Killing Valmont - D. Hector Francis

Killing

VA L M

NT

T h e C r e a t i o n o f C a l u o r i a n d S t e p p e ’s

Dangerous Liaisons Process

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Content

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Innovations

D. HECTOR FRANCIS

K I L L I N G VA L M O N T

THIS

IS A

S A M P L E O N LY

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ARCHIVE PHOTO COURTESY OF MELPOMENE MUSIC GROUP

Malcolm Caluori

KILLING VALMONT THE CREATION OF CALUORI AND STEPPE’S

DANGEROUS LIAISONS Process, content and innovations

D. Hector Francis

Melpomene Music Publications Atlanta

Killing Valmont Dangerous Liaisons archival documentation reproduced herein provided courtesy of Malcolm Caluori and Melpomene Music Group All excerpted reprinting of music and text from Dangerous Liaisons, copyright © 2000, 2003 Melpomene Music Group (BMI) Music by Malcolm Caluori; Libretto by Johnathan Daniel Steppe Excerpts from Les Liaisons Dangereuses reprinted from the English translation by Lowell Bair, originally published as Dangerous Liaisons, copyright © 1962 Bantam Books * Free DLOCR Production Diary available at: http://www.dldiary.com * First Edition Copyright © 2016 Melpomene Music Group All rights reserved Published in the U.S.A. International copyright secured.

Cover design and photo by Malcolm Caluori Glossary of terms compiled by D. H. Francis with the assistance and contributions of Malcolm Caluori Melpomene Music Publications is a division of Melpomene Music Group, Atlanta, GA. The note sphere logo is a trademark of Melpomene Music Group.

CONTENTS Note from the Editor

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Introduction by Malcolm Caluori

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Prologue

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1 Songs and Scenes Thematic Continua and Constituent Forms Dramaturgic Congruity and Primogenitive Transformation So Let the Game Begin

9 13 16 30

2 Music and Verse: Phase I Fortnight

33 38

3 The Game Changers From Finale to Prologue The Paradigm Structural Orientation Scena Concertata

47 53 59 64 75

4 Music and Verse: Phase II Epic Scenes and Compound Time Exchange Writing

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5 Collaboration Indeed 6 Killing Valmont Appendices A Synopsis of Numbers B Composer’s Work Chronology C Glossary of Terms Index

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR A sadly scarce piece of fan genre writing, distinctive of the picture books focused primarily on production values, and circuitous or nostalgic background information, this book offers a rare look into Dangerous Liaisons, the work of art itself. There are no biographical details of Laclos’ life, or even much more than a nod to the story’s cult popularity. Absent are discussions of casting decisions and social customs peculiar to 18th century France.

Presenting the story of the work’s creation as a backdrop, the author’s examination of its content and innovations is informative and insightful, entertaining and scholarly, daring to deepen one’s appreciation and enjoyment of the opus and the art form.

Neither an historical record, a musicological treatise nor especially a manual for the creation of dramatico-musical works, the book does combine story telling, literary criticism, investigative journalism, musicology, dramaturgic commentary, and poetic analysis. Though its interdisciplinary nature and exploration of music as drama entails some use of specialized vocabulary, essential technical groundwork is covered chiefly in chapter one, and a contextual usage of terms (and plain explanation, where needed) retains accessibility for a non-specialized readership. Additionally however, to most faithfully preserve the character and mannerisms of the author’s voice, the editing of this book has, at the request of the publisher, retained the terms (and spelling) used in the original manuscript. Note, e.g.:

In light of these considerations, one may expect the pleasure of happening on a new or unfamiliar thing or two. For all of these reasons, while not mandated by the book’s content, an editorial recommendation to include a glossary of terms at its back has been implemented for the reader’s fulfillment. vi

INTRODUCTION

By Malcolm Caluori

Dangerous Liaisons was a project realized quietly, but steadily, in the background over a number of years, and under unique circumstances. For several reasons, its public rollout wasn’t of the more typical sort for a musical theatre piece. What is always typical, though, is how shows tend to remain works in progress, sometimes long after their premiers, becoming more refined over time. Composer Julian Woolford likens musicals to children. A musical remains a part of the creators’ lives forever. And each over time turns its path, learns new lessons, takes on an unpredictable life of its own, ‘growing up’ in ways often fascinating to watch. I think there’s much to be said for being sensitive enough to the life of a creative idea to allow one’s self to step out of the way, ‘out of the box’ as they say, to notice when something is trying to become, trying to bloom, in ways that you yourself might not have initially imagined. This very book is an example of that creative principal in motion.

On the occasion of the fifth anniversary of the release of the Complete Original Concept recording, Melpomene published a second edition of the Dangerous Liaisons Official Selections piano/vocal songbook, and a commemorating ‘trade edition’ of the Liaisons libretto, specially edited to replicate the version performed on the recording. Originally, this anniversary edition of the libretto was also going to include an extended article on the writing of Dangerous Liaisons and the making of the recording.

Having come into the Melpomene fray, and owing to his enthusiastic interest in following the creative process behind Liaisons, musician and scholar D. Hector Francis seemed the natural choice to assemble such material. As I began working on revisions to the music and notation for the songbook, Hector,

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meanwhile, began researching and compiling the commentary for the libretto.

The sifting though archival documents ensued, examining old sketches, letters between Johnathan and me, and other assorted writings, scribbles and scraps. Through informal interviews, idea dissecting discussions and impromptu questionnaires, Hector’s meticulous, exhaustive (and often exhausting) inquiry surprised me with how much I had forgotten. My timeworn ver-sion of things stood corrected over and again, as the real story of creating Dangerous Liaisons was rediscovered. Unfortunately, access to Johnathan was very limited during this period. But in the piecing together of how it all came about, Hector’s writing began to reveal (to urge, really) that there was something else, something more in the telling needing to come out.

His interest was always on the question of what, exactly, was done, on what was going on inside the art. The reality of pursuing the assignment necessarily included considering the working means that Johnathan and I had utilized, means that involved significant new approaches created and evolved in the course of writing of the show. Certainly, it was because of the way that the work on Dangerous Liaisons happened that means such as exchange writing and implementing a written paradigm ever even came to be. They are an inextricable part of how Liaisons was created. But just as valuable to include, Hector eventually managed to convince me, were relevant portions of my work in musico-dramaturgic theory, having debuted with Liaisons, and being no less decisive a part of its creation, in shaping, and being shaped by, its writing. Especially those areas concerning the handling of the score’s profusion of musical themes.

Ultimately though, and little had I realized, what this all meant was that there were bigger reasons that the story of creating Dangerous Liaisons is a story that should be told. The feature article had shown itself to be more substantial than an editorial helping of entertaining background information to be viii

served with the planned libretto. Until it was pointed out, I don’t think it occurred to Johnathan or me that we were even writing an experimental work. As for me, solving puzzles is what composers do. We were, I thought, just doing what artists do: saying, “I want,” asking, “what if?” and finding a way how.

Being neither a professional musicologist nor a writer, I’m grateful to Hector for agreeing to undertake the more extensive than anticipated task. Broadly speaking, Killing Valmont tells a story of creativity trumping obstacles in mapping out a way to make ideas into reality. It offers a rare view of the creative process behind birthing a show (the one used this time around anyway), provides exciting and meaningful insights into several of the score’s numbers, and a thought provoking window on the work as a whole. It would seem to invite not only those readers who want more Dangerous Liaisons, but those interested in musicals generally, as well as those who are themselves music dramatists or academes in opera or musical theatre. Never meant to be a comprehensive, academic presentation of theory, Mr. Francis’ bold yet reader-friendly look into the dynamic relationships between music, libretto, and underlying drama does, with admirable success I think, consider the stuff that really makes musical drama tick. I think even I have learned a few things about Dangerous Liaisons.

M.C.

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PHOTO BY MALCOLM CALUORI

COURTESY OF MELPOMENE MUSIC GROUP

Johnathan Daniel Steppe

K I L L I N G VA L M O N T

Prologue

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HE PROJECT to produce the Complete Original Concept recording of Caluori and Steppe’s Dangerous Liaisons (what Melpomene refers to as DLOCR), was originally imagined only as a simple demo recording, though proposed with the intent that it serve multiple purposes: as a record for posterity of the complete original concept, of course, prior to any impending cuts and other dramatic revision; as a type of workshop in itself to aid in this process, presenting the whole work in context for the writers’ benefit; as a single recording— or perhaps a selection of recordings—to serve as a formal ‘shopable’ demo for use later on. Holding a considerably broader appeal than anticipated, it suddenly flourished into quite a glorified musical theatre demo indeed, attracting interested involvement from about the nation and, in time, coming available to the world.

The periodic updates and notices that were sent out to those wishing to follow the progress of the DLOCR project as it was unfolding quickly grew to include the many people who became directly connected with the recording’s realisation. Collectively, these notices, written by Malcolm Caluori in his capacity as project coordinator, form a sort of diary, chronicling the many steps, trials and emotions that came into play in bringing the project to fruition. (It is available for free at this special link: www.dldiary.com) Reading the story that this production diary tells, the excitement is palpable. There is, however, more story to be told ahead of any updates sent out, the story that took place when no one outside was yet looking. It was just two friends: Johnathan, a talented and intuitive Thespian and vocalist with a hunger to tell stories; and Malcolm, an irrepressibly creative musician who also loved the marriage of music and drama.

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They shared a mutual passion, together devouring newly discovered musicals, operettas, opera. Both writer and composer had experience performing on stage, and each had already had a bash or two at some ideas of his own. Johnathan, already writing for the theatre, had developed some work on a comic operetta.

And as a teenager, Malcolm became so inspired by opera that he began creating one, also based on an original story, and had even conducted some of its music in public concert with orchestra, soloists and chorus. And there were, at this point, thoroughly documented plans underway for a dramatic oratorio (Crestia), some of its choral music already in sketch. A fortuitous bond, to be sure. Only a matter of time and the quickening of a tantalising subject stood between the inevitable collaboration and the somehow still unsuspecting collaborators.

One day, having recently become aware of Laclos’ story, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Johnathan rang Malcolm and suggested they turn it into a musical “before someone else does,” he said.

Malcolm didn’t know the story. But, he thought, Johnathan seemed quite sure; he was the theatre man, after all. He decided he’d have a look at the story, even though it was understood between the two of them that the idea of writing a major new work together was appealing, and that they had basically already agreed.

The first thing Caluori did was watch the 1988 Stephen Frears film, Dangerous Liaisons (Glenn Close, John Malkovich, Michelle Pfeiffer, et al.). Then he hesitated. He noted the expensive costumes and lavish sets, the “flowery,” oh-so-formal (potentially difficult to follow) language, the complicated (potentially difficult to follow) plot that bordered on convolution spurred on by the many intertwined characters—the lot, of course, having unfamiliar (potentially difficult to follow) French names. He noted that conversion to the contemporary American musical theatre stage would have some factors to confront and solve. But he trusted Steppe’s training and instincts in making the suggestion, and proceeded to the next phase. “As it turns 4

out,” Caluori now explains with a laugh, “I found out years later that Johnathan didn’t know the story either. He had seen an advertisement for the movie. Not even a trailer, I think, but a print ad!” With raised finger and eyebrow he adds, “He did read the book before I ever did, though.”

The story seems, in fact, a perfect candidate, already adapted multiple times each for stage, television, film, ballet, opera and radio. The Conrad Susa opera, The Dangerous Liaisons, premiered in San Francisco and was televised in 1994. And there is Belgian composer Piet Swerts’s Les Liaisons Dangereuses from 1996. And although there is now the Spanish language musical Las Relaciones Peligrosas, which premiered in Argentina in 2012, there was no musical theatre adaptation, large or small, to be found whilst Caluori and Steppe’s Dangerous Liaisons was being written.

Perhaps it was that list of hurdles that had discouraged earlier adaptations. An equally likely culprit, the original novel is epistolary in form, written as a collection of 174 numbered letters sent between the various characters. Caluori writes that, “the characters are not face to face and interactive scenes [have to be] fabricated.” He explains that, although there are instances where a letter may describe an interaction, “the bulk of the book is presented as directly addressed conversations. The difficulty with this is that…one conversation may spread across a broad range of letters, and that during this conversation, significant amounts of time have elapsed and events have taken place that weave themselves into the discussions.” A single scene might be built from bits of letters scattered throughout the book. And, he points out, “Once this correspondence widens to include a number of people, things become rather complicated.” Unwinding this overlapping and multi-directional collection of accounts, opinions, self-aggrandisements, attacks, advice, and pleadings into a linear sequence of dramatic action is a challenging, perhaps deterring, prerequisite for potential adaptors.

Still, Steppe was right about wanting to beat the competition to the post. Shortly into DLOCR recording sessions, word came 5

out that a musical called The Game was going to be opening in New York. It was written by a pair of long-time music industry professionals, and backed by some real funding. Its writers, successful in their fields, were not normally theatre writers but had pop music backgrounds, and it was quickly deduced that their version did not claim the same scale, sophistication or artistic bearing that Caluori and Steppe aspired to present. By contrast, they each had a foot in the popular world of musical theatre, and a foot in the classical arts world of opera and literature. Liaisons, though typically called a musical for wont of a tidy category, naturally shares this ambiguity. Still, they kept a close eye on the developments surrounding The Game, which would meet the wider public before Dangerous Liaisons.

But in the beginning, there was only the quest. Dangerous Liaisons was not a commissioned work. A commission was never sought, and likely could not have been procured in any case.

Though both collaborators were quite prolific and recognised as exceptional talents, each with celebrated achievements in both performance and writing, their young careers had not been broadly established. The work would have to be relegated to their free time, and would have no readily awaiting prospects upon its eventual completion. Neither had written a musical before; both were fortunately still green enough that their initial spark of inspiration would not be intimidated by the potentially daunting prospect of undertaking such a massive commitment without much guidance or even a plan, really. Instead, their burgeoning creativity and ever broadening expertise had both of them primed to tackle the task, to discover the way by accepting the journey.

The pair were not so entirely persuaded into institutional convention as to succumb to some of the genre’s enduring, inadvertent blind spots. The path that prepared them for this juncture, and further conveyed them through the piece’s writing, was deeply coloured by a conviction, by an insistent personal perspective towards music dramaturgy that rearranges tradi6

tional notions—and in due course re-evaluates entirely what musicologist Joseph Kerman refers to as, “the perennial central problem of operatic dramaturgy.” That is to say, “the mutual qualification of action and music.” (More precisely, “the relationship or interplay between these two,” the quality of action characteristic of drama, and the quality of reflective, imaginative articulation characteristic of music.)

Having now wholly stepped into the arena of drama, the two would turn their dramatically inclined intellects to carving their path from the inside. In the end, that path would produce a work that involves a host of refined dramaturgic practises, and exhibits an evolution, which, despite its shortcomings—more probably, because of them—reaches a powerful reconciliation of music’s introspection to drama’s action through the pioneering of an unprecedented collaborative method.

This project was not destined to be a “write a libretto, then set it to music” affair. Nor, at the time, would either of them have wanted it that way. So, where to begin? Primarily, there were really only two factors with which they need concern themselves. First, the story, the creation itself, the misty vision of the drama-to-be, an assemblage of yet undefined scenes and songs (the adaptation). Second, the surface, the creating of the creation, the providing of the verse and the music (the treatment). This was no poem, skit or piano fantasia; there was a lot of work to confront, and some coordinated manner would be needed on both levels.

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ONE Songs and Scenes

T

HE PAIR readily began the more earnest discussions of their approach to presenting the story. Amidst the major early decisions was to not change the setting or update the period of the original, though they did consider the prospect briefly. The source novel is in the public domain, and could be freely adapted. But they would have to mind that they not use any material from other versions that doesn’t also appear in the original. New material could always be created, though, and was.

In the transfer from book to stage, retaining the idea of letters and implementing letter-writing sequences was established from the first. True, it provides deft means for striding through stretches of plot at a lick. But more, the importance of the written letter was recognised as being integral to the story.

Having virtually disappeared today, the epistolary novel was actually quite a popular mode in Laclos’ time. He was careful, though, that his choice of format was not merely fashionable, but functional. It is the letter, after all, that in the end becomes written evidence; and so evidence in writing is needed on stage as well.

Their enlistment of the chorus was never intended to be as a conventional stage entity, where, as Caluori writes, “principles can interact with the chorus as if it were a single character.”

With such an intimately contained story, the rarer appearance of the chorus would need to provide its balance of flair, spectacle, and bustling activity. “With Liaisons,” he continues, “the intent was to have seething crowds of individuals demonstrative of a 9

vibrant, interactive Paris social life.” To this end, the intact chorus frequently dissolves into chattering clusters and brief one-line solos. The admission of this arrangement then also permits the many peripheral and incidental figures that appear throughout the libretto, without a need to work them in silently or to hire additional comprimario soloists.

Sights were set towards a two-act design. Though not so with opera, in the musical theatre, anything other than the ubiquitous two-act formula will end up being shoehorned into one anyway.

But including a prologue and epilogue could be managed without bother, and both were likely desirable. The placement of the choruses and other major numbers was discussed; where to divide the initial two-act plan, and how to treat the finale prior to the interval—as well as ideas on other dramatic moments— began to give rise to a vague, general shape for the work.

The score to Dangerous Liaisons is divided into segments called ‘numbers’, which resemble their libretto counterpart, scenes— an older, episodic format tipping a hat to the novel. A number might be a scene or a song, or might contain combinations of the two. At first, the arrangement of numbers was rather slim, having gaps for sections of story that would later be filled in.

Though the original novel was kept on hand for reference, at this stage it was not serving as a direct basis for the work’s developing form. “How could it?” one might think, since it doesn’t present the story directly. Rather, the basic knowledge of the story’s content would lead to writing this scene, now that one.

This whimsy may not have been the most efficient of procedures. Still, roughly one-third of the drama’s material was compiled in this way. The working synopsis during this period, described by Caluori as an “existing, though hazy,” and “somehow always undefined lineup,” would be repeatedly revised as more details were added. In the absence of a solid synopsis of scenes, a lack of large-scale perspective during this early period led to a tendency to treat otherwise concise bits of drama as if they were something to be featured. As a result, the earliest written scenes 10

would sometimes run longer than they ought. But Caluori’s compulsion to tinker and refine was largely kept in check by Steppe’s pragmatism. Inevitable cuts and revisions would make themselves known in the larger context of a completed work.

“The emphasis,” Steppe recalls, “was on getting a first version done.” And it wasn’t long before the ever shifting running order of ‘numbers’ matured into something not so very far from what became the order of the finished original version, identifying a core of 34 assigned numbers.

With the story plan’s eventual comprehensive overhaul and stabilisation, the schedule expanded, at one point, to as many as 59 numbered segments (partly on account of the through-sung structure of the score), soon settling with the last number, the intended Epilogue, tagged as No. 53. Still an unwieldy quantity, resulting from all of the bits and bobs shuffled about over time.

After completing the score, Caluori consolidated these bits to arrive at its more manageable division into 33 numbers.

The history told by the archive of notes, records and manuscripts—a fantastic body of clues, without which this writing could not have been possible—proves tricky to piece together at times. The titles of finished musical numbers were, of course, preceded by (sometimes idiosyncratic) interim titles, indicating the appropriate portion of the story. As that first catalogue of numbers grew, titles were replaced, scenes were inserted (or omitted), and the numbering of the episodes would be shifted and reassigned. To select one instance of the confusion at random, “Reflections”: In Caluori’s score, the Intermedio consists of No. 21 Prelude, and No. 22 Divertimento/Racconto “Reflections”.

Previous to this, at various times, “Reflections”, it was simply called (the prelude being called Entr’acte), bore the numbers 11, 30, 32, and 33. And until Steppe actually conceived the number as “Reflections”, it was listed as ‘Invention’ (apparently referring to the Marquise herself; a designation meaningful to the creators, though not very helpful to outsiders). Further, if referenced in any notes, ‘No. 22’ could have meant, over time, at 11

least four different possible selections from the score. Though there was, admittedly, a sort of uncertain, wandering onwards sensation about these early proceedings, it’s not the case that there were no principles guiding their work.

Both absolutely agreed that there should be music throughout, no stopping and starting for scenes, then songs. Although this was always the assumption, such a choice comes with additional implications. With an entirely sung drama, ‘scenes’ and ‘songs’ are often only terms of convenience. Sometimes a number is plainly one or the other (“A Quandary” vs. “A Simple Time”, for instance). But scenes can also sound very much like songs, have high melodic profiles or contain song-like arioso and parlante phrases; as for songs, in theatre song is revelatory (advancing characterisation, if not perhaps a piece of plot), and can be very dramatic. In this sense, even ‘songs’ are scenes. Is “Speak Gently” song or scene? What about “A Story”, or “She Closes Her Eyes”?

Despite these ambiguities, since Liaisons would require music for both, the question of “which are songs?” and “which are scenes?” as concerns Caluori and Steppe, would be decided from the musical side of the equation. It is music, in the end, that shapes musical drama, and there was an element vital to planning the work ahead that depended upon whether a number would have scene music or song music (regardless of text), making a distinction necessary. That element was that a music dramatist utilises methods called thematic reminiscence and leitmotiv.

Methods to be considered in the planning of any dramatic score, Caluori makes their role—and the constant development of musical material in general—positively central to his technique.

This sensibility would impact the working methods of composer and librettist, directing, to an extent, the very nature of collaboration that transpired, as we’ll see. The innovations surrounding Caluori’s sophisticated use of thematic reminiscence and leitmotiv greatly expand their influence, and are intent on enabling maximal exploitation of what he calls their “immeasurable dramatic powers.” Who, then, are this omnipotent pair?

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THEMATIC CONTINUA AND CONSTITUENT FORMS Whilst observing a drama presented in combination with music, one makes psychological associations between the two, as they coincide. In other words, music’s own, abstract meanings become, by association, augmented with literary meaning deriving from the drama: sentiments, characters, moments, exchanges, concepts, even objects.

It works both ways, of course, and there is a correlation to the use of associative themes in literature. A broad connection that Steppe makes, for example, is that of nature and her progression of seasons with the character and storyline of Madame de Tourvel. In his libretto, one finds the idea following Tourvel in various ways as the story plays out. Caluori, too, ties music to characters, perhaps most abundantly though to that of the Marquise, who seems to have her hand in everything. Musical reference is an important means of conveying her omnipresent influence, especially at times when she herself is not on stage.

Thematic reminiscence refers to the practise wherein prominent melodies or other thematic material, having acquired augmented meaning in this way, appear again, or are quoted from, away from their point of origin in order to elicit their corresponding meanings in other contexts. As the name implies, any auxiliary appearances of a theme tend to occur after its establishing appearance, typically some emotionally-charged moment earlier in the drama.

Caluori, however, employs the practise freely, regarding the ‘definitive’ appearance as the source, and all auxiliary appearances as upon a thread reaching from that source in either direction over the length of the drama—a thread that he calls a thematic continuum. According to the continuum theory, that thread is equivalent to a characteristic psychological aspect of a drama, which is therefore implicitly present over the whole. If that aspect were to be transformed in the course of a drama, the properties of music are such that it can reflect that transformation, 13

even assist in its conveyance. Caluori explains that, because of the phenomenon of musico-literary association, “Any conspicuous musical theme introduced into a drama creates a new thread; each continuum dotted with the various appearances of its distinct thematic material, and each appearance adapted, as necessary, to suit the occasion.”

Less complicated than it sounds, the implication of such a comment is that, in fact, every instance of an identifiable musical component assumes extra-musical psychological meaning, simply by virtue of being presented in the context of a drama. And therefore all “discrete characteristic formations”—not merely prominent melodic themes—qualify as constituent forms (that is, constituent to their respective continua), and might be selected for use elsewhere in a score. In effect, this not only brings the compositional procedures of symphonic development into the theatre, but does so in a way that endows them with complete dramaturgic functionality.

There is a lot of music in Dangerous Liaisons, most of it represented more than once. Prominent melodies are constituent forms, but so too are more subtle lines. They can be harmonic or rhythmic, short motives or long phrases, foreground or background, or have any number of other characteristic features. A thorough analysis of the score is beyond the scope of our purpose here, but a quick example makes things plain. Here are two familiar ostinato figurations from the Liaisons score:

Being characteristic and recognisable, they are susceptible to dramatic association. As such, their appearance constitutes an addition of two new thematic continua to the drama’s collec14

tion: one new thread for each constituent form; each might be used again and developed, anywhere else in the score—or not.

Any additional use of ostinato 1, say, then becomes an instance of that formation’s presence along its established continuum.

As it happens, both appear multiple times. Their meanings are not literal and precise, but each does carry its particular psychological colouration, derived from its own inherent construction plus its assimilated dramatic associations: Both are ostinati in relentless quavers; both outline a tonic minor ninth chord; both are associated with the cunning of the Marquise. Moreover, these examples being accompanimental in quality, their telling presence is easily attached to melody. Ex. 2, for instance, at its source, accompanies the title theme of “If He Were Here”, but it opens “Rumors” and the Finale Ultimo (the Final Scene) as accompaniment to one of the letter-writing themes. That one ostinato is in duple meter (4/4), the other triple (3/4), is a calculated option typical of Caluori, encouraging flexible application. One or the other might be included practically anywhere.

An especially remarkable example of thematic reminiscence, which also demonstrates a backwards-reaching instance of thematic continuum, is the case of “When Silence Reigns”, the last number in the score. Clearly an important and profound statement, worthy of a theme given commensurate weight. Just as clearly, it can’t return again later, after the duet is sung. It is instead teased out here and there as the score proceeds, so as when that final duet arrives, it comes with a sense of familiarity and inevitability. Always appearing in connection with Valmont and Tourvel, it can be spotted during their tense exchange in “Confrontations”, and it hovers in a more developed form over the whole of the Interlude “Tourvel’s Despair” and Valmont’s incredible and moving “Soliloquy”. Having only appeared during moments of heightened tension, its final, serene return in its definitive, yet not overstated form as the liebestod (love-death) brings with it a feeling of resolution, a mysterious breath of transfiguration, fulfilment even, to the otherwise tragic finish.

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Incidentally, what does appear after the duet, the last few bars of the number that bring the score to its close, is a return of the music from “She Closes Her Eyes”, now taking on its final meaning.

This music, already recalled only moments earlier (as Valmont sends the dying Tourvel his own final message), is a fateful bond between the two lovers. This is no opportunistic turn to flash the theme’s inspired melodic polyphony at the audience one last time. No, here the theme appears without the voices. Indeed, the melody lines are missing entirely; only the bare accompaniment is played by the orchestra as the curtain comes down, leaving a spellbound hush that one resists breaking despite a vigorous urge to applaud. Along with Steppe’s marvellous text, it is because of Caluori’s unconventional application of thematic reminiscence that “When Silence Reigns” obtains its magical quality.

DRAMATURGIC CONGRUITY AND PRIMOGENITIVE TRANSFORMATION Somewhat different, leitmotiv (LITE-mo-teef, ‘leading motive’) is a compositional technique exploited and developed under German composer Richard Wagner from the mid to late nineteenth century, that involves the calculated contrivance of specific, memorable musical gestures or formulae, predetermined to represent, or allude to, particular elements or aspects of a drama. These are then directly injected into various opportune moments in the score, for the purpose of asserting the intended associative meaning. Unlike the inherently organic nature of thematic reminiscence, the use of leitmotiv, as it has come to be thought of today, is more like an intervention. It does imply a specific meaning, and might perhaps be regarded a musical parallel to symbolism in literature—though Wagner himself would likely reject the idea. He did not use the term leitmotiv, and was irritated by the skewed analytical conclusions that were subsequently applied to his work, preferring merely to think in terms of a “principal theme” (hauptmotiv), and the “feelings” it produced. Perhaps, more like thematic continuum.

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Nevertheless, his use of short ‘representative themes’, and his brilliant application of music’s transformational powers upon them, had an irreversible impact on drama’s compositional landscape. The practise did draw criticism, however. Think only of the signature fanfare that sounds every time your favourite super-hero arrives on screen. Or of the comedy sketches that suddenly pause for the interjection of some dramatic musical statement each time someone utters a particular phrase or name.

Modern clichéd cod, it’s true; but this absurdity is exactly the point that even critics contemporary to Wagner make.

In Dangerous Liaisons, there’s little need for the artificial asserting of predesignated themes. With thematic continua, thoughtfully composed constituent forms arise spontaneously in the course of writing; they are naturally abundant and varied, supplying extreme versatility in dramatic reapplication; and their meanings and functions are inherent. Even so, Caluori nonetheless appreciates the artistic craft and important literary viability in the idea of musical allusion. And of the story’s prevailing, fundamental themes, one in particular—one that Steppe was especially keen to accentuate—seemed to lend itself to this idea. Caluori’s approach to the technique of leitmotiv, however (as what he calls a preconstituent identity), has an intuitive way of sidestepping its weaknesses, and multiplying its strengths.

The first purposeful material to be developed by Caluori for Liaisons, this leitmotiv represents what Steppe refers to as the game. That is, the behaviour resulting from the universal dichotomy of personal desires as against customary propriety: cautious manoeuvring and selfish manipulation—that precarious balancing act with which we are all intimately familiar, and towards which we are nonetheless expected to profess our own innocence and repulsion, often convincing even ourselves. But how susceptible are we, for thrill of the game, to extremes, to losing our humanity? And what are the consequences? The novel’s image of social conditions that provoke—even reward—such conduct is what lures Steppe’s comment as dramatist.

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The corresponding leitmotiv devised for this representation also easily falls into the category of evoking the Marquise, of course. It is closely connected with her in the score, frequently via her victim, Cécile. Its foremost application, the object of which Steppe had already proposed, was in a simple song given by the Marquise to Cécile during her harp lesson. Its expression here, presented as a full principal melody, inevitably constitutes a ‘definitive’ source within its particular thematic continuum, ready for further development and transformation.

The theme is used liberally for evoking the idea of the game.

Emphasising its importance, the only extended a cappella moment in the score is given to this melody, in Cécile’s doleful reprise. Not limited to its somewhat cheery-toned major modality, it’s sprinkled about the score in varying degrees of menace.

Notably, for instance, at the end of “The Key”, as Valmont sends Cécile off to fetch her bedroom key for his nefarious use; and upon Valmont’s unexpected discovery when he throws open the door to the Marquise’s own boudoir, in the high-stakes number, “The Argument”. During the Act I Finale, the melody even becomes a devilish waltz.

Traditionally, like thematic reminiscence, leitmotiv does depend upon first clearly establishing a theme and its meaning, so that its later appearances are recognised and appreciated; but, as with thematic continuum, it is transformational in quality, and its first appearance need not necessarily be its definitive version.

If Caluori’s were a conventional use of the device, the theme shown in Ex. 3, and its attendant transformations, would be the end of it. There would be nothing more to report. One literary idea, one assigned thematic idea; plug as needed.

“The problem with this,” Caluori says, “is that the [literary] idea is conceptual.” In his view, a concrete literary representa18

tion (say, a person or a thing) can equal a concrete musical one (a leitmotiv), though that’s where the absurdity tends to creep in. Naturally associated constituent forms can fill this need. Leitmotiv is better suited, he says, to conceptual themes.

“First of all,” he explains, “conceptual literary themes: death, power, love—the game—these broad dynamic concepts…of course, manifest in lots of complex and nuanced ways, and your leitmotiv has to be expressible in every graded colour of emotion and attitude. So, on the musical side of the table, you have transformations. And that’s a big creative distraction [for musicologists] that ends up getting all of the attention.

“But on top of this,” he goes on to say, “abstract literary themes are omnipresent [within their stories]. This means lots of musical references, potentially anywhere. Now, that’s just a given, and its implications are either overlooked or avoided.”

Caluori points out that the omnipresence factor imposes upon leitmotiv a structural requirement that simply isn’t there with the first issue of graded colouration—that factor’s flexibility being so wildly varied. An inherent requirement that places the shifting needs of dramatic expression (especially rhythmic and vocal) at odds with the idea of ‘a’ leitmotiv, even with transformation.

Though a bit technical, finding the real crux of the dilemma does illuminate Caluori’s approach. “In an ideal world,” he explains, “a leitmotiv should first be built in a way that can fulfil every mode of dramatic expression in a libretto: melodic places, not so melodic places, dialogue of various qualities, narrative styles—everything. Then apply appropriate transformations for colour and mood. We’re not just dealing with art music here; this is theatre. And the [representative] function of leitmotiv requires that, in each of its roles, it still retains the ability to be immediately recognisable as well. All of this together is essentially impossible. Your leitmotiv has got to be exceptionally versatile. This is a problem of dramaturgic congruity, and hasn’t really been dealt with, effectively.”

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Failing to satisfy the requirement, he says, results in leitmotiv that’s really only suited to certain dramatic situations, and largely impractical for prominent use in vocal lines, confining it primarily to the orchestra. “That’s not omnipresence,” Caluori argues.

A negligible sacrifice to the nature of the beast, one might think.

But his point is that it’s symptomatic of a dramatic application of music that isn’t properly congruent with the ways and workings of drama—something a music dramatist ought never to accept.

It would seem that Wagner himself was at least aware of the conundrum. In his music dramas, he supplies his own text, erasing stylistic contrast between songs and scenes by doing away with the aria. Often the basic, initial forms of his leitmotiv affect a banal sort of neutrality, reliant upon transformation to meet various expressive demands. Impressively crafted transformations involving symphonic development can provide substantial qualitative shifts to a leitmotiv’s structure. But such developmental transformations tend to erode a leitmotiv’s characteristic identity, evolving into different (but allied) new themes—new shades—to add to a leitmotiv’s family of continua. (The continuity of a leitmotiv is not so much a thread, but more akin to a rope with many intertwining strands.) Wagner did manage an effective if partial workaround by sometimes endowing a motive with composite parts having different expressive features, to then recall independently according to the need at hand.

But if preserving a theme, and merely re-rendering it for a new dramatic context (i.e. adaptive transformation, just as is typical of thematic reminiscence, changing, say, only its accompaniment), then, from Caluori’s perspective, that essentially intact theme, limited by its own distinguishing structure, lacks full dramaturgic flexibility. A theme serving as leitmotiv can therefore feel persistent, even obtrusive under its inevitably repetitive use.

Its suitability is simply not sufficiently versatile without resorting to identity corrupting developmental transformation. And that, says Caluori, is why “Wagner can seem so heavy-handed at times, stamping out thematic pronouncements that jump almost 20

intrusively from the fabric of the drama.” His complaint: the resulting music ends up seeming self-important, more important than the drama, rather than seeming in service to the drama.

The reconciliation? “It’s a cause and effect issue:” he says, “there’s the abstract concept itself [the game], and its actualised manifestation. The problem is, the actualised musical manifestations, the transformations, come from an already actualised source, the initial leitmotiv.” But, he says, conceptual leitmotiv must accommodate “too many possible characteristics for a single initial [form]. True concepts are pure, and have a latent potential for multiple manifestations from the start.” This schism between the correlatives of music and literature is what disrupts the dramaturgic congruity of a score. His conclusion: all musical themes, including a leitmotiv’s initial form, are definite expressions, not concepts. All conceptual leitmotiv, then, from inception, are already transformations arisen from their concept. His solution: a conceptual literary idea should call for a conceptual musical corollary.

Fig. 1

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Ex. 3, above, shows a distinct form, one primogenitive transformation of the underlying concept for the game. Caluori didn’t start with a certain ‘theme’ as a leitmotiv; he first created a musical concept. The actual leitmotiv [Ex. 4] consists only of a string of downwards-spiralling pitches, arranged as successive rising and falling semitones, repeated in descending sequence:

A sort of arch motif, meant to lend its colouration throughout the story, it’s not yet itself a specific theme or motive, but a core representation, preconstituent to any continuum. The leitmotiv is actually an underlying string, a term borrowed from the work of linguistic theoretician Noam Chomsky, and so it might be referred to as an underlying leitmotiv. (In his series of Norton Lectures, entitled The Unanswered Question [Harvard, 1973], Leonard Bernstein’s famous use of Chomsky’s notions to illuminate the inner workings of music had an early and decisive impact on Caluori’s forming aesthetic.) Similar to the so-called tone rows of Arnold Schönberg, the idea shown in Ex. 4 is the leitmotiv once removed, a hypothetical identity that has yet to be fully realised, a versatile but defining basis from which specific, recognisable offspring—like the theme shown in Ex. 3—may be derived.

An examination of the composer’s notebooks indicates that several possible versions of the leitmotiv were being worked out simultaneously for future use from the very beginning. You find it everywhere in the score, in a variety of permutations. As a major principal melody, eventually even bearing the actual title, “The Game”, the version shown in Ex. 3 does assume a kind of standard default status amongst its siblings. It’s not the leitmotiv, but it is one possible explication of the underlying leitmotiv, and only one of innumerable such possible characteristic realisations.

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The first five pitches form a nucleus that is evident enough to serve on its own. The motive often appears in this configuration (sometimes with its optional extra syllable, shown small before the dotted barline, in Ex. 4). One such prominent ‘primogen’ separates the string into two halves by compressing and isolating the repeating units of the sequence:

Amongst the earliest forms of the string to be created and used, this one’s first (and immediate) application was as one of the counter-themes in the duet music that was eventually designated as “The Seduction”. Having a more chatty quality, this form is also used in major key for genial dialogue, such as “Shall we play again?” and “What a lovely time,” for instance.

As a further example, one pivotal version Caluori fashioned extends the series of winding notes into a slightly longer, unbroken progression, so to give the librettist a bit more room to breathe:

This fiery declamation is repeated four times in persistent succession, twice at the tonic, and then twice a minor third higher.

Each repetition is set apart by pounding quavers in the accompaniment outlining the minor modality, making the overall statement sound all the more formidable; but it also causes an asymmetric 5/4 time signature that gives further propulsive motion to the phrase.

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Interestingly, the score’s first presentation of the leitmotiv, a strutting statement on the strings (after the form of Ex. 3), is not tied to the Marquise, but occurs at Valmont’s entrance. Its first emphasised appearance in a vocal line, however—the far more imposing permutation showing here [Ex. 6]—had a different destiny. This gem was already in Steppe’s possession, gleaming at him as he began work on the very earliest verses he would conceive for the drama. When he received the music, he gave Malcolm a ring. “It’s The Vow!” he proclaimed—the Marquise’s climactic vow of vengeance at the Prologue’s culmination.

That fool has made a fool of me and now he has to pay.

By Christ I swear, by Sampson’s hair, I’ll make him rue this day.

His blushing bride, his source of pride, I’ll turn her path to sin.

For what I want I’ll need Valmont, so let the game begin!

Caluori was thrilled. If the leitmotiv applied to anything in the drama it would be this vow, which sets the story itself in motion. Although the text of the first three lines was soon revised, even this original verse captures that irrepressible driving energy and rhythm, expresses a determined, seething passion.

Its construction is a complex composite quatrain, each line being tripartite, enabling a double rhyme scheme, both from within and between lines. Inspired by the music, yes; but it’s the format of the verse—and of course Steppe’s powerful and evocative use of language—that makes the gem truly sparkle, locks in its raging forward momentum, and makes it so irresistibly exciting.

The format of the Prologue was an important artistic topic of continuing discussion, evolving only gradually. Actually writing it is something that wouldn’t happen until further along in the process. But from very early on, the inspired little moment of music and verse set a special standard, and tantalised the writers as it waited to the side.

Elsewhere in the score, this commanding and forceful form of the motive is ultimately wielded against Valmont in “The Argu24

ment”; and, slightly modified, it becomes the Marquise’s rather more toned-down and duplicitous ‘advice’ music, as from “If He Were Here” and “Cécile’s Confession”.

The practise of leitmotiv has changed very little since Wagner’s time, primarily because his exploration of the device has been considered comprehensive. The implications of Caluori’s contribution are more substantial than perhaps they first appear. The various examples given are not transformations derived from the theme in Ex. 3. They are distinctly realised, first-generation constructs (one lyrical, one chatty, one declamatory, respectively). None of them is the transformational basis for the others. Rather, Examples 3, 5 and 6, generating directly from the primal genetic code, as it were, are a sort of musical equivalent to biological triplets—a subtle but fundamental difference.

The adaptive transformations listed with Ex. 3 as its auxiliaries unmistakably derive from that primogen specifically, not from the others. The same holds for each of the realisations discussed.

Moreover, none of these high-profile (i.e. recognisable) transformations, serving in their several varied dramatic situations, was arrived at through distorting development. With underlying leitmotiv, such developmental transformation doesn’t have to be the only means of generating new formations. By simply returning to the original underlying concept, new structures can be custom styled.

Let us return to convention and suppose the theme shown in Ex. 3 really was the leitmotiv, that is to say, the one theme serving the assigned function. Could you imagine Cécile’s seduction played out to the casual lyricism of the theme from “The Game”?

Even rendered more dramatic, the Ex. 3 theme would not 25

capture the unrestrained fury of the Marquise’s vow as we have it. More, if the many musical references to the game throughout the work relied only on adaptations of the one representative theme, the score would succumb to a plague of monotony.

Among the most intricate and fascinating aspects of musical art, it may seem as if this business of symphonic development is being regarded poorly. Not at all. Is it, then, simply out of turn with regard to leitmotiv? Not at all. Caluori’s concern there is solely to do with clear recognition. The ‘new but related’ quality of a developmentally transformed thread of material can achieve a most sensitive creative parallel to dramatic developments. Thematic reminiscence and leitmotiv involve shades of subtlety. The effect of a theme’s presence is, at times, pronounced; at others, the effect is more subliminal.

But with all the fuss about developmental transformation, some readers may be left wondering why it sounds so corrupting. What does it mean to degrade the recognisability of a theme? How? For the sake of explanation, an example from the score will make the point without great complication. But for the sake of technical brevity, our look at the practise shall be limited to one example only.

The theme of interest [Ex. 8], like most others in the Finale Ultimo, is already thematically reminiscent, this development of the leitmotiv having first appeared in Tourvel’s mad scene, “The Veil is Torn” (as Volanges enters Tourvel’s room at the convent).

The presently considered instance, from the Finale Ultimo, falls in a brief contemplative lull near the end of the duel, Tourvel’s bed at the convent also in view, as Tourvel and Valmont separately ponder the prospect that, “There is only one way to be happy.”

Caluori’s use of developmental techniques is not for sake of instilling symphonic effects; rather, symphonic procedures are recruited as further functional means to fulfil dramatic ends. The leitmotiv in this form discards its previous downwards-spiralling motion of the game in play, now only descending fatefully 26

downwards, in steady crotchets. Thus, the upwards motions in the motive are excised, leaving a four-note descent.

8. Act II, No.33, Finale Ultimo, Movt. 2, “The Duel�, bars 167–170

In bar 167, the first three notes appear in the treble line of the accompaniment, the fourth in the bass. The motive is repeated again in the following bar, where the doubling an octave below makes all four notes clearly visible in the bass line. Immediately following this statement, transformed slightly further still, the four-note motive is repeated a third time (bars 169 and 170, the four highest sounding minims).

Examples 9 and 10, below, show the full underlying leitmotiv once more, transposed to match the Ex. 8 quotation from the score. They illustrate the relationship of the transformed, fournote motive to the original leitmotiv.

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In the first example, because the first note sounded isn’t until halfway through the underlying string, and because the pitches used have been harmonised in an atypical way, this form of the motive is particularly subtle, and is difficult to spot consciously.

This is an intentional subtlety, of course. But it captures the appropriate tone, contributes to the continuity of the score’s material and, most relevantly here, is reminiscent of its earlier occurrence in the convent scene. It conjures the previous association to Tourvel’s doomed surrender as a pawn in the game, now carrying this association over to include Valmont.

The small, bracketed notes in Ex. 10, though not sounded, are subconsciously subsumed into the sounding pitch that precedes them (indicated by the braces above the notes). For a number of reasons (which we won’t detail here), in this second configuration one can more easily sense the essence of the leitmotiv lurking within, especially once the relationship has been pointed out.

This being only a single sampling, the techniques of symphonic development are typically as deconstructive as demonstrated here, utilising numerous standard procedures for engaging the task. What is built from what is removed can often bare little immediate likeness to its progenitor. The audible but shadowy family resemblances resulting from such developmental techniques are noted subconsciously, and are often caught by musicologists; but although this is the sort of thing that puts the craft in the art, this type of transformation is largely lost on the casual listener, slipping past an unfamiliar, untrained or unadvised ear.

The advent of the ‘underlying leitmotiv’, the preconstituent identity, resulted from a creative need for an assortment of synonymous musical statements, but diversely styled to accommo28

date a range of dramatico-musical expression. Not strictly limited to short motives, it offers variety to the ear, whilst simultaneously reinforcing continuity in the score. Each new, characteristically configured primogen being susceptible to transformations of its own, Caluori’s technique expands leitmotiv’s potential for dramatic adaptability exponentially.

As a music dramatist, Caluori’s musical planning is concentrated round the important dramatic functions of thematic reminiscence and leitmotiv. His concept of the thematic continuum invites the commingling of both systems, blurring the boundary between the two through the notion of constituent forms. His methods are designed to proliferate the amount of material available for their implementation. Consequently, thematic reminiscence extends beyond the recollection of basic melodic themes, acquiring leitmotiv’s ability to appear at any time, and to consist of essentially any recognisable formation. And leitmotiv becomes a stockpile of pliable tools, readily conforming to virtually any style of use required, without obscuring a motive’s ‘essential identity.’ Disposed to a densely integrated continuity of presentation, continuum theory is a significant extension of an idea that Giuseppe Verdi called tinta, the specially developed particular sound of a given opera. With a direct correlation to literary themes, a dramatic score’s unique aggregate of continua collectively contributes to its distinctive musical signature.

Music dramaturgy is a stable old, somewhat reclusive niche specialisation. And though, relatively speaking, his contributions to practical theory may be fresher developments on the scene, Caluori himself regards continuum theory less like invention and more an unveiling of latent organisation. “It’s a perspective,” he says, one that reveals the inner relationships, functions and operations of drama and music when they converge—a different thing from considering either independently. As such, it can as well be a window through which to view prior repertoire with clarity, answering even such famous puzzles as the ending of Puccini’s Tosca. Of his insights on leitmotiv he says, “musical 29

transformation has always been the product of conceptual processes in the creative mind.” His ideas, he says, merely “bring these things to the surface, where they can be consciously perceived and understood, and practiced in a way that’s consistent with their nature.”

Theory always follows practise, and such remarkable solutions as the techniques described were not so systematic when the writing of Dangerous Liaisons began. Not having tread this path before, and there being no set procedure for compiling a dramatic score, the work was simply done this way. Formal schemes and terminologies are a post-analytic result of a dramaturgic ideology intuitively pre-installed in the composer through a happy combination of personal background and probing imagination.

SO LET THE GAME BEGIN If these dramatico-musical tools can be used anywhere, scenes or songs, why the need to differentiate between scene music and song music? Quite simply, using them assumes that the source material already exists. Although scenes can introduce new themes, Caluori specified that all of the actual songs—numbers guaranteed to consist primarily of strong new themes and melodies—should be written before the music for the scenes, so that that material and most chief melodic themes would be available “to weave into the rest of the score.”

For practical purposes, then, not only actual, free-standing sections written in song form, but any planned number—or portion thereof—where strong musical structure and important new thematic material or melody should be originated, was regarded by the collaborators as ‘song music’ and would take priority over other work waiting to be written.

‘Scene music’ in Liaisons, on the other hand, is reserved for generally less formally structured, dialogue- and plot-driven moments, wherein the score presents the drama more or less freely as it unfolds. Scene music tends to have a higher density of 30

diverse thematic material, and might refer to any amount of existing material anchored elsewhere, in recollection, parody or revelation, for example.

Unaware of the further developments that their collaborative experiment was yet to uncover, there was one other vital assessment made prior to commencing work that would, in time, prove to have unimagined results. It was concluded that, from the point of Valmont’s break with Tourvel, the pace towards the climax and ultimate scene should be pressing; and that this final stretch should be written last, reserved for when “the broadest possible pallet” of existing musical material would be on hand for development within these important numbers.

These two rules—songs first, and final stretch last—were essentially the only conditions placed regarding the overall priorities for the writing to come. And with a sharpening synopsis at hand, a general methodology in mind, and a cup of creativity that runneth over, the pair snatched up their notebooks and began what, under the circumstances, they knew would be no fleeting phase of assiduously striking off first this number, now that.

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TWO Music and Ver se Phase I

A

CCUSTOMED TO working on several pieces simultaneously, Malcolm had already eagerly begun writing— something, anything, music for a song, a lyric ballad— not yet knowing its eventual place in the drama (something unthinkable to him now). With composer in Michigan and librettist in Kentucky, the collaborators could pay each other regular, if widely spaced visits to fraternise, synchronise, and coordinate their work. Regular phone conversations were already a habit, the continuing exchange of ideas essential. With Steppe’s choice to feature the game came his suggestion to use the scene of Cécile’s music lesson as an opportunity for the Marquise to explicitly bequeath the idea to the girl, in the form of a diegetic song for Cécile to sing at her harp. And so, Caluori also began working out the underlying leitmotiv representing the game.

And, previously mentioned, this resulted in sketches for the thematic motive shown in Ex. 6, and Cécile’s song, of course [Ex. 3], but also, using the motive shown in Ex. 5, the various phrases of music to a duet number, as well.

These contextless musics couldn’t really yet be drafted in a finished format. In providing such sketches for Steppe, Caluori notated the vocal phrases individually. This laid the lines out clearly for Steppe’s use, but the idea was also that the librettist should be granted a certain degree of flexibility, depending upon his expressive needs. Only after verse was written (and a dra33

matic context supplied) would a sketch of the fully constructed number then be drafted.

The duet music is an interesting example. It consists of four different phrases of melody, marked A, B, C, D (the primogen placed in phrase B). The composer indicates that A and B are together an opening statement that is then repeated (AB, AB).

Next, a contrasting section, melodies C and D occur in counterpoint (i.e. simultaneously). An annotation on the sketch explains that this counterpoint phrase should also repeat, but with the vocalists swapping melody lines (C/D, then D/C). With the return of the first material, the surprise finish is that A and B are this time also sung together in counterpoint, the two phrases having been specially constructed to work together in this way all along (for a whole scheme of AB, AB; C/D, D/C; A/B).

This type of ‘invertible linear counterpoint’, where the separate parts can be treated interchangeably, or stand on their own as independent melodies, is a favoured hallmark of Caluori’s.

Always with a mind for multiple uses and variable combinations, this technique is one more way that his musical materials are kept as versatile as possible. Just as with the previously discussed ostinati of Examples 1 and 2, such versatilities are established and exploited throughout the score, perhaps most apparently in the mix-and-match ‘letter music’ themes of the “Correspondences” numbers. These specially devised themes can appear alone, set end to end, their order shuffled about, or they can work in counterpoint together in different pairings. This lends the letterwriting sequences their complimentary spirit and momentum; but the separate phrases display sufficient variance in demeanour to also suggest the shifts of vantage point intrinsic to such theatrical sequences.

As was done periodically over the course of the collaboration, Malcolm bundled the sundry pieces (lyric ballad, Cécile’s song, the duet music, plus the Ex. 6 motive), with a rudimentary recording of the samples, and posted them off to Johnathan.

And with this inconspicuous little parcel, the bright green shoots 34

that would one day be Dangerous Liaisons had irreversibly cracked forth from their seedling shells to touch their new world.

For Steppe’s part, his initial dramatic attentions were occupied with the plight of the female victims of the game, especially Tourvel. The lyric ballad, he decided, would be for the expression of Tourvel’s inner afflictions, struggling against forbidden love. After several revisions to the text, this first musical number ever created for Liaisons ultimately became “Seasons Running from Ourselves”. Furthermore, the first fresh work that he passed on to Caluori was for the regret-filled resignation of Tourvel’s “Promise Me Anything”.

But Steppe’s inclinations were also concerned with the experiences of the innocent and maturing Cécile, so naïve to the ways of the world outside of the convent, and so vulnerable to abuse. For the somewhat sinister and pulsating duet music, he selected the crucial turning-point encounter between Cécile and Valmont, “The Seduction”, soon following this with verse for its prerequisite encounter, “The Key”.

As a solo number, writing text for “Seasons” was a fairly straightforward affair. But as for Steppe’s practical cosmetic use of Caluori’s sketches, some liberties were expected, and taken, especially with regard to the notated rhythms when necessary (for, say, an extra syllable here or there). The duet is a clear instance of ‘song’ done, to dramatic effect, as a scene. The melodic line of the A-B statement jumps, mid way through, between vocalists, as the progress of dialogue requires. And Steppe even indicated that the second appearance of the B phrase should be instrumental, as the physical action momentarily presides.

The number, understatedly entitled “The Seduction”, Steppe points out, “is really a rape.” Absolutely central to Cécile’s lifealtering misguidance at the whim of the Marquise, the scene holds tremendous challenges for any writer. This not merely due to the difficulties of working out the surface details of how the scene should play (Susa’s opera omits it altogether), but is mostly owing to the incredible complexity of circumstance and emo35

tion—not to mention risking the predictable charges of crudeness and vulgarity from those so distracted by the surface as to miss the rest. Caluori himself admits that upon first seeing the text, with such lines as “Wet desire so warm and right” and “I’ll fill you the way a man should,” even he was made a bit uneasy.

But the scene is what it is. Faced with having to write it, any author would have already carefully considered all of its aspects.

Unlike other dramatisations of the scene, the genre permits that lines be delivered simultaneously, but also that such crucial moments of characterisation can entail that Valmont and Cécile sing lines as much to themselves as to each other. This reveals a uniquely unnerving portrayal. Steppe doesn’t hesitate to agree that the text is indeed shocking—and ought to be. The inevitable sexuality, the direct appeal to Cécile’s maturing physicality, these are but the necessary exterior. The real drama, under Steppe’s construal, is not Valmont’s appalling act, but Cécile’s cornered and conflicted position. And in this regard, Steppe meets the challenge with reliably perceptive expression.

His masterstroke begins at the point when Cécile’s words indicate her relenting shift from moral resistance to heated submission, which quite artfully coincides with the musical moment when the vocalists swap counterpoint (from C/D to D/C). Aptly, Cécile here takes up, as her own, what was Valmont’s music.

But it’s her words, as she gives in, that pierce the listener.

Filled with fear, filled with warmness, I will give, you will take.

Secrets I have kept out of sight Bare their fruit tonight.

How can I betray Dançeny? I pray to God That you will understand What I don’t understand.

A little girl I may be tonight, But who will I awake?

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Steppe’s verse here does not attempt to offer any definite interpretation to the audience. Rightfully, how can Cécile explain, “What I don’t understand”? But with her acknowledgment of this and of her (also unnamed) “secrets”, Steppe elicits a most unsettling instance of what Oxford Professor of Literature J.R.R. Tolkein calls applicability. Whatever is meaningful and significant about Cécile’s plight to the observer, whatever complicated feelings about her circumstance are felt by the observer, are made just as applicable as the meanings and feelings of the next fellow. In other words, the fear, the desire, the confusion, the secret longings, the reckless abandon to consequence—to all of these we can personally relate, on some level. But the unannounced particulars of Cécile’s conflicted inner experience are left complicated, and made quite personal to each witness. The effect upon reaching the final stanza is chilling, to be sure.

A much worthy aside, it might here be mentioned that even as Steppe was working on these lines, Caluori, meanwhile, was writing the Prelude to Act I, a brief stretch of music that required neither libretto, nor indeed any previously prepared cache of themes. Rather surprisingly, it doesn’t even refer to the game. It is perhaps, instead, an answer to the game. That is, its result.

For this prelude, Caluori was quite plain in his intensions. The music would frame the story, its single purpose to prefigure its return as the climax of the duel in the Finale Ultimo. It consists only of a brisk, chattering, gradually intensifying perpetual motion that eventually crashes to its culmination: a broad, foreboding fanfare of sorts, which presently then subsides. Aside from its still more stridently stated return as Valmont’s deathblow (and although its echoes might be distantly perceived in Tourvel’s pleadings upon Valmont’s threat of suicide), this fanfare, a highly vital constituent form, clearly tied to Valmont, is not to be found elsewhere in the score, apparently reserved for this special framing usage only—but for one exception.

Once having received Steppe’s newly written text, the music could be properly resketched as numbers, bespoke, as it were, 37

to fit the needs of their now defined contexts. With “The Seduction”, the separate phrases could now be fit together, the music adjusted to the text, where needed; the instrumental section in the middle was created; the accompaniment throughout styled to support and portray the progressing scene. Of equal import, two other notable additions brought the once nondescript sketch thoroughly into the fold of the drama. An incidental introduction was prefixed to the piece, as Valmont enters Cécile’s room and momentarily observes her sleep. And at the duet’s ending, Steppe writes the indication, “In silhouette, we see him above her, and her rising to meet him. They freeze in tableau and the scene recedes from view.” At this emotional moment of irreparable consequence, it is the foreboding fanfare that sets that tableau, binding it, decisively, to Valmont, to the game, its tempting allure, and its inexorably devastating effects.

Not so suddenly, but certainly, Dangerous Liaisons was no longer merely an idea. Cécile’s song, we know, became “The Game”; the Ex. 6 motive was assigned definitively to the Marquise’s Vow. With new musical sketches for Steppe’s “Promise Me Anything” and “The Key”, there were now a handful of fresh new creations existing solely as its representatives. The pair handled only a few numbers early on in this haphazard, if enthusiastic way. And “Seasons Running from Ourselves” and “The Seduction” were, in fact, the only music that would be written without a known dramatic purpose. But always was the case that sometimes text came first, sometimes music. Though, in the end, for very different reasons than either of them anticipated.

FORTNIGHT The next substantial cycle of the collaboration was highlighted by a two-week visit Caluori had managed to arrange, following Steppe’s accumulation of several sets of newly written text, including verse for the important numbers, the love duet, “A Heart To Run To”, and the unexpected surprise announcement, the Act I Finale, a number Steppe called “Secrets”—in its entirety. A sur38

prise, because it was a major number which the two had not yet really worked out together (though they had determined the presence of the chorus, and the setting); and because it was presumed by Caluori to be a large scene of a sort that might be tackled later, being more a comment on plot than a part of it.

They had already compared the variations between several of the available versions of the story, and Steppe was especially interested in their differences, in departures from the source, individual solutions and new ideas. He developed a private care for originality and had grown rather keen to distinguish his writing with unique new material. His Tourvel’s connection with nature, for instance, led to her special affinity for the surrounding park, and to “The Garden Song”, a sort of lullaby she turns to for calm. Furthermore, having previously agreed that their treatment of the Volanges character would be as a more comic role, the childless Steppe—whose own mother had no daughters— astoundingly produced the panting and befuddled “Motherhood” at the age of nineteen. Solving the undefined finale was naturally a foremost consideration for Steppe. “Secrets” was an exciting and welcomed new addition; and the score’s subsequent reliance upon its important main theme, complementary to that of the game, was made possible only by the number’s early investiture.

The dedicated collaborative proximity during this rare twoweek stint resulted in a remarkable degree of productivity. Pen in hand, Malcolm’s tendency to remain poised over his manuscripts, even as he nodded off for thirty minutes here, twenty minutes there, left the impression on the rest of the Steppe household that the composer never slept. In truth, setting the new text to music was not the only work being done during his stay. This time saw the creation of sketches for the instrumentals, “The Garden” Interlude, and the Entr’acte (later becoming the Prelude to the Intermedio, prior to Act II), and new numbers were also being written whilst the two were together. His visit being finite, the multitude of ideas and details afforded by the days of extended mutual attentiveness to various dramatic solu39

tions simply wouldn’t wait for a full night of “lying dormant in a bed.”

The music for “A Heart To Run To” was amongst the first tasks to which Caluori set himself, understanding that the obligatory popular love duet for Tourvel and Valmont would provide musical material central to the story of the two characters. But it was precisely this almost formulaic, cliché expectation of a popular style for the duet that Caluori found so distasteful. “So be it,” he now says, with a good-humoured shrug. “But there was no way a drum beat was going in there.” In cooperation with Steppe’s verse, however, the music does achieve the delicate accomplishment of buoying the lovers’ fragile, uncertain union to a heady place of impulsive mutual surrender, intimating even from Valmont a sense of genuine sincerity.

It’s in the auxiliary treatment of the duet’s music that Caluori later reclaims some of the sophistication that was sacrificed at its source. In view of its thematic continuum, music from “A Heart To Run To” is first introduced in the number “Madame de Tourvel”, the scene that also first introduces her character in the original version of the score. Here Caluori applies a fairly extended representation of the theme—its arrival accentuated by a brightening modulation of key—to Tourvel’s words as she reflects upon the surrounding nature.

Something in a garden Is very close to God. Quiet, still, and innocent, Beauty so unflawed.

Simple in its splendor, Modest in its grace, It’s so easy to surrender To this quiet, perfect place.

The theme later appears, fully and at ease, as “The Garden” Interlude, when Tourvel escapes to the out of doors from the 40

discomfort of the awkward fuss Valmont had created about her inside. And still again, as the dread-filled Interlude “Tourvel’s Departure”, she here withdrawing from the manor altogether.

Such striking usages as these, preceding—as they do—the arrival of the definitive presentation, “A Heart To Run To”, convey the theme as being, in fact, related specifically to Tourvel. More particularly, its associations are with the feelings of safety and rightness, the sense of home and simple peace that she finds in nature and ascribes to the Divine.

Conversely then, when used in Valmont’s music, the theme initially flashes past, flaring up only to then quickly dissipate, in his attempts to capture Tourvel’s guarded trust. In his progress, successive quotations of the theme do increasingly endure. But only upon the arrival of the duet, in full bloom, does he prevail in unlocking the path to Tourvel’s deep inner place of comfort and security. The unbound approach to the placement of themes within a continuum—not limited to a post-duet reminiscence— is what thus enables the dramaturgic aspect of the music to assume such complex semantic revelations as these.

Between composer and librettist, there was always the presumption, music-first or text-first, that the list of unwritten numbers contained items for each collaborator, and that their respective work would proceed concurrently. Neither wanted to be idle. The approach seemed sensible enough, especially with the songs-first guideline in place. And, for the time being, the presumption survived. Although there were practical limitations to when music might be written first, Caluori wouldn’t wait for a section of libretto to be provided in advance, if his inspiration was matched with a permissive circumstance.

When Cécile, for example, upset by her night time encounter with Valmont, rushes to the Marquise for advice in “Cécile’s Confession”, the scene’s opening had already been determined: Cécile suddenly bursts onto the scene, anxiously spouting her confidences to the Marquise, who then advises her, coolly and persuasively, leading Cécile astray to satisfy her own ends.

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Needing only this scenario as inspiration, Caluori was able to write an appropriately agitated entrance for Cécile, directly followed by a fervent theme originally referred to as the ‘pity’ motive (“Madame, it was Valmont….”), though, regarding its continuum, it is more properly understood as a statement of impassioned discontent. The Marquise’s reply uses the music of her Vow, adapting it to become “more seductive.” This music was, in turn, enough inspiration for Steppe to then create a first draft of the balance of the ensuing exchange between the two characters, basing his verse, fittingly, on music from “The Game” and from “The Seduction”.

Similarly, Cécile’s song, “The Game”, remember, was not a complete number unto itself, but part of the larger music lesson scene, still awaiting completion. Its dramatic content also having already been discussed, Malcolm prepared the music preceding the song. And for the portion falling after Cécile’s song, he also handed Johnathan the anxious and hurried passage that occurs as Cécile reveals to the Marquise her secret love for Dançeny (“Madame, I need your true discretion…” Incidentally, the secrecy associated with this theme is marked with the eight encircling notes of Valmont’s scandalous instructions from “The Key”, making them a kind of secrecy motive). Incorporating this into his writing, Steppe then completed the remainder of the number.

This was scene music, it’s true, and against the general rule; but with a desire to complete the dramatic sequence, the exception was likely best made whilst composer and librettist were in company together.

The unfortunate, improvised condition of the synopsis yet persisting, it was thought at this time that “Seasons Running from Ourselves” (which ends with the words, “without a heart to run to”) would be followed directly by the duet, “A Heart To Run To”, wrongly omitting the decisive scene between the two songs; and somehow also that “Cécile’s Confession” would fall immediately after “The Seduction”, even though the stage directions on either side of the adjoin, as we have seen, would clearly make this a 42

problem. Even so, with the music lesson scene complete, and text for “The Garden Song” and “The Fires Within” also having been paired together, multiple short segments of continuous score were beginning to materialise. In addition to the myriad other matters they had attended besides, the two were invigorated by the encouraging progress made during Caluori’s visit.

Following the composer’s departure, the residual momentum of the fortnight assisted Steppe in his preparations of three key supporting scenes, including the “Mail” scene, depicting Valmont’s first movements against Tourvel. He knows that she’s already been receiving letters of warning from someone. When the sordid interception of her letters was later consolidated into this scene, Caluori added a sort of incidental coda to his original setting, following Tourvel’s flight from the room. The underscore is a mellifluous, winding and pacing melody line, a brooding belligerence, as Valmont reads from a misplaced letter. And with the building musical tension that overtakes the scene’s conclusion with heaving infuriation as he reaches the name of the signatory, Caluori knew at once that this music would be heard again—as the blistering standoff that makes confidants into adversaries, in “The Argument”.

Also penned at this time was Steppe’s enchanting duet, “If Only”, his delightful depiction of youth’s hesitant fascination with love. Cécile and Dançeny, finally alone together after great pains taken on their behalf to—shall we say—hearten their coupling, never get round to singing any of the love duet’s lines to each other, each longing for an encouraging sign from the other. In two of the later, reminiscent uses of the number’s refrain, Steppe eloquently transmutes the hopeful, yearning thought of ‘if only…’ into a lament for things which needn’t have come to pass. Serving first to introduce Cécile’s Reprise “The Game”, then poignantly invoked in the Finale Ultimo, between Dançeny and Valmont, upon their impending duel.

Finally, Rosemonde’s “The Nature of Man” instructs that a woman’s natural inclination to give love, if indulged with a man, 43

leads to inescapable despair. Those familiar with the classic story might here anticipate a guarded sermon of lonely cynicism, born of life’s hard lessons, as argued to one’s audience in the manner of a Tim Rice. But the extreme attitude of Rosemonde’s stark words, in Steppe’s hands, that men are lusty warriors, traitorous schemers, unreasonably selfish, entirely fickle and yet unforgiving, is mere groundwork. Recall that the ‘seasons’ of Tourvel are those of innocent purity, of life’s goodness, and God’s love.

Steppe once again summons the idea of seasons, as Tourvel’s mentor here imparts three other senses of the metaphor, to underscore the lesson. The passage of time: in all her years, things have always been this way; the certainty of the cycle: the path she warns of progresses to one destination only; the force of nature: it is the unalterable way of the world.

If there is a message for the audience, Steppe’s noted interest in the story’s “stratification of gender” magnifies it to make the point. In such a world, where men entertain their free and reckless reign, the distorted inequality of the sexes has left only monsters or misery. Tourvel’s mentor, Rosemonde, espouses the imperilled resign of the marginalized woman; whereas Cécile’s mentor, the Marquise, an uncompromising, ruthless determination to share equally in the spoils of men’s wars—nay, but to indeed outdo them.

A rare extant worksheet illustrates the progressive stages of Caluori’s procedure for setting Steppe’s supplied text to “The Nature of Man”—a more operatically conceived number, one of the few that he actually calls aria in the score. On the worksheet, after first breaking down the schematic of Steppe’s stanzas and identifying three phrase types (A1, A2, and B), Caluori begins with a ‘rhythm sketch’, exploring and determining patterns that work with the language used in all instances of each given phrase type. Functional rhythms having been established, they are then converted into melody. The page reveals a gradual evolution of multiple time signatures, melodic possibilities, and key areas, into the composer’s eventually accepted form.

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Fig. 2

Caluori’s working copy of the libretto is, as well, scrawled with annotations [Fig. 2] indicating how the music should be constructed. Margin notes identify any stanzas assigned with particular musical themes (especially whereas Steppe’s supplied verse, once the writing of ‘scenes’ began, fairly frequently preimposes the re-use of music from previously completed numbers). Jottings might indicate special connections to observe, 45

detail pacing and transitions, or remark on structure. One occasionally finds verse with barlines drawn between words, short underscores specifying syllabic stress and downbeats, or lines of text with their poetic scansion fully marked. Indicators of a form of shorthand rhythm sketch, likely leading to a process similar to that described above, in the composer’s study of potential musical settings.

A penchant for organised relationships, and a spirit of exploration and solution are a composer’s calling cards. The writing of Dangerous Liaisons was by this point well underway, and the collaborators felt as though they were beginning to settle into a familiar routine. Quietly in the background, however, as a matter of course, Caluori’s instincts were constantly observing the ways in which the two collaborative contributions bear on one another, text first or music first. Songs versus scenes, declamation versus narrative versus dialogue versus recitative—pros and cons, the quality of the creative result, and a persistence for uncovering the “best” way. The ordinary proceedings of Caluori’s subsequent routine would involve an unperceived chain of cumulative events, spurring an unparalleled reorientation of the collaboration itself, ultimately leading to a point of illumination that, in retrospect, might be plausibly argued to have been on the cards since the composer first engaged the project.

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