The Book of Stars
Reviewed by Tina Huang
September 20, 2005

Very few people got to see Michael Miner’s sentimental tale of two sisters in the 1999 indie piece, The Book of Stars… and perhaps for a good reason. (Explanations anon.) Its direct release to tape almost ensured its anonymity, but the 2005 release of the score by Richard Gibbs just might compel listeners to (re)experience the film as well.

With a storyline about two orphaned siblings (Mary, a terminally ill teenager and Penny, a jaded, disenchanted, and destructive ex-poet), The Book of Stars is the type of mood-specific flick viewers love or loathe. But if you don’t mind the contrived-from-the-start maudlin setup, poignantly aimless character garnishes, and haphazard clue-dropping, there are always—as usual—plenty of worthwhile gems to be gleaned. Decent acting and a few symbolic bits notwithstanding, the music is ultimately the best element in the film.

It’s a fact that most independent works tend not to have the best sound or music quality due to budgeting restraints. Nonetheless, this hour-long album from La-La Land Records is testament that Gibbs managed to produce music equal (in quality) to any major studio-backed soundtrack. Prior to working with Miner, Gibbs was frequently pigeonholed as a comedic composer… and of course, that all changed when he was called in to work on the film. Not only was he able to collaborate intimately with the director, but he was given the opportunity to deviate from genre to “compose the score of (his) life”.

Although the Dead Can Dance and other temp score influences are prominent, Gibbs’s thoughtful and intuitive approach is what makes this album distinctive. He also has a surprisingly light, sensuous touch—somewhat reminiscent of Gabriel Yared—which is a boon to his work since he is able to take interesting risks. Chimes, a harp, winds, and woodwinds are regularly blended with buoyant synths for layer upon layer of stirring expressions. When they are not unfolding with the story, the strings transform into ever-shifting, telling backdrops; whether they are portraying the unease of souls (“Storm Warnings”), simulating the secluded stillness of space, or the lull of seaside reveries (“Tell Me About the Beach/Ticklefight/Solar Plunge”), they feed the imagination with vast, aural dreamscapes. And on top of these preternatural ambiances, several instruments are given memorable solos: the piano, for one, makes frequent appearances to offer refreshing moments of heartfelt tenderness. In “The Meeting/Refuge”, and for a moment in “Mary’s Dream”, the film’s Eastern European has his roots acknowledged when a mandolin merges with an accordion for a brief, but very eclectic, (Parisian) picturesque encounter. As heard in the “Main Title” and throughout the album, the Indian classical violin is Gibb’s musical embodiment of “soul-searching”; it’s a breathtaking aesthetic choice that becomes even more so when complemented by the violinist’s ethereal singing. The solos’ restless, undulating passages are deeply allegorical and expressive; an unadorned, drifting melody is its only line, and when combined with Gibbs’s symbiotic settings, the cues convey an enormous sense of tranquility and timeless spiritualism.

Nevertheless, the music is not quite “flawlessly married to the picture” as Miner states; in The Book of Stars, Gibbs does indeed weave a mystical, aural tapestry that suits the piece better than one could imagine, but it also alters the fundamental mood of the film. Without music, the scenes would linger more than they do, ultra-exposed dialogue would seem listless, and the plot would hitch on one too many disjointed points. Gibb’s composition does more than accompany the storyline; it builds up a near tangible, supportive entity that has the task of segueing fragments with ghostly, emotive vibes. By tapping into the core of all characters and bridging them to the world around them, he composes with an enduring insight that gives the film some unexpected depths.

To understand how his cues interact with the story, one only needs to feel. For instance, of all of the characters in the film, the anguish is experienced most keenly by the elder sister and guardian, Penny (played by Mary Stuart Masterson). Though weary and spiritually lost, she indulges her sister’s whims, dreams, and dalliances with good humor; her protectiveness even goes as far as becoming a working girl by night to compensate for rising medical costs. In short, it’s never revealed why exactly Penny has become so dead inside; it is, however, scripted that misery is her silent reality, and what scant few moments of joy (with her sister) are crushed by wave after wave of numbing routine and signs of the inevitable. (With so many open wounds and monumental loss en route, it’d be impossible not to see the amount of care and understanding needed to restore some balance to the picture.) The film’s focus may be on the close bond between the girls, but Gibbs’s score seems to be composed for none other than Penny. The arrangements come alive, almost as if personifying a presence, a wondrous, ever-present force; everyone else recognizes or experiences it despite their own troubles—especially Mary, yet it’s invisible to Penny because she refuses to let go and feel. And at times, the music seems to act as an incorporeal guardian for the tragic poet; attentive though unobtrusive, loving yet dispassionate, it possesses a strange longing to comfort as well as enlighten. A paradox in presentation, the music is mature, grounded, and complex... but also clear-cut in message, whimsical, and captivating; whether or not the actual subject is duality in its many forms, its haunting styles bring together every seemingly disparate element within The Book of Stars.

It’s no secret that the film is burdened by an excess of psychological and emotional baggage (with a great deal of both not shown), but the fact goes unacknowledged that the picture was improved somewhat with the addition of Richard Gibbs’s score. The composer obviously has the knack for providing his best material when accompanying on-screen visuals, e.g., Battlestar Galactica (2003), so judging the works as standalone endeavors is unfair. Without watching The Book of Stars, the music could seem tenuous, too capricious, or exotic at worst. Subsequently, scores such as this are best appreciated in the aftermath of the film. Much like in the picture, if realization can’t be achieved while trapped in confining conditions, it might be discovered in the freedom of isolation.

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