‘Morvern Callar’ and ‘Fish Tank’: When music becomes a character
While the silent era proved that music isn’t always necessary to make a movie great, ever since cinema acquired sound, countless films have demonstrated just how powerful a soundtrack can be, and in some instances, music can become a character. Just like how location can become a character, such as New York in Taxi Driver or Paris in Amélie, there are films (and I’m not talking about musicals) that treat music as a vital component in a very specific way. Lynne Ramsay’s Morvern Callar is a great example.
Adapted from Alan Warner’s novel of the same name, the film was cited by musician Kim Gordon as one where “music is like another character”.
She explained, “The mixtape that her dead boyfriend made and left for her becomes a thread throughout the film. He is the music — it not only keeps him alive for her but replaces him.”
Ramsay’s film is a minimal and deeply introspective film that is simultaneously ambiguous and isolating. When we meet Morvern, played terrifically by Samantha Morton, the Christmas tree lights in her flat cast a blinking glow over her as she sits by her boyfriend’s body, having found him dead on the floor. She discovers his manuscript, which she passes off as her own, and a mixtape featuring songs he has picked out for her. Not only does the film feature an impeccable soundtrack, including cuts from CAN, Stereolab, The Velvet Underground, Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood, and Broadcast, but each song fits into its designated scene in a way that feels simply transcendent.
Ramsay didn’t merely select some songs that she thought would sound good, they become the central focus of each scene, communicating Morvern’s mental state. She interacts with the music, sometimes switching her Walkman off in the middle of a track or wearing it in a packed club, entering a world of her own as she battles with her grief through a personal moment of music and movement. When Morvern walks through the drab supermarket she works at, the sound of ‘Some Velvet Morning’ plays, and its cinematic introduction and hazy recollections of ‘60s America make for a sharp contrast – Morvern needs to escape.
The scene in which Morvern dismembers her boyfriend’s body in the bath is an unforgettable one, too, which she does in just a pair of pants with her Walkman tapped around her stomach, the sounds of ‘I’m Sticking With You’ playing over the grisly scene. The childlike nature of Mo Tucker’s vocals and melody work perfectly here, and it feels as though her boyfriend is very much present. He might not be sticking with her in the physical sense, but he’s put his body in her hands, which she disposes of in the woods, and she will now be forever tied to him as the only one who knows his final resting place.
Another great instance of music becoming a character can be found in Andrea Arnold’s Fish Tank, released a few years later. It has a similar grittiness and sadness to Morvern Callar, with main character Mia, a working-class 15-year-old, trying to navigate a life of loneliness. Dance is Mia’s one form of salvation, and she often practises in an abandoned flat on her estate. The sounds of hip hop and rap transport Mia to another world, far away from the lack of care her mother shows for her, her gobby little sister, and her lack of friends. She is troubled by a desire to be loved, but instead, this results in anger and mistrust, even though Arnold shows us that, at her core, Mia is a deeply caring young girl.
She truly connects with her mother’s boyfriend, Connor, however, when he shows her Bobby Womack’s version of ‘California Dreamin’’, becoming the first person to take an interest in her dancing. He claims that it’s his favourite song, and she eventually uses the track for an audition, yet the song comes to hold a heavy weight that epitomises Mia’s needs for escape and a new life. When Connor takes advantage of Mia, it only causes further strain on her homelife, and upon realising that she has accidentally signed herself up for an erotic dance audience, ‘California Dreamin’’ further reminds her of her need to leave everything behind.
Before Mia makes her getaway, she finds her mother dancing to ‘Life’s A Bitch’ by Nas in the living room from one of Mia’s CDs. For the first time in the film, they quietly bond, and the track (which tells us “life’s a bitch and then you die, that’s why we get high, ‘cause you never know when you’re gonna go”) highlights the futility of it all. They might not have a healthy relationship, but here, with Mia’s little sister also joining in with their impromptu dance, they can all acknowledge their status as family members.
These films, both depicting the struggles of two working-class British women in the early 2000s, use music as a saving grace. In times of uncertainty and isolation, sometimes the right song can work as a remedy, or at least an aid to soothe and console. Here, music transcends the job of creating the right sonic atmosphere and acts as a character, taking over whole scenes to communicate feelings and moods that the characters can’t speak for themselves.
