S*O*U*N*D* in M*A*S*H*

S*O*U*N*D*
*(some) *(overlapping) *(undertones) *(need) *(description)
In Robert Altman’s M*A*S*H*

Several bloodied bodies of wounded American soldiers fly through the sky, like airborne corpses, carried by helicopters to the nearest Mobile Army Security Hospital. Located three miles from the front line, this unit is inhabited by surgeons who utilize ironic humor as a defense mechanism against the madness of war. This is the setting for director Robert Altman’s watershed comedy M*A*S*H* (1970), a film that broke as many rules as its anti-establishment characters, in a no-holds-barred attempt to capture reality. With an anarchic audacity worthy of Hawkeye Pierce, Altman blatantly ignored the Classical Hollywood style of sound, particularly its showcasing of individual voices, its use of music to convey character emotions, and its inclusion of a narrator to both advance the narrative and ground it in reality. The film substituted these conventions with revolutionary sound techniques that constructed a stark portrait of realism, while subverting it with an attitude of defiant detachment. Therefore, the sound in M*A*S*H* directly reflects the psyche of its rebellious protagonists.

First of all, Altman thoroughly abandoned the idea of playing favoritism with sound. In the majority of Hollywood films prior to M*A*S*H*, only characters with scripted dialogue were audible. Extras were either directed to do mindless bits of background business, or create the illusion of ‘conversation’ by repeating nonsense words such as “hurumph.” Altman’s democratic approach to filmmaking, of allowing all actors to have an equal part in creating the story, led him to obliterate this rule by supplying every performer in a given scene with a microphone. The admittance of overlapping, and occasionally indeterminable, dialogue thus became a trademark of Altman’s work, and it allows every verbal exchange in M*A*S*H* to acquire the documentary-style authenticity of an overheard conversation.

Sometimes this technique helps in better establishing character dynamics. The very first moment of dialogue occurs when Lt. Col. Henry Blake (Roger Bowen) barks out orders to Cpl. Radar (Gary Burghoff). Their voices overlap not to provide the film’s opening with a cheap stunt, but to establish the fact that Radar is infinitely more knowledgeable and quick-witted than Blake, and can both predict and articulate every order before they leave the Colonel’s mouth. This also establishes the oppressively repetitive atmosphere of the setting, where nothing occurs but the same hellish routine of dealing with the dead. Radar’s continuous interruption of Blake carries with it an attitude of “been there, heard that,” and is in itself a humorous form of defiance. Overlapping dialogue also allows every performer to acquire an unrehearsed spontaneity that allows them to embody, instead of portray, their characters. This makes every person in M*A*S*H* seem like a fully realized human being, including anesthesiologist Ugly John (Carl Gottlieb), who tells Hawkeye (Donald Sutherland) that he’ll be “passing gas” for him. These little details give the characters a humanity that transcends any scripted line.

Furthermore, Altman’s admittance of indeterminable dialogue also creates a sense of realism in character interactions. Unlike Hollywood films that used a “presence” track to include audible but unobtrusive location atmosphere under the dominant dialogue, Altman allows the presence in M*A*S*H* to sometimes be as loud as the dialogue. Most indoor locations in the unit have little to no privacy from the outside world, as army jeeps and helicopter whiz by. The film’s characters (as well as the audience) are thus never provided a total escape from the horrors of the location. Sometimes this technique is used thematically, such as when Maj. O’Houlihan (Sandy Kellerman) makes her grand entrance, stepping off a helicopter with a salute and a smile. Her naïve outlook on war is symbolized by the dominant sound of the helicopter, which drowns out any war sounds around her, thus making her initially oblivious to her gritty surroundings. An absence of audible dialogue can also be used for comic effect, such as during the climactic football game, when someone on the opposing team provokes a M*A*S*H* player by calling him a racial slur. When he gets his revenge on the antagonist player, his words are muted, thus leaving them to the imagination of the audience, and making the enraged reaction of his enemy all the more hilarious. There are even moments when sounds speak more volumes than words, such as Hawkeye’s signature whistle, that conveys countless emotions and attitudes throughout the course of the film.

Second of all, Altman also did away with the Hollywood convention of using music to convey character emotions. In usual mainstream fare, the music would be happy when the characters were happy, or swell up emotionally during a romantic sequence. While the technique of overlapping/indeterminable dialogue aided in establishing realism, Altman’s use of music was the first of two sound techniques that subverted believability with an ironic eye. Instead of conveying character emotions, the music usually conveys self-conscious cinematic conventions. When Hawkeye and Trapper John (Elliot Gould) are captured by police, the music swells into exaggerated suspenseful alarm. Yet both characters remain unflappably calm, and eventually make a casual escape. Another example of this technique occurs when Hawkeye asks Lt. Dish (Jo Ann Pflug) to have sex with an unconscious Capt. Painless (John Schuck), to relieve him of his homosexual impulses. The stated awkwardness of the characters is not at all expressed by the music, which swells with nearly operatic romantic ecstasy. Yet the most famous example of this happens during Hawkeye’s entrance, as a studio-imposed scroll (describing the film’s Korean War setting, which failed at erasing Vietnam parallels) is accompanied by a score drooling with over-the-top patriotism. This music is sharply juxtaposed with the inglorious carnage and lack of heroism in the footage.

By joining together realistic footage with wildly artificial music, the film puts the audience into the amused but uneasy mindset of the characters. The shocking opening, depicting gory bodies transported to the M*A*S*H* unit, is scored with the alternatively upbeat and melancholy song “Suicide is Painless”, which is also performed live (and happily) during the mock-suicide of (who else?) Capt. Painless. The message here seems to be that suicide would be painless for these miserable surgeons, who use humor as their only means of escape. This is also mirrored by the violent football game accompanied by comical music that sounds like a cross between an out-of-control circus, and an adolescent marching band. A Japanese radio station, played over various speakers in the unit, also injects ironic humor into key moments, such as when “It’s time to say sayonara” is sung over the forced exit of prig Maj. Burns (Robert Duvall). “Shoeshine Boy” is played twice, during two interruptions of Hawkeye, one in which he’s called to work, another in which he’s called home.

Finally, perhaps the biggest stroke of genius in the sound of M*A*S*H* is its unconventional use of a narrator. Normally, a Hollywood film would utilize a narrator to both advance the film’s narrative and ground the plot in a historical or cultural reality. This narrator was usually the supreme voice of authority, had a god’s eye-perspective of each character’s psyche, and provided a comfortable voice of wisdom to the audience, thus diffusing the tension of dramatic scenes – a post-M*A*S*H* example of this would be the insufferable Barry Lyndon (1975). Altman’s much-talked-about use of an authoritative voice over speakers in the M*A*S*H* unit broke all of the preceding Hollywood conventions. It was also the second of Altman’s sound techniques to cast a humorously ironic eye on the ‘reality’ his film establishes. Until the very end, the speaker in M*A*S*H* seems totally oblivious to the plot being shown to the audience, and thus becomes a character itself. Its voice of authority can hardly be thought of as infallible, since it routinely stutters, mispronounces words, and often ends with the order “please disregard the last transmission.” The unprofessional nature of the speaker makes it even easier for the soldiers to disregard its banning of porn and marijuana. In the same vein of the film’s ironic music, the speaker often advertises escapist war pictures (one of which is labeled “The Biggest Parade of Laughs of World War Two”) that contradict the reality of the film it’s in. The final moments of M*A*S*H* have the speaker advertise the film the audience has just seen, thus inviting the viewer to discard the film’s events with the same detachment of the characters.

In the end, M*A*S*H* is a triumphant depiction of war’s absurdity, with its own built-in defense mechanism. Yet beyond its unconventional sound techniques of muddled dialogue, ironic music, and a seemingly clueless narrator, Altman’s film asks inherent questions about the nature of reality that he explored in his next film Brewster McCloud (1971). To what extent do we, the human race, truly experience life for what it is, and how do we choose to ignore life’s complexities and ambiguities in order to preserve our own sanity? Why is it necessary for us, like the characters, to laugh that we may not cry? Watching the films of Robert Altman, I sometimes feel like Maj. O’Houlihan, a trained optimist adrift in a chaotic world beyond easy comprehension. Altman’s ironic humor promises no safety from the overwhelming reality of his films.