A body of light and sound

Text: Stefan Franzen, April 2025

»Open your eyes and ears wide, and let yourself be overwhelmed and intoxicated by radiant images and majestic, melodic sound« – It is with these words that »Der Spiegel« magazine began its 1983 review of »Koyaanisqatsi«, the groundbreaking collaboration between director Godfrey Reggio and composer Philip Glass. The film marked a radical departure in cinematic art: its music breaks free from the traditional role of simply underscoring or amplifying emotion. Instead, it merges seamlessly with the wordless stream of images, forming a single organic body of light and sound – a living entity that seems to »breathe« in synchronicity with the visuals.

Programme highlights to close the season: in this edition of the five-week festival, the great Hamburg orchestras and star guests explore the theme of »Future«

Although »Koyaanisqatsi« was released in cinemas in 1983, its origins go back to the early seventies. At the time, Godfrey Reggio was a young priest from a Catholic brotherhood, committed to helping children and young people on the streets of Santa Fé in California. Troubled by the root causes of their suffering, he began investigating the societal effects of big data and environmental destruction, raising awareness through powerful public campaigns. Then finally, together with cameraman Ron Fricke, he embarked on a seven-year odyssey around the United States to visually document the ways humanity is damaging the Earth – and, in turn, itself.

As the vast footage began to take shape in the editing room, a central question emerged: what kind of music could stand up to this stream of visual stimuli? Reggio made the acquaintance of the up-and-coming minimalist Philip Glass, who was interested in the idea of a collaboration. Reggio’s cinematic perspective, the cool, alien gaze as if from a visitor from outer space, resonated with the precise, almost mathematical structures of Glass’ music, which was already detached from any personal emotion, let alone romanticised feelings.

The title »Koyaanisqatsi« comes from the Hopi language and roughly translates to »life out of balance«. The term is central to a Hopi prophecy that speaks of humanity’s self-inflicted collapse – a catastrophe from which only those willing to live in harmony with nature may emerge with a second chance.

The artistic exploration of visions of the future and criticism of civilisation didn’t emerge in a vacuum at the time. As early as the 1920s and 1930s, these themes were being expressed through both imagery and music. Gottfried Huppertz’s score for Fritz Lang’s »Metropolis« (1927) employs the traditional orchestral language of the era, rich with late-Romantic pathos. He underscores the machine hall scenes with timpani beats, martial brass and agitated staccato strings. In contrast, Charlie Chaplin’s self-composed music for the factory scene in »Modern Times« (1936) is more humorous and dance-like, with the help of playful percussion. In both of these cinematic classics, social critique centres primarily on the theme of working conditions.

A more compelling precursor to »Koyaanisqatsi« can be found in Aaron Copland’s score for Ralph Steiner and Willard Van Dyke’s documentary short film »The City« (1939). In its portrayal of the grim, desecrated routines of urban working life – juxtaposed with idyllic rural scenes – Copland employs distinctly repetitive figures, foreshadowing elements of what would later be recognized as minimalism. However, the explicitly ecological and apocalyptic dimension was only added by Godfrey Reggio. This shift reflected the cultural climate of the time, particularly in the wake of the 1972 »Limits to Growth« report by the Club of Rome, which marked a turning point in raising awareness about the unchecked exploitation of natural resources.

What musical means does Philip Glass use to forge such a unique connection with the visual images? Even though both the film and its soundtrack are divided into clearly defined chapters, the viewer experiences a continuous dramatic arc over the eighty-minute span – one that resonates long after the final notes fade. The opening segments can be interpreted as a kind of creation story: sustained lying tones in the low strings form the foundation, gradually joined by intermittent woodwind motifs and then with sharp trumpet accents joining in. These sounds unfold alongside sweeping aerial shots – initially of barren, inanimate landscapes, then of nature teeming with organic life, with vast cloud formations and towering walls of water dominating the screen. At this point, humanity has yet to appear.

As soon as humanity enters the narrative – as intruder and exploiter, as builder and destroyer, and ultimately as a leader of war – the music accelerates. Rapid sequences of alternating sixteenth notes and sextuplets (double triplets) take on greater prominence. These figures carry little in terms of musical development; instead, they serve as relentless motors, spinning endlessly in place like sonic perpetuum mobiles. The steady intensification is heightened by the layering of additional instruments, creating an overwhelming sense of both acoustic and visual inescapability. This effect reaches its peak in the extended central sequence called »The Grid«, which depicts city life as an anonymous cycle. The city emerges as a living organism: traffic routes throb like arteries and the frantic pace of daily life reduces individuals to scurrying, ant-like figures. Set to extreme time-lapse footage, the music is precisely synchronised, matching the frenetic rhythm of the images down to the second. In contrast, moments of extreme slow motion are paired with dark synthesiser chords. Only here do we catch glimpses of human faces – etched with existential exhaustion and melancholy.

The orchestral version is opulent, featuring a string section without violins, flutes including piccolo, soprano and tenor saxophones, trumpets, trombones, piano, organ and four-part choir. A more compact chamber version distils the score down to woodwinds and keyboards. (This arrangement is performed at the Elbphilharmonie by the eight-member Philip Glass Ensemble, which continues the mission of the now 88-year-old composer following his retirement).

The music for the two subsequent films, on the other hand, did not achieve anything like the same impact. »Powaqqatsi« (1988) combines minimalism with elements of world music, while »Naqoyqatsi« (1992) at times drifts into dreamlike cello passages performed by Yo-Yo Ma, losing some of its focus. Attempts too by artists from other stylistic realms to re-score »Koyaanisqatsi« have likewise fallen short of matching the intensity of the original. The Belgian band We Stood Like Kings, for example, employs the cool pathos of anthemic post-rock, but fails to recreate the film’s gripping, all-consuming maelstrom – either aurally or visually.

The film is framed – and this plays a key role in unifying Glass’ soundtrack – with evocative impressions of Hopi cave paintings. Over these images, a deep bass voice repeatedly intones the film’s title over a descending organ motif. Reggio contrasts the still images with a rocket launch captured in extreme slow motion, culminating in a zoomed-in view of a blown-up ignition stage.

All that remains of humanity, it seems, is space debris tumbling back down. The organ figures, serene and meditative, recalls a chorale prelude in the style of Johann Sebastian Bach – perhaps even echoing the Lutheran hymn of supplication »Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ« (BWV 639). A little flight of imagination might lead one to ponder: Was Glass – consciously or unconsciously – hiding a cross-reference here to the mercifulness of Homo sapiens?

This article appeared in the Elbphilharmonie Magazine (issue 2/25)