In his article �Music in the Movies�, Peter Kivy considers what is, to his mind, �arguably the most important artistic event and practice for our century�(p. 327) and the key to the nature of modern cinema. This is his final conclusion; he has not solved the mystery in any definitive way, rather posed a question to the reader and to himself and come up with some interesting avenues to follow. In the course of the article he discusses other arguments on the subject; notably those of Carroll and Eisler and Adorno.
First Kivy draws a fundamental comparison between the failure of theatrical melodrama and the success of filmic melodrama. The melodrama is defined as �drama with� a musical texture�(p. 312); essentially a play accompanied by music. Kivy is puzzled by the fact that a genre which �charmed� the musical genius Mozart, could be a flop, whilst its filmed counterpart could be such a raging success. I should point out that the term �filmic melodrama� refers simply to modern cinema, seeing as music is so rarely absent from the cinematic oeuvre.
Kivy goes on to distinguish between the aesthetic and filmic functions of music in cinema. It is the latter of these which must be scrutinized in order to arrive at the true significance of music in cinema.
The third distinction on which Kivy bases his discussion is one between the silent movies of the early twentieth century and the �talkies� which soon took over the industry.
He considers the importance of music to the early relatives of modern cinema. The absence of an audio function in these films was compensated for by subtitles and a constant stream of (usually live) music. Kivy speaks of a �vacuum of silence�(p. 312), which music, in keeping with tradition, must fill in an attempt to fulfill some of the functions of speech. The function of music in silent films, he concludes, was to add the �dimension of expressive sound�(p. 313) � it cannot, of course, replace speech, but it can provide �emotive expression�(p. 313) and thus invoke emotional responses in the audience. The relationship between the visual and super-imposed audio components here in a dynamic one; whilst the music enhances the emotional impact of the scene, the scene �supplies the kind of reference to particularize the broad expressivity of the musical system.�(p. 314)
The advent of the �talky�, brought not just speech as its nickname implies, but groans, moans, heartbeats and footsteps in the night. With all this newfound richness of audio expression, in the face of the possibility of recreating the sonor-reality why did music stay in the picture? Kivy dismisses the obvious answer to this question � why should it not stay in the picture and add to the artistic value of the whole � reminding us of the death of the Melodrama. The problem remains: how can we explain the flourishing world of cinema in light of this?
Next Kivy considers a famed, yet improbable answer to his question, from Hanns Eisner and Theodor Adorno. Theirs is a theory which characterizes the figures in cinema as walking (and later talking) ghosts, the sight of which is unconsciously disturbing for the viewer. With this in mind, the function of music in silent films was to �exorcise fear or help the spectator absorb the shock�(Eisler and Adorno quoted in Kivy p. 315). Music is a palliative tool also in the �talky� according the Eisner and Adorno, since the characters are �not speaking people but speaking effigies� their bodiless mouths utter words in a way which must seem disquieting�(Eisler and Adorno quoted in Kivy p. 315). Kivy comments that these talking ghosts would �perhaps� be more frightening than their silent counterparts. Insofar as there is evidence to support this claim, however, there is evidence to support the opposite claim; could one not assert that the added dimension of voice brings the figures closer to the realm of the real and thus renders them less ghost-like and less frightening? At any rate Carroll has already countered the Eisner-Adorno argument concisely and convincingly, pointing out that if viewers experience disquiet before a silent film, it could easily be the very �silence that strikes them and not some putative fear of ghosts.�(Carroll quoted in Kivy p. 315) He is even more brief about the �talky�, stating that there is �no evidence for believing that spectators respond to [modern] films in the way in which Eisler and Adorno say they do�(Carroll quoted in Kivy p. 315).
Carroll then relates his account of the filmic relevance of music in sociological terms. He suggests that because film is such a popular medium, available to an unsophisticated audience, pieces of music in film serve as generic markers which ensure �that the audience will follow the action in the way that the filmmaker deems appropriate.�(Carroll quoted in Kivy p. 316) However this implies that all films (seeing as nearly all films are supplied with a musical background) are designed for an unsophisticated audience, who requires direction in spectatorship. This is manifestly not true. The cinema industry has developed into a hierarchical structure in which the mainstream is countered by the alternative; the unsophisticated by the sophisticated. If Carroll�s theory were accurate, argues Kivy, taking a sociological line also in his response, would not there be a higher plane of cinema which, directed at a discerning and intellectual audience had no need of music. This is not the case. What could be more sophisticated than Shakespeare�s �Hamlet�? Kenneth Branagh�s brilliant film production of this classic was inundated with music. Interestingly the music was noticeable because it was bad: it didn�t fit in with the scenes and, to a surprising degree marred the viewing experience. Such is the power of the background music in film.
Kivy continues with his own argument. He uses Eisler and Adorno�s terminology, despite the fact that their thesis conflicts with his own, stating that since music had not disappeared from film when the �talky� materialized, there must be �some aspect of human expression which the �speaking effigies� cannot provide�(p. 317). He claims that the dominant purpose of music in musical theatre is and has always been to represent and express �the emotive states of mind of the dramatis personae.�(p. 317) Kivy considers in particular opera, but it might be interesting to look at the role of music in dance, specifically in classical ballets. Classical ballets can be distinguished from modern ballets (in general) by their use of traditional narrative. This is not, however, a written or spoken narrative, it is one which must be expressed through the movement of the body and through music. In ballet a particularly great deal of the meaning comes from the music; the mournful nature of the final pas de deux between Giselle and Albrecht would indeed be difficult to pick up on without Adolphe Adam�s heart-wrenching music; by the same token, it would be hard to understand what was going on at the end of Act III in Swan Lake, when the evil Baron von Rothbart triumphs over the Prince and Odette, if the fervour of the moment were not captured by Tchaikovsky�s sudden wild outburst of sound at the precise instant when the Prince pledges his love to Odile. Does music serve the same purpose in film?
Quite possibly, speculates Kivy, before asking, why then is it not required for the same reason in theatre? This is a question which brings him back to a more useful element of Eisler and Adorno�s theory: the notion that film characters, as opposed to theatre characters are �endowed with all the features of the pictorial, the photographic two-dimensionality, the lack of spatial depth�(Eisler and Adorno quoted in Kivy p. 318). Despite Kivy�s skepticism, which leads him to comment that �we scarcely perceive the screen image without depth anymore than we do the picture space of Renaissance painting�(p. 318), he extrapolates from this statement to the idea that music provides the �emotional setting�, that is the context necessary �to read human emotive expression�(p. 318). Such an �emotional setting� is required because it is difficult to read emotions, �except in the most general terms [(�happiness, surprise, fear, anger, disgust and sadness�)], out of real context�(p. 318).
But exactly what does Kivy mean by �out of real context�? Does film not have all the �disambiguating cues�(p. 318) of real-life, which allow us to read emotions? Considering it is an audio-visual carbon-copy of the real, what does it lack that theatre has? The obvious answer is that it lacks the �real presence of human beings�(p. 318). This is where Kivy�s argument gets murky: is it really a significant lack, with regard to reading human emotive expressions? Kivy argues that it is, because the stage �provides a more intimate expressive connection and more subtle expressive cues than can be got in the movies, isolated in darkness, from a talking image�(p. 318). He sums up asking �who does not feel the relative remoteness of the electronic or filmic image, as compared to the real presence of a human being, where emotive communication is concerned?�(p. 319) Perhaps here he is referring to a mental concept of immediacy, but this is not obviously relevant to the ability to read emotions. It does not follow that this distance makes it ipso facto impossible for film to contain all the necessary signs of emotive expression.
He goes on to expand his argument, his conclusion supported by the research of Paul Ekman. According to Ekman there is a �duel phenomena of management and leakage�(p. 322) � the former refers to the way in which human beings �manage�, that is to say, mask their emotive expressions, whilst the latter refers to the leakage of emotive expression which they cannot avoid. Ekman�s conclusion, based on his research, is that �there is more leakage in body movement than in either words or facial movement.�(Ekman quoted in Kivy p. 322) From Ekman�s studies Kivy gleens that emotive expression and interpretation are very delicate matters indeed, that emotive cues are of the subtlest nature. From here he moves to the conclusion that such subtle emotive cues are absent from film and an emotive void must be filled by music. He concedes that theatre cannot present all the emotive cues of real life either, because the emotions are not real but fabricated � here he seems to be saying that it is impossible for actors to mimic to the minutest detail true emotive expression. Perhaps he is right, but he offers no proof of this fact. This is however a digression from his main conclusion. Adopting Plato�s image, he remarks that film is �at two removes from emotive reality, [is] an image of a pretence.�(p. 323) Nevertheless it is a moving image not a static one, and one endowed with audio capacities. It depicts exactly everything which would take part on a stage; for this reason I cannot agree with Kivy�s (by his own admission �most tentative�) conclusion. There must exist on the film-screen as much emotive reality as exists on a stage. Thus no adequate solution as to why staged melodrama failed where filmic melodrama did not is arrived at.
Kivy structures a later argument around the scenic gaps that are so rare in theatre and so prevalent in film. However, as he observes music is not solely reserved for gaps in film. Moreover if the scene is silent in real life (Kivy gives the example of a sleeping city) then there is no �vacuum of sound� to be filled, as there was the sound in the first place! If the scene is noisy then surely the soundtrack provides necessary �filling�. Here Kivy comes back to his main argument, suggesting that the �non-peopled�, �scenic�(p. 321) world has �expressive properties of its own�(p. 321) which are not able to be represented (for some mysterious reason) on film as they are in life. Music replaces this subtle essence.
Perhaps Kivy should have looked at his problem in terms of the senses: he discusses sight and hearing, but ignores the possible allies he has in touch and smell. Perhaps these are the missing �subtleties� in cinema. These are missing also in theatre and cannot therefore solve Kivy�s main problem of why film appears to need music, where theatre does not. It might be argued that smell is more relevant to the theatre than to the cinema, but can we really �smell [someone�s] fear�?
Nevertheless the senses of smell and touch could solve Kivy�s littler problem of why music is required in scenic gaps. We cannot feel the wind on our face, as Julie Andrews can whilst watching �The Sound of Music�, nor can we smell the Savannah jasmine in �Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil�. Is music�s role to make up for these missing expressive qualities, as Kivy suggests? If it were, music would have to be present on a stroll in the park, whenever breakfast was cooked, and even when somebody ate, so as to replace the missing sense of taste. And it almost uniformally is. Is this enough to establish music�s presence in film as motivated by the need to detract attention from the absence of the remaining 3 senses? Perhaps not, for the same problem arises � why is music not necessary in film, since we are deprived of all the same senses? To follow Kivy, it is my �most tentative� contention that plays do not need music as films do because situations so very rarely arise in which the senses of smell, touch and taste would be appropriate. That is to say, theatre has adapted itself to its shortcomings: rarely are there scenes in which things are cooked, rarely are there scenes out in nature etc. Furthermore (and this is, I believe, a more powerful argument) music is not required in theatre, because it is simply a different art-form from film. In theatre the artifice is obvious: is it clear that the people are not really the characters they portray, do not really live on a stage and do not really open their own lives to an audience. In film however, the sensory gaps are felt far more keenly since the sights and sounds it affords are absolutely spine-tinglingly real. This is why music is needed to draw attention away from these missing subtleties in film, whereas in theatre it is not.
Later Kivy deals with the more specific objection to his conclusion that certain techniques peculiar to cinema, allow the viewer insights into emotive states which neither the stage not even real-life can do. Prime examples of these are the close-up and the manipulation of levels of sound. In real-life we cannot get so close to someone�s face that we can see all the intricacies of their expression, without impairing our vision. It is more than likely that these intricacies reflect the intricacies of the person�s emotional state. With regard to manipulation of levels of sound, hearing a person�s heartbeat thudding away at a fast pace contributes to our interpretation of his or her being in a state of fear. In real-life it is rare that one gets so close to a person as to hear their heartbeat � one certainly does not do so on stage at a play. These techniques would create a counter-argument, if they were unavailable in theatre only. However the fact that they are also unavailable in real-life, means that they cannot substitute for the real-life subtleties to which �our emotive sensibilities are tuned�(p. 323). Thus these cinematic techniques play the same role as does music (according to Kivy); they buttress the emotive impact which exists already, thus drawing away from the absence of the subtleties of real-life (and of the theatre), without actually being able to replace these subtleties. Why then, is music required? Are not these cinematic techniques enough? Kivy replies that whilst cinematic techniques such as close-ups come and go throughout the film, music is a constant. Thus, he concludes, music has pride of place in the film industry, with regard to �filling the expressive vacuum�(p. 324). There are also arguments against this conclusion however � it might be remarked that whereas both visual and audio close-ups relate directly to the person and to the person�s emotive state, music is removed from the characters and from the scene; it stands alone. Nevertheless Kivy�s seems to have been an unnecessary answer to an unnecessary question. Is there any reason why only one method of reinforcement should be used, only one way of making up for a loss? I cannot see that there is.
Last, Kivy canvasses the possibility that those rare films that shun music, yet have great expressive power pose a threat to his theory. He concludes however that they do not, seeing as �music�s occasional absence from film is parasitic on its almost universal presence�(p. 325), so that �the perceived absence of music has an expressive power uniquely its own�(p. 325) purely because it is a rarity.
Kivy successfully refutes two rather specific arguments against his thesis, but this does nothing to detract from the gaping logical hole at the heart of his conjecture. Kivy moves from the premise that film lacks the actual presence of real people to the statement that it is �an image of a pretence� to its not containing all that its object (theatre) does. If film is a direct and exact representation of drama then it cannot be relevant that it is an �image�, nor that real people are not physically present. Thus it is not plausible that music is used in film and not in theatre because it adds something that film lacks.
We are left with the same question we started with: why did 18th century staged melodrama fail, whereas 20th filmic melodrama flourished? Perhaps the answers are more simple than what Kivy proposes. He speaks of the cinematic technique of modification of sound levels. This is something which did not exist in the 18th century; I imagine that getting the acoustics right would be difficult when one had to balance speech with constant music. Elsewhere the idea of �background music� had not evolved to the extent to which it has now. These days film scores generally aren�t composed by musical geniuses � otherwise they might steal the show. There are many things which influence cultural evolution � perhaps the death of the 18th century melodrama was a fluke or due to entirely external circumstances. Who knows?
Kivy�s argument though it raises some interesting points, ultimately fails because it makes an unsubstantiated leap from film�s being an �image� (which in fact is not an accurate description of it) to its being unable to accommodate certain subtleties of the theatre. However, in reworking Kivy�s thesis in terms of the senses and in placing more emphasis on the (in the present technological climate) unbridgeable gap between reality and both film and theatre, it is possible to arrive at what seems to be a more plausible account of the function of music in film.
Copyright 2000 BlueSuzanne
Bibliography
Peter Kivy; �Music in the movies: A Philosophical Enquiry� in Film Theory and Philosophy edited by Richard Allen and Murray Smith; Oxford University Press 1997