Download Musical Dramaturgy In Late Nineteenth And Early Twentieth

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
1
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
2
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.
3
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
4
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.
5
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 (nondiegetic). 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
6
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
7
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
8
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
9
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.
10
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
11
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).
12
13
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.).
14
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
15
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
16
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
17
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
18
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, 15451546). 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)
19
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 ‘extradialogic’ 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,
20
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.
21
Play (and premiere dates)
The Colleen Bawn (1860)
The Streets of London (1864)
Arrah-Na-Pogue (1864)
Under the Gaslight (1867)
The Bells (1871)
British Born (1872)
The Shaughraun (1874)
Bitter Cold (1865)
The Corsican Brothers (1852)
Khartoum (1885)
Cited Text
Promptbook: W. Cuthbert
Promptbook: W. Cuthbert
Promptbook: D. Boucicault
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays
Published Promptbook: H. Irving
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays
Promptbook: W.E. Raynor
Promptbook: W. Cuthbert
Promptbook: H. Irving
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays
Production
Sept 1860
Aug 1864
Mar 1865
July 1868
Nov 1871
Oct 1872
Sept 1875
Dec 1878
Sept 1880
Mar 1885
A Doll’s House (1879)
The Dancing Girl (1891)
The Master Builder (1893)
Translation: W. Archer
Published Promptbook: H. A. Jones
Promptbook: E. Robins
Translation: W. Archer and E. Goose
Promptbook: P. Campbell
June 1889
Jan 1891
Feb 1893
Theatre
Royal New Adelphi
Princess
Princess
The Pavilion
Lyceum
The Grecian Salon
Drury Lane
Prince of Wales
Lyceum
Sanger’s Grand
National Amphitheatre
Novelty
Haymarket
Trafalgar Square
Nov 1893
St. James’ Theatre
Translation: W. Archer
May 1894
Royalty (Independent
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray
(1893)
The Wild Duck (1885)
Theatre subscription
performance)
Cheer Boys Cheer (1895)
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays
John Gabriel Borkman (1896) Translation: W. Archer
Sept 1895
May 1897
Drury Lane
Strand (New Century
The Wild Duck (1885)
Translation: W. Archer
May 1897
Theatre subscription
performance)
Globe (Independent
Theatre subscription
performance)
Ben Hur (1899)
Hedda Gabler (1891)
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays
Promptbook: P. Campbell
Translation: Not Specified
Promptbook: P. Campbell
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays
Translation: W. Archer and C. Archer
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays
Translation: G. Calderon
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays
Translation: C. Garnett
Lord Chamberlain’s Plays Garnett
Translation: C. Garnett
Apr 1902
Mar 1907
Drury Lane
Royal Court Theatre
July 1909
Oct 1921
Feb 1922
Feb 1924
Jan 1925
Dec 1925
St. James’
The Court Theatre
Old Vic
The Court Theatre
Oxford Playhouse
Garrick
Jan 1926
Barnes Theatre
Caste (1867)
Heartbreak House (1920)
Peer Gynt (1876)
Back to Methulusah (1922)
The Cherry Orchard (1904)
Ivanov (1887)
Three Sisters (1901)
Fig. 2 Play texts discussed
22
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 crossreferencing 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
23
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
24
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.
25
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, 140141). 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
26
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,
27
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
28
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
29
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.
30
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
31
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 twentiethcentury 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.
32
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:
33
[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.
34
(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
35
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.
36
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...’ (2000, 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 nineteenthcentury theatre was David Mayer who concluded that numerous assumptions held about
underscoring were misinformed:
37
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 nineteenthcentury, 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.
38
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, 335). 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
39
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 BirdCries 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
40
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
41
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 idolimages 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
42
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:
43
…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).
44
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
45
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
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.
46
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
47
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
48
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’
49
(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
50
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:
51
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 composerconductor 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)
52
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
53
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 preexisting 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).
54
Play
Fedora
(Victorien Sardou)
Trilby
(Paul M. Potter)
The Old Guard
(Boucicault)
Production Compilation Sources
1895
‘Non piu andrai’ from Nozze di Figaro
Boccherini’s minuet
Gounod’s ‘Meditation’
Letter reading music from Act 3 of La Traviata
1895
Schubert’s Rosamunde overture
Excerpts by Berlioz and Rubenstein
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
55
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.
56
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)
57
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
58
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
59
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
60
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
61
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:
62
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 eightbar 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 preprepared 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
63
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
64
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
65
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.
66
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
67
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
68
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
69
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)
70
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
71
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 coordinate 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
72
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)
73
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
74
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
75
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.
76
(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?
77
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
78
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.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
Invisibility: the technical apparatus of nondiegetic music must not be visible.
“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.
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.
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.
Continuity: music provides formal and rhythmic continuity- between shots, in
transitions between scenes by filling “gaps.”
Unity: via repetition and variation of musical material and instrumentation, music
aids in the construction of formal and narrative unity.
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
79
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
80
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 nondiegetic 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
81
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
82
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
83
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
84
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
85
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
86
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
87
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!
88
(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
89
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
90
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
91
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)
92
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
93
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
94
Linear Timeline
22nd March
1841
Paris
01:30
Chronological Narrative
Fig. 6 The Corsican
Brothers linear timeline
and chronological narrative
Act II
II:1 – Opera /
Masked Ball
Sound Bridge
Paris
03:45
II:2 – Opera
House Lobby
Paris
03:50
II:3 –
Montigron’s
House
Paris
04:00
Sound Bridge
II:4 – Forest of
Fortinbleau
Paris
09:10
Vision Scene
Act I
I:1 Di Franchi
Household
Corsica
23:00
Corsica
23:55
Vision Scene
27th March
1841
Sound Bridge
Act III
III:1 – Forest of
Fortinbleau
Fortinbleau
09:00
Sound Bridge
End
End
95
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 nondiegetic 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)
96
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
97
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
98
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)
99
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
100
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
101
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
102
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.
103
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
104
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 magiclanterns, 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
105
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:
106
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, nondiegetic 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.
107
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’
108
(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
109
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
110
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
111
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
112
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 actormanagers 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
113
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
114
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 horsebells 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 nondiegetic 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 nondescript 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
115
tradition’ (ibid.). However, Pisani does not explicitly connect the practice with twentiethcentury film or identify that this convention was also subverted by some nineteenthcentury 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,
116
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,
117
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.
118
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
119
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
120
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
121
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.
122
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
123
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
124
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
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.
125
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
126
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)
127
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
128
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
129
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)
130
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
131
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
132
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
133
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
134
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
135
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 nondiegetic 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 wellmade-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)
136
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, intratextual 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.
Character / Archetype
Narrative
Integration
Musical
Convention
Villain
Entrance Agitato
Fig. 7 Semiotic construction of a motif
137
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)
138
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
139
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
140
decreasing role non-diegetic music would play in late nineteenth and early twentiethcentury 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]onight I shall sleep with-out a fear haunting me!’ (ibid., 66).
141
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’
142
(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
143
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:
144
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
145
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
146
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.
147
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
148
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)
149
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
150
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
151
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)
152
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
153
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.
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.
154
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
155
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 onstage 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):
156
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:
157
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)
158
Ibsen’s diegetic designs even accounted for the aural logistics involved in using a live onstage 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 preestablished 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
159
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
160
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
161
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
162
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
163
‘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 offstage 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
164
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
165
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.
166
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
167
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)
168
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
169
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
170
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 onstage 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…’
171
(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, 1889). 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.
172
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
173
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
174
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, howde-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 intracontextual 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
175
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
176
‘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:
177
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.
178
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).
179
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
180
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).
181
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
182
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
183
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.
184
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).
185
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
186
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
187
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
188
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.
189
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
190
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)
191
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.
192
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:
193
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)
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
194
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
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.
195
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
196
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
197
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
198
suggests that the music should be a lively polka of some description (Randel, 1969, 6687). 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
199
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
200
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 onstage 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.
201
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
202
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 preemptive 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
203
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 inbetween 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
204
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
205
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
206
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,
207
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.
208
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
209
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
210
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:
211
…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
212
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).
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 pianoconscious snob on the grounds of it being a devotional instrument’ (1996, 86).
213
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 nondiegetic 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
214
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:
215
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 meetinghouse 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
216
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
217
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.
218
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).
219
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.
220
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
221
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
222
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).
223
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
224
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)
225
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 dinnerdance 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
226
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.
227
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,
228
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 intratextual 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?
229
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
230
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).
231
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 fourteenthcentury poems that referred to the inevitability and impartiality of death. This theme
232
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
233
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.
234
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.
235
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
Erhart
The ‘Danse Macabre’
Establishes a conventional inter-textual
interpretation which connects the music
with death.
Borkman
Attributes the sign with a personal and
symbolic reading that provides an
alternative to the conventional
interpretation. From his perspective the
music aurally represents metal singing
joyously when it is freed by the miner.
The music underscores her short
soliloquy at the end of Act I during
which she makes the following plea:
‘Erhart! …come home and help your
mother! For I can bear this life no
Mrs.
Borkman
Sleigh Bells
Indexically signifies the
transportation Erhart is
using to free himself from
his family.
The bells are a literal
representation of ‘singing
metal’ and therefore
symbolically linked to the
freedom and joy Borkman
describes in Act II.
Provides a negative
interpretation of the sound
by comparing it to funeral
bells thereby associating
Erhart’s departure with
236
Ella
Rentheim
longer! (Ibsen, 1896, 61).
Therefore, from this character’s
perspective the music is an aural
intrusion that epitomises and contributes
to the daily existence she deplores.
Connects the music’s significance with
her own imminent demise.
death.
Suggests that the sound
may be a positive
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
237
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.
238
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 nondiegetic 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.
239
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)
240
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).
241
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
242
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.
243
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
244
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
245
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 intertextual 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 nineteenthcentury 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.
246
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)
247
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
248
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 upperclass 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:
249
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).
250
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
251
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
252
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, unmaintainable 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
253
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
254
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)
255
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!
256
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
257
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, 115116).
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
258
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.
259
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
260
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)
261
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):
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 reappearance 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
262
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 intertextual 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.
263
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:
264
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.
265
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
266
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 interdisciplinary 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, nondiegetic music provides answers whereas diegetic music poses questions. The nondiegetic 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
267
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
268
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.
269
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
270
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 wellpreserved 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
271
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.
272
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Adorno, T. and Eisler, H., 1947. Composing for the Films. 2007. London: Continuum.
Agate, J., 1944. Red Letter Nights. London: Jonathan Cape Ltd.
Agawu, K., 2009., Music as Discourse: Semiotic Adventures in Romantic Music. Oxford
University Press.
Albery, J., 1870. Two Roses. In: G. Rowell, ed. 1972. Nineteenth-Century Plays, Oxford
University Press, pp. 407-65.
Altman, R., 1992. Cinema as Event. In: R. Altman, ed. Sound Theory Sound Practice.
London: Routledge, pp. 1-14.
Altman, R. McGraw, J. and Tatroe S., 2000. Inventing the Cinema. Soundtrack:
Hollywood’s Multiplane Sound System. In: J. Buhler, C. Flinn and D. Neumeyer, eds.
2000. Music and Cinema. Wesleyan University Press, pp. 339-59.
Altman, R., 2004. Silent Film Sound. New York: Columbia University Press.
Anon., 1864. Review of ‘The Streets of London’. The Era, 7 August, pp. 10.
Anon., 1866. Notes from Ireland. The Contemporary Review, 1 (January – April).
London: A. Strahan, pp. 488-498.
Anon., 1867. London. The Times, 14 December, pp. 6.
Anon., 1887. Music in Drama. The Stage, September 16 (printed in Jackson, R., 1994.
The Victorian Theatre in Its Time. New York: New Amsterdam Books, p. 204).
Anon., 1891. Vaudeville Theatre. The Times, 16 January, pp. 10.
Anon., 1893. Review of ‘The Second Mrs. Tanqueray’. Punch, 10 June, 104, pp. 273.
Anon., 1925. ‘The Cherry Orchard’. The Times, 26 May, p. 14.
Appia, A., 1899. Music and the Art of Theatre. B. Hewitt, ed. 1962. Florida: University
of Miami Press.
Archer, W., 1892. The Theatre. World, 27April, pp. 22.
Archer, W., 1897. The Humour of the Wild Duck. The Theatrical 'World' Of 1897.
1898. London: Walter Scott, Ltd, pp 146-151.
273
Arnheim, R., 1958. Film as Art. London: Faber and Faber.
Aston, E. and Savona, G., 1991. Theatre as Sign-System: A Semiotics of Text and
Performance. London: Routledge, 1991.
Atkins, I. K., 1983. Source Music in Motion Pictures. Toronto: Associated University
Presses.
Barrett, D., 1995. T. W. Robertson and the Prince of Wales’s Theatre. New York: Peter
Lang.
Barry, P., 1995. Beginning Theory: An Introduction to Literary and Cultural Theory.
Manchester University Press.
Barthes, R., 1977. Image-Music-Text. London: Fontana.
Bartlett, T. and Jeffery, K., 1997. A Military History of Ireland. Cambridge University
Press.
Bassnett, S., 1980. Introduction to Theatre Semiotics. Theatre Quarterly, 10 (38), pp. 4753.
Bassnett, S., 1990. Translating for the Theatre: Textual Complexities. Essays in Poetics,
15 (1), pp. 71-83.
Bassnett, S., 1991. Translating for the Theatre: The Case Against Performability. TTR
(Traduction, Terminologie, Redaction), IV (1), pp. 99-111.
Bessell, J., 2000. Interview with Claire Van Kampen. Globe Research Bulletin 18: Actor
Interviews. London: Red and White Companies.
Bettetini, G. and de Marinis, M., 1978. Dramma/Spettaclo: Studi Sulla Semiologia del
Teatro. Biblioteca Teatrale, 20, Florence: Guaraldi.
Bishop, H. and Payne, J.H., 1823. Clari or The Maid of Milan; An Opera, in Three Acts.
London: John Miller.
Bliss, E., 1810. The Thespian preceptor or 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. Boston: Joshua Belcher.
Booth, M.R., 1964. The Acting of Melodrama. University of Toronto Quarterly, 34 (1),
pp. 31-48.
Booth, M.R., 1965. English Melodrama. London: Herbert Jenkins.
274
Booth, M.R., 1969. English Nineteenth Century Plays: II Dramas 1850-1900. Oxford
University Press.
Booth, M.R., 1991. Theatre in the Victorian Age. Cambridge University Press, 1991.
Bordwell, D., 1989. Making Meaning: Inference and Rhetoric in the Interpretation of
Cinema. Harvard University Press.
Bordwell, D. Staiger, J. and Thompson, K., 1985. The Classical Hollywood Cinema. New
York: Columbia University Press.
Bordwell, D. and Thompson, K., 1985. Fundamental Aesthetics of Sound in the Cinema.
In: E. Weis and J. Belton, eds. 1985. Film Sound. Columbia University Press, pp. 181200.
Brink, E.R., 1998. The Genevan Psalter. In: E.R. Brink and B. Polman, eds. 1998. Psalter
Hymnal Handbook. Grand Rapids: CRC Publications, pp. 28-39
Brooks, P., 1976. The Melodramatic Imagination: Balzac, Henry James, Melodrama and
the Mode of Excess. Yale University Press.
Brown, B. A., 1995. W.A. Mozart: ‘Cosi Fan Tutte’. Cambridge University Press.
Boucicault, D., 1852. The Corsican Brothers. Promptbook belonging to H. Irving, 1880.
British Theatre Museum.
Boucicault, D., 1864a. Arrah-Na-Pogue. Promptbook belonging to D. Boucicault. 1864.
British Theatre Museum.
Boucicault, D., 1864b. The Travellers' dictionary of quotation: who said what, about
where? P. Yapp, ed. 1983. Routledge.
Boucicault, D., 1874. The Shaughraun. Promptbook belonging to W.E. Raynor. 1875.
British Theatre Museum.
Boucicault, D., 1860. The Colleen Bawn. Promptbook belonging to W. Cuthbert. 1860.
British Theatre Museum.
Boucicault, D., 1864. The Streets of London. Promptbook belonging to W. Cuthbert.
1864. British Theatre Museum.
Boutsen, F., 199-. Prosody: The Music of Language and Speech. [Online] The American
Speech-Language-Hearing Association. Available at:
http://www.asha.org/about/publications/leader-online/archives/2003/q1/030304f.htm
[Accessed 9 July 2009].
Bracewell, J.L., 1993. Sound in the Theatre. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall.
275
Braun, E., 2000. The Cherry Orchard. In: V. Gottlieb and P. Allain, eds. 2000. The
Cambridge Companion to Chekhov, Cambridge University Press, pp.111-20.
Brewster, B. and Jacobs, L., 1997. Theatre to Cinema: Stage Pictorialism and the Early
Feature Film. Oxford University Press.
Brockett, O.G. and Findlay, R., 1991. Century of Innovation. Boston: Allyn and Bacon.
Brown, B.A., 1995. W.A. Mozart: Così fan tutte. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press
Buhler, J., 2000. Star Wars, Music, and Myth. In J. Buhler, C. Flinn and D. Neumeyer,
eds. 2000. Music and Cinema. New England: Wesleyan University Press, pp. 33-57.
Buhler, J. Flinn, C. and Neumeyer, D. eds., 2000. Music and Cinema. New England:
Wesleyan University Press.
Buhler, J. and Neumeyer, D., 2001a. Analytical and Interpretive Approaches to Film
Music (I): Analysing Interactions of Music and Film. In: K. Donnelly, ed. 2001. Film
Music: Critical Approaches. Edinburgh University Press, pp. 16-38.
Buhler, J. and Neumeyer, D., 2001b. Analytical and Interpretive Approaches to Film
Music (II): Analysing Interactions of Music and Film. In: K. Donnelly, ed. 2001. Film
Music: Critical Approaches. Edinburgh University Press, pp. 39-61.
Burris-Meyer, H. Mallory, V. and Goodfriend, L.S., 1979. Sound in the Theatre. New
York: Theatre Arts Books.
Calderon, G., 1912. Two Plays by Tchekhof: The Seagull / The Cherry Orchard. London:
Grant Richards Ltd.
Calderwood, J.L., 1984. The Master Builder’ and the Failure of Symbolic Success.
Modern Drama, 27 (4), pp. 616-36.
Campbell, P., 1922. My life and some letters. New York: Dodd, Mead and Co.
Carr, J., 1977. The Forest’s Revenge : Subconscious motivation in "The Wild Duck".
Modern Language Review, 72 (4), pp. 845-56.
Cavalcanti, A., 1939. Sound in Films. In: E. Weis and J. Belton, eds. 1985. Film Sound.
Columbia University Press, pp. 98-111.
Chanan, M., 1994. Musica Practica: The Social Practice of Western Music From
Gregorian Chant to Postmodernism. London: Verso.
Chandler, D., 2002. Semiotics: The Basics. London: Routledge.
276
Chekhov, A., 1887. Ivanov. Translated by C. Garnett. Lord Chamberlain's Collection,
1925. British Library.
Chekhov, A., 1896. The Seagull. Translated by G. Calderon. Lord Chamberlain's
Collection, 1909. British Library.
Chekhov, A., 1901. The Three Sisters, Translated by C. Garnett. Lord Chamberlain's
Collection, 1923. British Library.
Chekhov, A., 1904. The Cherry Orchard. Translated by G. Calderon., 1912. London:
Grant Richards Limited.
Chion, M., 1994. Audio-Vision, Sound and Screen. New York: Columbia University
Press.
Chothia, J., 1996. English Drama of the Early Modern Period, 1890 – 1940. London:
Longman Group Limited.
Chusid, M., 1982. Rigoletto and Monterone: A Study in Musical Dramaturgy. Verdi:
Bollettino dell’Istituto di Studi Verdiani, 3 (9), pp. 1544-1558.
Condee, W.F., 2004. The Future is Interdisciplinary. Theatre Survey, 45 (2), pp. 235-240.
Cixous, H. Clément, C.G. and Wing, S.M., 1996. The Newly Born Woman. Translated by
B. Wing. London: I.B. Tauris and Co., pp. 19-20.
Clair, R., 1963. Reflections on the Cinema. London: William Kimber.
Clarkson, D., 1864. The Practical Works. Edinburgh: James Nichol.
Cockshott, G., 1946. Incidental Music in the Sound Film. London: British Film Institute.
Cohen, A.J., 2000. Film Music: Perspectives from Cognitive Psychology. In: J. Buhler,
C. Flinn and D. Neumeyer, eds. 2000. Music and Cinema. Wesleyan University Press,
pp. 360-77.
Coleridge, S.T., 1817. Biographia Literaria - Vol. II. 1907. Oxford University Press.
Collison, D., 1976. Stage Sound. London: Studio Vista.
Cook, D., 1883. Nights at the Play. London: Chatto and Windus.
Cook, N., 1998. Analysing Musical Multimedia. Oxford University Press.
Craig, E.G., 1930. Henry Irving. 1969. New York: Ayer Publishing.
277
Craig, E.G., 1905. The Art of the Theatre: The First Dialogue. In E. Bentley, ed. 1992.
The Theory of the Modern Stage. London: Penguin Books, pp.113-37.
Crook, T., 1999. Radio drama: theory and practice. London: Routledge.
Dahlhaus, C., 2003. The Dramaturgy of Italian Opera. In: L. Bianconi and G. Pestelli,
eds. 2003. Opera in Theory and Practice, Image and Myth. The University of Chicago
Press, pp. 73-150.
Daly, A., 1867. Under the Gaslight. London: Thomas Hailes Lacy.
Darcy, W., 1993. Wagner's Das Rheingold. Oxford University Press.
Davies, R., 1999. Complete Guide to Film Scoring. Boston: Berklee Press.
Davis, T.D., 2004. The Context Problem. Theatre Survey, 45 (2), pp. 203-209.
Dawick, J., 1979. The ‘First’ Mrs. Tanqueray. Theatre Quarterly, 9 (35), pp. 77-93.
Dean, R. N., 2007. From Melodrama to Blockbuster: A Comparative Analysis of Musical
Camouflage in Victorian Theatre and Twenty-First-Century Film. Studies in Musical
Theatre, 1 (2), pp. 139-152.
Dickens, C., 1907. Sketches by Boz. London: J.M. Dent and Co.
Dietrich, R.F., 1989. British Drama, 1890 to 1950: A Critical History. Boston: Twayne
Publishers.
Dithmar, E.A., 1901. Mr. Irving as Coriolanus; Splendid Scenic Production of
Shakespeare's Plutarch Play. Peculiarities of a First Night at the London Lyceum -- Ellen
Terry as Volumnia. The New York Times, April 25, pp. 7
Mr. Irving as Coriolanus; Splendid Scenic Production of Shakespeare's Plutarch Play.
Peculiarities of a First Night at the London Lyceum -- Ellen Terry As Volumnia.
Doktorski, H., 1998. The Classical Harmonium. A Short History of the Free-Reed
Instruments in Classical Music. The Classical Free-Reed Inc. Available at:
http://www.ksanti.net/free-reed/history/harmonium.html
[Accessed 9 May 2009].
Donnelly, K. ed. 2001. Film Music: Critical Approaches. Edinburgh University Press.
Donnelly, K., 2001. The Hidden Heritage of Film Music: History and Scholarship. In: K.
Donnelly, ed. 2001. Film Music: Critical Approaches. Edinburgh University Press, pp. 115.
Dubois, J. et al., 1973. Dictionnaire de linguistique. Paris: Larousse.
278
Duncathail, (pseud. of Ralph Varian) ed., 1865. Street ballads, popular poetry, and
household songs of Ireland. Dublin: McGlashan and Gill.
Eco, U., 1976. A Theory of Semiotics. Indiana University Press.
Eco, U., 1977. Semiotics of Theatrical Performance. The Drama Review, 21 (1), pp.107117.
Eichenberg, F., 1983. Dance of Death: A Graphic Commentary on the Danse Macabre
through the Centuries. New York: Abbeville Press.
Eisenstein, S.M. Pudovkin, V.I. and Alexandrov, G. V., 1928. A Statement. In: E. Weis
and J. Belton, eds. 1985. Film Sound. Columbia University Press, pp. 83-6.
Eisenstein, S.M., 1957. Film Form: Essays in Film Theory and the Film Sense. Ohio:
Meridian.
Eisenstein, S.M., 1963. Film Form: Essays in Film Theory and The Film Sense.
Cleveland: World Publishing Co.
Elam, K., 1980. The Semiotics of Theatre and Drama. London: Routledge.
Emeljanow, V., 1983. Komisarjevsky Directs Chekhov in London. Theatre Notebook, 37
(2), pp. 66-76.
Emeljanow, V., 1987. Komisarjevsky’s ‘Three Sisters’: The Prompt Book. Theatre
Notebook, 41 (3), pp. 56-66.
Emeljanow, V., 1997. Anton Chekhov: The Critical Heritage. London: Routledge.
Fawkes, R., 1979. Dion Boucicault. London: Quartet Books.
Faulkes, R. ed., 1992. British Theatre in the 1890’s: essays on drama and the stage.
Cambridge University Press.
Fiske, J., 1990. Introduction to Communication Studies: Studies in Culture and
Communication. London: Routledge.
Finelli, P., 1989. Sound for the Stage. New York: Drama Book Publishers.
Finkle, D., 2004. Review of Van Hove’s production of ‘Hedda Gabler’. Available at:
http://www.theatermania.com/content/news.cfm?int_news_id=5148
[Accessed 19 August 2005].
Fischer-Lichte, E., 1985. Das Drama und Seine Inszenierung. Tübingen: Niemeyer.
279
Fischer-Lichte, E., 1992. The Semiotics of Theater. Indiana University Press.
Fiske, R., 1986. English Theatre Music in the Eighteenth Century. New York: Oxford
University Press.
Fitzgerald, P., 1881. The World Behind the Scenes. 1977. New York: Arno Press Inc.
Fitzgerald, P., 1893. Henry Irving: A Record of Twenty Years at the Lyceum. London:
Chapman and Hall.
Flinn, C., 2001. Embracing Kitsch: Werner Schroeter, Music and The Bomber Pilot. In:
K. Donnelly, ed. 2001. Film Music: Critical Approaches. Edinburgh University Press, pp.
129-151.
Foote, W.S. 1865. Bitter Cold. Promptbook belonging to W. Cuthbert, 1878. British
Theatre Museum.
Foster, V.A., 2003. The Name and Nature of Tragicomedy. Aldershot: Ashgate
Publishing.
Franz, V., 2000. Incidental Music as a Dramatic Character. Theatre Design and
Technology, 36 (3), pp. 22-5.
Fraser, N., 1993. A Phaidon Theatre Manual: Lighting and Sound. London: Phaidon
Press Ltd.
Frith, S., 1984. Mood Music. Screen, 25 (3), pp. 78-87.
Frith, S., 2007. Taking Popular Music Seriously: Selected Essays. Aldershot: Ashgate
Publishing.
Gammond, P., 1991. The Oxford Companion to Popular Music. Oxford University Press.
Garcia, G., 1888. The Actor’s Art: A Practical Treatise on Stage Declamation, Public
Speaking and Deportment. London: Messrs Simpkin, Marshall and Co.
Gardner, N., 1980. Introduction to the music. In: D. Mayer, ed. 1980. Henry Irving and
‘The Bells’. Manchester University Press, pp, 108-117.
Garner, K., 2001. Music in-and-out-of-control in the Films of Quentin Tarantino. In: K.
Donnelly, ed. 2001. Film Music: Critical Approaches. Edinburgh University Press, pp.
188-205.
Genette, G., 1982. Frontiers of Narrative. Figures of Literary Discourse. Translated by A.
Sheridan. New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 127-44.
280
George, W. T., 1914. Playing to Pictures: A Guide for Pianists and Conductors of
Motion Picture Theatres. London: Heron and Co.
Gielgud, J., 1953. Early Stages. London: Theatre Book Club.
Gilman, R., 1995. Chekhov’s Plays: An Opening into Eternity. New Haven: Yale
University Press.
Girardi, M., 1995. French Sources of Falstaff and Some Aspects of its Musical.
Dramaturgy. Opera Quarterly, 11 (3), pp. 45-63.
Glover, J.M., 1911. Jimmy Glover and his Book. London: Methuen and Co.
Goethe, J.W., 1787. Egmont: A Tragedy in Five Acts. Translated by F. Boot., 1841.
Boston: James Munroe and Company.
Gorbman, C., 1987. Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music. The British Film Institute.
Gorbman, C., 2000. Music in ‘The Piano’. In: H. Margolis, ed. 2000. Jane Campion’s
‘The Piano’. Cambridge University Press, pp. 42-58.
Grene, N., 1999. The Politics of Irish Drama: Plays in Context from Boucicault to Friel.
Cambridge University Press.
Grey, T., 2000. Text, Action, Music. In: T.S. Grey, ed. 2000. Richard Wagner: Der
Fliegende HollÄnder. Cambridge University Press, pp. 36-64.
Grey, T., 2003. Richard Wagner and the Legacy of French Grand Opera. In: David
Charlton, ed. 2003. The Cambridge companion to Grand Opera. Cambridge University
Press, pp. 321-343.
Grierson, J., 1934. Introduction to a New Art. Sight and Sound, 3 (Autumn), pp. 101-4.
Guthke, K.S., 1966. Modern Tragicomedy: An Investigation into the Nature of the Genre.
New York: Random House.
Hall, S., 1999. Encoding and Decoding. In: S. During, ed. 1999. The Cultural Studies
Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 507-517.
Handzo, S., 1985. A Narrative Glossary of Film Sound Technology. In: E. Weis and J.
Belton, eds. 1985. Film Sound. Columbia University Press, pp. 383-426.
Hanlon, L., 1985. Sound in Bresson’s ‘Mouchette’. In: E. Weis and J. Belton, eds. 1985.
Film Sound. Columbia University Press, pp. 323-331.
Harris, A. Raleigh, C. and Hamilton H., 1895. Cheer, Boys, Cheer, Lord Chamberlain's
Collection, 1895. British Library.
281
Harrison, G., 1885. Home, Sweet Home!. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott and Co.
Heilmann, A., 2004. New woman strategies: Sarah Grand, Olive Schreiner, Mona Caird.
Manchester University Press.
Hibberd, S. and Nielsen, N., 2003. Music in Melodrama: ‘the Burden of Ineffable
Expression?’. Nineteenth Century Theatre and Film, 31 (1), pp. 30-40.
Holcroft, T., 1802. A Tale of Mystery. London: Richard Philips.
Honzl, J., 1976. Dynamics of the Sign in the Theatre. In L. Metejka and I. R. Titunik,
eds. 1976. Semiotics of Art: Prague School Contributions. Cambridge: MIT Press, 74-93.
Hurbis-Cherrier, M., 2007. Voice and Vision: A Creative Approach to Narrative Film and
DV Production. Oxford: Elsevier.
Ibsen, H., 1851. The Miner. Ibsen’s Poems. Translated by J. Northern., 1986. Norwegian
University Press, pp. 27-8
Ibsen, H., 1874. Letter to Edward Grieg: 23rd January. The Correspondence of Henrik
Ibsen. Translated by M. Morrison., 1905. London: Hodder and Stoughton, pp. 269-71.
Ibsen, H., 1890. Letter to Moritz Prozor: 4th December. The Correspondence of Henrik
Ibsen. Translated by M. Morrison., 1905. London: Hodder and Stoughton, pp. 435-6.
Ibsen, H., 1879. A Doll’s House. Translated by W. Archer. The Collected Works of
Henrik Ibsen: Vol. VII. 1927. London: William Heinemann Ltd, pp. 1-156.
Ibsen, H., 1890a. Hedda Gabler: Book 1. Promptbook belonging to P. Campbell, 1907.
British Theatre Museum.
Ibsen, H., 1890a. Hedda Gabler: Book 1. Promptbook belonging to P. Campbell, 1907.
British Theatre Museum.
Ibsen, H., 1890b. Hedda Gabler: Book 2. Promptbook belonging to P. Campbell, 1907.
British Theatre Museum.
Ibsen, H., 1890c. Hedda Gabler: Book 3. Promptbook belonging to P. Campbell, 1907.
British Theatre Museum.
Ibsen, H., 1890d. Hedda Gabler: Book 4. Promptbook belonging to P. Campbell, 1907.
British Theatre Museum.
Ibsen, H., 1896. John Gabriel Borkman. Translated by W. Archer. The Collected Works
of Henrik Ibsen: Vol. XI. 1897. London: William Heinemann Ltd. Lord Chamberlain's
Collection, 1897. British Library.
282
Ibsen, H., 1876. Peer Gynt. Translated by W. Archer. and C. Archer. The Collected
Works of Henrik Ibsen: Vol. IV. 1897. London: William Heinemann Ltd. Lord
Chamberlain's Collection, 1922. British Library.
Ibsen, H., 1892. The Master Builder. Translated by W. Archer and E. Goose. Promptbook
belonging to E. Robins, 1893. British Theatre Museum.
Ibsen, H., 1884. The Wild Duck. Translated by W. Archer. The Collected Works of
Henrik Ibsen, Vol. VIII. 1907. London: William Heinemann.
Ingram, T. D., 2008. A Critical Examination of Irish History: Volume II. BiblioBazaar,
LLC.
Innes, C., 2000. A Sourcebook on Naturalist Theatre. London: Routledge.
Issachroff, M. and Jones R.F. eds., 1988. Performing Texts. Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press.
Jerome, J.K., 1891. On the Stage – and off: The Brief career of a would-be actor. Alan
Sutton Publishing Limited.
Johnson, L.F., 1974. Film: Space, Time, Light and Sound. New York: Holt, Rinehart and
Winston.
Jones, H.A., 1891. The Dancing Girl. Published Promptbook, 1907. London: Samuel
French Ltd.
Kalinak, K., 1992. Settling the Score: Music and the Classical Hollywood Film. Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press.
Kassabian, A., 2001. Hearing Film: Tracking Identifications in Contemporary
Hollywood Film Music. New York: Routledge.
Kassabian, A., 2003. The Sound of a New Film Form. In I. Inglis, ed. 2003. Popular
Music and Film. London: Wallflower Press, pp. 91-101.
Kassing, G., 2007. History of Dance: an Interactive Arts Approach. Illinois: Human
Kinetics.
Kaye, D. and LeBrecht, J., 1992. Sound and Music for the Theatre: The Art and
Technique of Design. New York: Back Stage Books.
Keegan, J., 1998. The First World War. London: Hutchinson.
Kowzan, T., 1968. The Sign in the Theater: An Introduction to the Semiology of the Art
of the Spectacle. Diogenes, 61, pp. 52-80.
283
Kowzan, T., 1975. Littérature et Spectacle. The Hague: Mouton.
Krause, D., 1964. The Dolmen Boucicault. Oxford University Press.
Kristeva, J., 1980. Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art. New
York: Columbia University Press.
Landy, L., 2007. Understanding the art of sound organization. Cambridge: MIT Press.
Lawrence, D.H., 2007. 'Such a Humble Branch of Our Art': The Victorian Theatre
Orchestra. Theatre Notebook, 61, pp. 40-55.
Leeuwen, T., 1999. Speech, Music, Sound. London: Macmillan Press Ltd.
Lehmann, T., 1989. Die Inszenierung: Promleme ihrer Analyse. Zeitschrift fur Zemiotik,
11 (1),
Leonard, J.A., 2001. Theatre Sound. London: A and C Black Limited.
Lerner, L., 1990. History and Fiction. Literature in the Modern World. Oxford: OUP, pp.
334-340.
Levitin, D.J., 2006. This Is Your Brain On Music: The Science Of A Human Obsession.
New York: Dutton.
Lewes, G. H., 1875. On Actors and the Art of Acting. New York: Groves Press.
Lewis, L., 1871a. The Bells. In D. Mayer, ed. 1980. Henry Irving and ‘The Bells’.
Manchester University Press, pp. 31-78.
Lewis, L., 1871b. The Bells. In G. Rowell, ed. 1972. Nineteenth-Century Plays. Oxford
University Press, pp. 467-502.
Lindsay, J., 185-. Cheer, Boys, Cheer. Glasgow: s.n.
Lindsay, V., 1916. The Art of the Moving Pictures. Thirty Differences Between the Photo
Plays and the Stage. New York: Macmillan, pp. 151-170.
Ling, J., 1997. A History of European Folk Music. New York: University of Rochester
Press.
Litle, M., 1985. The Sound Track of ‘The Rules of the Game’. In: E. Weis and J. Belton,
eds. 1985. Film Sound. Columbia University Press, pp. 312-22.
284
London, J., 2000. Leitmotifs and Musical Reference in the Classical Film Score. In: J.
Buhler, C. Flinn and D. Neumeyer, eds. 2000. Music and Cinema. Wesleyan University
Press, pp. 85-96.
London, Kurt., 1936. Film Music. London: Faber and Faber.
Lott, E., 1993. Love and Theft: Blackface Minstrelsy and the American Working Class.
New York: Oxford University Press.
MaCarthy, D., 1907. The Court Theatre 1904-1907: A Commentary and Criticism.
London: A.H. Bullen.
Mackenzie, A., 1905. Sir Henry Irving and Music: Some Reminiscences. The Musical
Times, 46 (753), pp. 714-716.
Macready, W. C., 1876. Macready’s Reminiscences and Selections from his Diaries and
Letters. Edited by F. Pollock. London: Macmillan and Co.
Manvell, R. and Huntley, J., 1975. The Technique of Film Music. New York:
Communication Arts Books.
Marks, M., 1997. Music and the Silent Film: 1895 – 1924. New York: Oxford University
Press.
Marks, M., 2000. Music, Drama, Warner Brothers: The Cases of ‘Casablanca’ and ‘The
Maltese Falcon’. In: J. Buhler, C. Flinn and D. Neumeyer, eds. 2000. Music and Cinema.
Wesleyan University Press, pp. 161-186.
Martin, M., 1993. Stephen Poliakoff’s Drama for the Post-Scientific Age. Theatre
Journal, 45 (2), pp. 197-211.
Mayer, D., 1976. Nineteenth Century Theatre Music. Theatre Notebook, 30 (3), pp. 115122.
Mayer, D., 1987. ‘The Ticket-of-Leave Man’ in Context. Essays in Theatre, 6 (1), pp. 3140.
Mayer, D., 1980. The Music of Melodrama. In: D. Bradby, L. James, and B. Sharatt, eds.
1980. Performance and Politics in Popular Drama: Aspects of Popular Entertainment in
Theatre, Film and Television. Cambridge University Press, pp. 49-63.
Mayer, D. and Scott, M., 1983. Four Bars of ‘Agit’: Incidental Music for Victorian and
Edwardian Melodrama. London: Samuel French.
McFarlane, J.W., 1994. The Cambridge Companion to Ibsen. Cambridge University
Press.
285
McHugh, K.A., 2001. Sounds That Creep Inside You: Female Narration and Voiceover
in the Films of Jane Campion. Style, [Online]. 35 (2),
Available at:
http://www.findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2342/is_2_35/ai_97074180#continue
[Accessed 3 April 2006].
Meisel, M., 1983. Realizations: Narrative, Pictorial, and Theatrical Arts in NineteenthCentury England. Princeton University Press.
Merritt, P. and Pettitt, H., 1872. British Born. Lord Chamberlain's Collection, 1872.
British Library.
Meszaros, B., 2005. Infernal Sound Cues: Aural Geographies and the Politics of Noise.
Modern Drama, 48 (1), pp. 118-131.
Meyer, M.L., 1971. Ibsen: a Biography. New York: Doubleday and Company.
Meyerhold. V., 1908. The Naturalistic Theatre and the Theatre of Moods. Teatr. St
Petersburg: Szipovnik.
Myer, M., 1985. Introduction. A Doll’s House. London: Methuen.
Miles, P., 1987. Chekhov on the British Stage: 1909 – 1987. Cambridge: Sam and Sam
Publishers.
Miller, R.K., 2005. Child-Killers and the Competition between Late Victorian Theatre
and the Novel. Modern Language Quarterly, 66 (2), pp. 197-226.
Moi, T., 2006. Henrik Ibsen and the Birth of Modernism: Art, Theatre, Philosophy.
Oxford University Press.
Moore, Alex., 2002. Ballroom Dancing. New York: Routledge.
Mounin, G., 1969. Introduction à la Sémiologie. Paris: Les Editions de Minuet.
Muskerry, W. and Jourdain, J., 1885. Khartoum. Lord Chamberlain's Collection, 1885.
British Library.
Mozart, W.A., 1778. Letters of Mozart and his Family. Translated by E. Anderson, 1938.
New York: Macmillan.
Napier, F., 1948. Noises Off - A Handbook of Sound Effects. London: Frederick Muller
Ltd.
Nicoll, A., 1949. World Drama from Aeschylus to Anouilh. London: Harrap.
Nicoll, A., 1962. A History of English Drama: 1660-1900. Cambridge University Press.
286
Niecks, F., 1888. Frederick Chopin as a man and musician: As a Man and Musician.
Plain Label Books.
Nikolarea, E., 1994. A Communicative Model for Theatre Translation: Versions of
‘Oedipus the King’ in English. Ph.D. University of Alberta.
Norton, K. P., 1900. Letter to Jessie Stillman Kelley: 7th January. Edgar Stillman Kelley
Collection.
O’Neill, N., 1910. Music to Stage Plays. Journal of the Royal Musical Association, 37
(1), pp. 85-102.
Ord-Hume, A., 1996. Harmonium: The History of the Reed Organ and Its Makers.
Newton Abbot: David and Charles.
Palmer, S., 2000. Essential Guide to Stage Management, Lighting and Sound. London:
Hodder and Stoughton.
Paulin, S.D., 2000. Richard Wagner and the Fantasy of Cinematic Unity: The Idea of
Gesamtkunstwerk in the History and Theory of Film Music. In: J. Buhler, C. Flinn and D.
Neumeyer, eds. 2000. Music and Cinema. Wesleyan University Press, pp. 58-84.
Pavis, P., 1989. Problems of Translation for the Stage: Intercultural and Post-Modern
Theatre. In: H. Scolnicov and P. Holland, eds. 1989. The Play Out of Context:
Transferring Plays from Culture to Culture. Cambridge University Press, pp. 25-44.
Pavis, P., 2006. Analyzing Performance: Theatre, Dance and Film. Translated by D.
Williams. The University of Michigan Press.
Pemberton, T. E., 1893. The Life and Writings of T. W. Robertson. London: Richard
Bentley and Son.
Peters, M., 1984. Mrs. Pat – The Life of Mrs. Patrick Campbell. London: The Bodley
Head Ltd.
Pinero, A.W., 1893. The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. Promptbook belonging to P. Campbell,
1892. British Theatre Museum.
Pinero, A. W., 1893b. The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. In Michael R. Booth, ed. 1969.
English Plays of the Nineteenth Century - II. Dramas 1850-1900. Oxford University
Press, pp. 245-340.
Pinero, A.W., 1893c. Letter to George Alexander: 24th January. In: J.P. Wearing, ed.
1974. The Collected Letters of Sir Arthur Pinero. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press.
287
Pisani, M., 2004. Music for the theatre: style and function in incidental music. In: K.
Powell, ed. 2004. The Cambridge Companion to Victorian and Edwardian Theatre.
Cambridge University Press, pp. 70-92.
Plantinga, L., 1984. Romantic Music: A History of Musical Style in Nineteenth-Century.
New York: W.W. Norton and Company.
Plotnikov, B., 2007. Notes on Musical Dramaturgy in Chopin’s Second Piano Sonata: An
Analytic Sketch. Eunomios. [Online] Available at: http://www.eunomios.org
[Accessed 8 August 2009].
Pomerance, M., 2000. Finding Release: ‘Storm Clouds’ and ‘The Man Who Knew Too
Much’. In: J. Buhler, C. Flinn and D. Neumeyer, eds. 2000. Music and Cinema.
Wesleyan University Press, pp. 207-246.
Pontamkin, H.A., 1929. Music and the Movies. The Musical Quarterly, 15 (2), pp. 281296.
Powrie, P., 2005. Blonde Abjection: Spectatorship and the Abject Anal Space InBetween. In: S. Lannin and M. Caley, eds. 2005. Pop Fiction: The Song in Cinema.
Bristol: Intellect Books, pp. 100-119.
Prendergast, R.M., 1977. Film Music: A Neglected Art. The History and Techniques of a
New Art Form from Silent Films to the Present Day. New York: Norton..
Preston, K., 1992. Music For Hire: A study of Professional Musicians in Washington,
1877-1900. New York: Pendragon Press.
Preston, K., 1994. The Music of Toga Drama. In: D. Mayer, ed. 1994. Playing out the
Empire. Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 23-9.
Pudovikin, V. I., 1934. Asynchronism as a Principle of Sound Film. In: E. Weis and J.
Belton, eds. 1985. Film Sound. Columbia University Press, pp. 86-91.
Quigley, A.E., 1984. ‘A Doll’s House’ Revisited. Modern Drama, 27 (4), pp. 584-603.
Randel, D.M., 2003. Harvard Dictionary of Music. Harvard University Press.
Rapee, E., 1924. Motion Picture Moods for Pianists and Organists: A Rapid-Reference
Collection of Selected Pieces Adapted to Fifty-Two Moods and Situations. New York:
s.n.
Rayfield, D., 1994. ‘The Cherry Orchard’: Catastrophe and Comedy. Boston: Twayne
Publishers Inc.
Reade, C., 1882. A Dramatic Musician. Readiana. 1899. Boston: Dana Estes and
Company, pp. 36-40.
288
Richards, J., 2005. Sir Henry Irving: A Victorian Actor and his World. London:
Hambledon and London.
Roberts, W., 1923. Music in Shakespeare. The Bulletin of the John Rylands Library. John
Rylands Library.
Robertson. T.W., 1867. Caste. Promptbook belonging to P. Campbell, 1909. British
Theatre Museum.
Robins, E., 1928. Ibsen and the actress. 1973. New York: Haskell House Publishers Ltd.
Ross, B.H., 2008. The Psychology of Learning and Motivation: Advances in Research.
London: Elsevier.
Rousseau, J., 1766. Fragments d'observation sur l'Alceste italien de M. le chevalier
Gluck. In: C. Kintzler, ed. 1979. Ecrits sur la musique. Paris: Stock Musique.
Rowell, G., 1972. Nineteenth-Century Plays. Oxford University Press.
Rowell, G. ed., 1995. The Lights O’London and other Victorian Plays. Oxford University
Press.
Ruffini, F., 1978. Semiotica del Testo: L’esempio Teatro. Rome: Bulzoni.
Sadie, S. ed., 1998. The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. London:
Macmillan.
Schaffer, P., 1967. Traité des objets musicaux. Paris: Seuil.
Schoch, R., 2004. Theatre and mid-Victorian society: 1851-1879. In: J. Donahue, ed.
2004. The Cambridge History of British Theatre: Vol. 2 (1660-1895). Cambridge
University Press, pp. 331-51.
Scott, C., 1894. The Wild Duck. Daily Telegraph, 5 May. In: M. Egan, ed. 1997. Henrik
Ibsen: The Critical Heritage. London: Routledge, pp. 317-9.
Scott, C., 1896. From ‘The Bells’ to ‘King Arthur’. London: John Macqueen.
Senelick, L., 2000. The Chekhov Theatre: A Century of the Plays in Performance.
Cambridge University Press.
Shapiro, A., 1984. Action Music for American Pantomime and Melodrama: 1730-1913.
American Music, 2 (4), 49-72.
Sharp, W., 1992. Structure of Melodrama. In: J. Redmond, ed. 1993. Themes in Drama:
Melodrama, 14, Cambridge University Press, pp. 269-280.
289
Shaw, G.B., 1892. Review of Henschel’s music for ‘Hamlet’ at the Haymarket Theatre.
1932. Music in London, 1890-94: Vol. II. London: Constable and Co, pp. 11.
Shaw, G.B., 1892b. What is the New Element in the Norwegian School. 1931. Major
Critical Essays. Penguin Books, pp. 150-9.
Shaw, G.B., 1921. Back to Methuselah. Lord Chamberlain's Collection, 1924. British
Library.
Shaw, G.B., 1920. Heartbreak House. Lord Chamberlain's Collection, 1921. British
Library.
Shaw, G.B., Our Theatres in the Nineties – Three Plays for Puritans. London: Constable
and Co Ltd., 1931.
Shaw, G.B., 1897. Ibsen Triumphant. 1931. Our Theatres in the Nineties: Vol. 3. London:
Constable and Co Ltd., pp. 138.
Siddons, H., 1822. Practical Illustrations of Rhetorical Gesture: Adapted to the English
Drama from a Work on the Subject by M. Engel. London: Sherwood, Neely and Jones.
Simonson, L., 1990. The Ideas of Adolphe Appia. In: E. Bentley, ed. 1990. The Theory of
the Modern Stage. London: Penguin Books, pp. 27-50.
Smith, J., 1998. The Sounds of Commerce. New York: Columbia University Press.
Smith, J., 2000. That Money-Making “Moon River” Sound: Thematic Organisation and
Orchestration in the Film Music of Henry Mancini. In: J. Buhler, C. Flinn and D.
Neumeyer, eds. 2000. Music and Cinema. Wesleyan University Press, pp. 247-71.
Smith, J., 2001. Popular Songs and Comic Allusion in Contemporary Cinema. In: P.R.
Wojcik and A. Knight, eds. 2001. Soundtrack Available: Essays on Film and Popular
Music. Durham: Duke University Press, pp. 407-30.
Solomon, A., 1997. Re-dressing the Canon: Essays on Theater and Gender. London:
Routledge.
Sonnenschein, D., 2001. Sound Design: The Expressive Power of Music, Voice, and
Sound Effects in Cinema. Los Angeles: Michael Wise Productions.
Sousa, D.A., 2006. How the Brain Learns: A Multimedia Kit for Professional
Development. SAGE Publications Ltd.
Southern, R., 1964. The Seven Ages of the Theatre. London: Faber and Faber.
290
Stam, R., Burgoyne, R. and Fitterman-Lewis, S., 1992. New Vocabularies in Film
Semiotics: Structuralism, Post-structuralism, and Beyond. London: Routeldge.
Sternfield F.W., 1967. Music in Shakespearian Tragedy. London: Routledge.
Stoker, B., 1906. The Personal Reminiscences of Henry Irving: Volume I. London:
Macmillan.
Styan, J. L., 1971. Chekhov in Performance: A Commentary on the Major Plays.
Cambridge University Press.
Tagg, P., 1979. Kojak. Fifty Seconds of Television Music: Toward the Analysis of. Affect
in Popular Music. New York: Mass Media Music Scholars' Press.
Tagg, P. and Clarida, B., 2003. Ten Little Title Tunes: Towards a Musicology of the Mass
Media. New York: Mass Media Music Scholars' Press.
Tarasti, E., 2002. Signs of Music: A Guide to Musical Semiotics. Berlin: Mouton de
Gruyter.
Taylor, J.R., 1969. The Rise and Fall of the Well-Made-Play. New York: Hill and Wang.
Taylor, G., 1989. Players and performances in the Victorian Theatre. Manchester
University Press.
Thomas, R.K., 2001. The Function of the Soundscape. Theatre Design and Technology,
37 (1), pp. 18-30.
Thomas, T., 1979. Film Score: The View from the Podium. New York: A.S. Barnes.
Thomson, J., 1730. The Poetical Works of James Thomson. 1854. Boston: Little, Brown,
and Company.
Tracy, R., 1993. Komisarjevsky’s 1926 ‘Three Sisters’. In P. Miles, ed. 1993. Chekhov
on the British Stage. Cambridge University Press, pp. 65-77.
Todorov, T. and Weinstein, A. 1969. Structural Analysis of Narrative. NOVEL: A Forum
on Fiction, 3 (1), pp. 70-6.
Ubersfeld, A., 1977. Lire le theatre. Paris: Éditions Socials.
Van Der Lek, R., 1991. Diegetic Music in Opera and Film: A Similarity between two
genres of drama analysed in works by Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897-1957).
Amsterdam: Rodopi B.V.
Vardac, N., 1949. Stage to Screen. Harvard University Press.
291
Waaser, Carol M., 1976. Sound and Music for the Theatre. New York: Richard Rosen
Press Inc.
Wagner, R., 1852. Opera and Drama. Richard Wagner's Prose Works Volume 2.
Translated by W.A. Ellis., 1893. The Wagner Library, pp. 1- 376.
Wagner, R., 1879. On the Application of Music to the Drama. Richard Wagner's Prose
Works Volume 6. Translated by W.A. Ellis., 1897. The Wagner Library, pp. 175-191.
Walne, G., 1990. Sound for the Theatre. London: A. and C. Black.
Warning, H., 1894. Ibsen in London. Theatre, 33, October 1, pp. 164-9.
Waters, S., 1994. Timbre Composition: Ideology, Metaphor and Social Process.
Contemporary Music Review, 10 (2), pp. 129-134.
Watts, P., 1966. Introduction. Peer Gynt. Middlesex: Penguin Books.
Wearing, J.P., 1976. The London Stage: 1890-1899. New Jersey: The Scarecrow Press.
Weedon, C., Tolson, A. and Mort, F., 1992. Introduction to Language Studies at the
Centre. In: S. Hall, ed. 1992. Culture, Media, Language: Working Papers in Cultural
Studies, 1972-79. London: Routledge, pp.177-187.
Weis, E. 1982. The Silent Scream. New Jersey: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press.
Weis, E. & Belton, J. eds. 1985. Film Sound. Columbia University Press.
Weis, E., 1985. The Evolution of Hitchcock’s Aural Style and Sound in ‘The Birds’. In:
E. Weis and J. Belton, eds. 1985. Film Sound. Columbia University Press, pp. 298-311.
Westermeyer, P., 2005. Let the People Sing: Hymn Tunes in Perspective. Chicago: GIA
Publications.
Williams, A., 1985. Godard’s Use of Sound. In: E. Weis and J. Belton, eds. 1985. Film
Sound. Columbia University Press, pp. 332-45.
Williams, A., 1992. Historical and Theoretical Issues in the Coming of Recorded Sound
to the Cinema. In R. Altman, ed. 1992. Sound Theory Sound Practice. London:
Routledge, pp. 126-37.
Wimsatt, W.K., 1954. The Verbal Icon: Studies in the Meaning of Poetry. Lexington:
University of Kentucky Press.
Winkler, E.H., 1990. The Function of Song in Contemporary British Drama. Newark:
University of Delaware Press.
292
Wolzogen, H. V., 1877. Guide through the music of R. Wagner’s ‘The Ring of the
Nibelung’. Translated by E. V. Wolzogen, 1906. Leipsic: Feodor Reinboth.
Yaraman, S.H., 2002. Revolving Embrace: The Waltz as Sex, Steps, and Sound. New
York: Pendragon Press.
Zich, O., 1931. Aesthetics of the Art of Drama. Prauge: Melantrich.
293