We sent Rob Hart, the associate publisher of MysteriousPress.com, all 25 of the Jim Thompson paperbacks that we reissued in August. He wrote in to report on what he did with them.
Working in publishing comes with a few perks.
Say, for example, you’re grabbing breakfast with a pal and you profess your love for Jim Thompson. Turns out, that pal masterminded the re-release of a good portion of Thompson’s oeuvre in paperback and eBook.
Then one day you come home from work to find this pile of beauties sitting on your doorstep:
That is a lot of Jim Thompson. And it begs the question: What exactly does one do with such a giant pile of books? Not wanting to miss an opportunity, I came up with a couple of ideas…
Post a picture of the stack to Facebook so that your friends will seethe with jealousy.
Use them to get to hard-to-reach spots… like a locked window.
Load them into a pillowcase. They’re softer than locks, but still good at delivering a message, without the risk of breaking bones.
They’re great for smuggling weapons.
Use them to weigh down a gas pedal. This is especially helpful if you need a car to go over a cliff and then explode so that any lingering trace evidence will be burned up.
Thompson rakes his fingernails across your soul. I mean that in the best way possible.
I remember my first: Pop. 1280, recommended to me by a writing instructor. It’s a slim volume, and such a slow burn. The narrator, Sheriff Nick Corey, comes off as a buffoon—at least, in the beginning. But as the story shambles forward, you learn there’s something very dark beating under the floorboards of Corey’s soul. To say any more would be a disservice to those who haven’t read it. Luckily, while it’s not pictured here, it’s one of the 25 Thompson books re-released by Mulholland.
I’m not going to pretend like I’m not jealous—I would have loved to have these books available in our catalogue of backlist titles at MysteriousPress.com. But I’m happy to see that they’ll be more easily accessible to a new generation of readers. Thompson transcends genre and is truly one of history’s great writers. His prose is so immediate, his descent into the depths of the human condition so complete, he’s one of those writers who deserves to be read.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do…
Rob Hart is associate publisher at MysteriousPress.com and class director at LitReactor. He is the author of The Last Safe Place: A Zombie Novella, and his debut novel, New Yorked, will be released by Polis on June 9. Learn more at his website, www.robwhart.com
They’ve got your number. It’s personal. You’re reading this. Looked at that. Took a chance, did something, or hell: they just think you did. You stood up for yourself. Stood out. You’re in their way: your boss who knows you know what really happened, your lover who wants you gone. Footsteps behind you. You’re in the shower.
You’re just a number. It’s not personal. It’s “just.” Like in justice. Or not. You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A crazed Mommy in the grocery store grabs a cleaver. You’re part of the Matrix. Visiting a friend in the World Trade Towers. Ebola. Dr. Strangelove smiles. It’s not a movie witch that’s melting.
Life is out to kill you. All you want is to be left alone.
That’s the beating heart of paranoia: you’re all alone.
That’s true. You were born, nobody really knows you, you die and that is you, just you.
McLuhan and the mushroom cloud moved us all into a global village, but our global compound fosters warring tribes. Yesterday it felt easier to know who “us” was. And to trust us: yeah, Big Brother, but of thee I sing.
Trust is the shimmer between prudence and paranoia. You wear your seatbelt yet strap yourself in a crushable metal box.
So how can you find the line between just being smart and being just scared?
What helps you see the line between prudence and paranoia is fiction.
Fiction reveals possibilities. Fiction is our safe mirror. Fiction—in lines of prose or poetry, in the lyrics of a song, through the actors on stage or screen—is not “real.” Or so we can believe. And that belief lets us see the universal reality of a character “just like me…that happened to me.” Or “I wish that were me…if that were me….” Fiction glides us into what could be, gives us a world where we learn archetypes of who & what to trust without penalty, without pain. The what could be we experience with fiction helps us see the shimmer between factual forces and fantasy fears in our world of flesh and blood.
The “truth” may set you free, but the “lies” of fiction may be your best chance to escape paranoia, to perceive who and what to trust so you can best use our life’s terrifying freedom.
Author James Grady won France’s Grand Prix du Roman Noir, Italy’s Raymond Chandler medal, and numerous American literary awards. A former investigative reporter, he lives inside D.C.’s Beltway and in February, will publish Last Days Of The Condor, a sequel to his Robert Redford adapted novel.
Andrew Pyper, the ITW Award–winning author of six bestselling novels, has read a lot of horror stories. Here he writes about one novel that truly got under his skin.
The other night, drinking in my backyard with some other writers, some of whom write thrillers and horror as I do, the question came up as to when was the last time we read something that really and truly terrified us. Not a piece of writing we admired for the way it constructed its scares, not something we found unsettling or offputting or creepy, but the real gut-level deal. Bona fide horror in book form.
It took me a while to come up with my answer. Partly because there are so many horror novels I’ve read over the years that I have admired and found unsettling or creepy, but not to the point of slapping the covers closed with a scream. Partly because I think I’ve always read thrillers for the ideas or mythologies they can uniquely explore, as much as the thrills themselves.
While we all cited different titles in the end, what my writer friends and I had in common was that the last books that truly scared the bejesus out of us were ones we read as young people. Why? We worked up some theories. They all seemed to boil down to immersion. Back then, we could dive all the way into the worlds we read. There was no EXIT sign at the end of the dark hallway, no call of “Time out!” that had the power to return our disbelief from wherever it had been suspended. These were books that possessed us. Ones we believed in.
For me, that book was Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot. Which is kind of funny, as I’m not much of a vampire guy when it comes to favorite horror sub-genres. I like pondering whether I’d drink the blood of innocents in exchange for immortality as much as the next goth, but to me vampire stories too often present their monsters as pompous dandies, suave seducers, poor man’s Hamlets. Vampires invite the campy in ways many writers have found irresistible.
But when the 12-year-old me read King’s story of a small town besieged by the ravenous undead, I was all in. It was his particular version of vampires that did it: savage and single-minded, relentless and recognizable. But it was also, I think, the way the town of the novel reminded me of my own small town where I grew up. The monsters of the fiction lined up with my own neighbors, the tree-shaded streets were my streets, my imagination seeing the darkest possibilities in the everyday just as the world of the book did. It wasn’t just a good vampire story. It was personal.
Reading ‘Salem’s Lot was the last time I could check off each of the points in the unholy trinity of horror reading: I was young, the fictional setting and circumstances directly matched up with my own, and the monsters were presented not as fantastical, but possible.
The thing is, while I treasure the experience of reading that book, I’m not sure I’d like to return to it. What I mean is that I’d be happy to read it again today, but not transported to my reading of it then. It’s simply too dangerous. Who knows how close I came to being lost in it for good? How real could I have made it? What would have happened if a vampire had come scratching at my window and instead of pulling the covers over my head I got up and let it in?
Andrew Pyperis the author of six bestselling novels, most recently The Demonologist, which won the International Thriller Writers Award for Best Hardcover Novel. His new book, The Damned, is to be published in February 2015.
“A Prisoner of Time” by Lucian E. Dervan is the winning story of Hofstra Law School’s Mystery Short Story Contest, which invited participants to write a short work of fiction featuring a lawyer as a main character. You can read more about the contest from Alafair Burke. Thank you to all the writers who did the legal thriller genre proud with their entries. And congratulations to Lucian Dervan!
The years passed faithfully, each one much like the last, and yet each distinctive and filled with its own memories. George Duncan, known simply as Duncan since his first year of school, sat in his large recliner. Though the chair was old and tattered, the fabric was woven with far too many memories to discard. Duncan, currently in the eighth decade of his life, had never felt the cold beneath his skin as he did now. But, somehow, sitting in his chair, gazing through the window, and thinking about the past seemed to warm him as the sun set outside.
Duncan’s mind often wandered over his decades as a feared criminal defense attorney. On some days he would laugh out loud as images of a floundering witness succumbing to his blazing cross-examination replayed in his mind. Other days were filled with deep reflection on those few times during his career when mistakes had led to perpetual recollection and regret. Despite the innumerable and varying memories from which to select, one image drifted uninvited into his mind more than any other during the many days he spent in that timeworn chair, the face of his client Billy Brandon. As that face flickered in his consciousness once again, Duncan’s hands clenched in anger and anxiety.
“Duncan. Duncan, dear,” his wife, Martha, called from the kitchen. “It’s time for dinner.”
“Just a moment,” Duncan responded as he unbound his hands and strained to push himself up from his seat.
Once standing, he paused and gazed out the window for a final second. Then, turning to face a large bookcase at his side, Duncan reached out and withdrew a massive leather bound edition of a Dostoyevsky classic. After using both hands to lower the literary masterpiece onto a small library table, Duncan lifted the front cover to reveal the book was actually a safe. Reaching into the hollow middle, he pushed aside a piece of paper and withdrew a heavy black revolver. Holding the gun in his hand and spinning the chamber, he took note of the four bullets and two empty shells still lying in the cylinder.
“After these many years,” Duncan said aloud, yet in a whisper, “my representation will finally come to an end. Until tomorrow, Mr. Billy Brandon.”
Replacing the weapon and returning the book safely to its original location, Duncan began to move into the kitchen for dinner. “It smells wonderful, dear,” he said to his wife. “I think I’ll turn in right after we’re done eating. I’ve got a few errands to run tomorrow, and I’ll need all of my strength.”
The next morning, Duncan sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the newspaper’s front-page story on the impending execution of convicted murderer Clive Caldwell. Martha peered over his shoulder as she fixed herself a bowl of oatmeal.
“Are they finally putting him to death this afternoon,” she inquired. “That horrible murder of the two children from Augusta must have occurred almost fifteen years ago.”
“I think you’re right,” responded Duncan. “But the wheels of justice must be slow to be fair. Heaven forbid we put an innocent man to death because of a rush to judgment.”
“Still the avid defense attorney I see,” chuckled Martha as she sat down to enjoy the start of her day. No sooner had she taken her seat, than Duncan rose, placed his dishes in the sink and kissed her goodbye. “Off already,” she asked.
“Yes, as I said, I’ve got a busy day.”
“Doing what? You haven’t been out of the house in weeks.”
“I’ll tell you this evening.” And with that, Duncan slipped on a jacket to brace himself from the cool autumn air and walked out of the house.
An hour later, Duncan arrived at the Augusta State Medical Prison. Having visited the facility countless times over the years to call on various former clients, he was well known and highly regarded by the guards.
“Welcome back, counselor,” said one of the correctional officers at the front entrance to the hospital.
“Hello, Deloris,” responded Duncan. “I see the metal detector is still broken.”
The officer looked over at the dusty metal contraption that had failed to work for the better part of a year. “With our budget,” the officer said with a laugh, “we lucky to even have someone here watching the door.” As Deloris gave Duncan the usual cursory pat down reserved for only the most trusted of visitors, she inquired, “Who you gonna see today?”
“Ah, the infamous Billy Brandon,” answered Duncan.
“Infamous? Compared to your other clients, I’d say he’s practically a saint. Just another three-time loser serving life-without-parole. Damn shame. Remind me what he did to get that last strike?”
“Possession of a felony amount of marijuana.” Duncan paused before adding, “As you said, in many ways, he does appears to be just another one of the many lost souls in places like this.”
“Mm hmm.” Then the officer shook her head. “You know, he’s not doing too well these days. Something about his liver giving out. Got him up in the intensive care unit.”
“Well,” said Duncan, “I’d better get up there then before he leaves us all for a better place.”
“You know the way,” said Deloris as she stepped aside.
Duncan proceeded through a set of doors leading to an elevator bank and pushed the button to call his ride. As he did, two beads of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. Wiping his brow, he realized that even his many decades of trial experience had not prepared him for the battle he was about to wage or the consequences if he failed.
As he entered the private room containing his client, Duncan peered around at the many tubes and machines assisting the prisoner to live another day. He pushed the door gently closed, and the lockset made a soft click as it hit the strike plate.
Upon hearing the noise, the prisoner slowly opened his eyes and peered over at his attorney. “Mr. Duncan.” Billy Brandon struggled to sit up slightly in his bed. “I’m so glad you came. I thought I might be receiving a visit from you today.”
“Then you know why I am here?”
“I do. It appears you believe we have come to the end of the road, Mr. Duncan. That the time for our special arrangement has arrived. But, I’m afraid I can’t agree. I was clear about my terms, and they have not yet come to pass, as you can very well see.”
Duncan reached in his left jacket pocket and clenched the item he had earlier that day removed from his leather book safe. “At this point, the timing is merely a technicality for you. You’ll be dead before long.”
“True, but I plan to live out the few days I have left in comfort, not locked in some dark cell at the maximum security prison.”
Duncan looked fiercely at his client. “You’re a monster.”
“Mr. Duncan,” said Billy. “Of course I am. You’ve known that for more than a decade. Tell me something. Do I keep you up at night? Do I haunt your dreams? I so hope I do.” A menacing grin appeared on his face.
Duncan withdrew his hand from his pocket and thrust the item he had been concealing at the bedridden, yet very capable prisoner. “Do you think I won’t use this?”
“I’m sure you will use it eventually, Mr. Duncan, but today is not that day. You are bound by your oath, and you are bound by your profession to keep that piece of paper confidential until I die.”
Duncan lowered his hand and let the affidavit signed by Billy all those years ago linger at his side. “The execution is today, and it should be you in that chair being injected with poison, not Mr. Caldwell. You killed those two children in Augusta all those years ago, and yet you are going to let an innocent man die of lethal injection despite having the power to stop it.”
Duncan cut himself short upon hearing the doorknob being turned. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a nurse wheeling a food cart into the room.
“Oh, Mr. Duncan,” said Billy. “You’re here in time for lunch. Would you care to join me?” Duncan shook his head in rejection of the offer. “Oh now, I’m sure Nurse Tania could rustle you up something. Without her, you know, I don’t think this place would function at all. She’s our angel here in the ward.” Billy gazed appreciatively at the nurse and smiled.
“Oh, Billy,” said the nurse, blushing slightly. As she finished placing a tray of chicken and rice in front of her patient, she said, “You let me know if you or your friend need anything else.”
Duncan did not speak. While the nurse walked into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind her, the slightly distraught counselor sat down in a chair beside Billy’s bed. Though the initial adrenaline of the encounter had spurred the old barrister to renewed strength, he now needed to rest.
Billy took a large scoop of food and thrust it in his mouth. Without waiting to swallow, he began to speak again, flecks of rice and chicken escaping from the sides of his mouth as he continued to taunt his advocate turned adversary. “You know, I am almost glad Mr. Caldwell will die before the truth is revealed. I think it will make us even more famous. Don’t you? I wonder who will play me in the movie version of our life together, Mr. Duncan. Perhaps Sean Penn. I think he would capture my true soul very well.”
“You know,” said Duncan, his head facing down towards the floor, “I could release this signed confession without your permission. I could save that man’s life today without you. The details you gave in here are so specific, no one would doubt you were the true perpetrator.”
Billy set down his plastic spoon. “Yes, you could do that Mr. Duncan. But we both know you never will. You take that oath to your clients too seriously to end your career as a traitor to the bar.” He picked up his spoon and took another enormous bite. “If I had ever thought you were the type of person who didn’t believe the attorney-client privilege was the eleventh commandment, I would never have told you what I did to those kids.”
“Why did you tell me,” barked Duncan. “Why have you forced me to live with this all these years and now stand by while an innocent man dies?”
Billy leaned forward and looked Duncan deeply in the eyes. “What other amusement do I have here in prison?”
Duncan clenched his fists and stood. Then, reaching into his right pocket, he pulled out the heavy black revolver. Billy froze for a moment, stunned by his counselor’s surprising offensive. “I brought the murder weapon to turn in as further proof of your guilt,” said Duncan, “but, perhaps, I should just use the remaining bullets to kill you for what you did and what you’ve put me through all of these years.”
Billy smiled. “Oh, Mr. Duncan, I hope you do. Wouldn’t that be the most fitting end to our story? To have you turn out to be a monster just like me.” Billy laughed and then took another enormous bite of his meal.
Duncan lowered the weapon and placed it safely back in his jacket pocket. “I’m not like you,” he said calmly, now fully aware of what he must do. “I’m better than you, and that’s why I’m going to save that man despite what it might mean for my license, my reputation, and my oath.” Duncan turned to walk away.
“You stop right there,” yelled Billy, food once again spraying from his mouth. “You get back here. You’re my attorney, damn you. You owe me your silence. You.”
Duncan did not hear another word. As silence fell behind him, he moved with speed he had not mustered for years. Practically galloping to his car, he slid inside and jammed the key into the ignition. As he ran a stop sign and maneuvered the car onto the main road outside the prison hospital, he looked at the watch on the dashboard. The execution was only two hours away, and he needed to present the affidavit and the gun to the Attorney General in hopes of securing a recommendation for an emergency stay of execution. He pressed the accelerator further towards the floor, and the car jumped forward with even greater speed.
Just over an hour later, Duncan pulled his car into a space next to a fire hydrant outside the Attorney General’s office and leapt out into the road.
“Hey,” yelled a parking attendant on the other side of the street. “You can’t park there. You’ll get towed.”
“Do what you must,” yelled Duncan, and he continued into the building.
Forty-five minutes later, just five minutes before the execution was to occur, the Attorney General emerged from his office. Duncan, who had paced back and force in the reception area after briefing his old friend, stopped in his tracks and looked up with hopeful eyes.
“We got the stay, Duncan,” said the Attorney General. “We’ll reopen the investigation, but, based on the specificity of this affidavit and the gun, I’d say Mr. Caldwell will be going home very soon.”
Duncan breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Roger. Thank you.”
“You did good,” said the Attorney General as he patted his mentor and former boss on the back. “Oh, and I made sure that everyone knew that you didn’t violate your oath to the bar.”
Duncan drew up a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“You know, I thought people should know that you didn’t break attorney-client privilege in brining this to us. I made sure they knew that just as your client had requested in the affidavit, you brought this to us only after he died. A close call though.” The Attorney General shook his head in disbelief. “To think, Mr. Caldwell was saved by a matter of minutes thanks to the true perpetrator choking to death on a plate of chicken and rice the very day of the scheduled execution. Well, as they say, timing is everything.”
As Duncan walked back into his house that evening, Martha greeted him from the sofa with a smile. “So how was your day, dear?”
Duncan sat down next to her and reached out to hold her hand. “I guess you could say that I won my last case today.”
Martha looked surprised. “What do you mean you won a case? Are you representing clients again?”
“Oh, no,” said Duncan with relief. “Quite the opposite, I’m happy to say.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell me more. Let’s go in the kitchen for dinner.”
“Wonderful,” he said, pushing himself up off the sofa. “I’ll tell you all about my day over a good meal. What are we having?”
“Your favorite, dear. Chicken and rice.”
Lucian E. Dervan is a law professor at Southern Illinois University School of Law, where his research and teaching center on domestic and international criminal law. He also enjoys writing legal fiction and is completing work on his first novel.
Not too many years ago, an influential editor told me that the “legal thriller was dead.” Readers were bored. They wanted to read about “real people,” not a bunch of lawyers.
Well, since then, readers have proven that editor wrong. They have fallen in love with Michael Connelly’s Mickey Haller, watching the defense attorney struggle to redeem himself in the eyes of a daughter who does not understand how her father can put dangerous people back on the streets. They could not put their books down as William Landay told the masterful story of Defending Jacob, about a prosecutor who comes to fear that his own son committed a grisly murder.
I often joke that the term “legal thriller” is an oxymoron. Most of my time in a courtroom was spent waiting around, the New York Times crossword puzzle tucked discreetly into my case file. “Objection!” and “Hearsay!” do not make for good dialogue. So why do we keep following stories about lawyers?
Lawyers are investigators. Their job is to ask the right questions and let the answers lead them to the next step. They think critically and analytically. They know—and are supposed to keep—our darkest secrets: our family situations, our finances, our worst sins. They owe duties of loyalty to clients, even when they don’t want to, and despite the demands of their own moral compass and those of the people they care about.
The work and lives of lawyers remain fascinating. To highlight that fact through fiction, the Maurice A. Deane School of Law at Hofstra University sponsored a mystery short story contest, calling for submissions of stories featuring lawyers. The only rules were that submissions had to be original, previously unpublished short works of fiction (under 3,500 words) featuring a lawyer as a main character. I was honored to serve as a judge, along with Lee Child, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Jack Reacher series (and a law school graduate!), and Marcia Clark, the former OJ Simpson prosecutor who has written a highly-praised series of novels featuring a Los Angeles prosecutor named Rachel Knight.
We received 137 submissions from around the world, depicting the legal profession from perhaps every conceivable angle. We were impressed by the quality of storytelling and the depth of knowledge about the lives of lawyers. Choosing the winners was not an easy job.
The Maurice A. Deane School of Law at Hofstra University is happy to announce the three finalists of our writing contest.
“The Best Defense” by Bev Vincent. Bev Vincent is the author of The Road to the Dark Tower, the Bram Stoker Award nominated companion to Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, and The Stephen King Illustrated Companion, which was nominated for a 2010 Edgar® Award and a 2009 Bram Stoker Award.
“Reasonable Doubt” by Andrew Italia. Andrew Italia attended the University of Maryland School of Law and works as a trial lawyer in Rockville, Maryland, specializing in family law, criminal law, and assisting victims of domestic violence. In his spare time he enjoys writing, martial arts, scuba diving, traveling, and the pursuit of the immovable spirit. He currently lives with his family and Great Dane Theodore Roosevelt in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area.
And the winning story is “A Prisoner of Time” by Lucian Dervan. Lucian E. Dervan is a law professor at Southern Illinois University School of Law, where his research and teaching center on domestic and international criminal law. He also enjoys writing legal fiction and is completing work on his first novel.
The law school is grateful to all of the writers who submitted their stories for consideration and to Mulholland Books for both publicizing the contest and publishing Professor Dervan’s story here. I hope readers enjoy it as much as we did.
Alafair Burkeis the bestselling author of ten novels, including the thrillers Long Gone, If You Were Here, and the latest in the Ellie Hatcher series, All Day and a Night. A former prosecutor, she also teaches criminal law and procedure at Hofstra Law School. Her co-authored novel with Mary Higgins Clark, The Cinderella Murder, will be published on November 18th. www.alafairburke.com
Eric Jager knows we have a thing for historical mysteries. His new book, Blood Royal, tells the riveting true story of murder and detection in 15th-century Paris. In this case, the victim is Louis of Orleans, but his is not the only murder that has shocked and engrossed a nation. In the following guest post, Jager shares with us ten truly grisly murders that will send thriller writers racing to their history books for inspiration.
The (mainly) historical murders listed here are not just gruesome but also involve high-profile victims whose violent deaths were political acts and often dramatic public statements by the killers. Many other cases, including the Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper murders, are thus omitted.
According to Greek myth, this king of Argos and victorious commander of the Greeks survived the ten-year Trojan War only to die at home by the hand of his wife. Returning with his captive and concubine, Cassandra, Agamemnon was stabbed in the bath by his jealous and vengeful wife Clytaemnestra, who during his absence had taken her own lover. (Sources: The Oxford Classical Dictionary and Aeschylus, The Oresteia.)
According to biblical apocrypha, this Assyrian general was slain by the Jewish heroine Judith. She beguiled him in his tent, then beheaded him while he slept, hiding his head in a bag and tricking his guards into letting her leave. Returning to Jerusalem in triumph with her trophy, she rallied her people against their enemies. (The Book of Judith)
3. Edmund, King of East Anglia
In 969, he refused to fight the Vikings. Unimpressed, they shot him full of javelins (or arrows) until he looked “like a porcupine, or Saint Sebastian,” then cut off his head and threw it into a forest. A wolf miraculously guarded the king’s head, which cried out to a search party sent to find it, “Here! Over here!” The reassembled body of the martyr-king was then properly buried. (Aelfric, The Passion of Saint Edmund)
4. Thrain (the Slain)
Caught in a legendary feud, Thrain was killed in a battle on frozen river ice (c. 990). His attacker leaped onto the ice and “shot forward with the speed of a bird. Thrain was just about to put on his helmet as Skarp-hedin bore down on him and struck at him with his axe, ‘Battle-Troll.’ The axe came down upon his head and split it right down to the jaw, so that his jaw teeth dropped out onto the ice.” (Njal’s Saga, trans. Bayerschmidt and Hollander)
5. Charles the Good, Count of Flanders
Charles was sliced to pieces with broadswords in 1127 by conspirators from the rival Erembald family, who surprised their victim at prayer in church. Charles’s father, Canute IV of Denmark, had also been killed in a church, reportedly pierced through the flank by a lance after he and his knights barricaded themselves in the sanctuary against a rebel army. (Galbert of Bruges, The Murder of Charles the Good)
6. Louis of Orleans
One night in November 1407, the widely hated brother of the insane French king, Charles VI, was attacked by a gang of masked assassins armed with swords and axes as he rode along a Parisian street. A post-mortem, which still exists, describes “enormous” wounds across the face and forehead that sectioned Louis’s head into three parts and caused his brain to protrude, as well as a severed hand and a nearly severed arm. (Eric Jager, Blood Royal)
7. King Henri IV of France
Born a Protestant, Henri converted to Catholicism to become king, supposedly remarking, “Paris is well worth a mass.” His reign, marked by religious tolerance, ended with his assassination in 1610 by a fanatical priest, François Ravaillac. Shadowing the royal carriage through a crowd in Paris, Ravaillac jumped aboard and stabbed the king, piercing a lung and severing his aorta. “‘It’s nothing,’ said Henri, before slumping over, his mouth gushing blood.” Within moments he was dead. (Vincent Pitts, Henri IV of France)
8. The Pazzi Conspiracy
In April 1478, during Sunday mass, an attack by the Pazzi family to seize power from the rulers of Florence left Giuliano de’ Medici bleeding to death with nineteen stab wounds on the floor of the city’s cathedral, Il Duomo. But his brother Lorenzo escaped to avenge him. Accused conspirators, some perhaps innocent, were hanged, beheaded, or chopped to pieces, and the Pazzi were exiled from Florence. (Lauro Martines, April Blood)
9. Tsar Alexander II
A reformer who emancipated the serfs, he was assassinated in 1881 in Saint Petersburg. A first bomb thrown under his carriage killed a Cossack guard, but the tsar escaped injury and got out. A second bomb thrown at his feet shattered his legs and mutilated his face. One of those who helped lift the mortally wounded czar into a sleigh was a third assassin carrying an unexploded bomb. The tsar died soon after reaching the Winter Palace, and reforms in Russia virtually stopped. (Edvard Radzinsky, Alexander II: The Last Great Tsar)
10. Leon Trotsky
The Russian revolutionary leader, ousted from the Communist Party and in exile, was attacked at his home in Mexico in 1940 by a Soviet agent almost certainly sent by Stalin. Having gained Trotsky’s trust, the assassin approached him from behind with an ice-axe and struck him on the head. The blade penetrated several inches into Trotsky’s skull but did not kill him at once; indeed, Trotsky bit his attacker on the hand. Taken to hospital, where he underwent surgery, Trotsky died the next day. (Robert Service, Trotsky: A Biography)
London, 1968: the time and place evoke strong sense memories, but in William Shaw’s new novel, not everything is swinging. The police are called to a residential street in St. John’s Wood where an unidentified young woman has been murdered. Detective Cathal Breen and policewoman Helen Tozer, two investigators on opposite sides of a generational divide, must work together to solve the case. Shaw describes what WPC Tozer would listen to in his note below.
Police culture was very different in 1968. A lot of this was to do with the fact that the police lived communally, in police flats or section houses.
WPC Tozer lives in Pembridge House, the Women’s Section House just off the Bayswater Road. She shares a room with another policewoman. They squabble over what records they put on. Her roommate likes Cliff Richard and Engelbert Humperdink. She like The Beatles, but doesn’t think much of The White Album.
When she’s alone, this is what Tozer plays. You can listen to some of these songs through the Spotify player above.
There is a point on any project when you know it’s going to work.
When my agent asked me, in the politest possible way, never to send him another piece of fiction again, I understood. He was trying to be kind. Stop wasting the long months it takes to write a book.
To be fair to him, I had never been convinced that either of the manuscripts I’d handed to him had worked either. He had done his utmost but enough was enough.
I was quite relieved to find that in spite of his advice, I couldn’t stop writing.
And when I found myself writing a scene in which one of the Apple Scruffs, the young fans who hung around The Beatles in 1968-9 was found dead in an alleyway, close to EMI’s soon-to-be-famous Abbey Road studios I remember having this peculiar feeling; “I have no idea where this is going but I know this is going to work.”
Part of it was discovering the right form. I am a huge fan of the 60s and 70s thriller writer Nicholas Freeling and novels like Love in Amsterdam and Guns Before Butter. With the massively growing popularity of European noir, I think it’s well worth revisiting his work; set in Holland, it has a remarkable sense of time and place. They are novels which immerse you in the culture of northern Europe, its food and in all its social spikiness.
“The past,” L P Hartley famously says at the start of The Go Between, “is another country.” What if I wrote about 1968 as if it was another country? In many ways it is. Our image of 1968 may be all tie-dyes and acid but the truth is that 45 years ago, Britain was a very different place. It’s not just different from Britain in 2013; it’s different from how we imagine 1968 to have been.
I realised that the book would work if I regarded it as much as crime fiction as a cultural fiction—attempting to tread in Freeling’s footsteps. This was a Britain which was being overtaken by a tidal wave of pop culture that pitched one generation against the other. People like my parents were from a generation that struggled with the idea of pop music.
For all the supposed radicalism of the Vietnam marches and the Paris uprisings, 1968 was a man’s world of jobs for life, Sunday dinners and limited pub opening times. This was an unrecognisably racist country in which Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech struck a chord with the majority of British people. Feminism had yet to arrive. There were policewomen like my character WPC Tozer, but they were allowed to do only a fraction of what a modern WPC is allowed to do. The pill was available, but in the 60s the idea of free love was a man’s fantasy come true rather than a liberation for women.
And then there was Biafra. A forgotten largely war but one which, by 1968, had turned into one that was incredibly violent. This was territory I knew about because my own family had lived in Nigeria and had had to leave the country in 1966 as the upheavals began and had returned there in 1970 after the bloodletting and mass starvation had subsided.
What if some of the ripples of that war had spilled over into the London of Carnaby Street and Abbey Road studios?
So I ignored my (former) agent’s kind advice and carried on. And was thrilled when, over a year later, my new agent called me up to say that Mulholland Books thought it worked too. And they wanted the first three books in the series, a narrative arc that takes WPC Tozer and her superior DS Breen into the even more uneven year of 1969.
She’s Leaving Home arrives in bookstores today! This essay is adapated from Crime Time—many thanks to them for letting us re-run the piece.
Dominion, C.J. Sansom’s magisterial new novel, hinges on a big what-if: What if Winston Churchill had never become Prime Minister in 1940? What if a coalition government, headed by Lord Halifax, were to choose a policy of appeasement toward the strengthening Nazi party, instead of one of opposition? But Sansom’s novel isn’t just about World War II and what might have been; it also asks a big what-if of contemporary politics: what if we became obsessed with nationhood? What happens when a country becomes so consumed by its myth of selfhood that it forgets its own people? Sansom elaborates on this idea in the historical note that concludes Dominion—which has been updated since its 2012 publication in the UK. Below is an excerpt from the original historical note, and we leave it to you to read the US edition of Dominion to find out what, if anything, has changed.
I find it heartbreaking — literally heartbreaking — that my own country, Britain, which was less prone to domestic nationalist extremism between the wars than most, is increasingly falling victim to the ideologies of nationalist parties. The larger ones are not racialist, but they share the belief that national identity is the issue of fundamental, overriding importance in politics; it is the atavistic notion that nationhood can, somehow, allow people to bound free from the oppression — nationalism always defines itself against some enemy “other” — and solve all their problems. UKIP promises a future that will somehow be miraculously golden if Britain simply walks away from the European Union. (To what? To trade with whom?) At least they have the honesty to be clear that they envisage a particular type of political economy, based on that other modern dogma which has failed so often and disastrously, not least in Russia, that “pure” free markets can end economic problems.
Far larger, and more dangerous, is the threat to all of Britain posed by the Scottish National Party, which now sits in power in the devolved government in Edinburgh. As they always have been, the SNP are a party without politics in the conventional sense, willing to tack to the political right (as the 1970s) or the left (as in the 1980s and 1990s) or the center (as today) if they think it will help them win independence. They will promise anything to anyone in their pursuit of power. They are very shrewd political manipulators. In power, they present themselves as competent, progressive democrats (which many are) but behind that, as always, lies the appeal to the mystic glories of independence, which is what the party has always been for. Once ruling an independent state, they will not easily be dislodged. How people who regard themselves as progressive can support a party whose biggest backers include the right-wing Souter family who own Stagecoach, and Rupert Murdoch, escapes me completely. Like all who think they will be able to ride a nationalist tiger, they will find themselves sadly mistaken.
The SNP have no real position on the crucial questions of political economy that affect people’s lives, and never have; their whole basis has always been the old myth that released national consciousness will somehow make all well. They promise a low-regulation, low-corporate-tax regime to please the right, and a strong welfare state to please the left. The wasting asset of oil will not resolve the problem that, as any calculation shows, an independent Scotland will start its life in deficit.
It does not take more than a casual glance at its history to show that the SNP have never had any interest in the practical consequences of independence. They care about the ideal of a nation, not the people who live in it. They ignore or fudge vital questions about the economy and EC membership. In recent times, before the Euro crisis, they cheerfully talked of an independent Scotland joining the euro (they evade the huge issue of whether an independent Scotland, as well possibly as the remainder of the UK, would have to reapply for EU membership, a legal minefield). Before 2008 they spoke of the banking sector, of all things, as the core of an independent Scottish economy, forecasting a Scottish future comparable to that of Ireland and Iceland, shortly before both countries went so catastrophically bust. Now they talk of keeping the pound but following an independent economic policy. (How would that work? Why should the rest of the UK agree effectively to write a blank check? How would that be independence exactly?) But the practical problems of the real world have never been of interest to parties based on nationalism; on the contrary populist politicians like Alex Salmond ask people to turn their backs on real social and economic questions and seek comfort in a romanticized past and shared — often imagined — grievances. National problems are always someone else’s fault. The unscrambling of the British economy and British debt after three hundred years of intimate unity is impossible to calculate using any accounting formula. Arguments are already leading to bitterness and growing national hostility on both sides of the border. That is what nationalism does, and what it feeds off. And all the arguments, all the ill feeling, are tragically unnecessary.
Meanwhile the SNP are trying to manipulate the independence referendum to secure a maximum vote for themselves, by holding it in the anniversary year of the Battle of Bannockburn and lowering the voting age to include sixteen- and seventeen- year- olds, because polls have shown that age group is most likely to vote for them. This smacks dangerously of electoral manipulation by a ruling party to stay in power and increase its power. God knows we have seen enough of that in modern European history. John Gray has recently written that while the dictatorships of the 1930s are unlikely to return, “toxic democracies based on nationalism and xenophobia” could emerge in a number of countries and be in power for long periods.11 Scots are proud, rightly, of seeing their country in a European context. This, today, is the context.
Nicholas Mennuti, one of the authors of Weaponized, is a true cineaste. In this post, written at the end of 2013, he shares with us his favorite film scores of the year. You can stream these scores as a playlist via the Spotify widget below.
There’s still a few scores I’ve been waiting to get my hands on: Roque Banos’s Oldboy, Arcade Fire’s Her, Danny Elfman’s Unknown Known, and Explosions in the Sky and Steve Jablonsky’s work on Peter Berg’s Lone Survivor, so I hate to make this list without hearing them—because judging from the composers’ prior work, I’m sure one of them would have made it—however, December is winding down and being cursed with a sense of impending time comparable only to a Italian railroad official, I wanted to get my thoughts down on film scoring in 2013.
I’ve been told by those “in the know” that lists of ten are so common they tend to get passed over by search engines, so here are the 11 best film scores of 2013.
CLIFF MARTINEZ – ONLY GOD FORGIVES
It’s hard to justify one’s love for Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive follow-up, Only God Forgives, without dropping caveats up front—yes, it sure is excessive and slow; luckily, you don’t have to do the same for Cliff Martinez’s score.
Refn and Martinez both hit it big with Drive, which relied as much on songs from Johnny Jewel’s “Italians Do It Better” label—as it did Martinez’s score—to back a meticulously executed, but seriously derivative film that at times felt like a cryogenically frozen fetish object.
Only God Forgives is Martinez’s solo show and this film—which has been compared to a vomitorium—is the furthest thing from derivative, excepting a few discreet borrowings from The Grifters. Refn has seemingly invented his own genre this time around; if not invented, then thrown so many together, from Leone and Jodorowsky to Hitchcock, that Martinez gets the opportunity to put his unique stamp on five different film scoring standards.
With tracks like “Sister Part 1” Martinez evokes his traditional eerily moving ambient sound that he’s patented during his years with Steven Soderbegh. In tracks like “Chang and Sword,” he creates a soundscape with twanging guitars and long plucks that sounds like electro-Morricone, or a Spaghetti Western unfolding on the banks of the River Styx. With “Mai Quits Masturbating”, we’re almost in Bernard Herrmann territory, with anxious, mournful strings providing a sonic analogue to distorted sexuality. With “Wanna Fight” we enter something akin to John Carpenter’s “Escape from New York” with an Asian flair. However, the most stunning to my ears was Martinez’s descent into what can only be called Thai Hell, which consists of Mike Oldfield pianos, gongs, chimes, shrieking strings, and an avant-garde rumble—almost Pendericki—that truly sounds like sulfur spitting or tectonic plates shifting.
Whether or not you think Refn’s film will endure—I tend to think it will—I have no doubt that Martinez’s score will.
THOMAS NEWMAN – SIDE EFFECTS
The penultimate film in Steven Soderbergh’s mad pre-retirement dash (including Contagion, Haywire, Magic Mike, and Behind the Candelabra) was this unjustly overlooked thriller that takes place in the nebulous world of healthcare kept afloat on big Pharma money. It’s the type of movie that rarely escapes from Hollywood these days: mid-budget, actor-driven, provocative without being preachy, and R-rated for all the right reasons. And it’s the type of film Soderbergh tends to do best: rigorous formal control (bordering on icy) with a burning center.
Soderbergh has a stable of composers and tends to dole out scoring duties depending on the genre, illustrated in the brief breakdown below:
Cliff Martinez: Has been with Soderbergh from the beginning (1989’s Sex Lies and Videotape) and tends to be his stylistic soul mate. They both employ a hypnotic ambient arsenal of texture, misdirection, and tonal ambiguity. In fact, I’m shocked Martinez didn’t get the Side Effects job, but I’m going to bet it had to something to do with the fact that he already had three movies lined up to score this year.
David Holmes: Generally gets the job within the crime/thriller genre when Soderbergh wants a funkier, lighter, 70′s Schifrin-esque vibe to complement his Pop-Art visuals.
Alberto Iglesias, Marvin Hamlisch: The biopic composers. Both superlative talents brought in for Che, The Informant, and Behind the Candelabra respectively, and finally,
Thomas Newman: Tends to get Soderbergh’s—for lack of a better word—“prestige” projects: Erin Brockovich, The Good German, and Side Effects. Newman—more than any composer today, I think (outside maybe James Newton Howard), is a master of giving the director what they need musically to tie a film together. In fact, Newman’s music is so good that in some cases he can literally create the illusion of continuity and sense (see The Adjustment Bureau for example) where none exists.
Side Effects didn’t need his sonic glue to hold it together—Soderbergh’s craft has never been better—but let me allow the late Roger Ebert to say exactly what Newman’s spell-binding and spine-tingling music brings to the project, because I can’t put it any better:
The music tells us what kind of movie Side Effects is going to be. It coils beneath what seems like a realistic plot and whispers that something haunted and possessed is going on. Imagine music for a sorcery-related plot and then dial it down to ominous forebodings. Without Thomas Newman’s score, Side Effects would be a lesser film, even another film.
SHANE CARRUTH – UPSTREAM COLOR
Steven Soderbergh may shoot, edit, and direct his movies, but Shane Carruth can go one (nay two) better: he also scored and acted in Upstream Color, the movie I’m sure all Terrence Malick fans hoped To The Wonder would be. A film that’s simultaneously about romance, recovery, thieves, parasites, mysterious pig farmers, and the interconnected heartbeat of the universe. Somehow it works. The highest compliment I can pay it is this: It rewards all the attention you give it; there are mysteries in there worth searching out. And Carruth’s own score plays a huge role in making the viewer feel this way; the music binds together and deepens the film’s mysteries.
One can use all the stock terms to describe the score: ambient, airy, pillowy, ethereal, Eno-esque. And they’re all true. But there’s something more going on here, and it’s what makes both the film and the score vault past abstract metaphysical concerns: the beautiful, broken romance at the center. Although neither the film nor the music make it explicit, they both seem to say the same thing:
There are more mysteries in the world than one can even begin to conceive of, nothing makes sense at all, and the thing that makes the least sense of all is love. And be thankful for that.
STEVEN PRICE – GRAVITY
I’ll be upfront about this one: I don’t think Gravity is the most overrated movie of the year. I think it may be the most overrated movie since American Beauty or Crash (another Sandra Bullock project. Ha! I just realized that). But this is a list about film scoring, and on that front, Steven Price’s score is such a marvel of mood and scope (moving from ambient to all out action) I didn’t even have to think about its inclusion on this list.
On top of which, the score itself is also a potent illustration of two larger trends in film scoring:
1. Bands or single band members (Air, Arcade Fire, Alex Ebert, Kevin Shields, Jonny Greenwood, Steven Price comes from Basement Jaxx) or electronic artists (Trent Reznor, Atticus Ross, M83, Daft Punk, Skrillex) muscling into film scoring, and snaring it away from traditional orchestral sound, which brings us to point two…
2. Narrative film has fundamentally changed, thus so have the traditional requirements of film scoring.
Movies have become fractured, employing editing techniques something akin to digital cubism, and the music itself reflects this, falling somewhere between electronic scoring and sound design. Some movies today aren’t even designed for a traditional big-screen intake; they’re for you to stream on whatever’s handy. Modern life just doesn’t sound like Korngold or Herrmann or Miklos Rosza anymore, and film music must reflect this fact. Modern life doesn’t go from A to B anymore. It’s pulsating, digital, discordant, and poses more questions than it answers, and at this point in time, the only current films that require some of the old sturm-und-drang of traditional Hollywood scoring are genre epics and comic-book movies.
The preceding two paragraphs may seem counterintuitive since “Gravity” is by all counts a space-opera, the most tried-and-true of all genre gambits. But it’s a space-opera subjected to the minimalist art-film aesthetics of director Alfonso Cuaron, a true visionary, whom a big space score was never going to satisfy, and who, with Steven Price’s work, got a score so good that it made me wish I enjoyed the film even more.
HANS ZIMMER – 12 YEARS A SLAVE
Hans Zimmer has changed the sound of film scoring more than any composer since John Williams. Whether you like where he’s taken it or not is an entirely different matter. On four separate occasions he’s reset the template for modern action scores.
Black Rain in 1989 was the first action film to seamlessly employ both synth and traditional orchestral accompaniment. (Jerry Goldsmith tried this combination with considerably lesser results through the 80s.) With Crimson Tide in 1995, Zimmer finished what he started in Black Rain and, since then, literally nothing has changed in action scoring except for when Zimmer decides it should…
Which he did in 2000 with Gladiator, where he started the now ubiquitous trend of ethereal female vocals over action scenes (Lisa Gerrard in this case)—that reached its zenith or nadir, whichever you prefer with Horner’s score for Troy. Ten years after Gladiator, Zimmer added to the synth, orchestra, and female voice template with the now infamous “Inception trombone” (which in all fairness actually originated in Zack Hemsey’s trailer music), but was strewn throughout Zimmer’s film score as well.
All of that preamble was to remind people that although Zimmer is known for bringing the bombast, he first gained recognition for his smaller more character driven scores—Rain Man, Thelma and Louse, True Romance—and actually excels at finding the heart of a movie. And sadly he’s been doing less and less of that lately, which is why his work on 12 Years A Slave comes as such a pleasant surprise. It was a simultaneous reminder that Zimmer can do this type of material, and that when he wants to, he’s one of the best.
Sure, he recycles some of his greatest hits moments—parts of 12 Years sound a little The Thin Red Line-by-Inception at times—but when it sounds this good who cares. Zimmer does what Zimmer does best – he finds the sonic heart of Solomon Northrop just as acutely as he did Thelma and Louise. Try not to be moved by it.
TINDERSTICKS – BASTARDS
Claire Denis can be hit-or-miss for me. I’ll go to the mat for Beau Travail and I Can’t Sleep, but I genuinely have no idea what the hell she was going for in Bastards, which plays like a Gallic Get Carter without any of the suspense or humor. Denis is such a deliberate director that on some level I have to believe that the utter absence of tension, character, and efficient plotting must be intentional.
Thank God, then, that her frequent composers Tindersticks seem to have kept their eyes closed and gave the movie the score it deserves. In fact, the score is so good, you can almost picture in your head the movie it was supposed to accompany—and what a movie that is:
A smoky, mournful Parisian noir with synths that sound close to organs, something heavenly but blasphemous, because an angel was dragged to Earth and abused. A revenge thriller with a twist—the avenger may be just as unstable and dangerous as the people he seeks. Even the music doesn’t know what to make of him, evidenced by long, ponderous silences between the notes and question marks in the form of endless reverb. An investigation into the seamy underbelly of high-finance and cheap, underage sex set to a dance-beat. And then the kicker: the cover of Hot Chocolate’s “Put Your Love In Me” when you realize just how sick the movie really is. The vibrating bass line matched by the tremor in Stuart Staples’ voice. Even the music seems shocked by the depravity.
And once again, like Steven Price’s Gravity, this is a masterful score in search of a better movie.
PINO DONAGGIO – PASSION
Not to sound like Christopher Walken in The Comfort of Strangers, with his oft-repeated monologue (“To talk about me, I have to talk about my father”), but to talk about Pino Donaggio, one has to talk about Bernard Herrmann.
Bernard Herrmann provided Hitchcock with his most memorable set of scores until they parted company after a particularly acrimonious dispute over the score to Torn Curtain. Herrmann wanted to sound like Herrmann, and Hitchcock wanted him to sound “jazzy” to capitalize on new trends in film scoring. Enter a long fallow period for Herrmann, until Brian De Palma burst onto the scene with 1973’s Hitchcock/Polanski pastiche Sisters, to which Herrmann lent a Moog-infused symphony of sexual dread. De Palma and Herrmann collaborated until Herrmann’s untimely death in 1976, at which point De Palma enlisted Pino Donaggio to score Carrie, and—except for a brief flirtation with Ryuichi Sakamoto—Donaggio has been De Palma’s go-to guy for scoring his now-infamous brand of erotic thrillers. And truth be told, he might even be a better fit for De Palma’s work than Herrmann.
What makes a De Palma thriller a “De Palma” thriller is also what makes a Donaggio score a “Donaggio” score—they tinker with the audience, providing light-on-their-feet, neo-classical sexual languor before the horror starts. They don’t just actively flirt with self-parody; they step up to the line and obliterate it. And Passion, which is their seventh collaboration, lives up to their previous triumphs.
The centerpiece of Passion is a full-on set piece at a performance of Debussy’s ballet “Afternoon of a Faun,” complete with the now-infamous De Palma split-screen. But Debussy has been with the score even before we go to the ballet. He was there subtlety imprinting the gleaming high-rises, the deco apartments, the constant flirtation, and sexual ambiguity. Donaggio’s score, like Debussy’s ballet, can be up-tempo, erotic, confrontational, misleading, but most importantly, like most symbolist-influenced impressionists, it’s beautiful.
ALEXANDRE DESPLAT – VENUS IN FUR
Alexandre Desplat has been omnipresent on the American film scoring scene since 2004, when he broke out with his work on Jonathan Glazer’s Birth—incidentally, one of the best scores of last decade. Post-Birth he has literally been scoring between 6 to 8 films a year, ranging from blockbusters like Harry Potter and Twilight: New Moon to intimate films like Tree of Life and Philomena.
Roman Polanski has always been one of the most musically astute directors. Try to imagine Chinatown without the way he used Goldsmith’s score, or Knife in the Water and Rosemary’s Baby without Komeda’s eerie jazz fusions. Plus Polanski has also directed opera for the stage. Hell, he even starred in Amadeus in Paris. The guy has an ear.
So when Polanski and Desplat joined forces in 2010’s The Ghost Writer, I had high expectations, and their work together leapt over even my highest hopes. And Desplat’s work on Venus In Fur, although not quite The Ghost Writer, still makes a powerful minimalist mark with 36 minutes worth of music.
To explain why what Desplat has done is remarkable, allow me a brief anecdote. Famed screenwriter William Goldman once said—and I’m paraphrasing—that for a director, shooting a desert vista is the easiest thing in the world, but shooting two people talking in a room is fucking hard. Polanski’s Venus In Fur is an adaptation of David Ives’s two-character play about a sexual dance between an auditioning actress and a director who keep turning the tables on each other. And I’m going to imagine that scoring a film about two people talking in a room isn’t much easier than directing it.
The score begins with a powerfully baroque organ that feels like the sonic equivalent to a carnival barker inviting you in. The carnivalesque feel remains throughout the score, fading in and out, and supplemented by tinkling chimes and bells—reminiscent of Wojciech Kilar’s motif for Lucy in Coppola’s Dracula—and playful piano and strings. But make no mistake—and this is where both Polanski’s film and Desplat’s score truly impress—just when you think you have the mood nailed down, it turns on a dime.
PHILIP GLASS – VISITORS
If there’s one underlying thread linking many of these disparate film score choices, it’s the fruits of a long-term director/composer collaboration. We’ve already had Donnagio/DePalma, Newman/Soderbergh, Tindersticks/Claire Denis, and here’s another one that stretches back to the mid-80s: Philip Glass and Godfrey Reggio. Their first film together was Koyaanisqatsi, a silent juxtaposed tone poem about the effects of modern civilization told through still shots of nature photography and sped-up images of worldwide urban life. Their latest effort, Visitors, is told through the eyes of a lowland gorilla, and is an effort to make humans see themselves through the POV of an animal, and to appreciate all our strangeness and contradictory behavior.
I sadly can’t comment on how the music works alongside with the images—the film hasn’t been commercially released yet—but I can tell you that the score is among the high-water marks of Glass’s career in composing for film (his day job is writing symphonies and biographical opera).
Glass has made a few inroads into traditional film scoring with Stephen Daldry’s The Hours,Cassandra’s Dream for Woody Allen, and the Angelina Jolie thriller, Taking Lives, but his best work has always been for non-narrative work and documentary for filmmakers like Reggio and Errol Morris. Not for nothing did Morris say Glass “can create a feeling of existential dread better than anyone I know.” And let’s be honest, there’s not much of a need for that in current Hollywood film, and in some cases (Notes on A Scandal) Glass’s music can seem downright oppressive against conventional narrative.
Those who listen to Glass regularly will notice certain hallmarks present in Visitors: the minimalist maelstrom on tracks like “The Day Room” and “Off Planet 2.” The flutes of dread popping up on “Off Planet 1.” But there’s something new in this score that’s been steadily creeping into Glass’s work of late: a transcendental longing, a spiritual questioning. His work on Visitors is magical, simultaneously one of his lightest and most dexterous scores and also one of his most thematically heavy.
ALEXANDER EBERT – ALL IS LOST
No director this year enacted a larger pendulum swing than J.C. Chandor, who debuted in 2011 with the ensemble financial thriller talk-fest, Margin Call, and two years later created an almost wordless sea-faring adventure staring solely Robert Redford and the regrets etched in every crevice on his mesmerizing face. On the surface it may sound like Gravity for the AARP set, but Alexander Ebert’s score keeps the film from drowning in the manufactured sentiment that ultimately sunk Cuaron’s lone survivor tale.
Ebert’s score does the seemingly impossible: it functions both as “environmental music”—using water as one of its prime elements—and the soundtrack of Redford’s mind, literally becoming the film’s second character. The score can be deceptively simple, using alto flutes, whistling, male voices, and silence—at times it feels like Britten’s Billy Budd adapted by John Cage—but it’s doing the nigh impossible: it’s providing the aural counterpoint to Chandor’s images, exactly what film scoring should always strive for, but rarely achieves.
I feel like the previous two paragraphs have made Ebert’s work sound dangerously academic or impenetrable, and the truth couldn’t be further from that. Like many composers on this list, Ebert has a day job: he’s the lead singer of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, and although he’s shorn himself of every trick in the pop musician’s arsenal, his entertainer’s instincts haven’t left. This is just full-on beautiful music. Try and listen to the main theme, “Excelsior,” or the closer, “Amen,” without a lump in your throat.
CLIFF MARTINEZ AND SKRILLEX – SPRING BREAKERS
Cliff Martinez is back.
It was a hard call for the final space between this soundtrack and Hans Zimmer’s superlative score for Rush, but Martinez won it because he had the harder job. Harmony Korine’s whacked-out masterpiece runs the gamut from beach party kitsch to soft-core exploitation to beach-noir to European neon-lit dread, and back again. And the soundtrack runs the same schizo sprint from Skrillex to Birdy Nam Nam to Gucci Mane to Britney Spears, and holding it all together is Cliff Martinez’s patented and endlessly adaptive ambience.
In several interviews, Korine said he wanted the film to evoke the feel of a “pop song” more than a film. I think he succeeded. And a huge part of every great pop song is a chorus with a hook that brings everything back to the center to recharge before exploding again, and this is exactly what Martinez’s score allows co-composer’s Skrillex’s contribution to do.
Skrillex is all glitches and beeps and distortion. Martinez is all synth wash. They allow each other to be their best. Martinez brings the shimmering neon. Skrillex brings the shotgun blasts against the sky. It’s one of the best soundtracks of the year to one of the best films of the year.