"You have to nail the right tone because sometimes when you just see his films cold, you're not quite sure. It's the same in - I'm trying to think of other directors with a similar sense - David Lynch's films, Tim's films, some of Cronenberg's stuff"
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“Nail the right tone” is Elfman admitting that with certain directors, meaning isn’t delivered in clean, caption-ready units; it’s smuggled in through atmosphere. Watching “cold” - without preparation, without a cue for how seriously to take what you’re seeing - can feel like being dropped into a room mid-conversation. The discomfort is the point. These filmmakers (Lynch, Burton, Cronenberg) build worlds where the emotional logic is clearer than the plot logic, and the audience has to learn the rules on the fly.
Elfman’s subtext is professional, not just critical: tone is a collaborative achievement. For directors whose work lives on the edge of sincerity and parody, horror and humor, the score isn’t decoration; it’s the steering wheel. Music tells you whether a scene is dreamlike, menacing, ridiculous, or all three at once. Get it wrong and the whole thing collapses into unintended camp or deadened solemnity.
His comparison list is revealing. Lynch uses sound like fog: it makes the familiar uncanny. Burton’s gothic whimsy needs a musical spine to keep it from turning cute. Cronenberg’s body-horror is often shot with a clinical calm that dares you to laugh at the wrong moment. Elfman is describing a modern kind of spectatorship where “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel” isn’t failure; it’s the hook. Tone becomes the secret handshake between filmmaker and viewer, and the composer helps teach it without ever spelling it out.
Elfman’s subtext is professional, not just critical: tone is a collaborative achievement. For directors whose work lives on the edge of sincerity and parody, horror and humor, the score isn’t decoration; it’s the steering wheel. Music tells you whether a scene is dreamlike, menacing, ridiculous, or all three at once. Get it wrong and the whole thing collapses into unintended camp or deadened solemnity.
His comparison list is revealing. Lynch uses sound like fog: it makes the familiar uncanny. Burton’s gothic whimsy needs a musical spine to keep it from turning cute. Cronenberg’s body-horror is often shot with a clinical calm that dares you to laugh at the wrong moment. Elfman is describing a modern kind of spectatorship where “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel” isn’t failure; it’s the hook. Tone becomes the secret handshake between filmmaker and viewer, and the composer helps teach it without ever spelling it out.
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| Source | Help us find the source |
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