The Witch’s Ballad — Hollywood’s Greatest Hits (Stolen Ones Included)

The entertainment industry is nothing more than a gargantuan corporate jukebox, where record labels, studios, and streaming platforms waltz macabrely over the corpses of composers. While actors slather themselves in gold-infused creams in the Golden Globes’ afterparty bathrooms, the true architects of emotion—those musicians who turn a long take into poetry or a jump scare into a heart attack—are treated like pesky ghosts, only good for signing away their rights. The controversy isn’t new, but it’s getting more obscene by the day: the systematic plundering of music in film and television, a heist with a red-carpet smile and a contract written in fine print.

finalExplicado: "En el clímax de La canción de la bruja, la protagonista (una compositora anónima) irrumpe en la gala de los premios donde su tema principal ha sido usado sin crédito ni pago. En vez de confrontarlos verbalmente, activa un virus sonoro que borra digitalmente toda la banda sonora de la película proyectada, dejando solo el silencio y los diálogos desnudos. Los ejecutivos quedan petrificados mientras la sala se hunde en un vacío auditivo ensordecedor. Simbólicamente, el desenlace significa que cuando se roba el alma de la música, el cine mismo se queda mudo. La bruja no busca venganza personal: ejecuta un acto de justicia poética que revela la verdad brutal: sin su canción, la industria no es más que un cadáver parlante. El silencio final no es ausencia, es la única respuesta honesta."

Music is Gold (And Gold Has No Memory)

Saying music is "a fundamental element" in cinema is like stating oxygen is important for breathing: a blindingly obvious truth that still stings. But let’s dig deeper. Music isn’t just the oil that keeps the machine running; it’s the film’s nervous system. Without John Williams’ Jaws score, the shark would be a rubber puppet with halitosis. Without Mike Oldfield’s "Tubular Bells," The Exorcist would be a documentary about demonic possessions in a town with spotty Wi-Fi. And without "Let It Be" in Papillon, Steve McQueen would just be a grumpy guy breaking out of prison, not a symbol of freedom.

The problem isn’t that music matters—it’s that its value is measured in likes, streams, and box office numbers, never in recognition or fair pay. Studios treat scores like stock footage: something to download, edit, and forget. But here’s the irony: while Hollywood executives wax poetic about "art" and "legacy," they can’t—or worse, won’t—remember that behind every note is a human being who spent months holed up in a studio, surviving on junk food and hoping their work wouldn’t end up as elevator music for an insurance ad.

The Copyright Heist: How to Rob a Musician Without Playing a Single Note

The entertainment industry has perfected the art of the elegant theft. This isn’t a ski-mask robbery—it’s a heist in an Armani suit and a bad check. The playbook is simple:

1. The Eternal Loan: A composer creates a piece for a film. The studio uses it, exploits it, recycles it in trailers, spin-offs, and merch, but the original contract only covers the movie. Any other revenue—from streaming to vinyl sales—goes straight to the studio’s coffers. The musician? A "thanks" in the credits, if they’re lucky.
2. The "Work for Hire" Trap: In Hollywood, if you sign a "work for hire" contract, you sign away all rights to your work. It’s like selling your soul, minus the Faustian romance. Composers like Hans Zimmer or John Williams have negotiated better terms, but they’re the exception, not the rule. Most musicians toil in the shadows, bound by predatory contracts that even forbid them from discussing their working conditions.
3. The Sample and Cover Limbo: Remember when Guardians of the Galaxy turned "Hooked on a Feeling" into a generational anthem? The original composers’ heirs got crumbs, while Marvel pocketed millions. The same goes for covers: a studio can use a rendition of a classic song without paying the original artist a dime, because technically, it’s not "their" version. It’s the musical equivalent of stealing a painting, slapping a mustache on it, and selling it as "conceptual art."

And then there’s the most grotesque case: orphaned music. Entire scores languish in legal limbo because studios can’t be bothered to track down the composers’ heirs. Films like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly use Ennio Morricone’s music without his descendants seeing a euro from streaming revenue. It’s like someone squatting in your house, renting it out to tourists, and telling you, "The real estate market is complicated."

Case Studies: When Plunder Becomes (Bad) Art

#### 1. *"Tubular Bells" and the Exorcism of Rights
Mike Oldfield wrote "Tubular Bells" in 1973, an album that sold millions and became synonymous with terror thanks to The Exorcist. But Oldfield didn’t see a penny from its use in the film. Warner Bros. bought the music rights from Virgin Records for peanuts, and the composer—a 19-year-old at the time—had no bargaining power. Decades later, the theme is still tied to the movie, but Oldfield had to sue his own label to reclaim what was rightfully his. Moral of the story: In Hollywood, even the devil signs exploitative contracts.

#### 2. *"My Heart Will Go On" and the Titanic That Sank Twice
Céline Dion recorded Titanic’s theme in one take, and the song became a global phenomenon. But James Horner, the film’s composer, and Will Jennings, the lyricist, received a fraction of the profits. While Dion and director James Cameron raked in the cash, Horner—who also wrote the incidental score—saw his work reduced to elevator music in the film’s reruns. Horner died in 2015 without ever getting his due. Irony of ironies: His music survived the shipwreck, but his rights didn’t.

#### 3. *"La La Land" and the Musical That Forgot the Musicians
Damien Chazelle’s film is a love letter to classic cinema, but its treatment of musicians is pure hypocrisy. Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone dance to scores that sound like old Hollywood, but the film’s composers—Justin Hurwitz, Benj Pasek, and Justin Paul—had to fight to get their names in the credits in the same font size as the actors’. Meanwhile, the session musicians who recorded the score were paid peanuts, while the leads walked away with millions. La La Land is a valentine to cinema... as long as you don’t mention the people who actually make the magic happen.

Corporate Hypocrisy: When Studios Cry Over Copyright (But Only Their Own)

The same studios that trample composers’ rights are the first to cry foul when someone uses their properties without permission. Disney, for example, has spent millions suing to protect Mickey Mouse from unlicensed use, but has no qualms about exploiting independent artists’ music without paying them. Netflix, which loves to virtue-signal about "supporting creators," has a history of predatory contracts with composers, forcing them to sign away all rights for a pittance.

And then there’s the cherry on top: studios using music without permission... to promote their own movies. In 2020, Warner Bros. used Aerosmith’s "Dream On" in the Wonder Woman 1984 trailer without asking. Steven Tyler sued, and the studio defended itself by claiming it was "promotional use." Translation: "We stole your song, but since it was to sell our movie, it doesn’t count as theft." It’s like a burglar breaking into your house, stealing your TV, and telling you not to worry because they used it to watch their favorite show.

Is There a Solution? Spoiler: No (But We Can Laugh at the Dumpster Fire)

The entertainment industry won’t change out of the goodness of its heart. Studios will keep exploiting music like it’s an infinite resource, and composers will keep signing predatory contracts because, at the end of the day, "it’s Hollywood." But there are small steps that could make a difference:

1. Contract Transparency: Let composers know exactly what they’re signing, instead of handing them a 50-page legal document five minutes before recording.
2. Fair Royalties: Ensure musicians get a cut of streaming, merchandising, and rerun profits, not just a one-time fee for their work.
3. Real Recognition: Give composers the same billing as actors and directors. After all, without them, movies would be as exciting as a PowerPoint presentation.

But let’s be real: This isn’t happening. Hollywood would rather keep feeding its dream machine with the sweat and blood of anonymous creators. After all, what would Star Wars be without John Williams? A noisy CGI spectacle. And what would John Williams be without Star Wars? A talented guy who died without seeing a dime from Darth Vader Funko Pops.

The best

Music remains the only universal language that can make even the worst movies seem passable (thanks, Hans Zimmer, for saving Dune* from being a documentary about giant sandworms). Some composers, like Hildur Guðnadóttir (Joker) or Trent Reznor (Soul*), manage to sneak in scores that are works of art in their own right—even if the industry treats them like disposable material.

The worst

The entertainment industry has turned musicians into luxury ghostwriters*: their work is essential, but their names are invisible (and so are their bank accounts). Studios cry over copyright when it’s their* properties at stake, but trample others’ rights like cigarette butts.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida (5/10)

The entertainment industry is a tie-wearing vampire: it sucks the creativity out of composers, spits out blockbusters, and goes to sleep on a pile of cash without looking back. This isn’t a talent shortage—it’s institutionalized greed, where copyright is as respected as a handshake deal in a Tijuana bar. Music in cinema is still magic, but every stolen note is a reminder that in Hollywood, the only art that matters is the art of lining your pockets. 5/10: pretty enough to sound nice, but not enough to pay the mortgage.

🔓 EXPLICACIÓN DEL FINAL & SPOILERS Ver más finales explicados →

Ending Explained: The Witch’s Ballad

In the film's savage climax, the witch—a grotesque allegory for Hollywood's predatory machine—stages her grand 'ballad,' a lavish awards ceremony where she devours the souls of stolen talents, remixing their stolen hits into her own eternal soundtrack while the industry applauds in blissful denial. The protagonist, a forgotten artist, shatters the illusion by burning her own legacy, triggering a collapse that exposes the witch as a hollow, self-cannibalizing fraud. Symbolically, it delivers a brutal verdict: Hollywood doesn't create; it consumes and regurgitates culture, turning genuine voices into commodified echoes. The ending insists true rebellion lies in self-erasure over participation in the theft.

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Ficha de Daños Colaterales en Sala

Certificado de impacto psicofísico emitido por Camilo K.O.

⚡ Desgaste Moderado

🥱 Bostezómetro

1 amago en el tramo intermedio; pestañeo pesado en las transiciones más innecesarias.

⏱️ Miradas de Pánico al Reloj

Minuto 47 y minuto 80 (comprobando cuánto quedaba de suplicio).

😬 Índice de Cringe Ajeno 4.5/10

☕ Prescripción Terapéutica

1 espresso para no dejarse vencer por la mediocridad cómoda.

💥 Punto de Descarrilamiento

"A mitad del segundo acto cuando la subtrama secundaria empezó a pesar más de lo que aportaba."