Before I ever knew his name, I already knew his sound.
That might sound strange, but it is the honest truth. I did not consciously discover Igor Stravinsky — I realised I had already met him. His music had been quietly shaping the way I experienced films for years. It just took a university module and a gut-punch of déjà vu to connect the dots.
One particular moment did it: The Glorification of the Chosen One from The Rite of Spring. As it played, something stirred. This music was not new to me. Its jagged rhythm, explosive dynamics, and sense of barely-contained chaos felt eerily familiar. Not because I had studied it before — but because I had felt it before. In movie theatres. On late-night re-watches. It lived in the undercurrent of modern soundtracks.
🎻 Stravinsky and the Shock of the New
Igor Stravinsky, the man who made rhythm dangerous.
When The Rite of Spring premiered in 1913, it caused an actual riot. That is not an exaggeration — the audience physically erupted. Stravinsky’s wild, percussive ballet score broke with tradition in every conceivable way. He layered conflicting rhythms (polyrhythms), used jarring dissonances that never quite resolved, and gave structure the middle finger. It was primal, violent, and utterly new.
The ostinato (a repeated phrase) becomes a tool of psychological warfare. The metre shifts unpredictably. Dissonance dominates. The music does not invite — it provokes.
🎥 From Ballet to Blockbuster: His Cinematic Legacy
Stravinsky never composed a film score — and yet, his fingerprints are all over them.
John Williams, widely regarded as the godfather of modern film music, has openly cited Igor Stravinsky as a major influence on his compositional style. While the Star Wars main theme is not a direct descendant of The Rite of Spring, the fingerprints of Stravinsky’s bold orchestral language are subtly woven into its DNA. With its soaring brass fanfare, triumphant melodic arcs, and rich harmonic textures, Star Wars became one of Williams’ most iconic works — epic in scale, emotionally charged, and unmistakably cinematic. It introduced a generation to the power of the symphony orchestra in film, and set a new standard for what movie music could be.
John Williams conducting the sound of our childhoods.
And then there is Jaws. The terrifying, minimalist two-note motif that signals the shark’s approach? That is ostinato turned into pure suspense — a repeated musical figure (a short, looping phrase) that drills into your subconscious. Composer John Williams strips the music down to just two alternating notes — E and F — creating a sense of lurking danger through dissonance (clashing, unresolved sounds that create tension) and rhythmic acceleration (gradually increasing the speed and intensity).
This approach is unmistakably rooted in Stravinsky. In The Rite of Spring, Stravinsky weaponises rhythm and repetition to create unease and anticipation — layering conflicting patterns, shifting metre constantly, and building tension with brute musical force. Jaws takes that same primal energy and pares it down to its barest essentials. It is not melodic. It is not pretty. It is psychological warfare, just like The Rite.
As the notes repeat and close in faster, your pulse quickens without you even noticing. The simplicity is deceptive — it is visceral, calculated, and profoundly effective. This is Stravinsky by way of Spielberg: turning repetition, discomfort, and near-silence into one of the most iconic fear responses in cinematic history.
Fast forward, and we arrive at Ramin Djawadi — and yes, I am a massive fan of both Ramin and ramen. But in this case, I am talking about the composer, not the noodles. Djawadi is the modern maestro behind Game of Thrones, one of the most ambitious and cinematic TV series in recent history. Its sweeping landscapes, complex characters, and relentless plot twists gripped millions — but let us be honest: the soundtrack did half the heavy lifting.
Take Light of the Seven, for instance. It could almost be a tribute to Stravinsky in its construction. It opens with minimalist piano — sparse, almost sterile — before introducing modal harmonies (unusual scale patterns that create a sense of otherworldliness), eerie strings, and a slow-burning tension that builds like a storm creeping over the horizon.
What is truly powerful, though, is that this music holds you captive long before the visuals catch up. You feel dread. Anticipation. A tightening in your chest — all from sound alone. That is the mark of a master. When a score can keep you on the edge of your seat without a single sword being drawn, you know you are in the hands of someone who understands the psychology of sound.
Ramin Djawadi, conjurer of ice and fire.
🎧 Why Movie Scores Matter (And What I Hear Now)
I have always been a fan of film and television soundtracks — the kind that make your spine tingle or your heart race before a single line of dialogue is spoken. But studying Stravinsky has added a whole new layer to that appreciation. It has given me the language and tools to understand what is actually happening beneath the surface of the music I already loved.
Now, when I hear a soaring theme or a creeping pulse in a score, I do not just feel it — I recognise it. I understand how it works, and why it works. Thanks to Stravinsky, I am not just listening for mood anymore — I am listening for construction. I can now hear the architecture behind the emotion. It deepens the experience and makes every soundtrack feel even more powerful, knowing just how much craft is at play behind each note.
Some of the key terms I now listen out for include:
- Leitmotif — a recurring musical theme associated with a character or idea (think Darth Vader’s Imperial March).
- Dissonance — clashing or unresolved harmonies that create tension and unease.
- Ostinato — a short, repeated musical phrase that drives suspense (like the Jaws theme).
- Modality — a scale system that gives music a folk-like, ancient, or otherworldly flavour (Game of Thrones thrives on this).
- Syncopation — rhythmic surprises that throw the beat off balance, keeping the listener on edge.
Learning these terms has not made the music feel more clinical — if anything, it has made it more magical. Understanding the craft only amplifies the emotional impact.
Stravinsky in particular has shown me just how radical that craft can be. One of the most striking techniques he uses — especially in The Rite of Spring — is frequent changes in metre (the time signature or rhythmic structure of a piece). Instead of settling into a steady beat, the music constantly shifts pulse and pattern, keeping listeners off balance and creating a sense of unpredictability. It is complex, disorienting, and powerful — and now, when I hear similar techniques in modern scores, I understand where it all began.
Here is a brilliant video that breaks down how Stravinsky’s constant changes in metre inject unpredictability, energy, and sheer excitement into the music — one of the key reasons The Rite of Spring feels so unforgettable and alive, even over a century later.
🌌 Final Thoughts: A Riot Echoes Through Hollywood
I might have arrived late to Stravinsky, but I am grateful I found him. He has given me new ears — not just for classical music, but for every film I watch. The cinematic landscape owes him a debt, whether we recognise it or not.
Stravinsky did not score our movies — but he taught the composers who did how to break the rules.
Studio DJC 