Pasolini’s Cinematic Music and the Challenge of Film Theory
Pasolini’s cinematic union of music and image
The Italian director Pier Paolo Pasolini imagined himself as someone who longed to be a “writer of music.” This poetic self-image reveals a deep connection with music that permeates his entire body of work. In his novels, Pasolini frequently references popular music. In his poetry, he gives weight to soundscapes, interpreting birdsong and cricket concerts as musical expressions of nature. Within his films, music plays an undeniably central role.
Pasolini’s screenplays often contain precise instructions about musical choices, showing that from the earliest stages of production he conceived his films with specific sonic ideas in mind. For Pasolini, music cannot be subordinate to cinema, nor cinema to music. Both are artistic forms that use nonverbal language, communicating and affecting human perception in distinct ways. As a result, music and images work together symbiotically in his cinematographic work to produce a complete artistic statement.
Across his films, Pasolini drew on a vast repertoire: pre-existing scores that evoke different cultural and social traditions, popular music, and classical works. He sometimes commissioned original compositions, as he did with Ennio Morricone for certain soundtracks. His selections range from Vivaldi, Bach, and Prokofiev to Morricone’s original scores, making an impression on even the most casual viewer through their expressive power. Pasolini regarded music as more than mere background accompaniment and more than a simple counterpoint to the image. He also valued silence as an auditory element that infuses dramatic scenes with significance, sharpening the spectator’s ability to penetrate the images.
Several questions arise from Pasolini’s approach. How does his cinema achieve a unified creation from different, dynamically inter-playing media while offering such a synthetic experience? What role does film music play in this interplay? Could it be called didactic, conceived with the intention of commenting and highlighting? Or does it tell a story of its own? Finally, can Pasolini’s use of music be framed within any existing film music theory? Answering these questions is not straightforward, because his idea of film music refuses to be pinned down. His eclectic filming style, his conception of cinema as a “written language of reality,” and his idea of a “cinema of poetry” all make it nearly impossible to restrict his musical choices to a single theoretical framework.
Scholars have struggled to locate Pasolini’s cinematic oeuvre theoretically. He is simply too contradictory, too diverse, too eclectic to be defined by or confined within theoretical limits. To demonstrate his noncompliance with rigid theory, this analysis uses Claudia Gorbman’s film music theory as a basis for comparison, while also referencing psychoanalytic theories from Didier Anzieu, Guy Rosolato, and Michel Chion. Three of Pasolini’s films are examined: Accattone (1961), La ricotta (an episode of RoGoPaG, 1963), and Oedipus Rex (1968). These works, chosen of many, strongly represent different stages of his career and help trace his evolving approach to film music.
INAUDIBILITY AND PSYCHOANALYTIC THEORIES OF FILM MUSIC
Critical theory has generated numerous questions about the role of film music in narrative. How does the spectator receive it? Does the viewer hear it and process its meaning within the general context of the film? Claudia Gorbman argues that the spectator does not consciously hear the film score, which remains invisible and inaudible. The viewer, focused on the narrative, is not supposed to be aware of the score’s presence. Gorbman writes that “the classical narrative sound film has been constituted in such a way that the spectator does not normally (consciously) hear the film’s score.” The score thus escapes perceptual awareness.
Gorbman does speak, however, of a “psychic payoff” of film music, a form of pleasure or gratification the viewer experiences during listening. She compares this to the way easy-listening music in dentist waiting rooms and shopping malls creates an “untroublesocial subject” more inclined to relax or spend money. Film music, she suggests, “lowers thresholds of beliefs,” and that is why it “has continued to be indispensable even to realist narrative cinema.” In developing this concept of inaudibility, Gorbman draws on psychoanalytic theories. She acknowledges the work of Lacanian psychoanalysts Guy Rosolato and Didier Anzieu. According to their studies, sounds that exist before birth—the mother’s heartbeat, voice, digestion—create what Anzieu calls the “sonorous envelope,” a psychic space in which the infant exists “bathed in sounds.” Rosolato argues that auditory imagery is formed through constant contact with the mother’s voice during the child’s development before and after entering the symbolic stage. He suggests that the pleasure of music amounts to nostalgia for the fusion with the mother’s body.
Applied to film music, this framework suggests that experiencing the musical score becomes a psychological suture process, making the spectator regress to a pre-Oedipal condition, binding them to the narrative, and helping them slip into the cinematic experience.
A particularly interesting aspect of Gorbman’s theory is her rejection of the binary opposition “parallelism/counterpoint.” Most film scholars, Gorbman claims, limit the music-narrative relationship to this pairing, as shown in the positions of Eisenstein, Pudowkin, and Alexandrow. Instead, she proposes “mutual implication,” where music and image have an alternating effect on one another. Katherin Kalinak further explores this idea: “The music is not reinforcing the suspense of the scene; it is part of the process that creates it.” Kalinak adds that calling music complementary to the image is a linguistic problem. She writes: “While it is relatively easy to discard the concept of parallelism and counterpoint, it is much more difficult to abandon terminology that sustains attendant assumptions about the transcendence of the image and the dependence of the music in relation to it.”
The idea of mutual implication can often be recognized in Pasolini’s use of music, which does not merely comment on images but integrates with them interactively. Yet Pasolini also employs music as a dramaturgic counterpoint to emphasize or contrast events on screen, functioning as “a subordinate component,” as the director himself stated. This example underscores his contradictory attitude, making it impossible to confine him to any single theory. In Oedipus Rex, for instance, Pasolini’s musical selections seem to follow a symbolic path. But what about the pleasurable experience? In most cases, the spectator’s auditory experience in Pasolini’s cinema is meant to communicate uneasiness rather than pleasure. And what about the concept of “unheard melodies”? Are they truly “unheard,” or does the music instead stimulate spectators’ awareness, provoking cognitive responses?
ACCATTONE: BACH ELEVATES THE SUB-PROLETARIAT TO THE SACRED
Pasolini’s first feature-length film, Accattone (1961), tells the story of a pimp who lives without scruples and finds ultimate redemption only in death. The director blends classical and popular music, drawing on Bach’s St. Matthew Passion and Brandenburg Concertos. In an interview after the film’s release, Pasolini explained:
“Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, at the moment of the brawl in Accattone, first of all takes on an aesthetic function. There is a kind of contamination between the ugliness, the violence of the situation, and the musical sublime. It is the amalgam (the magma) of the sublime and the comic that Auerbach speaks of. […] The music fulfills, as I said, an aesthetic function, even an ‘aestheticizing’ one, but at the same time it has a didactic function. For example, in the brawl scene, the music addresses the spectator and warns him, makes him understand that he is not facing a neorealist-style, folkloric fight, but rather an epic struggle that flows into the sacred, into the religious.”
This statement aligns with Gorbman’s observation that “film music, in tandem with the visual film narrative, can trigger a response of epic feelings. It elevates the individuality of the represented character to universal significance, makes them bigger than life, suggests transcendence, destiny.” Following this logic, Pasolini’s extensive use of Bach in Accattone raises the sub-proletariat into the realm of the sacred. By communicating to the spectator through music’s sacredness, Pasolini transforms a vulgar fight into a transcendental act that overcomes its own limits.
Alessandro Cadoni links this to Paul Schrader’s concept of transcendental style. According to Schrader, filmmakers such as Ozu and Bresson represent the Transcendent through a form of despecularization, opposing classical cinema’s use of special effects. Pasolini uses a similar technique by juxtaposing miserable, poor daily life with sublime music. The director not only makes a specific statement but also communicates it openly to the spectator. While Gorbman’s idea that music can trigger epic feelings fits Pasolini’s approach in Accattone, her corresponding notion of music’s inaudibility does not.
How can the spectator become aware of a scene’s sacredness or be scandalized by Pasolini’s choice of Bach during a violent scene if they do not hear the music consciously? Pasolini’s music choices generated discussions precisely because they demanded the listener’s attention. The concept of “unheard melodies” does not convincingly apply to Pasolini, who explicitly intends the spectator to play an active, aware role. When Pasolini states, “the music addresses itself to the spectator and warns him, makes him understand that he is not facing a neorealist-style fight,” it is clear he wants the music to be heard through an aware process of cognition, not unconsciously.
Pasolini sometimes seems to contradict himself regarding his musical selections. Despite his statements about Bach’s role, in another interview he described the choice as completely irrational:
“Because even before thinking of Accattone, when I thought generically of making a film, I thought I could only comment on it with Bach’s music; partly because he is the author I love most; and partly because for me Bach’s music is music itself, music in the absolute. When I thought of a musical comment, I always thought of Bach, irrationally, and so I maintained, somewhat irrationally, this initial predilection.”
These statements may seem contradictory, but there is internal coherence. On the one hand, Pasolini justifies his musical choices through cultural, autobiographical, and irrational motivations, making their overall impact on the film’s structure seem minimal. On the other, the powerful effect of those choices — such as elevating a vulgar street fight to something sacred through Bach — demands thoughtful spectatorship and analytical awareness. Pasolini’s relationship with film music remains uniquely his: layered, paradoxical, and resistant to theoretical confinement. His cinema instead invites repeated engagement, each viewing capable of uncovering new cues inspired by his dialogue with sound.
Contrappunto drammaturgico nella Ricotta
Pasolini utilizza un richiamo diretto alla tensione senza musica nell'impalcatura narrativa del film nel film, enfatizzando così le differenze di classe attraverso un contrasto netto.
Applicazione verticale e orizzontale nella pratica musicale pasoliniana
Il concetto pasoliniano di applicazione musicale emerge dalla sua esperienza concreta di regista. La distinzione tra applicazione orizzontale, che segue le immagini linearmente aggiungendo valori ritmici, e verticale, che attinge alla profondità suggellando il senso delle immagini, parla di una concezione molto sofisticata del rapporto suono-immagine. Pasolini sostiene che il marxismo si esprime anche in questa scelta strutturale, contrapponendo polifonicamente brani differenti al fine di trasformare le immagini da «piatte illusizioni» in «profondità confuse senza confini della vita stessa». In La ricotta, il passaggio improvviso dal twist al canto gregoriano scava una crepa nella superficie dell'immagine che, se analizzata in chiave politica, rivela la disperazione della condizione sottoproletaria.
The use of Twist music together with Verdi’s «Sempre libera» from Traviata not only amplia la distanza sociale fra i personaggi ma costituisce un veicolo per rendere esplicita l’analisi di classe. Pasolini evidenzia, in particolare, il contrasto fra la classe borghese e la classe subalterna attraverso la musica stessa attribuendo alle ballroom dances una funzione sociale disumanizzante.
Le funzioni autonomiche e antagonistiche fra twist e musica sacra
The different use of pieces — the twist up forscenely against Scarlatti's aristocratic Cantata and the Dies Irae emerging sacred against both — belongs to Pasolini's necessity of representing social conflict and ideological contrasts as both states espose with high metaphor.
This music practice made and identified by critics resembles Adorno’s e Eisler’s ideas where sound marks dramatic tensions while keeping clear duality class discussion.
But is also similar to an Eisensteinian vertical montage technique applied musically: voices dimension imagi. In Malleggi and his scholars writing collaboration Pasolini explains vertical horizontal horizontal sequence.
Cenni scrittistiche su conflitti i realta in Teorema
The silent subtext: In questi espei and film dialogue stoles the musical experience ideal also. Both music track containing Mozart, ma un essenziale ruole rich are obvious all levels suggest hether sound from a God-like perspective… with ambient silence loaded politic religiosi role da life condition the dreading perspective total class collaps of former bourgeois status introduced by silence himself guest persona comes destruction threat.
The Musical language of Guest: Bach appears consistently to denote tragic and death tones in Teorema.
This is what Michel Chion calls “emanation speech” — a kind of vague utterance that doesn’t require full comprehension. Pasolini’s lengthy silences and unsettling music in Teorema heighten the characters’ sense of alienation while strengthening the political, social, and religious message conveyed by the images, blending his Marxist convictions with a profound Christian sensibility.
For Teorema, Pasolini drew on music custom-composed by Ennio Morricone — from whom he explicitly requested an abstract piece — as well as Mozart’s Requiem. According to Magaletta, the filmmaker relies heavily on the Requiem, inserting it into the most crucial scenes, while reserving Morricone’s music for the peripheral narrative. Magaletta contends that Pasolini leans toward Mozart’s composition at the expense of Morricone’s because the artist remains tethered to personal musical preferences he cannot abandon. In his analysis of Pasolini’s cinematic use of music, Magaletta enumerates several scenes accompanied by the Requiem to illustrate how central Mozart is to this film. Below I synthesize the most noteworthy details from those scenes: The bedridden father is attended by his daughter Odetta, who sits at his side. The father remains ill in bed, with his daughter still present, when a visitor enters. After the visitor departs, each family member visits him individually to confess their sorrow and emptiness. Odetta falls sick, realizing that her love for her father could not satisfy her need for a complete, fulfilled love. She perceives that everything around her — including herself — is wrong and futile, then sinks into an unshakable catatonic state. Pietro, the son, channels his anger at being unable to express his homosexuality into painting abstract images. The wife, trying to rediscover herself and what she lost when the mysterious visitor abandoned her, pursues young men, having sex with them in a desperate attempt to regain some divine connection. Finally, the father gives away his factory to the workers, strips naked, and runs through the desert, ending with a primal scream.
I disagree with Magaletta’s assertion that the Requiem dominates the musical choices. Instead, I view this film as an ideal demonstration of polyphony among silence, voice, classical music, and abstract scores. Every scene where Pasolini wants to evoke death, futility, and life’s hollowness is underscored by the Requiem, which carries that same meaning through both melody and choral lyrics. In different scenes, Pasolini turns to Morricone’s music, which gives viewers the same disorientation the characters feel. Yet I acknowledge that the sequences where Pasolini uses the Requiem can be readily linked to his own existential encounters, addressing the characters’ inner lives rather than making broader social, religious, or political statements — a point that supports Bertini’s earlier theory.
Notably, Ted Curson’s jazz composition “Tears for Dolphy” — although sorrowful, stands apart from both Mozart’s Requiem and Morricone’s work — becomes the leitmotif for Emilia, the sole character not victimized. Pasolini describes her as exemplifying a complicity between the subproletariat and God. In this case, the music lacks the tragic weight of Mozart, instead attaching itself to the only figure capable of a miracle. As Pasolini remarks: “being the people, she is not entirely cut off from reality.” The film concludes with a “scream of desperation” that, in Pasolini’s words, “is destined to last beyond any possible ending.” Fabio Vighi notes: “the scream…ends and yet does not end the film since it continues after the last shot.”
Considering the films Accattone, La ricotta, and Teorema, along with the remainder of Pasolini’s cinematic body of work, we can see plainly that Claudia Gorbman’s theory of inaudibility does not apply to this director for several reasons. First, Pasolini deliberately communicates through film music at a highly conscious level. Second, when Gorbman — drawing from psychoanalytic concepts — links the movie-music experience to pleasure and gratification, her model clearly fails to capture Pasolini’s practice. From what we’ve examined of his work, the music in his films is far from offering spectators a pleasurable model. On the contrary, Pasolini’s musical choices provoke unease, aiming to create discomfort, a mental and emotional state that forces viewers to confront their own existential, religious, social, and political conflicts. A poetics of pleasure would not serve this end. Jeff Smith argues that film music “is far from being inaudible,” given it is often “noticeable and memorable.” This observation is especially true for Pasolini, whose music demands to be heard and cognitively processed, intended to stir reactions from audiences.
In deploying film music, Pasolini draws on some of the most significant influences in film-music theory. More precisely, he reworks these theories, making them unmistakably his own through a creative patchwork process that yields a frequently indefinable, unclassifiable vision. Despite his internal contradictions and despite lacking formal musical training to support his choices, the value of his artistic contribution to music in cinema is undeniable. Ultimately, Pasolini uses music as yet another language. He “contaminates” this language with others in the spirit of pastiche, doing in cinema what he also does in literature. His statement from Empirismo eretico solidifies his view of languages and metalanguages, including film music: “The non-verbal, then, is nothing other than another verbalità: that of the Language of Reality.” Thus film music becomes another mode of expression — another language the artist wields to communicate, playing with it as he does words, images, colors, and diverse art forms in a creative process that resists any rigid theoretical framework.