by JEREMY DENK
Perhaps the most famous cinematic Goldberg moment is inSilence of the Lambs: Hannibal Lecter, chewing the face off one of his prison guards to the strains of the Aria. This use of Bach is — depending on your point of view — either a stroke of genius or an act of cultural cannibalism. Admittedly, it's vivid, certainly one of the best face-chewing scenes I can think of.
But it's exploitation too. Classical music is rarely used in cinema to express the "actual emotion" implied by the work in question. (The Aria is meditative, elegant, plaintive, tender, and not particularly bloodthirsty.) Cunning, evil directors almost always use classical music as an ironic foil, a tool for dissociation. This perpetuates a stereotype: Classical music is unnatural. It is not the music for normal events; it's for massacres and deceptions of the soul (Apocalypse Now, Clockwork Orange, the end of There Will Be Blood).
Luckily, there is another moment in Silence of the Lambs that seems to call up the Goldbergs more subtly. When Clarice is seeking advice on catching the killer, Hannibal says:
"First principles, Clarice. Simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing, ask what is it in itself? What is its nature? What does he do, this man you seek? ... He covets. That is his nature."
Hannibal Is Such A Bachian
This laser focus on first principles, the nature of things, makes us understand why Hannibal is such a Bachian. Much of theGoldbergs has that virtue of getting back to basics: uncovering the potential of intervals, elucidating possibilities of composition. Bach is teaching the world, in a way; the piece's lessons are still being learned. Since the harmonies are always the same, suddenly texture and rhythm pop with new clarity. And the simplicity of first principles lurks around many of his very complicated canons, as if to say: See, that's all there is to it.
But here's the excellent thing about Lecter as a teacher: He is desperate for Clarice to get the verb right. The key, evocative verb is "covet." The killer covets. From that the whole chain of events follows. Mostly I don't try to teach the piano like a serial killer, but often I have found myself imitating Lecter, and asking students: What is this passage of music doing, what does it seek? And they reply "mysterious," or possibly "this is the second theme" — either an epithet or a piece of learned jargon. No verbs anywhere. It makes me want to eat their livers with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Instead, I just reiterate "but what does the phrase DO?"
Nothing Sentimental About A Machine
Is it weird to say that a set of musical notes covets something? And yet it seems to me central, this ache of notes for other notes; it's so important to look behind the actions of notes, uncover motivations, objectives. I would connect this idea to a favorite quote of mine, from the poet William Carlos Williams:
Williams is not saying he does not want to move you. He wants every word in the poem to work, to function. A machine produces something; it has a plan, a desired effect.
The 13th Goldberg variation is a great example of a soulful machine made out of notes. Bach begins with a simple idea.
The melody executes a little turn, then stops, then rises and falls at the end of the bar. The second bar is more or less the same.
Turning around on itself, stopping, then rising and falling. Bach repeats this idea, with its curious mix of stasis and motion, eight times (more or less)! He really wants us to get it, to contemplate it, like a koan.
The repetition invites questions: What is Bach doing? Why is he doing it? The idea is beautiful; but after eight times (and this is how the machine functions) it becomes a cage, with its monotonous pause on the second beat; it builds up a desire for escape. (Which is what Bach wants, for you to feel this desire.)
Read more on: http://www.npr.org/blogs/deceptivecadence/2012/03/20/148988529/hannibal-lecters-guide-to-the-goldberg-variations?ft=1&f=1039
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