Abstracts


Robynn Stilwell (Georgetown University): "The return of the suppressed: The liminal and abject voice of the adolescent girl"
While the adolescent male “rite-of-passage” film has long been a staple of cinema internationally, it was only in the 1990s that a body—however small—of female rite-of-passage films emerged. Whereas the male schema is frequently based on physical journeys and the loss of innocence (whether sexual, as in Y Tú Mama También (Alfonso Cuarón, 2001), or more generally, as in Stand By Me (Rob Reiner, 1986))—the female version is more about an internal journey (often enforced through physical confinement) and the revelation of self. Key in these films is the suppression of the girls’ self-expression and their (re)gaining of their voices, both literal and metaphorical. The abjection of the girls’ voices results in displacement, and the presence and absence of music and the presence or absence of music bears importantly on the narrative and the understanding of vocality and selfhood. Although New Zealand director Peter Jackson is now best-known for the almost exclusively masculine rite-of-passage, or quest, film trilogy of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, he first gained attention for his excessively “gross”, or abject, horror-comedy films like Bad Taste (1987) and Braindead (1992). And, perhaps tellingly, the film that provides the transition between these two cycles of production was Heavenly Creatures (1994), based on the true story of two teenaged girls who conspired to commit murder; the film records a struggle between individuation and bonding that threatens sexual norms, and therefore family and social order. Fantasies both abject and sublime course through the film, and Pauline and Juliet’s voices pass through the intermediary of their “saint” Mario Lanza, invoking a homosocial triangle that both expresses and suppresses their feelings for one another and about themselves. Theories of liminality and ritual (Victor Turner) and girls’ psychological development (Carol Gilligan, Nancy Chodorow) provide a context for the voice, naming/I formations, and in-between states of being, elements that feature strongly in Heavenly Creatures. Other recent “girl” films may also be discussed in this context. In The Craft (Andrew Fleming, 1996), verbal expression creates magic but unbalances the natural order; the non-verbal action-finale strikes many female viewers as a disturbingly “male” resolution. In A Little Princess (Alfonso Cuarón, 1995), Sara’s voice is suppressed in the diegesis but emerges multivalently in the underscore. And in The Virgin Suicides (Sofia Coppola, 1999), the imprisoned Lisbon girls use popular recordings as coded communication with the boys on the “outside”, but the film’s unusually layered—and distinctly gendered—authorial voices cause an oscillation of expression and containment.


Jeongwon Joe (University of Nevada, Reno): "Lucia in The Fifth Element: The Embodiment of Vocal Jouissance in Opera"
Since the 1980s, operatic excerpts have been employed increasingly and prominently in blockbuster films, the plots of which do not summon operatic music as naturally and imperatively as composer/singer films such as Amadeus and Farinell. In Moonstruck (1987), Fatal Attraction (1987), Pretty Woman (1990), Philadelphia (1993), The Shawshank Redemption (1994), and The Fifth Element (1997), for instance, the aural and visual memory of the opera scene is indelible. In some films, opera excerpts are used as signifiers of the properties commonly associated with opera-love, exoticism, high culture, excess, death, gayness, Italianness, and so on. Other films employ opera excerpts for identificatory purposes, that is, to provide a parallelism between the film and the source opera at the narrative level, and in so doing, to reinforce cinematic characters' emotions or actions: a classical example is Fatal Attraction, in which the Madama Butterfly excerpt identifies Glenn Close with Cio-Cio-San via the shared theme of abandonment and the act of suicide.
In The Fifth Element, the opening of the mad scene from Lucia di Lammermoor is diegetically performed by an alien diva at the concert the protagonist Bruce Willis attends in an outer space resort named Paradise. Although the connection between the film and Lucia is not as obvious as in the films mentioned above, Donizetti's opera can still be a referential point for the interpretation of the opera scene in the film: a feminist reading could focus on the parallelism between the operatic heroine's sacrificial death and that of the diva, although the latter is not for love, as the operatic tradition demands, but for a more sublime purpose, for the Redemption of mankind. In this paper, I will suggest a reading beyond the parallelism-whether narrative, psychoanalytic, or structural-between the film and the opera: I will argue that the Lucia scene embodies the "uncanniness" of the operatic voice.
The notion of voice in general and the operatic voice in particular has grown increasingly enriched and complex over the past few decades. Exploring theories developed by such scholars as Michal Poizat, who locates the empowerment of operatic voice in the moment it approximates the Lacanian "cry," a pure, non-signifying form of sonorous materiality that transcends verbal meaning, and Gary Tomlinson, who relates the Lacanian cry to the Kantian noumenon, I will show that the Lucia scene can be interpreted as the spectacle of vocal jouissance evoked by the pre- and trans-verbal operatic voice (i.e., the Lacanian cry), which, according to Tomlinson, is a vocal property peculiar to post-19th century opera. Furthermore, I will argue that the monstrosity of the alien diva's body serves as a visual metaphor for the uncanniness of excessive vocality in opera. Finally, I will discuss how my interpretation of the opera scene in The Fifth Element confirms an aesthetic trend prominent in recent film music, which Royal Brown characterizes as postmodern: namely, the use of music for its own sake rather than as a medium to support and color the visual images and narrative situations-the effect Brown relates to Jean Baudrillard's notion of "ecstasy of musicality."

Maria Cizmic (University of California, Los Angeles): "Two Women, Two Voices: Musical and Visual Representations of Pain and Illness in HBO's Wit and Górecki's Third Symphony"
Towards the end of HBO's film Wit-based on Margaret Edson's play by the same title-a cancer patient lies in bed, bald and pale from the difficult experimental treatments she has undergone, and soliloquizes about her body, her illness, and her consistently unsuccessful attempts to communicate her pain to her doctors. As she poignantly offers her last verbally coherent expression, the second movement of Polish composer Henryk Górecki's Third Symphony (1976) plays in the background-the soprano's voice juxtaposed with the patient's. Within the context of Górecki's symphony, the soprano's voice expresses both suffering and comfort. Singing words taken from a young girl's inscription on a Gestapo prison cell wall in Poland, the soprano's voice and music lead listeners to sympathize with the girl's pain while she in turn asks her mother not to cry. How are we to understand the relationship between these women and their voices? Between their respective expressions of emotional and physical pain and how those expressions may speak to one another? And how does this movement from Górecki's symphony, with its alternation between musical representations of pain and transcendence, correspond to the narrative told by a dying cancer patient?
The primary focus of this paper considers the scene outlined above in terms of women, bodies, voices, pain, communication, and silence, as well as how audiences look at and listen to representations of suffering. My theoretical path into this matrix of issues includes the work of Elaine Scarry and her consideration of the body, voice, and pain in The Body in Pain; Cathy Caruth and her foray through psychoanalysis in addressing relationships between the wound and the voice in Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History; and James Elkins and his exegesis of how we look at difficult and painful images in The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing. The tension between communication and silence consistently arises in the theoretical literature concerning trauma, illness, and pain. Severe physical and emotional suffering is a privately embodied experience, seemingly incommunicable to others. How does this scene, through its dramatic and musical choices, aim to explore this tension? To whom do these two women attempt to express their pain and with what degree of relative success?
The soundtrack for Wit points to the dialogic relationship between film and music, the ways in which juxtapositions of sight and sound not only enhance our interpretations of film but also enrich our understandings of music. As musicologist Luke Howard explains, the connection between the Third Symphony and such historically traumatic events and the Holocaust, among other wars and depictions of suffering, has permeated this composition's American and British reception. An analysis of Wit's borrowing of Górecki's music considers not only how this music relates to a particular scene of illness and dying, but also aims to elucidate what it might be about the music that lends itself to such themes. Illness, the body, mourning, death, trauma-why has this music become the lived soundtrack for these experiences?

Jim Buhler (University of Texas, Austin): "Opera, Ideology and the Hollywood Musical"
According to Jane Feuer's influential analysis, Hollywood musicals typically pit classical music against swing in an effort to elevate the latter's stature. In such films, she says, classical music is portrayed "as decrepit, cold, out of touch with the needs of the people, whereas swing . . . represents youth, community, warmth, personal expression and spontaneity." While her thesis undoubtedly represents the dominant tendency of musicals, it necessarily ignores a significant subgenre-those musicals featuring trained singers such as Jeannette MacDonald, Deanna Durbin, and Kathryn Grayson.
In this paper, I trace the figure of the classically trained performer in Hollywood musicals from the late 30s through the early 50s, focusing on singers. Classical training in these films typically signifies class, but also social success; less obviously, these films also generally portray class structure as permeable to those willing and able to submit to the requisite training and discipline. (In this sense, classical training in these films is, as in the more typical treatment on which Feuer bases her analysis, still implicitly opposed to the "natural" talent of the popular singer, but here the valences of the terms have been reversed). That is, proficient performance of classical music facilitates upward social mobility in these films (e.g., That Midnight Kiss [1949]), and social status consequently takes on the illusion of being a measure of merit. The classically trained performer becomes the figurative embodiment of the emerging ideology of meritocracy that would characterize cold-war America-the elevation of the best and brightest.

Martin Miller Marks (MIT): "Fathers and Sons: The Music of The Godfather Films, Parts I and II"


Roger Hillman (Australian National University, Canberra): "Verdi gris: The Patina of Culture in Italian Cinema"
This paper argues that Italian music in postwar Italian cinema involves the review of two canons: that of the music employed (as a further site of its reception), and that of the body of films, which film scholarship (e.g. Dalle Vacche's book) has largely approached via painting rather than music. While concentrating on Verdi in film, the paper seeks to strengthen his profile through counter examples (non-Italian music in Italian cinema, plus Italian music in non-Italian film).
One of the best examples of classical music enhancing a narrative is the song contest in Visconti's Ossessione. The sequence of music ranges from Carmen and The Pearlfishers to Germont Senior's aria in La Traviata and the Duke's wooing of Gilda in Rigoletto. All four operatic excerpts have texts which read like ironic glosses on the central conflicts in Visconti's film. But beyond this, via the hinge of the text relating both to opera and film plots, Visconti establishes an acoustic equivalent of film noir, creating a kind of musique noire. His music does not just illustrate the visuals, it vies with them, with repeated crosscutting between the lovers and the stage singers. Visconti combines 19th century Italian music with a 20th century drama, originally American, to complete the European transition of the noir genre, a feature which critics have praised at the level of the Italian setting but neglected at the level of music.
In a pivotal scene in the 1973 film La Villeggiatura, the history professor Rossini sets up an opposition that is crucial for postwar perceptions of Italian identity: 'In Wagner there are too many irrational myths, but Verdi is ours.' His captor, the island governor, agrees, equating 'ours' with the (still emerging Fascist) nation, whereas Rossini clings to utopian bourgeois notions of 'ours' meaning 'everyone's'. In the latter view, Verdi then functions like the amalgam of Schiller's text with Beethoven's Ninth, and both composers are meant to be immune from the bogey of Wagner and from Wagner reception in Nazi Germany. Verdi as unassailed national icon has served as political alibi, albeit a frequently ironized one, in Italian Cinema. Postwar wounds were stitched up, while exposing the inadequacy of that suturing, by appealing to a glorious 19th century era leading to national unification via the righteous eviction of foreign occupiers.
The Verdi myth in Italian Cinema foregrounded the myth of the Resistance, while at the same time puncturing it (Visconti in Senso; Verdi reception as an anachronistic vestige with an ineffective bourgeoisie in Bertolucci). Alongside Verdi, the other major site where melodrama and politics converged with a comparable moral pathos was Neorealism. This paper traces Neorealism and opera (largely Verdi) from the immediate impact of Rome Open City, via their sceptical reception with Bertolucci, to their definitive summation in the wheatfields sequence of the Tavianis' Night of San Lorenzo (1982). This arch inevitably also touches on two further identity issues: Nazism as the 'irrational myth' variant of Italian fascism, and the cultural war of Neorealism profiling itself against Hollywood. The case study is thus also a rich site for exploring issues of nation, culture, and identities, especially as these tend towards globalization - Italian opera as a property of the three tenors rather than primarily a national cultural heritage.

Linda Schubert (The Journal of Film Music): "Janequin in Hollywood: Alex North's Score for The Agony and the Ecstasy"
Historically, we know that the artist Michelangelo saw himself as a sculptor rather than a painter. Therefore, when he received a commission from the Pope to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, he was not pleased and even feared that he had been "set up" for failure by Roman intrigue. According to director Carol Reed's film, The Agony and the Ecstasy (Twentieth Century Fox, 1965), this situation made for a stormy relationship between the renowned artist and his patron, the fierce and ruthless "warrior-Pope" Julius II, over the four years it took to complete the project (1508-1512).
Music is vital to The Agony and the Ecstasy for portraying, sustaining, and heightening the drama of this conflicted relationship. The film uses original music by two composers. Unlike the film composing teams of the 1930s-40s, however, these men did not work together to produce a single score. Rather, Franco Potenza composed the vocal polyphony used as source (diegetic) music, while Alex North wrote the orchestral score (non-diegetic music) structured around recurring themes.
Agony, however, also uses pre-existent early music. Generally speaking, this is not a surprise, since early music is often heard in historical films and is typically confined to instances of source music. In Agony, for example, the fifteenth-century "L'homme armé" is heard as source music in a tavern scene. More rarely, early music is used in the supporting (non-diegetic) score of historical films-e.g., Agony uses "Der Juden Tanz" and "My Lady Carey's Dompe" (at the time probably taken from Apel and Davison's HAM Anthology) in this way. In one startling cue, however, North incorporated a quite lengthy excerpt from a famous early work into the score, namely Clément Janequin's sixteenth-century chanson "La guerre." Janequin (c1472-c1560), believed to have been a pupil of Josquin des Pres, was particularly known for his chansons. "La guerre," said to be a representation of the battle of Marignano (1515), was first published by Attaingnant in 1529 and was popular enough to inspire many arrangements.
This paper, based on a study of North's score now housed at UCLA, will focus particularly on the use of "La guerre" in The Agony and the Ecstasy. I will first give a brief history and description of the chanson itself, then identify the section of the work that North chose to use in the film and discuss his arrangement and its context within the rest of the (long) cue. I will also analyze the scene itself and discuss the relationship(s) between music, visuals and narrative, as well as consider the reasons North may have had for assigning so much dramatic weight to an ancient piece that most filmgoers would probably not recognize.


Daniel Goldmark (University of Alabama): "Borrowed Music and the Animated Canon"
Hollywood cartoons feature musics of a wide variety of styles and genres, from 19^th century pop songs and light classics to free jazz and country tunes. Each cartoon studio approached the use of pre-existing music from a vastly different perspective. Some studios had the advantage of connections to well-known publishers or even famous musicians that they could use to their advantage, while others had to rely on the creativity of their composers and the availability of music in the public domain. In my talk I will discuss the creative and institutional differences between several studios, as well as looking at which genres of music received more attention than others-- that is, which were "borrowed" the most.

Michael Saffle (Virginia Tech): "Mountain Music Goes to the Movies: The Problem of 'Authentic Appalachia' in Hollywood Film Scores"
None of America's regional musics has amused, appalled, and fascinated quite so many film-goers as the ballads, bluegrass, gospel songs, and work songs associated since the Civil War (see Henry Shapiro's Appalachia on Our Mind) with the "southern mountains" extending from West Virginia to Alabama. Unlike other musics borrowed from concert halls, night clubs, and previous movies, Appalachian music raises in the minds of viewers a double question when employed in film scores:
1) is it authentic-i.e., in some sense pre-existing, rather than recently simulated? and
2) is it employed authentically, rather than presented out of cultural context?
This two-headed question must be confronted by film directors, composer/arrangers, and performers as well as audience members, because all of us invariably ask such questions as "Is it 'ours' or 'theirs'?" and "Where do the mountains begin or end?" when we encounter forms of musical expression tainted by 150 years of regional, racial, and class prejudices-issues dealt with, albeit without film scores specifically in mind, by Nicholas Dawidoff in his book In the Country of Country. Everyone accepts the authenticity of Mozart's music used in Amadeus, although some listeners may quibble over particular performance practices. There is, however, no standard by which everyone can adjudicate the authenticity even of the oldest Appalachian music; Richard Peterson, for example, proposes six quite different standards in "Authenticity: A Renewable Resource" (Creating Country Music, Chapter 6). Indeed, the "ballad war" fought in print during the early decades of the twentieth century-to paraphrase D. K. Wilgus (in Anglo-American Folksong Scholarship Since 1898)-turned on which tunes were British and communalist in origin (i.e., "authentic") and which had been "invented" by individual Americans. When radio programs and recording labels of the 1920s and 1930s began to construct the "old-timer," the "hillbilly," and the "geezer" as social as well as musical stereotypes-the Grand Ole Opry comes to mind-the issue became further complicated; other standards were adopted and, later, repeatedly modified. Consequently, the same sounds and stereotyps that alienate(d) many Americans from each other also serve(d) sometimes to simulate a national musical vernacular, one celebrated by Aaron Copland in Rodeo and the singing-cowboy pictures of Republic Studios.
I propose to exemplify and evaluate the tensions associated with pre-existing (i.e., "authentic") "hillbilly," "cowboy," and "country" musics employed in such recent Hollywood films as Songcatcher and O Brother, Where Art Thou? To reveal more clearly the (meta)narratives these films reinforce as well as ways existing mountain music functions in both diagetic and non-diagetic contexts, I also propose comparing these films with earlier movies, including Deliverance and the screen version of Oklahoma! Closely related issues include the extent to which performances by both "authentic" and "inauthentic" artists (The Whites' soundtrack recording of "Keep on the Sunny Side" in O Brother, for example, instead of the celebrated 1930s Carter Family recording) are linked to box-office success.

John Howland (University of California, Davis): "New York Rhapsodies in Tinseltown: 'Gershwinesque' Paraphrases in Classical Hollywood Film"
The music of studio-era Hollywood films regularly recycled a broad pool of stylistic topics derived from familiar musical texts. Most film music scholarship has ignored the study of such widespread, derivative scoring conventions in favor of examining film music history through the dual criteria of innovation and originality. However, many studio-era composers and arrangers were pressured to emulate generic film music models and were likewise asked to adapt or paraphrase well-known, pre-existing music. Such adaptations were routinely encouraged by studio executives and musical directors because of the value of the pre-fabricated cultural codes that were tied to such familiar musical texts. In general, this system demanded that successful formulae be emulated, and the practice of film music composition was no stranger to this rule. With regard to this latter imperative, in his 1942 autobiography, the pianist/composer Oscar Levant described two key studio-era composition/orchestration traditions as "generic" and "derivative" scoring practices. By "generic" scoring, Levant was referring to film music that was deliberately composed as transparent paraphrases on well-known, pre-existing compositions. By contrast, "derivative" scoring involved textural, stylistic, and orchestrational paraphrases that were based on less identifiable compositional models. Each of these scoring practices was closely tied to the roots of Hollywood music departments in earlier New York entertainment traditions. In the late 1920s and 1930s, key Broadway arrangers and conductors, as well as their arranging peers in Tin Pan Alley, the deluxe movie palace orchestras, and symphonic jazz-styled dance bands, were specifically recruited to found and develop the music departments of the major studios. Both Hollywood's "generic" and "derivative" scoring practices derive in large part from the arranging conventions and "characteristic scoring effects" that typify these earlier entertainment traditions. Among classical Hollywood's multifarious musical borrowings, perhaps no scoring convention is more reflective of Hollywood's New York entertainment roots than the typical "Gershwinesque" paraphrases of studio-era film music. These musical borrowings and references were routinely modeled after key passages in George Gershwin's "symphonic jazz" concert works, as well as an important related series of solo piano and orchestral scores published by the Tin Pan Alley giant Robbins Music and promoted by the bandleader Paul Whiteman. This so-called "Modern American Music" score series included such popular titles as Louis Alter's Manhattan Serenade and the concert-style reworking of Alfred Newman's score to the 1931 film Street Scene. Each of these compositions, as well as other works from this series, provided fodder for Hollywood's "Gershwinesque" score references in the 1930s and 1940s. The film score borrowings, paraphrases and idiomatic emulations based on these "Gershwinesque" scores directly tap into the pool of programmatic codes that accumulated around these works, particularly the association of these compositions with the metropolitan cultural mythologies of contemporary New York, Tin Pan Alley and Broadway, and the glamorous cosmopolitan lifestyle that was so richly portrayed in the popular media of the 1920s and the Depression. This paper will explore the concept of "generic" scoring conventions and articulate their accumulated cultural meanings by examining a variety of direct filmic borrowings of several "Gershwinesque" compositions.

Andrew Kaye (Albright College, PA): "Mimesis as Musical Meaning: Borrowed Motifs and Africa as a Cinematic Topos"
Since the beginnings of the music-cinematic relationship in the 1890s, composers and sound-designers for film have relied on a fluid intermixture of borrowed and original musical composition, including pre-composed materials from popular and erudite sources and known leitmotifs including patriotic and stereotyped ethnic melodies, as well as other possible additions drawn from the entire range of available sound praxis. The boundaries between original and borrowed are fluid, since "original" compositions may become borrowed motifs and borrowed materials are subject to complex re-composition through orchestration and harmonic, rhythmic, and melodic transformations. In this paper I shall consider the interplay of original and borrowed musics where black Africa is the cinematic topos. Filmic images with musical references to Africa appear as early as the 1897, although little is known about musical motifs for Africa during the silent period. A Zulu War Dance, composed by Zamecnik, appears in the second Sam Fox collection (1914) and there are a few musical cues for Africa in Rapee's Encyclopedia (1925). These give us an idea of the musical types that may have been commonly inserted for African or related "jungle" scenes prior to electrically-synchronized sound. In the talkies, some of these earlier cues were actively borrowed for service as title music or other stock cues in Africa-related pictures such as West of Zanzibar (1928), Trader Horn (1931), and Tarzan, the Ape-Man (1932). Sound film producers also procured actual examples of African music, either thr ough already published or on-site field recordings, while commissioning the creation of ersatz examples of traditional music, especially drumming. The use of these materials was understandably inconsistent and erratic. A recording of what seems to be East African singing is placed diegetically into an East African scene in Trader Horn (1931), and re-cued seven years later in Too Hot to Handle (1938), a film set in the jungles of South America! By contrast, the scene of the corps de ballet of Tutsi warriors, preceded by a performance of an amakondera horn orchestra in King Solomon's Mines (1950) exemplifies a more historically accurate and technically sophisticated bringing together of music and diegetic setting in an African context. By the 1950s, however, musical references in African films were already beginning to shift. In 1951, we have what may be the first example of a modern African song in the soundtrack of a widely distributed film. In Cry the Beloved Country, the 1939 popular recording Mbube is placed diegetically among the urban sounds accompanying Reverend Kumalo's arrival into the confusing metropolis of Johannesburg. From this point forward, we see the repertory of appropriate musical cues for Africa diversify, in both films produced in the West and in the burgeoning African film industries of the post-independence era. In the contemporary African cinema, whether in art-house films such as Touki Bouki (1973) or in the "home movie" video productions of Nigeria and Ghana (eg., 31^st Night from 2000), musical borrowings range from ancient African motifs to Mozart, European folk songs, and stylistic borrowings from hip-hop to the avant garde.

Albrecht Riethmüller (Freie Universität Berlin): "Korngold's Mendelssohn: The Score of Max Reinhardt's 1935 Motion Picture Production of A Midsummer Night's Dream"
In the same year when the performance of Mendelssohn's popular incidental music was prohibited in German theaters, Max Reinhardt asked Korngold to come to California to arrange Mendelssohn's music for his Warner Bros. production of Dream. Korngold sketched some fifty numbers, the sum of which utilized the gamut of instrumental and vocal arrangement techniques. Not confining himself merely to Mendelssohn's incidental music, Korngold incorporated other works of his as well-vocalizing, re-vocalizing, orchestrating and re-orchestrating them. The movie won two Academy Awards and was nominated for Best Film. Korngold's Dream score marked the starting point for one of Hollywood's most astounding film composer careers, spanning a relatively short twelve years. The presentation will focus on the following aspects: Korngold's strategies for arranging Mendelssohn's music, the contextualization of the music within the film, and the historic conditions surrounding this film and its music.


William H. Rosar (The Journal of Film Music): "The Black Cat: The Composer's Point-of-View"
Edward Lippman (1966) defined as the goal of musical hermeneutics to "make clear the complex of feelings, associations, and ideas that were initially formulated in tone by [a] composer and produced by an adequate performance at the time the work was composed." This applies to film music as well, and even to a film score that largely utilizes existing music. Heinz Roemheld's score for the Universal horror film The Black Cat (1934) consists of works in the public domain from the "classical" repertoire, both quoted and also used thematically in original scoring written by Roemheld himself. By interviewing Roemheld it was possible to glean much of his "complex of feelings, associations, and ideas" relative to this score. In addition to its dramatic functions within the context of the film, the score can be seen not only as reflecting existing musical associations in the world of "classical music," and from the use of some of the works in the silent film era, but also associations reflecting Roemheld's career as a concert pianist, a performer and conductor of music for silent films, and as a composer. The score can thus be viewed as much as a reflection of Roemheld's own musical sensibilities as those of the works he utilized.

Mark-Daniel Schmid (Mansfield University): "Stop, Thief! Or Whose Music Is It Anyway?"
Composers of film music often find themselves working with impossible deadlines. How do they create a soundtrack that will not only fit the production but also enhance it? How will the composer proceed swiftly from a temp track to the actual final soundtrack in the rather short post-production phase of a film? If directors decide not to have the temp track replaced with an originally composed score for lack of its quality-movies like 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Platoon (1986), and The Exorcist (1973) come here to mind-their choice of music frequently relies on existing classical works from composers in the Baroque up to the Twentieth century. Some film music composers have the knack to let their creativity inspire them towards crafting a distinctly unique composition based on themes and melodies mostly their own, or if not, at least disguised and altered in a musically imaginative way. And then there are those composers who borrow smaller bits-themes, motives, chord progressions, rhythmic figurations, even orchestral timbres-to create "an original film score" that are recognizable, provided, of course, the listeners is familiar with the original.
This paper will investigate a select group of music examples from recent film scores which bear strong similarities to pre-existing compositions from nineteen and twentieth-century Classical composers. Furthermore, it will explore this artistic practice from an ethical as well as a philosophical standpoint. David Fenton and John Williams are two composers who in their soundtracks to recent movies have borrowed from pre-existing models, albeit not as blatantly as Maurice Jarre- the opening five notes of Franz Schubert's Fantasy in F Minor for Four Hands form the nucleus of the main theme-in his film score to Istvan Szabo's latest film Sunshine, as Michael Beckerman in a recent New York Times article has pointed out. Fenton's main theme to Anna and the King, clad in magnificent orchestral guise, bears tremendous melodic resemblance to Gabriel Fauré's song "Aurore" as well as showing significant rhythm similarity to the aria "Depuis le jour" from the opera Louise by Gustave Charpentier. No less camouflaged, John Williams furtively borrows from one of Aaron Copland's lesser-known works, the song cycle Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson, originally composed in 1949-50, in the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan, when an aged Ryan, followed by his wife and family, walks towards the war cemetery in Normandy. The cycle's seventh song, "Sleep Is Supposed To Be," and the twelfth and last song, "The Chariot," both begin with almost rhythmically and melodically identical accompanimental lines by the orchestra.
Where should the line be drawn when borrowing from other sources? Haven't composers always relied and built on their predecessors? If so, why then is it so difficult to give credit to composers and their works from which creators of film music can blatantly and directly lift? Perhaps it would show too much character to add a sentence in the rolling credits "inspired by the music of so and so."

Tobias Plebuch (Stanford University): "On Musical Borrowing Considered As One of the Fine Arts"
This paper investigates the manipulation and integration of pre-existing music into original film scores. I argue that various arrangement techniques can fulfil structural, expressive and semantic functions as well as (exclusively) original composition. In fact, certain effects can be achieved only by manipulating familiar music. To this end, I shall analyze the interaction of original and non-original film music in selected case studies.
Film composers and arrangers may inscribe subtle comments into their original scores utilizing the semantic connotations of 19th-century opera and program music. In Sunset Boulevard, Modigliani and Wild Strawberries the film score “comments” on the narrative with a hermeneutic subtext by anticipating non-original diegetic music. Conversely, in Rose-Marie the recollection of a leitmotiv thrusts into, and peculiarly blends with, the finale of Tosca. Some arrangers went so far as to transform instrumental pieces into extended operatic scenes (Maytime, Phantom of the Opera). Distinguished composers, such as Alex North, Dmitri Tiomkin, Max Steiner and Alois Melichar, wrote leitmotivic scores largely derived from borrowed music (The Children's Hour, Portrait of Jennie, The Beast with Five Fingers, The Scarlet Empress, Das Unsterbliche Herz). Tailoring their material to the details of action and dialogue with painstaking accuracy, they created structurally coherent and highly expressive film music. Pliantly de- and recomposed music can indeed reveal, to the attentive ear, unspoken thoughts and invisible deeds on the silver screen. Thus Hollywood’s musical master thefts confirm Johann Mattheson’s apology of the Baroque parody practice: you are always welcome to use someone else’s music, as long as you “repay with interest."¹

David Rosen (Cornell University): "The Sound(s) of Music and War in Humphrey Jennings's Listen to Britain (1942)"
Humphrey Jennings's documentary film about the war effort at home, Listen to Britain (1942)² seems made for this conference: there is no narrator and virtually no spoken dialogue, but music—borrowed music—is pervasive. Indeed, all the music is borrowed and, not surprisingly, nearly all of it is diegetic, performed before our eyes or heard over the radio. The paper explores the themes sketched below: the selection of music, the interplay of music and noise and that of music and the visual images, and the crucial switch to non-diegetic music at the film's climax. The title credits epitomize the theme of the film: a cannon intersecting a violin. In counterpoint to the noises of the war effort--arms manufactured, soldiers transported--we will hear Britons making music-folk songs, popular songs, and Myra Hess performing a Mozart concerto with the Queen in attendance. The presence of German music and the absence of domestic music making, jazz, and modern classical music are notable; alas, there is nothing here to combat the cliché about England as consumer rather than creator of music. In the credits there is also a snippet of notated music, the first phrase of the refrain of "Rule Britannia". During the credits there is no title music per se, unless it is that snippet seen but not heard. Through much of the film the sounds of music and the sounds of war overlap: for example, the roar of the Spitfires fades as we hear a dance band playing "The Beer Barrel Polka" counterpointing it, then supplanting it. Similarly, the visual images overlap the musical ones-the music changes before the shift of visual image or continues after it.. This linking not only provides continuity and forward motion, but also supports the connection between the musical effort and the war effort: in our separate ways, we are all working towards a common goal. The film ends with a non-diegetic reprise of "Rule Britannia"; a reprise only for those who "heard" the notated music in the title credits - this play on musical literacy is consonant with the theme that music-making runs the gamut from an impromptu rendition of "Home on the Range" without printed music to Myra Hess's performance of a Mozart concerto from a score. The reprise is seconded by visual reprises of the opening sequences, but now rather than looking up at the Spitfires, as the music swells we view the English countryside from above--we now see Britain as well as listen to it. At the final chord of "Rule Britannia" the original title credits reappear. While most of the film thematizes the coexistence and alternation of the sounds of war and the sounds of music, at the end music--non-diegetic music-triumphs and assumes an authoritative and authorial voice.

Louis Niebur (University of California, Los Angeles): "Familiar Yet Strange: Adapted Stock Music in 1960s British Television"
From the late 1950s into the 1960s, British television lured audiences away from the seemingly ubiquitous force of domestic and American cinema product. Television producers and directors were able to do this in spite of a relentless economic austerity that had remained in large part undiminished since the end of the war. In such belt-tightening times, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) had little chance of matching the production values of large budget American films and was forced through necessity to innovate in their own way. Ambitious British television directors and producers constantly pushed the boundaries as to what was realistically possible to achieve. Probably the most conceptually adventurous of these programs were the science fiction dramas and serials produced, most often for children, although as a money saving device, the use of stock or library music was often required for both the signature tunes and incidental music. Directors soon realized that the music contained within the vast music libraries of the BBC were not quite what science fiction (a fairly new and rapidly developing genre in television) required, but were able to find a way to turn this apparent disadvantage to their advantage. Instead of merely incorporating the selected stock tracks into the production, they were often electronically altered to make them more "appropriate" to science fiction. This use of altered non-original music had the desired effect of rendering the final product familiar and yet strange, an outcome that the directors felt captured the "bizarreness" of science fiction in a way the program's limited visual effects budgets could rarely display.
This paper explores the phenomenon of these adapted stock music soundtracks for science fiction television, choosing several representative examples from between 1956-1966. After the establishment of the BBC's Radiophonic Workshop in 1958, an organization created for the production of electronic music and sound effects, there was a ready-made unit within the BBC for the adaptation of this pre-recorded music using the established techniques of Parisian musique concrète. These techniques involved tape manipulation such as speeding up, slowing down, and reversing tape, and running the recording through echo and delay filters. Programs like 1958's Quatermass and the Pit, 1956's 1984, and from 1963-1970, the ongoing Doctor Who series continuously employed this method of scoring. In order to explain why directors would have thought the soundtracks benefited from this treatment, I will be adapting Michel Chion's concept of the acousmatic sound, a sound for which the sound source in film is not immediately visually (and by extension, rationally) apparent. For Chion, this acousmatic sound is an alienating device, a noise that creates suspense through its unknowableness. By altering the traditional melodies through "unknowable" (certainly, at least, unfamiliar, in the late 1950s and early 1960s) techniques, the directors and composers at the Radiophonic Workshop were able to instill suspense and an overall alien quality to otherwise standard music. This explanation begins to both describe the procedural decisions behind the soundtracks as well as accounts for the surprising effectiveness of many of these productions.

Kristi Brown (Los Angeles): "Pathetique Noir: Beethoven, Isolation, and Longing in The Man Who Wasn't There"
The connection between the music of Beethoven and various types of violence has received a great deal of critical attention, particularly in the past decade, and has also been exploited almost to the point of cliché in popular film (e.g. A Clockwork Orange, Die Hard, The Professional, Apt Pupil, and Misery). Beethoven "biopics," one the other hand, have capitalized on another prevalent image of the composer: the heroic, deaf artist, unlucky wooer of the Immortal Beloved, and despondent author of the Heiligenstadt Testament. This heroic-via-suffering Beethoven, alienated from and misunderstood by society, who grapples with despair and achieves transcendent triumph is certainly the iconic subject of two "adaptations" of the composer's biography: Abel Gance's unbearably melodramatic Le grand amour de Beethoven (1936) and Bernard Rose's extravagant mystery-fantasy, Immortal Beloved (1994). These biopics also subscribe to the notion that the man and his music are existentially linked, that, estranged from the verbal world, Beethoven conveys himself through his music; Gance and Rose present an isolated and enigmatic Beethoven who says "I speak to you through music: listen and you will know what I feel."
Both of these Beethovens-the potentially violent and the tragic, innig hero-move like shadow figures in Joel and Ethan Coen's film noir, The Man Who Wasn't There, evoked by the relationship between the drama's main character, barber Ed Crane, and the soundtrack's rich sampling of Beethoven slow movements for piano. Classic film noir does not usually cozy up to classical music-even in exceptions like Sunset Boulevard and Double Indemnity, classical excerpts represent only a small, if crucial, part of the scoring-yet in The Man Who Wasn't There, Beethoven's music makes up more than half the soundtrack. Playing against type still more, the film uses only slow movements from piano sonatas and the Archduke Trio, which sound especially intimate and subdued within the context of a genre that turns on violence and corruption. The combination of lyric Beethoven and film-noir grit produces an idiosyncratic protagonist, in whom parallel popular conceptions about Beethoven and his music-the lonely artist-hero vs. the spirit of potential mayhem-merge in a dynamic of suffering, silence, and longing.
Though the film incorporates original score and popular music from the 1940s, it is only when Beethoven is playing-as both diegetic and non-diegetic music-that Ed Crane shares something beyond the main line of the plot. Two pieces in particular, the "Pathètique" and "Moonlight" sonatas-themselves emblematic-accompany Crane's most introspective voice-overs: the abnormally laconic barber who abhors chit-chat speaks to us through the music about his desires and secret thoughts. Besides the sonata-heavy soundtrack and explicit references to the composer and his deafness, the film also makes other, perhaps unconscious associations between Beethoven and Ed Crane. The scenes introducing the "Pathètique" and "Moonlight" sonatas, for example, reveal remarkable similarities to a number of Immortal Beloved sequences featuring the same two pieces, producing a mutually supportive system of "iconicity."

Julie Brown (Royal Holloway London): "Cinematic Subjectivities in the Music-Film"
Films that take music as their central metaphor raise special questions about music's role in cinematic subject formation. If, as Michel Chion has argued, one of cinema's most vital effects is its ability to allow us to hear the voice of someone or something visually absent, to create a trompe-l'oreille through its acousmatic effect, another is arguably its ability to allow us to visualise something absent from the music we hear, something absent but understood - albeit understood, or sensed, in music's characteristically opaque, imprecise way.
In this paper I contemplate and contrast ways in which musical subjectivities are negotiated in two music-films that make exclusive use of pre-existent classical music: Claude Sautet's Un coeur en hiver (1992) and Michael Haneke's La Pianiste (2001). Both films explore music as metaphor on multiple levels; however, I shall argue in this paper that the films are perhaps most interesting in the way they imaginatively seem to embody musical texts in narrative, scenario and character: Ravel on the one hand, Schubert and Schoenberg on the other. Drawing on Naomi Cummings' work on musical subjectivity and signification I suggest that the visual dimensions of these two films can be read as species of interpretation of how this music means for us: how a listener goes about interpreting a composer's work and a performer's rendition, how she might draw in the composer's, performer's and listener's identities, and how she might bring to it some notion of the music's cultural work. I suggest that the shift in emphasis a viewer experiences between a visual field illuminating music on the one hand, and music illuminating the visual field on the other, renders music-films such as these rich sites for the exploration of filmic subjectivity.