Book Reviews 52
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There is within musicology an issue that is often raised: one that is particularly pertinent to the field of Soviet music. That is, how do we approach a composer’s body of work or indeed their compositional aesthetic when either or both are born out of or connected inexorably to a highly charged, intrusive or even repressive socio-political context? To what extent should our discussions and analysis be informed by socio-political and/or biographical considerations; not least in situations where a work’s compositional style and/or semantic import are seen to reflect that context? Clearly each case is unique and requires individual consideration, but the current consensus, at least in more analytically-based circles, is that while some contextual discussion may be necessary, the balance between the historical and the musicological should be weighted towards the latter. There is, however, a further consideration—one that is not only pertinent but also, I suggest, topical. That is how do we approach such musics when the socio-political context or environment in question is itself in need of major reassessment or reappraisal?
Western musicology has, in recent decades, taken a much more interpretative direction, with examinations becoming more widely hermeneutic. Western Soviet music scholarship—that of Shostakovich in particular—has, by contrast, remained largely historical, mainly out of necessity, given the difficulties involved. Soviet censorship and a lack of (reliable) source material has meant that the focus has had to be upon consolidating our understanding of the composer, the surrounding culture and the music as semantic import, before any interpretative examinations can begin to be commonplace. Writings on Soviet culture, especially those written before the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1990, have tended to be stylised and one-dimensional—a condition attributed to the lack of critical perspective that has prevailed in the West. Further challenges exist in that facts and events have often been presented from different ideological standpoints: this leading to easy clichés and a distorted and oversimplified view of both the composer and his aesthetic. In this regard, studies of Shostakovich’s music have tended to focus upon the work as political propaganda, thereby negating the compositional and creative dimensions of his art, while analysis of the music out of context has led, equally, to charges of naivety and a lack of understanding of how Russian music traditionally functions.
It is only in recent years, in the wake of more open and objective communication, compounded by easier access to Russian archives that we have begun to understand the enormity of the task ahead. That is to reassess Soviet Russia as a socio-political environment and within this, Soviet musical culture as the context within which Shostakovich and his contemporaries lived and worked. Alongside this is the need to reappraise Shostakovich as man and composer—but also within a wider context, the state of Russian (Soviet) music scholarship itself. As this reappraisal takes place, scholarship on Shostakovich (and other Soviet musical figures) is becoming more nuanced, with new, increasingly complex and multi-faceted interpretations continuing to emerge. To cite some examples, publications such as Peter Schmelz’s Such Freedom, If Only Musical: Unofficial Soviet Music During the Thaw (OUP, 2009), Marina Frolova-Walker’s Stalin’s Music Prize: Soviet Culture and Politics (Yale, 2016, reviewed DSCH 45) as well as, I suggest, the most significant book to date to challenge former assumptions—Russian Music Since 1917: Reappraisal and Rediscovery (OUP, 2017)—are robust in their re-evaluation of the over-simplistic and “black-and-white” interpretations of the past, including those concerning the “top-down” models of Soviet culture and its associated narrative that Soviet music (and musicians) were powerless in the face of totalitarian oppression and shaped inexorably by it.
Pauline Fairclough, Professor of Music at the University of Bristol has, in recent years, been at the forefront of this reassessment. An authority on Soviet music and on Shostakovich in particular, her previous book, Classics for the Masses: Shaping Soviet Musical Identity Under Lenin and Stalin (Yale, 2016, reviewed DSCH 46)—co-winner of the BASEES Women’s Forum Book Prize in 2018—utilises to the full the now greater opportunities for archival work in Russia. It provides a well-crafted caveat to the notion that Soviet musical identity was dictated to and constrained by the state, with her findings that the music in question was compositionally and aesthetically rich and varied being further proof of the need to re-evaluate the “black and white” interpretations still in force. Dmitry Shostakovich continues in this vein. Utilising her knowledge and understanding of Soviet musical culture, she again offers an alternative to the many myths and prejudices that surround one of the most important composers of the previous century.
Fairclough’s text is, as the title suggests, more historical than musicological, exploring Shostakovich’s life and relating it and the surrounding culture to his major works. And while discussing much of his output in context, there is no detailed music analysis as such. Taking account of new source material and research (in both English and Russian), Fairclough aims to provide a portrait of Shostakovich as both man and composer, that is accurate, up-to-date, informed, and detailed yet accessible for a wider readership.
“There is no shortage of books about Dmitry Shostakovich”, says Fairclough in her preface, alluding to a pertinent question: Do we really need another Shostakovich biography (not least, one might add, given the shortage of more analytical and/or hermeneutic-based investigations)? Evidently, her own response is yes, prompted by the need for a more holistic and astute perspective now that the tendency to portray Shostakovich as either the angst-ridden victim or the secret dissident has lost its validity. Citing Laurel Fay’s authoritative post-Cold War biography Shostakovich: a Life (OUP, 2000), Fairclough injects from the outset a much-needed positivity into the debate surrounding his personality, thoughts and intentions. She explicitly declines discussion of the ‘Shostakovich Wars’, but interprets—re-interprets—Shostakovich; to address the existing notions and convenient half-truths, to tease out a more realistic portrayal, devoid of bias and propaganda, and to acknowledge that complexities and paradoxes do exist, even though this makes, in some cases for a more uncomfortable and less ‘marketable’ image: “If I had any particular personal angle on my subject, it was to challenge the idea, still commonly held, that Shostakovich’s music is depressing, and that he himself was a broken man at the end of his life” (p. 11).
The 170-page text is structured chronologically, as would be expected. In the 6-page preface, “Prelude: Writing About Shostakovich”, Fairclough outlines her intentions (as paraphrased above). The main body comprises six detailed chapters, 26 illustrated with photographs and facsimiles of scores, and a 4-page postlude, in which she discusses the need to look into Shostakovich’s face and to accept that the composer, with his myriad masks, was no more of a hero than any of the countless others living under the Communist regime; some of whom demonstrated more resistance while living with far less privilege and status. There are endnotes, a select biography and acknowledgements but, regrettably, no index or worklist.
Of strength is unquestionably the book’s use of previously unavailable archive material and its updating of our knowledge and understanding of the composer and his culture within the context of the re-evaluation outlined above. Some aspects are inevitably presented in less detail—possibly through a lack of information and/or reliable source material, though possibly also due to Fairclough’s own attempt to remain as objective as possible: the text’s neutral stance and detached writing style is clearly a conscious choice. Fairclough succeeds admirably in giving us fact rather than opinion. There is not a hint of sensationalism or hyperbole anywhere in the book, with subjects such as the composer’s private life, including his often-complex relationships with women being sensitively discussed. What also stands out is its readability, although that is not to say it is simplistic: it is clearly detailed and informative yet aimed as much at the more general reader as at the specialist academic.
Alongside the biography and discussion of key works, Fairclough provides a much-needed common-sense approach to a number of issues that are not always so readily discussed. These include the tendency to regard Shostakovich’s music as anachronistic, and more importantly, the disservice done to his creative and compositional abilities if we fail to acknowledge the musical artistry and skill that lie beyond his works’ semantic import. Fairclough discusses how the suggestion that his compositional outlook, career and legacy were somehow compromised, altered or diminished by the fear of reprisals is as insulting as it is untrue, maintaining that his natural style, and indeed, humour, remained in force to the end. There is criticism too of the Western music industry’s use of Shostakovich as a marketing tool: “The vested interests are no longer political—that potent blend of Western belief in its own cultural superiority and hatred of the Soviet regime—but are instead those of commercial media: especially of a classical music media that feels continually imperilled by funding cuts and audience apathy. The more the ‘tragic’ Shostakovich image is stoked, the more marketable he is” (p. 7).
Underlying all the above is Fairclough’s willingness to confront old arguments, particularly those born out of Western prejudice. She discusses what some might see as the ultimate taboo: acknowledging Shostakovich’s negative character traits—a bold move, especially when much of her intention has been to inject positivity into the unfortunate image of the composer that has prevailed. Key for Fairclough is Shostakovich’s pragmatism—his ability to respond and adapt to pressures, be these ideological or other, and not only to survive but also to flourish professionally. In her “Postlude” she makes comparisons to Chekhov’s 1892 short story Ward No. 6, where the clinical psychologist Dr. Andrey Ragin knowingly plays along with professional injustice and skulduggery in order to further his career, Fairclough suggests that Shostakovich consciously used such self-preservation tactics for both survival and success. Just as Shostakovich had, if Fairclough is correct, far more self-awareness than has often been acknowledged, then she will no doubt be fully aware that her suggestions will be viewed by some as adverse or even controversial. But Fairclough has touched upon at least some of the complexities with which Shostakovich scholarship must now come to terms—and to do so while remaining sympathetic, even when presenting a less frail but ultimately more fallible portrait of her subject—is an achievement in itself.
We need to be careful that we are not entering into a never-ending cycle of reappraisal and re-evaluation. There is a danger, particularly in these early years of new Soviet music scholarship that we will tread too carefully; be afraid to disregard all of our previous misconceptions or else be overwhelmed by the enormity of the task in hand. Conversely, there is the temptation to “throw the baby out with the bathwater” and go too far; dismissing what are still partial truths and to live instead with an alternative but yet equally misleading “reality”. Fairclough has achieved a balance between the two, with this being an excellent example of how to move forward.
Shostakovich and Football
Dmitri Braginsky (trans. Alison Yermolova)
Shostakovich and Football: Escape to Freedom
Moscow: DSCH Publishers (2018)
196pp; 114 illustrations
ISBN: 978-5-900-53913-3 (pbk)
If you are looking for an interesting book about football, this may be suitable for you. If you are searching a compelling publication related to classical music, this may be for you. Two apparently never-crossing worlds peacefully coexist in Dmitri Braginsky’s Shostakovich and Football. Escape to Freedom, now available in English.
This book discusses the passion for the most popular game in the world nurtured by Dmitri Shostakovich, widely recognised as one of the greatest composers. Curiously, the subtitle Escape to Freedom recalls Escape to Victory, the famous 1981 football-themed film whose score, by Bill Conti, leans heavily on Shostakovich’s Fifth and Seventh Symphonies. The book makes it easy to understand the role football played in his life, particularly at difficult times such as the first denunciation.
As Irina Shostakovich notes in the brief preface, it is not enough to say that “Dmitri Dmitriyevich could not live without football”—the opening sentence of the book—“He lived in football, as though in a special, parallel dimension”.
The book comprises eighteen chapters in seven sections and it is not blasphemous to say that it could be read like Julio Cortázar’s novel Rayuela (1963)—that is to say, either progressively from the first to the last page or by “hopscotching” through the chapters according to the author’s “Table of Instructions”. The narrative is necessarily chronological, so any chapter might be considered a stand-alone since it covers a different aspect of the main topic: Shostakovich’s football-themed works; letters to his football ‘penpals’; his friendship with Zenit and Dinamo Leningrad players, and his notebooks of USSR championship match scores, standings and statistics every year, to name but a few.
This is not Braginsky’s first work on Shostakovich and football—he wrote a short essay in DSCH 40, and this book greatly expands on that to create what is probably the ultimate study of the topic, with much new information, further enhanced by illustrations. For instance, an interview with Maxim and a photo of them playing football (Dmitri in goal), turns out to be a first-hand testimony on what everyday life meant for the composer following the censorship of Lady Macbeth: Braginsky quotes in full Pravda’s tragically famous review “Chaos Instead of Music’”. As Maxim reveals, in difficult years “football was a true saving grace for him” and “it helped him live through the persecution at the end of the 1940s when certain forces tried to destroy him”, as he used it to distract himself “from the nightmares of the second wave of idelogical terror”. There may be no better explanation of the book’s subtitle.
But there are also humorous episodes, such as Shostakovich’s first meeting with his ever-present biographer Sofya Khentova when, on the stands of the Kirov Stadium in Leningrad, he inadvertently hit her with his umbrella—or his child-like enthusiasm when meeting Georgian football legend Boris Paichadze. We also discover that, beyond football, Shostakovich was also interested in boxing, chess, tennis and even card games, spending a lot of time at the poker table and betting items of music and his office redwood piano.
A few chapters are also dedicated to his controversial relationship with the communist authorities, particularly with NKVD head Lavrentiy Beria. It is not a secret that, at the behest of Beria himself, the composer wrote a report on a match between Dinamo Moscow and Dinamo Leningrad—Dinamo all-sports club were connected with the state security apparatus at that time—as well as the music for the choreographic scene Football for the spectacle Russian River. However, Braginsky observes that “Shostakovich was probably willing to take on such a contract because writing this music was like a breath of fresh air for him”. In addition, he was not afraid to strictly and fairly referee a tennis match in Crimea involving the fearsome KGB General Ivan Serov. Significantly, Braginsky also quotes Mario Alessandro Curletto, an Italian professor of Russian at the University of Genoa who has written several books about football and politics in the USSR and has recently published Shostakovich. Note sul calcio (Shostakovich. Notes About Football, Genova: Il Nuovo Melangolo, 2018). “We do not know whether he always remained in his homeland due to belief, advantage or fear,” he states. “Differently from other Russian intellectuals who have been glorified in the West, and despite having the opportunity to travel abroad during Stalin years, he always returned without seeking asylum as a political refugee. He never ceded to the enticing prospect of a golden exile.”
The book end with an “Overtime” chapter. This describes the magnificent tribute Zenit St. Petersburg fans paid Shostakovich at the stadium in October 2016; commemorating the 110th anniversary of his birth they enrolled a gigantic banner with a portrait of him, which was also displayed on electronic screens.
Numbers resembling those appearing on scoreboards in stadia and arenas mark the bottom of every page of the book, reiterating the football theme, just like the adorable tiny drawings of football players. Not to forget the cover designed by Yulia Nogarova, with Varvara Stepanova’s first sketch of a uniform for Soviet football players, made with highquality paper whose touch will delight book lovers.
Hamlet, Music to the Film, opus 116 (score)
Novoe Sobranie Sochinenii (New Collected Works), vol. 140
Moscow: DSCH Publishers (2016)
ISMN 979-0-706427-07-2 (hbk)
Sofya Perovskaya, Music to the Film, opus 132 (score); King Lear, Music to the Film, opus 137 (score)
Novoe Sobranie Sochinenii (New Collected Works), vol. 142
Moscow: DSCH Publishers (2017)
ISMN 979-0-706427-26-3 (hbk)
DSCH Publishers has released two more volumes in the Film Music series of their New Collected Works project. These comprise three scores from the end of Shostakovich’s film-composing career: his two Shakespearean masterpieces for Grigori Kozintsev, Hamlet and King Lear, plus the lesser known Sofya Perovskaya for Lev Arnshtam. The volume numbers (140 and 142) are not those initially proposed by DSCH in 2000 (announced in DSCH 13)—142 and 144 respectively. This is because the publishers have decided to pair more film scores (The Friends with The Adventures of Korzinkina; The First Echelon with Five Days, Five Nights) within single volumes, disrupting the general one-volume-per-film model.
All three of these scores featured to varying extents in Volume 42 of the old Collected Works series (OCW42) published in 1987. This contained 16 out of the 18 cues for Sofya Perovskaya (numbers 2 and 6 were missing) and 20 cues for King Lear (lacking only the diegetic unaccompanied songs). Hamlet was the least well represented, having only 15 cues, just over half of the total number. The commentary in OCW42 was also very brief, less than a page in total for all three scores.
Physically, they are comparable to John Leman Riley’s description of volumes 122 and 123 (DSCH 24). Each score is accompanied by Olga Dombrovskaya’s informative essay and bar-by-bar commentaries by the editor, Viktor Ekimovsky. In addition there are various appendices, those for Sofya Perovskaya and Hamlet including variants of cues (mostly transcribed from the soundtracks) and any associated diegetic cues found in other manuscript sources. All three have an appendix containing colour facsimiles from the composer’s autograph materials (prefaced by more explanatory notes from Dombrovskaya); Hamlet has a third appendix, discussed below.
As in previous NCW volumes, the commentaries are rendered in Russian and English. John Leman Riley (DSCH 24) has already indicated that these English translations (even the cue titles) range from the slightly odd to the erroneous. Unfortunately this is still the case and the Russian originals should always be consulted.
The new editions are based on Shostakovich’s surviving autograph manuscripts and other contemporaneous source materials. As such they tend to represent his original intentions and not necessarily the final use of the cues. The often substantial changes that were made prior to or during recording are rarely reflected, although some are documented in Ekimovsky’s commentaries. Moreover, the new editions contain some cues which were not used on the soundtracks and omit others that were used (some by Shostakovich, others are stock music).
The new edition of Hamlet presents 27 cues (197 pages), numbered from 1–38, with some missing numbers. Twelve are published for the first time, as are most of the contents of the first appendix: No. 7 “Dance Lesson”; an earlier variant of No. 13 “Arrival of the Players”; three a cappella songs sung by Ophelia to traditional English melodies (transcribed from the soundtrack), and the Gravedigger’s Song (also transcribed from the soundtrack and assumed to have been written by Shostakovich). The Hamlet score also has an invaluable third appendix: a complete facsimile of Kozintsev’s music script which lists 38 numbered scenes where the director originally expected to have music though, curiously, there is no entry for item no. 36. Ultimately, some of these scenes had no music at all and some re-used extracts from other cues, hence the gaps in the numbering of Shostakovich’s cues. Much of this is illuminated in Dombrovskaya’s essay and in Ekimovsky’s valiant attempt to document the relationship between the author’s manuscript and the soundtrack.
Dombrovskaya’s wide-ranging essay runs to almost 12 pages, nearly a third of which is devoted to Ophelia’s mad songs. Dombrovskaya’s illustrations reproduce an anonymous source from Shostakovich’s archive which contains four of Ophelia’s traditional English melodies harmonised in piano score. Michelle Assay has suggested that this manuscript may have originated from Kozintsev’s 1954 stage production of Hamlet for which Shostakovich also wrote the incidental music. Dombrovskaya describes how the composer’s autograph full score for cues no. 26 “Ophelia’s Descent into Madness” and no. 27 “Ophelia’s Insanity” includes three complete vocal-orchestral stanzas of the song “How should I your true love know”. Evidently Kozintsev changed his mind, preferring instead that Ophelia (Anastasia Vertinskaya) perform her song fragments unaccompanied. All three sections were crossed out by the composer (presumably prior to recording) and are not represented in the volume.
Until the release of this new edition, scholars had to reconstruct much of the missing material from Lev Atovmyan’s 8-movement film suite (1964). Volume 140 is therefore much-needed and the wealth of fascinating information in the commentaries and appendices will rectify many of the misconceptions surrounding this score.
Famously, Shostakovich composed his score to Sofya Perovskaya purely from Arnshtam’s script and verbal instructions without ever seeing any footage from the film. Neither did he attend any recording sessions, instead relaying any last-minute changes via telephone. This was because he had broken his leg and spent several months in hospital during the post-production process. That the resulting audio-visual synthesis is so satisfying is therefore quite remarkable.
The new edition presents all 18 cues (65 pages), supplemented by a 5-page appendix of additions and variants to cue numbers 1, 2 and 6 which Ekimovsky has transcribed from the soundtrack. (No. 7 is also an unused variant of 6). As Dombrovskaya explains in her short essay (just over 3 pages), Shostakovich left the first 15 items untitled, numbering them sequentially in line with Arnshtam’s script. Any subsequent headings and explanations were added to the composer’s autograph full score by the director. Dombrovskaya implies that the remaining three unnumbered items, “March”, “Execution” and “Waltz”, were written at the same time as the rest of the score, but it is possible they were written much earlier; they appear to be diegetic numbers which may have been required at the time of filming. The fact that they are not part of Shostakovich’s sketches or autograph full score but only survive in a photocopy of a lost manuscript from the library of the Russian State Symphony Cinema Orchestra would seem to support this theory. Ultimately, the “March”, intended to accompany Perovskaya’s journey by cart to the execution, was replaced by ominous drumbeats. The “Waltz”, the most famous cue from the score, was another casualty. Dombrovskaya suggests that the “Waltz” was originally intended for the revolutionaries’ New Year’s party. However, its triple metre and scoring for wind-band and percussion do not reflect the onscreen action, in which two members of the group play duple-metre galops on the piano (perhaps these were also provided by Shostakovich?) to accompany the frenetic dancing. The intended footage for the “Waltz” was either cut or never filmed at all. In the new edition, these three unnumbered diegetic pieces are placed more logically at the end of the score. (In OCW42 the first two items were at the beginning, with the “Waltz” sandwiched between nos. 3 and 4.) No. 10, “March” and “Execution” are examples of cues that do not feature on the final soundtrack.
For a long time, the gaps in the numbering of Shostakovich’s twenty autograph cues in King Lear (1–10, 50–58 and 70) have misled some writers into believing that there were some missing cues. Indeed there are more cues on the soundtrack than in the autograph full score, but—as in Hamlet—most of the missing ones are repetitions created during the recording and dubbing processes. The content of the twenty cues for King Lear in NCW142 is virtually identical to that in OCW42. What is new is a single additional page containing the five a cappella Poor Tom’s Songs that Shostakovich wrote early on in the filming process, prior to writing the bulk of his score. The texts are from some brief snatches of songs that Poor Tom/Edgar (Leonhard Merzin) recites in the beggars’ hovel, for which the composer wrote melodic fragments punctuated by rests to resemble his stuttering speech. In the end, Kozintsev used only three of the songs (numbers 1, 2 and 4) in forms slightly varied from Shostakovich’s autograph source. Dombrovskaya has helpfully included a transcription of the first song—the haunting “Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind” with which the film opens—which is closer to how it appears on the soundtrack.
Perhaps rather surprisingly, the Fool’s songs are not included in the new edition. This might seem a glaring omission as they were loosely based on the composer’s ten songs for baritone and orchestra from his incidental music to King Lear (opus 58a), written for Kozintsev’s 1941 stage production. Other than giving his permission to re-use the songs, the composer seems not to have had any further involvement. Kozintsev chose a sub-set of the originals (nos. 1, 2, 4, 5 and 7), which the Fool (Oleg Dahl) performed a cappella in a half-spoken, half-sung manner. Apart from the first song (sung to the tune of “Jingle Bells” as in opus 58a), Dahl’s performances bear only passing resemblances to Shostakovich’s melodies. Given all this, the omission of these songs from the new edition is understandable.
Dombrovskaya’s essay is again extensive (10 pages) and has copious footnotes to archival sources. She mentions the existence of a music plan that Kozintsev sent to the composer early in 1970. Regrettably, it has not been included in the appendices (unlike the corresponding document for Hamlet). This decision was certainly not due to insufficient space (there are fewer pages in volume 142 than in 140).
Both here and elsewhere, Dombrovskaya has done much to show that Shostakovich took composing film music as seriously as his concert works, highlighting many cross-fertilisations. For example, she has shown how material from the last King Lear cue to be composed, the choral vocalise no. 56 “Lament’, appears in the opening and closing sections of the Thirteenth Quartet op. 138. This quartet was completed a few days after the composer had finished work on the film. In her essay in NCW142, Dombrovskaya documents how her further archival research has uncovered that the manuscript for the lament includes a continuation of material that only features in the quartet.
Dombrovskaya discusses the issue of the composer’s ill health during the filming and post-production work on King Lear. After initially having agreed to score the film, Shostakovich bowed out twice due to extended bouts in hospital and urged Kozintsev to replace him. Despite his best intentions to reduce Shostakovich’s workload, the director nevertheless rejected several completed cues in favour of much sparser solutions. For example, the two solo horn fanfares nos. 1 and 2 (“Horn of the Leader of the Beggars”) became bare fifths and fourths played on a shofar; the Fool wore little bells on his ankle, negating the need for cue no. 7 “The Fool’s Bells”; the King makes his first entrance to the sound of the Fool’s ankle bells and his own laughter instead of the grand brass fanfare in the untitled no. 52; and a three-note motif on tubular bells (D–F–C-sharp) sounds each time Lear bestows part of his estate on his elder daughters, again instead of cue no. 52. Furthermore, the sketches hint at other cues that were abandoned before the composer completed his autograph full score.
These new editions can be used as “study scores” to follow the music on the respective soundtracks, but with differing degrees of ease. It is relatively straightforward to follow the new edition Sofya Perovskaya alongside the film, once all the comments regarding variants, cuts, and unused numbers are taken into account, but the two Shakespeare scores require much closer perusal of the commentaries and some extra detective work.
 Michelle Assay, “Hamlet in the Stalin Era and Beyond: Stage and Score. Les mises en scène et mises en musique d’Hamlet à l’ère Stalinienne et après.” Thesis. Université Paris-Sorbonne & University of Sheffield, 2016, p. 310.
 For more on this topic, see Olga Dombrovskaia [sic]. “Hamlet, King Lear and Their Companions: The Other Side of Film Music.” In Contemplating Shostakovich: Life, Music and Film, edited by Alexander Ivashkin and Andrew Kirkman, pp.141–64. Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2012.
 Fiona Ford, “Reshaping Shakespeare: How Kozintsev used Shostakovich’s music in his film adaptations of Hamlet (1964) and King Lear (1971) . In The Oxford Handbook of Shakespeare and Music, edited by Christopher R. Wilson and Mervyn Cooke. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020 (forthcoming).