I like the lunch lady at school. She has a strange face, very unlike the rest. The rest of them are all grotesque, their milky white eyes sunken into their sockets and skin pulled tight, like those cobwebs that hang around the windows in my room. Some of them have more than two eyes. I thought humans only had two eyes, that was what Mrs-Dols told me. Then why do I see some with three, four, five eyes? “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. But I wasn’t.
Her face was special, she had icy blue eyes that sometimes rolled up into her head. It’s scary when she strokes those little horns on her head and weird blisters on her neck, and when smoke starts to curl around her ears and nose. But at least she talks to me, maybe even more than my mother and father talk to me. And she doesn’t try to hurt me, unlike the rest of them.
The other day, a man at the bus-stop tried to cut my wrist. This one had huge, shiny claws and three eyes, all three of them a deep, dark, black. I imagine that’d be what the underworld looks like. It’s like those Greek stories of Tartarus, the pit that’s supposed to be the darkness and evil itself. But those stories always told that there were demons and gorgons and vampires and werewolves and harpies and banshees and witches in the underworld. How can that be when they’re already walking around here, crawling up my school desk and breathing down my neck? Unless I’m already in the underworld. But I don’t think so, Mrs-Dols tells me I’d have to die to go to the underworld. Maybe that’s what they tell people in the underworld.
I told my mother about the mean man that tried to hurt me with the dark and soulless eyes. My mother is beautiful, her skin a pearly white and her eyes as red as blood. Sometimes when she smiles, her fangs grow longer and pierce the bottom of her mouth. She doesn’t seem to notice though, I’d always tell her that blood was running down her neck, but she just laughs and continues bleeding. Sometimes the blood even comes out of her eyes. I wanted her to do something about the mean man, but she just scowled again, her fangs baring and blood dripping down her cheek. “Don’t be silly. Eight is too old to still believe in monsters.”
I knew she wouldn't believe me. She never does. But why won’t she at least do something about the monsters that tried to hurt me? I thought parents were supposed to love their children. Or maybe this is how things are in the underworld. Maybe there is no such thing as love, or happiness, or anything good in the underworld. Maybe that’s why everyone in the underworld is so mean and nasty.
I thought maybe my father would believe me this time. So I told him about the mean man. All he did was snarl and snarl, his forked tongue darting between his pointed teeth and his green eyes glowing like acid, that poisonous looking liquid that the lunch lady always served to people who called her bad names. “Go do your homework.” He snarled again.
I wished someone would get rid of those creepy creatures. I know humans are not supposed to look like that, Mrs-Dols showed me pictures of humans once. I wished my parents would stop telling me “Don’t be silly”, “Monsters aren’t real” and “go do your homework”, it’s all they ever say, sometimes I wonder if they even say anything else. Maybe they are robots. Demon robots. But robots aren’t really alive.
I don’t know how the monsters followed me home, but they did. One day when I came home from school, there was a man with peeling red skin standing in our kitchen. He held one of our kitchen knives in his skeletal hands as my mother and father screamed, then I found myself screaming too. I screamed and screamed, but couldn’t stop the man from plunging the knife into my mother’s chest, and my father shouted for me to run, but my legs turned into jelly and I watched as he tried to grab me and run for the balcony but jerked as a knife sank deep into his back, his eyes wide open as foam and blood spilled out of his mouth pooling around my feet. I watched, unable to look away, screaming and screaming and screaming until I couldn't scream anymore and the man just clapped his hands.
“Please don’t hurt me. ” He smiled and disappeared, and the world turned black.
I woke up the next morning. There was a knife in my hand.
Programme notes: Polonaise in A major ‘Military’ Op. 40 No. 1 - F. Chopin
September 5, 2017
Frequently celebrated as the “Poet of the Piano”, Polish pianist and composer Frédéric Chopin’s contribution to the piano repertoire is truly remarkable, composing prominent pieces such as the ‘Minute’ Waltz, Fantaisie Impromptu and the ‘Revolutionary’ Etude. Some even eulogise Chopin as the perfect stereotype of Romanticism, with his failed love affairs and ill health. However, his lack of a flair for flamboyance and his preference towards more intimate salon recitals is what makes him extraordinary.
The infusion of nationalistic themes into music was essentially attributed to Chopin, whose polonaises and mazurkas reflect his fierce patriotic sentiment. Famously remarked by Robert Schumann, Chopin’s works were “cannon buried in flowers”, with the surreptitious power to inspire greater loyalism.
As Charles Rosen wrote, “The military polonaises were certainly understood as political statements of patriotism for his country, which was struggling to obtain its freedom…”. Traditionally a Polish dance in 3/4 time, the polonaise form has a distinctively unique rhythmic pattern consisting of a quaver followed by two semiquavers. The Polonaise in A major was nicknamed ‘Military’ Polonaise, and was praised by Anton Rubinstein as the “symbol of Polish glory”. Indeed, such a nationalistic piece was broadcasted daily by Polish radio during the German invasion of Poland, at the dawn of World War II, both as a patriotic protest and as a means to rally the Polish people.
The ‘Military’ Polonaise was written in 1838, eight years after the November Uprising in Poland against the Russian Empire. It opens with a declaratory A Major chord, steadfastly following the typical polonaise rhythm. It is written in ABA form, where the B section is seemingly a “Trio”. The strict rhythm and repeated chords calls to mind the scene of a marching military band, with the polonaise rhythm mimicking the sound of a snare drum. The trio section then proceeds in D Major. A majestic single line melody emerges - it is as if a solo figure has appeared to behold the scene of the battle. Soon, the melody expands into broader octave chords, perhaps signalling the arrival of the group to enforce camaraderie, pledging allegiance to a common cause. Suddenly, the ceremonial atmosphere is interrupted by violent C-sharp trills, suggesting the intrusion of an enemy upon the victorious celebration. Persistent octave chords generate tension, until eventually, the enemy is defeated, a series of sonorous descending trills triumphing over evil.
Programme notes: Andante from The Sleeping Beauty Suite Op. 66 - P. Tchaikovsky (arr. by Mikhail Pletnev)
September 5, 2017
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky was the first Russian composer to achieve international success with his music, gifting the world with iconic masterpieces including the 1812 Overture and his six symphonies. Especially associated with ballet music, Tchaikovsky composed The Nutcracker, The Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake, three of the most popular ballets in public consciousness. Belonging to the late-Romantic period, Tchaikovsky was able to infuse a unique blend of Russian and Western elements in his music, expanding into an unexpectedly wide stylistic range.
The Sleeping Beauty is Tchaikovsky’s second ballet, and tells the story of Princess Aurora, cursed into a peaceful 100-year sleep on her sixteenth birthday. A hundred years later, Prince Désiré is on a hunting trip when the Lilac Fairy finds him, telling him the story of the Sleeping Beauty. With true love’s kiss, Prince Désiré awakens Aurora, and they live happily ever after. At almost three hours long, the ballet consists of a prologue followed by three acts, and it is unfortunate that Tchaikovsky never had the chance to witness its rise to international success.
The piece was transcribed by Mikhail Pletnev, a Russian pianist and conductor, struck by the realisation that there “seemed to be insufficient impressive works in the piano repertoire”. It alludes to the tradition of ballet rehearsal pianists, often unrecognised for their daily efforts realising impossible orchestral scores. Pletnev’s transcription of The Sleeping Beauty is largely faithful to the orchestral version, though surprisingly, Pletnev omits the “grand waltz” from Act I, seemingly renouncing grandiloquence for characterisation.
The Andante takes place in Act II Scene 1 - La chasse du Prince Désiré - depicting the prince’s hunting trip, where he first “meets” a fleeting vision of Princess Aurora. Pletnev omits the jovial introduction to the piece, beginning immediately with the rich and melodious solo cello line. The lovers skirt around each other, but Prince Désiré is seemingly stopped by the Lilac Fairy whenever he reaches out to Princess Aurora. The music quietly seams into a thinner melody accompanied by constant quavers present throughout the piece. Chromatic running notes weave through the melody and accompaniment, building tension in the melodic sequences when the prince chases the princess, desperately trying to catch her but to no avail. The piano transcription then veers from Tchaikovsky’s version when Pletnev borrows material from Rose Adagio - insistent trills and constant quaver accompaniment pushing the harmonic progression into a magnificent crescendo. The music drops again returning to Tchaikovsky’s version; here, Pletnev makes a few changes with regards to the harmony, replacing some of Tchaikovsky’s major chords with minor ones. The theme then returns, quieter this time, eventually broadening into octaves creating a thicker texture. A spectacular climax is reached when the Lilac Fairy finally lets the prince touch the princess, and the two join hands as the main theme is echoed again. An abrupt diminished chord interrupts the serenity - the audience holds their breath as a moment of stillness passes. Tchaikovsky concludes the movement with a jolly rendition of the main theme, whereas Pletnev chooses to end it quietly, the music becoming more spacious. Aurora disappears into her enchanted world of sleep, concluding the scene.
Programme notes: Hungarian Dance No. 5 - Johannes Brahms
September 11, 2015
The most well known dance of a set of 21 vibrant dances, Hungarian Dance No. 5 is written in F# minor, and was so beloved later that it was even orchestrated and arranged for several other ensembles. This piece is so famous that its main melody is one of those that anyone would recognize, and it has been featured everywhere from cartoons to concert halls.
These Hungarian Dances are adapted from Hungarian folk tunes, and Johannes Brahms himself, ever so humble, considered them to be “arrangements” instead of original pieces. As such, these pieces were the embodiment of Nationalism in Europe at the time, giving the impression of a gypsy band prancing around a fire.
Ironically, the tune which Brahms based No.5 on was not in fact a traditional folksong, but a work by another composer, csárdás by Kéler Béla. This piece can generally be divided into three large sections, but a deeper analysis would reveal smaller subsections. Characterised by its frequent and unpredictable tempo changes, this spirited dance keeps us ever on our toes with its capricious and whimsical mood.
The piece starts off with a bold declaration of the theme in a firm forte, immediately evoking an inkling of gypsy music. It is coupled with steady chordal accompaniments in the seconda that are present throughout most of the piece in the same rhythm, giving the piece its strong beat. An intensification of the theme then follows, with primo moving to a higher register, proceeding which several sequences of whirring and delicate semiquavers descend, eventually easing into a chirpy cadence. These semiquavers, marked leggiero and piano, are a swift contrast to the bold quality of the main theme. The music ultimately climaxes with an abrupt spiral of arpeggio semiquavers to the highest C#, again giving the piece it’s energetic nature. What comes next is a subtler motif, appearing first in a major key, then in a minor key, and lastly, again in a major key. It appears as if the music is indecisive, bewildered as to which side to choose, and this is further brought to the fore with apt tempo changes. The uncertainty is then seemingly resolved with a firm and resolute cadence.
The middle section begins in F# Major, marked vivace, a dramatic deviation from the first with its ever cheerful and light-hearted steps. The music then takes a surprising turn by slowing down seductively - poco rit. - lulling the listener into a false sense of tranquility, before startling listeners again with a sudden burst of speed. The recap of the opening section is somewhat immediately welcomed, providing a relief from the erraticness and excitement of the middle section. The piece ends on a high note with a resounding bang, leaving listeners with a satisfying and long-lasting impression.
Programme notes: Rite of Spring for Four Hands - Igor Stravinsky
September 11, 2015
Ask any professional musician to name a renowned work of the 21st century, and almost anybody would answer “Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring”. This distinguished work is perhaps the most important work in Modernism and the turn of the century, ushering in a new era of fresh sound worlds and avant-garde ideas with its groundbreaking Primitivistic concepts. No other musical work could reach the extent of its powerful influence, and it sparked so much controversy that when it first premiered at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, it started no less than a full blown riot. But what exactly about the Rite of Spring was so scandalous?
The foremost explanation would of course be the work’s bizarre narrative. Hugely discordant from the audience’s expectations of “spring” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the Rite of Spring portrays the story of a young girl who dances herself to death in sacrifice to pagan gods. The work focuses on portraying Pagan Russia, and as asserted by Igor Stravinsky himself, “What I was trying to convey in The Rite was the surge of spring, the magnificent upsurge of nature reborn.”
The Rite of Spring is structured in two parts, the first being Adoration of the Earth(or Kiss of the Earth) and the second being The Sacrifice. There are thirteen separate episodes in total for the ballet score (excluding the Introduction), but the symphony score would have a total of three movements. It was originally written for a full orchestra, only later arranged for four hands; one of the downsides of playing this piece with only the piano is the inability to explore the distinct timbres different instruments produce. The Augurs of Spring is the first episode in this massive work, coming after the Introduction, and it conveys the tribal celebrations of spring. In the midst of these festivities, an elderly woman appears and begins foretelling the future.
Instead of being unified by a single dominant motif, the episode consists of several fragmented motifs, often persisting in ritualistic repetition. The episode launches into a colourful start with its signature repeated Augurs Chord, a polychord that immediately creates harmonic dissonance. The relentless repetition of the chord reflects the ecstatic stomping steps of the dancers, much in the brutal nature of a tribal procession. Stravinsky further emphasises the brutish essence of the Rite by placing irregular and unpredictable jolting accents on the chords, giving the false impression of syncopations and stirring excitement, keeping listeners ever on the edge of their seats. Mimicking the strange calls of wildlife, angular melodies pile on propulsive rhythms, jarring with the thumping chords. A sense of frenzy and chaos is also created through the clever use of polyrhythm. However, right when the listener gradually finds himself settling into the unusual music, the mood is transformed completely when an element of surprise is introduced. All of a sudden, the music collapses into an abrupt silence with several harsh octaves in the bass; psychologically speaking, such a startling stop felt much more like a head-on collision.
Thankfully, the music soon resumes with rapid descending semiquavers in primo, leading to incessant trills in seconda that closely echo the relentless tumult of nature. The mood, nevertheless, is lightened by cheerful tunes in primo, mirroring the jovial and carefree emotions of the people as they welcome the arrival of spring. The tribe celebrates the first rites of Spring, and the dancing continues as more and more members join in, until finally, all the members are present and the whole tribe comes together in a final jubilant dance.
The reverberating chords in the seconda, along with recurrent melodies in primo perpetuating the finale, call for a much-awaited end. And that’s the remarkable thing; The ending is yearned for and anticipated, and yet when it finally arrives, listeners are once again caught by surprise. Yet another unexpected head-on collision. And that’s Rite of Spring for you: filled with so many irregularities and surprises that one never knows what to expect.
To what extent should modern performers seek to recreate ‘authentic’ performances of the past? In order to answer this question, it is crucial first to define ‘authentic’.
‘Authentic’ is commonly believed to refer to performances that recreate a piece of music completely true to its original state, from following the composer’s directions exactly to playing the piece of music on the true historical instrument the music was written for, even performing the music in a similar venue that it would have been performed in historically (palaces or salons etc, as opposed to concert halls and recital studios)
It is my opinion that modern performers should only seek to recreate ‘authentic’ performances of the past to a certain extent. In the first part of my essay, I will cover why I believe ‘authenticity’ should only be followed to this certain extent and not fully, and in the second, what exactly this ‘extent’ refers to.
Firstly, it is simply not possible to recreate ‘authentic’ performances of the past fully. The first reason is of the obvious: a lot of classical music is written for instruments that have long since evolved following technological advancements and improvements, and even if we were to recreate some of these older instruments and perform music on them, these period instruments would still be untrue to their completely authentic form. Even if every element of the mechanics and the system of the instrument is identical to that of which would have existed in the past, the instrument would have been assembled with a modern touch and a knowing technique, resulting in slight differences in sound and feel, however minute. One such example is the contrabassoon needed in Beethoven’s Symphony No.9. At the time that Roger Norrington and the London Classical Players embarked on a project to recreate “authentic” performances of the Beethoven Symphonies, there was only one existing contrabassoon and it stood in a museum in Oxford. Norrington of course had to repair it using modern techniques. There is also almost no fully complete and reliable evidence for any historical practice regarding music, thus anyone seeking to recreate an “authentic” performances would have to fill in the gaps themselves, involving the use of their own imaginations and deductions, which further puts a smear on the “authenticity” of the performance.
Furthermore, the context in which music is performed differs, both in social aspects such as religion, science, economics and politics, and in the context of performing and listening itself. These contextual factors affect the nature of performances and the reception from audiences. For instance, in the 19th Century, music began taking on nationalistic sentiments as a result of the political conditions surrounding that era; During World War II, Smetana’s Ma Vlast and Chopin’s mazurkas served as and represented patriotic sentiments towards the Czech and Polish homelands respectively. The masses seized these pieces as artistic vehicles that gave them a nationalistic identity to latch on to, and these pieces were later banned by the Nazis due to their powerful symbolism. Beethoven’s Eroica also assumed the identity of the heroic German nation with regards to its fate at Stalingrad. Entering the 19th century, patronage systems in Europe began dwindling and power was transferred from the aristocacy to the middle class, as seen from the numerous revolutions and political upheavals such as the French Revolution, and this led to the domestication of music. Music was no longer being viewed by the public as just an elite pleasure contained within the walls of palaces. Thus, it can be seen how the social context in which a piece of music is written and performed affects its audience reception. Past context for performance and listening, such as attending salons, feasts and church services, also differ those of the present, such as performing in the presence of watchful critics in grandoise concert halls. This is also linked to the point above about period instruments; the choice of venue and of instruments are connected as the venue affects the acoustics of the performance. It would be unwise to perform on some period instruments in modern venues such as concert halls; For example, string instruments that use gut strings, the type of strings used up until the 20th century, are less able to project sound to great distances than those that use steel or synthetic core strings, the types of strings most commonly used today. Modern concert halls are also built to cater to the acoustics of performances and serve the specific purpose of catering to enjoyment of performances, whereas in the past, there did not exist specific venues for performances to be held that were fine tuned to performance acoustics. Thus, it can be seen that the context of performance differs from past to present, affecting the instruments used in the past and present.
Over time, audiences’ expectations for technical perfection has also risen together with performers’ worry about precision and accuracy. Performers in the past were more accepting of performances that were not one hundred percent perfect and accurate than modern performers. Hence, the performance will not be fully “authentic”.
Besides the impossibility of recreating truly “authentic” performances of the past, there is also the question of desirability. There have been many advancements and improvements made in musical instruments, and it is questionable why one would prefer performing on an older period instrument when more aesthetically pleasing sounds could be produced on a modern version of the same instrument. For example, the harpsichord is considered a predecessor of the modern pianoforte, and the two produce very different sounds. The harpsichord produces a shrill and sharp sound, fades very quickly, and is unable to produce dynamic range, whereas the piano produces a softer and more pleasing sound, each note can be sustained longer, and is able to produce wide dynamic range, giving the pianist more control over the sound’s volume. Thus, performing a piece intended for the harpsichord on a piano would undoubtly give a better effect than performing it on the harpsichord. One might argue that the goal of performance is not necessarily to produce aesthetically pleasing results, but the goal of performance may differ from person to person based on their personality and their own opinions. It is my belief that one of the goals of performance is to entertain, and what better way to do so than to produce aesthetically pleasing results? However, we should seek to be as stylistically accurate as possible, and a certain compromise has to be reached when making such decisions.
Lastly, there is the question of respect towards the composer and following his intentions for that piece of music. If we sought to recreate an “authentic” performance of a piece of music, we would choose to follow the composer’s directions and intentions for the piece completely. However, I believe that every performer has the artistic license to interpret a piece of music his or her own way, but this is not to say that a performer can change a piece of music entirely and excuse it for “artistic license”. To put it simply, every artist is allowed room for expression and personal interpretation in a piece of music and thus only has to follow the composer’s directions to a certain extent before expanding and building on it, as long as it does not rob the music of its fundamental character and spirit. Thus, I believe that we can seek to recreate a fully “authentic” performance only to a certain extent, as we should be given room to explore and interpret the music in our own ways. Most modern performers know to exercise discretion when choosing whether to follow a given performance direction, or in inserting their own directions for the music as they see fit, selecting pragmatically which period performance practices to use to better serve the purpose of the performance and the portrayal of the music. Some argue that the duty of a performer is not to the composer but to his audience, as the composer has “forfeited ownership” of the music upon its publication. This is linked to my point above about the goal of performance and how it differs from person to person; I personally disagree with the claim, and believe that in addition to the purpose of entertainment, the duty of the performer is also to convey the composer’s intentions to the audience through his own interpretation of a piece of music. Hence, a performer should only follow the composer’s directions to a certain extent, thus only recreating an “authentic” performance to a certain extent.
So if modern performers should not seek to recreate ‘authentic’ performances of the past to the fullest extent, then to exactly what extent should they do so?
As mentioned above, although performers are allowed room for interpretation, they must not change the very essence of a piece of music. After all, music goes beyond the black notes on a piece of white paper, and it is the character of a piece of music that constitutes its core and its very essence. However, even changes and exceptions may be made in certain cases if it contributes to the mood and character of the piece, or one’s interpretation of it.
Roger Norrington and the London Classical Players(LCP) were an orchestra that sought to recreate ‘authentic’ performances of the past to the fullest extent, and have released a cycle of Beethoven symphonies “performed authentically”. In their performances, they followed strictly the tempo markings indicated by Beethoven, and the results were not all as glamorous. The 2nd Movement of Symphony No. 3 “Eroica”, lacked the breadth and space required and expected for the movement’s general atmosphere. The scherzo becomes too rushed, and the finale’s Poco andante was so hurried that it was unable to provide a sense of respite that was necessary before the unleashing of the coda. Due to the performers’ strict following of the tempo markings from the composer, the piece was too rushed at some points and lacked the depth and calm it would have at certain parts of the piece if it were played at a slower, more suitable tempo. The 1st Movement of the 6th Symphony, known as the Pastoral Symphony, was also too hurried, and as a result was unable to properly convey and portray the “awakening of cheerful feelings on arrival in the countryside” and the scenery of the countryside, portraying instead a jog in the park with the scenery passing by in a blur. The 2nd movement of Symphony No.9’s trio was played much slower than usual, slackening the tension in the piece. The 3rd movement of Symphony No. 9 was marked Adagio molto e cantabile, and the contrasting faster section Andante moderato, but the metronome markings indicated are crotchet=60 and crotchet=63 respectively, not making for much of an effective contrast at all. Thus, the Adagio section was played way too fast as Norrington chose to focus on the metronome indications instead of the tempo directions, robbing the music of its gravitas. Having followed the tempo markings too strictly, the last movement sounded indifferent, lacking the usual spirit and vitality one would expect from Beethoven’s famous Ode to Joy. The music was grounded by the unyielding tempo, unable to lift off the ground. It can thus be seen that in Norrington and the LCP’s attempt to recreate “authentic” performances of the Beethoven Symphonies, they followed the tempo markings too stringently, resulting in stellar performances for some symphonies that would have been better if appropriate changes had been made to the tempos. Regarding Beethoven’s tempo markings, there has been a longstanding debate whether the metronome that Beethoven used was faulty, as most of his metronome markings seem to be too fast, as seen from above. I shall not delve deeply into the debate and research regarding whether this claim is true, but assuming that Beethoven’s metronome was faulty, would it still be appropriate for modern performers to follow his metronome markings strictly? This serves to strengthen my point that modern performers should not follow performance directions given by the composer one hundred percent strictly, as they should make changes where they see fit to better portray the music, and there might be external factors that influence the composer’s directions, such as Beethoven’s broken metronome.
Even so, the changes that they make should only serve the purpose of better portrayal, and not erode the music of its character and spirit completely. For example, Chopin’s nocturnes cannot be played too brashly and at too fast a tempo, contrasting the melancholy mood characteristic of a nocturne. Toccatas cannot be played at too slack a tempo, as this removes the virtuostic, fast-moving and lightly-fingered spirit of a toccata. Thus, modern performers should seek to recreate ‘authentic’ performances of the past to the extent which best serves the purpose of expression and portrayal of the music, and anything beyond that should be allowed room for exploration.
Besides performance directions on the score itself, we should also take into consideration instrumental techniques and limitations. One such example regarding instrumental techniques is the vibrato. Norrington has put forth the claim that continuous vibrato was only invented by Fritz Kreisler in the 20th century, and all the classical music that appeared before that would not have such profuse use of vibrato. He thus chose to use pure tone (without vibrato) in his Beethoven Symphonies with the LCP, resulting in a much lighter and clearer sound. As for instrumental limitations, one prominent example is the piano’s pedal. The sustain pedal was only invented by Broadwood in 1783. Hence, piano music that was composed before that time, by Haydn, Mozart, Bach etc, would not have allowed the use of the sustain pedal, if one were to put up an “authentic” performance. Some would argue, however, that these composers would have supported the use of the continuous vibrato or the sustain pedal in their pieces if it had been invented in their time, hence excusing their use of these techniques even in the name of “authenticity”. The flaw in this argument is that it is founded upon a fallacy: the fallacy of the author, which argues that one can never truly know the author’s intention behind any piece of work, be it art, literature or music. One can only presume to guess the intention of the author, but will never know the fully accurate intention unless stated by the author himself. Thus, any argument that is based on this claim is fallacious. In this case, it was never personally stated by any of the composers that they would have supported the use of the continuous vibrato or the sustain pedal. Ultimately, it is up to the performer to make the decision of whether to use these instrumental techniques that are “unauthentic”, if it better serves the music.
In conclusion, modern performers should seek to recreate “authentic” performances of the past not to the fullest extent as it is technically impossible, it may be undesirable in some cases and the performer should be allowed room for interpretation beyond what is written on the score and dictated by the composer. Modern performers should seek to recreate “authentic” performances to the extent that it portrays the spirit of the music, but may choose to make changes and ignore the “authenticity” if it serves the same purpose.
New York in the summer of 2023 gave me some of my best and most cherished memories–something as simple as sitting on the steps in front of our apartment in the cool evening, the weather just the right amount of humid, sensations of sweat prickling on our necks and the cold stone floor pressing into our bottoms.
It was only the second time hanging out with two of my new roommates, and we’d escaped downstairs to have an emergency intervention about our common enemy–the fourth roommate. Across the street, some kids are doing the same, smoking and chatting, and somewhere in the distance I hear Greatness by Quavo blasted at full volume. This song becomes so deeply etched in my memory, the saxophone of the chorus almost synonymous with New York in my mind.
I feel the walls breaking down between us as the gossip and complaints flood through. We’re in our pajamas, and I’m so grateful to be connecting with these roommates–I no longer have to live with complete strangers. As the conversations progressed, someone came up with the absolutely amazing and brilliant idea of getting pizza, and we all got up and headed towards the pizza spot two blocks down, and a short climb up a hill.
I’ve walked up this hill countless times throughout the one and half years that I lived on 108th street, embarking on the daily twenty minute walk towards Columbia. I never had a fixed route, choosing instead to walk in the general direction and cross whichever street didn’t have incoming cars (real New Yorkers don’t get stopped by pedestrian signals). I’d pass by the Manhattan Avenue bodega, uncles playing dominoes on the street corner in summer, the middle school soccer field alive with shouts and scuffed balls, mismatched chairs lining the sidewalk where parents and neighbors gathered, then the overpriced Central Park West grocery store, Morningside Park, Frederick Douglass Circle, and the cluster of dispensaries and tiny eateries along Columbus, Amsterdam, and finally Broadway.
When I walk these streets again after moving away, a sense of bittersweet sentimentality hits me and I wish I was suspended instead in time, trapped in my memories of New York that linger over my thoughts like a delicate veil.
DC did a very good job in their marketing of Suicide Squad. The trailers were refreshing and fun, introducing a ragtag cast of criminals against the music of Bohemian Rhapsody, immediately getting audiences hooked. Promotional posters and bite-sized teasers were frequently released, effectively escalating the hype surrounding the movie. After the colossal failure of Batman v Superman, fans were almost willing to believe Suicide Squad would redeem the DC Cinematic Universe.
If only DC put as much effort into making the movie as they put into promoting it.
Suicide Squad has a lot of potential. Throw a bunch of morally ambiguous misfits together, pit them against a greater and darker evil; it’s been proven to work wonders with audiences and is especially exemplified by Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy. What doesn’t work wonders, however, is letting the purpose of the group be to defeat a rogue Superman, when five out of eight of its members have no powers at all. Waller pitches her idea to the higher-ups with this premise. Somehow, there isn’t a shadow of a doubt that some guys who are really good with guns, boomerangs and ropes, and a crazy clown lady who swings a bat would be able to take down evil Superman. Waller has all these files on superpowered heroes, but only Batman suggests they form a team out of good guys instead, because clearly only someone with genius-level intellect like the World’s Greatest Detective could have come up with such an innovative idea.
Waller controls Enchantress by taking possession of her heart, but being a master tactician, she doesn’t plan for Enchantress’ turning on her. Enchantress invites her brother to come and devastate the city together, and Waller decides to poke some holes in her heart instead of crushing it to kill her. Enchantress shows she can basically teleport anywhere whenever she wants, but even after getting some magical power restoration from her brother, she is unable to teleport to the case and take her heart back. She creates a horde of faceless zombies and puts a giant magical machine in the sky with floating debris, but the extent of her powers stop at getting her heart back.
But enough of the smaller plot holes.
The purpose of the squad’s mission is never clear. Waller deploys them to retrieve a mysterious high-profile target in Midway city, who eventually turns out to be Waller herself, a high-ranking government official. The whole city was seemingly evacuated but a government official somehow gets left behind, and she deploys a group of very trustworthy criminals who definitely would not kill both her and Flag on sight. I don’t claim to be an expert in physics, but I think it’s safe to assume that Deadshot could have shot both Waller and Flag before either of them had a chance to detonate the nano-bombs planted in the members’ necks. Maybe these criminals suddenly developed morals after fighting off a wave of zombies.
The conflict culminates when the team finds out about the true nature of the “terrorist threat” in Midway city and of Waller’s plan to eventually pin it on them, thereby storming off to a bar to sulk, abandoning Flag and their mission. All of a sudden they’re so offended by Waller’s lies, as if they had any choice whether to go along with the mission in the first place, what with the bombs planted in their necks.
DC then tries to erase audiences’ recollections of the numerous gaping plot holes with exploding CGI pornography during the final battle with Enchantress and Incubus, successfully demonstrating once again that they have way too much spare cash on hand. What it does instead is quickly bore the audience with unnecessary sensory overload. An attempt is made to up the ante by giving a slow motion sequence of the deciding blow, where Killer Croc throws explosives at Enchantress’ weapon and Deadshot shoots them, destroying the weapon. Why anyone thought this slow-mo throwing would look badass is beyond my comprehension.
Of course, there’s maybe just this tiny sliver of chance that all this could have been forgiven, if the movie had had an amazingly compelling cast of characters. It’s too bad that they fail to deliver yet again.
Granted, not all of the characterisation was neglected. Audiences are treated to a deep and personal look into Deadshot’s past and his relationship with his daughter. Harleen Quinzel’s transformation into Harley Quinn and her romance with the Joker was at the forefront of the movie, and El Diablo’s painful history coupled with his desire to do good very much make him a compelling character. The same just can’t be said for the rest, and even as I’m writing this I’m struggling to remember their names.
What was the point of Katana and Slipknot? DC did everyone a public service by actually casting an Asian actress to play the Asian Katana, but what good will it do if they give her a grand total of two lines and rob her of the glory of defeating the villain, a spotlight which was supposed to be hers? It is her sword that Harley uses to cut out Enchantress’ heart in the end, so why didn’t DC just let Katana herself do it?
The Native American Slipknot is an even more boring character with his ability to “climb anything”, getting killed off even before the audience has memorised everyone’s names. Warner Brothers shoehorns some non-White characters into the ensemble, uses them to ward off complaints of non-inclusiveness and appeal to social justice warriors, then throws them aside. So much for diversity, right?
Then there’s Captain Boomerang and Killer Croc, two characters who existed to serve absolutely no purpose in the movie. The former throws a boomerang with a camera into the building with Enchantress, and the latter places a bomb underwater. That’s about the sum total of their contribution to the plot, and even then they’re easily disposable. It would have made literally no difference if Flag had sent in one of his own camera drones (I’m sure they have one of these laying around somewhere), and if Killer Croc hadn’t helped place the bomb underwater, because trained Navy SEALs were already doing the job. If Enchantress had set up shop anywhere else that was not on top of water, Killer Croc would have been completely useless.
Harley and Joker are given their own subplot, whose relevance to the overarching plot gets more questionable every time you think about it. Joker goes to all this trouble to rescue Harley and eventually succeeds, all to have the getaway helicopter crash into a building. Harley escapes unscathed and for some reason returns to the suicide squad, despite knowing that her bomb is disarmed, because apparently her one hour interaction with the squad meant they became her extended family. Harley reunites with the team and all returns to as it was before, so what really was the point of Joker’s plot? Was it to reveal Harley’s unquestionable loyalty to the team? Maybe we can justify this with the fact that Harley is unquestionably insane, so everything that has to do with her is allowed to make absolutely no sense. DC let an A-Lister play one of the most iconic villains in comic book lore only to give him an unnecessary role in the movie, simply serving the purpose of being the general public’s only recognisable name.
All in all, this movie was a stick of glamorised cotton candy: looks tantalising but only gives you short-lived satisfaction that disappears almost instantly, leaving you feeling cheated. Suicide Squad deserves its 25% Rotten Tomatoes rating, and I am a bitter old lady who wishes DC who stop ruining themselves.
Amanda Waller assembles a team of Belle Reve criminals for Task Force X, a “suicide squad” where the criminals are used as disposable assets in high-risk missions. Waller keeps the criminals under her control by implanting bombs in their brains, threatening to detonate them if the criminals go rogue. The team consists of Deadshot, Harley Quinn, El Diablo, Captain Boomerang, Killer Croc and Slipknot. Colonel Rick flag is placed in command, and Katana assists them as the only non-criminal member.
Enchantress, being one of Waller’s intended recruits, is used by Waller to demonstrate her control over the criminals while she attempts to persuade the government of her plan. She controls the Enchantress by taking possession of her heart, but Enchantress quickly turns on her. She summons her brother, Incubus, to help her destroy mankind, transforming the populace into her own army and creating a mystical weapon.
Waller gives the squad their first mission: extract a high-profile target from Midway city. The squad’s helicopter gets shot down before reaching, forcing them to proceed on foot. Enchantress’ monster army attacks the squad, but they manage to fight them off, reaching the safe room and discovering that the target is Waller herself.
Meanwhile, the Joker, Harley Quinn’s boyfriend, learns of Harley’s new involvement in the squad. He engineers the disabling of Harley’s neuro-bomb. When the squad escorts Waller to the rooftop for extraction, the Joker hijacks the arriving helicopter. Harley escapes with the Joker, but eventually rejoins after the helicopter is shot down by Waller’s men. Waller’s classified files are discovered by Deadshot, who learns the truth about Enchantress. Flag has no choice but to reveal the truth, causing the squad to abandon him. However, the squad realises they have a chance to prove themselves and hence continue on the mission, locating Enchantress at a subway station.
Killer Croc plants a bomb underwater, beneath Incubus, and the explosion kills both El Diablo and Incubus. The remaining members fight Enchantress but are defeated, and Enchantress asks for their allegiance in exchange for fulfilling their deepest desires. Harley pretends to join her, getting close enough to carve out her heart. Deadshot shoots the explosives Killer Croc throws towards Enchantress’ weapon and destroys it. Flag crushes Enchantress’ heart and kills her, freeing Dr June Moone, the woman whose body she possesses, from her curse.
The criminals are returned to Belle Reve Prison with ten years off their sentences. The Joker returns and breaks into the prison, freeing Harley.
Black Mirror is a show that focuses on the theme of unusual new technology and their impacts. Hang the DJ chronicles the experiences of Amy and Frank using a dating technology called the “System”, which pairs participants up but gives their relationships an expiration date, until participants meet their ultimate match. When Amy and Frank first meet in the “System”, an instant connection is forged between them, but the “System” keeps them apart throughout the episode by pairing them with numerous other people. Finally, the couple rebel against the “System” and escape in order to be with each other, only for it to be revealed that this Amy and Frank is one simulation out of a thousand, and the real Amy and Frank have yet to meet.
Hang the DJ is a commentary on modern perception of technology and the level of trust we should place in it. Today, artificial intelligence and predictive systems advance at rapid speeds, and the more technology progresses, the more we unwaveringly believe in its power and the predictions it gives us. In doing so, we forget that algorithms do not have emotions and are unable to consider nuances and context. Algorithms are reliable when it comes to logic and hard math, but situations are rarely ever black-and-white, often having multiple sides and differing from various points of view. It is this grey area that algorithms cannot evaluate. This is aptly represented by the “System” matching couples - it is true that compatibility may be measured, but real relationships go beyond that, and these feelings cannot be accounted for by a computer. This is why some couples are shown to be incredibly unhappy with the relationships the “System” gives them - Amy with her string of flings and Frank with his long relationship. Amy and Frank’s final act of rebelling against the “System” and climbing over the wall conveys the importance of not blindly trusting our technology, and the fact that it is not infallible is displayed through the “System” continuously keeping the couple apart, despite them being a better match for each other. It is important for us to keep this knowledge in mind as we think about the processes that are increasingly being digitised today: Correctional Offender Management Profiling for Alternative Sanctions(COMPAS) used in legal proceedings, Criminal Reduction Utilizing Statistical History(CRUSH) utilised in crime prevention… To what extent should we place our faith in these algorithms, when human lives are at stake, and the situation is more nuanced than it is logical? Algorithms are everywhere in our everyday lives: Google maps, Facebook, Automated Teller Machines… I am careful to remember that the fact these systems are based on hard math does not make them impeccable.
The episode mounts a negative perception towards technology because of how it keeps Amy and Frank apart, but this critical mindset is later overturned, when it is revealed that the couple we rooted for throughout the episode is merely a simulation out of 1000 run by the “System” to test how the couple would function in real life. Amy and Frank rebel 998 times out of 1000, giving a 99.8% compatibility rating. The couple was essentially doing what the “System” intended for them to do, as the “System” had encouraged rebellion from the start as a test of true love. Essentially, the “System” is shown in a negative light at first, but is eventually able to give the characters their happy ending. This challenges my previous skepticism towards our trust in technology - it seems as though it entails nothing good, but will it actually yield a positive outcome in the end? Is allowing algorithms to govern more and more aspects of our lives really as terrible as some make it out to be?
This grapple of perceptions towards modern technology sets up the stage for the central conflict of the episode - a struggle between free will and destiny, which is perfectly captured by the couple’s rebellion. The “System” is stated to be able to find participants’ perfect matches as long as participants comply with everything that happens before that, as “everything happens for a reason”. The “System” can thus represent destiny - there is a chosen soulmate for each participant that they are meant to be with, and the “System” dictates this and controls the course of events that lead up to it. When Amy and Frank decide to escape in order to be with each other, instead of waiting for the “System” to give them their respective soulmates, they are exercising their free will and going against their supposed destinies. However, the big reveal at the end again overturns this - Amy and Frank’s “rebellion” aligned perfectly with the “System”s intentions. Essentially, we believed that the couple was going against their fates, but in reality, they were doing exactly what they were fated to do. It urges me to draw links to religion and how certain religions emphasise the idea that everything is as God planned. For someone who is uncertain of the existence of a god, Hang the DJ begged me to further question my religious beliefs, especially since certain events that happened in my life seem too coincidental to be merely coincidence. Is it possible for me to have free will but still end up where I’m “supposed” to be, doing what I’m “supposed” to do, simply because the freedom of choice plays into the larger picture of my destiny?
And what really is my destiny? Am I able to take matters into my own hands? The couple’s rebellion conveyed the importance of taking control of your own life instead of blindly following authority, since Amy and Frank refused to comply with the “System” and chose instead to escape with each other. Innovation and creativity would be impossible without rebellion - great artistic movements were born because people refused to comply or conform; advancements in the women’s rights and gay rights movements came about because people did not settle for what their government was giving them, choosing to take matters into their own hands... This message was especially important to me considering my current status as a college freshman not knowing what to do with her life: Do I follow my own passions, or do I listen to my parents? Because they obviously know better, or as the Chinese like to put it: chi de yan bi wo chi de mi duo - They’ve suffered more than I’ve lived, and their experience makes them know better. I’m sure this isn’t just an individualised problem - if all Asian kids listened to their parents, we would have very little Asian artists, musicians, dancers…
Sherman, J. (2018). We Can’t Just Blindly Trust Algorithms. [online] Medium. Available at: https://medium.com/swlh/we-cant-just-blindly-trust-algorithms-98190f488640 [Accessed 15 Oct. 2019].
Dvorsky, G. (2014). The 10 Algorithms That Dominate Our World. [online] Gizmodo. Available at: https://io9.gizmodo.com/the-10-algorithms-that-dominate-our-world-1580110464 [Accessed 15 Oct. 2019].
How Music Brought Life to DC’s Most Iconic Villain
December 5, 2019
In 2019, director Todd Phillips’ psychological thriller, Joker, shocked audiences with its raw depiction of the mental health of the Joker, one of DC’s most unpredictable and iconic villains. Most iterations of the character focus on his violence and insanity, but Phillips differed in his approach, wanting instead to deliver a character worthy of sympathy.
Phillips wished to bring out the human side of the character, showing that before the Joker became the murderous villain, he was a lonely and misunderstood man who could not comprehend why he didn’t fit into society, and actually had good intentions in wanting to bring laughter into other people’s lives. Composer Hildur Guðnadóttir was hence brought onto the project and tasked with humanising the character through her music. Guðnadóttir crafted a low cello theme based on thirds, and it is this memorable theme that gives the audience an insight into the psychological processes driving Arthur Fleck, chronicling the deterioration of his mental health and gradual transformation into the Joker.
The motif is confusingly unstable, oscillating between two notes with no regular rhythm. There is a lack of melody which creates a loss of direction, and this coupled with the absence of a steady beat leads to a sense of uncertainty, which references the lack of order associated with Arthur’s inner state and the Joker as a symbol of chaos. The theme is mainly based on minor thirds with occasional major thirds, and the minor third itself is an interval that conveys a sense of melancholy, reinforcing the desolation and sadness that Arthur feels. This helps viewers more deeply empathise with Arthur’s pain.
This theme is echoed ominously throughout the movie whenever Arthur faces another setback, varying based on his mental state in order to aptly capture his descent into madness. In placing less emphasis on having a distinct melody, the theme thrives in its thick musical texture through the layering of different instruments playing various lines, such that it functions less as a leitmotif associated with the Joker and more as music that shapes the mood and atmosphere of a scene. It is first heard in the beginning of the movie when Arthur’s sign is stolen and he gets beat up in an alley, starting on a more hopeful major third of Bflat-D that occurs in the middle-range of the scale. This iteration of the theme reflects the initial optimism that Arthur holds, conveying the fact that he very much enjoyed his job as a professional clown, as he loves comedy and wishes to make people happy. The theme then proceeds to mostly alternate between a gloomy minor third on A-C and a piercing C#-E, setting up the stage for the tragedies that Arthur suffers and the desolation that starts building in his mind. As the movie progresses, minor thirds begin dominating the score, with lesser and rarer appearances from major thirds, and this can be thought to align with the plot of the movie: At first, Arthur was hopeful and was in a better state of mind, but this happiness becomes more and more short-lived. Music in a major key commonly conjures happy moods while that in a minor key conjures sad moods, and this is utilised to flesh out the Joker’s mental state. As such, the score effectively chronicles Arthur’s gradual descent into madness and his tragic origin story.
However, the theme does make two key appearances in major keys, and the significance of the music in these two scenes will be explored in greater detail. In the movie’s pivotal scene, Arthur engages in a hypnotic dance in the bathroom after killing the three men on the Subway who offended him. The scene marks a turning point for Arthur, since it is his first time crossing the line of killing, and it is because he has reached a breaking point after a long build-up of unfortunate events. The dance can be seen to represent a sort of metamorphosis as Arthur takes his first step into becoming the Joker. At first, there is complete silence, with only the sound of the buzzing electricity to reinforce the tension in the air. The audience holds its breath in anticipation of the next move, and when Arthur begins his trance-like dance, it is almost as though the music carries us to a suspended reality, as we are removed from tangible narrative events, delving into the Joker’s psychological processes. The cello theme enters jarringly on an accented C# as Arthur takes his first step. It then establishes a minor third chord with E, but an unexpected A note in the bass creeps in, forming a major chord. The tension gives way to a quiet euphoria created by the A major triad, alluding to the contentment that Arthur feels as he basks in becoming who he really is. The blissful atmosphere defies what we believe we should be feeling; our moral judgement insists we experience a sense of shock and disgust at the sight of Arthur killing, but the music suggests otherwise, with its unhurried pace and peaceful mood. It effectively highlights how dark the Joker is, as he derives gratification from killing.
However, this peaceful atmosphere is quickly interrupted by an F# bass, forming a minor 7th chord that begs to be resolved, introducing an element of contradiction and uncertainty—is Arthur’s happiness genuine, and will it last? The F# and A is then inconspicuously overshadowed by a higher G#, giving way to a strong C# minor triad that further taints the blissfulness with a tinge of darkness. This unexpected change in music and the constant back-and-forth between major and minor conveys the instability of Arthur’s mental state, and how his mental processes do not match that of healthy, neurotypical individuals. Furthermore, dissonance is produced through a clashing D# undertone, which is later reinforced through a piercing C-C# and a harsh diminished 7th on D#. The distinct unpleasantness of the dissonant sound induces a sharp discomfort, reminding us of the horrendous nature of the Joker’s character. As Arthur moves through the motions in a dazed state, bone-chilling treble vocals creep in, piling onto the already thick texture of the instrumental theme. The lyrics are indistinguishable, and the voices are reminiscent of religious chorales, intensifying the eerie and ominous atmosphere associated with the horrific insanity of the Joker. Arthur concludes his dance with a theatrical ending-pose and the music stalls on a C# minor triad, emphasising the disturbing nature of Arthur’s tranquil mood and the dominance of his dark thoughts. The music in this scene effectively helped us understand Arthur’s mental state by alluding to his poor mental health, his violent thoughts, and creating the appropriate atmosphere to accompany his transformative dance.
As the movie progresses, we discover more and more about Arthur’s relationship with his mother, and this eventually culminates in an emotionally charged flashback scene. At first, Arthur grabs the hospital records and runs towards the stairwell, and this is accompanied by a disconcerting chromatic downward glissando that sounds almost machine-like, directly foreshadowing the downward spiral that Arthur is about to experience. At the same time, a steady bass drum beat makes its entrance, clashing with Arthur’s erratic footsteps and frantic panting, instilling a sense of panic and confusion. It is almost as though we are hearing our own heartbeat as well as Arthur’s, and the drum beat builds up suspense, intensifying the already anxious atmosphere as the audience follows Arthur’s nervous anticipation - what is the truth about his mother that the clerk was so insistent on hiding?
When Arthur finally opens the report, the scene begins alternating between shots of him reading the report and that of his mother being interrogated by a police officer. This time, the theme appears in shrill and slightly raspy violin strings instead of the usual cello. By transposing the theme to a higher register that audiences are unaccustomed to, the music represents the mother’s interrogation as a memory from the past instead of an event in the present, but conveys that the memory does not belong to Arthur. The quivery and frail voice of the violin also delivers a faltering and uncertain mood.
The theme slowly eases in on a minor third of A-C, but is soon joined by a bass F, forming an F major triad that comes as a respite to the long-held tension. The serenity of the major triad goes against the shocking revelations and brutal images flashed across the screen: the words “extremely bizarre behaviour” and “physical abuse” appear in the report, along with a Child Adoption Application form. Arthur discovers that he was abandoned as a child, and that his adopted mother suffered from various mental disorders. Photos of his mother and his bruised faces are shown, along with the newspaper headlines “Mother of adopted child allowed her son’s abuse” and “House of terror of a mother and her son”. All of this information seems like it would be incredibly hard to digest for Arthur, and even induces a strong negative reaction of pity for Arthur and disgust towards his mother, but the music is at odds with our emotions, with its calm tranquility creating a sense of peace that brings us back to the strange atmosphere of the bathroom dance. Arthur begins laughing almost maniacally, and this is even more unsettling when scored against the F major triad. The officer then accounts finding Arthur tied to a radiator in his mother’s apartment, malnourished with bruises across his body and severe trauma to his head. As the camera pans across the room, we see Arthur looming behind the officer, but his expression remains stoic all while the Joker laugh is still heard in the background. This whole sequence leaves the audience disoriented and disturbed, as we are unable to reconcile the visual and audio aspects that are very much at odds with each other. Hence, the contrast between the music and the visuals effectively provides a glimpse into the insanity living inside Arthur’s mind.
Guðnadóttir is renowned for her dark and contemplative music, having released several of her own albums and composed for other blockbuster movies as well. Her approach to Joker’s film score consisted of a more introspective one, as she greatly empathised with his tragedy and wanted to delve deeper into his emotional side (1). She was extremely successful in doing so with her cello theme, which greatly helped us to understand the Arthur Fleck’s character more. We are better able to see him as the person he was before he became the villainous madman known as the Joker, and better able to empathise with him.
Grein, Paul. “Hildur Guðnadóttir on Why Scoring Joker Was a New Professional Peak.” Billboard, 15 Nov. 2019, https://www.billboard.com/articles/news/movies/8543521/joker-composer-hildur-guonadottir-oscars-interview.
When asked whether it bothers her that “people are working in a factory making clothes for Americans… that’s how they’re spending their lives”, former sourcing manager of Joe Fresh, Kate Ball-Young (2019) answered indifferently, “No… They’re doing a job, there are a lot worse things they could be doing.” That’s indisputable, but have we ever stopped to consider whether the job is treating them decently? Why do we think it’s alright to subject people to terrible conditions, simply because that’s their best option at the moment?
A lot of people who grew up in first-world countries live in blissful ignorance and are unsympathetic towards the struggles of developing countries, and this belief that lower-skilled workers deserve what they’re getting stems from a cruel sort of selfishness.
The True Cost effectively highlights this fundamental selfishness and urges change. As Natalie Taylor’s song “I Want It All” plays over a montage juxtaposing scenes from high fashion advertising, frenzied consumerism culture and the ugly truth behind the industry supporting it, I am left with no choice but to confront a harsh reality. As an avid shopper always eager to keep up with the latest trends and pounce on the newest deals, I see myself in the Youtubers eagerly parading their new stilettos and the frantic crowds flooding Forever 21 on Black Friday. It is almost as though the lyrics of the song are speaking my subconscious thoughts, and I am struck by the realisation that in participating in the trend of fast fashion, I am feeding into the nightmare of capitalism. I am feeding into its vicious cycle of exploitation of workers and environmental degradation in developing countries, a wheel impossible to break.
In questioning why the problem of fast fashion and exploitation of garment workers exists, one could argue that a key factor is that most people are unaware. I, however, believe that the root of the problem lies with the fact that humans are inherently selfish.
From the consumers’ point of view, surely the exploitation of workers is not a concept unheard of. Yet, we continue putting our wants above others’ needs. We continue valuing our momentary pleasure over the lives of workers in far-off countries we know nothing about, because, as Natalie Taylor perfectly captures it, “I live just to get what I want.” The stark contrast of the images placed successively in the montage forces me to accept the part I play and my previous ignorance, underscoring my privilege and how others are suffering because of it. For me, shopping has always been a sort of coping mechanism as I drown myself in piles of cheap clothes, indulging in that temporary moment of sweet satisfaction instead of dealing with my real problems. The science behind retail therapy is real: treating myself and imagining myself in new clothes tricks my brain into releasing a rush of serotonin, and the act of buying gives me a false sense of control when real life seems to be slipping away. What adds fuel to this fire is the rise of social media and widespread propagandistic advertising—We become too obsessed with how to present our best self, how to gain approval from faceless statistics on the Internet, and how to become happier by buying more things. My mindset is further reinforced by the pervasive “Hypebeast” and “Influencer” culture in Singapore and evident in the people around me; peer pressure and the need to be seen as “cool” and “trendy” gives rise to my own dependence on fast fashion. Our egos are inflated when we spend too much time thinking about ourselves, and this breeds disregard for other human lives when weighed against our own.
I recall previously learning briefly about the ills of fast fashion, but my continued ignorance is in part due to my privileged upbringing. Growing up in a developed country narrowed my worldview, as I have never gone through the kind of struggles that those in developing countries face on a daily basis. I have never had to worry about food, clean water and a roof over my head, and taking these for granted aggravates my indifference towards fast fashion. It is difficult for me to picture life in a country that is out of sight and out of mind, but the documentary sheds light on the lives that my obsessive consumption is so intimately entwined with. Natalie Taylor’s lyrics deeply resonated with me, forcing me to think deeper about my living “just to get what I want”.
But what’s so bad about that? The most frightening notion is that perhaps there is nothing fundamentally wrong about being selfish—it's every man for himself in this jungle of a society. We have enough problems of our own, and life is way too short. So why should we worry that the temporary happiness that fast fashion brings us will cause problems for people we will never know? These questions lurk at the edge of my mind, as I wonder what it is that differentiates those willing to change their ways and those who just seem to be facing too much inertia. Personally, I can blame social media, peer pressure and my upbringing for my reluctance to let go of fast fashion. I can come up with all sorts of reasons for my behaviour, but what if the truth is just that I’m inherently selfish? I have yet to overcome my reliance on material goods, trendy clothes and Instagram likes as a source of self-esteem, and it will undoubtedly be difficult to get rid of my shopping habits without first solving the root of the problem.
On the other side of the coin, the selfishness of producers is evident in their relentless drive for profits, their greed for wealth and power continually eclipsing their concern towards human lives. As the lyrics perfectly captured, “I’ve kept my grip so tight, I won’t let anyone get in my way”—simply acquiring market power is not enough, and once you’re at the top of the food chain, you have to stay at the top, by fair means or foul. Companies scramble to cater to consumers’ grips on their wallets—unbearably low wages and inhumane working conditions are borne out of their desperation to minimise costs, lower prices and hence maintain power. This exploitation of workers is thus aptly vocalised in the line ”I want it all, and I’ll use you to get it”. My first instinct is to sneer at corporate greed; conventional moral judgement and my upbringing insists that it is wrong to exploit workers. But as I thrust myself into the shoes of greedy CEOs to gain a better understanding of what drives them, I realised that this greed is simply a magnified version of an instinct inherent to human nature. Pleasure arises when one collects resources, and companies overlook the ethics of their practices when they become addicted to this rush of chemicals (Lo, 2010). From a CEO’s point of view, there is tremendous pressure from both subordinates and fellow board members to maintain market power. Every action is scrutinised and one wrong move could result in a competitor taking over. Furthermore, profits eventually become less about money and more about the social status it brings—“the brain chemistry of reward loaded the gun of greed, and the systemic demands for increased profits pulled the trigger” (Shefrin, 2010). After considering all these factors, I am better able to empathise with and understand the selfishness of producers, although I do not condone it. It also becomes all the more clear why corporate greed is something that will be extremely difficult to tackle—it is not only rooted in human nature, but also plagued by various social factors.
The voice and melody of “I Want It All” is eerily soothing despite the disconcerting lyrics, and a sense of tranquility falls upon me even with the unsettling images across my screen. I wonder if this juxtaposition is deliberately set up to expose my nonchalance, forcing me to come to terms with the disturbing nature of my apathy. But this is a problem bigger than me.
It is imperative we change our shopping habits for the betterment of those in developing countries. Nevertheless, moral blackmail is not the answer; people are less likely to change if they’re constantly being guilt-tripped about their actions, and nobody likes hearing about how horrible they’ve been. Compulsive consumption is not the same as extreme materialism, but the two are closely related and both play into consumers’ roles in fast fashion; It is thus more feasible to urge the deeper consideration of materialism’s promise to make us happier—As stated by Tim Kasser (2019), a psychology professor at Knox College, “the more that people are focused on materialistic values, the more that they say that money and image and status and possessions are important to them, the less happy they are.”
Materialism goes against fulfilling basic psychological needs of competency, freedom and connection to others (Kasser, 2002), but how do we convince people of this fundamental truth? It conflicts with the messages that we are constantly bombarded with by the media, that happiness comes from having lots of money, possessions, popularity and status (expressed through money and possessions). In confronting the issue of fast fashion, I’ve begun looking inward and asking myself the uncomfortable questions in life: whether it really matters how fashionable I am, why I look to social media clout for self-assurance and what that says about me as a person. My involvement in fast fashion and materialism also stems from deeply entrenched cultural beliefs—for the Chinese, it is more common to express affection through gifts than to verbalise it. I am showered with new clothes every Chinese New Year as part of tradition, but it would be impossible to hear my parents tell me they love me. Girls are also taught to place a huge emphasis on wealth and status in potential husbands, and this phenomenon has become all the more prevalent as China’s economy moves towards first-world status. To detach myself from my credence in materialism, I must first detach myself from what my culture tells me.
Individual action matters, but tackling such a large-scale problem requires all hands on deck, and mindsets do not change overnight. Personally, I’ve begun reigning back on my compulsive purchasing and exploring more creative options with my current wardrobe. The desire to consistently impress with a new “look” is one of the factors driving my constant need to buy new clothes, but learning new ways of styling my existing clothes can curb this problem. If I can overcome my previous selfishness, others can as well. Consumers ultimately hold a large amount of power, and if we reduce our consumption of cheap clothes, producers will have no choice but to rework their business model to meet the fallen demand. In an environment ripe for social change, producers make every effort to differentiate themselves from competitors by aligning with values that consumers hold dear. Change is thus inevitable if we make it clear to producers what’s really important to us: ethical business practices and environmentally friendly production processes.
Selfishness from both the consumers’ and the producers’ parts have bred a cruel system for those with no other option but to suffer at their hands. The advent of mass media is an undeniable culprit in exacerbating this, but whether or not this selfishness stems from our own human nature is hardly debatable. The sooner we as consumers realise that buying clothes is not the solution to our problems, and the sooner producers realise wealth and status is not the be-all and end-all, the sooner the fashion industry will be revolutionised for the better. We’ll be able to ensure that sweatshop workers in Cambodia earn a living wage, Bangladeshi workers enjoy safer working conditions, and rural Indian villagers are able to live long and healthy lives.
Fox, S. (2010, April 30). What Causes Corporate Greed? Retrieved November 2, 2019, from https://www.livescience.com/6394-corporate-greed.html.
Shulman, M. (2014, December 16). What Psychology Says About Materialism and the Holidays. Retrieved November 2, 2019, from https://www.apa.org/news/press/releases/2014/12/materialism-holidays.
Conversations on Capitalism—Parasite vs The Platform
May 16, 2022
In 2020, Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite rose to international acclaim, resonating with audiences worldwide with its universal messages about capitalism. Lesser known is the Spanish film The Platform, directed by Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia and released later that same year, presenting its own take on the issue. Comparing the two films, both address the themes of moral disregard under capitalism and class segregation in society, albeit using different strategies. Otherwise, key differences arise: Parasite is steeped in reality, whereas The Platform is more metaphorical. The latter also delves into the subject matter of change, which is not touched upon in Parasite.
In the face of capitalism, morality is eroded; Parasite and The Platform both provide their perspectives on this matter.
In Parasite, the poorer Kim family orchestrates a plan to each get hired by the rich Park family, replacing those previously employed in the desired positions one by one. In doing so, the Kim family inadvertently lets go of moral considerations, fabricating lies to deceive the Park family. Kim Ki-jung frames the previous chauffeur for sexual misconduct, seriously tarnishing his name. In replacing the housekeeper, Moon-gwang, the Kim family causes her to have multiple allergic reactions in the process. In order to get employed, the Kim family forces the chauffeur and the housekeeper to lose their livelihoods without warning, despite their innocence.
It is soon revealed that Moon-gwang has also been deceiving the Park family, by covertly keeping her husband in the basement of the mansion. When the Kim family and Moon-gwang discover each other’s secrets, both eventually resort to violence to ensure the other party does not give them away. The Kim family ends up gravely injuring Moon-gwang and her husband.
Through these plot points, Parasite illustrates how under capitalism, competition for scarce resources results in pursuit of self-interest overriding moral considerations and harmonious relationships with other people. Of course, this is not to say that the Park family are completely innocent, or that the Kim family and Moon-gwang are the villains of the movie. It is simply that the Kim family’s plight more visibly drives home the message: Their lack of resources and desperation to stay afloat causes them to resort to whatever means necessary, regardless of whether the actions taken are morally right or causes harm to other people.
The same theme is explored in The Platform. The main character, Goreng, volunteers to enter the Vertical Self-Management Center, where there are 333 levels of residents randomly relocated to a different floor every month. Each day, food is distributed only once on a platform that descends from the top, stopping for a short time on each level. A pattern emerges where those at the higher levels take more than they need, leading to insufficient food for those inhabiting lower levels. The lack of food drives people to resort to unthinkable measures, as iterated by Trimagasi, Goreng’s first roommate: “Hunger unleashes that madman in us. It’s better to eat than to be eaten.”
We see this play out in the Goreng and Trimagasi’s interactions over the course of the film. At first, both were lucky to be placed on Level 48, where food is abundant. Time passes easily, exemplified through a montage showing their carefree meals and their budding friendship. At the end of the month, Trimagasi tells Goreng that he is fond of him, before the two are put to sleep. This blissful illusion is immediately shattered when Goreng wakes up on Level 171 and finds himself restrained and gagged. It is revealed that Trimagasi is the culprit—knowing that the platform will be empty when it reaches their floor, Trimagasi prioritizes his own survival, restraining Goreng so he can eventually cannibalize the latter. The montage that follows presents a stark contrast to the one shown in Level 48: Goreng screams and struggles against his restraints every day, while Trimagasi watches in disappointment whenever the empty platform reaches them. Goreng eventually kills Trimagasi and consumes his flesh to survive for the rest of the month. The message is clear: when the two are put in a lower level with fewer resources, survival instincts and desperation drive them to do the unthinkable, destroying their previous friendship as they inflict harm on each other.
Both movies emphasize the erosion of morality under capitalism—the scarcity of resources leads to competition and pursuit of self-interest overrules ethics. While Parasite illustrates this concept within the working class, The Platform goes one step further to solidify its place among the upper class as well: the central tenet of the film is that there is enough food for all 333 levels of residents, if everyone only took what they needed, and this is articulated by Imoguiri, Goreng’s second roommate. It is the selfishness of those at the upper levels that cause those at the bottom to suffer: even though residents switch levels every month, sympathy and solidarity is not developed, and those at the top are greedy, disregarding the moral implications of taking more than they need. Parasite discusses this concept as well, by contrasting the Park’s lavish and luxurious lifestyle with that of the Kim’s, but it is not as direct and on-the-nose as that of The Platform.
The Platform has its characters vocalize these messages in a straightforward manner, whereas Parasite is more subtle and prompts more reflection from the audience; as such, The Platform may be able to get its point across more effectively than Parasite, wherein misinterpretation or lack of understanding is plausible.
This undermining of morality leads to increased segregation between classes, which is another common theme between the two movies. In Parasite, the idea of smell is used to separate the rich from the poor: Park Da-song points out that the housekeeper, driver and the two tutor all share the same smell, and Mr Park later comments about Kim Ki-taek’s smell, likening it to “people on the subway” who “have a certain smell”. In this way, the rich and the poor are clearly differentiated by their different smells—the rich can afford fragrant scents, whereas the poor adopt the odors from their living conditions.
Similar to that for the theme of moral disregard, The Platform illustrates this segregation in a more vocalized manner. At the beginning of the film, we hear a voiceover with the words: “There are three types of people: those at the top, those at the bottom, and those who fall”, immediately alluding to segregation. The characters candidly express their dislike for other social classes; On Goreng’s first day, he observes Trimagasi tossing the empty wine bottle down the hole and spitting on the food after he finishes. When Goreng questions him, he bluntly states that “the people below us are below us”. Trimagasi also tells Goreng not to speak to the people below “because they’re down below”, and not to speak with the people above “because they won’t answer you”. His actions demonstrate his disdain for those below him and his awareness that those above him feel the same—drawing a connection to capitalism in the real world, class segregation leads to people harboring mistrust and contempt for those from different social classes. This is again conveyed when the residents above Goreng’s level defecate onto Goreng’s new roommate after pretending to help him; as is the case in the real world, where the rich often hold extremely negative views towards those at the bottom of the economic ladder.
Both movies also use space to convey this disparity and class segregation. The rich family lives in a large and spacious mansion, where the cinematography emphasizes its depth of space through different layers of action. Kim Ki-woo is shown to walk up a hill to the mansion, visually implying him approaching the “upper” class. On the other hand, the poorer Kim family lives in a semi-basement apartment that is cramped and claustrophobic, halfway below the ground, and Moon-gwang’s husband lives fully below the ground, visibly illustrating their statuses as “lower” classes. When Da-song sleeps in the backyard, the Park couple watches on top of the sofa, while the Kim family are trapped underneath their coffee table, further alluding to how the Kim family are “below” the Park family. As for The Platform, it is also not hard to see how its vertical prison visually demonstrates the different levels in society.
Though the themes of moral disregard and class segregation bind the two films, each also explores a different aspect of capitalism not touched on by the other.
Parasite is steeped in reality, raising awareness of how capitalism has created disparate living conditions for the different social classes in South Korea, engendering sympathy among viewers towards the poor by showing their plight and struggle to make ends meet.
The movie thoughtfully uses light to visually describe the disparities between the two families and their social classes. For the Kim family’s semi-basement apartment, the lighting used is highly functional, illuminating the scene but not flattering the characters. The colors are muddy and drab and make the characters look unhealthy. On the other hand, the Park’s house uses highly aesthetic lighting that contours the character’s faces and makes them more flattering. Sunlight is also presented as a class issue, as the poorer family lives half below ground and do not have access to much sunlight. In contrast, the rich family’s house is brightly illuminated by sunlight during the day, as the house has many floor-to-ceiling windows. Such a visual contrast mirrors and emulates the differences in living conditions between the two families due to their different income levels.
When a severe rainstorm hits the city, the Park family is hardly affected, whereas the Kim family finds their semi-basement apartment flooded. These semi-basement apartments, banjihas, exist in real-life Seoul, offering much cheaper rent in light of South Korea’s lack of affordable housing, noted by the UN in 2018 as a substantial barrier for young and poorer people. Through showing the reality of the poor’s substandard living conditions, Parasite reveals the harsh truth of capitalism, exposing the upper classes for their extreme privilege.
Unlike Parasite, The Platform shows less of the real world, featuring the vertical prison as an extended metaphor for a capitalistic society. As discussed above, its different levels represent the different social classes created under capitalism. The platform also carries sufficient food to feed all 333 levels of residents if everyone only took what they needed, but those at the top will always be overrun by greed, stuffing their faces knowing there are people below them starving to death. Having premiered on Netflix in March 2020, we see this pattern precisely play out in real life, where the more affluent began hoarding masks and hand sanitizer at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, depriving the poor of access to these items.
The film is unique in its discussion of change, begging viewers to consider whether change should come about through peaceful or violent means. When Goreng and Barahat ride the platform down the hole to hand out food rations, they pass by a wise resident that advises them to “win them over before you hit them”, as “dialogue must come first”. However, when Imoguiri repeatedly tries to persuade the residents below them to eat only their rations, explaining her reasoning, they shout at her and ignore her every day. It is only until Goreng threatens to defecate in the food that they agree to stick to their rations, demonstrating how threats are more effective than peaceful persuasion. Historically, revolutions have always seen war and bloodshed, and contemporarily, change seems to occur only after violent protests. Ultimately, the movie provides food for thought, encouraging viewers to choose their own stance on the matter of peaceful persuasion versus violence for change.
As brilliantly captured by Bong Joon-ho, “essentially, we all live in the same country, called Capitalism.” Parasite and The Platform are both foreign-language films from distinct parts of the world, but have both become incredibly successful through their thought-provoking takes on capitalism, sharing similarities but ultimately achieving different outcomes.
