The paranoid thriller is a fundamental genre to 1970s American cinema. This is due to its overt prioritising of political or corporate conspiracy. I turn now to my discussion of this genre which, while not unique to the 1970s, has become one of the decade’s most recognisable and celebrated trends. I will discuss here how this genre was shaped by the socio-political climate, and how it represented contemporary anxieties. In doing so, I will outline how these aspects contribute to the depiction of the American national character through my primary case study, David Shire’s score for (Alan J. Pakula, 1976). My analysis of this film reveals a subversion of typical political ideologies found in paranoid thrillers given its celebration of the heroic American figure that Turner alluded to.
All the President’s Men features a score composed by David Shire; however it is used minimally throughout the film, with non-diegetic music only heard for roughly eight minutes of the film’s 133-minute runtime. The score includes a relatively small ensemble of oboe, contrabassoon, French horn, piano, electric piano, acoustic guitar, electric bass guitar, cello and harp. At no point do all instruments perform on the same cue. Rather, even as the score becomes more expansive at later stages of the film, we typically only hear a small ensemble of between two and five instruments. Shire’s non-diegetic cues are typically heard during montage sequences, or when the film veers away from its “realist,” docudrama aesthetic and more formalist cinematic techniques are utilised. Each cue typically features droning bass tones, a rhythmic bassline, and a simple melodic motif made up of small intervals. I will discuss these motifs in greater detail below.
Sean Wilson notes in The Sound of Cinema: Hollywood Film Music from the Silents to the Present that infrequent placement of music was a common feature of Pakula’s trilogy of paranoid thrillers: (1971), (1974), and . Music’s sparsity was key in foregrounding these films’ narratives and political critiques. Wilson thus describes Shire’s score as “a minimalist score of tone and suggestion, almost invoking a hushed sense of dawning realization."(Wilson 2022, 119)
Shire’s conscious avoidance of “traditional" orchestral scoring and Pakula’s conservative use of the score throughout the film, Steven Saltzman writes, “focused the music on the quieter undertones and dark implications of an unravelling presidential scandal."(Saltzman 2015, 34) The decision to use the score so rarely throughout the film, as well as to eschew “snappy cues" and “noble anthems" often used to evoke presidential symbolism, can clearly be read as an insight into the film’s political ideology.(Saltzman 2015, 34) For although the film celebrates the traditionally heroic attributes of the two protagonists, it simultaneously reflects a disillusionment with myths of heroic American figures and identities, specifically, the nation’s president. This disillusionment is reflected in the score’s rejection of overtly traditional “American" compositional techniques, the likes of which were heard prominently in , for example. The apparent lack of these elements suggests that the import of the American identity proposed by Turner has faded, an idea that the paranoid thriller often explicitly claimed. In the place of these traditionally heroic and uplifting cues, Shire’s score contributes to the film’s discomforting atmosphere through dissonant, sustained and non-diatonic cues.
Further differences to more traditional Hollywood film convention is in the long stretches of the film that do not featured any music at all. These sections are instead accompanied by a more “vérité" style of sound, reflective of the film’s docudrama aesthetic. As Associate Producer Jon Boorstin wrote, Pakula rejected the “idea of copying the reality of a certain kind of documentary … Yes, the audience had to believe. But it also had to be transported."(In order to maximise this sense of realism, Pakula had the crew build an exact replica of the Washington Post offices which they “decorated with trash transported from the real one in Washington." Boorstin 2016) Pakula “transports” the audience into the world of journalism by employing sound recording and mixing techniques that had become common practice during the New Hollywood era, such as characters talking over each other, speaking with their backs to the camera, and naturalist room sounds. To this end, the soundtrack is filled with diegetic, ambient noise emitting from within the film’s diegesis, and extends beyond the newsroom, to outdoor restaurants, office waiting rooms, and witnesses’ homes. In these spaces, diegetic sounds such as planes passing overhead, the chatter of passers-by, a neighbour cutting their grass, are clearly heard, forcing the protagonists to raise their voices substantially to be heard or even have their voices drowned out entirely by background noise.
This is often referred to as location or direct sound, described by Michel Chion as “sounds recorded during filmmaking [which are] enriched by later addition of sound effects, room tone, and other sounds.”(Chion 1994, 96) The foregrounding of location sound, and the minimising of non-diegetic scoring, was common in many New Hollywood films, particularly in the films of Robert Altman – such as (1970) and (1973) – and Sidney Lumet – such (1975) and (1976), and (1973). Julie Hubbert writes about this trend in 1970s cinema with particular regard to Lumet, and argues that “the silence in his films was not no music, it was vérité music."(By “silence," Hubbert does not mean a literal silent soundtrack, but rather the lack of background, non-diegetic scoring. As Hubbert writes, Lumet “didn’t want a musical score, orchestral or pop, because it would destroy the new sense of realism he was trying to establish." Hubbert 2003, 195) This description can easily be applied to many of Pakula’s film and, in particular, President’s Men. The most prominent aspect of President’s Men’s vérité music is often the sound of typewriters in The Washington Post offices. This wall of noise the typewriters create contributes towards the film’s verisimilitude, and was key in creating the sense that this was a real, functioning newspaper office.
The rejection of non-diegetic scoring by directors who favoured vérité music was a common source of frustration for many Classical Hollywood composers. Elmer Bernstein and David Raskin, for example, both authored articles in the early 1970s that lambasted the contemporary state of film composing. Though Bernstein’s and Raskin’s ire was predominately focussed on the trend of scoring films with popular music rather than art music, they protested more broadly against the “dramatic reimagining of musical space in Hollywood films of the early 1970s," as Hubbert surmises.(Hubbert 2003, 207) This included the choice to prioritise diegetic sound effects – even if it meant a scene playing out in silence – and diegetic source music, in order to exacerbate a film’s realism. President’s Men seems therefore to aspire not just to create a realist – if not necessarily “realistic" – film world that is key in reinforcing that the film is depicting a true story, while also adhering to what had become standard fare in many contemporary films.
Prior to working on President’s Men, Shire composed the score for another celebrated paranoid thriller, Francis Ford Coppola’s (1974). This earned him a reputation for composing quiet, minimal scores which he described as “brain surgery" scores.(Chattah 2015, 18; David Shire, quoted in Büdinger 1995) For these scores, he says he “made a conscious effort to keep the music out of the way with a score that works largely at an almost subliminal level."(Chattah 2015, 18) Shire also began to experiment with more modernist practices during this period while remaining stylistically diverse and comfortable composing in different genres and styles. As Juan Chattah notes in his film score guide for The Conversation, Shire’s versatility allowed him to thrive at a time when a realignment of composers’ roles within the film industry saw them transition from contracted to specific studios to independent freelancers.(Chattah 2015, 23; Caryl Flinn also discusses this shift in composer contracts, and I will explore this in more detail in the following chapter during my analysis of Alien. Flinn 1992) In addition to his work in more dramatic narrative films, Shire also worked in musical theatre and musical films, further demonstrating his versatility and capacity to work across different mediums, styles, and genres.
Examples of Shire’s diverse compositional styles can be heard in his scores for (Jospeh Sargent, 1974) and (Dick Richards, 1975). In Pelham 123, Shire took influence from Alfred Schoenberg’s twelve-tone technique and composed a modernist jazz score which reflected urban New York in the 1970s. In Farewell, he composed a big band score which was largely era-appropriate for the film’s 1940s setting. The film’s exploration of the fading importance of protagonist Philip Marlowe’s ethics and values was complemented by extended instrumental performance techniques. In President’s Men, meanwhile, Shire largely adhered to far more conventional instrumental techniques and restrained melodies and rhythms, thus appropriating Pakula’s austere, conservative filmmaking. The extent to which Pakula embraced this form of filmmaking for President’s Men caused Shire to question the need for any music at all in the film. He stated his concerns in an interview from the 1976 episode of the radio show “Cinema Showcase" that aired two months after the film was released:
when they first contacted me about doing the score, and I saw the picture a couple of times, I told them that they really, probably needed no music at all. … It has a kind of documentary realism in places that made it difficult for me to think of what kind of music could go with the picture without breaking the mood of it and making it sound like we were trying to artificially hype it.(Schwartz 1976)
Despite his concerns in this instance, Shire has otherwise stated that his objective when scoring films is to create a subtle and ambiguous accompaniment to the onscreen action. When asked what he found the “most satisfying use of music in a film," he answered,
film music is so often an art of juxtaposition. When the music is more about subtext–adding an element that isn’t on the screen–that’s the most satisfying. ... The fun is when the score can find an element that weaves into the whole mix–if there’s a love scene, instead of making it just more loving, there’s an underlying tension. So the melody is saying “love" but there’s something underneath that’s saying, “Wait a minute, there’s something else going on here." There’s an ambiguity about it.(David Shire, quoted in Morgan 2000, 1)
Shire’s attempts to both complement and complicate the onscreen action led to him describing his music as “Gebrauchsmusik."(Chattah 2015, 23–24) As described in the Historical Dictionary of Modern and Contemporary Classical Music, Gebrauchsmusik “renounced art-for-art’s-sake,” though it is more generally understood as music composed for a specific purpose, and should not be removed from the context for which it was intended.(Gagné 2012) By his own admission, Shire’s scores are therefore intrinsically tied to the narrative they were composed to accompany. He acknowledged this in a 2004 interview:
Some of my most effective scores and cues will never be performed at a pop concert and will not sound very interesting away from the movie. But they had to be that way. Take much of the score for All the President’s Men. Played away from the movie you’d fall asleep in five minutes. But the job wasn’t to write pop concert themes or a soundtrack album. The job was to help make that movie play as well as it could.(Armstrong 2004, 15)
He touched upon this point in the “Cinema Showcase" interview, claiming that it was “impossible" to release President’s Men’s score as an album, although his point here is more about the amount of music used rather than the style of music itself.(Schwartz 1976)
As Gerald Mast writes in his A Short History of the Movies, the 1960s and 70s saw a decline in traditional Hollywood conventions of scoring “a scene with music that increases the action’s emotional impact without making the viewer aware of the music’s existence." (Mast420 - check year) Shire’s philosophy and approach to film scoring, in tandem with his stylistic diversity therefore fit well within this period, as composers tended away from traditional, symphonic orchestral scoring. This trend suited Shire’s preference to elicit more ambiguous emotional registers through less melody-oriented scores, while his comfort composing symphonic- and musical theatre-inspired milieus simultaneously afforded him opportunities within more mainstream and conventional films.
As I alluded to above, the paranoid thriller did not entirely originate in the 1970s. Yet, although it has multiple antecedents from throughout the history of cinema – film critic R. Barton Palmer provides an overview of the genre’s debts to Alfred Hitchcock, for example – it is deeply tied to the political climate of its era.(Palmer 2006, 85–108) I detailed much of this political climate in my introduction, but it is important to reiterate the seismic impact that this period had on the nation’s psyche when discussing certain elements of Shire’s score for President’s Men.
To fully appreciate the significance of paranoid thrillers it is important to acknowledge the impact of the Vietnam War. The war naturally had a major impact on the nation, and a major political rift emerged, arguing for the war’s righteousness or illegitimacy. And yet, during the war itself, only one narrative film was released that was specifically about the war: (1968), a film directed by and starring John Wayne, who championed its production to counter the growing anti-war sentiment throughout the country. Despite the dearth of films addressing the war itself during the USA’s involvement, film critic Pauline Kael claimed that “Vietnam we experience indirectly in just about every movie we go to ... because we’re all tied up in knots about that rotten war."(Lerman 1996, 35) The war’s legacy can be found in a number of films of the era that, Kael claims, “are based on American self-hatred."(Lerman 1996, 35)
With regards to paranoid thrillers, this legacy, and the source of self-hatred, pertains directly to the revelations that the government had been concealing many of their actions during the war. When the full extent of the war’s reach was revealed to the public following the controversial leaking of the “Pentagon papers," the nation was faced with what Christian Keathley identifies as “the onset of trauma resulting from a realisation of powerlessness in the face of a world whose systems of organisation – both moral and political – have broken down."(Keathley 2004, 293) The war was arguably the most consequential event of this period, yet the trauma that Keathley identifies was an effect of multiple events that shook the political and societal landscape, including, but not limited to: the assassinations of President John Kennedy, Robert Kennedy, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King; the Watergate scandal; anti-war, civil rights, and gender equality protests, and the violence that often followed; urban riots; the OAPEC oil crisis; and a bribery scandal concerning Vice President Spiro Agnew. These events and the trauma they inflicted instilled a deep sense of paranoia and cynicism that heavily inspired, and came to be almost synonymous with, the New Hollywood period and the Seventies Film. As Jonathan Kirshner lays out, paying particular mind to Watergate, these events brought about “the collapse of faith in institutions, a foreboding sense of the erosion of privacy, and a basic loss of trust, in one’s president, in one’s colleagues, and in one’s (presumed) friends.”(Kirshner 2012, 135) David Cook echoes Kirshner’s claim, highlighting the historic significance of this period’s existential trauma: “the American public lost faith in its institutions as never before."(Cook 2007, 116) This lack of faith and security was so pervasive during this period that The Conversation, one of the most celebrated and iconic paranoid thrillers of the era, was actually written before the revelations of the Watergate scandal which later proved to be one of the genre’s most important catalysts. It was within this context that the paranoid thriller arose.
Conspiracies and cover-ups can be found throughout many films in the 1970s. Some films were overtly about such conspiracies – such as and (Roman Polanski, 1974) – while others hinted at it more allegorically – such as (Steven Spielberg, 1975) and (John Guillermin, 1974), both of which featured nefarious corporate interests that put innocent lives at risk. Many paranoid thrillers follow similar trends. However, the plots themselves, and therefore their subtextual critique, often differ greatly. Regardless of the plot specifics, they typically focus around a single individual who seeks to uncover a plot by a villainous private company or rogue governmental operatives.
These films responded to contemporary fears that governmental overreach, and unregulated and unscrupulous corporations kept the nation’s citizens under close surveillance. These fears extended to the idea that citizens’ individual freedoms were under threat, while those in power were willing to murder those who threatened their authority. As such, what is often at risk in these films is the sanctity of the national identity, the notion that within a late-capitalist society, it is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain one’s individualist autonomy and self-sufficiency.
A succinct description of the typical paranoid thriller can be found in Robin Wood’s discussion of the films of Robert Altman: “the protagonist embarks on an undertaking he is confident he can control; the sense of control is progressively revealed as illusory; the protagonist is trapped in a course of events that culminate in disaster (frequently death)."(Although Wood here is referring specifically to the films of director Robert Altman, who did not direct any paranoid thrillers, his summation perfectly mirrors the paranoid thriller. This can be seen as justification of the claim that this is perhaps the quintessential genre of the period, and a perfect crystallisation of the paranoia and disillusionment that apparently encapsulated the era. Wood 1986, 27) These existentially downbeat endings read as a mourning of the loss of individuality, a cornerstone of the American identity, in addition to the decline of patriarchal domination.
Yet, while these films end with their protagonists realising the futility of fighting the powers-that-be (, ), overcoming their antagonists only to realise their ultimate insignificance and powerlessness (, ), or even dead (), present a far more optimistic narrative.
Director Alan J. Pakula was one of the directors most closely associated with 1970s paranoid thrillers, specifically due to his “Paranoid Trilogy": the aforementioned , , and . The plots of these three films differ greatly. And yet, they share similar subtexts and ideologies, summarised film critic Chris Vognar: each film “take[s] for granted that important people are lying, and, in some cases, killing to cover it up."(Vognar 2021) Ian Scott, in his book American Politics in Hollywood Film, similarly notes this while referencing the trilogy’s impact and legacy: “Pakula’s films provided the thread for an examination of American politics and society from beyond authority and accountability in the 1970s and in the process created cinematic form and content that would define the agency of paranoia cinema in its entirety."(Scott 2011, 138)
Despite this thematic similarity, however, President’s Men differs from Pakula’s earlier films in its depiction of what Robert Torry might define as a “therapeutic narrative.” Torry defines such narratives as seeking to challenge the “sense of essentially impotent outrage and despair" that was commonplace during the Vietnam era.(Torry 1993, 27) Torry focuses on (Sam Peckinpah, 1969) and Jaws, and defines these films as attempts to “diagnose and propose a remedy for the national trauma of the Vietnam era."(Torry 1993, 27) This description proves accurate for President’s Men, wherein the two protagonists strive to “[re-establish] the mythically moral and political rectitude of the American antifascist enterprise."(Torry 1993, 34)
tells the true story of Washington Post journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein as they attempt to uncover the truth behind the 1972 break-in at the Democratic National Committee’s headquarters in the Watergate hotel. The film opens with the break-in itself: five men in suits are seen sneaking into the hotel but are soon caught and arrested. Woodward is assigned to report on the burglars’ arraignment the next day. At first he assumes the story of little significance but, after learning that one of the burglars is a former CIA employee, Woodward begins to investigate the case further. Along with his partner, Bernstein, Woodward discovers that the break-in was ordered and orchestrated by the Campaign to Re-elect the President (CREEP) and President Richard Nixon himself.
Throughout the film, we see Woodward and Bernstein as they investigate the story by interviewing multiple current and former employees of the administration, and attempt to piece the story together. In addition to multiple anonymous sources, Woodward is guided by the mysterious figure “Deep Throat," the then-unnamed source who was later revealed to be Deputy Director of the FBI Mark Felt. His meetings with Deep Throat take place in a deserted car park late at night, providing an ominous and disquieting setting in direct contrast to the brightly lit newspaper offices and the witnesses’ homes that the majority of the film takes place in. This setting, and Deep Throat’s revelations that the reporters lives are in danger, provide the film with a direct menace that aligns the film with similar paranoid thrillers in which the protagonists’ investigations endanger their lives.
In the last of these meetings, Deep Throat reveals to Woodward that he is under surveillance and his life is in danger. Woodward rushes to inform Bernstein, and together they tell Ben Bradlee, The Washington Post’s editor. Bradlee gives the reporters his full support and the film ends with Nixon’s 1973 inauguration while the reporters continue to work on their story that will ultimately lead to Nixon’s resignation.
Unlike most paranoid thrillers, President’s Men tells a true story, albeit one with fictionalised elements. As such, rather than representing the nation’s trauma through fictional antagonists, it presents a literal representation of the corruption and the abuses of power that fundamentally shook the nation’s psyche. In its depiction of a widespread, criminal conspiracy, led by those at the very top of the United States’ government, President’s Men gives us an insight into exactly why the nation was justified in feeling a sense of “disaffection, alienation, and demoralisation.”(Keathley 2004, 296) It subsequently seeks to provide a remedy for this disillusionment by presenting a narrative in which its protagonists are able to successfully bring down the malevolent forces responsible.
All the President’s Men was widely acclaimed upon its release. One reviewer, Louise Sweet, wrote in the BFI’s Monthly Film Bulletin that the film challenges “the sense of power being mythologised and rendered invincible."(Sweet 1976, 95) In this sense, President’s Men is a film about the process of de-mythologisation of the righteousness, trustworthiness, and morality of the US government, and depicts how such myths are upended. This idea is made explicit by Deep Throat when he tells Woodward to “forget the myths the media’s created about the White House. The truth is these are not very bright guys” (00:38:29).
We can understand President’s Men to some extent as a quasi-revisionist film, as it addresses longstanding myths surrounding the nation’s self-perceptions – specifically those regarding the government’s infallibility – and highlights the true wrongdoings of those in power. Critical evaluation of the mythologisation of the US and its history is typically understood as a liberal undertaking. President’s Men nevertheless depicts a number of more conservative filmic tropes. Specifically, in the characters of Woodward and Bernstein, as the film points to the necessity of strong and ethical male heroes to uphold a series of moral and legal codes. Terry Christensen discusses this, writing that the film’s message is “politics is corrupt and that bad men can gain great power, but it also said that brave individuals, a free press, and public opinion can bring the evil men down."(Christensen 1987, 134) That the “brave individuals” in this case are real people and not fictional characters, the film’s dichotomous undertaking of dispelling US mythology and celebrating individualist triumphs and American heroes is complicated, as Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward are essentially placed within the pantheon of “Great American Heroes.” Jon Boorstin made this connection when he noted that “the point of the movie is that these guys are unstoppable … they’re a force of nature and they’re going to save the world.”(Boorstin, quoted in Hornaday 2022) Pakula is likewise quoted in Mark Feeney’s Nixon at the Movies, wherein he acknowledged Woodward and Bernstein as righteous heroes, apparently failing to note any complexities in simultaneously anointing them as heroes while also questioning mythologies surrounding the United States:
it’s inherent in the story of Carl and Bob that they have become a kind of contemporary myth [whose experience affirms] that American belief that a person or small group can with perseverance and hard work and obsessiveness take on a far more powerful, impersonal body and win – as long as they have truth on their side.(Pakula, quoted in Feeney 2004, 256)
Pakula thus aligns Woodward and Bernstein with the heroic American ideal that Turner celebrated, while simultaneously presenting what Christensen described as “the traditional Hollywood view" of the strong individualistic hero.(Christensen 1987, 134) He further made this explicit in a quote printed in Entertainment Weekly article wherein he claims that, while The Parallax View “destroyed the American hero myth ... All the President’s Men resurrects it."(Pakula, quoted in Aquilina 2021)
Woodward and Bernstein neatly fit within Michael Ryan and Douglas Kellner’s notion of the “individualist male hero,” a figure that they claim became commonplace within late 1970s and 1980s American cinema.(Ryan and Douglas 1988, 15) These heroes, Ryan and Kellner argue, demonstrate three key ideals: they are warriors who “buck government power and stand up to state tyranny”; they are entrepreneurs, in that they are demonstrate a “callousness and … survivalist mentality of the market”; and they are patriarchs, “who [dominate] women.”(Ryan and Douglas 1988, 219–20) Each of these characteristics respond to Turner’s thesis, and align Woodward and Bernstein with Turner’s patriarchal American ideology.
Key to the representation of these patriarchal figureheads is the film’s placement of women, whose roles are largely defined by their personal or professional relationship to men. Film historian Michael Cramer discusses this further, highlighting Woodward and Bernstein’s “seduction … deception … and outright use of force” to gather information from female sources.(Cramer 2022, 196) Two scenes in particular exhibit this: one in which the reporters encourage a female colleague to arrange a date with a former romantic partner who works at CREEP to elicit information (00:59:15); another when Bernstein visits the home of a female CREEP bookkeeper, invites himself inside, ignores her requests that he leave, and harasses her until she answers his questions (01:10:47). Cramer continues:
what is at stake is the women’s commitment to another man, from whose sway she must be freed. … The disturbing scenario here is one in which these women are finally allowed to speak, to break out of the closed and secretive conspiracy and become part of the new, transparent one, in which their ‘voice’ is liberated, but only so that it may be instrumentalized.(Cramer 2022, 196)
Nevertheless, some have read President’s Men as a means to upend the stability of the patriarchal status quo that Turner’s thesis championed.
Elizabeth Kraft, for example, has argued that President’s Men is “basically a ‘woman’s film,’ a suitable genre in which to address the deep distress suffered by the nation at the discovery of presidential (patriarchal) betrayal.”(Kraft 2008, 31) For Kraft, woman’s films “offered the woman viewer the chance to purge frustration at her lot in life through vicarious identification with a victimized, suffering female.”(Kraft 2008, 31) Molly Haskell offers a far more critical definition, however, opening her essay on the genre by posing a question that highlights the inherently sexist sociocultural environment that has allowed the term to become commonplace: “what more damning comment on the relations between men and women in America than the very notion of something call the ‘woman’s film’?”(Haskell 1999, 20) She goes on to note that the term “woman’s film" “carries the implication that women, and therefore women’s emotional problems, are of minor significance,” and flags the gendered double standard of not referring to “a film that focuses on male relationships [as a] ‘man’s film’."(Haskell 1999, 20) Anna Bogutskaya also references this when exploring what she terms the “Angry Woman” character model: “it’s never called a subgenre when it’s about white male rage – it’s just cinema.”(Bogutskaya 2023, 141)
As Haskell suggests, “women’s emotional problems” are often a key facet of woman’s films and are therefore often referred to as “weepies,” while both Haskell and Kraft note that the genre is closely aligned to daytime soap opera television. The popularity of these soap operas, Kraft notes, was usurped in 1973 as the Senate Watergate hearings were televised which “invoke[d] … the emotional distress caused by betrayal, lies, cheating, and arrogant disregard for the rights and feelings of others – the distress, in other words, typically examined and cathartically exorcized in soap operas or in the melodramatic ‘woman’s film’."(Kraft refers to several features and set pieces that place All the President’s Men “in soap opera territory.” For example, the casting of Nicholas Coster, an actor known from the soap opera Another World, as the lawyer Markham; the interaction between Markham and Bob Woodward as the lawyer plays dumb in response to the reporter’s questions (00:07:40); and the flirtatious interview Bernstein conducts with a potential source, Sharon Lyons (00:22:26). Kraft 2008, 31–34) This, along with the underlying themes of betrayal, corruption and secrecy, contributes to the understanding of the film as a melodrama and a woman’s film, wherein both the “president’s men” and the reporters
are complicit in the creation of a corrupt world in which confidence, sympathy, and trust between individuals are no longer possible. Looking through a woman’s eyes, there is not a lot of difference between the way Nixon’s men sought out secrets and played tricks in the interest of what they conceived of as a higher good … and the measures Bernstein and Woodward employ in pursuit of their higher good.(Kraft 2008, 35)
If understanding President’s Men as a woman’s film, one may assume that it privileges the perspective of the female characters. However, many of the aspects discussed by Kraft that align it with the woman’s film genre also point to the subjugation of women beneath more powerful male figures. It is worth noting here that the female figure who perhaps wielded the most authority over Woodward and Bernstein’s reporting, the Washington Post’s publisher Katharine Graham, is physically absent from the film and is only referred to by its male characters.
The film therefore clearly displays a conservative masculinity and individualist narrative, in addition to more “classical Hollywood” traits, defined by Cramer as “the motivated protagonist, goal-oriented narrative, effective action and overcoming of obstacles, clear conclusion or ‘happy ending,’ all in the support of an affirmative ideological function."(Cramer 2022, 180) The film depicts each of these traits to some degree. And yet, they are upended somewhat by Woodward and Bernstein’s morally-dubious methods; their “ideological function,” although justified by their hunting of criminal activities within the White House, appears largely motivated by their own careerist aspirations – evidenced in their glee when stumbling upon breakthroughs in the case.
The significance of these themes are heightened by the film’s attempted verisimilitude. As discussed above, this was achieved in part through the treatment of sound. The typing underlines the film’s themes of journalistic integrity and freedom of the press, which extends to the reporters’ individual entrepreneurialism. It mimics the tireless efforts and determination of the journalists that will ultimately uncover the criminal wrongdoing within the government and hold those in power to account. The often cacophonous wall of noise generated by the typewriters also insinuates a devotion to, and necessity of, discovering the truth. However, the typing also provides a sense of uneasiness: with their non-stop tapping, the typewriters at times overwhelm the diegesis and compete with the reporters’ conversations for prominence in the soundtrack. This arrhythmic, high-pitched tapping is highly audible and therefore impossible to ignore, escalating the tension with its grating timbre and unavoidable placement in the soundtrack. The realist nature of President’s Men’s sound extends to the newsroom’s fluorescent lighting which bathe the offices in an unglamorous light, replicating the real lighting of The Washington Post’s newsroom.(Cinematographer Gordon Willis writes about the use of fluorescent lights to replicate the exact look and feel of The Washington Post’s newsroom: “Prior to construction, the lighting was discussed at length and, since the real newsroom is lit exclusively with fluorescent lamps, my feeling was to keep it just that way. Fluorescent has a look all its own and I wanted to retain that look. So, fluorescent it was." Willis 2019) In addition to adding a sense of verisimilitude, this mise-en-scène also contributes a strong thematic subtext. Mark Feeney writes in Nixon at the Movies that this “remorseless illumination … [conveys] reassurance and fidelity to the truth,” and asks “what better antidote for paranoia than glare? It deprives enemies of any shadows to lurk in.”(Feeney 2004, 263)
While President’s Men has been the focus of many studies that reveal that above thematic subtexts, its soundtrack remains largely unexamined. I will now turn to this aspect of the film and explore how its soundtrack contributes to the film’s depiction and celebration of aspects of the American identity. Before discussing Shire’s score, however, closer consideration of the diegetic soundworld is required.
As I referenced above, the recreation of a believable, working office was of paramount important to the filmmakers. This attempt at realism is overt in the film’s diegetic soundworld. The film opens on what appears to be a plain grey screen and lingers on this static shot for roughly 16 seconds. A series of letters are then stamped onto what we now understand is a piece of paper in a typewriter. The date “ June 1, 1972" is written on the page, establishing the film’s temporal setting and foreshadowing the importance of the typewriter and reportage (Figure 1).
Once the date is written, the typewriter sets a new line and the shot cuts to archival footage of President Nixon’s helicopter landing in Washington D. C., prior to his State of the Union address. As the helicopter lands, Nixon enters the the Chamber of the House of Representatives, while the television newsreader Walter Cronkite narrates his movements. The camera lingers on President Nixon’s smiling face as he looks over the room which is filled with almost the entire U.S. government. These opening two minutes therefore establish the importance of the news and media industries, in addition to the quasi-documentary aesthetic, as all that is heard in this sequence is the sound of archival news footage and the machines that disseminate that news.
The shot of Nixon’s face slowly fades to black and the applause is replaced by Spanish voices from unseen figures, and a scratching sound as the film’s title sequence begins. The scratching sound is revealed as the lock to the Democratic National Committee headquarters being picked. The next sequence depicts the burglars breaking into the DNC office and occurs in almost complete silence other than their whispered voices and the distant sound of traffic. Nearby police officers are alerted to the break-in and find and arrest the burglars.
In both the voiceover narration of Walter Cronkite, and the burglars who we hear speaking before we see, President’s Men’s opening six minutes establish the importance of disembodied, acousmatic voices to the film’s soundworld.
Acousmatic voices are those that we hear without seeing their source. Acousmatic voices play a key role in President’s Men as Woodward and Bernstein conduct their investigation into the various figures purportedly linked to the Watergate break-in, an investigation that largely takes place through phone calls to unseen figures. These voices often belong to high-ranking and influential government officials, such as Attorney General John Mitchell and Special Counsel to President Nixon, Charles Colson.
Michel Chion states that the invisibility of the acousmatic voice grants it “magical powers”: “ubiquity, panopticism, omniscience and omnipotence.”(Chion 1999, 23–24) These powers, Chion writes, are predicated on the unknowability of the acousmatic voice, its ability to be simultaneously everywhere and nowhere, which imbue it with endless possibilities. The power of the acousmêtre is thus in its ambiguity, for as long as we do not know its source or location it could know, see, and hear everything.(Chion uses the term “acousmêtre" to define a figure that is heard but not yet seen. Chion 1999, 21) In addition to this omniscience, the acousmêtre’s ubiquity is heightened in President’s Men through the use of the telephone which allows the acousmêtre to be both present and absent in the scene. These powers are contrasted with Woodward and Bernstein who are consistently rooted within the physical, visible diegesis.
By locating them within the diegesis, and thus denying them the powers of the acousmêtre, the reporters are firmly grounded within their physical surroundings, and therefore definitively not omniscient or ubiquitous. For Chion, this process of de-acousmatisation “doom[s] the acousmêtre to the fate of ordinary mortals."(Chion 1999, 28) This mortality is exposed early in the film with the introduction of both reporters. Bernstein is the first of the two to be shown, loitering in the background as Washington Post Managing Editor Howard Simons (Martin Balsam) discusses the Watergate break-in with another of the paper’s editors, Harry Rosenfeld (Jack Warden), although he does not yet speak (00:06:58). Simons then telephones Woodward at his home to instruct him to report on the burglars’ arraignment hearing. Woodward answers the phone, which has clearly just woken him up. He answers with a curt “yeah?" while the camera remains on Simons. He is therefore introduced as an acousmatic voice at the other end of a telephone, his location unknown. However, midway through Simons’ next line, the camera cuts to Woodward lying in his bed. The point of audition shifts to Woodward’s as Simons’ voice is heard as though through Woodward’s telephone. At that the exact moment he is de-acousmatised and stripped of his powers. Bernstein enters Rosenfeld’s office after the phone call to discuss the break-in. As such, although there are later brief sequences where he speaks to Woodward on the phone without being shown, he too is never fully acousmatic. This depiction of Woodward and Bernstein has a significant impact of how the spectator perceives them. They are not mysterious, sinister figures with potentially unsettling powers, but rather their grounding in the realm of “ordinary mortals" highlights their humanity and makes them far more relatable than the unseen, shadowy “President’s Men." This is essential is creating a bond between the spectator and the protagonists, showcasing their individuality, and signifying that they are the heroes of the film.
The acousmêtre in President’s Men are of course grounded within a non-supernatural world, and so the magical powers that Chion describes are understandably hyperbolic. Their unseen sources do, however, retain some semblance of omniscience. In essence, the film’s narrative is very much about this all-knowing power of the acousmêtre. This power is both literal, in the sense that the acousmêtre are often high-ranking government officials, and figurative, as they hold information vital to Woodward and Bernstein’s investigation. Following this, each character in the film falls under one of the following categories which imbue their voice with varying degrees of authority: powerful/knowledgable; powerful/unknowledgable; powerless/knowledgable; powerless/unknowledgable. Table 1 provides a taxonomy of some major characters’ placement within this categorisation.
| Powerful/Knowledgable | Powerful/Unknowledgable |
|---|---|
| President Nixon | Ben Bradlee |
| Deep Throat | Gerald Ford |
| H. R. Haldeman | |
| John Mitchell | |
| Howard Hunt | |
| Charles Colson | |
| Powerless/Knowledgable | Powerless/Unknowledgable |
| Sharon Lyons | Woodward |
| The Bookmaker | Bernstein |
| Donald Segretti | |
| Hugh Sloan | |
With the exception of Deep Throat, whom I will discuss below, the majority of the powerful/knowledgable figures remain acousmatic throughout the film. The de-acousmaticisation of these figures is mediated through television interviews which is presented with authentic archival news footage. However, while they are de-acousmatised, they retain their seemingly ubiquitous and omniscient powers as the interviews do not seem to be carried live and the speakers can consequently be anywhere while also appearing on the television screens.
Perhaps the most ominous of these powerful/knowledgable voices is CREEP Campaign Manager, Clark MacGregor, which is heard from a news broadcast (01:57:55). This sequence comes as the White House is responding to one of Woodward and Bernstein’s stories in which they mistakenly claim that White House Chief of Staff H. R. Haldeman was implicated in the testimony of former CREEP Treasurer, Hugh Sloan. MacGregor’s acousmatic voice rebukes their report:
Using innuendo, third-person hearsay, unsubstantiated charges, anonymous sources, and huge scare headlines, the Post has maliciously sought to give the appearance of a direct connection between the White House and the Watergate, a charge which the Post knows, and half a dozen investigations have found, to be false. The hallmark of the Post’s campaign is hypocrisy and its celebrated double standard is today visible for all to see.
A high camera shot looks down over a car park with the reporters, barely visible, walking to their car (Figure 2). MacGregor’s voice remains acousmatic, granted the magical powers Chion outlined. His position within the Nixon administration extends this omnipotence, omniscience, and ubiquity to the entire government, while the voyeuristic gaze upon Woodward and Bernstein suggests that they are being monitored by these unseen, Machiavellian forces. The height of the camera makes the reporters appear miniscule, and highlights their powerlessness in facing off against the indomitable might of the President of the United States. This sequence makes Woodward and Bernstein’s lack of power clear; although they are correct in naming Haldeman as a co-conspirator, they were incorrect in the details, which allowed him to avoid scrutiny. As such, while they have at this point accrued ample knowledge, they lack the power to affect substantial change.
Throughout the film Woodward and Bernstein attempt to wrestle away the acousmêtre’s power, by gathering information from disembodied voices. As they gather more information, they become more knowledgable which ostensibly imbues them with more power. This follows a common narrative arc in sound cinema that Chion outlines: “everything can boil down to a quest to bring the acousmêtre into the light."(Chion uses the term “acousmêtre" to define a figure that is heard but not yet seen. Chion 1999, 23–24) These quests, Chion notes, “are all about ‘defusing’ the acousmêtre, who is the hidden monster, or the Big Boss, or the evil genius, or on rare occasions a wise man."(Chion 1999, 24) In the case of President’s Men, this defusing is done through telephone conversations.
Steven Connor discusses the telephonic voice in his book Dumbstruck: A Cultural History of Ventriloquism which, he claims, is inherently more personal than an in-person conversation. This intimacy is created through the telephone’s transmitting of “the pants, gasps, and hisses, the clicks, pops, and percussions, of the breath sounding amid its originating body and amid the sensitive body of the telephone apparatus."(Connor 2000, 381) The reproduction of these sounds creates an unsettling intimacy with the acousmêtre, exacerbated by its potential ubiquity. The discomforting quality supposedly inherent in the acousmêtre is heightened as it is mediated through the telephone, becoming, Connor writes, “both more mechanical and more human than ordinary voices."(Connor 2000, 381) As Connor suggests, the telephonic acousmêtre is thus both everywhere and nowhere, neither fully human nor fully mechanical.
Further significance is granted to these voices and their “mouth sounds," as Lisa Coulthard describes them, in the framing of many scenes in which we hear them.(Coulthard 2016, 188) These scenes are framed with close shots of the reporters speaking on the phone to the unseen figures at the other end of the line (Figure 3). The camera’s fixed position and close-ups of the reporters’ faces add a weight to these conversations in keeping with the historical meaning of the “acousmatic," which dates back to the lectures of Greek philosopher Pythagoras. Chion writes that these lectures were conducted from behind a curtain, concealing the lecturer “so that the sight of the speaker wouldn’t distract [students] from the message."(Chion 1999, 19) Similarly, these telephone conversations are framed to minimise distraction by onscreen action, and forces the spectator to focus on the acousmêtre. The sound of the voice, and by extension the soundtrack, thus surpasses the visual as the most prominent aspect of the mise-en-scène.
The power of many of these voices is diminished as they are de-acousmatised through in-person interviews. When granted corporeality, these voices lose the powers Chion cites. Revoked of their God-like powers, the witnesses are reduced to the same mortal plane as Woodward and Bernstein, who in turn are able to use the power of their own voices to elicit information. The reporters often resort to drawing out this information by establishing flirtatious rapports with women they require assistance from.
In addition to the sequence referenced above where they encourage a female colleague to exploit a previous romantic relationship, an early sequence sees Bernstein attempting to seduce another woman to get information. The sequence is preceded with Bernstein asking a colleague for her name. This is a brief interaction which establishes the following scene, but does so by positioning her within a sexualised context (00:22:18):
Bernstein: Hey Steuben, what’s the name of that girl you bombed out with who works in Colson’s office?
Steuben: Sharon Lyons.
The next scene opens with an establishing shot of an outdoor restaurant and Sharon Lyons’ acousmatic voice, asking Bernstein “why are you looking at me like that?" (00:22:25). Lyons is not yet shown to the spectator and is therefore introduced as the acousmêtre. This is somewhat appropriate given the information she holds that Bernstein is attempting to get; her acousmatic voice represents her omniscience. Bernstein’s answer to Lyons’ question is also delivered offscreen. His attempts to seduce her are made explicit as he replies, “you’re attractive." This line is immediately followed with a shot of Lyons looking away, embarrassed, situating her voice within a specific body (Figure 4).
Follow this de-acousmaticisation, Lyons is denied her acousmatic powers, and her and Bernstein are situated within the same diegetic plane. Bernstein’s flirtatious reply clearly catches her off-guard, with the synchronised cut giving the appearance that it is his voice that has diminished her God-like powers. Despite not having the acousmêtre’s powers, Bernstein is thus able to use his own voice to demonstrate his Turneresque patriarchal, heteronormative dominance over Lyons’ to elicit the information he requires.
One of the most powerful voices heard in the film, both in the literal and figurative sense, is Woodward’s FBI source Deep Throat. There are three meetings between the two, and each take place in the same dimly-lit car park late at night (00:35:35; 01:39:29; 02:01:50). Just as the opening burglary sequence, this setting represents the clandestine world of espionage in contrast to the brightness of the newspaper offices where these secrets are exposed.
Their first meeting follows a montage of Woodward travelling to an unknown destination, changing taxis multiple times and is constantly looking over his shoulder, demonstrating the extreme measures they are taking to remain secretive. He ultimately arrives at the car park and a static camera shot watches him walking through the darkness. Deep Throat is introduced with an extreme close-up of his eyes, suggesting it is his perspective through which we are watching Woodward. He lights a cigarette, alerting Woodward to his whereabouts who approaches him and they begin their discussion of the case (Figure 5). Their conversation is filmed in a shot/reverse shot, with Woodward’s face clearly lit and Deep Throat shrouded in darkness, helping to hide his identity (Figure 6). While we can make out the outline of his face, the near total darkness makes his voice essentially acousmatic. Although he is depicted onscreen and therefore de-acousmatised, Deep Throat is not fully aligned with the acousmêtre’s powers. Yet, the dialogue, and Woodward’s repeated visits to him for information, implies that he is literally omniscient; he appears to know every detail of the story that Woodward and Bernstein are reporting. This presents a contradictory representation of the acousmêtre, for while Deep Throat is not acousmatic, the mystery surrounding him and his true identity allow him to retain many of the acousmêtre’s powers.
Despite the conflicting description of the acousmêtre, the Deep Throat meetings are arguably the closest representation to Pythagoras’s initial meaning of the acousmêtre. As I referenced above, Chion outlined this original intention as a means to remove potential distractions and to ensure listeners were focused on the speaker’s message. In this instance, the majority of the frame is in darkness, with only Deep Throat’s eyes and the outline of his face clearly visible. This Pythagorean framing grants Deep Throat’s voice acousmatic power, while its timbre provides it with additional weight in how it is heard.
These scenes play out without any non-diegetic scoring and the diegetic soundscape is foregrounded, much like the scenes set within the newspaper offices. Woodward’s footsteps echo throughout the car park and, offscreen, we hear the screeching tires of distant cars. A constant room tone, possibly emitting from an unseen generator, provides what Isabella van Elferen may describe as “an uncomfortable buzz of white noise."(Elferen 2012, 180) These sounds add to the film world’s verisimilitude, while the room tone helps to maintain the sense of unease felt through the narrative. This tension is heightened as Woodward and Deep Throat discuss the case in hushed tones clearly audible to the spectator. In this, the conversation presents, as Frances Dyson writes, “impossibly intimate sounds … [voices] too large for any body” and draws us almost uncomfortably close to the characters.(Dyson 2009, 136) Lisa Coulthard has also discussed this close-miking of characters, writing that “voices, breath, or small inconsequential sounds have a volume, presence, and impact far beyond what would exist in everyday life.”(Coulthard 2016, 184) This is clearly a somewhat generic cinematic technique. What is more uncommon here is the foregrounding of mouth sounds, most prominently the sound of saliva in Deep Throat’s mouth as he swallows between sentences and puffs on his cigarette. Coulthard discusses this phenomenon with particular regard to the foregrounding of sounds she variously describes as “moist,” “gross” and “squishy.”(Coulthard 2016, 185) These sounds, she writes, are particularly prominent in scenes depicting kissing or bodily violence and provoke what she terms “acoustic disgust.”(Coulthard 2016, 185, 191) Here, the disgust is caused through the close miking of both characters which allows us to hear their mouth sounds, specifically Deep Throat’s. Coulthard terms this an “auditory close-up,” a technique that can “[intensify] an uncomfortable intimacy that veers into disgust.”(Coulthard 2016, 187) Following Coulthard’s terminology, we are placed within an uncomfortable proximity to Deep Throat, where we can clearly hear “the sound of the body itself, its materiality and moisture [which] is where sonic disgust thrives."(Coulthard 2016, 185)
The discomfort that this “disgust” evokes retains a thematic consonance with the tension prominent throughout the film. In placing the point of audition so close to Deep Throat’s mouth, we are provided no release from the tension of the dramatic narrative. Rather, as Martine Beugnet writes, “the audio close-up pulls the viewer in and envelops him or her with a sensuous or uncanny sense of intimacy or gives full power to the feelings of repulsion brought forth by excessively close contact.”(Beugnet 2022, 91) Beugnet focuses on sensuality within French film predominantly from the late 20th and early 21st centuries, noting that “recent French cinema offers particularly vivid illustrations of how such techniques have the potential of radically renewing our experience of watching, sensing and thinking through film.”(Beugnet 2022, 63) Despite the specificity of her study, it remains applicable in the case of President’s Men as the repulsion and “uncanny intimacy” of the auditory close-up maintains the sense of uneasiness felt by the generic thriller aspects of the film. The use of the voice in such close intimacy maintains the film’s theme of the post-traumatic cycle by denying the audience any opportunity for a release of the tension and sustaining a constant discomfort.
Woodward learns in the last of his meetings with Deep Throat that the White House is targeting him and Bernstein, placing them in danger of being killed (02:01:05).1 I outlined above how Woodward and Bernstein use the power of their own voices to extract information and accrue a power that will ultimately bring down many figures within the Presidential administration. With Deep Throat’s revelation that they are now being surveilled and have likely been bugged, however, their attempted weaponisation of their voices is turned against them.
Woodward rushes to Bernstein’s home after this scene to warn him, and they both then go to editor Ben Bradlee’s home to let him know. A reversal of power dynamics has thus taken place: while the reporters had previously worked to expose the truth through coaxing information from often acousmatic voices, now they find themselves in a position where their own recorded voices are being used against them and have potentially put their lives at risk. As such, the weapon that the reporters had primarily been relying on, the voice, has now being turned on them. This subsequently implies that their own voices have turned them into the hunted rather than the hunters. As I will outline in greater detail below, the concept of the hunt is a key aspect of the film and the score.
When Woodward enters Bernstein’s apartment, he immediately instructs Bernstein to not say anything for fear they they are being listened to. To cover up the sounds of them communicating, Woodward goes to Bernstein’s record player and puts on the record that was already on the turntable, Vivaldi’s “Concerto for Two Trumpets." Bernstein’s evident appreciation for this European Baroque music reveals a contradiction in his representation as the heroic American ideal. By aligning Bernstein with the effeminate European cultures that the American figure arose from, his established position as the Turneresque American figure is troubled.
As newspaper reporters, Woodward and Bernstein are clearly not as traditionally masculine as the likes of John Wayne’s Big Jake. However, the film to this point has provided ample opportunities for them to demonstrate their individualistic, entrepreneurial, patriarchal prowess, aligning them unquestionably with the American identity. Associating these Turneresque figures with the European cultural baggage that Turner insisted on shedding, however, makes clear that exclusive adherence to the iconography and ideology of the American frontiersman is not necessary to demonstrate one’s American identity. President’s Men here argues against the largely regressive notion of American identity that Turner outlined, and the film becomes representative of the more progressive ideals of masculinity and national identity typical of many films of the New Hollywood movement. Perhaps most significantly, this piece of Vivaldi’s music essentially saves the reporters, demonstrating its instrinsic value to them. Such an interpretation should of course be treated with caution as the film in many ways remains conservative in its depiction of its male heroes and the goal-driven narrative.
This challenging of the Turneresque American identity is heard again in a sequence that comes soon after Woodward informs Bernstein of the bugging before going to Bradlee’s house to share the information with him. The scene ends with a non-diegetic cue titled “Bradlee Lawn," which I will discuss below, and a cut to the newsroom. The cue is then replaced with diegetic sound from the television coverage of Nixon’s 1973 inauguration. A television facing the camera makes clear that this is a further use of archival news footage.
A speaker from the television introduces the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Warren Burger, to oversee Nixon’s Oath of Office. A brass marching band then performs a brief march to introduce Burger to the podium. The camera begins to zoom in as Berger and Nixon administer the oath. The zoom brings Woodward and Bernstein, initially hidden in the background, more into prominence, while the soundtrack exclusively consists of the oath and nearby typewriters. Following the oath, the marching band performs “Hail to the Chief," a piece traditionally performed at presidential inaugurations imbuing it with quintessentially American connotations. As this piece is performed, the camera remains static on the television in the foreground and the reporters in the background, both in equal focus. The news footage continues to show President Nixon, the figure that this music is directly associated with. The inference here is that Nixon, as the nation’s head of state, is the ultimate embodiment of the American identity, underscored by the music. But there is an irony inherent in this portrayal as the spectator understands that Nixon ultimately failed in his oath to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States," and as such is not the heroic American ideal that the music suggests. In the same way that the framing of the reporters’ telephone calls drew attention to the acousmatic voices, the lack of onscreen action and melodramatic non-diegetic score highlights this irony.
The film seems to acknowledge Nixon’s failure to fulfil the Oath of Office and his shortcomings in embodying the ideal American’s characteristics with a dissolve while his face is on the television to a profile shot of Woodward and Bernstein typing their story (Figure 7). “Hail to the Chief" continues to play without the accompanying image of Nixon, whom we previously understood as associated with the song. This closer image of the reporters instead implies that it is them who are being celebrated and are the ones who should be commended for their patriotic duty, not President Nixon. From this final shot, the image dissolves to a series of teletype machines, detailing the fallout of the reporting as many of the figures associated with the Watergate break-in and CREEP’s various illegal activities confess and are sentenced. The film ends as the final headline is written from the The Washington Post’s 9th August 1974 front page: “Nixon Resigns." The only sound heard is the teletype machine before the image fades to black and the credits roll in silence. The dominance of the typing in this final sequence reiterates another key element of President’s Men’s diegetic soundtrack: the harsh, percussive sound of typewriters, heard constantly throughout the many scenes set in the newspaper’s office.
Following the opening title sequence, the film begins with Howard Simons walking across the newsroom to Harry Rosenfeld’s office in a scene I discussed above. This scene, and every scene that takes place in the newspaper’s office – with the exception of the final cue, “Bradlee Lawn," as I will discuss – does not feature any non-diegetic scoring. It is instead filled with the harsh, percussive sound of typewriters which provide a near-constant soundscape, and are perhaps the most important sound heard throughout the film. These machines are the first sound that is heard, in the opening sequence depicted in Figure 1.
As discussed above, the film’s narrative begins following an abrupt edit, from the burglars being arrested at the DNC headquarters, to The Washington Post newsroom (Figure 8). This contrast between the darkness in which the burglars are operating and the bright newspaper office presents an overt reference to the reporters’ attempts to bring the shadowy criminal activity into the light. This is also reflected in the sound of the typewriters that accompanies Simons walking through the office and his conversation with Rosenfeld, since it is these machines that are used to outline the story that will ultimately hold those in power to account. Returning to Mark Feeney, the typewriters therefore work in a similar way to the office’s lighting; both “[convey] reassurance and fidelity to the truth."(Feeney 2004, 263) This fidelity is communicated through the endless typing, as the unseen typists maintain a steady pace regardless of the narrative onscreen.
Through the consistent soundscape provided by the typewriters, operated by unseen figures, they come to seem as though they are functioning as autonomous machines. The inherent objectivity of the machines therefore reflects an indifference to the magnitude of the story being investigated, and to the interpersonal squabbles of the two main characters, and highlights their sole interest in pursuing the news. Rather than being distracted by such issues, the machines continue to type throughout the drama unfolding on the screen. We are reminded through this sound that the entrepreneurial, individualistic figures behind the press will persist, regardless of distractions or barriers, while the president’s men, too, remain persistent in their attempts to side-track the investigations. In a further testament to the significance of the typewriters, they are often heard from offscreen, providing them with a potential omniscience in much the same way as the acousmatic voices; as we cannot know what they are typing, they could be typing anything.
The typewriter soundscape is immediately established after the cut to Rosenfeld walking through the office, and persists through each subsequent scenes in the newsroom. The next scene in the newsroom, for example, takes place in Rosenfeld’s office. Woodward tells the team what he discovered at the burglars’ arraignment hearing, which he was assigned to cover (00:11:48). The typewriters again can be heard clearly heard despite being in a different room. This further contributes to the sense that this is a real, functioning newspaper office, reflecting Kevin Donnelly’s suggestion that “sounds in film exist essentially to bolster or ‘make real’ the images we see on screen and the surrounding world we imagine.”(Donnelly 2009, 108)
In addition to contributing to the office’s verisimilitude, the typing is used in a similar way to a non-diegetic score, providing what Ben Winters may call “wallpaper … [lending] itself to characterising the nature and feeling of the space in which the action takes place.”(Winters 2012, 43) Winters discusses the idea that film music does not actively “narrate” a story, but rather “unscroll[s] as part of the narrative, tracing its contours mimetically.”(Winters 2012, 41) Winters’ focus is on non-diegetic music, and yet it provides a useful analogue here; President’s Men’s typewriters do not directly narrate the film’s story yet provide an atmospheric underpinning and reinforces its themes, as mentioned above.
They become most overt and audible in the scene in which Woodward and Bernstein are first introduced (00:19:14). For a large portion of this sequence, there is no dialogue with the only sounds heard those of the newsroom’s general ambiance. This ambiance is dominated by the loud, abrasive sound of the typewriters. As this sequence takes place in the midst of the newsroom, as opposed to adjacent offices like in earlier scenes, the typewriters are far more prominent here. Following the established docudrama aesthetic, this suggests that the camera is physically inside the newsroom, near Woodward and Bernstein, and therefore better placed to capture the sound of the typing. However, it also suggests that the point of audition is specifically with Woodward, whom the scene opens on and who is the primary focus for the majority of the scene. In providing the spectator an insight into Woodward’s subjective aural perspective, the spectator is encouraged to align themselves with him and better understand him as the film’s hero and audience avatar. Both of these further contribute to the representation of Woodward and Bernstein as symbolic of the American hero, following Boorstin’s assertion of them as heroes out to “save the day."(Boorstin, quoted in Hornaday 2022)
I have thus far solely discussed the use of diegetic sound in President’s Men; however, of equal interest to my study is the use of non-diegetic scoring. While scoring is only seldom used, I will outline how its selective use of motifs reflect the film’s ideology surround national identity.
Analysis of the film’s score reveals several recurring motifs which are heard at various points in the film. Figure 9 showcases these motifs in order that they appear in the film, most of which can be heard at multiple points in the film. Some of the motifs, however, are heard with slight variations. These amended motifs have been arranged in the same row as the version that is originally and most often heard. In addition to these motifs but not transcribed in this figure are pedal bass tones which are heard in several cues and provide a discomforting sense of dread. Although the motifs are often heard played by different instruments and in different keys, in this figure they are all presented in the shared key of C major. Despite all being transposed to C, many of the motifs feature non-diatonic notes. When played alongside other motifs, this non-diatonicism creates a sense of dissonance and make the cues tonally ambiguous, adding to the film’s suspenseful atmosphere.
The cues throughout the film are built from a number of these motifs in different orders and combinations. More motifs are added to these combinations as the film progresses, overlapping with each other and expanding the soundtrack. The convoluted, layered nature of the reporters’ investigation is hinted at by this gradual instrumental layering of the score: as each instrument is introduced, a further layer of the scandal is alluded to.
Before moving on to discuss how these motifs are heard in the film, I will now give a brief analysis of some of the most common motifs to ascertain what they contribute to the film’s political themes.
The first motif that is heard, and the first one I will discuss, is a simple, rhythmic bass line that underscores many cues throughout the film. As Figure 9 shows, there are variations of this motif, and it is played variously on an electric bass guitar or acoustic guitar, sometimes alternating between instruments in a call and response style. Despite this variation, it invariably remains steady on a single repeated note. This provides both a steady tonal centre and an uneven, syncopated rhythm.
This motif resembles a sonic heartbeat. Juan Chattah, in his study of Shire’s score for The Conversation, notes that this heartbeat bass motif was included at the request of Pakula, who “wanted the music to remind audiences of the human heart beating inside the characters.”(Chattah 2015, 91) Chattah describes such techniques as sonic onomatopoeia: “the musical depiction of the acoustic characteristics of a sound produced by a character, object, or event.”(Chattah 2015, 88) Ben Winters has also discussed the use of repetitive bass pedals to connote either a character’s or spectator’s heartbeat. In this, he uses the term “musical heartbeat."(Winters 2008)
Winters’ focus is primary on the horror genre, and his proposed “heartbeat hypothesis" details the numerous ways that a spectator can respond to the presence of a musical heartbeat and the emotional impact that it can have. President’s Men is of course not a horror film, but at times it nevertheless evokes a strong sense of dread, unease, and paranoia. The presence of Shire’s musical heartbeats subtly contribute towards this atmosphere, thus evoking Gilbert Gabriel and David Sonnenschein’s assertion that musical heartbeats can aid in “heighten[ing] the drama of a scene."(Gabriel and Sonnenschein 2016, 116) Winters’ and Gabriel and Sonnenschein’s claims here seem to run counter to Pakula’s apparent intention for the musical heartbeats. Rather than trying to mirror the reporter’s fears or to instil fear in the audience, the intention for this motif is described by Chattah as simply reinforcing the reporters’ human characteristics.
It is important to here touch upon a question that Winters raises in his discussion of musical heartbeats: whose heartbeat are we hearing? In his analysis of his chosen films, Winters offers several hypotheses to this question, suggesting it could variously represent the protagonist, the onscreen monster, or the spectator.(Winters 2008, 16–18) In the case of President’s Men, every instance of non-diegetic scoring accompanies the image of one of both of the reporters. The heartbeat therefore seems to belong to Woodward and Bernstein.
This consequently reinforces the spectator’s emotional connection with both characters, as they are brought within intimate, physical proximity through the foregrounding of their bodily sounds. By highlighting the “human heart beating inside the characters,” Shire thus foregrounds the “human" story behind the film’s narrative. Pakula’s instruction to Shire can be understood as an intention to remind the spectator of the real people at the centre of the story, and therefore as a means to celebrate the individualistic heroics of Woodward and Bernstein.
The corporeality that the musical heartbeat imbues with Woodward and Bernstein is contrasted with the faceless bureaucracy that they are up against. Through this simple, repeated bassline we can extrapolate an idealising of the reporters’ heroics, as well as a condemnation of the largely-anonymous inhumanity of Nixon’s administration and its multi-layered conspiracy that threatened individual freedoms.
This motif sees a series of minor second intervals which seem to represent the slow progression of Woodward and Bernstein’s investigation. It occurs in four different cues and each version concludes with a different series of sustained notes, and yet the minor second ascents invariably connote a sense of unease, contributing to the film’s claustrophobic, paranoid atmosphere. This motif also seems to draw parallels with John Williams’s score for Jaws.
As Figure 10 shows, Williams’s cue also makes use of minor second intervals, although his cue is not transposed at any point and instead remains static between E and F. The apparent reference to Jaws can be made more explicit as the reporters’ investigation can be likened to a “hunt." Shire’s ascending minor seconds are only a part of a brief motif, and it is therefore difficult to draw too many analogies to Williams’s score based purely on the presence of minor seconds. However, as I will discuss below, this parallel with Jaws is exacerbated by the “Hunting Fanfare" which often follows the Ascending Minor Seconds.
If the Ascending Minor Seconds hint at the fractional progress made by the reporters, the ascending Lydian motif makes this a core aspect. This is a four-note motif that is repeated several times in each of its occurrences, with the exception of the film’s final cue where it is only heard once. It is also the motif that is heard the most, occurring in five cues, and the final motif that is heard in the entire score. With the exception of this final cue, the motif’s circularity points to the reporter’s seemingly endless task; continuously ascending but never ultimately landing at a new destination.
The presence of the augmented fourth makes the motif function within the Lydian mode. The Lydian mode as been described as connoting generally optimistic feelings. David Temperley and Daphne Tan explored this in a study wherein they played musical modes to participants to ascertain their emotional connotations. They ultimately concluded that “generally, happiness increases as scale-degrees are raised.”(Temperley and Tan 2013, 255) Frank Lehman makes a similar argument in his thesis on tonalities in film music, citing the Lydian mode’s “victorious, childlike, and optimistic connotations."(Lehman 2012, 31) This motif, however, does not present these tonalities, and instead creates more of a sense of mystery and the unknown, appropriate to the film’s themes of conspiracy and paranoia.
Janet Halfyard writes of the use of the tritone in horror scoring, an interval that is created through the augmented fourth in the Lydian mode and can be heard in this motif between the root C and F. Halfyard’s focus is on horror-comedies, and yet much of her analysis can be drawn upon for this particular motif. She notes that each of the seven modes contain tritone intervals, but only the Lydian mode contains that interval in relation to the tonic. The augmented fourth notwithstanding, the Lydian mode is otherwise fully tonally diatonic, allowing composers “to be altogether more duplicitous in writing music that superficially sounds quite innocent but that conceals (and ultimately reveals) the devil."(Halfyard 2010, 28) Such extreme revelations is of course hyperbolic with regards to the Watergate scandal. However, the assertion that the Lydian mode can subtly hint at untoward practices remains useful in the context of President’s Men. This augmented fourth can be understood as representing the nefarious political action of Richard Nixon’s administration, hiding in plain sight and easily overlooked among the socio-political landscape and otherwise diatonic tonality.
Another common trope in horror film scoring that is also evident in this motif in the use of repetition. This has been discussed by Kevin Donnelly in his analysis of John Carpenter’s (1980). He writes that “repetitive music functions to induce instant tension as well as having a cumulative effect of disquiet or extreme anxiety."(Donnelly 2010, 161) This assertion is applicable in the case of this motif, with its highly repetitive nature, along with its somewhat unfamiliar Lydian melodic ascent, mirroring the sense of paranoia that the film is dealing with. The repetition also creates a soporific effect on the spectator, its repetitive, cyclical nature at times creating an ethereal and dreamlike quality. This is often inspired by the instrumentation and the timbre of the piano or harp that performs it, which I will discuss further below.
As I referenced above when discussing the Minor Second motif, there seems to be a sonic allusion to John Williams’ main title from Jaws. This was somewhat subtle at first. However, this fanfare, performed by a French horn, makes the connection far more explicit as we hear a similar French horn fanfare in Williams’ cue (Figure 11).
Released less than a year before President’s Men, and given its ubiquity and mass popularity, upon the release of President’s Men in 1976 it would likely have been difficult to hear this cue without being reminded of Jaws’ shark hunting its prey. When considering each films’ use of French horn motifs, it is easy to draw a parallel between Jaws’ shark, literally hunting its prey, and President’s Men’s reporters, as they “hunt” for their story. Vincent Canby made this connection in his 1976 New York Times review for President’s Men, when he described it as “the thinking man’s ‘Jaws.’"(Canby 1976)
President’s Men subverts Jaws’ narrative by turning the film’s protagonists into the “hunters.” Yet, while the reporters may be hunters in one sense, the musical allusion to Jaws suggests that they, too, are being hunted. In the same way that Jaws’ theme alerted audiences to the presence of the shark, here the Hunting Fanfare suggests that there is an unseen, malignant figure stalking the reporters. It is never revealed whether they are in fact being followed. However, the aural reference to Jaws can be inferred as a subtle allusion to a similarly antagonistic presence stalking them. Both the reporters and the president’s men are thus simultaneously the shark and the beach-goers.
This allusion to Jaws also reveals a link to notions of American identity. This comes when focusing on Williams’ French horn fanfare which seems to echo the trumpet fanfare from Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man." Copland’s “Fanfare" was written in 1942, commissioned “as a patriotic morale booster" to honour soldiers in World War II.(Pollack 2005, 5) It has subsequently become closely associated with a distinctly nationalist and pro-American ideology, despite Copland’s desire to create a piece of music that transcended national boundaries. “Fanfare" opens with what Stanley V. Kleppinger calls a “triumphant exordium," an exuberant opening fanfare that became “one of a handful of ‘Copland sounds’ that have become intertwined with American identity." A clear similarity can be found when comparing the triumphant exordium of “Fanfare" with the more sinister fanfare heard in Jaws. With the knowledge that Copland was a major influence on Williams, this comparison feels justified and perhaps not accidental.(Emilio Audissino discusses the influence of Copland on Williams, claiming that “Williams was also influenced by Copland’s Americana dialect–pandiatonicism and quartel harmony–especially in his American themes." Audissino 2021, 139) Williams has taken even more obvious influence from “Fanfare" for his own cue for the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, “Summon the Heroes." Figure 12 shows the fanfares heard in “Fanfare for the Common Man", Jaws, President’s Men, and, to evidence the influence of this specific Copland piece on Williams, “Summon the Heroes." For clarity and to aid my comparison, each of these cues have been transposed to open on middle C.
Figure 13 highlights similarities between Copland’s and Williams’ fanfares, with two phrases from Williams’ score in particular containing what seem specific references to the earlier piece. As column A shows, Copland’s piece opens with an ascending perfect fourth followed by an ascending perfect fifth to the tonic. Williams’ on the other hand subverts the uplifting patriotism of Copland’s fanfare by rising a major third and then a diminished sixth, creating a far more unsettling ambience. Despite the differences in melodic contours, both fanfares share the exact same rhythm. Another similarity is seen in both fanfares’ descending motifs in column B. Although the rhythms differ in each phrase, there is a similarity between Copland’s and William’s response to their respective fanfares. The slight difference in intervals, however, reflects Jaws’ sinister interpolation of Copland’s piece.
The significance of Williams’s citing of Copland’s “Fanfare" for Jaws is evident when considering one of its core themes: the apparent crisis of masculinity in contemporary American society. Michael Ryan and Douglas Kellner, for example, cite the film’s shark as a “sign of what goes wrong when the male sex is not fulfilling its duty of patriarchal leadership."(Ryan and Douglas 1988, 60) The film focuses on three male characters as they hunt down the shark that is terrorising the coastal town of Amity: Brody, the police sheriff unable to protect his family and community; Quint, the brash and vulgar shark hunter; and Hooper, the younger, metropolitan academic. While each figure represents a different iteration of masculine identity, the film’s primary thematic clash is acted out between Quint and Hooper, the former representing an “aggressive, hard masculinity," the former a contemporary, softer and more thoughtful masculinity.(Barry Monahan focuses on this theme, paying attention to the significance of characters’ hands. Monahan specifically cites one scene in which Quint denigrates Hooper for having “city hands," an apparently feminine trait that betrays his lack of traditional American manhood. Monahan 2022, 250–51) Jaws therefore can be read as a commentary on the downfall of traditional, Turneresque masculinity. Williams’ allusion to Copland’s “Fanfare" in turn becomes an ironic commentary on manhood in 1970s USA: while Copland’s piece celebrates the bravery and patriotic duty of servicemen in the Second World War, Jaws addresses the lack of such commendable displays of masculinity.
All the President’s Men similarly reflects upon the failure of such patriarchal masculinities, specifically the nation’s political leaders. As I detailed in my introduction, the revelations that these leaders had failed to live up to moral and legal standards, contributed to the ubiquitous sense of paranoia that had cumulated throughout the previous decade. Since both films share this theme, Shire’s referencing of Williams’ score seems justified.(This connection is exacerbated in some analyses of Jaws which draw a parallel between President Nixon and Amity’s Major Vaughn, who insists on keeping the beaches open to maximise tourist revenue despite the evident threat posed by the shark. Peter Biskind, for example, notes that Vaughn “repeatedly invokes ‘the public interest’ as Nixon invoked ‘national security’ to legitimate the various extravagances of his administration." Biskind 1975)
Both films see their protagonists succeed in their goals – explicitly shown in Jaws as the shark is killed; and more subtly in President’s Men in a post-script detailing the president’s downfall. They differ, however, as President’s Men is less downcast in its portrayal of masculinity. Its two reporter protagonists are never suggested as lacking in their patriarchal leadership capabilities, and the film celebrates their individualistic, dogged entrepreneurialism, and their willingness to exert their dominance over women in lesser positions of power. President’s Men is thus more optimistic about the rectitude of the American ideology, and so is more aligned with Turner’s vision of American identity and the patriotic ideals of Copland’s “Fanfare." Pakula himself suggested this when discussing the contrasting ideologies of his paranoid trilogy, explaining that “Parallax View represents my fear about what’s happening in the world, and All the President’s Men represents my hope. Like most of us, I’m balanced between the two."(Pakula, quoted in Aquilina 2021)
By referencing Jaws, Shire’s fanfare evokes Copland’s optimistic nationalism.(Although Copland’s influence on Shire’s compositional practices has been less documented than Williams’, Juan Chattah notes that he was exposed to Copland’s work from a young age and this “had a profound effect on Shire, and triggered his interest in contemporary concert music." Chattah 2015, 2) Figure 14 shows Copland’s and Shire’s fanfares side by side and highlights the intervallic differences, but also their rhythmic similarities. As with Figure 12, both motifs have been transposed to begin on middle C. When seeing Copland’s wide interval leaps contrasted with Shire’s much smaller steps, we can see Shire’s cue as a far more ominous and pessimistic. Shire does not appear to strive for a similar sense of nationalistic pride as Copland does. But while Jaws sharply critiques contemporary masculinity, President’s Men appears here more mournful for the state of the nation and patriarchal positions of power during the nation’s post-traumatic period. Shire’s muted fanfare can be understood as more of a lament to the fading moral authority and reverence of the American identity than Jaws’s ironic reference to American masculinity.
While each of the previous motifs discussed thus far contain very small intervals or modal melodies which contribute to a tense and mysterious atmosphere, this motif introduces a much lighter tonality. This motif is heard four times, making it one of the most common motifs, and provides respite from the more sinister tonalities of earlier motifs. Its series of alternating perfect fourths, followed by a minor sixth, remain fully diatonic and less troubling than earlier motifs. This diatonicism, coupled with each phrase’s whole tone ascent, creates an uplifting and more optimistic atmosphere. Also contributing to this atmosphere is both versions of the motifs’ intervals which are among the largest heard throughout the entire score. The relevance of this to the film’s emotional resonance is made evident with a consideration of Aalf Gabrielsson and Erik Lindström’s meta-analysis of studies on musical structure and emotional affect, in which they note that “large pitch variation may be associated with happiness, pleasantness, activity, or surprise; small pitch variation with disgust, anger, fear, or boredom."(Gabrielsson and Lindström 2010, 389) This understanding of musical expression reflects a more optimistic attitude to the reporters’ progress, and the upward progression of each consecutive phrase also points to this.
Perhaps the most notable aspect of this motif is the repeated use of the perfect fourth intervals. Returning to Neil Lerner, this interval has been understood as “represent[ing] the vastness of nature," particularly in the works of Aaron Copland.(Lerner 2001, 503) In Copland’s music the celebration of nature can be extended to represent a celebration of America and Americanness. Lerner here cites the opening to Copland’s Appalachian Spring, which features a series of ascending fourths. Prior to the introduction of these fourths, however, is a melodic phrase that Shire’s motif appears to echo. Figure 15 shows the opening bars of Appalachian Spring, alongside Shire’s perfect fourths motif as it is first heard in the cue “CREEP Sequence III." Copland’s piece opens with an A pedal, while a clarinet performs a series of alternating major thirds. Shire’s cue, on the other hand, is similarly structured, with the Heartbeat motif providing a pedal beneath the Alternating Perfect Fourth motif. The similarity between the two passages suggests an attempt by Shire to reference Copland’s “American idiom" and his evocation of the American identity.(This phrase is taken from W. H. Mellers’ discussion of “American music," wherein he identifies several compositional practices that make up the “American idiom." One of the key traits he identifies, and the most relevant for my discussion here is the “feeling of vastness, enormous airiness and emptiness of space which probably derives from America’s physical immensity and which is communicated through the music partly by the dominance of fourths and natural sevenths." Mellers 1943, 370–71)
It is important to reiterate that President’s Men attempts to celebrate the idealised American identity at a time the greatness of such a figure was in doubt. The allusion to Copland’s compositional practice and his sincere celebration of the United States can therefore be understood as Shire’s reference to the heroic American ideal.
This motif introduces a new harmonic structure, as it is the first instance of multiple instruments performing polyphonic harmony. It remains largely diatonic, with the exception of a single passing augmented second (bar 12, Figure 16). Since this is only a brief passing note, it does not greatly disturb the harmonic consonance, which, coupled with the Alternating Fourths Motif that this motif follows, provides a sense of comfort that other motifs do not. This mostly diatonic motif suggests a sense of progress in the film’s narrative, and that the story is finally successfully being uncovered.
The harmony between the two oboes also reflects the improving working relationship between Woodward and Bernstein as they become more confident and comfortable working alongside each other. This is discussed in their book that the film is based upon, when they are writing about the sequence that this motif accompanies in the film:
gradually, Bernstein’s and Woodward’s mutual distrust and suspicions diminished. They realized the advantages of working together … The breadth of the story, the inherent risks and the need for caution all argued for at least two reporters working on it. … And, tentatively at first, they became friends.(While the book was written by the two reporters, it is written in the third person. Woodward and Bernstein 1974, 49–51)
Nevertheless, the brief instance of non-diatonicism offers a subtle reminder of the conspiracy’s complicatedness and sinister socio-political repercussions, and the tension that remained between the two reporters.
The final cues to discuss do not appear in the same cue, but are heard closely together and contribute to a similar atmosphere of tension and paranoia. Despite their emotional affect, they are largely oppositional in how they create this atmosphere. The Sustained Ascending Electric Piano motifs, for example, are sustained drones that have a similar effect as the repeated motifs discussed above, and that Donnelly described as capable of evoking “disquiet or extreme anxiety."(Donnelly 2010, 161)
The Frenzied Piano, on the other hand, is far more active and more obviously distressing with its high register and rapid movements. These elements, and the ethereal timbre of the electric piano, align it with some contemporary horror scoring such as Carpenter’s The Fog that Donnelly discusses, as well as Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells," heard in (William Friedkin, 1973). Figure 17 showcases the title theme from The Fog and the opening motif from “Tubular Bells," which was used as The Exorcist’s title theme. Each of these motifs are built from repeated arpeggios performed by synthesisers and organs which create other-worldly, dream-like timbres.(On“Tubular Bells," Mike Oldfield utilised pianos, and multiple reed and electronic organs. As Donnelly notes, there is no official record of which specific synthesiser Carpenter used on his score for The Fog. Donnelly surmises that it was likely a Moog Series 3. Donnelly 2010, 159–60)
Of course, The Fog was released after President’s Men, but the horror that repeated arpeggios and electronic timbres evoke nevertheless remain. Shire’s motif thus fits within a lineage of contemporary horror scoring, and reflects the sinister and uncomfortable atmosphere that was prevalent throughout this period.
This motif also reflects Shire’s earlier score for The Taking of Pelham 123. As I noted above, Shire took inspiration for this score from Alfred Schoenberg’s twelve-tone technique, which he combined with jazz to create a “bewitching, funky, horn-heavy soundtrack that defied the tonal tradition of classical Hollywood film scoring."(Chattah 2015, 30) Shire claimed that his intention for this score was to compose a “New York jazz-oriented, hard-edged" score, appropriate for an action film set in the chaotic, urban milieu of 1970s New York.(Chattah 2015, 30) Although President’s Men’s score does not aspire to a similar objective, brief elements can be heard in this motif. Specifically, in a rapid melodic run heard in Pelham’s main theme. Figure 18 shows this motif, which shares rhythmic and melodic traits with Shire’s Frenzied Piano motif. Pelham’s score was composed with the aid of a twelve-tone matrix, which imbues it with a strong sense of disorder and non-diatonicism, whereas President Men’s motif is less chaotic and more diatonic. Despite their differences, the similar to this earlier cue imbues the Frenzied Piano motif with a similar allusion to the urban chaos. However, instead of reflecting the specificities of New York, this motif reflects the chaos that was supposedly rampant throughout the country on a more macro level, as the nation collectively underwent its post-traumatic period.
Having discussed the above motifs in some detail, I will now move on to more specific analyses of cues to explore how these motifs are used throughout the film.
The first instance of extradiegetic music occurs as Woodward and Bernstein visit the Library of Congress to gain information on books checked out by members of Nixon’s administration. This cue is titled “Library of Congress” (00:28:30).(I have taken the names of these cues from the soundtrack album released in 2007. Although the scores heard on this release are not exactly as they appear in the film, for ease of reference I will continue to refer to them as they relate to the soundtrack album. Film Score Monthly n.d.) While they read through these documents, the camera peers down at them from above and pulls away toward the ceiling.
The shot dissolves several times as the camera continues to rise above the reporters, making them appear tiny within the grand setting (Figure 19). The dissolves make the spectator quickly lose track of the reporters as, for the first time, we realise the magnitude of their task: two reporters researching a massive and complex governmental operation, the scale of which they do not yet realise.
The formalist perspective disrupts the docudrama aesthetic that had been established throughout the film to this point. Whereas prior to this sequence, the camera had generally remained static or tracked horizontally along with the characters, always generally remaining at eye level, here the camera floats above the reporters as if providing the perspective of some omniscient spectator. This first instance of scoring also acts to disrupt the relative realism of earlier sequences. The enormity of their task is further hinted at by the repetitive and soporific score which begins as the camera begins to pull away from them.
The cue opens with two sustained bass notes from an electric bass guitar before it develops into the Heartbeat motif. This motif provides insight into the reporters’ subjectivities with the spectator experience their pulsating heartbeats. The bass’s unwavering pitch also hints at the reporters’ seemingly unending task, while its unsteady rhythm, with notes often occurring of the offbeat, denies the spectator a solid grounding. This syncopation contributes to the film’s generally discomforting atmosphere by mirroring the paranoia and tension of the protagonists and the nation.
The score expands with the gradual addition of a French horn performing the Minor Second motif, and a piano which introduces the Lydian motif (Figure 20). These two non-diatonic motifs disrupt the presumed key of E, although the dissonance is at first only heard through passing notes, as in bar 7 of Figure 20.
Bar eleven, however, sees the horns ascending from Bto B, the augmented fifth of the diatonic scale. The Bhere can also be understood as C, the flattened sixth of E, and is therefore suggestive of the Phrygian, Aeolian, and Locrian modes, each of which have sinister and ominous connotations. This clash is sustained for the remainder of the cue, creating a continuous dissonance and denying any resolution or sense of relief. The lack of tonal resolution is exacerbated with the introduction of the Lydian piano motif which rises without ever reaching its climax.
The repetition of the piano and the bass line, in addition to the dreamlike camera dissolves, have a hypnotic effect, which alludes to the tediousness of the investigation. The small intervals in this sequence also reflect this by signifying the reporters’ minimal progress, while its quietly ominous tone heightens the unsettling atmosphere that was fundamental to paranoid thrillers. The piano’s repetition can similarly be understood as representing the circularity and labyrinthine nature of the conspiracy the reporters are working to uncover. And yet, the steady, unwavering bass pedal and piano melody also reflect the reporters’ steadfast determination to continue their investigation regardless of any roadblocks. It therefore highlights their self-sufficiency and resilience as motivated and driven heroes.
If understanding this cue as subtly acknowledging Woodward and Bernstein’s capitalistic drive, it seems as though this sequence transfigures them as the mythical American heroes. Noted above, this is complicated by the fact that the reporters are real people. This sequence, however, sees them treated more like fictional figures, as the extradiegetic score and the camera’s artistic movement subverts the film’s previously “realist" aesthetic. By employing more formalist techniques here, the reporters’ mythic status is highlighted and their position as traditional film heroes and their representation of Turner’s idealised American identity is foregrounded.
This sequence ends with a cut to outside of the library. We learn that the reporters were unable to uncover anything to aid their investigation, and they are convinced that the evidence they were searching for has been tampered with. Despite the reporters’ relative naivety of the size of the operation at this point, “Library of Congress" provides subtle suggestions that what they are researching will prove to be a sinister and dangerous conspiracy. Further foreshadowing is evident through the repeated use of dissonance and lack of resolution, which alludes to Woodward and Bernstein’s inconclusive research.
A new cue is heard shortly after this scene and is heard in a similarly formalist sequence. “To Deep Throat” is introduced as Woodward discovers a message wrapped in his newspaper giving him instructions on how to contact Deep Throat (00:33:11). The cue begins as the note is shown to the camera and continues through the following travelling sequence. On his way to meet Deep Throat in a car park, Woodward changes taxis multiple times and is constantly looking over his shoulder. The sequence heightens the sense of paranoia since the spectator is made to believe that Woodward is likely being followed.
This cue largely follows the same structure and instrumentation as “Library of Congress," with the Heartbeat Bass and French horn’s Ascending Minor Second motif. Whereas the horn concluded with the flattened sixth in “Library of Congress," here it goes on to perform the Hunting Fanfare motif (Figure 21). The French horn’s timbre and the film’s investigation harkens back to the “most direct predecessor of the modern-day ‘French’ horn … the hunting horn.”(McKinney 2020, 22) It thereby evokes images of “the hunt” by drawing upon the historical connotations of the French horn. This is further done by placing the fanfare in the horn’s upper register, a pitch that, as Raymond Monelle notes, “old hunting calls … freely used."(Monelle 2001, 102) Despite the change in melodic structure, the first two phrases of this motif end with a sustained flattened sixth, again creating a dissonant pedal between the bass and the horns. The horn’s descending run, however, lands on A, creating a perfect fourth above the root note in the bass line. The consonance here provides a very slight sense of comfort. When considering my argument that the Hunting Fanfare is a lament to the fading dominance of the Turneresque patriarch, this consonance provides a subtle nod to the comfort that that figure should provide.
The Lydian piano motif also returns in this cue, although it is not played as continuously as the previous cue. Instead, it is played three times before stopping and returning again on the third beat of the bar, allowing the horn’s motif to take prominence. The infrequency of the piano’s presence creates an even more unsettling atmosphere than when it was heard consistently. For while its repetitive use in “Library of Congress" created discomfort through its lack of resolution, in “To Deep Throat" its more sporadic use denies the spectator a consistent sense of grounding. The tension of the scene, as we see Woodward attempting to evade potential hunters, is therefore heightened.
This is perhaps the first time in the film where the sense of paranoia that was supposedly “infecting the nation" becomes manifest:(Perlstein 2014, 416) Woodward seems convinced he is being followed and takes many careful steps to lose his pursuers, while the score creates a tense atmosphere. The cue makes such paranoia seem perfectly acceptable, and the subtle allusion to Jaws’ main title in the Hunting Fanfare seems to make a direct reference to those “hunting" Woodward. Through the constant surveillance that Woodward is under – alluded to by his covert actions in travelling to Deep Throat and the Hunting Fanfare – the threat to his personal safety and his individualist freedoms are foregrounded.
The next cue, “Unifax," is played as the spectator is shown a close-up of a newspaper heading from a rival newspaper, The New York Times: “Calls to G.O.P. Unit Linked To Raid on the Democrats” (00:39:17). Woodward and Bernstein vent their frustration with missing out on this scoop. Despite their frustration, the cue presents a soft and light tonality through the presence of a harp and a contrabassoon, performing the Lydian and the Ascending Minor Second motifs, respectively (Figure 22). The smooth, lilting sound of the harp presents a less harsh and more soothing soundworld than that created by the earlier use of the piano. The use of B Lydian, nevertheless, retains its ambiguity which is furthered by the harp’s ethereal, otherworldly timbre.
Similar to the harp, the smooth timbral qualities of the contrabassoon stand in stark contrast to the French horns and their more aggressive sound quality. The contrabassoon creates a gentler tonality, and yet its quivering vibrato suggests a semblance of uncertainty, denying the spectator complete comfort. The instrumentation subsequently presents a sonic juxtaposition to their motifs: the warm sonic qualities of the harp and contrabassoon are contrasted with the tonal ambiguity and dissonance of their respective motifs, further contributing to the unsettling ethereality.
In previous cues, the Minor Second motif was played three times and ends at its highest pitch. However, in “Unifax” the contrabassoon plays the motif three times, before ending the cue a whole octave lower than its original pitch (see bar 11 in Figure 22). Upon lowering its register an octave, the contrabassoon repeats the first ascending pattern in this motif, D-D. Whereas the ascending notes of this motif suggest forward progression, this return to the lower register suggests a backwards step in the reporters’ investigation as they are beaten to a key breakthrough in the case by reporters at The New York Times.
This cue’s tonal qualities, as I mentioned above, appear in contrast to the emotion shown by the reporters when they see their competitors’ article. While in “Library of Congress” I suggested that the score was representing their subjective perspectives, the music here does not align with their emotional state. This raises the issue of whose point of the view the non-diegetic cues are representing, what Gérard Genette terms “focalisation." Focalisation determines from whose perspective a story is told, and can be internal – wherein a story is depicted as from a particular character’s consciousness – or external – when the “hero performs in front of us without our ever being allowed to know his thoughts or feelings."(Genette 1980, 190)
External focalisation is most applicable here, particularly when following its definition as laid out by James Buhler: “with external focalisation, the narration allows us to read characters’ faces, hear their voices, and see their actions to be sure, but we must draw inferences about psychology from outside, from observation.”(Buhler 2018, 177) Given that the film is told largely from the reporter’s point of view, Buhler’s definition is apt; we witness their discovery of information and their responses to the narrative events, but are not given insight into their emotional response. More pertinent to my purposes, we do not hear their emotional response. In the case of “Unifax," the soundtrack actively seems to contradict their subjectivities. Rather than hearing a cue with abrasive, brass timbres that may be more fitting to the reporters’ emotional states, we hear two instruments with warm, soothing tonalities. The music can again therefore be understood as representing the clarification of information as the truth is slowly revealed, with the more pleasing timbres suggesting a better understanding of the state of affairs. Yet, despite this breakthrough in the case, the labyrinthine nature of the conspiracy remains, as represented by the tonal ambiguity and dissonance within the cue.
After a roughly 20-minute stretch without any non-diegetic scoring, the largest musical cue is heard. This is a collection of three shorter cues that I dub the “CREEP Suite," and plays over a montage sequence of Woodward and Bernstein visiting CREEP employees at their homes (01:01:34). “CREEP Sequence I" opens with the Lydian motif played on a harp and an electric bass performing the Heartbeat motif on B. The cue is expanded with a French horn playing the Ascending Minor Second motif, and an acoustic guitar finger picking a Bmajor arpeggio with added major sixth passing notes.
The return of the French horn presents yet another shift in tonality. Whereas the timbre of the vibrato contrabassoon of “Unifax" created a soothing, if uncertain, sonic texture, the intensity and abrasiveness of the French horn suggests more certainty and determination. This is visually depicted by the reporters’ persistence in trying to interview witnesses, despite repeatedly being rebuffed. Bars 15-18 of Figure 23 sees the horn outlining an F minor triad in first inversion. The suggestion of the minor subdominant here, played over the guitar’s repeated Bmajor sixth, reinforces the tonal ambiguity that has been a constant through the score to this point.
While the horn therefore alters its motif, the rest of the motifs are repeated with no variation. The harp, acoustic guitar and bass guitar, therefore, provide a sense of stability, despite the discomfort that constant repetition can evoke. This stability masks the brief instances of dissonance created by the passing non-diatonic notes. As such, the instability and insecurity of this post-traumatic period is only subtly alluded to, and the cue therefore hints at the relative obscurity of the conspiracy hiding in plain sight.
The next cue in the CREEP Suite introduces a substantial change in tonality.2 This cue accompanies another montage of the reporters knocking on doors to question witnesses (01:05:09). It opens with the restatement of the Heartbeat motif which alternates between an electric bass and acoustic guitar. The acoustic guitar’s higher register provides a much lighter contrast to the lower, darker bass tone, and therefore creates a noticeably less ominous atmosphere. The sense of foreboding remains, however, with the intermittent bass guitar’s performance of the motif,
The light, airy timbres of oboes performing the Alternating Fourths motif provide similar respite from the more sinister tones of earlier cues (Figure 24). As I detailed above, this motif contains much larger intervals than those heard thus far, which, following Gabrielsson and Lindström, provides a comparatively optimistic tonality. This understanding of musical expression reflects the reporters’ belief that they are finally beginning to make significant progress in their investigation. Furthermore, the repeated fourth interval can be understood as representative of a celebratory Coplandesque evocation of the American identity. This cue is heard as the reporters continue their investigation, persisting in their task regardless of the obstacles they encounter. We therefore see the reporters here as the individualist, self-sufficient American ideal, thus are suitably accompanied by a compositional practice that Copland helped to ensure reflected the USA’s praiseworthy character .
The oboes follow the Perfect Fourths motif with the Polyphonic Melodic Run, highlighting the synergy of the two reporters. This understanding leads us to appreciate each oboe as representative of each reporter, functioning independently and individualistically, while complementing each other and reaching a consonant, unified conclusion at E.
Having seemingly reached a dead-end, Woodward and Bernstein sit slouched at a restaurant, clearly exhausted and frustrated by the investigation (01:07:10).3 Bernstein voices his disillusionment with the case, and Woodward outlines his determination in fully uncovering the conspiracy:
Bernstein: How can you keep going at something past the point where you stop believing in it?
Woodward: We just have to start all over again.
The final cue of the CREEP Sequence begins as they get into their car, apparently to begin their research over again. It opens with an acoustic guitar picking a Bsuspended second arpeggio and an electric bass performing the Heartbeat motif.
The acoustic guitar is far more sparse, slow and methodical than the arpeggios heard in “CREEP Sequence I," which was comparatively more energetic and active. This mirrors the more systematic and precise work of the reporters as we hear their offscreen voices slowly reading through the names of the list of CREEP employees. The guitar’s suspended second adds a subtle layer of tension to its otherwise soothing and soporific timbre. This is complemented by the return of the Lydian motif, performed on an electric piano which provides additional dream-like ethereality. It thus mirrors the weariness in Woodward and Bernstein’s voices as they slowly read aloud the list of names, sounding as if they are about to fall asleep.
This final cue of the CREEP Suite becomes the most expansive of the suite and of the film as a whole with the addition of two French horns. Unlike previous cues, however, the horns perform two overlapping motifs: the Alternating Fourths and the Ascending Minor Seconds, performed in a call and response pattern. This cue thus amalgamates aspects from each of the previously heard cues: the Lydian motif; the Minor Second motif; Alternating Fourths; the Polyphonic Melodic run; the Heartbeat bass; and the acoustic arpeggios (Figure 25). These overlapping, unconnected motifs again point to the complexity of Woodward and Bernstein’s investigation and mirrors their confusion as they exasperatedly discuss the case and argue about the best way to progress.
It simultaneously suggests that the case is beginning to fit together; while the motifs were previously not placed together, here they have been combined in a way that, to the reporters, finally seems to make sense. The progress suggested by this successful combination is further alluded to by the electric piano’s Lydian motif. Instead of repeating its four-note motif with no climax, bar 6 of Figure 25 sees the motif transposed up an octave to B4, finally seeming to break its endless cycle and progress from its previous pitch.
The organic instrumentation of the acoustic guitar, electric bass and French horns is contrasted with the other-worldly atmosphere of the electric piano. Such a combination is not novel and can be heard in countless other films. Yet the contrasting timbres contributes to a sense of confusion. Donnelly discusses a similar combination of electronic and organic in his examination of The Fog. “The mix of timbres," he writes, “has the ethereal synthesizer representing the unknown counterposed with the organic sound of the piano that marks the familiar.”(Donnelly 2010, 156) As I have conceded above, these two films function within different genres and The Fog was released four years after President’s Men. And yet, both films use their scores to create tense and discomforting atmospheres. Donnelly’s analysis can then be transposed onto President’s Men, as it too presents the spectator with “familiar" organic instruments in contrast to the “unknown," ghostly timbre of the electric piano. Just as it supposedly does in The Fog, in President’s Men this unfamiliarity comes to signify the unknown, the truth that the reporters are searching for to make sense of their investigation.
This is the largest ensemble heard in the entire score, with five instruments and five overlapping motifs. It is the centrepiece of the score, and accompanies one of the most cinematic shots of the film as a crane shot pulls away from the reporters in Woodward’s car to look over the city. The reporters’ voices continue as the camera seems to float over Washington D.C., much like in the shot accompanying “Library of Congress,” reinforcing their isolation against, seemingly, the entire power of the Nixon presidency.
While the conclusion of the CREEP Suite suggested progress is finally being made, the next cue presents a much less certain grounding (01:35:25). This is clearly heard in the lead melody played by the contrabassoon, which performs the slower version of the Perfect Fourth motif, labelled F2 in Figure 9. The slower, steadier version of this motif suggests a shift to a more methodical and efficient effort on the part of the reporters, much as the acoustic guitar arpeggio from “CREEP Sequence IV." It mirrors the dialogue between the reporters as they examine the evidence they have uncovered related to a new witness, Donald Segretti, and his connection to Watergate. This forces them to rethink the case and the assumptions they had previously made:
Bernstein: If the break in was just one incident in a campaign to sabotage that began a whole year before Watergate-
Woodward: Then for the first time the break in makes sense.
Bernstein: This isn’t so crazy. This whole thing didn’t begin with the bugging of the headquarters.
The cue ends abruptly as Bernstein knocks on Segretti’s door to interview him.
The ominous, paranoid atmosphere that is pervasive through President’s Men, and mirrors the general sense of distrust that was rife during the decade, is most explicit in the score as Woodward makes his way home from another meeting with Deep Throat (01:42:55). This cue enters after their meeting is cut short when they are startled by nearby a car starting its engine. The camera cuts to see the car driving away before cutting back to Woodward, watching the car over his shoulder before turning back to Deep Throat, only to realise that he has vanished. A cut to a wide shot reveals that Woodward is standing alone in the car park. The cue begins when Woodward begins to leave.
Unlike previous cues, this cue features very little melodic movement, instead consistently entirely of low, sustained drones played by piano, acoustic guitar, electric bass guitar, electric piano and a cello. Each instrument simply plays a low C, sustained over multiple bars. These pedals heighten the tense atmosphere and echoes Woodward’s paranoia as he makes his way home, convinced that he is being followed. The electric piano then introduces the Sustained Ascending Electric Piano motifs, H1 and H2 in Figure 9.
As with the previous use of the electric piano, the sequence is imbued with a mystical, dream-like timbre from the electric piano’s tremolo, adding a surreal quality to the scene. As if in response to the music and its sinister atmosphere, Woodward hurries his pace, fearing that he is being followed. Once the piano completes its eight-note sequence, we are left with just the droning bass instruments and an intermittent Heartbeat bass line. This minimal instrumentation, along with Woodward’s footsteps on the pavement, highlighting his isolation in this potentially dangerous situation. The music swells to a crescendo, increasing the scene’s intensity until it stops abruptly as Woodward spins around, expecting to see his pursuer, only to realise that there is nobody there. It is perhaps in this cue that the psychological effects of the music are most keenly felt, as the music’s consistent drones and ultimate crescendo reflects Woodward’s increased paranoia and belief that he is being stalked. The dreamy quality of the electric piano is thereby retroactively imbued with an additional meaning: it begins to represent Woodward’s imagination running away with him as he realises that, in this instance at least, his paranoia was unnecessary.
Shire’s used of repetition, low drones, and unfamiliar timbres is most at play in this brief cue, and each of these aspects combine to create a disturbing sense of discomfort. In evoking this sense, Shire draws upon the audience’s assumed cineliteracy to make them except a jump scare following the cue’s crescendo. However, when he turns around, it becomes apparent that both Woodward and the audiences’ paranoia was misplaced. This acts to heighten the audience’s sense of confusion and lack of security as the villain that haunts both the film and the nation’s psyche is absent while seemingly omnipresent.
Woodward again returns to Deep Throat soon after this sequence. The next cue is introduced as he rushes to the usual car park, having fallen asleep and almost missed the appointment (02:00:38). This cue begins just as “Paranoia Walk” does, with repeated, sustained bass tones. Woodward leaves his apartment and finds a taxi but, before he can get in, he notices a car pulling up in front of him (Figure 26). The electric piano returns as Woodward watches this second car park near him, introducing the Frenzied Piano motif.
The rapid tempo and high pitch of this motif reflects Woodward’s manic rush to get to his meeting with Deep Throat in time. Further, as I noted above, this Frenzied motif mirrors scoring practices heard in horror films both before and after President’s Men’s release. The cue therefore draws upon established generic tropes to create a sense of dread, anxiety, and fear, appropriate for the paranoia that Woodward and the spectator felt during this period. The horror in this instance is not just the threat to Woodward’s safety, but the threat to his personal freedoms which the unseen governmental forces are apparently seeking to curtail. In pursuing the story, Woodward is thus risking elements fundamental to his American identity, and the music reinforces the tragedy of this situation.
Woodward gets into the taxi and they drive away as the French horn’s Ascending Minor Second motif returns. As the taxi drives away from the camera, the shot lingers on the parked car which does not move, highlighting Woodward’s misplaced paranoia; while he perceives threats at almost every turn, he never directly faces one. The Minor Second motif is succeeded by the Hunting Fanfare which again alludes to the simultaneous notion of the reporters hunting the story while being hunted themselves. At this point in the film Woodward and Bernstein are coming close to finally uncovering the full story, and, as a result, the sense of paranoia is at its highest. This increases the tension and the stakes of “the hunt." When combined with the Frenzied Piano’s association with horror scoring and the threat to the reporters that this represents, the suggestion here is that the reporters are the hunted, rather than the hunters.
As the targets of the government’s hunt, Woodward and Bernstein’s patriarchal, individualistic American identity is under threat. Throughout the film, these attributes have allowed the reporters to successfully pursue the Watergate story. They have also, however, led them to uniquely dangerous situations, with the government supposedly attempting to suppress these rights. The score tells us that self-sufficient, individualist, patriarchal freedom is such a fundamental aspect to the American identity that any threat to it is tantamount to the sort routinely seen in the horror genre.
The cue is brought to a gradual end with the electric piano stopping its arpeggio before concluding with the Sustained Ascending motif. This cue deviates from the previous use of this motif, heard in “To Deep Throat," as it does not feature the corresponding, alternative motif, labelled H2 in Figure 9. Rather than an entirely ascending pattern, the alternative iteration of this motif includes a descending minor sixth between the second and third notes. By foregoing this descending interval, the motif here evokes a more optimistic ambience through its use of large intervallic ascents. The slightly more uplifting tonality of the ascending motif contrasts the ominous nature of the Frenzied Piano and the Hunting Fanfare by alluding to how close the reporters are to completing their goal and uncovering the truth.
During Woodward and Deep Throat’s meeting, there is evident tension between the two men as the reporters had recently written an incorrect account of Hugh Sloan’s testimony to a Grand Jury. Sloan, they wrote, implicated Nixon’s Chief of Staff H.R. Haldeman with the Watergate scandal. This error, Deep Throat claims, “put the investigation back months." Frustrated with Deep Throat’s cryptic clues about the truth of the scandal, Woodward insists that he share the full story. After a long pause, Deep Throat concedes and discloses what he knows and, for the first time, Woodward realises the scale of the scandal:
It involves the entire US intelligence community. FBI, CIA, Justice. It’s incredible. The cover up had little to do with Watergate, it was mainly to protect the covert operations. It leads everywhere. ... Your lives are in danger.
The scene ends with this revelation and the next scene begins with Woodward arriving at Bernstein’s apartment where he shares what he just learnt. They both then go to Washington Post editor, Ben Bradlee’s, house to tell him directly what they have both discovered.
The final cue is heard at the end of this scene, where the reporters speak to Bradlee in front of his house in the middle of the night. The reporters here lay out all they have learnt about the full scale of the scandal, while Bradlee counters by explaining the pressure they are under since the mistake they made regarding Haldeman. He then sarcastically details the stakes of the investigation: “Nothing’s riding on this except the first amendment to the Constitution, freedom of the press, and maybe the future of the country."(The first amendment of the USA’s Constitution declares that “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances." “Constitution of the United States: First Amendment. Constitution Annotated” n.d.)
The camera cuts to a wide shot of the three men following Bradlee’s monologue, as if they are being watched from across the street. After several seconds, the reporters walk away and a bass pedal opens the cue before it is joined by a bass clarinet performing a slow-tempo version of the Perfect Fourth motif. Following Bradlee’s mention of the USA’s constitution, the patriotic allusion of this motif, through its Coplandesque repetition of the perfect fourth intervals, is far more overt. The motif therefore restates the reporters’ embodiment of Turner’s American identity. The motif’s mode-preserved transpositions are mirrored in the cello’s pedal bass, providing a perfectly consonant accompaniment. The contrabassoon deviates from its motif, however, with a four-note passage (bars 5-6 in Figure 27). Again, this motif remains fully diatonic.
As the contrabassoon concludes its motif on a sustained C, the piano plays the Lydian motif for a single ascending run, ending on the root A. Although this is the sixth cue that this motif is heard in, this instance provides a substantial, if subtle, difference: while the motif’s augmented fourth adds a layer of non-diatonicism to the other cues that it is heard in, the augmented fourth in this case is a G, the major seventh of the A major scale. As such, this motif, while still functioning within the D Lydian mode, is entirely diatonic within the key of A major. This removes the sense of dissonance that it had created in its previous cues, and therefore reduces the sense of discomfort that it generated. Furthermore, as it is performed just once before sustaining its final note, the motif seems to finally have reached its climax which, in this case, is the cue’s tonal centre. This provides the spectator with a delayed sense of resolution to the previously tonally ambiguous and ominous motif, mirroring the reporters’ sense of accomplishment.
The scene ends with an abrupt cut to the interior of the newsroom. The darkness of the reporters’ late-night meeting with Bradlee – wherein they discuss the government’s sinister machinations – is sharply contrasted with the office’s harsh fluorescent lighting. Woodward and Bernstein are barely visible at their desks in the middle distance, while the sound of their typewriters are foregrounded in the sound mix, competing for prominence with the contrabassoon’s Perfect Fourths.
After the Lydian motif is performed, the cue slowly fades out in sync with a dissolve to a much busier office. A television is placed on a desk and a group can be seen watched another screen, out of shot, showing Richard Nixon’s 1973 inauguration. The camera slowly begins to zoom in, not on the television screen, at it initially seems, but on Woodward and Bernstein who remain in the centre of the shot throughout the sequence (Figure 28). I discussed the significance of the constant sound of the typewriters above, but it is important to restate how they fully replace the score, signifying the reporters’ focus on uncovering the scandal as they continue working, almost oblivious to the historic occasion unfolding on the television screens surrounding them.
The Coplandesque Perfect Fourth motif, accompanying the image of the reporters, unconcerned with the inauguration’s pageantry, calls to mind Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man," which I discussed above in relation to Shire’s Hunting Fanfare. An allusion to Copland’s piece seems appropriate, given its original intention as a means to elicit patriotic fervour, and the image and sound of Richard Nixon’s inauguration that enters as soon as the cue fades out. The use of the motif here, taken with its representation of the American identity, could be read as an uncritical and apposite accompaniment to the patriotic signing in of a new president. The allusion to Copland’s “Fanfare," preceding archival footage of Nixon’s inauguration reflects real-world events, as this piece was performed at an inaugural concert on 19th January 1973, the day before the inauguration ceremony.(Michael Chikinda has noted that before “Fanfare for the Common Man" was confirmed to be performed, organisers considered a performance of another Copland piece, “Lincoln Portrait." However, this other piece was rejected, likely due, Chikinda argues, to the piece’s recitation of a portion of President Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address in which he lamented the number of casualties in the American Civil War. Given that the Vietnam War was still ongoing, Chikinda writes that Lincoln’s speech possibly “touched a nerve." Chikinda 2018, 7–8) This performance of “Fanfare" highlights the symbolic relationship between Copland’s piece and the ultimate representation of the American figure. However, the allusion to the American identity becomes loaded with irony considering everything that Woodward and Bernstein uncover that will ultimately lead to President Nixon’s resignation. Instead of a complementary accompaniment to the celebration of the president, the celebratory American identity is not attributed to the presidential administration but to the two reporters who have worked diligently and proven their worth as individualistic, patriarchal American heroes.
As we have seen through this analysis of each of President’s Men’s cues, tonal ambiguity is a fundamental aspects of the score. Shire use of modes to create a lack of stable diatonicism denies the spectator a familiar and comforting sense of consonance, and reflects the paranoia and lack of security that was endemic in the United States at this time. Although each of the cues recycle the same few motifs laid out in Figure 9, there is rarely a definitive suggestion of a diatonic centre, until the final cue “Bradlee Lawn." This diatonic to the soundtrack reflects the reporters’ ultimate success in their task, and suggests that the film has reached a satisfactory narrative ending. The film’s ideology is therefore revealed, as it celebrates Woodward and Bernstein’s efforts to hold corrupt power to account, with the allusions to such quintessentially American figures as Aaron Copland making clear that this duty characterises them as Great American Heroes.
The diegetic soundtrack likewise functions to demonstrate the film’s political themes, with the typewriters most noticeable in doing this. The conscious decision to not depict many of the president’s men onscreen is likewise thematically significant, since they are kept acousmatic. Since this means they retain their God-like powers, detailed by Chion, their malevolence is strongly suggested and the reporters’ tasks is made even greater as they face off against a seemingly omnipotent, ubiquitous enemy.
Woodward and Bernstein’s deacousmatisation, on the other hand, firmly grounds them within a knowable and realist world, making them more relatable and also highlighting them as the film’s protagonists. And yet, their ability to manipulate their own voices aligns them with Turner’s image of American identity, as they use their voice to assert their entrepreneurial acumen, patriarchal dominance, and individualism. The film’s relative conservatism with regards to this depiction of Americanism is, however, undermined with the revelation of Bernstein’s affection for Vivaldi. This questions his strict adherence to Turner’s anti-European brand of Americanism. Nevertheless, he is not suggested as weaker than Woodward for this aspect of his character, and he ultimately achieves his objectives in large part due to his assertion of his American characteristics.
We can understand Shire’s score, and the diegetic soundtrack as a whole, as mirror to the nation’s sense of paranoia and discomfort. More importantly, though, it reflects a Turneresque ideal of American identity while refusing to accept the entirety of his thesis. As such, the President’s Men follows conventions of paranoid thrillers – by reflecting contemporary unease, and critiquing certain notions of Americanism – while maintaining a largely conservative ideology in its ultimate celebration of individualist, patriarchal heroes.
Despite the filmmakers’ attempts to convey a sense of realism and docudrama throughout the film, this plotline appears to have been invented to heightened the narrative drama.↩︎
Although it is the second cue heard in the CREEP Suite, I cite this cue as III following the naming convention on the soundtrack album.↩︎
Similar to “CREEP Sequence III," this cue is titled IV, despite being the third cue heard in the suite, following the naming convention on the soundtrack album.↩︎