A Closer Listen
Scoring for film means accepting certain limitations, the largest of which is the need to compose tracks that fit into small sonic spaces. After composing the score for the Icelandic film Skjálfti, Eðvarð Egilsson and Páll Ragnar Pálsson chose to revisit the music and expand it into a standalone album. The results may surprise those familiar with Pálsson’s earlier Sono Luminus album Atonement, as the music here is far more accessible, although similarly dramatic; those who have followed Eglisson’s scoring work may be less surprised, but similarly pleased.
One of the joys of the album is its genre-switching tendencies. The opener “Hallgrímskirkja” is a piano-dominant piece that concludes with a quiet segment of traffic recordings; but “Flog I” (“Seizure I”) offers dissonant strings, introducing a feeling of foreboding. The film itself contains many disconcerting moments, as seen in the trailer; the translation of the title as Quake is an unusual coincidence in that it is also the title of an unrelated Pálsson work.
For a while, the album remains squarely in the modern composition camp, the strings of “Saga” being particularly lovely, perhaps the reason it was chosen as the first piece to be shared. But in the middle of “Safavél” (which Google Translate insists is “Juice Machine” ~ could that be right?), the timbre shifts to post-rock, a reminder of all those wonderful Icelandic post-rock artists we’ve come to love over the years. This particular brand of post-rock includes hints of shoegaze and modern composition, a potent combination, with a hint of electronics at the end that gains a foothold in the subsequent piece.
Skjálfti is a family drama, and we can hear the fissures in the music. When the sides are at war, genres shift; when they compromise and reconcile, a deep peace descends. The composers are reflecting the nature of daily life when subjected to forces that threaten to unravel it: in essence, a quake. But there’s also great love, as reflected in the tender “Gleyma” (“Forget”). The sonic peak arrives at the end of “Miklabraut,” as the guitars surge, the drums pound, and one can imagine a monsterous emotional blowout, followed by a shocked aftermath, painted in ivory notes. The volume takes a while to recover, as if too much has been said and the room needs to reassess.
Freed from the constraints of cinema, the composers are allowed to write their own ending. The sedate “Systur” (“Sisters”) is like a reconciliation, although the tone soon turns sadder. Electronic beats offer a modicum of movement, a hint of hope, bursting into bloom in the finale. In a movie, “Klambratún” would normally be playing over the credits, but here it is the end of the story, and what a glorious ending it turns out to be. All the instruments come out to play, genres intertwine, and we imagine a family standing strong and true, having survived the storm. (Richard Allen)
Sat Nov 11 00:01:18 GMT 2023