Scoring the Silence - Part 1

Scoring the Silence – Part 1:
A New Live Soundtrack for The Hands of Orlac

Poster from the premiere of Orlac’s Hände (original German title), Berlin, Germany, on 24 September 1924.

In 2009, I attended a screening of the silent horror classic Nosferatu, presented by the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra performing Hans Erdmann’s original 1922 score. Music historian and conductor Gillian Anderson had painstakingly reconstructed the music after the original was lost in a copyright dispute brought by Bram Stoker’s estate.

That night had a profound impact on me in two ways:

I realized how ideal silent film is for live orchestral music. These films invite a vivid, almost operatic kind of musical interaction. The presence of the orchestra created a visceral tangibility to the experience. At times during Nosferatu, it felt as though the film was accompanying the orchestra—not the other way around.
I also recognized the limitations of early silent film scores. As admirable as Anderson’s resurrection of Erdmann’s music was, the score itself lacked the emotional complexity modern audiences expect. Composers of the era didn’t benefit from later cinematic traditions. Erdmann had never heard Bernard Herrmann’s psychological intricacy, John Carpenter’s minimalist dread, or the effective use of Ligeti and Bartók in Kubrick’s films.

I once read that at the first screening of Jaws—before John Williams’ now-iconic score was added—the audience laughed. The shark looked fake. But at the next screening, with music, people were terrified. Some even became nauseated. The shark looked real. Music doesn’t just shape how we feel; it shapes what we see. We don’t watch with our eyes—we see with our hearts.

Often cited as one of the greatest films of all time, Jaws owes much of its success to the brilliant score by John Williams. One only needs to play the first two notes to create instant recognition in anyone who hears them.

Silent films crave that same transformation. Their exaggerated acting styles can feel distant or surreal—until music pulls us in. Suddenly, the emotions are real. We care. We connect. That night, a seed was planted: I wanted to compose a new score for a silent film.

Choosing the film

I knew this would be a major project—one that would consume months of work. Choosing the right film was crucial. I wanted to devote that effort to a movie that truly yearned for music and would be deeply satisfying to score. I needed a film I could connect with, both emotionally and compositionally.

I was drawn to the horror and thriller genres—ones that invite musical boldness. Dissonance, unconventional orchestration, and avant-garde textures are not only acceptable—they're welcome. These films are often harrowing and dramatic, yet they also contain moments of intimacy, courage, and compassion. Their emotional arcs stretch from hope to despair, offering the broadest possible canvas for musical expression.

I researched extensively. Nosferatu was tempting, but I wanted to explore further. Many “best of” lists pointed me toward other masterpieces: The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The Phantom of the Opera… but one stood out above all: The Hands of Orlac.

Why The Hands of Orlac?

It had everything I hoped for in a silent classic: psychological intensity, emotional depth, and—crucially—a direct link to music. Paul Orlac, the protagonist, is a concert pianist. His musical identity is central to the film’s emotional power. A devastating injury takes away his ability to perform, shaking him to his core.

The film’s titular protagonist, concert pianist Paul Orlac, reuniting with his beloved piano. Will he be able to play again? The film gives space for the actor to express his devotion to being a musician.

I could relate. In my early 20s, I faced physical issues that threatened to end my own playing career. A musician is, in large part, an athlete, relying on their body to function well under the strain of performing—often having to contort themselves to hold their instrument and execute dexterous, repetitive gestures. With the help of the Alexander Technique, rest, and lifestyle changes, I recovered. Orlac isn’t so lucky—and the finality of his fate struck a personal chord.

Another consideration was tone. I didn’t want a film that relied on gore. I wanted something eerie and suspenseful—perfect for Halloween night—without being excessive. Orlac delivers. It’s chilling without being brutal.

The acting is exceptional. Conrad Veidt, one of the greats of Weimar cinema, gives a mesmerizing performance as Paul Orlac. His hands—central to the plot—become symbols of both torment and tenderness. His descent into despair, and glimmer of redemption, is both harrowing and empathetic. Veidt's ability to evoke terror and sympathy without speaking was a defining feature of his acting style and cemented his place in the pantheon of silent film stars.

Orlac’s hands play a starring role, often framed prominently.

Also notable is the exceptional character acting of Yvonne, Orlac’s wife, played by Alexandra Sorina. The relationship between her and Orlac is tender and poignant. She’s the film’s emotional anchor: compassionate, resilient, quietly heroic. I just love her character in this film.

Beyond horror, it’s also a mystery, a romance, and a psychological study. It explores themes of identity, fear, and the supernatural, drawing on the anxieties of the post–World War I era. It also reflects the growing fascination with the power of science and technology to both heal and harm—a central motif in many films of the period. The striking visual style, with its gothic set designs and shadowy lighting, further enhances the unsettling tone of the film, making it a classic of early horror cinema and an excellent example of German Expressionism.

Composing the Score

On October 8th (time TBA), at the Hyland Theatre, I will be presenting Scoring the Silence: Part 2 – Composing the Music. It will include examples of the music, played both on screen and live by YAPCA students and faculty.

A New Experience for a Timeless Film

The Hands of Orlac remains an important piece of cinema history, notable for its exploration of psychological horror, innovative use of visual techniques, and Conrad Veidt’s remarkable talent for portraying complex, tortured characters. It continues to captivate audiences today, nearly a century after its release.

When paired with bold, expressive music, it becomes more than a historical artifact. It becomes alive. I’m thrilled to share this new score for The Hands of Orlac with a live audience—bringing this century-old masterpiece into the present, with all the emotional power it deserves.