveat that the cherry orchard is chopped down and the land used to build summer homes for tourists thereby providing a source of income with which the loan can be repaid. Madame Ranevsky cannot bring herself to sacrifice the orchard and by Act III the entire estate is under auction. The sale itself takes place in the neighbouring town and is not featured on stage, instead the audience are presented with a farewell party thrown by Madame Ranevsky.
At the end of the preceding Act, Ranevsky’s daughter Anya and a student called Trophimof are alone together on stage outside the estate. Anya has become somewhat infatuated with Trophimof and while he philosophises she listens intently. From off-stage a clerk known as Ephikhodof can be heard playing a ‘sad tune on his guitar’ while Ranevsky’s adopted daughter (and estate manager) Barbara (the translator’s English interpretation of the Russian name Varia) repeatedly calls for Anya (Chekhov, 1904, 126). It is against this sonic backdrop that Trophimof observes the moon rising and tells Anya that happiness is so close he ‘can hear the sound of its footsteps’ (ibid.). Anya then suggests that Trophimof accompanies her to the river and they both exit. The ambient milieu created by the melancholy music and moonlit stage at the end of Act II is directly countered when the third Act opens:
(A sitting-room separated by an arch from a big drawing-room behind.
Chandelier lighted. The Jewish band mentioned in Act II. is heard playing on
the landing. Evening. In the drawing-room they are dancing the grand rond.
Simeonof-Pishtchik is heard crying: "Promenade a une paire!" The dancers
come down into the sitting-room. The first pair consists of Pishtchik and
Charlotte; the second of Trophimof and Madame Ranevsky; the third of
Anya and the Post-Office Official; the fourth of Barbara and the
Stationmaster, etc., etc. Barbara is crying softly and wipes away the tears as
she dances. In the last pair comes Dunyasha. They cross the sitting-room.)
Pishtchik: Grand rond, balancez . . . Les cavaliers a genou et remerciez vos dames.
(Chekhov, 1904, 126)
The contrast between the two Acts is immediately striking: the rural location has been supplanted by a grand interior setting, the moonlight replaced with an illuminated chandelier, and Ephikhodof’s sorrowful strains on his guitar exchanged for a full band performing lively dance music. While all these signs indicate that a celebration is taking place, when the fourth couple move through the sitting room the sight and sound of Barbra crying while she dances jars against the apparent merriment and challenges the audience’s initial reading. Indeed, as the dialogue between the characters slowly unfolds it becomes apparent that the Ranevsky’s problems are far from being over; they have no money to pay the musicians and the estate is in the process of being auctioned away. Although the outcome of this sale is mentioned a few times it does not seem to negate the party atmosphere; Ranevsky hums a lezginka (‘a lively Caucasian dance in two-four time…’, Calderon, 1904, 127), while Anya’s German governess Charlotte performs a card trick and a ventriloquism act. For the most part the characters’ ebullient and trivial behaviour acts as counterpoint to the important decisive event taking place in another unseen part of the storyworld. However, the lack of correspondence between what is presented on stage and this crucial narrative development does not dissipate the scene’s dramatic purpose. Gilman explains the function of this dramaturgical technique in the following way:
[T]he effect is to multiply speculation and heighten anxiety while at the same time, as always, keeping the event from becoming the nail-biting centre of direct attention a melodramatist would unhesitatingly have made it.
(Gilman, 1995, 231)
In effect, the scenario Chekhov creates is an innovative variant of anempathetic underscoring. According to Chion this type of aural accompaniment ‘exhibit[s] conspicuous indifference to the situation’ taking place on stage and thereby highlights the fact that outside the trials and tribulations experienced by the characters, the world keeps turning (Chion, 1994, 8). The invocation of this external fictional reality intensifies the scene’s emotional resonance by ‘inscribing it on a cosmic background’ (ibid.). However, in The Cherry Orchard the apparent discord between expositional tension and musical accompaniment is created at the characters’ request. As such, the Ranevsky’s create their own anempathetic environment which they use to disguise the reality of their situation. It is as if the realisation that change can no longer be prevented or postponed makes the characters cling even harder to the routines and trappings of their out-dated, un-maintainable lifestyle. From this perspective, the anempathetic underscoring is not produced by an indifferent world outside the characters’ sphere of influence. Instead, the protagonists commandeer the musical affect for themselves and exploit it to maintain their cherished illusion of intransience.
Although Chekhov does not specify a particular composition that should be played during this scene the dramatic text does give an indication as to the type of dance music required. Firstly, Pishtchik tells the dancers to promenade with their partner (‘Promenade a une paire’) at which point the different couples move through the small sitting room before re-entering the large drawing room. Then he asks them to form a circle and rotate (‘Grand rond, balancez’). Finally, the men are told to go down on their knees and thank the lady they were dancing with (‘Les cavaliers a genou et remerciez vos dames’). Pishtchik’s presence as master of ceremonies and the instructions he gives suggest that the composition which accompanies the dance should be up-beat, bright, and lively party music. The first records that reference either a specific composition or dance used in an English language version of The Cherry Orchard are contained within two reviews describing the Oxford Players’ 1925 production directed by J. B. Fagan:
…the delicate beauty of that scene in which these spirits in bondage dance home and orchard away to the tune of an old Viennese waltz.
(Agate, 1944, 112)
And so they drift on, and even dance (to Chopin’s melancholy valse in A minor), while the governess does card tricks and dresses up a pierrot, to learn when the dance is over that the cherry orchard has been sold.
(The Times, 1925, 14)
Agate’s reference to a Viennese waltz rather than simply a waltz implies that the characters performed the quicker European version of this dance rather than the slower more stately anglicised version (the music for a Viennese waltz plays at sixty bars per minute, whereas the accompaniment for a standard waltz is thirty bars per minute; see Moore, 2002, 33 and 283). However, the reviewer for The Times actually names the specific composition that was used. Chopin’s valse in A minor (full title ‘Valse Brillante in A Minor’, Op. 34 No. 2) lacks two conventional characteristics of waltz music. Firstly, it does not feature the constant um-pah-pah commonly associated with this musical form, and secondly the tempo of the composition is lento and therefore some practitioners regard the piece as being too slow for dancing (Yaraman, 2002, 73). Chopin’s biographer and contemporary Frederick Niecks described this waltz as being an ‘exception to the rule’ due to its ‘retired and private nature’ (1888, 936). Nieks also attempted to articulate the emotional resonance of this composition by explaining what he thought it revealed about Chopin’s musical taste and intentions: ‘[T]he composer evidently found pleasure in giving way to this delicious languor, in indulging in these melancholy thoughts full of sweetest, tenderest loving and longing’ (Niecks, 1888, 936).
The slow tempo, unconventional rhythm, and mournful tone of Chopin’s composition does not fit with Agate’s Viennese waltz reference (which may have been related to the geographic location where Chopin made his name rather than distinguishing a particular dancing style), or the instructions Pishtchik calls out to the dancers. As such, the composition used in the 1925 production would not have created the up-beat party atmosphere necessary to generate the anempathetic counterpoint Chekhov provides the blueprint for. Indeed, this musical selection is more in keeping with the theatrical tradition of consonant underscoring as it aurally emulates the protagonists’ melancholic emotional state. Furthermore, not only does this choice seem to ignore the playwright’s original intentions, it also disregards the description of how the scene should be portrayed given in the English translation used by the Oxford players.
For this production, Fagan used George Calderon’s translation of The Cherry Orchard. Calderon’s version included an introductory section entitled ‘Contrast of Moods’ which explored the frequent juxtapositions that occur in Chekhov’s plays. In order to explain this stylistic characteristic Calderon uses the opening of Act III as a paradigmatic example:
It is an old trick of novelists and playwrights to make surrounding nature adapt herself to the moods of their personages; to make the dismal things happen in dismal weather, and the cheerful things in sunshine. In real life people as often as not make love on a foggy November morning and break it off on a moonlight night in June. But the artificiality of the old method may be excused by the unity of effect which it produces in the mind of the spectator. There is a far finer effect however in disharmony, in contrasting instead of attuning the personages and their environment. …Tchekhof has made a system of such contrasts; you find them in all his plays… In Act III we see Madame Ranevsky waiting to learn the result of the auction. She sits in the midst, a tragic figure, bewailing the imminent destruction of the orchard that is haunted by so many memories of her childhood and her ancestry. But everyone about her is indifferent; they have got in a band of Jewish fiddlers; a medley of ignoble guests and intrusive underlings dances to its silly jigging, “a tedious latter-day dance, with no life, no grace, no vigour in it, not even any desire of the flesh; and they do not realise that the very ground on which they are dancing is passing away from under their feet.”
(Calderon, 1911, 12)
The citation Calderon gives at the end of this description is taken from Meyerhold’s article ‘The Naturalistic Theatre and the Theatre of Moods’ (1908). Both Calderon’s and Meyerhold’s interpretations indicate that the dance performed by the guests should be more of a jig than a waltz; a distinction which would clearly alter the musical requirements and the atmosphere created on stage. Calderon’s description also eloquently articulates and advocates the principles of anempathetic accompaniment, particularly with regard to how this approach reflects reality more accurately than consonant underscoring. Indeed, although it seems Fagan did not take Calderon’s advice, the translator’s analysis clearly confirms that the dramaturgical potential Chion attributes to this type of underscoring was identified, understood and even published over eighty years before the technique became connected with film.
Towards the end of the Act, Lopakhin and Gayef arrive at the party after attending the auction in town and a suddenly ‘agitated’ Madame Ranevsky interrogates them for the outcome. Neither character is immediately forthcoming with any information pertaining to the sale. An embarrassed Lopakhin explains that they missed their train, while Gayef tearfully responds with ‘an up and down gesture of the hand’ before handing Firs a parcel of food and exiting (Chekhov, 1904, 138). It is only after six dialogic exchanges have taken place that Lopakhin finally reveals he has bought the cherry orchard. Barbara responds by throwing her keys to the estate on the sitting room floor and exiting, while Madame Ranevsky reels and ‘would fall to the ground but for the chair and table by her’ (ibid., 138-9). At this point, Lophakin recounts the events at the auction and towards the end of his speech he hears the musicians tuning up in the hall. Lophakin commands the band to play, however before they begin he reveals his plans for the cherry orchard:
Lopakhin: … (The musicians are heard tuning up.) Hey, musicians, play! I
want to hear you. Come everyone and see Yermolai Lopakhin lay his axe to the cherry orchard, come and see the trees fall down! We'll fill the place with villas; our grandsons and great-grandsons shall see a
new life here. . . . Strike up, music! (The band plays. Madame
Ranevsky sinks into a chair and weeps bitterly.) (Reproachfully) Oh
why, why didn't you listen to me? You can't put the clock back now,
poor dear. (Crying) Oh, that all this were past and over! Oh, that our
unhappy topsy-turvy life were changed!
Pishtchik: (taking him by the arm, sotto voce) She's crying. Let's go into the
drawing-room and leave her alone to ... Come on. (Taking him by the
arm, and going up towards the drawing-room)
Lopakhin: What's up? Play your best, musicians! Let everything be as I want.
(Ironically.) Here comes the new squire, the owner of the cherry
orchard! 1 (Knocking up by accident against a table and nearly
throwing down the candelabra) Never mind, I can pay for
everything!
(Chekhov, 1904, 139-140)
After reducing Madame Ranevsky to tears, Lophakin is led away and the Act closes with music playing and the former owner of the cherry orchard crying. It could be argued that the music provides a consonant aural backdrop to Lopakhin’s jubilant mood after having made a financially astute purchase. Indeed, Lopakhin’s command for the musicians to play could be interpreted as an assertion of his new authority. However, although Lopakhin initiates the music it is clear that he is by no means overjoyed by the situation. For instance, before exiting he begins ‘crying’ and states ‘Oh, that all this were past and over! Oh, that our unhappy topsy-turvy life were changed!’ (ibid., 140). Nonetheless, although Lopakhin may not be jovial himself his instructions clearly suggest that he wants the music to be celebratory. Put simply, Lopakhin wants to create an aural atmosphere that reflects how he should feel, rather than how he does feel. Therefore, the diegetic music which underscores this dramatic moment will provide a direct contrast to the emotions being displayed by the characters on stage; none of whom are in an emotional state that could be described as consonant with an up-beat musical composition.
In this context, the anempathetic accompaniment heightens the scene’s poignancy. The aural backdrop emulates the musical conventions of a celebration which thereby highlights the distance between the characters’ current emotional state and the positive feelings generally associated with such occasions. Lopakhin’s acquisition appears to have left him bewildered and upset rather than elated and triumphant. Madame Ranevsky can no longer pretend that the inevitable is avoidable and ‘weeps bitterly’ in a chair. Pishtchik, the former master of ceremonies, now speaks quietly and tries to get Lopakhin into the drawing room. Nevertheless, the band and the music they play are impervious to these emotions and provide an accompaniment which corresponds with social convention, rather than the characters’ subjective reactions. Furthermore, if the accompaniment aurally emulated any of the protagonists’ behaviour the anempathetic effect would be lost. For instance, if Lopakhin appeared overjoyed and the music underscored his optimism then the dramatic opposition within the scene would seem to centre around two contrasting character types. In these circumstances Lopakhin becomes an insensitive and cruel villain who gloats over Madame Ranevsky’s loss by taking control of the band she hired and using them to underscore his victory. However, because both Lopakhin and Madame Ranevsky are deeply distressed by the outcome of the auction the clash between music and scenario is far more profound. This subtle but important difference was also identified by Calderon in the footnote he provides for the scene which describes how Lopakhin should deliver his speech and the function of the diegetic underscoring: ‘[T]his is not boasting, but bitter irony… he is ashamed of his own happiness; let the music drown it’ (1911, 140). Ironically, Lopakhin uses the band in the same way that Madame Ranevsky does as both characters hope their fears and insecurities will be obscured by an aural environment which projects how they would like to feel and be perceived. As such, the music is an anempathetic mask the characters use to conceal and protect themselves from a reality they do not understand, or as Braun describes it ‘a process of change beyond their control and comprehension’ (2000, 115-116).
Another Chekhov play which uses music to create a similar anempathetic background is Three Sisters (1901). The play’s narrative spans a number of years and is also thematically focused upon change and inactivity. However, in the Three Sisters although the main protagonists have hopes for the future, the events that take place and the siblings’ dispositions prevent any of their plans from being realised. During the first Act it is established that eleven years ago the three sisters (Irena, Masha, Olga) and their brother (Andrei) left Moscow and moved to a small town far from the city. The play begins on the first anniversary of their Father’s death, which also happens to be Irena’s name-day. In the opening dialogue Olga recollects her father’s funeral (Chekhov, 1901, 3). Despite Irena’s objection Olga continues to reminisce and soon her recollections turn to memories of Moscow (ibid., 4). Olga’s nostalgic ruminations quickly catch Irena’s imagination and both sisters decide that as soon as possible they will sell the family home and return to Moscow; an intention which will be frequently reiterated during the play. The potential for the protagonists to change their circumstances is also provided by the officers stationed at the nearby artillery post who frequently visit the sisters. A Baron by the name of Tuzenbach hopes to marry Irena, and Vershinin (a new commander recently arrived from Moscow) later declares his love for Masha. However, by the end of the play all the sisters’ hopes and plans are scuppered. The family home has been mortgaged to pay for Andrei’s gambling debts, Tuzenbach is killed in a duel by a rival suitor, and Vershinin leaves town with the entire battalion.
The regiment’s departure is initially indicated through various off-stage calls of ‘Ah-oo!’ and ‘Heigh-ho!’ as their boats dock, however the final exodus is marked by acousmatic music: ‘Behind the scenes the band plays a march; all listen’ (ibid, 93). Just after the music has begun a family friend arrives on stage and informs Irena that Tuzenbach has been killed in a duel and the following scene ensues:
(The three sisters stand with their arms round one another)
Masha: Oh, listen to that band! They are going away from us; one has gone altogether, gone forever. We are left alone to begin our life over again… We’ve got to live … we’ve got to live …
Irena: (Lays her head on Olga's bosom) A time will come when everyone will know what all this is for, why there is misery; there will be no mysteries and, meanwhile, we have got to live … we have got to work, only to work! Tomorrow I shall go alone; I shall teach in the school, and will give all my life to those to whom it may be of use. Now it’s autumn, soon winter come and cover us with snow, and I will work, I will work.
Olga: (embraces both her sisters) The music is so gay, so confident, and one longs for life! Oh my God! Time will pass, and we shall be forgotten, our faces will be forgotten, our voices, and how many there were of us; but our sufferings will pass into joy for those who will live after us, happiness and peace will be established upon earth, and they will remember kindly and bless those who have lived before. Oh dear sisters, our life is not ended yet. We shall live The music is so gay, so joyful, and it seems as though a little more and we shall know what we are living for, why we are suffering … If we only knew - if we only knew!
(The music grows more and more subdued; Kulgin, cheerful and smiling, brings the hat and cape; Audrey pushes the perambulator in which Bobik is sitting.)
Tchebutykin: (humming soflty) “Tarara-boom-dee-ay!” (reads his paper). It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.
Olga: If we only knew, if we only knew!
(Curtain.)
(Chekhov,1901, 95)
Firstly, the up-beat music juxtaposes the emotions experienced by two of the characters on stage. Irena has just found out her fiancé has been killed, and Masha is upset by Vershinin’s departure. Secondly, the music is produced by an acousmatic source that exists within the peripheral storyworld, but outside protagonists’ field of influence. As such, it represents an anempathetic reality which neither recognises nor responds to the personal hopes and dreams that are shattered in its wake. Indeed, the musical accompaniment to the soldiers’ departure both literally and metaphorically signifies that Irena and Masha have missed the boat. Thirdly, there is also a direct contrast between the rhythm of the acousmatic music and the sisters’ situation which creates a poignant counterpoint between what the audience see and what they hear. The music playing off stage is a military march and therefore naturally associated with kinetic rhythmical movement, however this aural accompaniment is matched with a static image of the three sisters. Consequently, the music’s momentum ironically highlights the sisters’ inactivity as the characters that have most frequently expressed their desire to leave remain stationary while the underscoring aurally represents the departure of numerous others.
When Komisarjevsky directed an English language version of Three Sisters in 1926 he made numerous changes to Chekhov’s dramatic text. The play’s time frame was altered and rather than being set at the beginning of the nineteenth century, Komisarjevsky’s promptbook and the audience programme give the following dates for each Act: Act I - May 1870; Act II - January 1871; Act III - October 1871; Act IV - August 1872. The play was also anglicised and Irena’s name day became her birthday, Russian patronymics were either removed or simplified, and where possible the names of characters, locations and institutions were altered. English suffixes such as Doctor, Colonel, Baron were often used instead of the characters’ Russian names, and Ferapont’s recollection regarding a story he heard from the porter at the tax office that ‘two thousand people froze to death…either in St. Petersburg or Moscow’ (ibid., 87) became a porter at ‘Midland Bank’ and the humanitarian disaster was relocated to ‘Norway or Iceland’ (Tracy, 1993, 72). Komisarjevsky also cut many of Tuzenbach and Irena’s speeches in which they orate their need to work; an alteration probably intended to marginalise potential associations between the play and the Russian revolution (ibid.). In Chekhov on the British Stage: 1909 – 1987 Miles proposes that Komisarjevsky’s decision to include piano recitals (featuring compositions by Scarlatti, Liszt and Prokofiev) during the intervals between Acts is another example of how the director made the play more appealing for British audiences (1987, 17). However, it is also worth noting that this was common practice on the British stage even when naturalistic plays were being presented. For instance, The Independent Theatre Society’s staging of The Wild Duck and A Doll’s House both credit a musical director (in the first instance C.W. Lammertime and the second J.M. Capel). Indeed, nearly half of all the Ibsen plays performed in Britain during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century appear to have incorporated entr’acte music (see Nicoll, 1962; Wearing, 1976).
The director’s adaptation also took into account British theatrical conventions by removing any negative references to Tuzenbach’s appearance and presenting him as a romantic lead; a decision that the actor (John Gielgud) who played him would later discuss in his autobiography:
…he [Komisarjevsky] cut all references to the Baron being an ugly man – which is Tchechov’s reason why Irna cannot love him – and made me play the part in a juvenile make- up, with a smart uniform and side whiskers, looking as handsome as possible. I have never been able to understand why he did this – but I have a suspicion that he felt that a juvenile love interest was essential in any play that was going to appeal to an English audience.
(Gielgud, 1953, 97)
As well as his description of Tuzenbach’s appearance Gielgud’s autobiography also contains information detailing Komisarjevsky’s design for the set used in Acts I and IV:
He [Komisarjevsky] arranged the first and last acts on a sort of terrace. Through big open windows, stretching right across the stage, one could see the room within – the dining table (to seat thirteen) angled off stage into the wings. In front, a clothes line on one side and the shadow of a tree on the other (a branch tied with a piece of string to the front of a strong lamp in the wings was responsible for this effect) gave the feeling of outdoors.
(Gielgud, 1953, 96)
In Chekhov’s dramatic text, the final act takes place inside the ‘old garden of the Prozorov’s house’ (Chekhov, 1901, 74). However, rather than creating an outside location Komisarjevsky recycled the same set used in the first Act and contained the main action within the frame of the French windows. The floor plan depicting this spatial arrangement is sketched into Komisarjevsky’s promptbook as shown below (Tracy, 1993, 64):
[pic]
Fig. 14 The Three Sisters Act IV stage plan (Tracy, 1993, 64)
The return of the first Act setting, combined with Olga’s speech and the acousmatic music, creates an effect best described as ironic circularity. When the play begins Olga reminisces about the past and recalls the sound of a military band playing at their father’s funeral. She then goes further back and remembers leaving Moscow. This subject captures Irena’s attention and the two of them set out their plan to return there. However, at the end of the play Olga stands in the same location and talks about the future while a military band plays off stage and the regiment moves on to another town without them. As such, all the themes Olga introduced when the play began (death, departure and future plans) are dialogically and musically reiterated in the final moments and the re-appearance of the set from Act I adds a physical dimension to this repetition.
In the back pages of Komisarjevsky’s promptbook there is a letter to the director which suggests two possible compositions that the military band could play as the soldiers leave town: ‘The Double Headed Eagle March’ or ‘The Girl I left Behind’. Although the title of the latter option would have suggested an ironic link between the departing regiment and the three sisters that remain on stage as well as connecting the music with the conclusion to Masha and Irena’s romantic relationships, the production’s final moments were underscored by ‘The Double Headed Eagle March’ (also known as ‘Under the Double Eagle’). The music Komisarjevsky used for this scene has been mentioned in two academic articles that discuss this production. However, both these papers incorrectly cite the American band leader John Philip Sousa as the composer of ‘The Double Headed Eagle March’ (see Emeljanow, 1983, 72 and Tracy, 1993, 70). Although Sousa and his band certainly popularised this composition by releasing a number of recordings for early sound reproduction devices, the music was actually written by Joseph Franz Wagner in 1902 and titled ‘Unter dem Doppeladler’ (Op. 159). J.F. Wagner was an Austrian composer who became known as the ‘Viennese March King’ and the doppeladler or ‘double eagle’ cited in the composition’s title refers to the central image that appeared in the Austro-Hungarian Empire coat of arms (see Gammond, 1991, 371). Therefore, the composition has an inter-textual significance that extends beyond the music’s position within America’s popular music culture. In its original context the ‘The Double Headed Eagle March’ was played by regimental bands as an accompaniment to displays of the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s military power (indeed it remains the 1st Austrian Artillery, Second Regiment’s official march).
This connection between the composition and the Austro-Hungarian Empire would have taken on a new dimension when Komisarjevsky’s production was performed in Britain only eight years after millions had lost their life during the First World War. In the years that followed this conflict the states of central Europe were divided into numerous smaller countries and the Austro-Hungarian Empire was completely dissolved (see Keegan 1988, 7). From this perspective, Komisarjevsky’s choice of music creates inter-textual connections that resonate on a far deeper level than a straightforward juxtaposition between what occurs on stage and the acousmatic accompaniment. There are various readings such a pertinent association may have initiated in the audience members who watched this production. The composition could be interpreted as an anthem of the enemy or the defeated, a reminder of military victory or humanitarian loss, or even a chilling posthumous prediction made by the director on Chekhov’s behalf.
In Olga’s final speech Komisarjevsky removed the dialogic references to work and altered the soliloquy so it focused almost exclusively on her positive predictions for future generations. This edited version (given in Komisarjevsky’s promptbook) is shown below and the words underlined indicate the alternative dialogue that the director wrote himself:
Olga: (embraces both her sisters) Listen to The music. It sounds so gay, so confident, one longs for life! Time will pass, and we shall go away forever, we shall be forgotten, faces will be forgotten, our voices, and how many there were of us; but our sufferings will pass into joy for those who will live after us, peace will be established upon earth, and happy people will remember kindly and bless them who have suffered… dear sisters, our life is not ended yet. We shall live. The music is so gay, so joyful, and it seems as though a little more and we shall know what we are living for, why we are suffering … If we only knew –
(see Tracy, 1993, 71)
Both Chekhov’s original and Komisarjevsky’s adaptation use the music to instigate Olga’s speech. Moreover, from a purely dialogic perspective, the confident and positive picture of the future Olga paints could be seen to empathetically match the acousmatic music which underscores it. Of course, the events which immediately precede the music, the fact that Olga’s previous optimistic premonitions have all proved incorrect, and the insignificant role she ascribes herself and her sisters, clearly prevent such a reading from being communicated. Therefore, when her speech is accompanied by ‘The Double Headed Eagle March’ the inter-textual connection between this composition and the First World War further highlights Olga’s misplaced faith in the future. This musical reference exhumes memories of death and destruction and thereby deepens the scene’s ironic resonance by reminding the audience just how wrong Olga’s prediction of happiness and peace would prove to be. Indeed, when Olga delivers her last line of the play the post-war audience already possess the knowledge that she wishes for.
Although the techniques discussed during this section are less conventional and more uncommon than their consonant counterparts, the following extract from an 1887 edition of Stage provides both a description and a commendation for what film sound theorists would now refer to as anempathetic music or dissonant harmony:
One very charming effect, more than half made by music…is the result of pathetic dialogue – a tender parting for example – while some light-hearted character is supposed to be in an adjoining room innocently playing the cheeriest and brightest of music. This is a semi-comic effect of the highest order. But if the dialogue and situation take a turn towards the tragic, instead of only the pathetic, then the effect is more greatly heightened by the performance of such a homely melody as ‘Home, Sweet Home’; but it must still be supposed to be played innocently of all knowledge of the parting which is being acted.
(Stage, 1887)
In this editorial the writer describes one procedure through which diegetic music can be used to create an emotional counterpoint and some of the ways the meaning it produces are altered by the narrative context. However, this section has shown that the readings prompted by these musical devices extended far beyond the simple ascription of innocence or guilt, and comedy or tragedy, referred to in Stage. As with all diegetic music when a member of the storyworld engages in a musical activity the music’s meaning becomes inextricably linked to the character’s motives. Therefore, when the music does not match the dramatic events it underscores the audience must attempt to decipher whether the inappropriateness of the accompaniment is intentional or accidental, subjective or universal, deceptive or transparent. In addition, the choice of music itself may create inter or intra-textual connections that are ironically attuned with, or diametrically opposed to, the other visual, dialogic and narratological signs. Finally, although these different routes of musical signification can be used to produce readings that are either relatively straightforward or extremely complex, they all follow the same basic principle and create drama through opposition.
CHAPTER 5: CONCLUSION
The research carried out in this thesis leads to some straightforward conclusions. Firstly, it is clear that the music used in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre productions had a vast range of dramaturgical functions. Specially commissioned scores were explicitly matched to the production they accompanied and both the composer’s reputation and the style of music often provided the drama with a high art sheen. The symbiotic and flexible relationship between pre-composed melos and the affected acting style were also reciprocally supportive. Melos were tailored to fit and shadow the ‘passions’, ‘starts’, ‘points’, ‘transitions’, and the Scribean stream of unexpected revelations, declamatory speeches and spectacle scenes that characterised Victorian melodrama. Underscoring was not a slapdash affair in which a limited range of bombastic musical moods were hurriedly matched to entire scenes thereby homogenising the emotive focus. Although this may have been the case in some theatres, it is apparent that underscoring was a precision process which utilised and developed a specialist musical language as well as incorporating and conventionalising aural techniques that are still used today (such as inter-textual and intra-textual referencing, sound bridges, musical stingers, tremolos and consonant underscoring). Well known compositions were often used to provide thematically pertinent underscoring which drew meaning from the composition’s cultural connotations in the real world. However, the emotive affect the music evoked was derived from an amalgamation of these inter-textual connections and the narrative context that framed the rendition. Intra-textual motifs were not only used to accompany the arrival and departure of characters on-stage, they also provided an insight into a character’s thoughts and their subjective experiences. Similarly, using sound bridges to connect scenes and disguise the noise created by scene changes were merely two aspects of a more complex multifunctional tool that camouflaged and supported narratological, temporal, geographic, and corporeal disruptions.
Secondly, the examples and analysis provided establish the procedural and functional techniques that connect twentieth-century film music and theatre music from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. For instance, one characteristic of theatre music from this period which has contributed to its reputation for being simplistic is the frequent use of consonant underscoring. However, this approach and convention was recycled and reiterated in films from the Classical Hollywood period, which subsequently influenced the soundtracks of more modern films. Nonetheless, while the later adoption of this technique by filmmakers has been explored, analysed and celebrated in various scholarly works, its theatrical antecedent has received very little positive recognition. Indeed, when the principles of modern film sound theory are used to interrogate theatre music during the specified era, numerous previously unexplored semiotic parallels become apparent.
Thirdly, this correlation justifies and encourages the adoption of the specialist terminology that has been developed within film sound theory for the analysis of theatre music. Using terms coined and used by film scholars (such as diegetic, non-diegetic, naturalisation, anempathetic, dissonant harmony, sound bridges, acousmatic, stingers, active and passive off-screen sound, aural deep focus and aural intrusion) to describe and classify theatre music’s dramaturgical functions establishes direct links between the sonic aspects of the two media forms. These parallels show that musical dramaturgy should be regarded as a mode of signification in its own right and recognised for its inter-disciplinary potential and heritage. Therefore, this thesis clearly supports the contention that a holistic understanding of how aural accompaniments manipulate dramatic meaning should be pursued in order to develop and further comprehend the semantic possibilities created when drama and music are combined.
Fourthly, although the diegetic or non-diegetic position changes the music’s status and significance, to a certain extent both types of accompaniment fulfil the same purposes. Therefore, while non-diegetic music camouflaged deviations from reality, diegetic music supported verisimilitude. Similarly, the two approaches were used to create intra-textual motifs and inter-textual reference points, as well as empathetic and anempathetic support. However, there are key differences between the two forms. In very basic terms, non-diegetic music provides answers whereas diegetic music poses questions. The non-diegetic accompaniment which underscored a character’s entrance, speech or passion used conventional cultural and theatrical musical codes to ensure semiotic transparency. From this perspective, non-diegetic music is a type of aural shorthand which instantly establishes archetypes, motives, emotions, atmosphere and even imminent events. Providing an audience member had seen enough plays where these musical conventions were followed the signification process would have been relatively passive. In contrast, while diegetic music could be equally illuminating the deciphering process it initiates is more active. As diegetic music emanates from within the storyworld its meaning potential transcends prescribed theatrical conventions. Indeed, the significance of diegetic music is open to as many semantic permutations as it is in the real world.
Therefore, the act of making music (or instructing another character to play music) is judged by the same criteria that it is in reality. Consequently, in order to decipher meaning the audience must connect cultural conventions and narrative context. Furthermore, despite the fact that the reading produced by diegetic music is grounded in reality, its artistic significance is an equally important factor. Because the music is being performed by a character in a play its meaning may extend beyond their individual motives or disposition. In these situations diegetic music can be used to develop a symbolic or literal connection with overarching themes, narrative structure, and the signs which precede, accompany and follow its recital.
Fifthly, the practical examples discussed were all created live. Therefore, it is apparent that the techniques described were not dependent on recording technology. This challenges any preconceived notion that musical dramaturgy is somehow dependent on the ability to record and playback sound. Furthermore, by dispelling this fallacy new avenues of investigation are opened up that focus on theatre music’s dramaturgical role prior to the period investigated in this study. Each section in this thesis supports these findings and provides a short conclusion which summarises the key ideas related to specific areas of analysis. Therefore, rather than reiterating what has already been established this final chapter will focus on why these five conclusions are important and their impact on how theatre sound is understood.
The topical, historical and geographical boundaries that are given in the title of this thesis may initially seem to indicate a very specialised and exclusive project. As such, the evidence, analysis and conclusions could only be expected to develop current perceptions of music’s dramaturgical role in British theatre during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. However, although this study certainly fulfils such expectations its significance extends beyond these restrictions. This thesis is essentially a test case which sets a precedent regarding how theatre music should be assessed, discussed and approached. Consequently, while the results confirm and detail theatre music’s integral role within specified historical boundaries, these findings lead to a number of pertinent questions that require historical research, academic analysis and practical exploration.
The first implication of this study is that if the dramaturgical role of music in late nineteenth and early twentieth-century theatre has been underestimated then the same criticism may be applicable to theatrical productions from other periods. Of course, although the material contained within this current project raises this issue, its answer can only be arrived at through further investigations into theatre from other eras, genres and cultures. However, this thesis does provide a methodological framework and an adopted vocabulary which can be applied and expanded in future studies. It is only through this continued interrogation that the similarities, differences, conventions and innovations which define music’s role within a multifarious range of dramatic productions can be identified.
The findings set out in this thesis show that theatre music was an integral component of dramatic expression during a period which directly predated the invention and gradual standardisation of sound films. Moreover, it is established that many of the dramaturgical functions music would subsequently serve in film had theatrical precedents. However, this discovery does not indicate that film music imitated theatre music or suggest the modern medium is entirely indebted to its predecessor. Instead, it highlights the need for the relationship between music and drama to be reassessed. If the principles of musical dramaturgy are not governed by technology, medium or historical period, then what factors have precipitated its development and maintained its pervasive presence? Although a conclusive answer to this question can only be provided by further research into other periods of theatre history, exposing the ungrounded foundations on which such assumptions were based does highlight one key necessity. Put simply, music is a fundamental component of dramatic expression and as such it must be considered and treated accordingly.
This conclusion has ramifications which not only affect the study of drama, but also its practice. When a dramatic text is adapted into a theatrical text the process involves interrogation and interpretation. However, this procedure also has a hierarchical structure which is reinforced through the rehearsals. Although the director’s personal style and method inevitably influences the approach adopted, it is fair to assume that dialogic meaning and delivery will be one of the main areas explored. This is entirely fitting and necessary as it is through these words that the narrative, the scenario, given circumstances and the characters’ dispositions are generally revealed. Moreover, dialogue is open to interpretation and despite the fact that the relationship between the oral signifier and the concept signified is stable the act of enunciation sets these meanings in flux. The actor’s vocal qualities, the character’s tone, the rhythm of their delivery, the words they emphasise, the corresponding body language, the reactions it produces, the context which frames the soliloquy or exchange as well as the other visual and aural signs that surround this recital all affect the dialogue’s meaning. However, this thesis has shown that the same variables are applicable to theatre music. From this perspective, a piece of music’s timbre, tone, rhythm, the events and dialogue it underscores or punctuates, the physical actions it accompanies and necessitates, the characters’ responses to the accompaniment as well as narrative context and the mise-en-scène, all affect the dramaturgical meaning of music. Similarly, just as frequently reiterated phrases become linguistic motifs, repetition also transforms melodies into musical motifs. Furthermore, when a character references an existing cultural trope or product they initiate an inter-textual signification process comparable to the use of pre-popularised musical compositions. However, although music exhibits the characteristics of language the connection between signifier and signified is more open to variation because the codes are less fixed.
Once it is recognised that music is an integral element of dramatic expression with a capacity to create meaning which parallels dialogue then both theory and practice must take this into account. When producing or studying a dramatic text which contains a stage direction that requests music, the dramatic significance of that aural accompaniment needs to be considered. If the playwright gives fairly open instructions the range of musical interpretations it supports should be explored in order to identify potential resonances with narrative themes, character behaviour, the scenario depicted, and theatrical conventions. Equally, whenever a specific piece of music is requested, repeated or referenced the same areas need to be considered alongside the composition’s cultural history. Indeed, all aspects ranging from performance to reception, function to symbolism, and content to location, potentially alters the readings music intimates and initiates.
In her article ‘The Context Problem’ Davis compares theatre and performance history with oil painting restoration and borrows the term rigatino (the technique used to fill in damaged or missing paint segments) as a way of describing the work that is required to reconstruct a theatrical text from a dramatic text. However, Davis also goes on to point out that for the theatre historian the gaps which need to be filled are far greater:
Whereas the art restorer’s rigatino is needed only here and there in a well- preserved canvas and not readily apparent to the naked eye, the theatre historian’s rigatino plays a much greater role. Most of this is provided as “context,” and, indeed, the provision of context has become a mantra in our field: we seek it avidly, we include it conscientiously. In a sense, too, we hatch in “context” (demographic information, contemporaneous events, political esprit de corps, ethnographic tidbits, or literary zeitgeist), which can be scraped off by future generations who will approach the problem with new theories, perhaps new evidence and certainly different concerns.
(Davis, 2004, 204)
Although this approach compensates for the information that is missing it also requires a varying degree of speculation and as Davis points out ‘one scholar’s criterion for gestalt may be another’s idea of irrelevance’ (ibid.). Davis’ paper finishes with a conclusion in the form of a question which asks that if this ‘context problem’ cannot be avoided are there alternative and innovative methods that can be adopted? The solution explored in this thesis is a procedure which combines historical remains and contextual factors with principles derived from analysing modern dramatic specimens that have similar semiotic characteristics. This analytical method is best described as the ‘forensic anthropology approach’. Connecting modern practice with cultural artefacts provokes a reassessment of existing evidence and this interrogation will lead to conclusions that either support or counter preceding theories and speculation. Of course, this thesis cannot lay claim to having provided absolutely conclusive proof detailing how theatre music was dramaturgically conceived, employed and received during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. However, it does establish the semantic potential of the music used in the plays performed in Britain during this period. These findings are particularly significant because theatre is a medium which repeatedly and frequently revisits and reinterprets dramatic texts from its past. In this practical context what is possible and probable becomes far more important and interesting than what is provable and irrefutable. Furthermore, as Agawu explains, this semantic flexibility is a factor which lies at the very heart of musical signification:
What music is, what and how it means, what meaning is, and why we are interested in musical meaning in the first place: these questions are not meant to be answered definitively nor with a commanding transhistorical attribution but posed periodically to keep us alert and honest.
(Agawu, 2009, 4)
It is in this spirit that the preceding study has been conducted and only by carrying out such investigations can the purpose and potential of musical dramaturgy begin to be appreciated and understood.
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[1] In Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music Gorbman provides a detailed table listing seven ‘principles of composition, mixing and editing’ which she argues can be located in the classical scores that accompanied mainstream American and French films from the mid-1930s to the 1940s. However, as Gorbman explains the principles that have been outlined provide ‘a discursive field rather than a monolithic system with inviolable rules’ (Gorbman, 1987, 73). The extract given above details the third and the fourth of these techniques while the remaining categories are discussed in the following chapter; see page 79.
[2] A further application of ‘dissonant harmony’ and ‘anempathetic music’ is proposed by Crook in his discussion of sound design vocabulary. Crook suggests that this aural technique could also be used to ‘represent alienation, dislocation and the loneliness of the human condition by using sound ‘to cast the anchor’ and deliberately render the listener ‘adrift’’ (Crook, 1999, 70). From this perspective, the emotional distance between the event depicted and the music that accompanies it creates a dramatic situation which highlights a character’s estrangement from the social environment presented on stage, whilst simultaneously destabilising conventional readings of the scene.
[3] Another publication which touches upon the relationship between film and diegetic music is Rick Altman’s book Silent Film Sound (2004). The polemical purpose of Altman’s study is similar to this thesis as both reassess the role of music in a particular medium during a specified period. Altman’s findings establish that silent film music evolved into an integral and complex signifying system which was used to develop the conventional structure, narrative significance, and emotional impact of the on-screen images it accompanied. Nevertheless, while Altman seeks to counter the notion that the music used in silent film was simplistic, homogenous and hackneyed, he also implies that nineteenth-century theatre music was limited in these ways. For instance, in the book’s conclusion Altman proposes that although it was ‘[O]nce considered a simple import from the melodrama stage, silent film sound was far more complex’ (Altman, 2004, 389). However, the soundness of this statement is called into contention based on the research and analysis presented in the previous chapter which establishes the complex semiotic functions of the music which was used to accompany melodramas in the theatre.
-----------------------
Linear Timeline
Chronological Narrative
End
Paris 01:30
Paris 09:10
Fortinbleau
09:00
Corsica
23:55
Paris 04:00
Paris 03:45
Paris 03:50
Corsica
23:00
End
Act III
Act I
Act II
22nd March
1841
27th March
1841
II:1 – Opera / Masked Ball
I:1 Di Franchi Household
II:4 – Forest of Fortinbleau
III:1 – Forest of Fortinbleau
II:3 – Montigron’s House
II:2 – Opera House Lobby
Sound Bridge
Sound Bridge
Sound Bridge
Sound Bridge
Fig. 6 The Corsican Brothers linear timeline and chronological narrative
Vision Scene
Vision Scene
Villain
Entrance Agitato
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