Hannibal: This is my sound design

This is a translation of an article that I wrote in 2014. If you speak Spanish, you can find the original article at Makimono.

Nowadays, there is a television series that stands out in terms of sound design: Hannibal. Its special attention to sound is glaringly obvious from the first scene, in which for almost two minutes without dialogue we listen to a disturbing mix of field recordings, electronic music, pulses, glitches, static, etc. that introduces us to the mind of the main character: Will Graham.

During these first minutes, the soundtrack oscillates between the real and the hallucinatory, echoing the ghostly influence of John Cage and Morton Feldman, of whom Brian Reitzell, composer and musical supervisor of Hannibal, says: “I’m a big fan of John Cage and Morton Feldman. I love when you have big washes of sound that come out of nowhere and leave tons of space behind them.” [Film Music Magazine].

Hannibal makes it clear from the first scene that here you are not going to find a classical orchestral soundtrack. The soundtrack knowingly confuses diegetic and non-diegetic sound using drones, dark ambient, and industrial music. “Reitzell’s work unmoors the viewer subliminally, forgoing the classical bombast of Shore or Zimmer’s Lecter scores for ambient clashes of sustained tones.” [A.V. Club].

This attention extends also to images. From the beginning, the directors decided that they wanted the audience to be “totally immersed in the world of the show: sound and vision.” [Minnesota Public Radio]. The Guardian said a few months ago that “it’s unlike anything else on TV. The camerawork is stunning … Colours are muted or oversaturated, characters appear shrouded in shadow, or even in silhouette. It’s also a treat for the ear, with Brian Reitzell’s score blurring the line between music and sound effects. The sound design here is better than most movies.”

However, the most interesting thing is that this treat for the ear is not just about aesthetics. The first personal trait that we know about Will Graham—a somewhat asocial professor who collaborates as an analyst with the FBI—comes from a conversation about the power of listening. When Jack Crawford—an FBI agent—points out that it is funny that someone as asocial as him works as a teacher, Will answers, “Well, I’m just talking at them. I’m not listening to them. It’s not social.”

When, minutes later, we meet Hannibal Lecter, we hear classical music for the first time, a piano that takes us to a more structured, elegant, and clean world than the criminal madness of the FBI and Will’s mental instability. The music is not any piano piece, it is the “Aria” from the Goldberg Variations. I don’t know if what we hear is Glenn Gould, but he is Hannibal’s favourite pianist, and also an obsessive-compulsive maniac as perfectionist as he is.

The two main characters are presented through sound, contrasting intricated sound textures with the impeccable control of the Goldberg Variations. Although the sound surrounding Will is complex, dark, and closer to noise than music, it is never chaotic. Will himself says a few episodes later that spaces speak to him “with noise and clarity”. This apparently contradictory description defines well the soundtrack of the series, a structured noise that relates to the idea that chaos does not imply disorder, but an order that we do not understand.

When Hannibal enters Will’s house for the first time without him being present, he plays the piano, as if he was trying to take over Will with his own music. What he plays are the first notes of Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, a piece related to the form and content of the series. On one hand, it is a work that received adverse criticism for its games of tonality and dissonance. On the other hand, it focuses on primitive rituals that include the choice of a sacrificial victim.

Will’s dissonance… Hannibal’s sacrificial victims… Stravinsky himself said that his piece was about “the mystery and great surge of the creative power of Spring” [Wikipedia]. As we will see later, the relationship between Will and Hannibal will lead to a great tension that involves the creative power of Hannibal and the ‘blooming’ of Will.

Will and Hannibal come closer when they share a secret related to an FBI case. This introduction of Will to something ‘fishy’ is underlined using the soundtrack. The scene opens with Hannibal listening to opera in his office, when Will enters the room accusing him of withholding information, the opera mixes with the abstract sounds that always accompany Will. As Will’s anger increases, the opera disappears, we only hear ‘sound’. When Hannibal begins to convince him that it is better to keep the secret, the opera reappears, eventually triumphing over the ‘noise’.

Reitzell states that “There are many layers in the soundscape and very little sound design in the show.” [Film Music Magazine]. He means that, despite the complexity of the sound, they did not want to be dramatic, but to add meaning. “I’m interested in music psychology and applying that to the score as much as possible.” [Minnesota Public Radio]. Bryan Fuller, the creator of the series, says that “so much of what Brian Reitzell does isn’t scoring; it is sound design. It is psychological sound design” [A.V. Club].

The opening credits are the first element that plays with the viewer’s subconscious, using a short piece that musicologist Tim Storhoff describes as a mixture of “dissonance, distortion, and non-Western percussion instruments.” [T-Stor]. The richness of the atmosphere of this and other sound pieces has levels of complexity and low-pitched audio frequencies impossible to hear using standard television speakers. The series’ soundtrack is as elusive as Will and Hannibal.

In the seventh episode, there is a series of shots that take us from the vibration of the vocal cords of an opera singer to Hannibal’s inner ear. Hanibal is almost crying. Sensitivity, what moves us, enters through the ear. But not only what moves us, but also what sustains our reality and our life. When Will begins to confuse imagination and reality, he says “I can see and hear better afraid. I just can’t speak as concisely.” He is opening up, the problem is that the more he opens up, the more difficult it is for him to express with words what he feels.

In Hannibal, mind and life always pass through the ear. Will says to a disturbed woman, “If you can hear me, you’re alive.” This sentence is later related to the ear of Abigail Hobbs, an ambiguous character—victim and executioner—with whom Will and Hannibal develop a parental relationship. When Hannibal supposedly sacrifices Abigail, all that is found of her is an ear—Lynchian overtones. If Abigail has no ear, she cannot hear. If she cannot hear, she must be dead.

Abigail’s ear also represents an epiphany, it is linked to Will’s awakening, to the awareness of what is really inside Hannibal. The awakening/ear relationship is evident. Hannibal inserts Abigail’s ear into Will’s throat while he is unconscious. When Will comes to his senses, he throws up the ear, an ear that then appears again and again in his hallucinations.

When the ear motif reappears in the second season, it does so as a link to life. Will, accused of crimes he did not commit, sees an opportunity to save himself from the death penalty when someone sends the court an ear that indicates that the real killer is still free. “This ear you were sent is an opportunity,” says Hannibal. In the same episode, the tabloid journalist Freddie Lounds claims at the trial that Abigail died because she did not listen to her, “I should’ve listened to her”.

Non-listening kills, but also amplified or misdirected listening. When Will feels guilty about the death of one of the characters, he says, “Beverly died because of me. Because she listened to me”. Also, when psychopath Abel Gideon tells Dr. Alana Bloom that Will is not a murderer, but that he could soon be one, she is not concerned because it is impossible for him to kill anyone while locked up. Gideon replies, “Not with his own hands, but if he only had a little birdie to whisper ‘murder’ into a sympathetic ear…” The adjective sympathetic is used in the musical field to speak of ‘sympathetic vibrations’, resonance, an issue to which I will return later.

When Will whispers to a little birdie to murder Hannibal, Hannibal’s reaction after being saved is to compose a piece for harpsichord. “I’m metabolizing the experience by composing a new piece of music.” The harpsichord means control over his space and circumstances, he is recovering his structure. Hannibal is not able to finish his composition until he regains control over his life and his game.

And then, they both eat the little birdie. The bird is not Will accomplice, it is an ortolan that he and Hannibal eat after drowning it alive in Armagnac. This is another scene that uses the Goldberg Variations, this time mixed with the crunching of the bird bones. Now both are in control.

The amount of dialogues that refer in one way or another to sound is fascinating, perhaps because sound is formless and ethereal, two conditions related to the enigmas of the human mind. Will usually explains his feelings using terms related to sound, “I can feel my nerves clicking” or “All I heard was my heart, dim but fast, like footsteps fleeing into silence.”

Sound references are even used as a humorous resource. In one of the first episodes, when Alana shows up at Will’s isolated house by surprise, Will says that he has not heard her car. She answers, “Hybrid. Great car for stalking.” Noise reveals, silence observes.

This metaphorical discourse on sound reaches another level in the eighth episode. The murderer of the week is a musician and the whole episode is full of sound references. It is an episode that talks about music and its relation to control, death, and the mind. Play means to perform music on a musical instrument, but also to be involved in a game. Hannibal reflects: “Every life is a piece of music. Like music, we are finite events, unique arrangements. Sometimes harmonious, sometimes dissonant. Sometimes events not worth hearing again.” The victim as an instrument, life as a score.

In this episode, we discover that Hannibal is a theremin virtuoso. If the harpsichord has to do with control over oneself, the theremin has to do with control over others, functioning as a simile of how Hannibal handles everyone who comes into his range. Hannibal states that with the theremin one does not compose, but discovers, because you “can’t impose traditional composition on an instrument that is inherently free form”.

In this same episode, we see an unexpected fight to the death between Hannibal and the killer musician. When Hannibal kills his rival, he plays a few notes of “Aria” on the harpsichord, a sound detail that represents his extreme dependence on refinement and control. Hannibal is a killer, but his modus operandi is never improvised or dirty, all his movements are calculated, he cannot stand improvised, rough or sloppy things.

When the theremin reappears in episode 10 of the second season, a much clearer relationship is established between sound, vibration, and control. Hannibal and Alana speak, “A theremin is an instrument that can create exquisite music without ever needing to be touch, but it requires the rare gift of perfect pitch to play properly … Feel the vibration moving through you. … It’s like composing in thin air. Thin air is the musician’s canvas. … It’s a very psychological instrument … We work with people the same way. Never touching … but guiding them from dissonance toward composition.”

Alana stresses to Hannibal that people are not instruments: “Whatever it is you’re playing (playing, with the double meaning of playing music and playing a game), Hannibal, you have to listen very carefully to what you are creating.” Hannibal’s response is a direct reference to the haptic and vibratory power of sound: “You and I went so long in our friendship without ever touching, yet I always felt attuned to you. ‘Attuned’, a term that means ‘in resonance’ or ‘on the same wavelength’.

‘Attuned’ refers to the notion of ‘sympathetic’, already mentioned, and relates to two Eastern concepts, the Japanese ki ga au and the Chinese ganying, which have much to do with the interaction between Will and Hannibal.

Ganying (‘resonance’) means stimulus and response, in the sense of an interaction that transcends the limits of time, space, and ordinary linear causality. Resonance implies a stimulus that generates a simultaneous effect on another element without direct contact. According to The Huainanzi, this connection is related to qi, energy, and is never arbitrary, because elements are more sensitive to the resonance of other elements that share the same form of qi. It is exactly the same phenomenon of musical resonance, which causes one guitar string to vibrate when another is played, for example.

Ki ga au is a Japanese expression that means to get along, but its literal translation would be more similar to ‘our qi match’, that is, ‘we resonate’, or ‘we vibrate on the same wavelength’. Hannibal and Will share a common wavelength, but while one allows himself to vibrate and resonate, creating perfect music, the other tries to conform to the score written by society, morals, and laws, living in constant dissonance.

The second season of the series opens with an episode in which Will is already fully aware of this resonance: “I used to hear my thoughts inside my skull with the same tone, timbre, accent, as if the words were coming out of my mouth … Now my inner voice sounds like you [Hannibal].

This resonance is not only evident through words, Will and Hannibal’s soundtracks are beginning to blur. When they have a first dinner more or less frank about what they are playing at, Will’s dissonance drifts into the “Adagietto” of Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 in C sharp minor, a love song that ends on a disturbing shot, again with dissonances, in which their identities are confused using a simple audiovisual trick that points in more than one sense to Ingmar Bergman’s Persona.

In this second season, not only does the resonance between Will and Hannibal become more evident, but also the identification of silence with death and noise with life. In the same episode in which Jack’s wife, who is sick with cancer, describes death as an inevitable silence, one of the FBI’s forensic scientists mentions that drone—the bee—ejaculations are so explosive that they are audible to the human ear. Here we find the idea suggested by Jacques Attali in Noise: The Political Economy of Music, “life is full of noise … death alone is silent … Nothing essential happens in the absence of noise”.

If in life nothing happens in the absence of noise, neither does in Hannibal. The soundtrack is there even when you’re not hearing it, with low frequencies lurking in the darkness beyond the frequency range of your speakers. Hannibal is a feast for the ears, a morbid fascination, a feeling that dances on the sublime… and, I insist again, on the ear.


Soundies were musical films produced in several American cities between 1940 and 1947. They were short films of songs, dances, or orchestra performances. They were shown on a coin-operated machine, a kind of film jukebox that you could use in nightclubs, bars, restaurants, and other public places. Some soundies were later reused as fillers for television.

The soundie was the precursor of the music video. The films, about three minutes long, were mounted on reels with several performances projected in a loop. As the intention was to reach a wide audience, the range of musical genres was diverse, from country to swing, jazz, gospel, folk, and even opera. In some cases, they included shots of women in swimsuits or other slightly erotic sequences to attract the sailors on leave, which led one senator to threaten to investigate the production and distribution of soundies, believing that these were lewd films that should not be shown in any decent public space.

Although some conservative politicians tried to turn soundies into films for sex shops, these were not low-budget films with erotic performers. Soundies were a launching pad for dancers, actors, musicians, and singers like Cyd Charisse, Doris Day, Ricardo Montalbán or Louis Armstrong. And more important, during the few years that they were in vogue, they were one of the few mediums in which artists of colour were free to produce their own films.

The first soundies were shot in 1940, but were not distributed until the following year, when the projection machine, called Panoram, was optimised. A Panoram cost about $600 (almost $12,000 today). Despite its high price, in just three years there were more than 10,000 Panorams throughout the United States. Although more than 1,800 soundies were produced and distributed in that short time, by 1946 the number of Panoram machines had dropped to just 2,000, presumably due to the restrictions of wartime.

Soundies were shot in 35mm and distributed in 16mm so that they could be projected on the Panoram, which as you can see in the following video was a bit of a mix between a jukebox and a television. It was a complex device, with a rear-projection system built with mirrors and a 45x50cm screen. Since each reel contained eight soundies that were projected in a loop, you could not choose which one to watch. To keep the audience interested, they changed the film reels every week.

Due to the technological limitations of the time, all the performers did playback, in some cases awful playback. However, perhaps the most curious thing is that soundies used the same tricks that contemporary music videos: absurd plots, half-naked girls, weird sets, and crazy choreographies. I’m sure some MTV executive has gotten ideas from this.

Gerald McBoing-Boing, the boy who speaks through sound effects

Gerald McBoing-Boing (1950) is an animated short film about a boy, Gerald McCloy, who speaks through sound effects. The film is based on an audio story by Dr. Seuss originally published as a record for children.

The film was created for cinemas, moving away from the realistic animation style popularised by Walt Disney. The main concept was that cartoons don’t have to obey the rules of the real world. This, besides being original, reduced costs, because they didn’t need realistic drawings, but something more creative and expressive.

The animation studio behind Gerald McBoing-Boing was United Productions of America (UPA). The UPA had been founded after a strike by Disney workers in 1941. During its years of existence, which spanned the 1940s to the 1970s, its biggest success was Mr. Magoo.

As I said before, Gerald McBoing-Boing’s plot focuses on Gerald McCloy, a 2-year-old boy that, when he begins to speak, uses sound effects rather than words. The first thing that comes out of his mouth is “boing boing”, the sound of a spring bouncing.

Doctors can’t find a solution, and the other children make fun of him, leading his family to despair. Then a radio talent scout discovers Gerald and hires him as a foley artist—the person who creates sound effects for film and radio.

The short was so successful, even winning an Oscar, that the UPA produced three sequels. Years later, in 2005, Cartoon Network launched a cartoon TV show based on the same characters. In this show, Gerald still speaks through sound effects, but he has two friends that use standard words.

Some notes about the production

Gerald McBoing-Boing’s creator, Bobe Cannon, and its designer, Bill Hurtz, wanted to create a minimalist cartoon with little dialogue. For the original film, first, they sketched the actions. Then, they composed the soundtrack and they animated all the actions using the sound as a guide. Finally, they added flat and flashy colours.

The style is far from the realism of other cartoons of the time. The backgrounds have only a few lines, some of them are almost abstract. These drawings are influenced by modern painters like Picasso and Matisse. The composition uses forced perspectives and extreme angles, achieving striking shots reminiscent of German expressionist cinema.

Cannon had started his career working with well-known characters, such as Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. He was one of the founders of the UPA and vice president of the studio from 1949 to 1957, a job that he combined with collaborations with Disney and Tex Avery.

Cannon loved ballet and he saw cartoons as a form of dance. When he designed his films, he thought of animation as if it were choreography. Maybe that’s where the idea of creating a character who expresses himself through sounds, rather than words, came from.

Which was the first flicker film?

My favourite film genre is the flicker film. In case you’re not very familiar with experimental film, a flicker film is a film with fast changes between light and dark frames. That creates a strobing effect.

If you need something more visual to understand what I’m talking about, this is Arnulf Rainer (1960) by Peter Kubelka, my favourite flicker film.

I’ve read a lot of times that Arnulf Rainer was the first flicker film, but that’s not true. I believed it for some time because that’s what most books say, but years ago I discovered Color Sequence (1943) by Dwinell Grant.

Some parts of Color Sequence are too slow to be considered a flicker, but other parts are definitely flickering. Anyway, this isn’t the first flicker film either.

The first flicker film, at least that I know of, is An Expression by Shigeji Ogino (you can watch the film on the link).

Shigeji Ogino was a Japanese filmmaker who started making movies in the 1920s. His filmography is really diverse. He made home movies, travel diaries, animation, and experimental films.

An Expression is a 4-minute long silent film. It’s an abstract film, we only see shapes. However, it’s also a narrative film. Ogino tells the story of a meeting between a man from the city—the triangle—and a woman from the countryside—the circle.

Ogino shot the film in black and white using alternating red and green filters. One frame is red and the next is green (complementary colours), which generates entoptic phenomena. Entoptic phenomena are images whose source is within the eyes themselves. This means that sometimes you see colours, spots, shapes, etc. that are not really in the film.

I love doing research, so maybe one day I’ll find an oldest flicker film, or maybe someone will talk me about another one. Who knows…

November Film (complete)

*WARNING: This film contains flashing images.*

*Some of the frequencies are quite low, so I recommend you to watch the film with headphones, but be careful with the sound volume.*

This film is the result of a 30 days challenge. It was originally published on a daily basis on Twitter—one-minute video per day from November 1 to 30 (2017). The sound was made in Audacity using tone and noise generators. Images are the audio files themselves saved as JPG, so what you see is what you hear.

You can find the original 30 one-minute films at my Twitter account: @null66913

Watched – June 2016

Cosa avete fatto a Solange? (1972).
Soylent Green (1973).
Addio zio Tom (136 minutes version, 1971).
Addio zio Tom (123 minutes version, 1971).
Arsenic and Old Lace (1944).
Игла (1988).
Città violenta (1970).
C.R.A.Z.Y. (2005).
Appropriate Behavior (2014).
Pride (2014).
Butter on the Latch (2013).
Wadjda (2012).
Passage à l’acte (1993).
Alone. Life Wastes Andy Hardy (1998).
Outer Space (1999).
Instructions for a Light & Sound Machine (2005).
Michael Kohlhaas (2013).
Lifeforce (1985).
Barefoot (2014).
The Three Musketeers (1948).
Go (1999).
Stage Beauty (2004).
The Nice Guys (2016).
En kort en lang (2001).
October Gale (2014).
The Doom Generation (1995).
Sei donne per l’assassino (1964).
The Hitcher (1986).
The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976).
Winter’s Bone (2010).
The Raspberry Reich (2004).
Two Moon Junction (1988).
Green Room (2015).
The Conjuring (2013).
Sinister (2012).
Television Delivers People (1973).
Oculus (2013).
Bloodsucking Bastards (2015).
Get Real (1998).

CRANC #01 [viernes 27 de mayo, Barcelona]


Cranc es un nuevo proyecto de proyecciones de cine y video experimental, con debates posteriores, que se organiza una vez al mes en las instalaciones de la imprenta L’Automàtica situada en el barrio de Gracia de Barcelona.

El viernes 27 de mayo se inaugura esta iniciativa con la presentación de la primera edición de la editorial Angular (un libro y un DVD cuya caja se ha producido en la misma imprenta) y una muestra de trabajos de la realizadora Blanca Rego (cuya pieza Engram (optical sound #001) es una de las que forma parte de la compilación de Angular). Esta primera sesión, dividida en dos partes diferenciadas, propone un diálogo estético y semántico entre trabajos que investigan las posibilidades cinemáticas y acústicas tanto de las herramientas fílmicas como de los dispositivos digitales.

Viernes 27 de mayo a las 20h
5€ con consumición
C/ de la Legalitat, 18.
M L4 Joanic, L3 Fontana

1º parte:​ Angular

Remote (2011) Jesse McLean​. Video. 11 min
Tokyo-Ebisu (2010) Tomonari Nishikawa. 16 mm/ Video. 5 min
Wingdings Love Letter / Places With Meaning (2012 – 2013) Sc​o​tt Fitzpatrick​. 16 mm/ Video. 5 min.

​2º parte: Blanca Rego

Engram (optical sound #001) (2013) Video. 2 min.
You must be complex to want simplicity (2014) Video. 1 min.
Due to Violent Content, and Flashing Lights with Strobe Effects, Viewer Discretion Advised (2015) Video. 1 min.
Nonobjective Cinema (2015) Video. 2 min.
Computer Music Studies: Untitled (2015) Video. 2 min.
Rainbow Britte (2012) Video. 7 min.​
Time-Space Compression​ (2015) Video. 2 min.​
Psycho 60/98 (2016) Video. 6 min.​​

Poison (1991)


Poison (1991), Todd Haynes.

I think that Poison was the first film I watched by Todd Haynes, many years ago. I’ve seen all his films and I like all of them, but Poison and Velvet Goldmine hold a special place in my heart (Velvet Goldmine is probably on my top 10 favourite films of all times).


Videodrome (1983)
Giant (1956)
Body Heat (1981)
All That Heaven Allows (1955)

All these films are almost perfect. My favourite is All That Heaven Allows. Even if it’s a melodrama, it’s so well-made, intelligent, mesmerizing and modern that I could watch it over and over again and talk about it for hours… I have something to say also about Giant. Oddly enough, James Dean’s character reminds me a lot to Jesse Eisenberg’s character in The Social Network. In fact, I think that both films talk about similar issues in different eras.

The Tarnished Angels (1958)
The Last Sunset (1961)

These two films are really good also, not perfect, but…

Berberian Sound Studio (2012)

The truth is I didn’t like it very much. It’s somewhat intriguing, but I don’t think it’s a very good film.

Pretty Maids All in a Row (1971)

This one is quite bad and tacky, but it’s so over the top in so many levels that I can’t help loving it.

El deseo femenino en la comedia romántica de los 50

Hace unas semanas, viendo a Rock Hudson en All That Heaven Allows (Solo el cielo lo sabe, 1955) me acordé de las comedias románticas que hizo con Doris Day. A principios de los 80, TVE1 solía emitir ese tipo de películas, y aunque entonces me gustaban mucho no las había vuelto a ver y pensé que quizás a estas alturas podrían parecerme excesivamente inocentes, o incluso un tanto retrógradas o machistas. En cualquier caso, decidí verlas. Se trata de tres películas —Pillow Talk (Confidencias de medianoche, 1959), Lover Come Back (Pijama para dos, 1961) y Send Me No Flowers (No me mandes flores, 1964)— de las que solo me interesan las dos primeras; Send Me No Flowers tiene un argumento muy diferente y además es bastante inferior.

Después de ver Pillow Talk y Lover Come Back, me acordé también de aquel intento de hace unos años de homenajear/parodiar estas dos comedias: Down with Love (Abajo el amor, 2003). Era de esperar que Down with Love fuese peor, porque el género de la comedia romántica hace años que va cuesta abajo (salvo honrosas excepciones), pero lo realmente curioso es que Down with Love es una película mucho más tonta, machista y trivial que los originales supuestamente ñoños a los que imita.

Pillow Talk
y Lover Come Back son dos películas similares, aparte de compartir al mismo trío de actores protagonistas (Hudson, Day y Tony Randall), la trama de ambas es parecida. Por un lado, tenemos a una mujer independiente (Doris Day) con un trabajo liberal (diseñadora de interiores en la primera y publicista en la segunda) no demasiado preocupada por el romance y el matrimonio, que al parecer era lo único que interesaba hasta entonces al sexo femenino. Por otro lado, tenemos a un mujeriego empedernido (Rock Hudson) a quien odia sin haberlo visto nunca (en un caso comparten la línea telefónica y en el otro son rivales laborales). Tras la premisa inicial, la historia avanza por el mismo derrotero: un día Hudson ve a Day de casualidad por primera vez, le parece atractiva, le entran ganas de tirársela y decide hacerse pasar por otra persona, siendo consciente de que si ella supiese quién es en realidad no se molestaría ni en dirigirle la palabra.

La historia de Down with Love es mucho más enrevesada (ojo, en este párrafo hay spoilers). Ella (Renée Zellweger) es una secretaria anodina enamorada de su jefe (Ewan McGregor), un mujeriego que no le hace ni caso porque solo persigue a mujeres con pinta de modelo de pasarela. Zellweger decide vengarse de él con un plan un tanto absurdo que pasa por escribir un best-seller feminista, pero que en último término tiene como objetivo principal conseguir que McGregor se fije en ella. Mientras en las películas de Hudson/Day partimos de una mujer independiente, segura de sí misma, a priori poco preocupada por los tópicos románticos, en Down with Love convierten al personaje femenino en una chica insegura, obsesionada con su antiguo jefe, que solo es capaz de enfrentarse al mundo haciéndose pasar por otra persona. En lo que se refiere al personaje masculino, el arquetipo también es distinto. El objetivo de los personajes interpretados por Hudson es simplemente llevarse a la chica a la cama, mientras que el interpretado por McGregor pretende arruinar la imagen pública de Zellweger. En Down with Love, el puro deseo sexual de sus precursoras se convierte en odio, venganza y mezquindad por ambas partes.

Otro detalle que no funciona en Down with Love es el desplazamiento del objeto de deseo. En las tres películas el objeto de deseo es el hombre, no la mujer, como dictaría el arquetipo clásico. Aunque los personajes de Day y Zellweger son deseables, no son en ningún caso mujeres objeto, mientras que ellos, sí lo son. A él le sirve cualquier mujer guapa, a ellas no, todas lo quieren a él. Cuando Hudson entra en una habitación, todo el mundo se fija en él, es el más guapo, el más deseable. Cuando McGregor entra… Bueno, por muy buen actor que sea Ewan McGregor y por mucho magnetismo que desprenda en películas como Velvet Goldmine (1998), aquí no funciona en absoluto, no hay quien se crea que ese es el hombre más deseable de Nueva York. Extrañamente, se da la paradoja de que los personajes de Hudson, gay y no especialmente buen actor, resultan mucho más viriles, creíbles y deseables que el de McGregor.

La cuestión de la homosexualidad me lleva a otro tema que me llama mucho la atención en las películas de Hudson/Day. En ambos filmes hay bromas claras sobre la homosexualidad de Hudson. Aunque nunca se utilizan palabras como ‘gay’ u ‘homosexual’, hay chanzas constantes con el asunto, incluso hay una escena en la que un personaje secundario llega a comentar: «Es el último hombre del mundo de quien hubiese pensado eso» (que es homosexual). Este subtexto es otra de las cosas que imita Down with Love, pero de una manera mucho más evidente y tonta, y sin la gracia añadida de que el actor protagonista sea realmente homosexual. En los años 50/60, la homosexualidad seguía siendo un tabú importante, así que me resulta muy chocante que Hudson se prestase a hacer bromas sobre el asunto. Investigando un poco sobre el tema, llegué a una entrevista con el escritor Armistead Maupin en la que explica que muchas veces quedaban todos los amigos homosexuales en casa de Hudson para ver estas comedias, y que se partían de risa con los chistes gays.

Comparando las tres películas, es obvio que Pillow Talk y Lover Come Back nos hablan sobre el deseo femenino, mientras que Down with Love no habla sobre gran cosa, se limita a imitar una estética. Las dos películas de Hudson/Day son de una época en la que todavía no se puede hablar abiertamente de ciertas cuestiones, y aun así se las apañan para introducir diálogos y escenas muy evidentes en términos sexuales. En Pillow Talk, las conversaciones telefónicas entre los dos protagonistas suelen suceder a pantalla partida en la cama, aunque la más ‘atrevida’ transcurre en el cuarto de baño, con ambos desnudos en sus respectivas bañeras. Este juego erótico conseguido a base de montaje es una de las escenas que copia más descaradamente Down with Love, pero con un resultado mucho menos efectivo. El erotismo del original se convierte en un gag repetitivo y pedestre, sin un ápice de lascivia.

No obstante, quizás la referencia sexual más directa de Pillow Talk son una serie de pensamientos en off del personaje femenino, quien dice, textualmente, aunque a través de una canción: «Esta noche soy tuya. Cariño, poséeme». En Lover Come Back, estrenada dos años después, ya en los 60, los guionistas van un poco más allá, atreviéndose a que los protagonistas tengan relaciones sexuales después de una noche loca de borrachera. Eso sí, como esto tiene apariencia de comedia amable, la borrachera es de caramelos y el polvo con licencia de matrimonio de por medio.

En Down with Love, se desentienden del tema del deseo sexual femenino. Aunque el best-seller que escribe la protagonista invita a las mujeres a mantener relaciones sexuales sin amor de por medio (y aun así los hombres la odian, toda una incongruencia), la película se queda en lo superficial, en la estética y los equívocos, eliminando el subtexto más interesante de sus predecesoras. Cuando la pareja protagonista está por fin a punto de mantener relaciones sexuales, ella se niega porque está enamorada y, según su libro, el amor es una cosa muy mala. En los años 50, lo ‘malo’ era el sexo, ahora resulta que es el amor.

En último término, estamos hablando de dos discursos completamente distintos. Doris Day conquista, sin pretenderlo, al que quieren todas y no quiere a ninguna. Ella no cambia, simplemente se enamora, es él quien cambia a raíz de su relación. Sin embargo, en el caso de Down with Love, por mucho que la historia termine igual, Renée Zellweger cambia por él. Estamos ante un personaje femenino que solo se realiza por culpa, o gracias, a un hombre.

Al final del día, resulta que las dos comedias de los 50/60 hablan sobre las fantasías sexuales/románticas femeninas, mientras que la de 2003 ni siquiera sabe de qué está hablando. No sé si la idea de hacer Down with Love tendría algo que ver con el homenaje que hizo Todd Haynes un año antes a All That Heaven Allows (otro clásico de los 50 protagonizado por Rock Hudson). La recreación de Haynes, Far from Heaven (Lejos del cielo, 2002), sí es una puesta al día inteligente que combina una estética retro con un discurso contemporáneo heredero de la crítica social que encerraban los melodramas de Sirk.