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Studies in European Cinema Volume 5 Number 1 © Intellect Ltd 2008. Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/seci.5.1.7/1
Image, Music, Film Wendy Everett University of Bath
Abstract
Keywords
The complex relationship between music and cinema has haunted critics, theorists and filmmakers since the days of silent film, yet despite considerable work that has been carried out over the intervening years, questions and uncertainties still predominate. While few would query the essential role of music in supporting and colouring filmic image and narrative, others would reject this traditional function, considering on the contrary that music performs as an image in its own right, an image that is fundamental to the creation of meaning. For a number of theorists, critics, and filmmakers, from Abel Gance and René Clair in the 1920s to Jean-Luc Godard and Terence Davies today, even this reformulation is inadequate. For them, film itself must be understood as a form of music, whose textures, rhythms and dramatic tensions reflect a strategic process of ‘composition’. It is this last idea that provides the main focus of this article which explores and evaluates the notion that film composition reflects or parallels that of music, and will assess why musical form is seen as ideally suited to contemporary concerns, in general, and what the repercussions of such an idea might be for our understanding of filmic narrative.
image music Barthes Davies Godard Duras
The inspiration for this article, as referenced in my title, is – of course – Roland Barthes’s Image, Music, Text (1977), a collection of short essays ranging in content from photography to film, from narrative to the death of the author, from Beethoven to the Bible, and far, far beyond. What is particularly exciting about this volume, as indeed about so much of Barthes’s writing, is the way that its wide-ranging intellectual journey implicitly opens up whole new geographies of connection for the reader to explore, in a process which has the potential to reveal new vistas and perspectives. Without specifically referencing this text or, at least, referencing it only minimally, the notions of connection that it articulates will underlie this brief exploration of the so-called musical analogy; the problematic and unstable juxtaposing of two fundamentally different media, music and film, in an attempt to discover what new insights might be gained from the process. I am encouraged in this attempt by Roland Barthes’s contention that it is through studying the relationship between music and other art forms that an understanding of contemporary culture in general may best be reached: ‘analysing music, even more than literature or painting, helps us to understand modernity’ (Barthes 1995: 819; my translation). This is a fascinating suggestion. Is it unique to Barthes, or perhaps symptomatic of SEC 5 (1) 7–16 © Intellect Ltd 2008
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Poets such as Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898) and Paul Verlaine (18441896), for example, were fascinated by the relationship between poetry and music. Verlaine’s ‘Art Poetique’ (‘The Art of Poetry’), with its stipulation that music was the quality to which poetry should aspire, can be seen as a form of manifesto for the movement.
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This idea is beautifully illustrated by Klee himself in paintings such as Fugue in Red (1921).
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a more widespread attitude, and if so, why? It is certainly the case that novelists and poets alike have long adopted what they describe as ‘musical principles’ in their own work. In the nineteenth century, for example, the symbolists chose words primarily for their sounds, since the resulting poem would thereby acquire meanings that exceed the purely linguistic, and language itself would attain new levels of ambiguity.1 In the late 1920s, Aldous Huxley modelled his novel Point Counter Point on Bach’s Suite No. 2, in B Minor, while artists, from Kandinsky to Klee and beyond, have repeatedly explored the possibility of reworking the language of painting in terms of music and counterpoint. (Klee, for example, believed that if eighteenth-century counterpoint was directly replicated in paintings, through gradations of colour and shape, they would acquire the musical ability of modulating or moving).2 In recent years, belief in the importance of musical structures has, quite clearly, extended beyond the purely artistic. The critical theorist, Julia Kristeva, for instance, argues the need to analyse the ‘Other’, the foreigner, in terms of ‘the harmonious repetition of [. . .] differences’, as part of a wider thesis that posits Bach’s fugues as a suitable model for approaching contemporary issues (Kristeva 1991:3). This intriguing idea references the notion of the multiplicity of voices offered by (orchestral) music, as does Edward Saïd’s belief that it is the simultaneity of such multiple contributing voices, their ability to confuse, their expressive freedom, and their demand for creative interpretation, that makes music – particularly the fugal structures of counterpoint – so directly relevant to contemporary society (Saïd 1983: 47). The belief in polyphony as a means of increasing individual interpretative freedom similarly underlies Glenn Gould’s experiments with Contrapuntal Radio, and his documentary about Schoenberg, in which the voices of a number of composers and conductors, heard simultaneously, along with very different pieces of music (a Gregorian Chant, pieces by Dufay, de Machaut, and Stockhausen), constitute conflicting and simultaneous signifiers (Hurwitz 1983). Music is, therefore, seen to offer a form of structure suited to the complexities of modern/postmodern culture and thought, through its mobility, its multiple and equivalent voices, and the polyphonic and contrapuntal strategies that reject both linear causality and simple binary opposition.
The musical analogy/film as music The relationship between film and music is long-standing and complex; almost from the first, silent film was perceived as a form of visual poetry or music. For example, René Clair believed that the great power of film lay less in the representational quality of its images than in its ability to create its own internal, musical rhythms. Film which functions in such a manner, characterised by him as ‘pure’ cinema, in that it works directly upon the imagination of the audience, is thus a form of what he calls ‘visual symphony’ (Clair 1970: 146–147). Germaine Dulac too was convinced that film ‘has far more to do with musical technique than with any other’, precisely 8
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because it is a form of ‘visual symphony made of rhythmic images’ (Dulac 1978: 41). Abel Gance declared that in both La Dixième symphonie (The Tenth Symphony, 1917), and La Roue (The Wheel, 1921), he had used rhythms and harmonic musical structures in order to create meaning. Indeed, it is the case that the structure and editing of La Roue were based upon a form of musical notation that was subsequently used by Arthur Honnegar to compose a score that closely matched its visual rhythms (King 1984: 5). It is, of course, true that, throughout its history, film has been compared to other art forms, from literature and painting to sculpture and dance (Faure 1953). It has even been seen as a medium that encompasses all the arts: a sort of meta- or pan-art, and a good deal was written to this effect in the early years (Eisenstein 1947). Of course, what the majority of such suggestions most clearly reveal is the desire to legitimise film, and comparisons of film and music may, at first sight, seem to perform a similar function.3 Nevertheless, this particular comparison has proved remarkably persistent, and within the wider cultural context cited above, we might argue its increasing significance. To a considerable extent, the analogy is kept alive by filmmakers themselves (figures such as Angelopoulos, Antonioni, Bergman, Carax, Davies, Delvaux, Duras, Godard, Greenaway, Kies´lowski, Ozu, Resnais, Robbe-Grillet, Sokurov, Straub and Huillet, Tarkovskii) who, as well as self-consciously foregrounding music as a key signifier within their films, also present it as the structuring device or ‘template’ for their work. For example, Terence Davies claims to model his films on the great symphonies of Bruckner, Sibelius, and Shostakovitch, while Léos Carax explains that he based the composition of Les Amants du Pont Neuf (Lovers on the Pont Neuf, 1991) on the Kodaly Cello Sonata, Opus 8; the work that actually inspired the film. Marguerite Duras set out to replicate the fluidity and polyphony of music in all her films, as a way of increasing their open-ended fluidity, while in his diary, Bergman discusses Cries and Whispers (1971), in entirely musical terms. On the other hand, the analogy is no less effectively sustained by critics and theorists, for whom the differences between the visual, mimetic images of film and the ‘non-referentiality’ of music, remain inherently problematic. Thus, for example, in his 1980 exploration of what he sees as the ‘natural’ temptation to discuss film in terms of music, Bordwell argues that ‘the traditional privileging of image over sound and the supreme importance accorded to the narrative’ constitute a more-or-less insurmountable impediment to any such attempt (Bordwell 1980: 141-156). Chion too, one of the most prolific writers on music and film, who has frequently argued for new ways of assessing the musical analogy, nevertheless perceives film’s tendency to be ‘defined ontologically by its images’ as a similar obstacle (Chion 1994: 157). Although the tensions at the heart of discussions of the film/music analogy are, in many ways, fascinating, in this short article, I shall argue that the somewhat evident differences between film and music should perhaps be approached not as an obstacle, but an opening, a lieu de passage, a fluid site in which some new understanding of film itself might be found. Image, Music, Film
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Interestingly, the French Surrealists, who were passionate about film, argued that it was the only truly modern medium precisely because it did not have links with other, more traditional art forms.
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Sound is the only major medium of communication that can vibrate perceptibly within the body, that can, therefore, be felt as well as heard. Since it can be said that sound ‘enters’ the body, it is seen as the medium that is most perfectly suited to connecting internal and external worlds.
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Image/music The differences between film and music are, of course, self-evident and well rehearsed. From Chion’s declaration that ‘visual and auditory perception are of much more disparate natures than one might think (Chion 1994: 9; my emphasis), to the often repeated contrasting of the iconic, representational images of film and the abstract, ‘non-representational’ signifiers of music, the debate has become repetitive and circular. In any case, its premises are themselves flawed, promoting what has, justifiably, been seen as the ‘prejudice of the iconic’ in relation to film (an outmoded belief in the ‘realism’ or mimetic identity of its images), and what we could equally term the ‘prejudice of the non-iconic’ in relation to music (Brown 1994: 18) (its problematic qualities of affect and meaning, and its perception as irrational and mysterious) (Lack 1997: 63). What is rather more significant, however, is the way that music (and sound in general) influences our perceptions of an image, potentially subverting its iconicity, and strengthening its relationship with metaphor and abstraction. In other words, the perceived differences (in this case, the ability of music to ‘mean’, without representing) will not only influence the choice of a particular piece, but may also suggest alternative strategies to filmmakers intent upon exploring the spaces beyond representation. The differences that characterise spatial perceptions gained through sight and hearing offer similarly rich creative potential. The sense of sight is generally considered to be faster and more precise than hearing in its ability to locate an object in space (Shepherd and Wicke 1997: 126). In other words, when we see an image on the screen, it automatically appears to possess a precise spatial location. The spatial origin of a sound, however, (and I am, of course, talking about non-diegetic sound) is notoriously elusive. Sounds reach us from all directions, simultaneously and dynamically. Even if we do locate their source, the sounds are never contained by it; instead they leak out, constructing and occupying an imaginary space not only between themselves and the listener, but also around the listener. Non-diegetic sound can, therefore, open up the visual parameters of the screen to create new spatial depth. When the sound in question is music, this added depth acquires multiple and complex dimensions which involve time, memory, and desire, and may affect the listener physically, as well as mentally.4 Although classical narrative developed clear strategies to control the power of music to affect the individual in such random and unpredictable ways, this power may instead be specifically targeted in films that self-consciously foreground music. Moreover, music may, at any point, replace image or dialogue as the dominant signifier. Thus we can observe the development of a ‘contrapuntal’ rather than linear, narrative structure that promotes multiple voices and sites of meaning. Seeing and hearing also have fundamentally different relationships with motion and stasis, since sound, unlike sight, presupposes spatial (and temporal) movement from the outset. Thus, Chion argues, whereas in a 10
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film image containing movement many of the objects within the frame may remain fixed, any form of sound will inevitably imply displacement or mobility of some sort (Chion 1990: 9–10). For Shepherd and Wicke, it is the evanescence of sound, the way that it goes ‘out of existence at the moment it comes into existence’, that enhances our perception of it as dynamic and mobile (Shepherd and Wicke 1997: 126). By contrast, the world of vision appears safer and permanent. Again, the example of music is telling. For Zuckerlandl, changes in pitch are inevitably perceived as a form of abstract space in motion (1959), so that it becomes ‘impossible to separate the perception of sound from the perception of space and movement’ (Storr 1992: 173). In other words, ‘music and stasis seem, in principle, irreconcilable (Shepherd and Wicke 1997: 129). A film which illustrates the importance of the close association of music with movement is Distant Voices, Still Lives (Terence Davies, 1988), a memory narrative in which alternating music and silence, perceived as alternating mobility and stasis, serve both to structure the film and to create a powerful narrative dynamic between maternal love and the trauma of violence. Both music and film are of course temporal, or time-based arts, and they share an awareness of time as flux and durée, as well as of the multiple and often conflictual times of performance and reception. Musical time impacts on film in two primary ways: the inward, subjective temporalities of music, which can trigger memories and emotions with unparalleled immediacy, serve to contribute rich temporal textures to visual images. Second, the ability of music to fragment, extend, or reverse time through its rhythmic patterning, may serve as a template for films that reject the linear structures of classical narrative. Both music and film use rhythm to deconstruct and reconstruct time, and, in both, the resulting movement through space is entirely illusory. What I mean is that a tune is really a succession of separate tones which we hear as a linear development, so that in music, time acquires an (imaginary) spatial dimension (Storr 1997: 171–173), just as, arguably, the appearance of moving images in film rests upon a similar illusion.5 Nevertheless, in both music and film the perception of time as movement through space is fundamental. Many versions of the music/film analogy focus on the rhythmic composition of editing as the key to this relationship. For example, Eisenstein’s theory of film music, is based on a concept of ‘vertical montage’ in which music, sound effects and the visual are conceived as gestural composites (Eisenstein 1947: 74). Less attention has been paid to the very significant ways in which film, through using music to create multiple temporalities, has itself devised music-based strategies for representing temporal change within still images. However, images such as the ‘still life’ shot of the corner of a patterned carpet in The Long Day Closes (Terence Davies, 1992), offer examples of film using such strategies to create what Deleuze and Guattari term ‘the indefinite time of the pure event or becoming’; an image of time which, essentially, escapes time (1980: 322). Image, Music, Film
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Given that what we actually see on the screen is a series of still images which, when projected at a specific rate (24 frames per second), are perceived as continuous movement.
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In other words, ideas of counterpoint, rhythm, and musical time in film are far more complex than it might seem from the traditional approach to the music/film analogy. Rather than attempting to provide precise answers to questions of the compatibility of film and music, to which there can be no single, fixed solution or theory, it is important to open up some of the spaces that lie in-between the opposing viewpoints, since the more fluid interpretations that they reveal may go some way to explain various recent filmic strategies, as well as the widespread belief, noted earlier, in the suitability of musical structures for articulating the contemporary world. With this in mind, I shall consider a number of examples that will provide an illustration of this idea. Earlier, I included Jean-Luc Godard in my list of directors who are specifically concerned with music in their work, foregrounding its identity as both content and, in a more complex way, structure. All of Godard’s films could be examined in this context, but for the purpose of this article, it is his 2004 film, Notre Musique, that seems particularly relevant. This is because in Notre Musique, Godard adopts a musical structure, marked by multiple voices and extreme narrative fluidity, as a way of dealing with complex issues (including the Arab/Israeli conflict), to which there can be no easy solution. Interestingly, it is the film’s open-ended polyphony that enables it to avoid both straightforward polemic and simple binary oppositions, in just the way that Kristeva, Barthes and Saïd suggest. Notre Musique is both documentary and fiction, image and sound, film and art: an essay, a collage, a piece of visual music. No single viewpoint dominates, and no conclusion is offered. The film has a three-part structure: Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. The central, and longest, section, Purgatory, is set in contemporary Sarajevo, where a group of people (fictional and real, and including Godard himself) are attending a literary event at which Godard will speak about cinema. It is flanked by the collage of brutal images of war (documentary and fictional) that compose the first section, and the sun-drenched tranquillity of the last. As a study of war and conflict, the film received a mixed critical response, undoubtedly because it refused to provide a traditional dialectic, or clear-cut argument, and it was variously accused of being anti-Semitic, messianistic, ambivalent and liberating. The film specifically eschews linearity and solution, not least because the conflicts that mark our world are far too complex for that, and if, as its title suggests, we are advised to approach the film as a piece of music, in which the form and meaning are inseparable, and ‘meaning’ is both personal and fluid, it is because each spectator is obliged to respond to its rhythms, its conflicting images, its brutal juxtapositions and shifting signifiers, and must individually navigate the spaces and tensions that it creates. For Godard, this process is essential; it is only by venturing into such spaces, with an open mind, that tolerance can be found. After all, we are all involved: this is our music, ‘Notre’ Musique. As the film’s final section, ‘Paradise’ reminds us, to some extent, meaning can only ever be provisional and personal, and it therefore becomes clear that Godard has 12
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chosen to use a musical form with the specific intention of referencing a new and fluid understanding of the nature of meaning. Like Godard, the English director Terence Davies is preoccupied with the hidden, invisible, and open spaces behind and beyond the image, and he too believes that film, working with and as music, has a unique ability to access such spaces. He is one of the most outspoken of all directors in his insistence upon the centrality of music as structuring device, and all his films can be examined in these terms (Everett 2004). One striking illustration of this approach can be found in The Neon Bible (1995), Davies’s adaptation of the first novel by the young American novelist, John Kennedy Toole.6 The film closely follows the first-person narration of the novel, exploring its account of an unhappy, traumatised childhood in a small town in the depths of the Bible Belt not only through Davies’s own experiences of growing up in post-war Liverpool, but also through his childhood passion for American cinema. In one particularly striking sequence in the film, we see the image of a white sheet hanging on a washing line, gently blowing in the breeze. The camera slowly moves in to a tight close up which totally subverts the original image, given that the sheet now occupies, or rather becomes, the entire screen. In other words, what the film is showing us is no longer an iconic representation but, instead, an abstraction; a blank screen at which we gaze for several minutes. No images are provided – unless you accept André Gardies’s argument that a blank or dark screen is itself a form of image (1993: 40) – beyond its own mise-en-abîme status as cinemascope screen. This is the opposite of screen as containment, film as closure: instead it offers the spectator absolute freedom. There are, in fact, plenty of images, but they are situated within the space of the spectator’s imagination, and the main way in which this process is achieved concerns the relationship between the blank screen and the music which is heard throughout the sequence: ‘Tara’s Theme’, composed by Max Steiner for the score of Gone With the Wind (1939). This music serves to open up new spatial and temporal dimensions in which the myths and obsessions of the South (as depicted through a Hollywood lens) are projected. The music also expands the parameters of the film’s first-person memory narrative form by introducing wide-ranging, epic themes into the intimate moment at which David learns that his father has been killed in action (fighting in Europe, in World War II), while also performing as a metaphor or opening through which individual and group experiences, and different times and places, meet. In terms of musical structuring, what is important here is the fact that the visual image is no longer the main signifier. Clearly, that role has switched to the non-diegetic music that we hear on the soundtrack. We might, therefore, argue that we are witnessing a change of voice, an indication of the film’s adoption of a contrapuntal structure. However, what is, of course, particularly pertinent is the fact that music, as signifier, cannot ‘mean’ directly. It can only connote or infer. The inevitable result is that no single, clear-cut meaning is possible, instead there will be a whole range of Image, Music, Film
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Toole’s second, and only other, novel, the far better known A Confederacy of Dunces, was written a decade later, although unpublished until after his death in 1981. It was awarded the Pulitzer Prize, and went on to achieve bestseller status, quickly establishing the international reputation of its author.
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equivalent meanings that vary for each individual spectator, in relation to age, nationality, cultural experience, sexuality and so forth. Once again we see a director who is determined to reject the notion of screen as containment, of film as closure by escaping the ‘fetishism’ of representation. And once again, the result is that the proliferating ‘images’ that result are situated in the temporal and spatial realm of the spectator’s imagination. The elliptical and challenging films of the French director Marguerite Duras reveal a similar love of music, and a similar conviction that film should strive to emulate the condition of music (Duras 1980: 31). Given that music, as Duras recognises, ‘this symbolic language of the unconscious mind’ (Ehrenzweig 1975: 164–165), is centred on memory and desire, and that it therefore occupies the very spaces towards which her films reach out, it is through music, or by creating films that work as music, that she can best operate. Probably Duras’s best-known film is India Song (1975), which is intricately structured around two contrasting pieces of music: Beethoven’s fourteenth Diabelli Variation, and the banal, but evocative blues melody, ‘India Song’ (composed for the film by Carlos d’Alessio). In this film, music not only provides structure and contrapuntal voices, but also serves to develop layers of introversion, memory, and desire, through its association with the death and absence of the main character. In other words, it serves to open up inner spaces that, Duras believes, cannot be either represented or articulated. One might, interestingly, draw parallels here with the way that music is used in Kies´lowski’s Three Colours: Blue, as an indicator of loss, memory and desire. In Duras’s Nathalie Granger (1972), imperfectly played snatches of a Czerny study, along with Nathalie’s seven notes (an arpeggio construction which Duras herself composed), perform similarly multiple functions: structuring the narrative, determining its rhythms and deepening its layers of meaning. I think it is essential to consider this film in relation to the music/film analogy, not least because it contains a shot, in which the camera pans in close-up across various scores lying scattered across the floor, which was widely acknowledged by Duras to be her most successful shot ever. Given that, for Duras, successful film is film that works as music, it seems likely that this shot might, therefore, reveal further insight into her understanding of what such a claim means: Of all I’ve ever done, of all the films I’ve made, the shot that moves me most is the shot of music, of sheet music, of scores, in Nathalie Granger. [. . .] the camera wanders across the scores, finishing, I think, on The Art of Fugue, on the cover of the score. It must just pass close to the Chaconne to end up on the hardest of all, The Art of Fugue, or possibly the Goldberg Variations, I’m no longer sure, while the child plays her scales (Duras 1973: 29–30).
When Duras proclaims that film works best when it is a form of music, she is not implying merely a close correlation between the two, but a process whereby they become identical. The written score, on which the camera 14
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lingers, with its complex patterns of black notes on the stave, represents the mystery of music, the complicated and unfathomable relationship between its written form and the affect and nature of its sound, and Duras is suggesting a similarly complex relationship between visual images and our individual readings. She is, therefore, refuting their traditionally perceived transparency or mimetic identity. Moreover, in this shot we are being shown music; what is normally perceived as sound is instead being expressed as sight. In these terms, the multiple scores before us acknowledge the film’s multiple signifiers and sites of meaning. And, as we look at the scores, and possibly ‘hear’ the notes we read, we simultaneously hear a very different musical voice: the child’s stumbling performance of a Czerny study. Duras attempts to unravel some of the signifiers in the shot when she explains that the work on which the camera finally pauses, via a Bach Chaconne, is his supremely complex Art of fugue, or ‘possibly his Goldberg variations’. This is a kind of meta-polyphonic description of film’s acknowledgement that the polyphonic fugues of Bach are its inspiration, direction and expression. We are experiencing, both in the shifts between hearing and seeing, and in the contrapuntal signifiers that confront us, the essential polyphony of this musical form of film in which meaning occurs in the intervals between notes and images, between seeing and hearing: within our own imaginations. Given that Duras believes that the unambiguous, closed images of mainstream narrative are calculated to control the spectator, ‘to bring to a halt the imaginary process’ (Duras 1977: 75), it is clear that she perceives film as music as a way of overcoming such limitations, of destabilising the self-defining image, and opening it up to the creative imagination of the spectator. In an essay on Beethoven, in Image, Music, Text, Barthes comments that ‘the reading of a modern text [. . .] consists not in receiving, in knowing or in feeling that text, but in writing it anew, in crossing its writing with a fresh inscription’ (1977: 153). This remark could directly apply to the examples and comments noted earlier, and neatly concludes this article in which I hope to have shown that by rejecting linear structures, by subverting and ultimately destroying the self-defining certainty of the filmic image, and by situating the locus of the action in an imaginary, off-screen space, films which function as music thus rethink the nature of meaning and, indeed, the language of film. In so doing, they accord the spectators unlimited creative freedom, and demand from them an alert and essentially open mind. Works cited Barthes, R. (1977), Image, Music, Text, (trans. S. Heath), New York: The Noonday Press. ——— (1995), ‘Analyse musicale et travail intellectuel’, Oeuvres Complètes, Vol. III, Paris: Editions du Seuil, pp. 819–820. Bordwell, D. (1980), ‘The Musical Analogy’, Yale French Studies, no. 60, pp. 141–156. Brown, R.S. (1994), Overtones and Undertones: Reading Film Music, Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press.
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Chion, M. (1990), Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, New York: Columbia University Press. Clair, R. (1970), Cinéma d’hier, cinéma d’aujourd’hui, Paris: Gallimard. Deleuze, G. and F. Guattari (1980), A Thousand Plateaux, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Dulac, G. (1978), ‘The Essence of the Cinema: The Visual Idea’, in P.A. Sitney (ed.), The Avant-Garde Film: A Reader of Theory and Criticism, New York: New York University Press, pp. 36–42. Duras, M. (1973), Nathalie Granger, Paris: Gallimard. ——— (1977), Le Camion, Paris: Minuit. ——— (1980), ‘Les Films de la nuit’, Les yeux verts, Cahiers du Cinéma, pp. 312–313, 331. (Special Edition of the journal, devoted to the work of Marguerite Duras.) Ehrenzweig, A. (1975), The Psychoanalysis of Artistic Vision and Hearing, London: Sheldon Press. Eisenstein (1947), The Film Sense, New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, pp. 44–54. Everett, W. (2004), Terence Davies, Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press. Everett, W. and A. Goodbody (2005), Revisiting Space: Space and Place in European Cinema, Oxford, Bern, Berlin, Brussels, Frankfurt am Main, New York, Wien: Peter Lang. Faure, E. (1953), Fonction du Cinéma, Paris: Editions Gonthier. Hurwitz, R. (1983), ‘Towards a Contrapuntal Radio’, in McGreevy, J. (ed.), Glenn Gould, Variations, By Himself and His Friends, New York: Quill, pp. 253–263. King, N. (1984), ‘The Sound of Silents’, Screen 25/3, May–June 1984. (This entire issue of Screen, subtitled ‘On the Soundtrack’, contains a number of articles on sound and music in film.) Kristeva, J. (1991), Strangers to Ourselves (trans. L.S. Roudiez), New York: Quill. Lack, R. (1997), Twenty Four Frames Under: A Buried History of Film Music, London: Quartet Books. Saïd, E. (1983), ‘The Music Itself: Glenn Gould’s Contrapuntal Vision’, in McGreevy, J. (ed.), Glenn Gould, Variations, By Himself and His Friends, New York: Quill. Shepherd, J. and P. Wicke (1997), Music and Cultural Theory, Cambridge: Polity Press. Storr, A. (1997), Music and the Mind, London: Harper Collins. Zuckerkandl, V. (1959), The Sense of Music, Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Suggested citation Everett, W. (2008), ‘Image, Music, Film’, Studies in European Cinema 5: 1, pp. 7–16, doi: 10.1386/seci.5.1.7/1
Contributor details Wendy Everett is Reader in Film Studies at the University of Bath. Her principal research interests are in European cinema, and recent publications in this field include: Revisiting Space: Space and Place in European Cinema (Peter Lang 2005), Terence Davies (Manchester University Press 2004), Cultures of Exile: Images of Displacement (Berghahn 2004), European Identity in Cinema (Intellect 2005/1996), Questions of Colour in Cinema. From Paintbrush to Pixel (Peter Lang 2007), as well as numerous journal articles and book chapters. Wendy Everett, Department of European Studies and Modern Languages, University of Bath, Bath BA27AY, UK. Tel: +44 (0) 1225 386482, Fax: +44 (0) 1225 386099. E-mail:
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