Music in Film: Inside Llewyn Davis and 12 Years a Slave
Ivan's latest column explores what music can tell us about a character through two new UK soundtrack releases
Music is a powerful thing. It can be used to express authority or portray identity. The very act of playing music defines us, as both performers or listeners. That relationship we have with it makes for two extremely powerful soundtracks currently accompanying movies in UK cinemas: Inside Llewyn Davis and 12 Years a Slave.
Inside Llewyn Davis
âPlay me something from Inside Llewyn Davis,â manager Bud Grossman (F. Murray Abraham) challenges Oscar Isaacâs lead in the middle of the Coen brothersâ film. Llewyn responds with The Death of Queen Jane, an old ballad from the 1500s that recounts the tale of King Henry losing his wife, Jane Seymour, to gain a son. Itâs not a happy song.
Itâs also a clear statement from Llewyn: heâs not afraid of sadness. In fact, the first time we see him on screen, he performs Hang Me, Oh Hang Me, another traditional, hauntingly sad, number.
Oscar Isaac is perfectly morose as the withering soloist, whose partner, Mike Timlin, recently killed himself. He plucks sorrow out of the air as fluidly as he does his guitar strings. The fact that he can play in real life also means that we get live performances from our main character; Llewyn Davis fills the screen with long, untampered takes and the accompanying album with a scratchy, analogue realism.
Teaming up again with the legendary T Bone Burnett, the Coens obviously know and love the genre, throwing in tracks from such musicians as The Down Hill Strugglers, Nancy Blake and Dave Van Ronk. Van Ronk is, in many ways, a template for Llewyn. On the scene before Bob Dylan arrived, he found himself overshadowed by the rising star. And so we get Daveâs original Green, Green Rocky Road on the CD as well as Oscar Isaacâs cover. But Llewyn is very much his own creation â the music in the film makes that clear. After all, every track isnât only a song chosen by the people behind the camera, but also a song chosen by Llewyn; he defines himself as an artist through what he performs.
Dinkâs Song (or Fare Thee Well) is the headline track. âIf I had wings like Noahâs dove,â goes the verse, âIâd fly up the river to the one I love.â Itâs another song about love and loss. Fittingly, we hear it twice: once at the start, sung by Oscar Isaac and Marcus Mumford (as the duo LLewyn and Mike) and then again, at the end, by Llewyn alone. The difference between the bookends is striking; a perfect demonstration of how Inside Llewyn Davis uses music to tell its story not just accompany it. In between them, Llewyn starts to perform Fare There Well at a dinner party, only for someone else to in. He stops, shocked at their uninvited appropriation of Mikeâs part.
You canât blame him. Together, Llewyn and Mikeâs vocals are a rich pair, the musical double act hitting the high notes of the chorus with a warm harmony. Oscarâs live, solo rendition is the opposite: instead of the professional, clean studio recording, LLewyn delivers Dinkâs Song with a loose, raw edge. He changes the gender in the song, singing it as a man rather than a woman (the Dink of the title), knocks the key up a fourth and changes the time from a clean 4/4 to a swaying 12/8.
Itâs a fascinating contrast and it has several effects: itâs a nod to Van Ronk, who, like Llewyn, recorded the song in triple time in 1961; it also slows it down, leaving Llewynâs strained vocals exposed on those higher notes for a whole second longer. But again, these arenât just calls by Burnett or the Coens to highlight Llewynâs grief â as a musician reinventing a track heâs performed many times, Llewyn makes these decisions himself. That new beat to the song gives it a driving energy; a statement of confidence as much as sadness, a screw-you from a artist determined to embrace the change (or, perhaps more accurately, lack thereof) in his life and keep singing the same old song how he wants. âIf itâs never new and it never gets old, itâs a folk song,â he deadpans to the audience at the Gaslight Cafe.
Other contributions from Carey Mulligan (who sings as beautifully as she did in Steve McQueenâs Shame) and Justin Timberlake (who can pretty much do anything and be brilliant) are just as much a treat for the ears. Faux-novelty pop song Please Mr. Kennedy, featuring Adam Driver on guest shouting, is the only original number in the soundtrack â and itâs one of the happiest 120 seconds youâll spend in a cinema this year. But make no mistake: this is Llewynâs gig.
A previously unreleased Bob Dylan recording of Farewell (worth the CD price alone) caps off the album with a reminder of why Davis didnât become famous. But Llewyn wouldnât have it any other way â and frankly, neither would we. Because all of that failure and melancholy makes for a cracking folk song. And thatâs what the Coen brothersâ movie is: a folk song. Itâs an exploration of an artistâs identity and their reliance upon music to express it. Itâs something from inside Llewyn Davis. And itâs breathtaking.
12 Years a Slave
Have you ever stood in a group of people singing and tried not to sing along? Itâs not easy. By not singing, you mark yourself as different from the others. Conversely, the act of ing in shows youâre the same.
Similarity is a big part of the 12 Years a Slave soundtrack. Hans Zimmerâs score is essentially made up of a single theme, that of Solomon Northup â and it already bears a striking resemblance to Hansâ other work, using the same four chords as Inceptionâs time (the seemingly-everywhere chord progression of Sunshineâs Adagio in D Minor by John Murphy, which is, in turn, much like Zimmerâs own The Thin Red Line. Itâs perhaps pertinent to note here that Shameâs score by Harry Escott, while effective, was also an echo of the latter.)
It may seem apt, then, that the score for 12 Years a Slave hasnât been released: Zimmerâs instrumental work is limited to one track on the album, called Solomon; once youâve heard those three and a half minutes, it implies, youâve heard the whole score. The rest of the CD is made up of songs âinspired byâ the movie, with offerings from Alabama Shakes (the soulful Driva Man) and Chris Cornell and Joy Williams (the solemn Misery Chain) and, most effective of all, John Legendâs rousing version of an old spiritual, Roll Jordan Roll â in which he accompanies himself by a nifty bit of multi-tracking. More on that later.
Zimmerâs work, instead, can be found on an awards promo release by Fox Searchlight, with 30 odd minutes available to stream on their FYC site. The full array of orchestral tunes reveals how repetitive it is. Solomon Northup introduces the four-chord motif on flute, before moving to strings, with evocative low cellos carrying the tune. That theme is re-arranged to suit different contexts â Eliza Flashback strips down the riff to a simple piano part, as Solomonâs fellow captor thinks about her kids, and Letter Writing gives the melody to a humming vocalist, while pizzicato strings stab in the background â but it remains essentially the same.
The tracks that are different are mostly sound effects for ambience. Plantation Life Pt A contains some quite woodland noises, Escape Sequence is nothing more than a wood block metronome and River Rafting Claps is exactly what the name suggests. The only other interesting entry is Boat Trip to New Orleans, a haywire mesh of percussion and horrible synth. Even through that cacophony, though, Solomonâs theme gently emerges on a sole violin.
Zimmerâs score is, on its own, not all that impressive. But that persistent single melody is key to 12 Years a Slaveâs power. Chiwetel Ejiofor says little once Solomonâs in captivity â he cannot show his intelligence or the fact that he can read â so the music has to convey his emotions for him. Speaking to Steve McQueen at the UK premiere of the film, he told me: âWhat I was thinking about was silent movie stars â Valentino, Buster Keaton â because when youâre on your own and you canât talk to people about who you are, itâs all about how you can translate that to an audience.â
His themeâs repetitive move from minor to major, ending on an unresolved fifth, plays out Solomonâs journey from tragedy to hope over and over again for two hours. With no sign of escape, Solomonâs resolve and determination keep going like Zimmerâs music â with no other characters given a theme at all, 12 Years a Slaveâs soundtrack is a looping, never-ending reiteration of Solomonâs identity.
Hereâs where 12 Years a Slave gets interesting: that ability of music to establish a personâs position within a world. Early on, Paul Danoâs foul plantation boss makes the slaves clap in unison. While they obey, he chants âRun N***er Runâ at them: âRun, run the patty roller will get you / Run n***er run well you better get awayâ. Itâs a song that slaves used to sing to each other as a caution for those planning to make a dash for it â now used by their master to remind them of their place. The sequence is cut together with hammering and working, a cruel montage of intimidation, before it finally overlaps with Benedict Cumberbatchâs slaveowner Ford, who recites from the Bible, reinforcing that chain of oppression.
Run N***er Run is not included in either of Fox Searchlightâs soundtrack releases. The other spiritual in the film, though, appears twice on the commercial album: Roll Jordan Roll. John Legendâs rendition is fantastic, but the one with the real weight comes straight from the screen.
Halfway through, the slaves sing and clap together (this time voluntarily) in a scene that shows McQueenâs understanding of the importance of music â not just the emotional impact of Zimmerâs cyclical dirge but its social function within the story itself. Solomon stands stoically in the choir as the others repeat the chorus, determined to retain his status a free man. But after a minute of being surrounded by the tune, he s in, a powerful tenor that belts straight from the heart and out of a cracked face.
After two hours of hearing his own individual theme play through thick and thin, Solomonâs decision to assimilate, to submit to his enforced role as a slave, is heartbreaking to hear; a fleeting moment where his voice, his identity, can be heard out loud â but for the first time, lost.