Alex Dewing reminisces on the melancholic score and soundtrack of David Lowery’s A Ghost Story. 

“Don’t be scared”, whispers C in the opening moments of David Lowery’s A Ghost Story. It is in this same moment that we hear the longest piece of music from the soundtrack, swelling ominously over those very words (even the subtitles read [ominous music plays]). The sustained notes haunt the piece, as if seeking to tell you everything you need to know about the stirring picture to follow. Aside from its notable 1:33:1 ratio, and of course that opening A24 graphic, A Ghost Story doesn’t initially play out any differently to other indie movies. But once those 5 minutes and 23 seconds of song are up, so is its likeness to anything else. Dialogue and music are used equally sparsely, however when the score does play it speaks more than words ever could.

Undeniably existential, A Ghost Story lingers on the mundanity of grief both visually and audibly: after receiving a pie from an unknown but sympathetic source, M unwraps it, takes it to the floor, and devours it in one five minute long take. There is no sensitive accompaniment, only silence, broken by sobs and chewing. And why shouldn’t silence prevail? Nothing is more unsettling (because of its realism or voyeurism) than this emptiness. The predominant use of diegetic sound, such as that within the infamous pie scene, throughout the film underlines the chilling atmosphere. It closes in on the emotionality, gives you time to examine and cross-examine, even when it is only the soft soughing of wind.

While the omission of music allows for a breath to be taken as real-time is shot almost in slow-motion, composer Daniel Hart’s score, when it does make an appearance, seems to reflect time’s unruly passage. A Ghost Story toys with non-linearity, the ghost of C stuck watching over the house ceaselessly. The majestic and terrible ‘Thesaurus Tuus’ guides us forwards and immediately backwards in time, while ‘Post Pie’ accompanies C’s sight of M as she leaves the house over and over again with each new day. Later we hear ‘Gentleman Caller’, a sentimental string-filled piece that backs C’s meeting of his ghostly neighbour.

“I’m waiting for someone”, the neighbour says.

“Who?”

The camera refuses to move, keeping a distance as the neighbour hangs their head and confesses: “I don’t remember”. There is an equal feeling of foreboding to the music’s tenderness – presenting, perhaps, what may happen after too great a passage of time. It is this same foreboding that moulds the piece into the heated one it becomes. Sat on the couch, C witnesses M’s first venture with another man since his death. Time has passed, and C is angry about that. Angry at M, angry at his neighbour, angry that, for him, the passing of days, of weeks, is no slower than the length of a song.

It is not long after that A Ghost Story’s score continues the film’s existentialist ideas with one of its few tracks containing lyrics: ‘I Get Overwhelmed’, a meditative and melancholic electro song that, in the context of the film, was written for M by C. Hart, speaking about the soundtrack, talked about his personal connection: “What what am I doing? Why am I making the choices that I’m making? Why are all these terrible things happening around the world?… And I couldn’t really make sense of any of that. So I wrote [‘I Get Overwhelmed’] about it.”

These are the very same questions both C and M are asking themselves, the lyrics littered with questions – “Is my lover there? Are we breakin’ up? Did she find someone else? And leave me alone?” Their beauty and simplicity work on many levels; here, it is about the overwhelming nature of mourning, for both the living and the dead. The film cuts between M listening to the song for the first time and her listening to it after C’s death, alone on the floor, reaching out unknowingly to his sheeted figure. Whereas before, music reflected the non-linear nature of the narrative, this is clearly a projection of M’s memories; a sign that the passing of time is not wholly to be feared. Time moves on, but memories stay. And something as small as a melody can remind us.

Clarity, and an end to the overwhelming experiences of C, comes again with ‘I Get Overwhelmed’, this time embedded in the penultimate ‘History’.

“We’ve got a history” C tells M, after his ghostly form catches back up with the couple. Reminded of who he was, time slows back down, as does the music. The techno beats carry through from ‘History’ into ‘Safe Safe Safe’, our final track, and with it comes hope for C. Arguably the most beautiful composition of the movie, the music swells as C realises what he has to do. Back to the wall, he scratches away the paint left by M to hide the note she characteristically hides in every home she’s had to leave. Finally he manages to pick it out, just as the front door behind him swings open to invite him onward. As he unfolds with delicate apprehension, the music upholds the expectancy of something, finally, good. And quickly enough, the music fades out, falling softly with the sheet to the floor. 

They say time is the greatest healer and that music heals the soul; in A Ghost Story nothing could be closer to the truth. 

A Ghost Story is available to view on Netflix and Amazon Prime. Check out the trailer below:

In our Halloween special, Alex and Joe sat down and chatted all things spooky and horror – from Tim Burton to Hereditary, the duo debate and celebrate scary film.

Illustration by Byron Eggenschwiler for The New Yorker

PREVIOUSLY: To All The Rom Coms I’ve Loved Before

Milo Garner reviews David Lowery’s vision of grief. 

From its marketing, A Ghost Story looks like a very typical Sundance film – the 4:3 aspect ratio (with rounded corners), the peculiar plot, and of course the sheet-with-holes ghost at the centre of it all. But, despite expectations, David Lowery’s film manages to venture to some more interesting territory than might be expected. The story centres on two unnamed lovers (credited as C, Casey Affleck, and M, Rooney Mara), and the aftermath of the man’s death. After dying he returns as a ghost, apparently trapped in the house where he lived in life, and watches his beloved grieve. She eventually moves out, leaving behind a note in the wall as was her custom (just in case she returned), and here the tale takes an unexpected turn. While one might have expected a film like this to follow Mara’s character going through life, marrying, having children, through the eyes of her deceased lover, it and he instead remain trapped in the house where they lived. He sees other families move in, he sees the house demolished, a skyscraper built – he even sees the house as it was first built by settlers in an interesting twist of time.

Because, as the film’s tagline suggests, ‘it’s all about time’. In the film’s early scenes a slow cinema aesthetic prevails, with simple moments captured in incredibly long takes. This has the effect of extending time, imbuing certain images with a longevity that implies meaning. The scene to take all the buzz for this is one in which Mara eats an entire pie in a single five or so minute take. Here a moment of self-destructive (don’t eat a whole pie, kids) grief is presented in an intimate and unavoidable manner. As the film progresses, however, time also begins to loosen. As Mara’s life continues after Affleck’s death, the ghost’s perception of her life becomes condensed. The repetition begins to fold onto itself, and between cuts ever-greater lengths of time are passing. After she leaves, whole years and even decades, begin to pass in seconds, though edited in such a way as to never feel obvious or jarring. Eventually the ghost, apparently, finds himself in the past, when the house was first built, and waits as history plays out again. He waits until he sees himself and Mara move in, and experiences their entire romance again. This time, however, there are no long takes. It’s over almost as soon as it begins, concentrated into a few moments of love and conflict. Regret, of course, abounds.

This leads into another theme the film hints at, of meaning and existentialism. This is only suggested vaguely, but as we see the ghost wait and wait, seeing the same things happening across hundreds of years, one might begin to wonder what the point of it is. The house always ends up unoccupied eventually: a microcosmic world, perhaps. The ghost grows frustrated at this helpless observance and so does what ghosts do – he haunts. He breaks plates, flickers lights, opens and shuts doors. Lowery manages to integrate the classic ‘ghost story’ into this film with a wonderful charm without seeming overly twee (one conversation between ghosts, wordless yet subtitled, pushes this a little, but is thankfully short and exceptional). It seems that the ghost might only find himself free upon discovering meaning or, like the other ghost, accepting meaninglessness. As such the film strikes an interesting tone – sad and searching, yet inherently intriguing.

Besides this thematic strength, the film also looks and sounds wonderful. The cinematography, focusing on the indelible imagery at its centre (bed-sheet wearing might not be fashionable as of late, but that association is happily absent), excels in its contrast and composition. The composition is notable, too, for the 4:3 aspect ratio, which is used for its best purpose (capturing human bodies) rather than as a gimmick. Even the rounded corners, which are a gimmick, meld well with the general aesthetic, such as the soft lighting. The soundtrack, by Daniel Hart, is similarly good, characterized by mournful strings and ambient soundscapes, beautifully accompanying the visual palette of the film. However, Dark Rooms’ track ‘I Get Overwhelmed’ is the auditory centrepiece of the film; this reflective song represents the romance of Mara and Affleck, and is suitably delicate and longing. This review should end here, with a glowing recommendation and perhaps the complaint that the film might feel a little overly self-important for its rather thinly applied messages. Unfortunately, this is not the case.

Around the middle of this happily unique venture comes a scene at a party, wherein Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy (also known as Will Oldham, who makes excellent music in his day-job) goes on a long, nihilist rant. Pretentiously credited as ‘Prognosticator’, he is given the film’s centre stage to wax lyrically on the utter meaninglessness of the universe, with the grace and sagacious insight of Nietzsche’s Wikipedia page. He begins in response to a ‘friend’ (people like this do not have friends) of his who is struggling to write a book, eruditely suggesting that without God there is no inherent purpose in creating anything (I suppose we must accept this, as everyone else at the table has). He then goes on to insinuate that therefore we must create for our children, that meaning is garnered through the propagation of the self, in some way, through the generations. Again, we are to take this as fact. But then he decides to obnoxiously ask if anyone in the room has children, and declare, beer can in hand, that they are all going to die eventually. I suppose Lowery was aiming for a sort of rugged Diogenes vibe with this character, but instead he just comes off as a cretin.

Moving on with his thesis he decides if everyone on earth is going to die, why do anything. But he quickly pre-empts a question – what about humans beyond earth. Of course he answers this by suggesting that it doesn’t matter where humans live, they’re all going to die anyway- Oh wait, no. He instead goes on a tangent about humans spreading across the universe and how it would still be meaningless eventually, as said universe is set to collapse in on itself. He frames his argument using Beethoven’s 9^th as his example, and in a moment so truly awful I had to genuinely consider if it was parody, Ode to Joy starts playing to the climax of his big speech. The sort of insight that might be scoffed at in one of Fellini’s pseudo-intellectual parties is here celebrated as some deeply astute philosophizing, so powerful that for the duration of his speech no one ever dares interrupt him or his cognizance. Sadly, Q&As with Lowery confirm that this character is little less than a self-insert, and that this philosophy is his own. Even if some of the ideas are not inherently incorrect, they are communicated with such imprecision and naivety that they cannot be taken seriously whatsoever. The tragedy of it is that this scene dictates the rest of the mostly dialogue-free film – this is its intellectual centre. As such, the film loses much of its wonderful ambiguity to become a far less interesting visual metaphor for this truly dire middle scene. Howard Hawks once said that a ‘good movie’ was ‘three great scenes, no bad ones’. This is what happens when a bad one slips in.

5/10

P.S. Walking home I spotted a busker playing, very appropriately, Monty Python’s ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’. As I went by he was on the spoken word part of the song – ‘What you gotta lose, you know? You come from nothing, you’re going back to nothing. What you lost? Nothing!’ Those lines have more wit and wisdom than did the entirety of A Ghost Story’s monologue. And Monty Python were joking.

A Ghost Story is out now in UK cinemas. Check out the trailer below.