Imagine a piece of music so revolutionary, so emotionally charged, that it not only transformed British music but also challenged societal norms. That’s the story of Edward Elgar’s The Dream of Gerontius, a work that went from fiasco to feted glory. But here’s where it gets controversial: this masterpiece, now a global treasure, was once deemed disturbingly foreign, Catholic, and theatrical by its very own performers. Could a piece of music be too bold for its time? And this is the part most people miss: its journey from rejection to reverence mirrors the very themes of struggle and redemption it portrays.
Nicholas Hytner’s new film, The Choral, now in UK cinemas, brings this tale to life through the lens of a small Yorkshire town during World War I. Alan Bennett’s screenplay lovingly captures a choral society’s quest for non-German repertoire, leading them to Gerontius—a choice that seems safe, thanks to Elgar’s stature as a pillar of British establishment. But as choir master Dr. Guthrie (Ralph Fiennes) begins rehearsals, the choir discovers the piece is anything but conventional. Elgar’s patrician image belies a work steeped in Catholic theology, foreign influences, and theatrical grandeur—a far cry from the staidly English music they expected.
Bennett’s script is brimming with whimsical moments, like choir members singing Gerontius in perfect harmony while running through the streets—a feat nearly impossible given Elgar’s intricate choral writing. Yet, beneath the humor lies a deep understanding of the work’s troubled history. Much of the controversy stemmed from Elgar’s choice of text: John Henry Newman’s poem, written after his conversion to Catholicism, which explores themes of death, purgatory, and divine redemption. For a Protestant choir, the very mention of purgatory was unsettling, sparking discomfort and debate.
Elgar, himself a Catholic, had long dreamed of setting Newman’s poem to music but feared anti-Catholic prejudice. His fears were realized during the disastrous 1900 Birmingham premiere. The original choir master died months before, his replacement was incompetent and anti-Catholic, and even the renowned conductor Hans Richter seemed ill at ease. The performance was savaged by critics, and Elgar’s faith was shaken. ‘I have allowed my heart to open once,’ he confessed, ‘it is now shut against every religious feeling.’
But here’s the twist: after the Birmingham fiasco, performances in Düsseldorf redeemed Gerontius, and by 1903, it had triumphed in Chicago, New York, Sydney, and across the UK. By 1916, the year The Choral is set, Elgar conducted six consecutive sold-out performances in London’s Queen’s Hall, attended by royalty and raising funds for the Red Cross. So, for a wartime choral society, Gerontius was both voguish and daring.
Elgar’s career was at its peak. His Ode for Edward VII’s Coronation in 1902, with its iconic ‘Land of Hope and Glory,’ cemented his status as Britain’s greatest composer. Yet, despite his ‘quintessentially English’ label, Elgar was deeply influenced by continental European music, particularly Wagner. His visits to Bayreuth with his wife, Alice, and his immersion in Wagner’s works like Parsifal, profoundly shaped Gerontius. Its harmonic language, vocal declamation, leitmotifs, and architectural continuity owe much to Wagner’s ‘stage festival dedication play.’
This Wagnerian influence is why Gerontius feels more like opera than a traditional oratorio. Elgar himself refused to label it an oratorio, insisting, ‘There’s no word invented yet to describe it.’ The choral singers in The Choral take this operatic quality to heart, deciding to stage and costume their performance—a move that horrifies the fictional Elgar. While a professional company might attempt this, it stretches credibility for an amateur choir in 1916, especially one grappling with Elgar’s demanding score.
Yet, it’s in this implausibility that the film finds its emotional core. Clyde (Jacob Dudman), a young soldier who’s lost his arm in the war, sings Gerontius, challenging Elgar’s vision of an old man. ‘It’s the young who are dying now,’ Clyde insists, dressed in his soldier’s uniform. When a vicar denies purgatory, Clyde retorts angrily, ‘There is—it’s the no man’s land I’ve just returned from.’ This raw, heartfelt interpretation reminds us of Gerontius’s revolutionary power.
The film’s poignancy deepens as the choral’s unity is shattered hours after the performance. The young men who sang Elgar’s music are conscripted and leave for the front, underscoring the fragility of community in wartime. Gerontius not only transformed British music—influencing composers like Vaughan Williams, Walton, and Britten—but also British society. By bringing Catholic theology into Anglican cathedrals, it fostered ecumenical understanding and challenged Victorian emotional restraint.
Today, Gerontius is performed worldwide, with legendary recordings by John Barbirolli, Adrian Boult, Mark Elder, and Nicholas Collon. But its familiarity risks making it comfortable, diluting its revolutionary edge. The rough, passionate rendition in The Choral reignites its boldness, inviting us to reconsider its impact. So, here’s the question: Can a piece of music still be revolutionary over a century later? And if so, what does Gerontius still have to teach us about faith, community, and the power of art? Share your thoughts below—let’s keep the conversation going.
