It is miraculous.

Rating: 10/10 (22 November 2015)

Amadeus, or Loved by God. We view this figure through the historical lens of an ageing and seemingly senile Antonio Salieri, but I am struck by how clearly his memory haunts him, however accurate his representation of Mozart may be. In reality, Mozart was not some genius whose notes came to him as easy as breathing did, but that is how Salieri remembers it. We see how beautifully his recount flows in the editing; how these L cuts create such magnificent sound-bridges which link each period of Salieri's fall and Mozart's rise like a symphony. A crumpled letter from the angry Leopold transitions into the sound scattering a flock of deer as the Emperor proposes his niece as a pupil. Caterina Cavalieri is one minute a student of Salieri, the next inexplicably the star of Mozart's Seraglio, another cruel blow. And in the most evocative scene of them all, where a disbelieving Salieri inspects Mozart's original works, and each turn of the page unveils another masterpiece, and both Salieri's are trapped in ecstasy. F. Murray Abraham's dual roles are masterful; in one he is silent, so caught up in the majesty of these ink-strokes on the page as he trembles, and in the elderly voice-over, recalling the discovery crystal clear, and we know how wrapped up he still is after all these years in conflict, in admiration, in respect, in bitterness and unbearable envy at being passed over by God. See the contempt as the father hums along to the recognisable strings of Mozart's Serenade No. 13. I must admit I too can only recognise one of the three, and so there is a little bit of truth in this dramatisation.
Who does God choose? Not some respectable, esteemed genius but a rather crude and vulgar child playing games through the halls. The most iconic part of Hulce's performance is of course the peals of his high- pitched feverish laughter which seem to punctuate the guise of each formal setting that he enters. Some would say it is out of place. I would say that it is highly appropriate for Salieri's tales; the laughter becomes infuriating, and each instance of it only further confirms his anguish and disbelief that such a crass and unrefined brat be gifted with such musical genius. This is God mocking him with the same giggle, divine injustice personified.
In its production design the film is of course gorgeous. The sets and costumes are detailed alike, bathed in natural light, and made alive. We see how exquisite dress is required for symbolising status, these great billowing gowns, ridiculous wigs and enormous headpieces, but it is the act of removing them that we get a more authentic characterisation, as seen in the nervously determined way in which Constanze offers up her body to boost her husband's career (and look at how defiant Salieri is, in refusing and determining he is to beat Mozart fair and square, not by some act of God). In another Director's Cut exclusive, as he plays a jaunty tune to cure a rowdy dog, these simple notes transition into the gorgeous 3rd movement of his 15th Piano Concerto. Other pieces of his work are brilliantly entangled into the drama. The immense, brash opening of Don Giovanni's Overture blasts as we break open the doors to find an elderly Salieri with bloody wrists and an inconsolable heart, wracked by the guilt of his sinful deed in destroying a genius. The same is used as Leopold re-enters atop a staircase in black, and as the same dark foreboding costume by Salieri is used to trigger his composition of his unfinished Requiem, and to loudly announce the death of a father. These moments hit us as abruptly thunderous as they do to Mozart, and his music mourns and weeps for him.
Abraham's performance carries each opera, and provides us with an audience proxy by which we appreciate in its extremities. His voice- over is so remarkably tender and the sounds of the symphonies reaches into his storytelling years and years gone by, as he describes what is simply notes on a page with the most unabashed admiration. And there is conflict, the most painful conflict I have ever witnessed on screen. Watch as his eyes shut in bliss upon Mozart's work, and as they scrunch up in petty glee upon a simple yawn. Oh, but he went to each and every one of those five performances. As he tricks Mozart into composing a masterpiece under his own name, he himself becomes entranced by the master at work. He formerly remarked that Mozart's music was as effortless as taking dictation from God, and here he can barely dictate the words coming from a bed-ridden Mozart. But still he is horrified as Constanze demands they cease composing, and lives the rest of his life in utter regret. In one conversation, he advises Mozart to end his operas with a bang, to inform the audience when to applaud. And yet, he knows in his heart that Mozart's music speaks for itself, and that the audience should know, as he so very much knows, when to put their hands together. And as I finished this film, I too knew this feeling.