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Hollywood Harmony
MUSICAL WONDER AND THE SOUND OF CINEMA
FRANK LEHMAN
1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Lehman, Frank, author.
Title: Hollywood harmony : musical wonder and the sound of cinema / Frank Lehman. Description: New York, NY : Oxford University Press, [2018] | Series: Oxford music/media series | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017041303 (print) | LCCN 2017041598 (ebook) | ISBN 9780190606411 (updf) | ISBN 9780190606428 (epub) | ISBN 9780190606435 (oso) | ISBN 9780190606398 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780190606404 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Motion picture music—United States—Analysis, appreciation. Classification: LCC ML2075 (ebook) | LCC ML2075 .L38 2018 (print) | DDC 781.5/420973—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041303
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Paperback printed by WebCom, Inc., Canada Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America
This volume is published with the generous support of the AMS 75 PAYS Endowment of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.
Acknowledgments ix
Abbreviations, Orthography, and Examples xiii
ABBREVIATIONS xiii
General xiii
Scales and Collections xiii
Cadences xiv
Transformations (Full inventory given in Chapter 2) xiv
ORTHOGRAPHY xiv
EXAMPLES: TRANSCRIPTIONS xv
About the Companion Website xvii
Introduction 1
HOLLYWOOD SIGNS AND WONDERS 1
SCOPE 7
APPROACH 10
ORGANIZATION 12
1. Tonal Practices 15
“SOUNDS LIKE FILM MUSIC” 15
THE ROMANTIC INHERITANCE 19
KORNGOLDIAN SPLENDOR 24
SUBORDINATION 26
IMMEDIACY 31
PROLONGATION 37
REFERENTIALITY 42
2. Expression and Transformation 49
TONALITY AS DRAMA 49
WHOLE-TONE DREAMS 51
PUMP-UP SCHEMES 54
MUSICAL EXPRESSIVITY 59
Extrinsic Meaning 60
Intrinsic Meaning 62
PANTRIADIC CHROMATICISM 66
ALTERED AND HEIGHTENED REALITIES 69
BACK TO THE SURFACE 73
PANTRIADIC FORMS 75
Absolute Progressions 75
Sequences and Cycles 76
Discursive Chromaticism 80
3. Neo-Riemannian Theory at the Movies 85
THEORETICAL BACKGROUND 85
TRIADIC TRANSFORMATIONS IN THEORY 89
TRIADIC TRANSFORMATIONS IN CONTEXT 96
Examples from Elliot Goldenthal 96
Associativity of Neo-Riemannian Transformations 100
Tritonal Transposition 102
Slide 103
TWO NEO-RIEMANNIAN ANALYSES 105
Waltz with Bashir 105
Batman: Mask of the Phantasm 108
TONAL SPACE 110
The Da Vinci Code 114
Scott of the Antarctic 118
4. Analyzing Chromaticism in Film 127
PLAYING WITH TRANSFORMATIONS 127
CONTEXTUALITY 128
Harmonic Context and Interpretation 128
Pantriadicism in Bernard Herrmann 131
Mysterious Island 134
DISTANCE 137
Measuring Pantriadic Distance 137
The Perfect Storm 138
Superman 139
VOICE LEADING 141
Fellowship of the Ring 142
Avatar 144
EQUIVALENCE 146
Isography and Thematic Transformation 146
The Goonies 148
King Kong 149
Inception and Vertigo 153
PATTERNING 155
Symmetry and Symmetry Breaks 155
Above and Beyond 156
Batman 158
Contact 161
5. Pantriadic Wonder 165
THE ART OF AMAZEMENT 165
WONDER, AWE, AND FRISSON 168
TONAL STRATEGIES IN THE LORD OF THE RINGS 174
FRISSON 178
Théoden’s Ride 179
Musical Expectancy 182
CHROMATIC TEMPORALITY 186
AWE 192
6. Harmonious Interactions 199
THE CADENCE OF FILM MUSIC 199
TRIADIC TONALITY SPACE 203
INTRAPHRASAL CHROMATICISM 207
Dr. Strange 208
Basic Instinct 210
Violent City 212
TONAL MONISM AND DUALISM 214
TONAL DIALECTICS 218
Three Forms of Tonal Interaction 218
The X-Files 220
THE BEATIFIC SUBLIME 223
Joan of Arc 223
Modal Moods 225
Our Lady of Fatima 226
“THE VISION” 228
Afterword 237
Notes 241
Bibliography 267
Multimedia Index 281
Subject Index 285
Acknowledgments
This book is the culmination of a lifetime of interest in film music, one that could never have reached this point without the encouragement and assistance of colleagues, friends, and family. During the early stages of this project, film music theory was still not a large or well-defined discipline, and I must acknowledge the leap of faith it took for my mentors at Harvard University to approve of and steer along my work. Suzannah Clark, Chris Hasty, and especially my endlessly supportive doctoral advisor, Alex Rehding, offered everything an eager but naive young academic could need— feedback, encouragement, opportunity, and professional camaraderie. As I worked toward my PhD, I was fortunate to have guidance from a veritable all- star lineup of scholars, including Carolyn Abbate, Kofi Agawu, Daniel Albright, Richard Beaudoin, James Hoberman, Thomas Forrest Kelly, Fred Lerdahl, Sindhu Revuluri, Christoph Wolff, and the late Allen Forte; one could not ask for a more inspiring group of intellectual models. And for making every visit to the Harvard Music Department a joy (including a few nostalgic stopovers in 2017), I thank Lesley Bannatyne, Kaye Denny, Eva Kim, Nancy Shafman, Jean Moncrieff, Karen Rynne, and Charles Stillman.
What in retrospect seems like an inevitable path into academia was in fact the result of countless little shoves from my extraordinary professors at Brown University—among them, I owe profound gratitude to Paul Austerlitz, Katherine Bergeron, Arlene Cole, David Josephson, Paul Phillips, Butch Rovan, Shep Shapiro, Michael Steinberg, and Jeff Todd Titon. My undergraduate advisor, James Baker, deserves special thanks, not only for turning me on to music theory in the first place, but turning on a whole generation of my friends and classmates, who now study and teach music at the highest levels across the country, thanks to the inspiring example he set.
My time at Tufts University has been nothing short of a blessing. I have received continuous support and encouragement for this project from my colleagues in the Department of Music and the School of Arts and Sciences at large. The pages of this book are full of small insights and minor epiphanies I have gained through the many stimulating conversations I have had with every member of the
faculty here, especially Joseph Auner, Alessandra Campana, Stephan Pennington, and Janet Schmalfeldt. I have gleaned inspiration from colleagues from every corner of the university, including from Nancy Bauer, Bárbara Brizuela, Jane Bernstein, Julia Cavallaro, Jimena Codina, James Glaser, Charles Inouye, Richard Jankowsky, Lucille Jones, Jamie Kirsch, Paul Lehrman, David Locke, Martin Marks, John McDonald, Michael McLaughlin, Melinda Latour O’Brien, William O’Hara, Aniruddh Patel, Johnny Redmond, Michael Rogan, Joel LaRue Smith, and Danna Solomon. The student body at Tufts, both at the undergraduate and master’s level, has also proven an invaluable stimulus to my own thinking, particularly for a seminar I convened in Spring 2016 on multimedia analysis— together, Joe Annicchiarico, Erik Broess, Megan Connolly, Michelle Connor, Stephanie Evans, Kendall Winter, Abbie Rienzo, Allie McIntosh, and Cole Swanson found ways to challenge my own thinking and introduce me to many texts and approaches I would not have encountered otherwise.
When I first began researching film music, I felt as if I were the lone explorer in a vast and daunting landscape. How lucky I was to be quickly disabused of this notion, as I soon found my way into a vibrant (and, hearteningly, evergrowing) community of scholars within the fields of music theory, film music studies, and American musicology. It was an honor to find early support from those I considered luminaries and pathfinders in this discipline, especially from Scott Murphy and David Neumeyer. For their diverse contributions and assorted forms of inspiration, I would additionally like to acknowledge Emilio Audissino, Andrew Aziz, Janet Bourne, Matthew Bribitzer- Stull, James Buhler, Ed Buller, Juan Chattah, Richard Cohn, Michael Ducharme, Grace Edgar, Erik Heine, Craig Lysy, Karoly Mazak, Brooke McCorkle, Matthew McDonald, Stephen Meyer, Drew Nobile, Chelsea Oden, Steven Rahn, Nicholas Reyland, Mark Richards, William Rosar, Tom Schneller, Charles Smith, Willem Strank, and Bill Wrobel.
Writing can be a lonely process, and I spent many hours working on this manuscript with only my feline accomplice, Hector—a rotund tabby cat whose shock of orange fur resembles that of his namesake composer— for company. So it with special appreciation that I acknowledge the members of my Skype writing group, four friends and colleagues who lent their critical eyes to countless drafts scarcely more than a stream of consciousness peppered with neo-Riemannian symbols, and their sympathetic ears to many a bewailing of writer’s block. For their patience and fellowship, I owe so much to Elizabeth Craft, Louis Epstein, Hannah Lewis, and Matt Mugmon. My feeling of gratitude also extends to members of my PhD cohort who continued offering insight and inspiration long after graduation—Will Cheng, Michael Heller, Tom Lin, John McKay, Luci Mok, Rowland Moseley, and Meredith Schweig.
Throughout the writing of Hollywood Harmony, I have benefited from the institutional support of a host of scholarly societies and organizations, including the Society for American Music, Music and the Moving Image, the New England Conference of Music Theorists, and the Newbury Faculty Fellowship. My research
was supported by a pair of generous subventions, one from the Society for Music Theory, and the Claire and Barry Brook Endowment of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. The fact that these institutions saw value in this project gives me hope that scholars and musicians of many stripes— theorists, historians, composers— will find something of interest within these pages.
Oxford University Press has been a dream to work with at every stage of the publishing process. From the moment first I sat down with the tireless and supernaturally kind (and superhumanly attentive) General Editor Norm Hirschy to discuss my proposal, I knew I wanted OUP to be Hollywood Harmony’s home. I also lucked out with Daniel Goldmark as Music/Multimedia Series Editor, and I consider it a great honor to have found my way into a book series shared with so many of my film musicological idols. To the anonymous reviews of my initial manuscript— thank you for pulling no punches. Your feedback was invaluable and incisive (and voluminous!), and there is not a paragraph in the final book that does not reflect some positive change you directly inspired. Thank you to Kendall Winter for expertly assembling this book’s index. I am grateful to the superb editorial work of Leslie Safford, and the dedicated efforts from the entire Production Team at OUP and Newgen Knowledge Works, especially Janani Thiruvalluvar, my project manager.
For stoking my curiosity from an early age, for always supporting my faddish hobbies, and, especially, for cultivating in me a lifelong passion for music, I will never be able to thank my mother and father, Diana and William, enough. And for my brother, John, I admit leaching from you more than a few interests—notably, considering their prominence in this study, Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings. But the greatest obsession I’ve parasitized from you is obviously birding. As someone now willing to get up at 2AM and drive 200 miles to see the tiny silhouette of a warbler or hear the faint whimper of a thrush, all I can say is—I’m sorry if I ever made fun of you as a kid for your peculiar love of all things avian. I get it now.
To my wife, my best friend, my academic role model, and my fellow pop- culture obsessive, Kasi Conley: thank you for your loving companionship. We have been together for almost exactly as long as this book has been gestating. From the biggest life decisions to the smallest gestures of kindness and encouragement, any success I have had since we met in 2009 I owe to you.
I dedicate this book to my daughter, Margaret. Margie, you are the greatest wonder in my life.
TRANSFORMATIONS (FULL INVENTORY GIVEN IN CHAPTER 2)
T n Transpose by n
P Parallel
L Leading-Tone Exchange (Leittonwechsel)
R Relative
S Slide
N Near Fifth (Nebenverwandt)
F Far Fifth
H Hexatonic Pole
D Dominant
I Identity
Orthography
Hollywood Harmony adheres to the general analytic orthography developed in Lewin (1987). The transformations employed herein are detailed in Chapter 2 and follow the nomenclatural precedents of Lewin (1987) and Hyer (1995). Transformations are distinguished in prose and diagrams by bold abbreviated operators (e.g., PL·D).
Left-to-right transformational orthography is used unless otherwise noted. The dot (·) symbol entails composition of separate operations, and may be used both to imply a specific subdivision of a compound transformation and to ease reading of potentially confusing mixtures of different algebraic groups.
Analysis of harmonic function adheres to the norms of standard Americanstyle Roman numerals, though for the sake of simplicity these will often be the
barest possible descriptions of a given harmonic span’s function; the Roman numeral analyses, in other words, are also reductive. Schenkerian analytic methodology is intermittently employed and uses the general techniques laid out in Forte and Gilbert (1982). Scientific pitch notation is used to indicate the octave of a pitch. For the titles of film score excerpts, the name of the track from the original soundtrack is generally used, rather than the more difficult to ascertain cue- sheet names (e.g., “Main Title” instead of “1m1”).
Specific elements of analytic nomenclature include the following:
CM, Cm C major, minor chord (in prose, score diagrams)
C, c C major, minor chord (in transformation diagrams)
C7 C dominant seventh chord
C major C major key/tonic
C x Sonority built on x- collection or mode. (e.g., Coct = C octatonic sonority)
Cm
A
Slash- chord (C minor over A♭ bass)
⇨ Progression (e.g., CM⇨Gm)
⇔ Oscillatory Progression
pc Pitch Class scale x,y Symmetrical scale (e.g., oct, wt) featuring pcs x and y (xyz) Set in prime form {xyz} Ordered set
f(x) Transformation f on x
f1/f2 Alternate interpretation between transformations f1 and f2 f(M) or f(m) Transformation on major or minor triad
Examples: Transcriptions
All film music analyses in Hollywood Harmony are the result of my own personal transcriptions. These examples are rendered in accordance with the dictates of fair use in the United States Copyright Act, Section 107, and are included solely for analytical purposes. Where a passage of music is presented for an example, it is analyzed with interpretive information (such as harmonic labels, prolongational stems and slurs, and screen-action indicators). Examples are reduced for maximum clarity and often with simplification of register, instrumentation, and sometimes of specific chordal voicing and polyphonic lines as well. Only the portions of a cue relevant to written analyses are reproduced. The possibility exists for transcription error, particularly in cases of rhythmically vague and dissonant material; I take extreme care to ensure accuracy, but nevertheless assume responsibility for any misinterpretations that result from transcriptive fallibility.
About the Companion Website
www.oup.com/hollywoodharmony
A companion website accompanies Hollywood Harmony. This site includes audio clips of all the primary musical examples discussed in this book. Additionally, any updates or errata will be posted to this website.
Readers are encouraged to peruse these recordings, which are signaled within the text by the symbol . Sound clips are drawn from Original Soundtrack Albums when available, or recorded directly from the film when commercial CD releases are unavailable. All clips are only partial representations of the scores they stem from, and are limited in duration and scope so as to adhere to Fair Use guidelines.
The companion website also features additional score examples for passages of music mentioned in passing in Hollywood Harmony. This includes transcriptions for all film cues discussed in Chapter 2: Altered and Heightened Realities and Chapter 6: The Cadence of Film Music.
Hollywood Signs and Wonders
Today’s filmgoers are bathed in music well before a movie even begins. Product commercials, behind- the- scenes promos, sneak previews, and film trailers are paraded out during the preludial “Coming Attractions” segment, each featuring carefully crafted musical accompaniment. Employing in miniature many of the same expressive and technical resources of movie scoring at large, these “preshow entertainments” make up the first stage in the inherently musical experience of filmgoing. And since the birth of the Studio Era in the 1930s, one component in particular— the logo—has welcomed audiences into the sound world of Hollywood.
These are not just unusually grandiloquent advertising jingles; the pithy fanfares and evocative harmonies of logo themes are calculated to call up associations and build expectations about filmgoing itself.1 Figure 0.1 ( ) offers one such utterance that audiences between 1990 and 1999 were likely to hear as the theater lights dimmed. James Horner’s seven-measure logo for Universal Studios is a paratext, a work that delineates formal and generic boundaries but sits outside the text itself (Genette 1997). The message conveyed by Horner’s musical miniature is at once both bluntly informative and artfully suggestive. It serves as a sonic brand, celebratorily proclaiming the company that is responsible for bringing a film to its audience. But it also fulfills an equally important, if somewhat covert, symbolic function. This logo and others like it prepare spectators to
Figure I.1 Horner, Universal Studios Logo.
surrender fully to worlds soon to be conjured on screen. In concert with grand corporate typefaces and monumental graphical designs, the logo theme offers a sonic sample of larger- than-life spectacle, albeit a spectacle safely enclosed within a brief, neatly bound package.
Horner’s broadly arching theme and comforting consonance promises cinematic wonders to come, but it also points backward in time. It embeds its listener within a romanticized history of cinematic experience, a history with a communal, generation-spanning dimension as well as a personal one (as the listener is likely be already familiar with the piece, or at least its style). Logo themes are acute manifestations of a nostalgizing strain in mainstream Hollywood, with music serving as what Caryl Flinn calls “a kind of conduit to connect listeners . . . to an idealized past, offering . . . the promise of a retrieval of lost utopian coherence” (1992: 50).
The musical style of a logo theme tends to be quite generic and may have very little to do tonally (in both senses) with the actual film about to appear. Alfred Newman’s boisterously old- fashioned 20th Century Fox fanfare accomplishes essentially the same task when it precedes the harrowing 12 Years a Slave in 2013 as it did upon its inaugural annunciation with the dramatic comedy The Bowery in 1933.2 In fact, the more out of date the logo’s music, the better it may fulfill its nostalgic and communalizing purposes.3 As Leo Braudy observes, “like every icon, modern and ancient, the Hollywood sign has both a physical and metaphysical life, reaching beyond itself to unspecified wonders in an invisible world of potential and possibility” (2011: 4). Braudy speaks of the literal Hollywood sign that stretches across the Santa Monica Mountains, but he could as easily be referring to the golden letters of the 20th Century Fox emblem, or the roaring lion of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, or the splashy red comic book panels of Marvel Studios. Logos, and their meticulously constructed musical themes, are devised to sell the movies, not any one movie in particular.
Horner’s little composition encapsulates some of the recurrent technical traits of logo themes as a formal archetype (and the sound of Hollywood as a musical ideal). Common features of these paratexts include arresting and cumulatively expanded orchestration, upward-arching melodies, and a sustained crescendo in volume. They tend to be heavily end weighted, speaking a rhetoric of culmination and arrival rather than departure or progress. Temporal constraints obviate full melodic forms such as periods or sentences, with very few exceptions.4 During the apex of the Studio Era, logos were not always treated as self- contained musical statements; rather, they were composed so as to enable a smooth transition directly into the main credits. Max Steiner’s tonally open-ended music for the original Warner Brothers Shield Logo (1937), for example, acts like a musical interrobang, forcefully grabbing attention but purposefully eschewing syntactic closure. This open-endedness allows the subsequent film score proper to determine musical mood and meaning. When logos do end, the ringing assertion of the final, almost invariably major triad is all important. In some cases, overall harmonic substance may consist of little more than a single sustained chord—Horner
beats this commonplace by having three.5 Bipartite structure of a sort is often present even where there is minimal harmonic momentum, in the form of preand post- cadential segmentation. Musical desire is piqued and swiftly satisfied, enacting a tonal microcosm of the comfortably delivered pleasures of mainstream filmmaking.6
The seven measures of Horner’s theme fall into two sections, with the first four bars setting up a melody that stresses consonant intervals and chord tones, and the final four lingering on a chord of resolution. No gesture, no matter how small, is wasted. The initial melodic fourth, for example, opens up the tonal space around G, importing the peremptory, heraldic melodic connotations of beginning with a rising perfect interval while softening their impact with gentle syncopation and supple orchestration. The mode is, crucially, not simply major, but rather a scalar alternative that has come to connote wonder and magic. Though no form of the fourth scale degree (aka ‸ 4, or “fa”) is present in the melody, the rocking oscillation of G and A major triads underneath establishes an unvarnished lydian mode, bright and inviting and distinctively “Hollywood.”7 While the glittering texture might signal “the movies” quite strongly, the structural and affective crux of the piece is assuredly the modulation that takes place in m. 5. Beginning in the key of G, Horner’s logo swerves upward by a major third to B major, where the theme’s lydian chords continue to lap tenderly before settling on the final tonic chord. Major- third progressions like this one are endemic to modern studio logos, and to film music in general. Ending up in a key signature four sharps richer than you started in is an example of a tried-and- true tonal trope, a musical convention capable of taking on countless guises and narratival functions.
Despite involving a shift between keys with dissimilar pitch content (four rotations on the circle of fifths), the key change in Horner’s theme is quite smooth, prepared in a way almost as to sound inevitable. The progression GM⇨AM⇨BM in mm. 4–5 even finds a way to behave both as a modulation and a cadence. In a more harmonically “traditional” piece, the initial vacillation between G and A might signal a maneuver toward G’s dominant, D major; in that case, C♯ would act as a pivot pitch, an applied leading tone to the root of the dominant. Yet the theme adheres to a different sort of musical logic: not one defined by the functional impulse of the diatonic- fifth progression, but rather by factors like modal coloration and chromatic surprise.8 If anything, in Horner’s pervasively lydian tonal space, the note C♯ implies upward resolution into D♯, not D♮. Since G can proceed to A major, the reasoning goes, why not repeat the relationship and have A major go to B major (and B to C♯ and so on)? Shifting upward in this manner thus produces a modal cadence through a popular—and conspicuously dominant-avoiding—♭VI⇨♭VII⇨I routine. So common, in fact, is this cadential progression in film music that it assumes the status of a harmonic default for certain composers. For Horner to conclude his theme with a simple V⇨I would no longer fit with the cinematic idiom it inhabits. It would not be wondrous enough!9
It should be evident from analyzing a piece even as slight as the Universal Logo that, in Hollywood, harmony is a deeply expressive resource, able to conjure magical worlds and plant utopic expectations. Pieces like Horner’s theme are musical metonyms. They are able to exemplify a certain “sounds like film music” quality without technically being non-diegetic underscore, and they accomplish this metaphorical status in large part through the resources of tonality—and especially chromaticism. To really understand how this process works, we need the tools of music theory.
It was in the late 1980s that Claudia Gorbman’s seminal book Unheard Melodies asked the simple question “what is music doing in the movies, and how does it do it?” (1987: 2). Gorbman’s study helped give birth to academic film musicology, and the approach she took—drawing from history, semiology, and psychoanalysis— was to reflect an intellectual eclecticism that has, as much as anything can, come to define the field. What was an initially unhurried flow of scholarship has now turned into a torrent. Scholars interested in music for multimedia will find it exhilaratingly difficult to keep up with the surge of books, journals, and conferences dedicated to the topic. Many of these sources offer novel and increasingly interdisciplinary perspectives on the inner workings of film music. No longer can we bemoan that movie music is somehow neglected by the scholarly community.
As film music studies continue to effloresce, we find no shortage of analysis. Questions of musical style, structure, and perception cannot help arising as soon as one begins exploring this sonic territory, so much of which remains unmapped. And, increasingly, this discourse is flowing from people with significant technical expertise in the construction of music: composers, orchestrators, musicologists, and music theorists.10 Yet much remains to be done. While film music analysis is widespread, systematic and sustained analysis that is fully conversant with the tools of music theory is still a work in progress.
It is significant that the field of film musicology found its bearings at the same time that New Musicology leveled its most strenuous (and mostly warranted) critiques of music theory. Often, these critiques centered on the discipline’s tendency toward formalistic and sometimes totalizing modes of inquiry. Thankfully, music theory as a field is more inclusive and less attracted to pure formalism in the twenty- first century than it was in the twentieth. Warnings against misapplication of grand theoretical paradigms have been heeded by many theorists, particularly in their embrace of non- canonical repertoires. Nevertheless, scholars coming from a non- musicological background may still feel the jargon and disciplinary insiderhood of music theory to be a barrier toward engagement, even if they are otherwise favorably disposed to style study, close reading, and systematization. Of course, sheer specialization and difficulty— perceived or otherwise— have hardly prevented other, often equally demanding, scholarly metalanguages such as semiology and
post- structuralism from contributing decisively to film music studies. If music theory is to play a greater role within the field, it must thus commit to a delicate balancing act, adapting and presenting its findings in a way consonant with the transdisciplinary nature of film music studies, but without sacrificing sophistication for the sake of accessibility.
Just as jazz, popular, and non-Western musics have become well-established features within the landscape of music theory, film music has achieved a measure of disciplinary stability. Much of the crucial music- theoretical groundwork has already been laid. In America, a large share of this work has been done by theorists like David Neumeyer, Ronald Rodman, James Buhler, and Scott Murphy, whose voices resound at various points in this study. It has been an especially tricky foundation to build, compared to what is required of other new repertoires, and for several reasons. Film requires a number of adjustments to the theoretical expectations that hold in almost every other analytical canon. But such differences hold the promise for fresh thinking, unburdened by long-hardened methodological paradigms. Neumeyer considers the cinematic repertoire to be a potential shot in the arm for the larger field of music theory:
Film places music in a new aesthetic environment that offers new opportunities to test theories of musical listening, hierarchical structure, or formal and tonal organization. It may also nudge music scholars into confronting more systematically and regularly some (admittedly complex) problems of intertextuality . . . as well as the impact of social and ideological constraints on both compositional design and aesthetic judgments. The insights gained can surely feed back into our understandings of concert and stage music in the later nineteenth and twentieth centuries. (1990: 14)
Not that this feedback will necessarily be painless at first. Those used to studying elite art music repertoires must grapple with film’s imperatives for emotional directness and accessibility. Those who expect self- contained, stable musical objects and attendant “absolute” forms of musical logic will be frustrated by film music’s subordination to a larger text and the resultant (sometimes quite radical) state of material contingency. And those who hold fast to the modernist doctrine that the highest measure of analytical worthiness is technical complexity and/or novelty will surely balk at film music’s inclination toward conventionalization and retrospection. (However, it should be said that, in its continual hunt for expressive devices, Hollywood could be surprisingly ahead of its time in presenting audiences with new musical idioms.) If these factors serve as pretexts for shunning a repertoire, they reflect nothing so much as the “prejudices and bad habits” that Theodor Adorno and Hanns Eisler diagnose in their polemical 1947 evaluation of Classical Hollywood—and they suffer from much the same misguided imposition of values from one repertoire to another.
Throughout its history, film music has been a site for development and transformation of many styles, including some seemingly abandoned by the mainstreams of art music as they struck out for more revolutionary pastures. This contributes to the first of three central arguments of this book: Far from reaching a terminal apex with the music of late Romantics like Strauss and Mahler, chromaticism using consonant triads witnessed expansion and innovation in cinematic repertoires that went far beyond what was imaginable in the “long” nineteenth century, and this expansion was made possible specifically because of the aesthetic goals and constraints of the medium of film.
For but one example to illustrate this point, consider an idea from Hans Zimmer’s Inception (2010) score. Zimmer introduces a striking four- chord progression, Gm⇨G♭M6 3 ⇨E♭M⇨C♭MMa7, which gradually becomes thematic—one might call it leitharmonic over the course of the film.11 The progression is by no means complicated, but that does not mean it lacks complexity.12 Two things immediately leap out about the idea (about which I have more to say in Chapter 4). First is its treatment in the film as a module: endlessly repeatable, rhythmically distensible, and tonally adjustable, as required according to momentary editorial and visual need. Second, there is the theme’s harmonic grammar, which is centric (G minor is always our home base) but without reference to standard diatonic functionality. Indeed, the logic of chord- to- chord- succession here is at once expressive rather than “structural”— try to appreciate the sheer weirdness of the initial shift from Gm to G ♭M!—and at the same time based on some interesting patterns, like the retention of a B♭ common tone and an embedded major- third cycle. This progression is entirely characteristic of the way modern film composers approach their material, and it does not quite sound like anything that came out of the nineteenth century or, indeed, the concert halls of the twentieth.
I do not want to belabor this compare/contrast approach to film musical style. Indeed, analysts would do well to investigate the repertoire on its own terms. Film music must be heard as an integral part of a complex multimedia whole and a larger cultural cinematic practice, rather than just as an offshoot of one preexisting stylistic tributary or another. With its distinctive compositional demands, film offers paths for creativity and innovation that have attracted many of the twentieth and twenty- first century’s preeminent musical voices. Part of what makes the repertoire so analytically remarkable is its very contingency. The difficulty of acquiring urtextual printed scores, for example, deters us from lapsing into bad habits of abstruse and Augenmusik-obsessed formalism. At the same time it encourages other forms of active engagement, such as through transcription and concentrated audiovisual interpretation. Film focuses attention on musical characteristics native to multimedia and forces the analyst to address what kinds of compositional choices really matter in cinematic perception. Designing the appropriate tools for understanding film music’s many idioms and behaviors is a difficult undertaking, one far too broad to be but partially accomplished here. But,
for such a vital and influential form of musical expression, it is owed nothing less from music theorists.
The chief practical aim of Hollywood Harmony is to demonstrate what the discipline of music theory has to offer film music studies. Just as importantly, and in Neumeyer’s spirit, I hope to make good on some of the promise of scholarly reciprocity; that is, what the movies can do for music theory. Though this book is limited in its scope to a single sub- corpus (studio produced, widely released American sound film) and a single musical parameter (chromatic harmony), it is my aim to demonstrate theory’s more general ability to elucidate the workings of motion-picture music.13 Investigating one small but emblematic corner of an artistic practice ought not be read as downplaying the need for analysis of other styles, eras, or national and cultural filmmaking schools. Focusing on Hollywood is a tactic that I believe will lead to greater analytical illumination than were I to take on the entirety of a medium. For composers and scholars curious about technical answers to Gorbman’s questions, I hope this study provides a model for analysis that can be imported and adjusted to suit personal projects. For readers already theoretically inclined, I hope Hollywood Harmony inspires you to wonder. Wonder “what is music doing here?” “How is it accomplishing its aims?” And “how can I shed light on its many puzzles and marvels?”
Scope
Many musicians will be familiar with the phrase “sounds like film music.” Few have thought to seriously unpack this frequently uttered refrain, however. What sounding-like- film-music means can vary a great deal, depending on who is asking and which filmmaking era and corpus they are assuming. It may refer to many levels of musical discourse, from the sweepingly general (“it’s bold, emotionally direct symphonic music”) to the exceedingly particular (“it’s this specific scale-degree inflection in this peculiar phrasal location”). William Rosar has investigated the nature of this sound from a film musicological perspective.14 He affirms the existence of a movie music style while admitting a certain resistance to clean definition: “Despite all its stylistic variability through-out the decades— whether the often cited ‘late Romantic’ style or passing trends in musical fashion— there remains a film music sound, elusive though that may be to define” (2002a: 3–4). The disuse of Romantic techniques in most every other currently composed musical style (excepting some musical theater and a select few guises of contemporary concert music) supports Rosar’s intuition about the singularity of the film music sound. But he is also right about its irreducibility; even a casual survey of music for motion pictures will reveal that a voracious eclecticism of styles has been present since the craft’s inception at the turn of the twentieth century. Aesthetic heterogeneity is particularly evident in contemporary soundtracks and may be the defining feature of our present scoring
practice (Wierzbicki 2009: 209–227). There are in fact many ways in which a piece may sound as though it emanated from a movie theater— sufficiently many that defining the “film music sound” in a categorical fashion will inevitably be too essentializing.
By constraining my corpus to Hollywood symphonic scoring, and my analytical focus to harmony, I hope to cut the putative “film music sound” down to a more manageable topic: the compositional and aesthetic features of a small but highly characteristic facet of American film. Early on, I propose a set of “Hollywood Tonal Practices” to be described and refined throughout the course of this book. Like timbre, texture, tempo, and all other musical parameters active in film music, pitch design the stuff of chords, scales, progressions, and keys—has the ability to structure filmic expectations. Pitch design is especially good at conveying style topics. These are particles of culturally encoded signification, defined by intrinsic musical characteristics and capable of enforcing or reinforcing certain meanings (Neumeyer and Buhler 2001: 23–26; Mirka 2014: 1–59). Tonal style topics may be quite broad, such as the use of non-resolving sevenths to imbue a scene with the markers of jazz and its attendant “jazzy” associations. But just as easily, they can be highly particular. Take, for example, an isolated i⇨♭vi6 3 progression, often used to connote mystery and villainy in film music; indeed, it is rare to find an instance of that progression in contemporary film without sinister significatory content.15 The heavy reliance on such tonal style topics is one way in which the cinematic approach to pitch design is distinctive. But no attribute of cinematic tonality is more important than its status as a purely dependent parameter within a larger text. Unlike virtually every other musical genre (including music from comparable spheres like opera, melodrama, and musical theater), tonality is in service of, and sometimes completely subordinated to, a larger multimedia object. This relationship leads to my second thesis: pitch design is enlisted in film for its expressive and associative powers over its unifying structural capabilities; as a result, analysis should focus on tonality as a constructive parameter that is interdependent with narrative, visuals, and editing. This expressive imperative has profound ramifications for musical analysis.
My corpus consists almost exclusively of original music composed for mainstream American films from the Sound Era onward, and on a prominent but partial component from within that practice. Pinning down the harmonic character of Classical Hollywood is my initial goal. “Classical” here refers to both a historical periodization (cinema from the 1930s through roughly 1950s) and an umbrella for the set of conventions established in the wide-release studio films during that era. Classical films are typified by continuity editing, conventional and linear narratives, and actors-as-“stars.”16 Classical Hollywood is musically distinct from an alternative paradigm that dominated the 1960s through 1970s. While exceptions abound, post– Studio Era (approximately 1960s through mid-1970s) scoring involves use of less music (and less originally composed music) than its forerunners, and it increasingly turns to popular and rock idioms. By contrast, Classical scoring
uses specially written music for large orchestras and leans heavily on the techniques of central European art music. Classical Hollywood is where we find a model for the big, bombastic stuff: the dazzling fanfares, the luscious string themes, and other sounds still associated with that catch-all term for enjoyable momentousness, the “epic.”
A resurgence of orchestral scoring in the 1970s helped reintroduce many of the conventions of this earlier era—albeit now loaded with sufficiently distinct elements (like synthesizers) and new influences (like minimalism) to require a different label. The period that film historians refer to as “New Hollywood” (mid-1970s onward), marked by the birth of the high- concept blockbuster financial model, draws from earlier scoring models but is even more inclined toward stylistic pluralism, far surpassing the token inclusion of vernacular or ethnic styles in scores from the 1930s through the 1950s.17 New Hollywood scoring also has a greater tolerance for repetition and/or thematic inactivity (and, indeed, athematicism) than its precursors. In the hands of some composers, particularly those coming from pop/ rock backgrounds, it can seem to have greater contrapuntal and orchestrational simplicity than similar mainstream soundtracks from earlier decades; at the same time, contemporary scoring often evinces a greater inventiveness of timbre and instrumentation, especially where electronics are involved. This creativity is perhaps epitomized in the subtle harmonies and restrained textures of a Thomas Newman score, to name one of the most widely emulated composers in today’s movie theaters. Contemporary scoring practice further boasts an approach to spotting that is more pliable in relation to editorial decisions (by virtue of digital editing and scoring). At the same time, it is less reliant upon either conspicuous or artfully integrated “mickey-mousing”—a form of tight audiovisual synchronization characteristic of animated films and live-action composers like Max Steiner prone to symphonic pantomime.
Though there will be many occasions to visit pre-1970s scores, particularly in Chapters 1 and 6, most case studies in this book are drawn from the New Hollywood era, with special emphasis on figures like Jerry Goldsmith and John Williams, whose compositional voices were essential in setting today’s cinematic tonal expectations. This focus on New Hollywood is partly the product of recency bias: my goal is to help listeners understand film scoring practices better, and newer examples naturally come closer to illustrating contemporary trends. But there is a methodological and historical justification as well. As film matured as a medium, composers started moving away from nineteenth- century music as a direct stylistic influence—and, at the same time, they began referring inward, to other film music, for their models. The shift is gradual and uneven, but over many decades, default harmonic materials began to change. In particular, the reliance on old Romantic standby chords, especially sevenths (most emblematically the diminished and half-diminished seventh) declined after the Classical Hollywood era. Modern film music is more uniformly triadic, less polyphonic, and less diatonically beholden than its predecessors. Furthermore, the sorts of
nonfunctional chromaticism that were generally used as one-off special effects in Classical scores are more stylistically normalized in recent film music, to the point that long, discursive progressions with no tonic in sight become common (if never expressively unmarked). This trait makes New Hollywood film, on balance, more amenable to the analytical methodology I develop over the course of this book.18 Investigating the various strains that flow into a Hollywood “tonal practice” constitutes one of the major new contributions of this project. Of special interest will be triadic chromaticism, and the issues of tonal space and analytical representation that attend it. Triadic chromaticism may be defined as the use of consonant triads in progressions not strictly governed by the accustomed habits of diatonic tonality. It is thus distinguished from other forms of chromaticism based on different processes and procedures, such as quartal harmony or atonal counterpoint.19 Concentration on this harmonic style has the effect of narrowing my corpus considerably, onto dramas and fantastical films that more frequently exhibit chromatic style topics than other genres, like romantic comedy or biopics. Though themes and title music are at times treated, the majority of analytical attention is directed to non-diegetic underscore. I consider the cue to be the fundamental unit of film musical form, the span of musical time in which harmony has the greatest ability to sculpt mood and structure narrative. In focusing on the role of chromaticism, my investigations repeatedly return to a special musical aesthetic that I characterize as wonderment. This is the pleasurable sense of awe and exhilaration that comes from perceiving something exceeding the frames of normal everyday experience, yet without a threat to the one’s sense of physical or psychic security. The third central argument of Hollywood Harmony concerns the interaction of this aesthetic with the strongest forms of triadic chromaticism, what theorist Richard Cohn (2012: xiv) calls “pantriadic” tonality: a thorough negation of tonal norms of centricity, diatonicity, and functionality. Pantriadic harmony is a potent style topic, used throughout film history to represent and sometimes elicit the affect of wonderment.
Approach
The approach taken within Hollywood Harmony focuses on what Gorbman calls “pure” musical codes—in other words, details of musical structure and syntax. But I strive not to lose sight of her other two, equally important axes of meaning: cultural musical codes (extra-textual associations and expectations) and cinematic musical codes (intertextual formal and associative relationships, such as diegesis, congruency, synchronization, and so on) (1987: 12–13). Wherever possible, I augment standard musical analytical tools to incorporate narrative information. My attitude might loosely be characterized as (neo)formalist, insofar as I take as my object of study the film score as a text, and the stylistic and technical markers of the Hollywood- style tonality this text embodies. These elements require a degree of
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hayti; or, The black republic
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Title: Hayti; or, The black republic
Author: Sir Spenser St. John
Release date: July 23, 2022 [eBook #68592]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Smith, Elder, & Co, 1884
Credits: Peter Becker, Thomas Frost and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HAYTI; OR, THE BLACK REPUBLIC ***
Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON
A MAP OF HAYTI
HAYTI OR THE BLACK REPUBLIC.
BY SIR SPENSER ST. JOHN, K.C.M.G.
FORMERLY HER MAJESTY’S MINISTER RESIDENT AND CONSUL-GENERAL IN HAYTI, NOW HER MAJESTY’S SPECIAL ENVOY TO MEXICO.
W in Port-au-Prince, a Spanish colleague once remarked to me, “Mon ami, if we could return to Hayti fifty years hence, we should find the negresses cooking their bananas on the site of these warehouses.” Although this judgment is severe, yet from what we have seen passing under the present Administration, it is more than probable—unless in the meantime influenced by some higher civilisation—that this prophecy will come true. The negresses are in fact already cooking their bananas amid the ruins of the best houses of the capital. My own impression, after personally knowing the country above twenty years, is, that it is a country in a state of rapid decadence. The revolution of 1843 that upset President Boyer commenced the era of troubles which have continued to the present day. The country has since been steadily falling to the rear in the race of civilisation.
The long civil war (1868-1869) under President Salnave destroyed a vast amount of property, and rendered living in the country districts less secure, so that there has been ever since a tendency for the more civilised inhabitants to agglomerate in the towns, and leave the rural districts to fetish worship and cannibalism. Fires, most of them incendiary, have swept over the cities; in the commercial quarters of Port-au-Prince, it would be difficult to find any houses which existed in 1863, and the fortunes of all have naturally greatly suffered.
When I reached Hayti in January 1863, the capital possessed several respectable public buildings. The palace, without any architectural beauty, was large and commodious, and well suited to the climate; the Senate, the House of Representatives, the dwellings occupied by several of the Ministers, the pretty little theatre, were all features which have now entirely disappeared.
The town of Pétionville or La Coupe, the summer and health resort of the capital, where the best families sought a little country life during the great heats, was almost entirely destroyed during the revolution of 1868, and nothing has taken its place. People are still too poor to afford to rebuild.
Society also has completely changed. I saw at balls given in the palace in 1863 a hundred well-dressed prosperous families of all colours; now political dissensions would prevent such gatherings, even if there were a building in the city which could receive them, and poverty has laid its heavy hand more or less on all. It is the same in a greater or lesser degree in every other town of the republic.
Agriculture in the plains is also deteriorating, and the estates produce much less than formerly, though their staple produce is rum, to stupefy and brutalise the barbarous lower orders.
Foreigners, nearly ruined by their losses during the constant civil disturbances, are withdrawing from the republic, and capital is following them; and with their withdrawal the country must sink still lower. The best of the coloured people are also leaving, as they shun the fate reserved for them by those who have already slaughtered the most prominent mulattoes.
In fact, the mulatto element, which is the civilising element in Hayti, is daily becoming of less importance; internal party strife has injured their political standing, and constant intermarriage is causing the race to breed back to the more numerous type, and in a few years the mulatto element will have made disastrous approaches to the negro. The only thing which could have saved the mulatto would have been to encourage the whites to settle in their country; yet this step the coloured men have blindly resisted.
In spite of all the civilising elements around them, there is a distinct tendency to sink into the state of an African tribe. It is naturally impossible to foretell the effect of all the influences which are now at work in the world, and which seem to foreshadow many changes. We appear standing on the threshold of a period of great discoveries, which may modify many things, but not man’s nature.
The mass of the negroes of Hayti live in the country districts, which are rarely or ever visited by civilised people; there are few Christian priests to give them a notion of true religion; no superior local officers to prevent them practising their worst fetish ceremonies.
In treating of the Black and the Mulatto as they appeared to me during my residence among them, I fear that I shall be considered by some to judge harshly. Such, however, is not my intention. Brought up under Sir James Brooke, whose enlarged sympathies could endure no prejudice of race or colour, I do not remember ever to have felt any repugnance to my fellow-creatures on account of a difference of complexion.
I have dwelt above thirty-five years among coloured people of various races, and am sensible of no prejudice against them. For twelve years I lived in familiar and kindly intercourse with Haytians of all ranks and shades of colour, and the most frequent and not leasthonoured guests at my table were of the black and coloured races.
All who knew me in Hayti know that I had no prejudice of colour; and if I place the Haytian in general in an unenviable light, it is from a strong conviction that it is necessary to describe the people as they are, and not as one would wish them to be. The band of black and coloured friends who gathered round me during my long residence in Port-au-Prince were not free from many of the faults which I have been obliged to censure in describing these different sections of the population, but they had them in a lesser degree, or, as I was really attached to them, I perhaps saw them in a dimmer light.
The most difficult chapter to write was that on “Vaudoux Worship and Cannibalism.” I have endeavoured to paint it in the least sombre colours, and none who know the country will think that I have exaggerated; in fact, had I listened to the testimony of many experienced residents, I should have described rites at which dozens of human victims were sacrificed at a time. Everything I have related has been founded on evidence collected in Hayti, from Haytian official documents, from trustworthy officers of the Haytian Government, my foreign colleagues, and from respectable residents —principally, however, from Haytian sources.
It may be suggested that I am referring to the past. On the contrary, I am informed that at present cannibalism is more rampant than ever. A black Government dares not greatly interfere, as its power is founded on the good-will of the masses, ignorant and deeply tainted with fetish worship. A Haytian writer recently remarked in print, “On se plaisit beaucoup de ce que le Vaudoux a reparu grandiose et sérieux.” The fetish dances were forbidden by decree under the Government of President Boisrond-Canal. That decree has been since repealed, and high officers now attend these meetings, and distribute money and applaud the most frantic excesses.
President Salomon, who is now in power, lived for eighteen years in Europe, married a white, and knows what civilisation is. He probably, on his first advent to the Presidency, possessed sufficient influence in the country to have checked the open manifestations of this barbarous worship; but the fate of those of his predecessors who attempted to grapple with the evil was not encouraging. It was hoped, however, that he would make the attempt, and that, grasping the nettle with resolution, he might suffer no evil results; but many doubted not only his courage to undertake the task, but even the will; and they, I fear, have judged correctly. Whenever all the documents which exist on this subject are published, my chapter on Cannibalism will be looked upon but as a pale reflection of the reality.
With regard to the history of the country, materials abound for writing a very full one, but I do not think it would prove interesting to the general reader. It is but a series of plots and revolutions, followed by barbarous military executions. A destructive and exhausting war with Santo Domingo, and civil strife during the Presidency of General Salnave, did more to ruin the resources of the country than any amount of bad government. The enforced abandonment of work by the people called to arms by the contending parties, introduced habits of idleness and rapine which have continued to the present day; and the material losses, by the destruction of the best estates and the burning of towns and villages, have never been fully repaired.
From the overthrow of President Geffrard in 1867 the country has been more rapidly going to ruin. The fall was slightly checked during
the quiet Presidency of Nissage-Saget; but the Government of General Domingue amply made up for lost time, and was one of the worst, if not the worst, that Hayti has ever seen. With the sectaries of the Vaudoux in power, nothing else could have been expected.
I have brought my sketch of the history of Hayti down to the fall of President Boisrond-Canal in 1879, and shall not touch on the rule of the present President of Hayti, General Salomon. I may say, however, that he is the determined enemy of the coloured section of the community; is credited with having been the chief adviser of the Emperor Soulouque in all his most disastrous measures; and the country is said to have sunk into the lowest depths of misery. The civil war, which by last accounts was still raging in Hayti, has been marked by more savage excesses than any previously known in Haytian history, the black authorities, hesitating at no step to gain their object, which is utterly to destroy the educated coloured class. They care not for the others; as they say, “Mulatte pauvre, li negue.”
A few words as to the origin of this book. In 1867 I was living in the country near Port-au-Prince, and having some leisure, I began to collect materials and write rough drafts of the principal chapters. I was interrupted by the civil war, and did not resume work until after I had left the country. It may be the modifying effect of time, but on looking over the chapters as I originally wrote them, I thought that I had been too severe in my judgments on whole classes, and have therefore somewhat softened the opinions I then expressed; and the greater experience which a further residence of seven years gave me enabled me to study the people more and avoid too sweeping condemnations.
I have not attempted to describe the present condition of the republic of Santo Domingo, but from all I can hear it is making progress. The Dominicans have few prejudices of colour, and eagerly welcome foreign capitalists who arrive to develop the resources of their country. Already there are numerous sugar estates in operation, as well as manufactories of dyes, and efforts are being successfully made to rework the old gold-mines. The tobacco cultivation is already large, and only requires hands to develop it to meet any demand. I hear of a railway having been commenced, to traverse the
magnificent plain which stretches from the Bay of Samana almost to the frontiers of Hayti.
After having written the chapter on Vaudoux Worship, my attention was called to a communication which appeared in Vanity Fair of August 13, 1881, by a reply published in a Haytian journal. It is evident that the writer in Vanity Fair was a naval officer or a passing traveller in the West Indies, and he probably carefully noted the information given him. He was, however, too inclined to believe what he heard, as he gravely states that a Haytian told him that the kidneys of a child were first-rate eating, adding that he had tried them himself; and the writer remarks that the Haytian did not seem to think it strange or out of the way that he had done so. No Haytian would have ever stated seriously that he had eaten human flesh. Probably, amused by the eagerness of the inquirer, he told the story to test his powers of belief, and must have been diverted when he found his statement was credited. Cannibalism is the one thing of which Haytians are thoroughly ashamed.
This communication makes mention of the herb-poisonings and their antidotes; of the midwives who render new born-babes insensible, that are buried, dug up, restored to life, and then eaten. In May 1879 a midwife and another were caught near Port-au-Prince eating a female baby that had been thus treated; he adds that a Haytian of good position was discovered with his family eating a child. In the former case the criminals were condemned to six weeks’ imprisonment, in the latter to one month. (I may notice that I never heard of a respectable Haytian being connected with the cannibals.) The light punishments inflicted were due to the fear inspired by the Vaudoux priests. In January 1881 eight people were fined for disinterring and eating corpses. An English medical man purchased and identified the neck and shoulders of a human being in the market at Port-au-Prince. In February 1881, at St. Marc, a cask of so-called pork was sold to a foreign ship. In it were discovered fingers and finger-nails, and all the flesh proved to be that of human
beings. An English coloured clergyman at Cap Haïtien said that the Vaudoux did away with all the effect of his ministry; and that his wife was nearly purchasing in the market human flesh instead of pork. Four people were fined in that town for eating corpses. When the writer arrived at Jacmel he found two men in prison for eating corpses, and on the day of his arrival a man was caught eating a child. Near the same town nine thousand people met at Christmas to celebrate Vaudoux rites. At Les Cayes a child of English parents was stolen, and on the thieves being pursued, they threw it into a well and killed it.
These are the statements made by the writer in Vanity Fair, and nearly all are probable. If correct, the open practice of Vaudoux worship and cannibalism must have made great strides since I left Hayti, and shows how little a black Government can do, or will do, to suppress them. The digging up and eating of corpses was not known during my residence there.
This communication to Vanity Fair provoked a reply in a journal published at Port-au-Prince called L’Œil, October 1, 1881. It denies everything, even to the serious existence and power of the Vaudoux priests, and spends all its energies in abuse. The article is quite worthy of the editor,[1] who was one of the most active supporters of President Salnave, whose connection with the Vaudoux was notorious. It is in this angry spirit that the Haytians generally treat any public reference to their peculiar institution.
M , January 1884.
HAYTI; OR,
THE BLACK REPUBLIC.
CHAPTER I.
GENERAL DESCRIPTION OF HAYTI.
S on one of the lofty mountains of Hayti, and looking towards the interior, I was struck with the pertinence of the saying of the Admiral, who, crumpling a sheet of paper in his hand, threw it on the table before George III., saying, “Sire, Hayti looks like that.” The country appears a confused agglomeration of mountain, hill, and valley, most irregular in form; precipices, deep hollows, vales apparently without an outlet; water occasionally glistening far below; cottages scattered here and there, with groves of fruit-trees and bananas clustering round the rude dwellings. Gradually, however, the eye becomes accustomed to the scene; the mountains separate into distinct ranges, the hills are but the attendant buttresses, and the valleys assume their regular forms as the watersheds of the system, and the streams can be traced meandering gradually towards the ocean.
If you then turn towards the sea, you notice that the valleys have expanded into plains, and the rushing torrents have become broad though shallow rivers, and the mountains that bound the flat, open country push their buttresses almost into the sea. This grand variety of magnificent scenery can be well observed from a point near Kenskoff, about ten miles in the interior from the capital, as well as from the great citadel built on the summit of La Ferrière in the northern province. Before entering into particulars, however, let me give a general idea of the country.
The island of Santo Domingo is situated in the West Indies between 18° and 20° north latitude and 68° 20’ and 74° 30’ west longitude. Its greatest length is four hundred miles, its greatest breadth one hundred and thirty-five miles, and is calculated to be about the size of Ireland. Hayti occupies about a third of the island—the western portion—and, pushing two great promontories into the sea, it has a
very large extent of coast-line. It is bounded on the north by the Atlantic Ocean, on the east by the republic of Santo Domingo, on the south by the Caribbean Sea, and on the west by the passage which separates it from Cuba and Jamaica.
Its most noted mountain-ranges are La Selle, which lies on the south-eastern frontier of Hayti; La Hotte, near Les Cayes; and the Black Mountains in the northern province; but throughout the whole extent of the republic the open valleys are bounded by lofty elevations. In fact, on approaching the island from any direction, it appears so mountainous that it is difficult to imagine that so many smiling, fertile plains are to be met with in every department. They are, however, numerous. The most extensive are the Cul-de-Sac, near Port-au-Prince, the plains of Gonaives, the Artibonite, Arcahaye, Port Margot, Leogâne, that of Les Cayes, and those that follow the northern coast.
Hayti has the advantage of being well watered, though this source of riches is greatly neglected. The principal river is the Artibonite, which is navigable for small craft for a short distance; the other streams have more the character of mountain torrents, full to overflowing during the rainy season, whilst during the dry they are but rivulets running over broad pebbly beds.
The lakes lying at the head of the plain of Cul-de-Sac are a marked feature in the landscape as viewed from the neighbouring hills. They are but little visited, as their shores are marshy, very unhealthy, and uninhabitable on that account, while the swarms of mosquitoes render even a temporary stay highly disagreeable. The waters of one of them are brackish, which would appear to indicate more salt deposits in the neighbourhood.
There are a few islands attached to Hayti, the principal, La Tortue, on the north, Gonaives on the west, and L’Isle-à-Vache on the south coast. Some attempts have been made to develop their natural riches, but as yet with but slight success. The first two named are famous for their mahogany trees.
The principal towns of the republic are Port-au-Prince, the capital, Cap Haïtien in the north, and Les Cayes in the south. Jacmel,
Jérémie, Miragoâne, St. Marc, and Gonaives are also commercial ports.
Port-au-Prince is situated at the bottom of a deep bay, which runs so far into the western coast as almost to divide Hayti in two. It contains about 20,000 inhabitants, and was carefully laid out by the French. It possesses every natural advantage that a capital could require. Little use, however, is made of these advantages, and the place is one of the most unpleasant residences imaginable. I was one day talking to a French naval officer, and he observed, “I was here as a midshipman forty years ago.” “Do you notice any change?” I asked. “Well, it is perhaps dirtier than before.” Its dirt is its great drawback, and appears ever to have been so, as Moreau de St. Méry complained of the same thing during the last century. However, there are degrees of dirt, and he would probably be astonished to see it at the present day. The above paragraph was first written in 1867; since that it has become worse, and when I last landed (1877), I found the streets heaped up with filth.
The capital is well laid out, with lines of streets running parallel to the sea, whilst others cross at right angles, dividing the town into numerous islets or blocks. The streets are broad, but utterly neglected. Every one throws out his refuse before his door, so that heaps of manure, broken bottles, crockery, and every species of rubbish encumber the way, and render both riding and walking dangerous. Building materials are permitted occasionally to accumulate to so great an extent as completely to block up the streets and seriously impede the traffic. Mackenzie, in his notes on Hayti, remarks on the impassable state of the streets in 1826; torn up by tropical rains, they were mended with refuse (generally stable dung to fill up the holes, and a thin layer of earth thrown over), only to be again destroyed by the first storm. Ask Haytians why they do not mend their streets and roads, they answer, “Bon Dieu, gâté li; bon Dieu, paré li” (God spoilt them, and God will mend them). Then, as now, the roads were in such a state in wet weather that only a waggon with a team of oxen could get through the muddy slough. On first entering the town, you are struck with the utter shabbiness of the buildings, mean cottages and grovelling huts by the side of the
few decent-looking dwellings. Most of the houses are constructed of wood, badly built with very perishable materials, imported from the United States or our Northern colonies. The idea that originally prevailed in the construction of the private houses was admirable; before each was a broad verandah, open to all passers, so that from one end of the town to the other it was intended that there should be cool, shady walks. But the intolerable stupidity of the inhabitants has spoilt this plan; in most streets the level of the verandahs of each house is of a different height, and frequently separated by a marshy spot, the receptacle of every species of filth; so that you must either walk in the sun or perform in the shade a series of gymnastic exercises exceedingly inconvenient in a tropical climate.
On either side of the street was a paved gutter, but now, instead of aiding the drainage, it is another cause of the accumulation of filth. The stones which formerly rendered the watercourses even are either removed or displaced, and the rains collecting before the houses form fetid pools, into which the servants pour all that in other countries is carried off by the sewers. In a few of the more commercial streets, where foreigners reside, more attention is paid to cleanliness, but still Port-au-Prince may bear the palm away of being the most foul-smelling, dirty, and consequently fever-stricken city in the world.
The port is well protected, but is gradually filling up, as the rains wash into it not only the silt from the mountains, but the refuse of the city, and no effort is made to keep it open. As there is but little tide, the accumulations of every species of vegetable and animal matter render the water fetid, and when the sea-breeze blows gently over these turbid waves, an effluvia is borne into the town sickening to all but native nostrils.
The most remarkable edifice of Port-au-Prince was the palace, a long, low, wooden building of one storey, supported on brick walls: it contained several fine rooms, and two halls which might have been rendered admirable for receptions; but everything around it was shabby—the stables, the guard-houses, the untended garden, the courtyard overrun with grass and weeds, and the surrounding walls partially in ruins. This spacious presidential residence was burnt
