Amadeus: The Perils of Overly Contextualized Art

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on February 3, 2007.

Do people matter when we make moral and aesthetic judgments? That may seem like an odd question since people seem almost intrinsically connected with both. Are they not the object of most of our moral concern, the reason why we even wrestle with moral questions in the first place? Do not people make many of the objects that we find aesthetically pleasing (or otherwise)? In many respects, people provide the context in which we can think in moral and aesthetic terms.

Yet, is that a fundamental flaw in our reasoning? Do people get in the way of our judgments, leading us to hold imprecise views of "What Is" and "What Should Be" and to take incorrect (perhaps even disastrous) action based on those views? Milos Forman's Amadeus (1984) forces us to ask these fundamental questions. A highly fictionalized account of the supposed rivalry between Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (Tom Hulce) and Antonio Salieri (F. Murray Abraham), Forman's interpretation of Peter Shaffer's screenplay shows us what can happen when we take art too personally, peering too closely behind the curtain to catch a glimpse of the man or woman behind the work. (Note: Wikipedia gives a brief, but helpful, account of how significantly the film differs from history.)

We learn early on that Salieri has spent his life infatuated with music. When his father—who did not approve of his son's artistic inclinations—passes away during Salieri's adolescence, the young composer becomes free to pursue his passion. He eventually becomes a court composer in Vienna, writing music, teaching aristocrats, and maintaining a comfortable socio-economic position. Most importantly, Salieri believes he is fulfilling God's plan for his life; after all, if the Almighty didn't want him to glorify Him through music, then why did He give the composer such a burning passion for the discipline?

Enter Mozart. The young man has been building a reputation as a musical prodigy, and he enters the Vienna scene in order to refine his craft and build his career. The odd thing is that it doesn't seem like Mozart has to do much refining: music seems to flow naturally from his brain to the page to the orchestra with little to no revision (this, according to the aforementioned Wikipedia entry, is complete fiction). Not only that, but the music is superb and original, making Salieri's sound mediocre and pedestrian. This wouldn't be so bad, if Mozart were deserving of such genius and acclamation. However, the young prodigy is arrogant, obnoxious, disrespectful, narcissistic — in short, it appears that he deserves a beating, rather than accolades. Salieri is both confused and infuriated: why would God build him up as a composer only to tear him down in the face of the bratty wunderkind?

Rather than simply taking Mozart's music at face value, recognizing the young composer's clear superiority in both technique and style, Salieri obsesses about the person of Mozart. Making the same mistake as the Prodigal Son's older brother (Luke 15:11-32) and the laborers who worked an entire day in order to earn the same pay as those who worked one hour (Matthew 20:1-16), Salieri relies on an overly abstract vision of "justice." Since he is "good" and has dedicated his entire life explicitly to God's service, then he deserves more than the young Mozart, who is, at best, an ingrate. As such, Salieri reveals that his primary concern is really not music or God; it is simply himself.

Besides demonstrating Salieri's moral shortcomings, Amadeus presents us with a more subtle message about the importance of separating a work of art from its artist. This may be an odd outcome of a film that seeks to do precisely the opposite, but we see that in presenting an immature and obnoxious Mozart, Amadeus forces us to reconsider how much we want to know about those who create the art, film, literature, and music that we enjoy.

The arts affect us at some visceral level, and we experience many aesthetic sensations prior to knowing anything about the creator of those sensations. If we are interested enough in a particular visual or aural experience, then we try to find out more; at the least, we try to learn the title of the work so as to purchase or borrow a copy. Thus, if I hear an enjoyable piece of music, I subsequently may learn that it is a symphony composed by Mozart, and I then may purchase the CD (or, to be more technologically sophisticated, the MP3).

I may continue down this road and try to learn more about the artist, a little about his/her biography and socio-historical context. This is where things get tricky. What if I ascertain a piece of information that is unflattering? Perhaps I will learn that an artist held racist views, stabbed a friend in the back, or committed any number of possible offenses. How will that knowledge of the artist affect my views of his or her work? Should it matter?

I argue that it should not. While biographical, social, and historical context may help us to appreciate a work of art—and while such context may provide gainful employment for scholars and critics—it should not be the determining factor in our judgment. We should not discount the basic, even visceral, qualities of a work of art. Do we like it? Does it give us aesthetic pleasure? This does not mean that our views of art cannot change or that we cannot "learn" to appreciate a work that we heretofore have dismissed. However, when asked, we should be able to indicate whether we simply liked, or disliked, any given work. If we cannot do that, then our aesthetic judgments are perhaps overburdened by context (and hence, worthless).

Pan's Labyrinth: Fantasy for the Rest of Us

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on January 25, 2007.

As has been discussed before on this Web site, both science fiction and fantasy face an uphill battle when it comes to winning adherents, especially from the ranks of audience members who prefer their movies rooted in a more recognizable material reality. In fact, sci-fi/fantasy films have to go beyond the merely decent in order to earn some credibility; while other genres don't have to achieve much in order to pass as watchable—most of us are willing, at least on occasion, to view a comedy or drama that we know is mediocre—sci-fi/fantasy has no such luxury. If it's not solidly good—or even great—then it simply becomes relegated to the category of camp.

Guillermo del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth—a.k.a.,El Laberinto del Fauno—(2006) is one such film that stands solidly on its own legs. It is not a great film "despite" its genre, or "even though" it is a fantasy; rather, it is simply a wonderful work of art, period. Pan's Labyrinth follows the story of Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), a pre-teen girl living in 1940's fascist Spain. Her widowed mother, Carmen (Ariadna Gil), recently married a captain in the fascist army (Sergi López), and the beginning of the movie shows them moving to his rural post, where he is fighting rebel forces in the hills.

Alongside the material hardship of war and political repression, Ofelia encounters Pan (Doug Jones), who, as the title indicates, lives in an ancient, decrepit stone labyrinth behind the Captain's headquarters. Ofelia learns that she is, in fact, the reincarnation of a princess and that she must complete three tasks in order to reclaim her royal heritage. Since she already has a predilection for fantasy, others do not believe her when she tries to explain the parallel reality that is taking place right under their noses. No matter: Ofelia's commission from—and interactions with—Pan make up a reality that is intended for her alone.

Of course, one of the arguments made in favor of sci-fi/fantasy is the flexibility of the genre. The ability to bend or break the material allows one to explore alternative social, political, and scientific realities within a safe environment. Pan's Labyrinth takes advantage of this flexibility — to a limit.

Essentially, the movie is structured as a dichotomous examination of power. Captain Vidal merely exemplifies the political system to which he gives total allegiance. He is a stickler for order and punctuality, desires to rid his country of rebels (thereby creating a "clean" Spain), and exhibits a cold, militant brutality that no doubt has helped him to rise within the ranks. (Please keep in mind that Pan's Labyrinth is a violent and bloody film; some scenes are not meant for the squeamish.)

Ofelia, on the other hand, is a relatively powerless character, who is derided for her supposed obsession with the fantastic — an obsession that has continued after most kids would have given up the genre. She is not interested in punctuality or the "greater good" of the nation or in getting to know her thuggish step-father. Rather, she has chosen to be mindful of a parallel reality and the tasks that await her therein. While she may be a reincarnated princess, she gives no indication that she is interested in the power that such a role entails. Unlike the Captain, her reality is not dictated by order and control but rather, by imagination, play, and friendship. Ironically, while Ofelia demonstrates some of the most positive attributes of civilized living, the Captain—"defender" of Spanish Civilization—is nothing short of a barbaric animal.

One of my primary reasons for wanting to see Pan's Labyrinth in the first place was the outpouring of praise it has been receiving from both critics and audience members — it has been nominated for six Academy Awards, including Best Original Screenplay and Best Foreign Language Film, and at last count, it is listed at No. 86 on IMDb's Top 250.

Why the acclaim? After all, I feel safe in hypothesizing that with rare exceptions (e.g., the Lord of the Rings trilogy), fantasy movies do not make many audience members' "best of" lists. I'm going to venture that Pan's Labyrinth's success is due, in part, to its lack of fantasy. Most of the movie is actually historical drama, and the characters' experiences are completely plausible; if we cannot relate to them on a personal level (since we don't live in 1940's Spain), we at least can read about similar experiences in historical documents. Pan's Labyrinth's fantastic elements do not overwhelm, but rather, supplement the "real-world" plot, providing the "safe environment" in which experimental perspectives (e.g., an alternate view of power relationships) can be explored. In addition, Pan's Labyrinth doesn't get caught up in the minute details of its alternate world; thus, it avoids the stereotypical characterization of sci-fi/fantasy as a genre more interested in meaningless minutiae, rather than overarching themes and Big Ideas.

As such, I hope that Pan's Labyrinth does well at the Oscars. Success at such a high-profile venue may encourage others to create fantasy that is both accessible to—and enjoyable for—a general audience. More broadly, it is simply an excellent film that deserves recognition.