Picture this: In the darkest days of World War I, where the thunder of artillery drowns out hope, a stubborn conductor named Ralph Fiennes uses the power of song to breathe life back into a shattered community. This isn't just a film—it's a heartfelt reminder that music can be a lifeline amidst chaos. But here's where it gets controversial: Can art truly heal the wounds of war, or is it just a fleeting distraction from the brutal realities? Stick with me, and you'll discover why 'The Choral' might just change how you view the role of creativity in times of crisis.
Audio versions of this discussion will be rolling out before the day ends.
In 'The Choral,' Ralph Fiennes steps into the shoes of Henry Guthrie, a no-nonsense musician who refuses to settle for mediocrity. He's brought in to revamp a floundering choir in a quaint northern English village during the grim year of 1916. The film's backdrop, crafted by director Nicholas Hytner, paints a serene picture of rolling hills, chirping birds, and lighthearted banter among locals—almost enough to make you forget the brutal war unfolding beyond their borders. Yet, the shadow of conflict looms large, as eligible young men, including the choir's finest voices, are drafted into the trenches, facing almost certain doom.
The community turns to Guthrie, a seasoned conductor with roots in Germany, to lead their choral group. He assembles a new ensemble of women, boys, and elderly men—those spared from the front lines due to age or inability. This setup not only mirrors the societal shifts of the era but also highlights how necessity sparks innovation in the arts. For beginners diving into film history, think of it as a real-life example of how communities adapt: just like how modern groups might pivot to virtual choirs during a pandemic, this choir evolves to include those overlooked by war.
Amid the sorrow of losing their sons and brothers to the slaughter, the town finds solace in melodies. Director Hytner shared with NPR's Michel Martin that music transcends mere comfort; it's a communal force that fosters survival. 'It's an expression of togetherness,' he explained, 'a method to endure. But more importantly, it asserts that despite the horrendous tragedy unfolding, there's a path forward without succumbing to total hopelessness.' And this is the part most people miss: Music in 'The Choral' isn't passive—it actively defies despair, like a quiet rebellion against the void.
Of course, World War I was raging full force, and just months later, the Battle of the Somme would claim over a million lives on both sides, etching itself as one of the deadliest clashes in human history. In the film's fictional town of Ramsden, the choir's top talent is whisked away by conscription, leaving gaps that Guthrie must fill. From left to right in the cast: Shaun Thomas as Mitch, Taylor Uttley as Ellis, and Oliver Briscombe as Lofty, their absences underscore the personal toll of war.
With German compositions off-limits in this patriotic setting, Guthrie molds the choir from amateurish amateurs to awe-inspiring performers. Their crowning piece? Edward Elgar's 'The Dream of Gerontius,' a grand oratorio originally scored for full orchestra and voices. But war's scarcities force Guthrie to simplify: he adapts it for a modest string trio, the choir, and three soloists. One standout element is a young, injured veteran portraying a dying man traversing purgatory—a role so poignant it sparks outrage from Elgar himself, portrayed by Simon Russell Beale, who exits a rehearsal in a huff. This moment cleverly illustrates how wartime constraints can transform art, perhaps controversially suggesting that necessity breeds creativity, even if it ruffles historical feathers.
Ralph Fiennes, gearing up to direct his inaugural opera—Tchaikovsky's 'Eugene Onegin' in Paris next year, following his iconic 1999 film portrayal—reflects on music's mystical pull. 'It's beyond lyrics; it's about unseen forces flowing through performers and into listeners, harboring an enigma,' he told us, likening it to the 'infinitely captivating' thrill of staging theater. For those new to this, imagine how a group sing-along at a family gathering lifts spirits—amplified here into something almost spiritual.
Hytner felt this tale was tailor-made for cinema. 'Its narrative arc felt inherently visual, and the town's communal essence demanded the expansive canvas only film provides,' he noted. This collaboration marks the fourth big-screen venture for Hytner and screenwriter Alan Bennett, though it's their first conceived directly as a movie. Their partnership dates back to 1990, with Hytner helming all of Bennett's stage and screen works, but prior projects originated as plays.
They kicked off 'The Choral' in March 2020, amid lockdowns shuttering theaters and businesses—a timely parallel to the film's themes of resilience. It's Hytner's maiden film in ten years since 'The Lady in the Van,' and Bennett's first original script in over four decades following the 1984 romp 'A Private Function.'
Hytner mused that World War I's unparalleled carnage offers a blueprint for artistic commentary on war's devastation. 'The sheer extent of the bloodshed and the ensuing sense of futility resonate as a model for what creators have grappled with ever since regarding war's impact on humanity,' he said. But here's a thought to ponder: Does revisiting such horrors through art honor the past, or does it risk sensationalizing tragedy for entertainment?
In wrapping up, 'The Choral' invites us to question the boundaries of culture during conflict. Is banning German music a justifiable act of patriotism, or does it stifle the universal language of art? And in our own divided times, can music bridge gaps as powerfully as it did in 1916? I'd love to hear your take—do you agree that creativity is a weapon against despair, or do you see it as inadequate? Share your thoughts in the comments below; let's spark a conversation! The original broadcast of this piece was crafted by Taylor Haney.
