Amadeus | Miloš Forman, 1984
It’s the garish displays of wealth that make Miloš Forman’s Amadeus (1984) such a fascinating film. Forman revels in the ornate decadence of Vienna, from the palaces to the costumes to the banquets, relentlessly capturing it all in ostentatious widescreen frames. And right in the middle of it, dwarfed by it, the great artist, Mozart. A man unburdened by the social etiquette of his surroundings, having transcended such formalities through sheer force of talent. But equally a man who cannot carry the weight of its edifice, gradually levered onto his shoulders through the political manoeuvres of Salieri. An obsessively jealous man unable to accept his own mediocrity in the face of genius, with both the means and the desire to bring the whole thing down on top of him. And so these enormous frames become punishing. The weight of an empire bearing down on the man in the middle until, finally, he breaks. The palaces and theatres disappear. So does the king, and the wigs, and the clothes. The social structures, the politics. His family, and his health. Everything stripped away by his refusal to reduce the number of notes, to allow inferior musicians to restrict him. A refusal to compromise. The frames stay wide but there’s less and less to fill them with. All that’s left are debts and talent, and no way of using one to fuel the other.