CHALLENGING THE PERCEPTION OF EVGENY GALPERINE: Music, the Search for Meaning, and Luc Besson
Evgeny Galperine. Photo by Craig McDean / kcrw.com
A STAR BEHIND THE SCREEN
On the eve of the release of the «intelligent» Hollywood blockbuster Kraven the Hunter — the sixth installment in the Spider-Man Universe franchise — film critic Andrei Alferov sat down with one of the leading contemporary French film composers, Evgeny Galperine . Their conversation explored the nature of film music, Galperine’s childhood in Kyiv, his experiences with antisemitism, and the lifesaving role of cinema in his life. Topics included finding the keys to others’ cinematic stories, Luc Besson’s complex personality, the frozen sexuality in the Emmanuelle remake, Hollywood’s intellectual blockbusters and series, and the maturity of a film composer.
A.A.: Let me start our conversation with the nature of film music. From your perspective, what defines its essence? Is it simply about conveying a character’s emotional state, or is there something more to it?
E.G.: It can certainly involve conveying a character’s emotional state, the director’s vision, or the overall atmosphere of the story. Music can also express the identity of the film and its modernity. These are just a few of its potential roles, but there are several others, no less significant.
A.A.: Where does your impulse come from? What inspires you to write music for someone else’s artistic creation?
E.G.: Probably my love for cinema, despite not feeling I have the talent to be a director. Writing music is the only way I can participate in the filmmaking process.
A.A.: Could you say that you have your cinematography?
E.G.: That sounds beautiful, but it’s more about the process of participating in the creation of an artistic work. On one hand, you’re subject to the director’s vision and the style of their film. On the other hand, you have a great deal of freedom.
As an artist, this process fascinates and satisfies me because music in a film is like a separate character. It’s not entirely under the director’s control, unlike the actors, screenwriter, or cinematographer. The director doesn’t have the same level of authority over music.
Music is the freest element in cinema. That’s why being a film composer is probably one of the most exciting roles, even if it’s not the most visible one.
A.A.: What is it like to compose music as a duo, even with your brother (Alexander Galperine — Evgeny’s younger brother and frequent collaborator — Ed.)?
E.G.: Sasha is my younger brother.
We grew up together, shared similar tastes, and understood each other perfectly without words. Each of us has our strengths, and we complement each other in our work. Additionally, working as a duo significantly speeds up the process, and speed is a huge advantage.
But there are downsides. Sometimes, a very fragile idea, which could have grown into something powerful, gets cut off too quickly because one of us dismisses it too soon. That’s probably the main disadvantage of working together. That’s why we often work separately. Each of us develops their ideas in their studio, and then we meet to discuss or finish everything together.
A.A.: You’ve been involved in music since the age of 10 because you grew up in a musical family…
E.G.: Children raised in musical families usually start learning music at the age of 5 or 6. However, my childhood was different: I was often ill, and when I lived in Kyiv, I spent up to six months a year in hospitals due to asthma. As a result, I started music «unforgivably late».
For comparison, if a violinist or pianist begins learning their instrument at 10, it almost guarantees they will remain an amateur.
A.A.: I know a great contemporary director who was drawn to filmmaking because of asthma. During long bouts of illness, left alone, he would envision films that he later brought to life. Interestingly, life has already connected you with this filmmaker — you haven’t worked together yet, but perhaps that’s still ahead.
E.G.: Who is it?
A.A.: Martin Scorsese.
E.G.: I thought so. You know, illness is always a form of solitude. The hours, days, and sometimes months you spend in a hospital or in bed inevitably leave you alone with yourself. Naturally, the mind craves some kind of nourishment, and in such circumstances, new ideas often emerge — especially in those times when there were no mobile phones or other distractions.
A.A.: What stands out to you about those months spent in the hospital battling asthma attacks? What did you think about during those moments? What emotions overwhelmed you? And most importantly — what from that experience became part of your creative toolkit?
E.G.: You’re the first to ask me that. I think the strongest emotion I felt back then was loneliness. It was so profound that it came with a constant sense that something was wrong with me, that I wasn’t like everyone else. That, of course, impacted my self-confidence.
Perhaps that became the foundation for the creative drive that manifested later. Creativity, as I see it, is a way to cope with one’s loneliness and, perhaps, help someone else deal with theirs. It’s a kind of compensation for the lack of something essential — like love, particularly parental love.
A.A.: When did cinema enter your life?
E.G.: Very early. Initially, it was during my early childhood when we watched whatever was on television in the USSR. But my true connection to cinema emerged around the age of 14 or 15, during a pivotal period in my life.
At the time, we lived in Moscow, having moved from Kyiv because my father was invited to work as the musical director of the Hermitage Theater. We were given an apartment in a tough, outlying district called Bibirevo, populated by internal migrants. It was an environment where hatred toward all «non-Russians» was the norm, and Jews were especially despised.
One day, my classmates stole the class register and found out I was Jewish. They began to hunt me. To escape constant bullying and fights, I started skipping school, hiding in movie theaters.
The selection of films was limited, so I ended up watching the same movies multiple times. But cinema became my refuge, my bunker. I used money stolen from my parents or their friends during dinner parties to buy tickets. That’s how I fell in love with cinema — it sheltered me and gave me a sense of safety.
A.A.: Do you remember the moment when you first noticed music as an element?
E.G.: That happened later. It wasn’t until I was 18, after we moved to France, that I began to sense music as an element. At that time, cinema and television became more than just entertainment—they were tools for learning the language.
Interestingly, cinema played a key role in my life several times, not directly related to entertainment. In Moscow, it was my refuge, a place where I could escape the harsh reality. In France, it became a tool for adaptation: first helping me learn French, and later, through American TV series, English as well.
So I came to see cinema quite early as an old friend who is always there and comes to the rescue.
A.A.: How does your work on music begin? With an idea or a sound?
E.G.: It begins with trying to find a certain vibration, idea, or emotion that I believe should be in the film.
A.A.: What emotion or idea did you discover in Andrey Zvyagintsev’s drama Loveless?
E.G.: The idea was to create something astonishing. I started by finding the tone of a prepared piano and wrote music based solely on the dynamics, rhythm, and energy of a single chord, a single note. Later, I developed a metaphor: the parents lose their child, and all the problems that tore their world apart fade into the background.
All that remains is the obsessive thought of finding their missing son. That single note, pulsing with frantic rhythm, became the symbol of this obsession. Even when the music expands and becomes more complex toward the end, it still grows out of that one note, one chord. Finding that tone, I built the music around this minimalist concept.
A.A.: What about The Family (Malavita, a 2013 crime comedy by Luc Besson) that mocks crime genre clichés?
E.G.: For The Family, we came up with a playful tango. At the time, we were still relatively unknown, and we were invited to participate in a competition organized by Luc Besson, alongside several other composers, including his longtime collaborator Éric Serra (Léon, The Fifth Element, Joan of Arc).
We hadn’t read the script or spoken with Luc, but we sensed an irony in the way the scenes were shot, in the colors, and in the staging. It became clear to us that for the audience to immediately understand that this wasn’t a serious gangster film but a caricature of the genre, the music needed to be both dangerous and humorous.
Surprisingly, this was spot on, as all the other contestants had composed serious music.
A.A.: What was it like working with Luc Besson? I’ve heard stories about trips to Normandy for pastries at his mother’s house…
E.G.: When we worked on The Family (Malavita), Luc Besson was at the height of his fame. The casting alone — Robert De Niro, Michelle Pfeiffer, Tommy Lee Jones — and the large budget speak to that. He owned a massive film studio in Normandy, a true Hollywood-style factory. There’s still nothing like it in France today. It was an entire cinematic empire.
The main building of the studio was impressive: spacious hallways, a huge screening room, and walls adorned with posters of Orson Welles’ films. It all seemed to emphasize that Besson saw himself as Welles’ equal. And indeed, like Welles, he became famous very early and always remained somewhat outside the system.
The period working on The Family was a unique experience. Besson’s mother looked after my brother and me — an energetic woman who cooked for us, organized our routines, and even took us quad-biking through the woods at such speed that we nearly fell off once. We stayed at the studio for several days at a time, living and working there. The atmosphere was magical.
The studio grounds were vast, with film sets in constant operation and a castle where Besson lived with his wife and children. He had originally bought the castle for Milla Jovovich, marking the beginning of the studio’s story.
Today, none of that remains — the empire and Besson’s former glory are gone. After the failure of Valerian, he lost everything, including EuropaCorp, which he had to sell to American buyers. But I’m glad I got to be part of that era and witness this majestic empire at its peak.
Working with Besson wasn’t easy. It was challenging to find common ground. He’s a man of moods — reserved, formal, and with a habit of testing people, sometimes crossing personal boundaries.
A.A.: What do you mean by crossing personal boundaries?
E.G.: Our first working meeting with Besson happened when he had a cast on his leg after an accident. His mood matched the situation: passive-aggressive and intimidating to everyone around him. I remember the editor was so nervous that sweat was dripping onto the floor.
Besson spoke to me curtly, constantly interrupting. At one point, he wanted to show me something but refused to entertain any questions. I needed to ask questions to understand the direction of the work. He snapped, «Evgeny, I don’t want to hear anything. I ask a question, and you answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Got it? No additional questions».
I replied, «Luc, if you just wanted me to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ you didn’t need to bring me here. You could have sent a letter or left a voicemail, and I would have followed the instructions. But if you want collaboration and not a boot camp, let me ask questions, because that’s how I work».
There was a tense pause. The editor seemed braced for disaster — sweat now pouring like a stream. But instead of a blowup, Besson smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and even said something kind. After that, he suggested I take studio-paid taxis to save time on trips to meetings. Meanwhile, he was actively using a company helicopter, which amused the industry.
«People», Besson said, «don’t understand that my time is expensive. These flights save me time, and therefore, money for the studio».
From that point on, our work went smoothly. While our relationship didn’t become friendly, it was cordial. Besson liked almost everything my brother and I did. His feedback was concise, and his words economical, which made this collaboration one of the best formats for us.
A.A.: When working on a film, at what point do you realize the work is complete, that you’ve written exactly the amount of music needed?
E.G.: The most important moment is when you find the key and suddenly see how the visuals, music, and sound merge into a unified whole. They begin working together in such a way that the music sometimes replaces parts of the dialogue and no longer exists separately.
A.A.: How do you know that? Surely there have been instances where you wrote music, the director seemingly approved it, but you still felt they didn’t like it. In the end, you redid everything.
E.G.: You’re referring to the case with Andrey Zvyagintsev and the first musical themes I sent him for Loveless. At the time, I was composing without having seen the film or read the script, relying only on a short synopsis, just a few lines.
A week after sending those themes, I realized they were entirely wrong. I could feel that this music was meant for a different movie, not for Andrey’s. I redid everything from scratch and eventually found exactly what was needed.
An interesting experience was with the series Becoming Karl Lagerfeld (2024). Sasha and I composed the music in advance, based only on the script and photos from the set, as we hadn’t seen the film yet. We decided to create an unexpected, mockingly baroque theme, even singing it ourselves with intentionally amateurish voices.
The idea was that Lagerfeld is the emperor of fashion. So we mixed baroque instruments with modern ones and replaced classical baroque vocals with something ironic and deliberately imperfect. The theme worked.
That’s the key — the search for it is the composer’s task.
A.A.: Today, TV series are the new novelistic form of modern cinema. Besides Lagerfeld, you’ve worked on projects like Black Baron (a French crime series, 2016–2020) and Scenes from a Marriage. However, your biggest success has been Baby Reindeer (2024). How did you become part of this project?
E.G.: Completely unexpectedly. We were approached by a British production company that had to dismiss their composer after a year of unproductive work. At the rough cut stage, they were using temp tracks, many of which consisted of our previously composed pieces, including music from Loveless and Scenes from a Marriage. So, they naturally thought of us.
Of course, they called us at the very last moment — just two months before the project deadline. At the time, we were already committed to another project, but after reading the scripts for the first two episodes, we realized this was something truly unique. The story is told by a character who has personally experienced the events (the series is an adaptation of Richard Gadd’s autobiographical one-man show, with Gadd playing himself — editor’s note).
Moreover, the script was brilliantly written. We immediately understood that turning down such a project would have been a crime. At that point, no one could have imagined the series would reach 100 million viewers — it seemed like something niche.
Sasha and I decided it was worth sacrificing sleep for a project like this. We worked through the nights, but it was absolutely worth it.
A.A.: Are you surprised that this is the second project in recent years — after Joker — to spark cult interest by exploring the theme of the «little person» desperately striving to be heard and seen?
E.G.: I don’t think Baby Reindeer is primarily about the story of a «little person». For me, the series is about someone navigating an era of overwhelming information, personal revelations, psychological confessions, shifts in orientations, changes in gender identity, and a relentless search for self.
It resonated with so many people because the protagonist shares their extraordinary experiences with such sincerity and detail that it feels deeply personal to a wide audience. It’s not just a story about finding oneself or becoming someone new. Although you’re right, that theme is present as well.
From my perspective, Baby Reindeer is primarily the story of someone trying to piece themselves back together after experiencing catastrophic and traumatic events. Viewers felt as though they were having an intimate conversation with someone close, someone sharing their deepest, most personal experiences.
Andrey Zvyagintsev described this phenomenon as «the new sincerity». I think the series helped many people feel, even briefly, a little less alone.
A.A.: From TV series, I’d like to shift to another striking pop culture phenomenon — comics, which have practically become the foundation of modern drama in recent years. You recently completed work on the score for Kraven the Hunter, an adaptation of the Marvel comic produced by Columbia Pictures. Are there specific rules for working with music in such large-scale, industrial filmmaking?
E.G.: The fact that Sasha and I ended up being part of this project is remarkable in itself — it shows that the traditionally insular studio system, which used to recruit only its own, has started to crack (laughs).
The «culprit» was director J.C. Chandor, who himself transitioned to big Hollywood from auteur cinema (Margin Call, 2011; All Is Lost, 2013). His intellect, resourcefulness, and unique perspective caught the attention of the studio, which traditionally favored «solid craftsmen» as assembly-line workers for blockbuster production.
J.C. wanted to do something special with Marvel, something unlike the standard Hollywood product. The studio agreed to his ideas after the project hit a dead end. The release was postponed multiple times, editors were swapped, character storylines were cut to focus solely on action, and then reinstated again.
Eventually, after a test screening where viewers complained that the film felt too short, confusing, and lacked emotional resonance with the characters, the producers relented. Around the same time, they faced a box-office flop with another comic-book project and decided to give J.C. full creative control.
He edited the film the way he envisioned it, and the results pleased everyone. However, the original music — primarily written for action sequences — no longer fit the re-edited version of the film. That’s when he brought us on board.
Our task was to write something «human» — a score that reflected the inner lives and emotional arcs of the characters rather than just complementing the dynamic action scenes.
A.A.: The core of the story revolves around the conflict between a father and son, played by Russell Crowe and Aaron Taylor-Johnson…
E.G.: Yes, at the heart of the narrative is the father and his two sons. The father, an oppressive and despicable Russian mobster, embodies immorality and brutality. Under his reign, the mother, essentially trapped in a massive home, succumbs to despair and takes her own life.
Young Kraven, named Sergei, cannot forgive himself for her death and places all the blame on his father. As he grows up, he strives to become as different from his father as possible. Yet, in the end, he becomes even worse, transforming into one of the principal villains in the Marvel Universe and a rival to Spider-Man.
After capturing Spider-Man, Sergei realizes that his years of hunting him were driven by a false purpose.
From the start, J.C. asked us to bring depth to the musical score, highlighting the psychology, emotions, and tragedy of the characters. Consequently, only the action sequences retained the music from the previous composer. Our focus was on the characters and their inner worlds to enhance the dramatic aspects of the film.
A.A.: What did you draw upon for inspiration?
E.G.: Primarily, the family theme, which was initially obscured by overly generic music. We decided to explore modern sonic palettes, moving away from traditional orchestral music in favor of unique timbres and minimalism. This was a case where the simplest means created the strongest emotional impact.
We began by crafting themes for the main characters. For the authoritarian father, we created an oppressive, suffocating musical theme. For the two brothers, who grow up under his tyranny and later become Marvel villains, we sought sounds and notes that could evoke empathy from the audience — particularly in those few on-screen moments when they’re still young and human before the narrative jumps 15 years forward and they’re portrayed by different actors.
The connection between their childhood and adult selves is sustained through the music.
I wanted these musical motifs to make the characters instantly recognizable, even in the future, after their transformation is complete. We discovered unusual instruments with distinctive timbres, creating a subconscious and conscious connection for the audience.
This approach was inspired by the great Ennio Morricone. For him, the timbre of an instrument often mattered more than the melody itself. His use of whistling, gunshots, and coyote howls in his «spaghetti western» scores were groundbreaking innovations.
The brothers’ theme was performed on the Cristal Baschet, an extraordinary French instrument. It features glass rods that are played with wet hands, producing a soft, gliding sound reminiscent of an organ but with a unique, trembling texture.
The father’s theme is carried by the contrabassoon — an instrument with a deep, hissing tone. The musical motif is built on just two or three notes, but the key lies in the pauses between phrases. These pauses create tension and an air of unpredictability: the audience doesn’t know what’s coming next, keeping them on edge in suspense.
It’s important to understand that when music plays continuously, no matter how intense or romantic, it creates a sense of comfort and predictability. Pauses disrupt that feeling and add dramatic weight.
To emphasize the father’s Russian heritage, we incorporated the melody of an old folk tune, Zhnyte moi zhnei («Reap, my reapers»). This Pskov-region song could date back to the 18th century or even earlier. We first heard it through a composer friend, Alexei Kantsir, and were deeply struck by it. It’s not just a Russian melody but pan-Slavic in its ancientness, so much so that its lyrics were almost unintelligible.
We used this melody as the foundation for one of the protagonist’s themes to highlight his ethnic roots and his connection to his late mother. Her principles guide how he lives, striving to be unlike his father. Yet, in the end, he becomes even worse, turning into a true villain.
A.A.: And how is this conveyed in the music?
E.G.: Quite simply, the father’s theme, heard multiple times throughout the film, transforms and evolves in the finale into the son’s theme. We used a variation that retains recognizable elements of the father’s theme, but it’s already new music.
A.A.: That’s practically The Godfather — Michael Corleone, trying to avoid the family business, ends up taking Don Vito’s place…
E.G.: Absolutely, there’s a parallel here. But this is entertainment cinema, not an auteur piece like Coppola’s The Godfather. Still, the story is powerful. Even if you strip away the nuances and depth that Coppola achieved, it resonates emotionally.
Especially because it’s performed by an incredible cast. Russell Crowe alone is a standout.
A. A.: What have you come to understand about the nature of female sexuality while working on the remake of the iconic film Emmanuelle (2024), with its sophisticated, fragile, and teasing music?
E. G.: It was an ode to liberated female sexuality. But in the case of the Emmanuelle remake, we faced the challenge of not only the cult status of the original film but also the iconic music you mentioned. That «teasing» melody (laughs) truly became a part of popular culture and remains etched in the memory of generations.
I remember one of the producers approaching me at a party even before filming began, saying, «You need to find a melody that becomes as popular as the one in the original film», I tried to explain that perhaps our goals would be entirely different, but he wouldn’t listen.
In truth, the Emmanuelle remake carries a completely different message. If the original with Sylvia Kristel is seduced and liberated, the new film is, on the contrary, about the process of repression. It’s a story about how people, entirely focused on themselves, their careers, and their well-being, lose the ability not only to form close relationships but even to enjoy sex, which could have provided an escape.
The protagonist is a woman who has everything but is utterly incapable of feeling pleasure, including sexual pleasure. And the male partner in her story suffers from the same «illness» — apathy, impotence. In my view, it’s a brilliant reflection of today’s world.
Finding a musical solution for such material wasn’t easy. At first, I drew inspiration from the setting of a bizarre hotel reminiscent of a parallel world in the tradition of David Lynch, where its inhabitants engage in absurd and unsettling debauchery. But it soon became clear that the old cinematic codes no longer worked.
That’s when the motif of frozen female sexuality emerged — the music expresses what she longs for: sensuality, emotion, and trembling anticipation. All of this is present in the music. A desire for awakening.
A. A.: Does the release of your solo album Theory of Becoming (2022) mean that working on film scores doesn’t give you enough creative freedom?
E. G.: Probably, yes. When you spend your whole life composing music for other people’s films, sooner or later, you feel the urge to say something of your own, to step beyond the confines of cinema. It’s neither good nor bad — it’s just the way it is.
Take Morricone, for example. He spent half his life tormented by the fact that he couldn’t compose music outside of cinema. He had a wealth of contemporary classical and avant-garde music, but it failed to resonate with professionals or audiences. He was tied to radical musicians from the Gruppo di Improvvisazione Nuova Consonanza, who aimed to develop post-war European avant-garde music. Echoes of this collaboration could be found in his «new music» — avant-garde, atonal pieces. They weren’t exactly suitable for a concert hall, but paired with a gripping film scene, they worked brilliantly.
I completely understand Morricone now. I, too, have felt that I can and want to say something personal outside the context of cinema. Sometimes, the music you want to write is too complex, too unique, or too avant-garde for a film. In cinema, the director tells their story, and you realize you have your own story to tell independently.
Up until I turned forty, I thought film music offered everything I needed. The constant change of films, genres, the chance to compose electronic, symphonic, or experimental music — it was perfect. But around the age of forty-five, I felt there was something else inside me that I wanted to express. That’s how I began working on Theory of Becoming, not knowing which label would release it or how it would be received.
When the album was almost finished, I sent it to various labels. Some praised it, while others didn’t understand it. These days, atmospheric music that can be played in the background sells best. Modern life is so fast-paced that people often can’t focus on just one thing.
A positive response came from the German label ECM, founded by Manfred Eicher in the 1970s. It was unexpected and very gratifying. The album was received wonderfully, and I got a lot of praise from listeners who know how to truly engage with music without distractions. That matters because my music isn’t background — it pulls you out of the everyday.
Now, I’m working on my second album. I don’t know how long it will take, as it’s a challenging process, especially alongside composing for films and a busy life. But I hope to finish it in a year or two. It will bring something new yet still stay connected to people and listeners.
A. A.: What do you mean?
E. G.: You see, there is no music without a listener. It’s important to captivate people, even considering their diminished ability to focus on an artistic piece for an extended time. I sometimes struggle to concentrate on something for long myself, so I understand that it’s something we need to overcome.
A. A.: Your music captivates not only regular listeners but also great masters whose attention is often unreachable. For instance, Martin Scorsese seriously considered including compositions from Theory of Becoming in his film Killers of the Flower Moon (2023). How does it feel when such legends take notice of your work?
E. G.: Yes, one of the pieces from the album, This Town Will Burn Before Dawn, was indeed a contender for Scorsese’s film. Initially, there were discussions about it becoming one of the themes or even playing over the end credits.
Scorsese was familiar with our (mine and Sasha’s) work and had meaningful conversations about us with his music supervisor, who knew our compositions. We started corresponding, and I sent him that music while still working on the album. He really liked it.
Although Scorsese didn’t promise anything, it was clear that he was seriously considering it. At one point, he even asked for additional versions of the piece. But ultimately, it became clear that the film’s score would be composed by Robbie Robertson, Scorsese’s longtime friend and collaborator.
Robertson, founder of the Canadian group The Band, was not only an extraordinary musician but also Native American — his mother came from a Canadian Indigenous tribe. This was his final work, as he passed away before the film’s premiere at Cannes.
It was undoubtedly the right choice by Scorsese. The film tells a powerful, harrowing story, and Robertson’s music, steeped in Indigenous traditions, became a vital element, resonating as if told from the first person.
My music wouldn’t have fit the film. It’s too intellectual, too modern, and didn’t suit the primal, almost primitive world of 1920s America. Initially, it might have worked conceptually when the film was still in development. But once editing began and the story took shape, it became clear that my music could only echo the narrative.
In a way, This Town Will Burn Before Dawn is that echo. When I composed it, I was thinking about the story, my conversations with Scorsese, and the book Killers of the Flower Moon. That book — a piece of investigative journalism — shook me even more than the film itself. It resonated with contemporary events: the annexation of Crimea, mass unrest in America, and mobs sweeping everything in their path.
This piece, inspired by a story from the past, also reflects today’s madness and the monstrous regression we are experiencing.
A. A.: At what age does a composer reach creative maturity?
E. G.: I think creative maturity is the moment when you develop your own language. And that language emerges through experience — both creative and human. Once you finally discover your language, your voice, you begin to uncover its possibilities and expanses for yourself. It’s entirely possible that there are several levels of this «maturity» still ahead…
Photo provided by Evgeny Galperin
