The Music of "Amadeus" Part II

This is Part II of a three-part study of the use of music in Milos Foreman's 1984 film, Amadeus. You can find Part I here.

St. Stephen's Cathedral in Amadeus, 

actually St. Giles Church in Prague, Czech Republic.

Shortly after the premiere of Die Entführung aus dem Serail, Mozart marries Constanze Weber. Dated from this time (Summer 1782) is Mozart's C minor mass, the Kyrie of which sets the tone for Mozart's marriage. The use of this movement is simple but nonetheless effective. The insistent, limping four-note phrase in the strings in C minor creates a sense of the inexorable, a sense relevant in three respects. First, young Wolfgang is getting married without his father's consent. Second, Mozart's wife will gradually replace his father in terms of significance and influence over Mozart. Third, and most importantly, this new rift between father and son will prove the weakness Salieri exploits to sabotage his rival. This occasion that should be most happy is thus a source of inexplicable unease to the viewer unaware of Mozart's fate.

The image in the background is a reproduction of an actual painting
of Mozart in Verona at age 14, painted by Saverio dalla Rose, January 1770.
The original is in a private Parisian collection.

What follows is another simple yet effective combination of sight and sound. Mozart's new wife brings some of her husband's work to Salieri in the hopes that he, as court composer, could persuade Emperor Joseph to offer Mozart a lucrative position as royal tutor. Salieri, already amazed and intrigued that the music Constanze has brought are first editions, opens the folio and is simply overwhelmed by the music. Salieri narrates his shock at the seeming impossibility of the fact that he was looking at perfect drafts as the soundtrack plays the pieces. The choice of pieces and editing is brilliant. The soft, gentle duet between harp and flute of the concerto KV.299 starts to carry us away. . . and Salieri, desperate to see another piece, crashes the pages together to see another and turns to Symphony No. 29, (KV.201.) (The piano opening to the piece is actually skipped and we come in forte at measure thirteen.) He noisily turns the pages again to a stormy passage from the E-flat concerto for two pianos, then again to a charming violin theme from the Sinfonia concertante (KV.364), and finally back to the C minor Kyrie, amidst a soprano solo. Like Salieri, we have gone from delighted to overwhelmed to transfixed and Salieri, carried away in ecstasy by the Kyrie, loses himself and drops the pages in a sort of musical. . . fulfillment. Confused, Constanze asks if the music is not good and Salieri responds without hesitation and with exhausted honesty, "It is miraculous." Moments later when she asks for his help again Salieri is back to his calculating, envious self.

Another scene, while not necessary for the plot, adds much color and character to the film and is one of my favorites. Mozart tells off a boorish aristocrat who insults him, takes the bottle of champagne he servant brought, and walks off into the streets of the city in the afternoon. To the music of the rondo from Piano Concerto No. 15 Mozart strolls the streets with bottle in hand.

It is a typical day in Vienna, a garrison is coming through the square, merchants are selling their wares, people run errands, and street entertainers catch the fancies of passers by. (The dog on the ball, the fire-eater, and the bear were especially playful touches.) The piece has a certain casual urbanity to it and perfectly complements the pleasant busyness of the city. "Its refrain, given out by the piano and repeated by the tutti, which adds a long ritornello, is one of [Mozart's] most pleasing rondo themes, both fiery and graceful, and perfectly illustrative of the union of these two qualities which characterize Mozart's genius." [Girdlestone, 204]

The opening theme from the 3rd mvt. of Piano Concerto No. 15, KV.450. [2]

The ebullience of this scene and music are shattered when Mozart enters his apartment building and we are presented with Leopold to the tune of the "Don Giovanni chord." Why here? We don't yet know when we hear it this time. Surely Leopold was angry his son married without his consent, but why this sinister music? Leopold, cloaked in black and blotting out the light behind him, certainly seems a foreboding presence and indeed we are a little uneasy as Mozart runs with childlike trust into this character's grasp. Mozart is enveloped in his father's cloak as well as his embrace and this is an appropriate gesture as Leopold, for all his love, was a domineering father.

To Mozart though, this is just a pleasant visit from Papa and so it is time to celebrate, which they do with a party. First, though, they pick their costumes out to the Janissary march from Die Entführung. This music is actually an arrangement, sans words, of Mozart's march, and perfectly complements the joyful haste with which Mozart and his wife, though not the reluctant Leopold, pick out their costumes. It also plays right into a similar piece, an arrangement of Mozart's song Ich möchte wohl Der Kaiser sein, a swaggering little "war song" which serves as the music to their game of musical chairs.

A scene not unlike Mozart's afternoon walk through town follows. Likewise, this rondo from Piano Concerto No. 22 (KV.482) is something of a cousin to the spirited rondo heard earlier. Girdlestone's description of the opening heard here so succinct it bears repeating:

The refrain of the rondo is a stiffer version of that of the B-flat concerto, K.450, but it is more of a dance than a gallop. The piano gives out the first part and the tutti repeat it. The second half belongs exclusively to the piano and a longish transition, braced by woodwind and horn calls, brings back the first part. This is the usual ABA design of rondo refrains. A very long ritornello follows it, the chief elements of which are an alternating motif, given out by clarinet and bassoon, and an active figure, quivering with the bassoon, chirping with the flute, which plays a part later on.

The piano's entry in the second couplet is more arresting than usual.  It is preceded by nearly three bars where the silence is broken only by chords in the strings, lightly repeated, and when it occurs the piano does not start with a well-market theme but with a faltering figure. . . all the clearer for being followed, as the piano grows bolder, [by a demisemiquaver figure played in the bass then treble], on the vaultings of which the solo instrument sets sail for its first cruise. [Girdlestone, 361]

This tuneful, playful-yet-regal piece starts out as background music to Mozart and his wife setting out in carriage for one of his outdoor concerts, then switches to diegetic as he plays and conducts it, and then shifts back to background music for Salieri's snooping in Mozart's apartment. Like its cousin-scene earlier, this one offers a little glimpse into Mozart's work routine and daily life in 18th century Vienna.

I will refrain from commenting much on the productions of Figaro and Axur in the film as Salieri's narration over the former is self-explanatory. Likewise, the contrast between the two pieces is easily perceptible. The former is a work of groundbreaking brilliance that fails at the box-office and the latter is a competent but uninspired work praised beyond all reason. We know Salieri's seething envy toward Mozart is not assuaged by the emperor's praise and his shiny medal. In fact the medal becomes a constant symbol of his mediocrity. Similarly, his inability to produce something completely new is subtly emphasized by the fact that as his opera pales before Mozart's, likewise has Mozart already had the leading lady and moved on.

The finale of Axur, re d'Ormus ("Axur, King of Ormus.")

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Part III

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[1] Girdlestone, Cuthbert. Mozart and his Piano Concertos. 1964. Dover Publications, Inc. New York, NY.

[2] Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus. Piano Concerto No. 15, KV.450. (Score.) IMSLP/Petrucci Music Library. http://imslp.org/wiki/Piano_Concerto_No.15,_K.450_%28Mozart,_Wolfgang_Amadeus%29

Thoughts on The Magic Flute

James Levine conducting the Metropolitan Opera Chorus and Orchestra. 1991.

The Magic Flute is 218 today. The last opera Mozart completed, he began and completed Le Clemenza di Tito amidst writing The Magic Flute, the work has enjoyed an aura of mystery since its premiere and for a number of reasons. First and foremost is likely Mozart's untimely death, which followed the premiere by a mere two months. The myths surrounding his death add still to the confusion, as does the fact Milos Forman's masterpiece Amadeus, for reasons of compression, depicts the premiere as occurring the night before his death. Second is the nature of the opera's themes. The Rosicrucian symbols and Masonic rituals naturally invite speculation as to their meanings. Last, if you will permit me to name it last, is the music. (I list it last only because I suspect there are many who know of Mozart and the myths surrounding him but not his music.) The three-fold chords of the overture, the solemn marches and hymns, and a simplicity both transfixing and transporting form what Charles Rosen called, "the first genuinely classical religious style." [1] In this atmosphere Mozart gives us exotic locations, fantastic animals, and magic instruments. A religious initiation, a fairy tale, and a spectacle, The Magic Flute will enchant all but the most obtuse listener.

Strange then that such an ethereal work should offer us a most straightforward and imminently practicable morality. We do not have exegeses or debate, moral ambiguity and shades of grey, but rather dark and light, uncontrolled passion and reason. Throughout we have simple wisdom plainly said. Papageno asks Pamina what they should tell Sarastro and she responds, "The truth. The truth, even if it were a crime!" In an aria calming Pamina, Sarastro sings:

Within these sacred portals
revenge is unknown,
and if a man has fallen,
love guides him to his duty.
Then, with a friend's hand, he walks,
glad and joyful, into a better land.

Within these sacred walls,
where man loves fellow man,
no traitor can lurk,
because enemies are forgiven.
He who is not gladdened by such teachings
does not deserve to be a man.

Kurt Moll as Sarastro in the 1991 production conducted by James Levine

That very aria, "In deisen heil'gen hallen. . ." is the antithesis of the Queen's manic fury:

Diana Damrau as the Queen of the Night in the 2003 production conducted by Sir Colin Davis.

Additionally, in considering that both arias, one wicked the other kind, should both be so beautiful, I yield the floor to C.S. Lewis: [2]

Perhaps in the world built by industrialism beauty has become so rare and evil so undisguisedly ugly that we can no longer believe ill of beauty. With the old poets it was not so. They believed that a thing might be perfectly beautiful, might be of a beauty to break the heart, and yet be evil. As for their art, it must be allowed that in one respect art has become more integrated since their times. The old poet, or painter, or musician does seem to have aimed simply at giving each part of his work the greatest beauty. The speeches of wicked characters were made as plausible as the poet could make them, the alluring temptations as alluring as he could make them. He did not feel it necessary to sow hints of falsity in the villain's speech. Perhaps this change is seen most clearly in the history of opera. A modern composer underlines his evil characters or places with discords. An old composer was content with making a courtesan's song soft and melting or a tyrant's song loud and declamatory; within that very general limit he then made each simply good of its kind. Thus Wagner givs Alberich ugly music to sing: but Mozart gives to the Queen of the Night music as beautiful as he gives to Sarastro."

Indeed, consider Alberich's cacophonous "Garstig glatter glitschriger Glimmer" at the opening of Das Rheingold in contrast to the Queen's beautiful, however terrifying, music.

Unfortunately the aphoristic philosophy of the opera and its symbols subject it to many interpretations, even if not wildly different. Perhaps some of its success owes to the fact that so many people with differing beliefs all find them expressed in the opera. Naturally the philosophically-minded will eventually consider whether The Magic Flute's philosophy is elemental and eternal or simply vague. We may desire and extol "love," "virtue," and "happiness" all we want, but without specific definitions of terms we will be hard pressed to come to more than superficial or dogmatic conclusions. Yet we do not go to art for explanation or explication but rather for demonstration and such is why this opera touches me. We arrive at our values by reasoned reflection and The Magic Flute celebrates that fact. We all sense varying degrees of tension between liberty and fraternity, between rights and obligations, loftiness and commonness, each of us leaning one way or another. In this way also, then, is The Magic Flute is a timeless and glorious achievement for in it Mozart gives us the unparalleled feeling of these eternally opposing forces being at once, at last reconciled.

Now anyone familiar with the opera probably does not remember it as being quite so serious and indeed interspersed are Papageno's clowning around and Monostatos' "priapic frenzy." [3] For all of their comedy, though, they are the necessary foils for Tamino. While Papageno can finally cease fretting for his lack of a wife, he does not enter the world of understanding with Tamino. Likewise the aptly named Monostatos, as the schwarz-Papageno [3], does not attain perfection. Regarding Sarastro, I agree with David Cairns that we are meant to imagine him, with his inchoate wisdom, "making way for the 'edles Paar,' the 'noble couple' whom the chorus hail triumphant at the end of their ordeals. . ." [3] Naturally Tamino and Pamina are the heart of the story and their unification is the culmination of all the values everyone has been singing about. In the finale, the chorus rejoices in their union. Not because Tamino, as a prince, takes his proper role as ruler, but because a man, in resisting evil and temptation and embracing reason may fulfill his potential. Likewise Pamina's passage is celebrated not because she is now joined to Tamino, but because once at the mercy of the wills of her mother, Monostatos, and even Sarastro, she is able freely and in understanding to take her place beside Tamino. Both have passed through their trials and now proceed in love and wisdom.

Hail to you on your consecration!
You have penetrated the night,
thanks be given to you,
Osiris, thanks to you, Isis!
Strength has triumphed, rewarding
beauty and wisdom with an everlasting crown!

Francisco Araiza as Tamino and Kathleen Battle as Pamina
in the 1991 production conducted by James Levine.

Will Hartmann as Tamino and Dorothea Röschmann as Pamina,
from the 2003 production conducted by Sir Colin Davis.

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[1] Rosen, Charles. The Classical Style. W.W. Norton & Company. NY, NY. 1997.

[2] Lewis, C.S. Medieval and Renaissance Studies. Cambridge University Press. Cambridge, U.K. 1966

[3] Cairns, David. Mozart and His Operas. University of California Press. Berkeley, U.S. 2006.

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Other Reading On Mozart's Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute)

Abert, Hermann. W. A. Mozart. Yale University Press. New Haven. 2007

Chailley, Jacques. The Magic Flute Unveiled: Esoteric Symbolism in Mozart's Masonic Opera. Inner Traditions. Rochester, VT. 1992

Dent, Edward Joseph. Mozart's Operas: A Critical Study. Kessinger Publishing, LLC. Whitefish, MT. 2008

Simon, Henry W. The Festival of Opera. Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1957.

Tovey, Donald Francis. Essays in Musical Analysis Vol. IV Illustrative Music. "Essay CXLII. Overture, Die Zauberflöte." Oxford University Press. London. 1937.

Highlights of the Metropolitan Opera's 2009-2010 Season

The 2009-10 season at the Metropolitan Opera promises great things.

After a hiatus, the Met is again performing a German-language version of The Magic Flute, re-using Julie Taymor's production. I've only seen the production on the computer screen, but what I saw impressed me. The Magic Flute, with its improbably fantastic plot and its ethereal music, offers the gifted producer an opportunity to explore new scenic possibilities and remain faithful to the letter and spirit of Emanuel Schikaneder's libretto.

In a similarly whimsical but eminently musical vein, the Met offers again its English-language production of Engelbert Humperdinck's Hansel and Gretel. 


Last year's production was my first time hearing and seeing Humperdinck's minor masterpiece, and I was pleasantly surprised by the real musical virtues of this fairy tale opera. I was, however, non-plussed by the production; it certainly compares unfavorably with Taymor's Magic Flute. 

Exaggeratedly grotesque, the production lacks the essential faerie quality that inspires Humperdinck's lyrical music. All in all, it seemed a missed opportunity to create a production as stunning and faithfully original as Taymor's Magic Flute. The Met also intends to reprise what I deemed a serious artistic mistake: the use of a tenor, rather than a soprano, for the role of the Witch. Philip Langridge, an otherwise talented singer, seemed uncomfortable in the role. And if the Met intended the production as child- and family-friendly, the mistake seems all the more unfortunate.

Despite these reservations, I cannot recommend the opera itself highly enough. It's too easy to assume a haughty attitude to works as whimsical as Humperdinck's fairy tale, but it would be a serious mistake to do so. 

The Met is also staging Richard Wagner's Der Fliegende Hollander, with Deborah Voigt singing the role of Senta. The first of Wagner's operas to lodge itself in the canon, Der Fliegende Hollander is famously difficult to stage, so I look forward to seeing how the Met's creative team resolves the difficulties. With Voigt at the helm, we can confidently expect a stunning musical performance.

The last production I'd like to highlight is the Met staging of Leos Janacek's From the House of the Dead. I've never heard the opera, but in preparation for hearing it at the Met, I've ordered a copy from the New York Public Library. I am cautiously pessimistic about the production itself, if only because it is the work of the iconoclast Patrice Chereau, designer of the infamous Bayreuth Ring cycle of 1976. 

Janacek is a favorite of my favorite contemporary philosopher, Roger Scruton, and so I anticipate hearing something quite marvelous.