"Quartet": music, memory and the joy of a second act

Our latest Film Group meeting reflected on Dustin Hoffman’s 2012 film Quartet, a gentle, funny and moving exploration of ageing, friendship and forgiveness. What began as a conversation about a charming British comedy-drama soon became something much richer: a reflection on the power of music to shape our lives, revive memories and bring us together.

Introducing Quartet, Mark explained that he had deliberately chosen something a little lighter for this meeting (the alternative was rather more traumatic) – and the gentler choice proved to be a popular one.

Set in Beecham House, a retirement home for former professional musicians, Quartet brings together an iconic cast, with Maggie Smith, Tom Courtenay, Billy Connolly and Pauline Collins in the lead roles and a comic cameo from Michael Gambon.

The residents are preparing for their annual concert to celebrate Verdi's birthday, an event made all the more urgent by the need to raise funds to save the home. The arrival of the celebrated soprano Jean Horton (Maggie Smith) disrupts the established order. Her former husband Reg (Tom Courtenay) has never forgiven her for an infidelity during their brief marriage, while the possibility of reuniting their once-famous quartet brings old rivalries, insecurities and affections bubbling to the surface.

Mark's introduction gave us a fascinating insight into the film's background, particularly its writer, Ronald Harwood, whose lifelong involvement with theatre and music informed so much of the story. Harwood also wrote The Dresser, starring Albert Finney and Tom Courtenay in its 1983 film version – which promptly earned a place on our growing list of films to watch.

Beecham House takes its name from the celebrated British conductor Sir Thomas Beecham, whose famously irreverent remarks included one to a cellist: “You have an instrument of great beauty between your legs, don’t scratch it!” It was an appropriate introduction to a film in which high musical culture and distinctly earthy humour frequently collide.

This is a film in which music takes centre stage. As Sally observed, nobody in Beecham House can walk into a room without encountering a string quartet! Mark identified around thirty individual pieces and arrangements, classical compositions and contemporary choices, plus original music accompanying moments such as Wilf's (Billy Connolly’s) stately descent on the stairlift.

Many of the supporting performers were retired professional musicians, adding a delightful authenticity. Poignantly, the closing credits include photographs of the musicians in their performing heyday alongside their present-day selves.

One of the intriguing questions was how Dustin Hoffman came to direct such a quintessentially British film. It certainly felt British in its humour, eccentricity and understated emotional moments; it could almost have been directed by Richard Curtis. Yet there was considerable admiration for Hoffman's sensitivity towards his cast – though that may not have been entirely reciprocated as Michael Gambon gave short shrift to Hoffman’s obsession with Method acting: “Why not simply act?”.

Billy Connolly's comic timing was widely admired. His Wilf brings energy and irreverence to the film, contrasting beautifully with the more restrained performances around him. Aspects of Wilf's behaviour are uncomfortable, however. Some of his sexual jokes are unsettling, particularly at the beginning, and it’s surprising that the doctor (Sheridan Smith) does not challenge him more directly. The film later suggests that his stroke has affected his inhibitions, and we reflected on the considerable tolerance shown by those around him.

There was much amusement at the extraordinary egos on display at Beecham House. These former stars have lost none of their sense of status. Even the question of who gets to sit at the table by the window is governed by an unspoken pecking order. Jean's arrival causes a stir not only because of her reputation, but because everyone remembers the hierarchy of their performing days.

The rivalry between singers is wonderfully captured (nine curtain calls for Reg, twelve for Jean) but beneath the vanity these seemingly formidable divas are often deeply fragile. Jean, in particular, is terrified of performing again because she knows her voice can no longer be what it once was.

The relationship between Jean and Reg prompted discussion. Reg has never forgiven Jean for her infidelity, and we wondered why he had held onto his hurt for so long. Perhaps he had loved only her, while her career had always come first? It raised questions about the sacrifices professional musicians make: Jean had chosen her career over the possibility of a more conventional shared life, the two seemingly incompatible. Tragically, Reg’s career was then reduced as he refused opportunities to avoid working with Jean.

It is painful, then, to realise that Jean – having prioritised her career and having achieved such acclaim as a performer – now finds herself financially diminished and dependent on the generosity of others. The ovation she receives from the residents on entering Beecham House is a deeply touching moment: whatever she has lost, her fellow musicians still recognise the artist she once was.

Eventually, Jean agrees to perform, prompted perhaps by the unbearable thought that her lifelong rival will take her place. Bill’s more generous interpretation suggested that Harwood had constructed the film around reconciliation and forgiveness and that the final performance is not simply about saving Beecham House, it is about allowing people to release old grievances and find their way back to one another. In that sense, Quartet is a deeply romantic film, even if its romance arrives decades later than anyone might have expected.

Ultimately, though, the power of music is what shines through. The performance rejuvenates all the artistes, who throw away their walking sticks as they go on stage – becoming not younger but enlivened once more.

This opened up a fascinating conversation about the therapeutic and healing power of music: whether for people living with dementia or children with challenging needs, music can reach them when other approaches fail.

And music has the power to bridge divides. The residents have few family members around them – presumably because many have sacrificed family life in pursuit of their art – but their shared passion, and their common need to continue to express themselves through music, unites them. Beecham House is full of quarrels, rivalries and difficult personalities, but also affection, loyalty and shared history. Its residents understand one another in ways that outsiders perhaps cannot.

The film also offers glimpses of music connecting generations. We particularly enjoyed the scene in which Reg talks with young people about opera and rap, discovering common ground between musical traditions that seem worlds apart.

Perhaps the film's greatest achievement is that it refuses to see old age simply as a period of decline. Its characters remain passionate, competitive, flirtatious, difficult, vulnerable and creative. They still want to be heard, appreciated and loved.

And although their voices may no longer be what they were, they still have something to contribute.