John Williams
By Claire Haldeman
The theater is dark.
The long heartbeat after the scripted parade of the previews, the anti-piracy announcements, the military recruitment videos, the 20th Century FOX drumroll, the Lucasfilm glimmer…
A long time ago, the stiff, cerulean, left-aligned text begins, in a galaxy far, far away…
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
The popcorn goes un-crunched, the sodas un-sipped.
For that single moment in the expansive artificial darkness, there is an oppressive, celestial silence. And then: fanfare!
In unison, the trumpets blare, the cymbals crash, the horns bellow. Even before the galloping baseline, and the triumphant ornamentation, and the tingling descant—all of it metallic and righteous—there is the immediately gratifying sensation of a final piece falling into place, even though the journey so far consists solely in a computer generated starscape. The junker cargo shuttle has fired up its engines, the pommel of a laser-derivative weapon has slipped into familiar hands, the Force is strong with this one. All of this high voltage excitement is bound up in a single, brassy beat.
It is this—the music—and not the stylized yellow font, which brands the Star Wars franchise onto the cultural body. It is not the unlikely hero-teen, the spunky droid friend, or the wacky hairdos which make the Star Wars films so iconic. It is the musical current pulsing underneath it all.
Without the music, Star Wars is a campy geekoid allegory thrown like a Pollock palette into the cosmos. It is puppets, and man-skirts, and stilted dialogue.
But through music, Star Wars is able to transcend the pimply, melodramatic sum of its parts. The score is inextricably woven into its tapestry of cultural achievement. George Lucas wanted a space opera, and a space opera he got. The best thing he ever did for his franchise was hire John Williams.
Mr. Williams is The Force, I am fairly certain. His power underlies everything that happens in the galaxy far, far away, driving both the good and the evil. At 86 years old, he seems to be timeless. And, most importantly, he keeps coming back to muck around in the action (almost certainly for the better).
He is able to use his uncanny gift to create a score which crafts a cinematic experience it would otherwise be hard to take seriously (oh no the bad guys are building another Death Star?) into an epic of bravery and heroism which has imprinted itself into the cultural cannon. The Star Wars soundtrack is not so beautiful and transcendent that it loses its mass appeal, but neither does it preclude sobriety. It has so successfully infiltrated the public imagination because it adds emotional depth and nuance to the films while remaining accessible and energetic. Inspired by the operas of Wagner, Williams uses leitmotif to highlight the cyclical role of specific characters and tropes and moods, while using the flexibility of music to allow these ideas to evolve. “The Force Theme” arcs from delicate to powerful. “The Imperial March” slows with solemnity. The ornamentation atop “Han Solo and The Princess” sometimes sweeps romantic and other times twitches playfully. All of the themes and motifs—from Yoda’s to the Emperor’s—track the action in a way that is both complex and comprehensible.
This operatic approach is part of a larger, brilliant compositional move. Space, as a narrative device, tends to connote the unknown and the unfamiliar, which is why it so often plays a role in science fiction grappling with new or unforeseen developments. These kinds of stories, even if they highlight human themes, tend to do this despite emotionally alienating premises and settings. This is the point—unexpected humanity. It makes sense to accentuate this tension by using minimalist, futurist, or experimental scoring. Though Star Wars, from head to toe, seems like it should be science fiction, it actually bears more resemblance to the high fantasy of Lewis and Tolkien than the classic sci fi of Asimov and Bradbury. The heartbeat of the saga is not the advanced flight technology, or planetary exploration, or otherworldly weapons, but a mysterious magical energy and a religious cult which studies it. Star Wars is fantastic, not alien, a distinction that Williams clearly understands and accentuates with his stylistic and compositional choices. He is writing a symphony, using classical instruments and familiar sounds. He shows us that Star Wars is epic and magical, not incisive and technological. While the score has a searing signature, it is also intentionally, impossibly familiar.
This, for me, was the great joy of seeing each of the most recent installments of the new trilogy. Despite being under new ownership and direction, despite displaying a much more diverse and egalitarian galaxy, despite the tormented and complex villain, there was a distinct sense of continuity. The hopscotching woodwinds of “Rey’s Theme” and the frenetic symphony of “March of the Resistance” mingle with the highbrow horns of “Leia’s Theme” and the belligerently brassy “Rebel Fanfare,” and it is possible to feel at home in the story as it unfolds.
Much like the Force, much like John Williams himself, the music of Star Wars will present differently, but will keep coming back around in the cycle of cultural imagination.