Life is inherently recursive, isn't it? If you find yourself cycling through the same scenario, remember the composer’s trick: the second and third iterations are never truly the same; they are opportunities to shift the key, to deepen the bass line, to reveal the previously unseen orchestration lurking just beneath the surface.
This, perhaps, is the precise, exhilarating hurdle Volker Bertelmann faced when contemplating the architecture of the score for Netflix’s *A House of Dynamite*.
The structural oddity of the project demanded a sonic solution that mirrored the narrative’s specific, almost paradoxical, progression. It is one thing to score a sprawling epic; quite another to underpin a drama that largely confines itself to offices, punctuated by the relentless blue light of monitor screens, where the central action is frequently internalized dialogue.
His initial reaction was entirely relatable: a moment of frozen inquiry. "How can I approach that?" he wondered aloud, faced with a narrative structure designed to intentionally echo itself—three distinct chapters, each a slight, revealing variation on the last, filtered through the distorting prisms of various government officials.
The veteran composer, however, shook that moment of hesitation quickly.
The Problem of Pervasive Dialogue
A film existing mostly in the realm of bureaucratic conversation and digital flicker presents a peculiar problem for underscore. Music must breathe; dialogue is often suffocating. Bertelmann knew the confined environment—the governmental labyrinth—required careful rhythmic navigation, a tension that was audible but never intrusive enough to undermine the text.
His task became less about overt thematic declaration and more about sculpting an auditory tension that refused to resolve. The trick, the genuinely confusing part of the narrative equation, lay in the repeating structure itself: the film effectively tells the same story thrice. Yet, each iteration peels back another layer of the onion skin, always revealing a new, sometimes shocking, kernel of perspective.
Bertelmann’s score had to mirror this iterative unveiling, offering sonic repetition that never sounded recycled—a subtle, aural distortion of déjà vu.
Pressure Beneath the Surface
The collaborative process, surprisingly, held a consistent theme across his recent high-profile works. Whether working with Kathryn Bigelow on *Dynamite* or maintaining his six-project partnership with Edward Berger—a relationship responsible for the immense soundscape of *All Quiet on the Western Front*—Bertelmann found himself accorded substantial creative license.
Total trust. He was granted the immense freedom to develop the score until it reached a place of personal satisfaction, after which the fine-tuning discussion with the director commenced: just how far, precisely, could the emotional volume be pushed?
But the sonic geography separating *A House of Dynamite* from its predecessors is stark.
In comparison to *Conclave*, the score for *Dynamite* necessitated something much heavier, an almost physical weight. "There's more pressure under the surface," he noted, describing the demanding, subterranean thrum required. Initially, he and Bigelow considered plunging the score into even darker abysses, embracing a truly unforgiving sonic palette.
They were pushing the pressure. But a crucial calibration occurred; the dial was retracted. They realized that in pursuit of absolute darkness, they risked jettisoning the necessary human feeling, the vital emotional tether to the story's core. The final result required that specific balancing act: the inescapable weight of governmental machination undercut by just enough retained vulnerability.
A difficult compromise, surely.
The veteran composer knew that the unique format of the film, plus its big ensemble of characters, would offer a distinctive challenge.Related materials: Check here
