The Death and Resurrection Of The Overture

My wife and I love Star Trek.
  We have for a long time, in our separate lives, and it was strangely a new discovery for the both of us as we were surfing the Netflix and Prime catalogues seeking to scratch that interstellar itch.  
  She began expositing on the 2009 reboot, which we were searching for, but unwilling to pay for at the time, and I chimed in on my love for Star Trek: Generations, despite how "meh" it's aged over the years.  My favorite of the TNG run was always First Contact (#8 in the classic run, and #2 with the TNG crew), but I was quite pleased with the 2009 reboot.  
  And so...we seem to be working through a bunch of Star Trek films, rewatching old loves of cinema, and poking fun at them through a modern lens.  Some stack up better than others, standing the test of time through snappy writing, strong dialogue, and some kick-ass music.  In fact, that's something the 2009 Star Trek had going for it, more so than many other films that came out at the same time.  
  It felt like something familiar and nostalgic, despite its shiny lens-flaring new model.  This effect, for those of us listening intently, was no accident.  Composer Michael Giacchinno sculpted the entire soundtrack as a rising action and resolution into the original TV series theme by Alexander Courage.  And the theme is heard all over the place!  If one isn't careful, one might assume it's being beaten over your head, but it never feels that way.  Giacchino skillfully explores the musical theme in various styles to fit the action and setting; sometimes its reverent chordal structures, other times bombastic horns and strings, sometimes just a haunting choir.  It is masterfully done.
  And this immersive element, coupled with great cinematography, wonderful sound design, strong characters, and excellent story beats...makes you happily overlook the moments in the story where the YouTube-critic in us all would nit-pick the hell out of it.  Yes, why wasn't Vulcan already evacuating?  Yeah, how the heck does Earth not have ships or planetary defenses engaging Nero?  Why do the Romulans look so weird?
  Still.  I'm down to watch it again, and I've listened to its musical score hundreds of times.  

Which got me thinking.

Film was, for many, the natural evolution of the theater.  And the theater was our first great lesson in IMMERSION.

Imagine, for a moment, entering a theater with a stage that protrudes into the audience.  You settle into your seats and talk amongst yourselves, perusing the program that has just been handed to you.  On its front, in brilliant stylized lettering, you find the words, "The Phantom Of The Opera".  Scanning the cast, you find familiar names, and new ones; some leads, some barely mentioned - perhaps you skip to the back and read up on a few.  Somewhere under the stage, in a pit below, an errant violin tunes its strings, poised to play; you listen a moment longer before turning back to the program in your lap.  Beyond the title, you are presented with an act structure, and, if it's a musical, the song order and who sings it.  You are given the entire story's structure, framing, and resolution in a tight little package at the onset - yet there's still such an electricity in the air.  This is a LIVE performance.
  The lights dim, and two actors take the stage as the curtain slowly rises, revealing a destroyed and dilapidated set.  A fallen chandelier rests in the center of the stage, rubble and ruin surrounding it.  The two actors, well-dressed businessmen, discuss an upcoming auction and of the terrible accident that ended this theater's life.  The two actors leave as the room grows darker, all eyes on the chandelier.  A chill wind rolls across the stage, distant thunder booming somewhere outside.  And then, you hear it. 

Wind swirls around the rubble, the rocks and stone moving and shifting back into place.  Lanterns and torchlight flicker to life surrounding the stage, a brilliance returning to the space.  And then, the chandelier...RISES, as light flows across its crystalline visage.  The stage turns back in time, drawing you in to the time before, transporting you to this story.  The music, the visuals, the sounds, the smells, everything draws you to this singular moment.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what they call an Overture.

The Death Of The Overture

  An Overture is not unheard of in film.  In fact, under the synonym "Opening Titles", was utilized by a multitude of film, especially those in the 90s.  It was a clear and effective way to draw in your audience.
  The first, and probably most iconic, overture that springs to mind...is Superman.

And who better to usher in the 1978 classic than the immortal John Williams.  The guy is a masterclass in the Overture.
  But what is the musical purpose of an Overture?
Well, in a stage production, it would fall into one of two categories: A Medley -  showing off segments of all of the musical cues and leitmotifs you're about to experience in broader forms; or an Opening Number - a lead-in to the first big showstopping number.  In film...that still happens.  Star Wars is a great example of the "Opening Number" - we get the iconic theme, the text crawl, and we're into the opening scene and off running.  Here, though, we are instead treated to a Medley of sorts; an extended version of the hero's theme with elements intertwined that highlight other cues in the film.
  Two others fall into this framework.  One, more like Superman, with a reverence and patience to its Overture, and the other with a sharp cue that pulls us directly into the opening scene, and both have beautifully stood the test of time in my memory.  Let me share them with you.

Listening to these again, even after all this time, is truly an arresting experience.  It quiets me.  Reminds me of the sheer power and beauty of the aesthetic.  Just shut up and LISTEN to that.  Put your damn phone down, and listen; be drawn into this world.
  And this wasn't a rare thing.  I'm not that old, and yet I've watched this trend evolve, change, and steadily die.  Films nowadays hold little reverence for their music, despite soundtracks being lauded.  Musicians are given little time to construct a great score, and I wonder sometimes what it must be like in this modern age of speed and satisfaction to know that your audience can't seem to give you the time of day for the next few minutes so you can flex something beautiful.

And yet, we still crave it.  I wonder if this immersive novelty is one of many reasons that has ensnared me with the art of cooperative storytelling.  Why so many of my campaigns have evolved to support and explore deep social, emotional encounters as opposed to fast action.  How so many crave the rich lore that surrounds them and beg for just another moment inside their imaginary world.

The Overture At The Table

We as gamers and masters draw each other into our collective imaginations; it is no small part of what makes this powerful hobby so rewarding.  To join together in collective reverence and immersion, all in pursuit of creating a more satisfying and rewarding experience, is one of the greatest feats a table can achieve.  
  But that respect for each other, and your game master, is paramount.  
We can set up a practiced intro crawl, different voices to set the mood, cool music to set the tone, but we need the PLAYERS to come along for the journey.  And if you are a player that struggles with this; if you find yourself bored or distracted, itching for that phone or that desktop or that next round of Fall Guys...I challenge you to slow down.
I challenge you:

Walk into that theater.  Sit down.  Allow yourself to be drawn slowly into something magical.  And when that first cue hits, ride it all the way down the rabbit hole.  You might be surprised what you'll find when you allow yourself to really feel something special. 

Now pick up your sword and your favorite Drink Me.  The musicians are tuning their instruments...the show's about to start.
See you at the table.
-Adamus


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PS: One more for the road.  ;)