CONVERSATION WITH PHILIPPE ROMBI


  composer of Yes, But…




Philippe Rombi in studio (© Franck Gabriel)



What is your educational background in music?
Classical. I was at the Conservatoire National de Région in Marseille. I studied piano, harmony, counterpoint, conducting and chamber music with professors Léa Roussel, Pol Mule and Pierre Barbizet.

What was your very first film soundtrack?
After completing my studies in Marseille, I went to the Ecole Normale Supérieure de Musique in Paris to specialise in composition. I spent two years studying with Antoine Duhamel. At the time—this was back in 1990—we realised the FEMIS film school didn't offer any music courses. We thought it would be a good idea, both for them and for us, to create a link between our separate fields. Up until then, our work was limited to setting old heritage images or documentaries to music. Once Duhamel made the connection, directors in training could come and hear my end of term exam compositions. For example, my Premier Prix de Composition was recorded at FEMIS. And my first soundtrack was written for a FEMIS student, Jean-Yves Philippe, for his short film La Virée.

Wasn't it at FEMIS that you encountered François Kraus, one of the two producers of Yes, But…?
Yes. One day he happened to hear the music I wrote for Chocolat Amer, a short by Isabelle Broué, and he fell in love with it. I then worked on two shorts that François produced, Presse-Citron, also by Isabelle, and Ombres Magiques by Patrice Spadoni.

The fact that you took part in Antoine Duhamel's course proves that you wanted to write music for films.
Totally. It was my dream as a kid. I first wanted to be a classical pianist. I was in love with Chopin, with romantic music. And then one day I discovered the orchestra and realised this is the music I like. Prokofiev, Ravel, Rachmaninov. And then film music too. My older brother—we're 12 years apart—listened to lots of records. I swiped some original soundtracks but I was too young to realise it was film music. I liked what I heard. Stuff by John Williams, Jerry Goldsmith, rich orchestration, gorgeous heart-rending themes. I started composing when I was six. If you can call that composing… I needed to play on the piano whatever consumed me. My family suggested I write down my piano improvisations. My teachers at the conservatory urged me to play what I wrote. And once again, my listeners were the ones who opened my eyes. They'd say "when you play, it evokes this or that, an emotion, my husband, my kids, a landscape, etc." I figured that maybe this is what I was meant to do.

Who are your favourite composers?
That's a tough question. It means choosing. I'd say the ones where I feel something spontaneous. Even if the orchestration is intricately thought out. To start with, the ones that send shivers down my spine. It can be a Chopin concerto, Strauss' Alpine Symphony, Prokofiev, Stravinsky's The Firebird, Ravel's Daphnis and Chloé. This might be in line with film soundtracks, being music that evokes so much. I find John Williams deeply moving in his suggestiveness, and also in his themes, which are rarely ordinary. His orchestration is rich, masterly and inventive. Michel Legrand influenced me a great deal in my student days. I was always playing his themes on the piano. It drove my professors crazy.

How would you define your style? Some have described the waltz of Yes, But… as a bridge between the French school and the Hollywood school.
I like that. I'm utterly opposed to the idea of "this is American music, that's French music, now don't write something American". It gets on my nerves. Claiming that Americans use a certain style of music, a certain orchestral colour, is actually saying that they're the only ones who can do it. Which is stupid because their orchestrations come from Maurice Ravel, Sergei Prokofiev and Claude Debussy. I try to write music from the heart, which is influenced from all that, Williams, Goldsmith, Legrand, Morricone… and from classical music as well. I believe that music has no nationality. I have no preconceptions. I'm not ashamed to write a big romantic love theme, I don't say "it'll sound too bloody American."

Perhaps that explains why you might get an Oscar nomination for the soundtrack of Swimming Pool.
Yes, that's wonderful. I doubt I'll make it to the top five. But it's fantastic just being considered for a soundtrack of a film that was produced in France.

Why did Yves Lavandier turn to you for the soundtrack of his film (cf. Yves Lavandier's comments)? Did you already know him?
No, I didn't know him, nor his book, and I don't think he knew me either. François Kraus is the one who hooked us up. Yves was hesitant about asking me to do the soundtrack of his film since he had in mind another composer with whom he'd already done a short film. I played him my demo that had music from real films like Criminal Lovers as well as music from imaginary films such as a symphonic suite inspired by the adventures of Tintin. He liked it.

How did the collaboration go, in human and artistic terms?
We first got to know each other in a physical sense. Then came the acquaintance stage, breaking each other in, through long Sunday phone calls where we'd discuss all sorts of things, not just music. For a collaboration to work, I think Yves needs to know the people involved as much as what they do. And seeing as I'm the same, the conversations went on and on. One day we met at production to talk about what Yves wanted for his film. He then challenged me with writing the entire soundtrack, including the source music that you hear in the restaurant, the cinema, and at the party. As he loves music and wishes to use it judiciously, he wanted all of the music to make sense. And especially to have one and the same person behind it. He wanted artistic unity. This isn't typical. I've never been asked such a thing by a director. Non original music is usually bought by the gallon. If they need a slow dance piece, they get it from the music bank. Or they uses a famous song. When doing entirely original music, you can use just one style or colour throughout the film, and this is often preferable. Working on Yes, But… was more difficult because it required completely different styles. It isn't so easy to go from an African piece to an emotional scene between Emilie Dequenne and Gérard Jugnot.

You could have turned down the challenge. Did you at least enjoy it?
But of course! I decided to try my luck since I'd enjoyed doing it in short films and when writing pop songs and arrangements. I'd already dabbled at in my small personal lab. But there hadn't been enough time to explore and try out different things, so I couldn't take it further. We had to be fast and it had to be perfect because it does end up immortalised on film and CD. It's not like rough notes you can stash away in your drawer.

Did Yves Lavandier trust you immediately?
No. We had to overcome some issues first. Yves didn't know how I regarded the soundtrack. Was I doing it for fun, for the money, to get attention, out of passion? Was I going to serve the interests of his film or the opposite, use the film for myself? There were one or two turning points and from then on he trusted me, so much so that he even defended me tooth and nail on certain pieces. It was the start of a real complicity.

Do you remember those turning points?
The day I went to his place and played some themes on his piano. Nothing thrilled him and then suddenly two themes moved him to tears. We'd hit on the music for Yes, But….

Which themes?
The waltz and Eglantine's theme that we called "dotted crotchet-quaver" in reference to a piece Yves loves: the second movement of Dvorak's Cello Concerto No. 2.

Was Yves Lavandier very directive or did he let you do as you like?
A little of both. Very directive at first in so many directions, since he likes so many things, it was like he wanted to do ten soundtracks in one. He craves this sort of music collaboration. A film wasn't enough for him. We delved into loads of styles. I got the sense that in any case he'd never be fully satisfied. And why not this too, and why not some of that… For the slow dance piece, we tried out a spectrum of colours until we ended up adapting the film's love theme. And since I didn't want to show up with shoddy samples, I spent a lot of time arranging and orchestrating the test pieces. I think that Yves needed the experience. It was his first collaboration on a feature film, with so much music. I was also less experienced at the time. We both had things to learn. Maybe I overdid it now and again and sometimes Yves over-asked. Yves is someone who really knows music from his gut, he can talk about it emotionally, which is great for me, but he was slightly inexperienced in terms of the image. And what really consumed a lot of energy was the source music.

However the film's third theme, though by no means third in importance since it shows up in the slow dance piece and in the love scene, well this third theme seems to have grown out of the source music.
That's right. It comes from Peplum US. I let go somewhat for this piece. As it was supposed to be music for an imaginary film, there were no barriers, no biases, and what's more no images to illustrate. At a certain point, I wanted it to be gentler since the two main characters are talking about a rendez-vous. So I did what you often find in American films, or in the end credits of epic films, where the romantic theme crops up again after having gone through the works. Then came the idea of letting the cinema music spill over into the next scene, when Eglantine is in her bedroom thinking about her boyfriend. Temps et douceur. That's what triggered it all. As if she were listening to the soundtrack of the film she just saw with her boyfriend. This theme turned out to be effective, sensual and sentimental, like in that kind of film. But at the time we still didn't know it would turn up again in Your lips and L'éveil.

Are your collaborations with directors usually quite similar or does it vary a lot from one director to the other?
It varies a lot. Music is the element that directors master the least. So it often becomes the ugly duckling. All directors have their own complex vis-à-vis the music so they each react accordingly. Some don't want to reveal it, others are so blatant about it that they clam up in front of composers. Others go so far as to ask a consultant to mediate, as if you needed a decoder to translate the director's feelings into musical terms. Some of them even put on other music samples while editing, like they do in the U.S., to illustrate the entire film with pre-existent music. This might be useful, but it can also be disastrous because then you get used to that music.

Does this generate three-way conversations?
Absolutely. It's already happened to me. The director on my left, the consultant on my right, and I'm in the middle. And if the director doesn't manage to fully express what he wants, the consultant jumps in and takes over: "Now what Bob really means is that brass would be more suitable here than strings."

How do you deal with it?
Not very well. Because I like the collaboration as much as the music. I like probing what makes people tick. Their passions, their deep desires. Sometimes there are so many layers to peel off. Directors are artists, like me, so we're in the same family, but sometimes they put on their Sunday suit to meet the composer. But I don't give a damn if they can't talk technique. If a directors tells me it should be bitter-sweet or ambiguous or sensual, that speaks to me more than if he says "I think violin glissandos with a bassoon solo…" That annoys me. It's my job to find a way to translate their wishes. And overly technical terms can lead us off-track. But maybe some directors are scared to lose their ground, scared the composers will take all the credit, impose their style at all costs. Which does happen. Some use cinema to get their own music heard.

What was Yves Lavandier's Sunday suit, his complex for Yes, But…?
I don't remember any particular complex. Yves showed up with his juke-box! I don't know if you can call that a Sunday suit. Rather than explain, he'd prepared a tape filled with music he liked, really different pieces, what a jumble! There was Léo Delibes, Lionel Ritchie, the Beatles, Anton Dvorak, Bourvil, Lou Bega, Armand Frydman and Erik Marchand. Just top-notch stuff, but boy was it unsettling since how do you squeeze all that into one film!… While of course it didn't mean I had to do all that. It was more like saying "this is what I like listening to, what makes up my music world, what I imagine for the film." My aim was nevertheless to compose for the sake of the film and not music that the director listens to at home. It's a real phenomenon with directors sometimes. They confuse the two. Once I turned down a film for that very reason.

Did the different pieces on the tape nevertheless have an underlying colour? Points in common?
Yes. The words that came to mind were "sensuality" and "nostalgia."

A little like what you composed for Yes, But….
That's true. I'll admit that the tape helped me get to know Yves. It somewhat replaced the consultant we were talking about. At least at first.

Did you start out by working on the script of Yes, But….
No. I went to glean emotions and impressions as the film was being shot. I actually enjoyed this immensely. I appreciated being welcome on the set.

Doesn't that always happen?
When it isn't offered, I don't ask. I can understand that a director might not want too many people there, so as not to feel under scrutiny. Especially for a first film. It's like the first time you conduct an orchestra, you don't want your whole family out there. You first want to make sure it goes along fine, then you can call in the gang. Yves, however, invited me on the set. He introduced me to everyone. It's very nice to feel that you're part of a team. Because composers are a breed apart due to the nature of their job. You reach the end pretty much on your own.

Does being on the set also give you a sense of how the film will turn out in terms of the décor, the mood, the acting?
It depends on the film. Sometimes you can weave something just from reading the script. Or when you know the casting. Sometimes, you can't see a thing. You need to see how it'll be acted, directed. Especially for comedy. A lot depends on how it's acted, first or second degree, with or without irony. For Yes, But… I did need to see, especially Gérard Jugnot as I've just seen him act in other comic registers. But to be honest, I'm not always called before the filming starts. It's even rare. I often get called once the film is done!

Yves Lavandier and his editor Dominique Pétrot showed you the film at different stages of the editing, using provisional music. Does this bother you?
It depends. It can be a drag. It can be helpful when there isn't much time. Nowadays when I'm sent a video, I always ask for one version with music and one without. It's true that some passages are hard to watch and even edit without music. So I utterly respect if editors include it. But first time round, I prefer to watch a scene in silence. Otherwise, it's hard to disconnect it from the provisional music.

The provisional music that was used for the love scene was a piano version of Claude Debussy's Clair de lune. Wasn't that hard to match?
Oh yes! Especially since I love that piece. And it had to be Debussy... It's where I come from. Replacing Debussy with inferior music is indeed a scary prospect. But at the same time, I never set out to outdo Debussy. My aim was to write something for the film. That was my strong point.

Supposedly, Clair de lune fit the scene so well that some people wanted to keep it.
Yes, but Yves fought tooth and nail for me. He'd put his trust in me and was convinced I could compose music that would fit even better. And it would have also been a shame to forfeit the idea of doing the entire soundtrack. Especially as this is one of the film's key scenes. When I see a film, I dislike hearing well known music because it distracts me. I start listening to the piece. It might even make me think of another film if it's already been used before. Like Barber's Adagio, which is often used. When I heard it in Platoon I thought of The Elephant Man! It's quite annoying. Or Shostakovich's Waltz in Eyes Wide Shut which immediately brings to mind an insurance ad. Maybe where Kubrick lives they don't have the same ad, but here it sounds weird.

Does it ever occur that through your music you give the director ideas or influence his choices?
Yes, it occurs. In fact, it occurred with Yes, But…. One day I went to the editing room with a short piece (Le chemin de la thérapie) that was supposed to mark the end of a scene, and then found out that Yves and Dominique had eliminated it. Yves nevertheless wanted to hear what I'd composed, out of respect or guilt, I don't know. He liked it so much that he reinstated the last bit of the scene.

Is there anything you are especially proud of, in Yes, But…?
The love scene. In the lectures I give here and there, I notice that everyone is moved by this scene. Me too, each time. I think that with the music, we managed to enhance its emotional dimension, the sense of fulfilment. As a result, it comes across as a love scene and not as a sex scene. In that, music is helpful. We could have written a typical made-for-TV soundtrack with saxophone and company. We could have made the scene vulgar. Instead, the piece has a texture, the piano style is classical and not at all pop or variété, underscoring the scene to let us know it's an important moment. I also like the waltz that sets the tone at the start of the film. I'm happy we didn't use a song. Kids at high school, you put on teenage music and basta. It is overdone and doesn't explain a thing. Here we have a psychological dimension of every character, a sort of human adventure as we called it, that sums up what is about to happen, Eglantine's suffering, her parents. And then it comes back at the end. So there is real consistency, a real construction. I love when the director leaves me room to construct something logical, to develop a concept.

Some of the pieces that were composed for the film were left out of the master soundtrack. How did you react?
Most of them hadn't been planned at first. We'd added lots of humour strokes. And to be honest, I can't say they were indispensable. Moreover, there wasn't a recording budget for these pieces. I'd have been more bitter and disappointed if they'd left out other pieces instead.

An exception, nevertheless, is the Moment de vérité. The blackmail scene on the balcony.
Yes that's right, I'd forgotten. I do regret that. I think there's something not right in the scene, in the music as well. And we didn't manage to get what we were after. We plied the piece so much to make it fit the slipper that we ended up forming blisters. I took a risk and it didn't work. I wanted to give a sense of fear that the mother might fall from the balcony. I thought "since you don't feel it enough in the scene, I'll try to add something with the music, give it more suspense." When in fact Yves wanted the very opposite. He wasn't interested in such suspense. But we didn't make ourselves clear at the time. It was the most complicated moment of the film. I can still see myself the night before the recording, staying awake to rewrite bars of the piece.

Are you glad that the discarded pieces appear on the CD?
Yes, of course. A little like DVD bonuses. And I was especially glad that Yves insisted they be there. Whoever saw the film will have no trouble imagining scenes to go along with Tragédie à la campagne or Le panache de Moenner . It's rather evocative.

Who's the guy Phil Romby who sings Oui, but...?
[laughs]... Oui, but... is a song heard on the radio while Eglantine is talking with a chum. Yves had played me a Ben Harper piece. I figured he wanted something young, in the bedroom, one voice, acoustic guitar. So I aimed for something in that vein. I used a fake guitar on my keyboard to compose it. Then I did this soapy improvisation on the mike. The melody popped up, I recorded it, and it was an unexpected hit with Yves and everyone. But I never saw myself as a singer. It was just for the sample. And besides, it would just be heard in the background, behind the conversation. And then one day I get this fax from Yves. No funds, no time. So I did a home recording. Composer, singer, sound engineer and mixer! And there I am on the CD despite my horrible accent. Yves really gave me the wind-up for "I hop" instead of "I hope." I'll never forget it. But ok, the song plays with humour, it's in Froggy English, so my accent doesn't really bother me.

In the credits, there's mention of a symphonic suite, an overture for orchestra and a concertante movement for flutes and orchestra. What does this refer to? Where in the film are these pieces used?
Nowhere! Yves wanted Eglantine's father to listen to classical music in the car. In line with the idea of doing everything myself rather than getting some Bach or Vivaldi from the bank, I suggested pieces that I'd already written "in the style of." This was where things stood when the credits were being set up. The pieces were ultimately taken out of the sound mix but it was too late to change the credits.

Why didn't you compose the techno number Everyday of my life?
I wasn't able to come up with the right tone for the piece. I'll admit it isn't my background. I'm not used to working with that sort of sound. You can't specialise in everything. The producers found something better and that's fine. I don't think Yves has any regrets about it. For the slow dance piece at the beginning, we don't see the party, so it's ambiguous whether this is original music or not. It was important to keep the unity. But the techno happens later on in the evening. So it doesn't really matter if it was written by me or by someone else.

You are used to orchestrating and conducting your compositions. Is it important for you to do it all?
It's important and it's enjoyable. Somewhat like a scriptwriter who wants to direct, I like conducting musicians because you can keep on creating right to the end. You can sometimes change a sound just with a glance. People can't imagine what it means to conduct unless they watch rehearsals. At the concert, a conductor just has to wave his arms. And when you're behind him, you can't even see his face. So no wonder. But a mere glance can tell a soloist that he's playing too loudly or that he should play with more emotion. Besides, I don't see myself, as a composer, telling another conductor how to conduct. Might as well take the baton myself.

Are there any recent films that strike you in how they merge image and music?
Basic Instinct . I love what Jerry Goldsmith's music adds to the film. And in About Schmidt I find the music is treated in an interesting way. The sounds, the arrangement. I saw in the credits that Rolfe Kent didn't do it all on his own. But I like the result. Not too sad, not too ironic. It's subtle and intelligent.

Interviewed by Kathryn Reitseroff, November 2003

(translated by Natalie Lithwick)

(click here to order the original soundtrack of Yes, But…)

 

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