The Ballad of Ludwig van Amadeus Bach
A little change from my usual essays: this is a parody of Hollywood films about Tortured Artists that I wrote and performed for The Verb, BBC Radio 3, on January 21st 2022! Give it a listen (if you’re in the UK) here: https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m0013jr6
Open on a slow motion black and white shot of a topless man lying dramatically over a harpsichord. This is our hero, Ludwig van Amadeus Bach, played by Gary Oldman or Eddie Redmayne or one of the male leads from Bridget Jones: Edge of Reason — no matter who it is, they’re definitely nailed on to win an Oscar for this. The genius, the tortured artist, the maestro, the guy that the screenwriter of this film is definitely picturing as himself.
He lifts an arm up into the sky, as if imploring the gods themselves to bless him with inspiration, while also giving the audience a chance to see that yes, he is absolutely ripped.
But all is not well with Ludwig van Amadeus Bach. Outside he can hear the clattering hubble-bubble of the generic Germanic city he lives in — a hive of activity, except instead of bees it’s 18th century gentlemen who inexplicably think those big white wigs look really good.
“I hear tell that Ludwig van Amadeus Bach’s latest work is a masterpiece!” says one of them expositionally, as he coughs a big ball of what is almost certainly tuberculosis into a handkerchief.
Ludwig looks out of the window, and sees the man talking to an impossibly beautiful woman who is, and I have to stress this, about half his age. Ludwig’s heart swells as he stares at her — it’s love at first sight, that’s right, she’s the love interest, I’m sorry about that.
He loves everything about her — her eyes, her hair, her body, not her personality or mind because, as I say, he’s not actually met her yet. Her eyes swivel up to him with a look that says “How brilliant that man is! He’s so talented I don’t even mind that he will treat me less like a person and more like a side of beef to be won at a meat raffle in this movie!”
Ludwig lets out a sigh of anguish, one so moving and tender that it would make a swan have a nervous breakdown. For you see, Ludwig van Amadeus Bach is currently suffering from something that is four hundred times worse than the pain of childbirth (he assumes). He has…writer’s block.
Just then, a knock at the door. “Oh Mister Ludwig van Amadeus Bach,”, drawls the chambermaid in a flawless yet incongruous cockney accent. “The person conducting your latest work is here! You know the one, the genre-defining symphony which transcends the 18th century understanding of music as we know it?”
Ludwig artistically staggers down the stairs, like a beautiful slinky made of flesh, to meet the man charged with conducting his genius. He opens the door to find… a WOMAN?! Not just any woman — the love interest he was staring at meatily just seconds before! She puts out her dainty female hand and stands there, in a womanly manner.
“Mr Amadeus Bach? My name is Cynthia Glassceiling, and I’ll be conducting your work this evening.”
Ludwig staggers backwards, his head spinning, and lets out an artistic and very manly cry of “ahhhhhhhh!”.
“A…female conductor? What devilry is this? How can I entrust my genius to a woman? How would her supple arms and soft feminine fingers be able to grip the baton so? What if midway through the symphony she got distracted by a cute boy or a particularly lovely flower arrangement? WHAT THEN? My work is STRONG! It is MASCULINE! The person who made it has a PENIS! I need the audience to KNOW this for some reason! If the audience sees you, a girly womanly womanly GIRL, conducting it, they will think it’s FEMININE and WEAK and then they’ll think that I DON’T HAVE A PENIS!”
With that, he picks up a chair and throws it through a window in a manner that is so dramatic and arty that you just know it’s going to be in the trailer. Cynthia Glassceiling raises her voice in shock. “Mr Ludwig! I can assure you that I will conduct your genius just as well as any man…”
“No no no!” he stomps his foot in a way that is super masculine and definitely not just him having a misogynistic tantrum.
“In my world, women are either irritating and insubstantial distractions from my work, or beautiful but EXTREMELY SILENT muses, empty vessels for my art! OK Sometimes they might be played by Miriam Margolyes and be a bit of comic relief but that’s RARE. A woman with TALENT? I WILL NOT HEAR IT!”
With that he slams the door in Cynthia Glassceiling’s face and goes back upstairs to do more of his very important moping.
Cynthia sighs and shakes her head — she remembers the golden rule in Hollywood: maestro geniuses are allowed — no, actually, required — to be complete dickheads.
