Music Notes: Nouvelle France

Despite the weeks, and often months, spent in post-production, there's always a sense of tension and relief when everyone gathers for the music recording sessions. Relief because it means completion is near, with the final mix hurtling into view. Tension since, especially with a large-scale orchestra, this is the first time the music will be heard in it's truest form. In more recent times, the sophistication of mocks-up using library samples makes the process less of a revelation, or risk, depending on your view – which in itself has some drawbacks since the immediate interaction can be creatively exciting.

In any case, one of the most exciting parts of these sessions is being with the actual musicians as they perform. The recording of the score for Nouvelle France provided a thrilling and emotional example. Patrick Doyle composed a quite beautiful score, thematically based, bursting with the feeling and scope that the historical love story required.

He chose Prague in the Czech Republic to make use of the exquisite string players. (This is a country where they celebrate the birth of a child as the birth of a new musician.)

The combination of gorgeous music with the ability to sit in the middle of the orchestra as the players actually perform is a pleasure which remains a privilege. As the only member of the production team present when the full 100 piece ensemble first gathered, I was part of the introductions made by Patrick and then placed right in the centre. It only took a rehearsal of the first cue for me to immediately be on the phone to the producers to quit breakfast and get to the studio as fast as possible.

The resultant emotion was undeniable. As the notes soared, even the most hardened couldn't help the tears, especially when you feel the feeling that emanates from every instrument. As Patrick stated: “They have such soul in their playing.”

We were in Prague for a week and the result was a musical soundtrack that was all we could have hoped for. The film may have suffered from distribution issues, including the release of the wrong edit outside Canada, and certainly deserves more recognition, but the album was a real success. The mix, as well as sequencing and mastering, were completed at Air-Edel Studios in London. And I was pleased that I was able to get in a short, delicate harp intro over a bed of strings inserted into one of my favourite tracks.

The film and soundtrack also features an evocative song performed by Celine Dion that was recorded in Las Vegas. Stripping down the production and highlighting the vocals make it a minor gem.

A couple of album reviews:

Movie Music UK review

Main Titles review

The production was a Canada / UK / France, filmed in both French and English. Part of the deal necessitated a British composer. I remember arriving in Montreal during the studio shoot and our director, Jean, telling us that he wanted Peter Gabriel - that he would provide something 'different'. Not doubting Peter's skill, but we never spoke about it again. Patrick was always our first choice.

One missing aspect from the recording sessions. For the devastating conclusion, a soprano, a wordless solo voice, sang to the loss of our heroine and a nation. It was removed from the album mix, though it remains in the film. Perhaps a future release can restore it as an alternative.

for sample music tracks, original album liner notes and full credits see:

Music Notes - Nouvelle France

Credit Where It's Due

I’ve always been fascinated by the credits on films and TV shows. Even when friends were running for the exits as soon as the roller began, I would ease back and take in the army of actors and crew.

Over the years those lists have become longer and longer, as the volume of people acknowledged, however distantly involved in the process, has grown ever greater. Of course, more and more that means that in a regular theatre you’re the last person left, lights bright and cleaners already sweeping up spilt popcorn and discarded wrappers. (Very different to a premiere, cast & crew screening or festival screening where most people are rooted until beyond the very last copyright credit).

A plus for elongated titles is the opportunity for the composer to expand thematic ideas or conclude musical concepts, though whether the benefit is properly taken advantage of is for a separate debate.

In any case, once you're actually involved with putting such lists together, the seemingly simple task of collating a series of names becomes an epic struggle of the legal, the personal and, yes, even the artistic.

The legal should be straightforward. Position, placement and size depending upon importance (or influence) of the cast or crew member. During the shoot, the production office keeps an ongoing record of names and titles, although by the time credits are finally created, it's usually at least a year later, sometimes more than two, since deals were agreed.

The personal comes into play when a company or individual expects / wants / needs a credit. Personally, no matter the size of the contribution, we always believe the making of a show is all about the team and therefore recognition of the entire team is fair. Some people take advantage - especially in the financing side, but that's just a part of life.

And then you get the artistic. After all, credits are part of the film, so there’s always thought that goes into such seemingly basic lists. That could mean additional footage or outtakes or an easter egg - but mostly it's the elegance of layout and effectiveness of design that closes the story. The real key, even taking account previously mentioned contractual requirements, is the precise order. Personally, I prefer listing personnel by department. Apart from HODs, other crew members are grouped together - just like actors, music personnel and VFX artists always are. Just makes more sense.

As such, the layout of the seemingly arbitrary mass of names tells you more about the people controlling the credits, than the people involved in the film. Most particularly this is true with Directors and Writers (and often with Music Composers who are often literally an afterthought). Apart from some anomalies, the Director has always been the final credit, the forever auteur. Some years ago, the normal order would therefore flow as: Writer - Producer - Director. In more recent times, that value of authorship has seen a shift to the revised recognition of: Producer - Writer - Director. Having worked on all sides, this latter order feels about right. An acknowledgment of the creative foundations on which a film has been constructed.

Which is not to say that a 'producer' (of whatever description) has not been vital to the creative process - most times the original producer has struggled for years to put the project together with an artistic vision and a burning ambition. A producer is also the one left with the afterlife of a film long after everyone else has moved on - but that's another discussion.

However long it's been since your involvement on the production, watching the finished film can be disturbing enough without the surprise / shock of seeing your credit placed in a strange order or even your name misspelt. It's all personal.

The creative outcome of a film or TV show is the result of so many people, for good or bad, and end titles / credits can be a reflection of the design, a positive part of the overall experience. Many times, that final sequence tells everything about the last controlling producer still standing rather than the talent involved.

Industry Screenings

Remembering the festival screenings for our production "Rainbow" prompted us to recall some of the other the screenings we had, both from a sales and technological view, on the first all-digital movie. Producing the film in conjunction with Sony Pictures High Definition Center, the studio saw it as an experiment for the future of the business; we approached it as a creative opportunity, a toolbox for the colour grading and visual effects that play such an important part of the story. But making the first all digital movie was more often a battle against scepticism and often outright hostility.

The first screenings (or part screenings) took place at Sony Studios while we were in post-production in the High Def facility at the Capra Building. It saw an assortment of creatives and producers visiting to see what craziness we were up to, including tours for people ranging from George Lucas to Michael Jackson. A main aspect was projecting cut footage from the movie on digital and comparing it to the same sequence transferred to 35mm film. Since every executive on the lot was initially so dismissive, claiming that only celluloid works in cinemas, it was a chastening experience when they so routinely couldn't tell which one originated on film stock. A peculiar concentration on motion blur missed the fact that much of 35mm enjoyment comes from the softness and the blur.

The demonstrations were curtailed after a few weeks due to overwhelming antagonism.

During the American Film Market in February of 1995, distributors and professionals were ferried over from Santa Monica to Culver City to view more extensive sequences. There was even an industry panel to explain what we were up to. Suspicions and doubt remained.

As such, it was left until the movie was complete, and the full transfer to neg and a print, for us to finally prove our madness. In fact the lab work and colour correction / colour timing was another elongated experience. Although we'd already performed a pass in the digital environment, including the desaturation of colour that’s an integral part of the story, once we were back to film it was an entirely different set of rules. First at Technicolor near Heathrow Airport with our great and contrary DP Freddie Francis. Sitting beside him as he gave instructions for the next version, notes taken by the timer as we watched a pristine print made just hours before, was to experience an art that is now long lost.

Next it was back to Canada for a further pass delivered through labs in Montreal and Toronto, such are the wonders of making an international co-production. In fact, the making of any filmed entertainment is an ongoing jigsaw that arbitrarily needs to be delivered rather than organically completed.

For us, that finally meant a screening at the end of the year for our distributors and investors. They wanted to see the creative results of the production as well as technical proof the system worked and there was a product that could be distributed in theatres. To meet the deadline, it's hard to believe we flew back from Montreal to London with a physical print (all six reels) actually in our laps. The screening was within hours of arrival and since we'd managed to safely navigate the return and subsequently delivered the film to the screening room, we were confident all would go well. After all, the location was BAFTA on Piccadilly. The home of British film. Technically all we wanted.

What could possibly go wrong?

'We had some issues with "Waterworld" last night,' was the somewhat throwaway explanation from one of the projectionists. At the time we were sitting in the middle of the theatre, sinking deeper into the seats as the sound gradually disintegrated on all sides during a rehearsal showing. As befits the technological breakthroughs involved visually, we'd pushed the aural boundaries, fully utilizing the possibilities of Dolby Digital's surround sound. So much so that when the Dolby consultant prepped the Montreal dubbing theatre, he told us that we couldn't use the rear and sides so much, that they were supposed to be 'discreet' channels. Our view was they were there to be maximized and we wanted to be more immersive, to create an experience.

Maybe it was some sort of revenge that at BAFTA, on that fateful evening, the meticulously designed sound so spectacularly collapsed.

With the rear speakers a murmur, the right side completely gone and the sub-woofer on its last legs with ominous crackling sounds, our desperate calls to Dolby went ignored. Meanwhile, just beyond the doors more than two hundred expectant and suspicious invitees waited. Patience was fast running out and the only solution was to ply them with copious amounts of alcohol.

Our darkening mood and cold sweats made the situation increasingly frantic, especially since there was no answer to the "Waterworld" issue - if there'd been a problem, why didn't they do something about it?! 'Well, that's the risk you have with film,' the infuriatingly blasé BAFTA head told us. 'Anything can go wrong.' It certainly reminded us of how vital a digital revolution was - and how amateurish supposed leaders of a parochial industry could be.

'David Puttnam had the same problem when he first screened "Chariots Of Fire" - and look how that turned out.' Blurred memories can't precisely pinpoint the reaction to this fount of wisdom. But a physical altercation was not far off the cards, especially when our own company partners started to accuse us that something had to be wrong with the film itself. In any case, as the delay agonizingly creaked over an hour and without any solution in sight (in fact it was actually getting worse), we were forced to set the reels spinning. A weep-inducing resolution to years of work.

An enduring memory is not just of the alcoholically impaired audience staggering into the theatre, but also fighting the projectionists to try and switch the volume up beyond '10' during the subsequent screening.

As an antidote, the Italian distributors invited us to Milan for a press conference and a special screening for schools. The cinema in the city centre was one of those grand old structures that towered high and felt like you were climbing to the heavens just to reach the projectionist's booth. A requirement to check everything was working properly well before any showing was now more than a necessity. The sound swirling round the vast auditorium was a thrill. The enormous screen was spectacular. Of course, the huge throw necessary meant a slightly dimmer image, but in the imperfect world of cinema projection that was a minor loss.

What we had certainly learnt through the experience of starting to change the cinematic process, and a form of exhibition that at the time had barely changed in almost one hundred years, was that people suspect anything beyond the current norm - without really understanding the need for revolution. The seductive beauty of celluloid would transition whether filmmakers were willing or not, though how radically it would change the industry not even we knew at the time.

Festival Screenings

The approach to film festivals and markets fall into two distinct types for filmmakers - the celebration and the sell. Both of them tend to be gut-wrenching for different reasons, either the anticipation of how an audience will react or the hope of interesting future collaborators and financiers. The latter was especially true in years gone by, before independent film began to be swamped by the age of the streamers, a change of emphasis only accelerated during the current Covid era. In any case, developing a project has always been just the beginning of a tortuous journey to finally getting the final story in front of viewers.

That process eventually gets us to the other type of festival - the invitation to screen your baby as part of a curated schedule. I suppose some personalities enjoy the process of revealing the film before an expectant audience in a special one-off. More sensible people feel the tension. After all, apart from some test screenings during the post-production process (when people gleefully tell you how better it could have been), this is the first time the final product will be screened. No matter that the organizers are willing the showing will be a success, there are no guarantees.

For "Rainbow" in 1995, we were invited to two festivals, programs for younger audiences that are still thriving today.

In November, we took a print to Belfast for Cinemagic. Chief memories for this trip mainly centred on the tremendous hospitality supplied by the festival staff (that year the festival seemed to be exclusively run by women). If helped that our director Bob Hoskins provided a boisterous presence and the copious dinners and parties, fuelled by alcohol and impromptu Riverdance demonstrations, meant the few days were a blur of laughter.

The other memory was the screening itself. The opening night premiere was at the modern multi-screen MGM Cinema in Dublin Road, a theatre that first opened its doors in 1993, but was demolished in 2021. It was good to have a relatively up to date theatre for the film, because although of course the story-telling was of primary importance, it was also a technological first - the first all-digital motion picture. So it deserved the best.

A packed house gathered on a chilly November night and we were confident "Rainbow" would look good. After all, it had been rehearsed earlier in the day with visuals and sound balanced. We had also decided to put an added bonus on the film for special screenings - an Overture that would play in the background as the house lights dimmed and curtains opened. Just as the music finishes it was timed for the first titles to appear on screen. It was a fun idea.

Unfortunately, it wasn't designed for modern cinemas.

Before the film was shown there was a short. A very good animated short, as I remember. Problem was that meant the lights were already down and screen open. No turning back when everything is automated, which resulted for "Rainbow" in two minutes of dark with music. Never a good idea, because most people naturally thought something had gone wrong.

(In fact, it got worse with the release prints a few months later because somehow the Overture was left on by the lab, causing a flood of panicky calls from cinemas, let alone bewilderment from audiences! But the distribution was another story...)

In any case, we survived and had a great evening with our Irish hosts. Actually, there was one other event from the trip, a screenwriting class we held for students the following day, which was actually quite invigorating (or at least a potent tonic for the thumping hangover).

The second festival was in the sunnier climes of Giffoni Valle Piana in south-west Italy during late July 1996. A well-established event, the Giffoni Film Festival is actually a lot of fun and genuinely celebrates movies for young people in a lovely setting. Since it had been running for twenty-five years by the time we arrived, there was no doubting that it would be professionally run.

This time Bob couldn't be there and instead spoke to the competition jury via video conference. However, the hospitality was again open and generous. In fact, the relaxed, affectionately disorganized feel should have been a red flag. One of the aspects we had been confused about prior to arrival was how the film was to be shown - had they prepared subtitles to show alongside the screen, or had the Italian distributors already sent a dubbed print? Nothing prepared us for what actually took place.

I seem to remember it wasn't a big auditorium, although the screen was good enough. It was strange, though, that after introductions were made, three people proceeded to gather around a microphone just to the side of the screen, thick wads of paper in their hands. Even when the lights went down, they remained. It started to dawn about what was to happen, even if my mind refused to accept the concept.

The film is pure visuals and music for the opening shots and the soundtrack boomed around the cinema - then the first dialogue scene started and suddenly the 'performers' at the microphone spoke the Italian translation over the English voices. After the first moments of shock, we had to laugh, both at the craziness of the situation and the simplicity of translation. A real live action cinema fusion.

Then the reels went out of order.

The centrepiece rainbow ride that transports the kids across America to Kansas was missing, which not only made a nonsense of the narrative, it threw the intrepid Italian performers into confusion and eventual panic. Taking it upon myself to somehow rectify the situation, I darted to the back and into the projection booth, meaning to help get the right reel up. Opening the door, the image is seared into my memory - two men with cigarettes dangling from their mouths, buried beneath a mound of celluloid spinning out into the air from sputtering projectors. The irony of our pioneering efforts to push technical boundaries was not lost. Joining people outside on the small town street, in the sun and cigarette smoke, the screening was over.

A lovely outdoor evening meal preceded the eventual awards ceremony. We couldn't blame anyone for not recognizing our art, although one of the officials did rush over with a special medal, either out of shame or as a mistake. We never did find out which it was. What both screenings proved, however, is that for sensible people it's right to be tense.