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Saturday, 26 November 2005 12:01

TOUCH THE SOUND (Shadow Distribution, NR)

Thomas Riedelsheimer’s latest documentary can be summed up best in the words of one of its featured musicians: “It starts from listening, and it ends with listening,” states Fred Frith. “It’s all about listening. Period.”

In the movie, Riedelsheimer (Rivers and Tides) follows Grammy Award–winning percussionist Evelyn Glennie as she travels around the world, recording not only her collaborations with other musicians, but also her thoughts on the significance of music and, more generically, sound. Anything has the potential to be an instrument in Glennie’s world, from a heap of rubbish to an overturned ashtray. Like most drummers, she beats her way through the world, striking any surface with whatever implement is at hand, be it drumsticks or chopsticks. Unlike most musicians, though, Glennie is profoundly deaf, and has been since the age of 12.

Perhaps that’s the reason why she has such a philosophical take on sound, a subject few of us give any thought to beyond what playlists to download to our iPods. At a young age and with the help of an exceptional teacher, Glennie learned that by discarding her hearing aids and focusing on the vibrations of sounds, she could transform her whole body into a resonant chamber, a kind of visceral tuning fork. Her ears were damaged, but the palms of her hands, the soles of her feet, and the hollow of her chest were not, and by studying where different sounds flowed into her, she learned to hear with her whole body.

There are moments of pure beauty in this movie: watching as Glennie’s hands, each holding two furry-headed mallets, fly over the bars of a xylophone, producing a magical sound; observing her as she instructs a hearing-impaired student in finding the sound made by striking a drum; seeing the magic spell she casts over the harried crowd of New York’s Grand Central Station by sending her drum solo sailing along the curved arches of the old building. The movie works best when it shows her performing. Unfortunately, there are far too many moments when the cameras linger on tableaux of water dripping, tires thrumming, and wind buffeting flags. It’s interesting to see Glennie and fellow musician Frith test surfaces for musical resonance—drawing a bow through the holes of an old grate, throwing spools of paper through the air to hear the sound as they unravel—but for a more visually oriented public, this kind of thing quickly grows ponderous and dull. It’s akin to reading a writer’s notebooks instead of his masterpiece, or dwelling on a painter’s sketchpad instead of viewing his finished canvases. Glennie clearly has something interesting to say about sound, music, space, and body, but in the end, you’d rather just listen to her play. Preferably in a concert hall, and not a movie theater.