Preludes & Invocations
"Ghosts of the Future . . . Will you not enter this place?"
The most immediate difference between the play and the film is the
beginnings. The movie opens on a dark, snowy evening. Into the chill night air
we hear a tormented cry: "Mozart!! Forgive your assassin!!!" We then
see two servants going up their master's quarters. They hear a terrible cry and
burst in to be assaulted by the sight of Antonio Salieri, collapsed on the floor clutching
his throat, which he has just slashed. The opening credits roll as people rush to
save Salieri, carting him off to an asylum to the urgent strains of Mozart's Symphony 25
in G minor. Such an opening is certainly engaging--after all, we want to know what
could have driven this man to suicide. But that act that intrigues us also
distances us from Salieri. Judeo-Christian culture has fairly strong cultural
and religious taboos against suicide; consequently, no matter how engaging he seems in the
flashback portion of the play, it is difficult for us to put aside the fact that in our
first glimpse of this person he has, in essence, renounced his humanity.
Of course, we will discover soon enough that he renounced his humanity long before he attempted to kill himself.
The play takes a much more interesting--and utterly unfilmable--approach. Over a darkened stage we hear the whispers of gossipmongers talking about how Salieri is accusing himself of killing Mozart. We then see Salieri himself, old, withered, in a wheelchair.
And then Salieri speaks to us. "I salute you! Ghosts of the future! Antonio Salieri, at you service." From 1823, Salieri addresses us directly--his posterity. Characters addressing the audience-breaking the fourth wall-is hardly a novel idea. It is a time-honored dramatic device that goes back at least as far as Francis Beaumont's The Knight of the Burning Pestle (ca.1610; the play has, among other things, the first documented appearance of the old arrow-through-the-head gag). What makes Shaffer's approach here so affecting the that Salieri doesn't just address us; he tries to address us with mere words, but it doesn't work.
What must I do to make you visible? Raise you up in the flesh to be my last, last audience? . . . Does it take an Invocation? That's how it's always done in opera! Ah yes, of course: That's it. An Invocation. The only way. Let me try to conjure you now--Ghosts of the distant Future--so I can see you.
And so he invokes us, using a pseudo-magical invocation just like those used in the very operas that he wrote and watched.
Ghosts of the Future!
Shades of Time to Come!
So much more unavoidable than those of time gone by!
Appear with what sympathy incarnation may endow you!
Appear you:
The yet to be born!
The yet to hate!
The yet to kill!
Appear . . .posterity!
And as he invokes us, the house lights slowly come up, bringing Salieri and his invoked audience to the same level, allowing him to speak to us directly for the duration of the play.
This invocation sequence almost literally brings us into Salieri's world, and goes a long way towards establishing a strong rapport between Salieri and us. But the sequence would simply not work on the screen. Simply on a technical level, one couldn't bring up the house lights in the theater without washing out the screen image. Even if it were possible, film simply isn't as interactive a medium as the stage. Shaffer comes up with an effective alternative--if he cannot bring the audience to Salieri, then he will offer the audience a surrogate--the priest. The priest has the same burning question we do: Why did he try to kill himself? And the priest's reaction both mirrors and shapes our own reaction to Salieri (more on this later).
But at the same time, the very nature of the priest prevents him from effectively fulfilling his dramatic function. Because he is a priest--and because we know why he is attending Salieri--it is all the more difficult for us to forget what Salieri has done. And as the priest assures Salieri that "I can offer you God's forgiveness," we are again reminded of Salieri's violent act of renunciation. (NB: It doesn't matter that the opening scenes of the play suggests that Salieri intends to killing himself; there is a big difference between thought and deed.)
As effective as the priest is as an audience surrogate on many levels, ultimately though, he does not succeed in allowing the audience to form an initial identification with Salieri. And that, in my mind represents where the movie falls short of the play. Please don't get me wrong--Amadeus remains one of my all time favorite movies. And in many respects the lush trappings of the movie compensate somewhat to help bring us into Salieri's world, both literally and mentally. But, after reading the original play, I'm forced to conclude that the movie, to a degree, stumbles out of the gate.