Thoughts On Sound

My name is Elliot Thompson. I'm a Sound Designer/Musician. Here are some thoughts on sound.

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Kay Jewelers and Mumblecore: The Dialogue Dilemma in Gone Girl and Insterstellar

I’ve been reading a lot of press recently about the dialogue, and the lack of intelligibility thereof, in two of the most popular films of the year: Gone Girl and Interstellar. Of course, they’re not just popular, they’re both critically acclaimed, or at the very least, acknowledged as being more experimental than the typical mega-budget movie. This last aspect is important when considering these supposed sonic dilemmas. These aren’t LCD explosion fests, these are carefully thoughtout films.

Having seen both of these Gone Girl and Interstellar, I understand why articles, such as this one in the Washington Post, are cropping up. Although to be completely honest, I’m genuinely surprised by how many people, outside of the sound world, have taken interest, posting them around social media. I guess it’s a good thing really, having so many people aware that sound in film even exists, although I do feel for the sound designers, who have put in years’ worth of hard work into those films, only to have a few bits of that work be the subject of mass critique.

Let’s begin with Gone Girl. The scene referenced in the Washington Post was the same scene in which I had difficulty discerning the dialogue. It was towards the beginning, when Ben Affleck first meets his now-missing wife. The scene was actually narrated by the missing wife, read aloud from her diary, which was a critical piece of evidence in the case against Ben’s character. The two strike up a conversation at a Christmas party, tossing flirtatious quips back-and-forth as we watch them hit it off. For me, it wasn’t that the dialogue was poorly mixed, it was that the odd, corny romance-scene score was just too loud. The interchange came off more like a Kay Jewelers commercial than an actual film. 

But, this is David Fincher we’re talking about here. If we, the casual viewers notice something odd, there should be zero doubt that Mr. Fincher was complete aware. And, what the articles fail to mention, is that it turns out that we were supposed to feel off about that scene. Spoilers abound–the entire diary was fabricated, so we were actually watching a made-up interaction (along with bullshitting narrator) designed to sell the public on this love story (the Kay Jeweler comparison makes sense now, right?).

Interstellar, like Gone Girl, was directed by a notoriously hands-on dude (in this case writer as well): Christopher Nolan. There wasn’t one scene in particular that stood out to me, so much as bits and piece of lines lost here and there. In some cases, such as the rocket launch sequence, the sound effects took over, which is completely understandable. If I’m to believe this sci-fi plot, I think the verite sound design is crucial. In other cases, the score simply swallowed up everything else in the sound spectrum. Now, it probably doesn’t help that Hans Zimmer has a reputation of producing heavy-handed scores, so it’s easy for some to quickly point the finger at him. Still, if the dialogue in certain music-heavy spots was intended to be crystal clear, it would have been (unless Zimmer kicked open the doors on the dub stage and hi-jacked the faders).

Nolan actually addressed complaints of unintelligible dialogue, saying that he liked the idea of using dialogue “as sound effects” and that he didn’t believe that script lines were the only way to get the story across in film. It’s hard to argue with that logic, although for an unprepared viewer who takes pride in soaking in every word, it could be understandably frustrating.

When reading the dialogue critiques for Interstellar, I can’t help but be reminded of the mid-2000s indie-film “mumblecore” movement, which I find pretty amusing. For those unaware of the genre, mumblecore were micro-budget films with no-name actors, speaking loose, garbled dialogue. Essentially these films were sacrificing intelligibility for realisticness. As we know, Interstellar was no micro-budget film, so these results like these were clearly deliberate and, for me, pleasantly unexpected.

In the end, here’s what it comes down to–it’s not our film, so whatever we think is irrelevant. And I don’t mean that facetiously at all. If a director, especially ones as successful such as Fincher and Nolan, decide they want a scene to sound a certain way, that’s their decision to make. That is what a director does. Although, I want to point out that both Nolan and Fincher have been working with the same sound designers (and composers) for years. Ren Klyce (Gone Girl) and Richard King (Interstellar) are both elite craftsman and Oscar staples. So, I also feel confident that those two (and their team) cycled through every option available and what we were heard on screen was the best possible representation of their director’s vision.

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The Sound of Marx and Coca-Cola

The Sound of Marx and Coca-Cola: The Aural Aesthetics of Jean-Luc Godard's Masculin Féminin

Here's a link to my first published essay on sound design.

As a musician I'm pretty into the power behind sonic minimalism and grit. There's a fine line between a poorly recorded album and The Ramones, but when it's done well, it's pretty badass. Godard did it well.

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The Unorthodox Narrator: Unique Variations on Acousmatic Storytelling in Cinema

(Originally written October, 2012)

The Unorthodox Narrator: Unique Variations on Acousmatic Storytelling in Cinema

The following article addresses the atypical use of the off-screen narrative voice in films. It not only defines the concept, but provides the reader with several cinematic examples. Furthermore, it analyzes each example in regards to its role in the story, giving particular attention to any sonic manipulation. Film sound theory, such as the concept of the “acousmêtre,” is also discussed within the article.

Since Ancient times, the narrator has been an integral part of storytelling— from oral fables, to Greek choruses, to the better part of most books. When it comes to the medium of film, however, much of the story can be told through visual elements, including facial expressions and scenery, as well as aural aspects,  such as character dialogue and sound effects. Because of this, the narrator is not as essential to the artform as in past mediums. In fact, the use of narration in film is often derided. Screenwriting scholar Robert McKee, in his book, Story,  insists:

“...respect the intelligence and sensitivity of your audience... Do not put them on your knee as if they were children and “explain” life, for the misuse and overuse of narration is not only slack, it’s patronizing.” (McKee, 1997, p. 345)

Many filmmakers, however, have created unorthodox and imaginative ways to circumvent the usual, detached narrator cliché/crutch. And so, the purpose of this article is to discuss  a few of these atypical off-screen narrators in cinema and their impact on the story, not only in regards to who is speaking and what they are saying, but also how they sound. The latter includes analyzing sonic aspects such as volume and frequency, as well as any effects processing used on the voice.

The Acousmêtre

A concept which is typically discussed solely within the confines film sound theory texts is the “acousmêtre.” French composer and film theorist, Michel Chion, who coined the term, defines it as the voice of an “acousmatic character.” An acousmatic sound is essentially something that one hears without being able to determine a specific source. Chion, in his book, Audio-Vision, further explains:

“We may define it as neither inside nor outside of the image. It is not inside because the image of the voice’s source—the body, the mouth— is not included. Nor it is outside, since it is not clearly positioned offscreen in an imaginary “wing”... This is why voices of clearly detached narrators are not acousmêtres.” (Chion, 1990, p. 128)

When analyzing certain voice-overs within this context, several new layers of meaning and subtext begin to open. For example, the acousmêtre implies a ubiquitous and omniscient presence, which an audience instinctually accepts, because, as Chion points out, it is something that every human being has experienced while developing inside the womb— the all-encompassing voice of the mother.  Figuratively and literally speaking, this voice is not “detached” at all— that is, until birth and the umbilical cord is cut.

While not all unorthodox narrators may fall into the category of the acousmêtre (nor are all acousmêtres a narrator of some sort), one could certainly make the case that the following examples do fall within the realm of the acousmatic character which Chion has described.

Sunset Boulevard (1950)

Sunset Boulevard, written and directed by Billy Wilder, is considered an American cinema classic, especially within the “film-noir” genre. An off-screen narrator is a common tool in film-noir, used to clue the audience in on bits and pieces of the mystery. If is not a detached narrator, then chances are it can be linked to one of the detectives involved in the story. Sunset, however, approaches it differently. The story opens with police discovering a dead man’s body floating in a Los Angeles pool and proceeds to go back in time to reveal  how the murder occurred. From the start, a narrator addresses the audience— this off-screen voice soon reveals itself as the floating corpse, Joe Gillis, played by William Holden.

Gillis states “Before those hollywood columnists get their hands on [this story], maybe you’d like to hear the facts, the whole truth.” The choice to make his voice nonchalant and matter-of-fact, as opposed to ghostly and cryptic, prepares the audience for a murder story which, although still dark, is more sensational and than frightening.

The way Gillis’ voice is treated sonically accentuates those same intentions. Not only is the performance relaxed, but there is hardly a trace of reverb or any other effect that might indicate a ghostly presence. The volume of the voice is audible, but by no means larger-than-life. In fact, as the narration pops in and out of the film, it sounds remarkably similar in tone and volume to the living Joe Gillis, whom the audience follows throughout the majority of the film.

The Piano (1993)

Some films force theorists to address the question of how many lines of voice-over it takes to have a legitimate “narrator.” The Piano, written and directed by Jane Campion, pushes the limits by having only a handful of off-screen narration,  at the beginning and end of the film.

The main character, Ada McGrath, played by Holly Hunter, is a mute (but not deaf) woman. At the open of the film, an acousmatic voice tells the audience, “The voice you hear is not my speaking voice—but my mind's voice. I have not spoken since I was six years old. No one knows why. Not even me.” This is McGrath communicating. Although the words are few, they set up the premise for the entire story. In such a case, the term narrator is deserved.

There are several reasons why this narration is unorthodox. First being the fact that it is so brief, but, secondly, this is a voice which has never actually existed in the “real” world. Unlike Gillis’ talking ghost, McGrath, according to the narration, has a completely separate speaking voice, implying that the voice which the audience is hearing is some form of telepathy.  Of course, the keen audience listener will also be able to pick up real-life McGrath’s subtle breathes and grunts throughout The Piano.

So, this leads to an interesting sonic comparison between the few snippets of the “mind’s” voice and that of the even more sparse “real” voice within the film. Performance-wise, the mind’s voice is calm, collected and delicate (and judging from the accent, McGrath does indeed think in Scottish). As well, the mix is warm, intimate and crystal clear. There is no hint of reverb, and the warm low-end accentuates the idea that this voice exists within a vacuum of sorts. The real voice, on the other hand, which again consists mostly of breaths, is always distant and never the focus, even in scenes where McGrath receives axe wounds or nearly drowns. Judging from how each were treated sonically, the mind’s voice is the one with which the audience is intended to connect. 

Psycho (1960)

Alfred Hitchcock is no stranger to film critic texts. One of his most discussed works in the world of sound theory is his 1960 thriller, Psycho, and it is certainly one of the films in which Chion’s acousmêtre concept is clearly at work.

This acousmatic voice in Psycho speaks only a few times throughout the film. In fact, up until the final scene, the audience is led to believe that this voice, supposedly that of main character Norman Bates’ mother, is an actual, physical person, who just happens to be out of sight. It is not until Bates is locked up, clearly mad, that the audiences realizes the “mother” exists only within the head of her son.  It is here that she reveals herself and actually addresses the audience: “It's sad when a mother has to speak the words that condemn her own son. I couldn't allow them to believe I would commit murder. They'll put him away now as I should have years ago.” The idea of the mother’s voice (the “acousmother” as Chion refers to it) enveloping her child’s world is more than apparent in this film.

Unlike the previous two examples, this voice-over is theatrical and aggressive (done by a man impersonating a woman’s voice). It is also drenched in reverb, which results in a voice that is not only ghost-like, but one that is off-kilter. Surely Hitchcock’s intent was to leave his audience with a sense of uneasiness, in addition to simply resolving the story.

Through the examples listed, it is clear that, when approached in a thoughtful and imaginative manner, off-screen narration does have a meaningful role in filmmaking. While McKee may rightly warn against its “misuse and overuse,” to rule out the voice-over completely would be to prematurely amputate a potentially powerful limb of cinematic storytelling.

It is also important to reiterate the possible sonic diversity within off-screen narration. As demonstrated by the three examples provided, there are several methods with which to adjust the sound of a voice-over in a way that can enhance the story. If filmmakers can create a narrator who is intimate and sympathetic, or haunting and untrustworthy, simply through how they are manipulated sonically, then aural tools such as equalization, volume, and spacialization, etc, should be seriously considered when sculpting just the right acousmatic personality.

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Chion: Voice in Cinema and the Muted Character

(Originally written January, 2012)

Chion: Voice in Cinema and the Muted Character

Considering Michel Chion’s penchant for grandeur, most chapters of his book Voice in Cinema, specifically those within the section “Tamiki: Tales of the Voice,” focus on the magnitude of the voice as it pertains to the human plight and how its use in films can usually be retraced to the correlating fears and desires within ourselves. Interestingly enough, however, the author makes one of his most convincing cases when he examines the characters who are unable to speak, which he does in Chapter 7, “The Mute Character’s Final Words.”

Prior to this chapter, Chion had already established the “voice” as something mankind is always striving to control. Specifically referring to the Christian myth, the Word (Voice) of God is the device that sparks the creation of all life. There is no light without an order from the all-powerful voice. Another, equally defining example is the unborn child, who is developing in the mother’s womb. Before the infant can even open its eyes, it is exposed to the sound of the mother’s all-encompassing voice. Again, before light (birth), there is only the voice. Once the child is born, the umbilical cord, previously its main source of communication, is cut, and thus the infant lets out its first scream; its first in a lifetime of attempts, futile as Chion likes to point out, at obtaining some sort of connection with that original, all-powerful voice.

So this is what makes the idea of the “mute” character a fascinating one. Here is a character who seems to lack the drive that is one of the defining characteristics of mankind. It’s no wonder why, as Chion points out, we tend to find this character unsettling and often untrustworthy. One can also make the case that, since the human voice is such a defining characteristic, we have no idea how to perceive this person. And as part of human nature, mystery is often met with fear, and all sorts of questions arise. What does this character know? What has he seen? What has he heard? Because of the character’s silence, we are naturally inclined to think that he has somehow managed to obtain a special nugget of wisdom, which Chion calls “The Great Secret.”

As the author points out, this character is not one specific to film but can also be found in novels and plays. In film, however, there are methods of accentuating the character’s mystery, particularly sonically. For instance, in some films, to quote Chion, “[it is] as if his mutism or muteness extends even to his footsteps and other sounds he makes when he moves.”

Throughout Voice in Cinema, Chion makes reference to the acousmêtre, the off-screen, omnipotent voice, aka “the voice without a body.” In the chapter on the muted character, he tackles the idea of the “body without a voice,” and in doing so, creates interesting parallels between the mute and his prior theories of the acousmêtre. The author describes their relationship as “symmetrical” and as one being the other’s “counterpart.” Both, however, are associated with having complete knowledge, or at least knowledge outside of the average person’s grasp.

Chion wraps up the chapter with a lengthy description of the French film Les Enfants du Paradis, in which the main character, a famous mime named Debureau, is put on trial for murder and is therefore forced to reveal his voice to the world. Not only is this a fairly literal interpretation of the “mute” revealing the “great secret,” but it also displays the character’s fall from grace. As the author states, “It is because he killed a man that Debureau had to expose his voice.” This suggests that, aside from mystery and suspicion, there is also a level of innocence attached to the character who cannot speak, an innocence that Debureau had clearly lost.

Perhaps this leads us toward a more developed idea of the relationship between the acousmêtre and the muted character. It’s hard to think of anything more innocent than the unborn child. This new being, who, like the mute, cannot speak, is comforted by an actual psychical attachment to the acousmêtre via the umbilical cord. Once removed from the womb, the connection is severed, and the newborn frantically resorts to the voice. So, it’s easy to say that there is a deep-seated jealousy instilled in us when we are presented with a muted character, one who has seemingly managed to maintain this connection with what is, for us, the unattainable, all-comforting Voice.

Either way, in simple terms of sound for film, the muted character certainly reinforces the idea that there is just as much power in silence, if not more, than there is in any sound.

[thoughtsonsound-blog]

Film Form: The Unexpected

(Originally written February, 2012)

Film Form: The Unexpected

Upon opening the book, Film Form, it doesn't take long to realize that Sergei Eisenstein, the Soviet author of this collection of essays and director of such classic works as "Battleship Potemkin," is as enthusiastic about cinema as one can get. He does not, however, dwell on past accomplishments, but instead, is forward-thinking, attempting to peer into the foggy future of film, and with great expectations. The collection spans most of his career (early 1920s through late 1940s) and in his early writing, the then-new "sound film" was one of his most curious concerns. He touches on this several times throughout his 1928 essay, "The Unexpected."

This essay revolves around the comparison of the developing medium of film to that of Kabuki theater. While it seems fairly obvious that film is a descendant of live theater, Eisenstein makes some interesting points, albeit abstract at times, why Kabuki is the purest example of this Kabuki is a tradition in Japanese theater that dates back to 17th century feudal Japan and which, although still in practice today, had its golden age toward the end of the 18th century. 

Eisenstein's argument is that Kabuki is the only theater that achieves the same level of "monism" as film. In other words, for Kabuki to achieve greatness, all parts must work together equally, in unison. There are no lead or supporting pieces, or Eisenstein states, "It is impossible to speak of "accompaniments" in Kabuki--just as one would not say that, in walking or running, the right leg "accompanies" the left leg, or that both of the accompany the diaphragm!" I happen to like this analogy, as well as his emphatic tone. Like I said, the guy loves film.

Of course, since my Kabuki experience is limited to what I've seen on television or through clips on the internet, it's hard for me to provide tangible proof of what exactly Eisenstein is referring to. I can, however, say that I think his statement consists of more than just each actor working together, but more so that of each aspect of the production of Kabuki, from set design to sound design, doing its part to further convey, both literally and figuratively, what is happening on stage.

Speaking of the sound of Kabuki, I took the opportunity to listen to various "scores" from different famous productions. I put scores in quotations because it is mostly percussive and, from a western point of view, atonal. After some thought, however, I realized that this type of score one of the most striking similarities between this type of theater and modern film. As cinema has progressed throughout the decades, SFX and music have merged together more and more seamlessly, to a point at which we have no better description to give what we hear than to call it "sound design." The aural blanket that covers the grey area between music and SFX. Kabuki theater seems to have been doing this for 400 years.

Eisenstein cites a quote from Zoe Kincaid, author of Kabuki, the Popular Stage of Japan, in which she describes the "samisen," a plucked, three-string instrument often used in Kabuki. She says, "samisen music depends almost completely on rhythm rather than melody to interpret emotion... [when] changing rhythms, the samisen musicians gain the effect they desire... falling snow, a flight of birds, wind in the tree tops..." This sort of cleverness seems to me like sound design at its best.

When listening to the instrumentation used in Kabuki, I couldn't help but be reminded of the score to Roman Polanski's Repulsion, composed by jazz musician, Gábor Szabó, which, although sparse, is centered around percussion. Both the music and sound design for Repulsion are regarded as progressive accomplishments in film and so, I think it would be interesting to seewhat the late Eisenstein would have thought of it. Perhaps an example like this would have caused him to stand up from his seat and proclaim, as he did in the last sentence of his essay, "Hail the junction of Kabuki and the sound film!"

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An Introspective Pursuit

(Originally written January, 2012)

The “pursuit” that George Prochnik describes in his book In Pursuit of Silence is certainly a noble one, and one that, to his credit, he examines from nearly every angle. He looks at the silence/sound dichotomy through various cultures and political lenses, and through religion as well as evolutionary science. But because these viewpoints all seem to overlap, it’s difficult to isolate one particular chapter. When it comes to Prochnik’s question, however, which essentially is “Why do we as humans so often find the idea of silence so appealing?,” the answer, for me at least, always leads back to the spiritual side of things.

     The people Prochnik spent time with who seemed the most “in tune” with silence were the religious groups, whether Trappist monks, Jewish mystics, or the Buddhist naturists. One thing they have in common is that in every sense, not just hearing, they have been able to filter out hectic modern life. To me, this seems less about religion than about achieving a clear head. This is why meditation is really about emptying the mind of one’s thoughts, because those thoughts can often prove deafening. In fact, when Prochik describes the experience of his first real encounter with silence at the Trappist monastery in desolate Iowa, he writes, “My thoughts were noisy enough that I half expected to see them break out of my skull and begin dancing a musical number up and down the wooden benches.”

I could not help thinking about this with the aid of an audiophile’s metaphor. If our minds are microphones, picking up the sounds around us, we need to make sure they are in the best condition possible. Sometimes, however, much of the noise is being created within the mic itself. If we unscrew the cap, is it covered in dust from over the years? Sometimes it can be more than just a matter of needing a cleaning, however. One could argue that some of our brains have frequency responses that are all out of whack. We may be allowing certain “noises” around us to resonate more than others, just as we tend to put too much emphasis on ultimately trivial dilemmas of daily life. In this way, perhaps we need to focus on what we actually listen to, just as we choose carefully which problems we let rattle us. As stated earlier, many of the Prochnik’s approaches in his pursuit overlap, and so I found the innate/evolutionary reasoning behind why sound is at the core of our being useful.    

There are a several reasons why sounds have become such an integral part of the human life. Prochnik hints at this theory, but to sum it up clearly, I believe these reasons can be narrowed down toighting or mating. The reason our hearing has become so acute is because it is one of our best defenses against danger. On the other hand, when confronted, our natural reaction is to make noise in order to possibly intimidate. As for reproducing, we’ve all heard the array of mating sounds organisms emit and receive in the wild. So, let’s narrow it down even further ­­ what do fighting and mating have in common? Survival.

This indeed is one of the reasons, I believe, that the idea of silence is so nice. Because the pressure of survival is stressful. Sure, it’s easy to say that certain pleasures can be derived from fightin or mating, but pure silence means no worries. We don’t need to worry about something around the corner, about to attack. We don’t need to worry that our lineage will die out. Of course, the irony is that the only pure silence is the one thing that our acute sense is fighting to stave off: death. And so, we’re right back to the spiritual side of things.

Although this theory could easily fall into the category of the “cultural,” I found that the few paragraphs in which Prochnik addressed the relatively new tradition in our society of the “moment of silence” left more lasting impressions on me. I feel that this grand­scale attempt at silence, albeit brief, is rich with enlightenment. What is a moment of silence if not a time for reflection? When we’re too busy trying to fight or mate, we can actually reflect on our own existence and just how detailed and infinite our surroundings are. In fact, Pronick quotes a BBC representative as saying, regarding the UK’s national moment of silence, “Its impressiveness is intensified by the fact that the silence is not a dead silence, for Big Ben strikes the hour, and then the bickering of sparrows ...” etc. So, clearly, this is more a reflection on life than an observation of death.

Ultimately, this is the silence we want. That is why the “idea” of silence is so appealing and why actual pure silence is morbid. Appreciating the magnitude behind pure silence is enough to strengthen us spiritually. We ought to be able to confront our own mortality in a way that makes us appreciate the life we have.

In the end, since human beings are all unique, there is no one­-size-­fits-­all path to silent enlightenment. I do, however, quite enjoy the one, seemingly unchanging rule, which is ­­ the first step to obtaining “silence” is to shut up, yourself.

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The Bicycle: An Experiment in Film Sound Design Theory and Practice

A few years ago, I had the pleasure of handling the sound design for the short film: The Bicycle (by Adam Neustadter and Chris McCoy). I had gone back to school to receive my masters in Sound Design and used this short as the basis for M.A. thesis.

Here's a link to the thesis paper and below is the short itself. While no thesis paper is as entertaining as a film like this, hopefully my enthusiasm for the project comes across.