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How Sound Can Put Us Into the Driver’s Seat

By Ben Warren Flynn

Traditional film music creates atmosphere, evokes emotions, and guides the audience’s perceptions. It can also underscore the psychological states of characters and help build a world around them. Such is the case in Santiago Menghini’s 2024 animated sci-fi short Rally. Sound plays a central role in constructing its gritty and immersive environment. However, it does so in a unique and significant way that strikes a middle-ground between cinematic realism and the game-like elements of the film.

Set in a grim dystopian world, the film follows two underground smugglers tasked with transporting a hostage across a contested border in a modified rally car. The smugglers race through hostile terrain and withstand surprise attacks before arriving at their destination. From the roar of the car’s engine to poignant silences, every auditory detail assists the real-time animation—created by the  director with the Unity game engine—to make the game-like environment feel authentic.

The soundscape first invokes the natural: a thunderous storm and heavy rain whose crisp rumble and torrential droplets sonically soak us in the dark, cold outdoors. Suddenly, the rainfall is muffled and we are inside the car, directing our ears  to mechanical and electronic sounds. A watch ticks in anticipation and a sombre voice transmits a radio message, as if warning of impending doom.  The driver is breathing through a helmet – not unlike Star Wars’ Darth Vader. We are in sci-fi territory now.

Two striking shots are juxtaposed: the face of the driver’s watch and his face, the latter revealing that this is a real-time animation short. The aesthetic realism is  noticeably artificial, harkening back to beloved animated video games. The camera alternates between the driver’s point of view and third person shots of him. This juxtaposition positions us between seeing and seeing someone seeing. Are we the driver (as in a video game), or are we simply watching him driving (as in a film)? For Julianne Grasso, a researcher of video game music, such slippage falls on a ludonarrative spectrum, with “ludic” games emphasising interactivity — explorable landscapes, inhabitable avatars, agency over events, and embedded challenges — while narrative structures are closer to a non-interactive, cinematic observation, with pre-designed plot and characters. Though a film, viewers experience Rally like a game, an explorable reality simulating their position in the driver’s seat. 

Sound effects insert us as avatars in the plot. As black vans approach with a menacing growl and open the rally car’s trunk, we are present. The trunk door opens like a spacecraft, with an airy whoosh as it glides up. The hostage is thrown into the car with a few hollow metallic thuds and the trunk swooshes closed again with a soft click. This world is futuristic.                   

While invoking a video game nostalgia, Menghini reminds us that we are still in the world of narrative film through music. The scoring is central to bridging the gap between the two artforms. It is cinematic yet immersive. One instrument sticks out in the mix. The flute is the only named instrument in the end credits. While its inclusion may at first be perplexing, it is a core ingredient to the creation of character in this short. The flute attaches itself to the smugglers throughout the film, particularly the driver, through its melodic interjections. It is heard at key moments such as the beginning of the journey and the arrival at the border. It is centred around the driver, flowing with his accelerations and decelerations. When his fellow smuggler is shot, the flute disappears and our focus is drawn to his heavy breathing as he escapes danger.

But why is the flute the driver’s inner soundtrack? The choice becomes clear when we consider his stressed breathing. The emphasis on his breath, despite its distorted timbre, highlights his humanity. Although his environment is artificial and robotic, he is a real person. The flute reinforces this in ways that an electronic instrument could not. It is the result of human breath. His music serves as a division between his existence and his circumstances.

Rally’s finale replaces the flute with an organ; human breath is replaced by a mechanical pipe. The systematic drudgery that this dystopian future has imposed on the driver is heard in the funeral-like scoring. His instrument is silenced and he is distanced from the action, as are we. Experience and immersion are traded for observation and message, and the authorial view comes to the forefront. Both the organ’s lament and beeping watch signify the end for the driver. There is hope that he will put an end to his smuggling days. His undeniably human reaction to losing his partner proves he feels empathy and likely resents his work. However if the corrupt system we have seen throughout the film pervades, it is possible that he will never escape this harrowing lifestyle, and the ghostly hymn signifies his inescapable doom.

Rally is a reminder of recent feature films that capitalise on the game-like experience, such as Edgar Wright’s Baby Driver. This film, like Rally, is centred around the car chase as a means of driving narrative. While it doesn’t put us directly in Baby’s POV, the film is an immersive experience that highlights him as “the avatar” through his music — not through the music itself but rather his deliberate decision to play it. Similarly, the flute is the driver’s music in Rally. By experiencing the music heard by these two “avatars,” we are inhabiting them like video-game characters, while also seeing human aspects of their existence. The latter keeps us grounded in the realm of film. Rally ultimately blurs the lines between cinema and gaming, using sound and music to create an immersive yet emotionally resonant experience that underscores the humanity within its dystopian narrative. 

Two American women move to France to have a very different experience

by Mackenzie Thomas

Luxury, gourmet cuisine, fashion, and art. We think of these things when we hear of Paris, the city of love and light. Oftentimes, most people link Paris and France together, as if they were interchangeable with one another. We are taught to do this because of shows such as Emily in Paris. The trope at hand is that of the American woman moving abroad in order to find change and meaning within her life, something she has yet to find in her life in America. Emily in Paris romanticizes this experience and allows audiences to feel as though they are experiencing the escape of moving abroad.

By contrast, in the short film, Plaisir by Molly Gillis, the twenty-something Eleanor tries to escape America for a completely different life in southern France to work on a farm in order to become better at being by herself. This proves to be starkly different from the promised life abroad with Emily in Paris. As Eleanor is hitting a cultural barrier, Gillis’s 19-minute film conveys through sound, movement, and landscapes that communication and living in harmony with one another does not have to rely on language, whereas Emily in Paris conflates escape with luxury living and romance, and relies greatly on the  English language.

We first encounter Eleanor on a train. We hear the screeching of the rails, the rustling nature of the car she is in, an announcement warning passengers to not forget their personal belongings, and their destination of Avignon, a town in the South of France. Eleanor listens attentively to an audio guide teaching her various phrases and words, such as “Why are you here?” This signals to the audience that she is most likely asking herself the same question. When she sits at the train station waiting for her coworker to come pick her up, we hear another train coming in, and the hallmark sound for the French train systems begins playing over the intercom.

The woman who comes to pick her up is the second-most important character to the story. She highlights the differences between herself and Eleanor. The most notable of these is the fact that neither one of them speaks much of the other’s language, so throughout the film, they are forced to communicate by means of body language, customs and traditions, and movement. This hypothesis is further reinforced via the director’s personal influence and admittance to not being good at French when she arrived to work on a farm in France herself, and wanting to “explore how we build relationships beyond language,” as found in the review on the film.

Comparatively, when Emily arrives in Paris in Darren Star’s show, she is approached with the language barrier, but immediately found by a French man, her future love interest, who speaks perfect English, along with her team at work who all conform to her needs to speak English in the French office. Emily laughs off her inability to understand, oftentimes, and stumbles around with a naïveté about her. In addition, she moved from Chicago, a big city, to Paris, the most well-known city in France, let alone in the world. Her escape was drastically different from that of Eleanor’s.

There is a striking scene between Eleanor and the other workers living on this farm where they work. They sit at an outdoor table and talk about how Eleanor does not speak French, all the while they are eating. We see and hear workers sucking their fingers and licking their plates while glasses clink around the table. Eleanor watches their behavior and begins to emulate it even though she had only been using silverware to eat previously. Emily, in contrast, takes long work lunches with her coworkers and pleasurable dinners with her friend that consist of steak and copious amounts of wine. Silverware is a must in the Parisian environment. So, while Emily is becoming more accustomed to luxury, Eleanor is being worked and stripped down to a grounded human while she works on the farm for hours day in and day out.

Eleanor then explores the property where she lives. We hear rustling leaves, birds, and the sweeping wind. Each of these is put in contrast with the loud sounds of her lugging her suitcase to her yurt. This brings us to realize that there is a pattern for Americans who flock abroad to start anew and have experiences different to those than they have ever had before.

Throughout the film we continue to hear Eleanor’s progress with her French in voice overs that compliment montages of her time with the other workers. Her verbal communication improves, but so does her relationship with the others on the property and her ability to embrace French culture. We see this in an impromptu lesson between the protagonist and the most prominent worker about the dancing meditation practice of “butoh”. They take turns showing each other how they move their bodies with and without music. Even though “butoh” is different from the dancing that Eleanor knows (because she prefers to use music), the two share in a moment of simplistic, carefree dancing before sharing a cigarette. The commonality between each dance movement, sound of inhaling and exhaling cigarette smoke, and music, is that each of these creates a shared experience that both people can enjoy, despite the lack of knowledge on how to verbally communicate with one another. 

While Eleanor emulates what her coworkers are doing around her, Emily never quite fully embraces her experience of living in France. A clear example of this can be seen when she is taken to the hammam, a spa located in a mosque, and every other woman around her embraces the topless/nude norm, while she remains covered in a towel. And even though she is in French lessons, she refuses to speak in the native language consistently with members of her work team and her French boyfriend. Eleanor is forced to conform to the environment around her in order to make use of herself and find meaning from her time on the form, whereas Emily relies almost exclusively on her ability to communicate via language and expression through her fashion choices.

With each montage in the film Plaisir we hear more complex phrases in French, an increase in her positive experiences, and her engaging in the practices she has learned from the others such as when she takes the time to light her own cigarettes. Everything culminates at the end of the film with a meditative experience that all of the workers are encouraged to participate in. They are given the opportunity to strip nude and have a private walk in the garden. Eleanor strips naked and allows her body to feel the movement she learned through her “butoh” lesson.

Plaisir, in the end, varies in how people interpret it. While Emily finds her “plaisir” through luxury in the city life of Paris, Eleanor finds her “plaisir” in the freedom of working in the dirt and escaping her life in America. In “The Promise of Touch: Turns to Affect in Feminist Film Theory” we see that Sobchack asserts “‘If we are to understand how we understand the film experience, why it has significance for us, and why we care about it, we must remember that experience as located in the lived-body,’ Sobchack argues and simultaneously ascribes film a task in the face of the contemporary historical moment, ‘the crisis of the lived body’”. They go on further in saying that the viewer and film are in an intersubjective relationship in which the viewer experiences what is happening on screen. Despite the fact that Plaisir is almost entirely in French, the viewer is able to experience the uncomfortability that the cultural and language barrier places on her, whereas Emily in Paris never crosses the line here. In putting the whole film in French, we are able to use the non-verbal cues such as body language to understand the story, which proves to be more rich in experience for the viewer than watching Emily in Paris.

In the end, we can say that Plaisir is the antithesis of Emily in Paris. Plaisir is set apart from other works of cinema because it relies on non-verbal communication in order to provoke understanding from the audience, in place of communication with direct language usage.

A Fallen Fowl Flips the Script

by Elwin Serrao

The Miracle on the Hudson was an incredible feat of aviation skill where Captain Chesley Sullenberger (“Sully”) safely landed a passenger airplane on the Hudson River after hitting a flock of geese which incapacitated both engines. Sully became a hero and the subject of Clint Eastwood’s film Sully featuring Tom Hanks in the title role. Everyone on the plane survived; the geese were not so lucky. 

Hudson Geese by Bernardo Britto is an animated short film narrating the story from the point of view of the goose leading the flock. He reflects on his life, the cycles of migration, his family. Happy until being hit he is haunted by the image of the pilot with the white mustache, honored with a cinematic monument for his miraculous landing. But no one remembers the leader of the geese.

The goose re-centers the event with a monotone, grim voice, challenging our views on heroism while presenting humor in an untraditional way. As the top comment says, “The narration stands out to me. It’s melancholic, yet fascinating. The animation has a peaceful style, but it’s both comedic and tragic at the same time.” The goose forces us to think about if unspoken voices are still real. Few would listen to a dead goose; anyone would listen to an empty soul lamenting his family’s death. This introduces the idea of nature’s voice versus humanity’s. 

In keeping with the melancholic tone, the goose expresses scorn towards humanity, mainly targeted towards Sully. As Amy Fraher discusses social dependence on heroic figureheads while disregarding teams, she highlights the media over crediting Sully when the rest of the crew, emergency responders, and aviation authorities had just as much of a role in the miracle. The goose highlights that Sully’s hero status came at the expense of forgotten figures. 

Sound effects play a role in the comedic relief in the movie. Namely the honks of the geese ground the audience, being self-conscious that we are talking about birds. Honks and flaps of wings interspersed in the film, in the depths of the goose’s humanization arc, contrast his somber point of view but do not discount it. 

Use of music and silence help flip-flop the atmosphere of the goose’s happiest and saddest moments. The most intense moments are when the flock takes off and when they are hit. The takeoff is underscored by Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony, magnificent and sublime, foregoing the narration. Upon impact, the music is muted, only the sound of geese genocide present, honks that were once comedic now reflect death. 

The limited human voices are deliberately detached. Clint Eastwood’s “action” and Tom Hanks’s “we did our jobs” were so void of emotion, the same emotion they had for the goose. From his perspective, they are the soulless ones and they make a mockery of his death. Sully’s “oh, birds” at the end followed this soullessness and voidness, emphasizing that he only saw the flock as an inconvenience to his story. It also follows that Sully is the only voice from the event, furthering this hero (or villain) complex pushed upon him. 

In Martin Dinter’s discussion on epic heroes, he explores the formula of an epic hero: “X will die to increase the glory of Y. (154)” These “X”s are minor heroes, who are set up for slaughter. They provide a compact, economical way to move the major hero’s story along. Captain Sully’s name is immortalized because of what he did to those birds. Beyond just the geese, nature as a whole falls victim to the epic hero of humanity. The goose reflects on the ever changing landscape, including the fields being torn apart and paved, the diamond plots of land being molded with the will of humans. Britto’s film comically yet soberly uses this case as a reminder of humans’ effect on nature and  the price of our progress. 

The film gives the goose leader a voice that is god-like and omniscient. Nature is voiceless against human attack and this narration gives it a voice. Voiceovers force the audience to trust the narrator and as Sarah Kozloff says, “We put our faith in the voice not as created but as creator (45).” In giving the goose this power, we give the goose full reign to flip the script on a historic miracle, that humans are the inconvenience, not geese. We have a complete reset on who is really the victim in our coexistence with nature. 

Furthermore, the goose leader speaking from beyond the grave puts more weight on his words. Oftentimes, mourners wish they had appreciated the dead while they were still alive; the goose utilizes this wish to tell his story. Kozloff further writes about the irony of narrators as they can easily ruin their credibility with one wrong statement. As they introduce their bias on the story, they can contrast the image track which could either strengthen or weaken their stance (109-110). The goose cements himself as the voice of wisdom in an ignorant world, recasting himself as the epic hero. 

Humans try to mold the world in their image, forgetting who was there first and who will remain long after. One instance of massacre does not stop millennia of institution. While humans display themselves as closer to divine than animals, this film questions that untouchability. Afterall, we model our inventions after them, from airplanes to leadership patterns. 

This minor hero of Sully’s story offers recalibration of our moral compass. He calls into question the thought of hidden figures in a hero’s story. The film follows a recent trend in highlighting hidden figures but does it in a unique way. We do not get Tom Hanks’s or Clint Eastwood’s accounts, only that of the victim. 

Yasuo Takamatsu’s Journey Through The Ocean

by Sebastian Erb

The Diver is a 9-minute documentary directed by Anderson Wright that tells the story of Yasuo Takamatsu’s search for his wife, who died during the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami. Over a decade later, Yasuo still dives into the ocean’s depths in pursuit of her every weekend. The film’s use of silence, media technologies, and voiceover helps render Yasuo’s journey in coming to terms with the consequences of the catastrophe. Wright personalizes the tragedy by focusing on Yasuo’s search for his wife’s remains while working through the absent presence of her mediated memories.

The film opens with almost complete silence. For the first thirty seconds, all that can be heard are the sounds of raindrops hitting the ground: Yasuo is alone. Still, white text appears on the screen describing the tsunami, setting the catastrophe in stone and with it the atmosphere for the rest of the film.

Yasuo’s voiceover details the last day he saw his wife. As he recalls his final moments with her, everyday life can be heard, such as cars driving, people shopping, and nature. These sounds abruptly stop with the shutting of a car door—a device Wright deploys as a sonic “cut.” Next, the emergency evacuation message from March 11, 2011 is heard, accompanied by amorphous and eerie music, adding to the sense of uncertainty and fear evoked by the emergency broadcast. The music continues after the broadcast, ending with a video of his wife that was taken before her passing. The sequence concludes with the shutting of a car door, as if Yasuo is snapping in and out of memories. 

Videos and photos of Yasuo’s wife recur throughout, allowing the viewer to access Yasuo’s thoughts. As Susan Sontag famously noted in her seminal essay on On Photography,“ photographs are a way of imprisoning reality, understood as recalcitrant, inaccessible; of making stand still.” The Diver calls upon these videos and photographs to recall a moment in time that seems lost forever. The video is slowed to the point that it almost mimics stillness, yet the frame-by-frame movement offers something even more powerful than a photograph alone: it makes it possible to discern otherwise unseen nuances of emotions as they flash across her face, akin to what Walter Benjamin called the “optical unconscious” whereby photography makes it possible to see something we have never seen before. By editing the video in this way, the viewer can feel that she was not just another victim of a tragedy but a real person with a family, a life, and a future that was ultimately taken away. However, the film also illustrates how media preserves her memory and continues to shape the present. While Yasuo can never reach the past, his search for her body becomes a way to move forward. The theme of stillness versus movement is apparent in these segments of the film.

One of the most poignant sequences in the entire film is when we finally observe Yasuo dive. Amid breathtaking shots of the ocean, Yasuo’s emotional voiceover reflects on the nature of love: while other cultures may use the phrase “I love you,” in Japan, love is expressed without words. Yasuo’s searching of the ocean for her body says that much. In contrast to the earlier parts of the film, there is constant motion taking place throughout the diving sequence. One could argue that the physical movement reflects Yasuo’s mental journey as he attempts to both honor their love, by finding her body, and also move forward. 

The film manages to portray the complexities of loss and tragedy while utilizing a simple framework. Céline Roustan, in her essay on The Diver, expands on this idea, emphasizing that “Wright opted for a more quiet approach than usual with the film’s sound design and employs this to immerse the audience in Yasuo’s headspace.” Roustan highlights that Yasuo “reveals his vulnerabilities on camera,” with the film portraying “emotionally powerful moments even when he isn’t saying a word, almost turning his wife’s absence into a character of its own.” By not having atmospheric music, it allows the audience to focus on the silence that takes place. Expanding on this, the combination of amorphous music and silence over time takes shape, behaving as a character to the viewer. The story revolves around this idea, with the sound design mirroring the thoughts and emotions of Yasuo.

The concluding portion of the story highlights that Yasuo has been unsuccessful in tracking down his wife’s remains, however, her cell phone was retrieved a month after the tsunami. Similar to a message in a bottle, the cell phone carries a fragment of his wife’s existence that survived the catastrophe. In this way, it acts as a device that delivers mediated memories to Yasou. Yet, while the message has been delivered, the messenger remains absent. This provides Yasuo the opportunity to relive memories of his wife, but also physically cements her absence, as the message is only a part of the messenger. Ultimately, the phone acts as a reminder of how the past can feel both profoundly close and unreachable at the same time. The film’s final scene further emphasizes one of the central themes of the film: the silence of absence. The concluding shot displays teardrops that have accumulated on the floorboards of Yasuo’s house. Mirroring the opening shot’s silence and stillness. As the screen cuts to black, the audience is reminded of one thing: he is alone.

Making Intentional Rips

by Eva Wojcik

In the opening scene of Rips, we see little hands fuss with a rip in a pair of jeans. The rip is not a fashion statement but a result of wear. The jeans are then thrown on the ground when a young woman enters the room. The young woman, Cass, is helping her nine-year-old daughter, Hailey, get ready before they go to clean a house. Hailey wears her red “Nantucket Lifeguard” sweatshirt as her mother tries to secure her ponytail with a green hair tie. Hailey expresses that, as of today, she no longer likes green. Out of Cass’s view, Hailey yanks the hair tie out of her hair, exposing a bright red-dyed streak.

Cass and Hailey trek across town to a wealthy neighborhood. While Cass cleans, Hailey explores the maze of rooms and plays dress-up with a pair of red clogs. She goes outside to visit the pony in the barn and runs into the homeowner’s daughter, Abby. Abby accuses Hailey of stealing her sweatshirt. Abby does not know that her mother gifted it to Cass. Abby’s mom de-escalates the argument, and Cass and Hailey depart. On the walk home, Hailey steps in a puddle. To keep Hailey dry, Cass pulls a pair of red clogs out of a plastic bag – the clogs are the same pair that Hailey had played with at the house. After Hailey recognizes the shoes, she jokes to Cass. Cass is relieved, and they continue walking home.

Rips is a short drama of two worlds colliding. The sound design of the film exquisitely captures the audience and distinguishes Cass’s neighborhood from Abby’s. The front door of Cass and Hailey’s home creaks, the dogs bark in the distance, and roisterous children ride their bikes up the street. In the background, birds are chirping but barking dogs overpower them. The neighborhood is noisy. Cars and garbage trucks drive past Cass and Hailey while they scratch a lottery ticket outside of the gas station.  In the wealthy neighborhood, massive mansions with curated gardens and large front yards. The muted cars are quiet enough to hear the birds and the rustling of tree branches. Wealth seems to muffle the manor. Indeed, a study of noise pollution and socio-economic difference in Chicago found that higher noise levels disproportionately affect socially and economically disadvantaged communities (Huang 9). This article proves the Rips director, Major Dorfman, made an intentional choice regarding the differences in the background noise in Cass and Hailey’s neighborhood versus the wealthy neighborhood. 

Cass and Hailey listen to music on their walk to the house. Music blasts from Cass’ phone in the park, and Hailey sings along. It might be considered rude to listen to music aloud in a strangers’ home, but they are alone. When they enter the house, everything is still. It is lifeless. The home is peaceful and quiet but lonely. In contrast, Cass and Hailey’s home is lively. They are surrounded by an energetic community. Although the wealthy home is surrounded by houses, they are isolated from society’s vibrancy.

Red is the most prominent color in the film. A loud color, red symbolizes power, strength, and, most importantly, love. Hailey’s favorite sweatshirt is red. When Hailey wears this sweatshirt, it makes her feel confident and strong. Hailey does not know her favorite sweatshirt is a hand-me-down until the end of the film. Cass told her she bought the sweatshirt while she was on a trip. Cass attempts to shelter her daughter from the adversities she faces but is not successful. The second hand-me-down Hailey receives is also red; a red, shiny pair of clogs. After Hailey steps in a puddle, she receives the shoes. Hailey is shocked because she was just playing dress-up with them. While Hailey played dress-up, she danced like a carefree, happy little girl in Abby’s room. The camera flips between delicate figurines and American Girl dolls. Emphasizing what Hailey does not have, but Hailey is not jealous of these things. In the park, the audience can feel the unspoken words between Hailey and Cass. Hailey realizes how vulnerable her mom is at this moment, so she makes a joke about showing them to her boyfriend. Hailey’s intelligent response changes the mood of the scene from pensive and tense to playful. 

Since red is a “loud” color, sounds may appear louder with red on the screen. Combined with sound, the film’s color palettes play mind games with the audience. Cass immediately turns on rock music to clean in the white kitchen while the camera observes her in the stately living room. The living room’s dark walls form a border around the bright tiles and light kitchen cabinets. The muted colors seem to subdue sounds. Later, while Hailey cleans a window, the shot is primarily red from her sweatshirt and hair. In this scene, the background music appears to sound more upbeat and intense, grabbing the audience’s attention and making them feel more engaged.

Another significant sonic sign in the soundtrack is the piano music. After Hailey arrives with Cass at the house, Hailey runs to another room. Suddenly, we hear her tickling a piano. She does not play well as she presses the keys at random. The diegetic sound acts like a stinger, a sharp accent in an otherwise silent home. The piano has a symbolic function; it is the domestic instrument associated since the nineteenth century with middle-class culture and upward social mobility. In Ruth Solie’s article “Girling’ at the Parlor Piano”, a father explains to his daughter that playing the piano is an “honorable accomplishment for young ladies” (link). 

For Hailey, the piano is a toy, just like Abby’s pony. In Abby’s world, however, they are status symbols. Abby is now too big to ride Franklin, so she has graduated to playing the piano not only as a symbol of prosperity but also as part of middle-class propriety. Abby has weekly lessons to improve her skills, and lessons are expensive. In the nineteenth century, middle-class daughters played the piano to perform their femininity (link). Both the pony and the piano manifest the socio-economic gap between Hailey and Abby.

Rips centers around the sacrifices a mother makes for her daughter. Cass seeks to shelter Hailey from feeling lesser than, but Hailey learns to embrace her background. The film ends on a hopeful note. Jeans are ripped for a reason. Affectionately called distressed, they bear the marks of life’s labors, including the labor of love. 

An Ode to Mothers Everywhere

By Grace Mazurek

One of my favorite study snacks lately has been pistachios – a taste I acquired from my mother. But little did I know that there was more about pistachios connecting me and my mom. Eating pistachios—not the shelled ones—means struggling to crack them open. In his short film Open, Richard Paris Wilson dives into this challenge and its maternal meaning. 

In Open, a young man eating pistachios becomes consumed with trying to open one that seems to resist. After failing using his fingers, he turns to every resource possible – hammers, chainsaws, golf clubs – but still fails, destroying his room in the process. The film begins without music, but is filled with the sounds of pistachios and efforts to crack them open. If the clicking and scraping of pistachio shells sounds like “nails on a chalkboard,” “nails on a pistachio shell” sets up the story to be about more than nut cracking, especially if it bloodies one’s fingertips.  Something else is afoot. Indeed, a simple sad piano tune enters as the man tries harder and harder to open this one pistachio, refusing to move on to the millions of other pistachios at his disposal. The music suggests that the pistachio obsession is not just fun and games but something more. A violin joins suggesting a second element in the story. The man looks at his pistachio, wraps his hand around it, and kisses it. That pistachio is more than a pistachio, it’s a source of pain and the object of desire.

But why is this pistachio so hard to open? It turns out that pistachios have one of the hardest shells of all nuts. In an experiment ran by the University of Natural Resources and Life Sciences, Vienna, it was found that pistachios “are encased in an ‘ingenious’ microscopic structure of interlocking cells so tightly bound, they never let go of each other” (link). Because of this, “they can take the energy of an impact and, by bending or stretching instead of breaking, redirect it away from the object to be protected” (link). It is literally built into the pistachio shell’s DNA to protect. The shell protects its seed, like a good parent protects their offspring. To the man, this relentless protection of the pistachio is a reminder of this parent.

The film’s pistachio parent symbolism becomes kafkaesque when the bittersweet piano and violin duo gives way to drums and electronic sounds as the man gets more aggressive with his attempts to open the pistachio. When he hits the pistachio with a golf club, mickey mousing (musical sound effects mirroring the movement) suggests a cartoonish grotesqueness. Wilson likely got inspiration from the early 20th-century author Franz Kafka whose stories explore alienation, bureaucracy, absurdity, and existential dread, often featuring characters trapped in surreal, oppressive, and nightmarish situations. Viewers who know that Wilson’s film parallels Kafka’s stories have an insider view to the pain that this excessive longing can cause.

Indeed, in the following bathtub dream sequence, scored with slightly off-putting music, the man wakes up in a tub full of pistachios, and then goes wild, searching for his pistachio. He eventually finds it and clutches it to his heart. As this occurs, an eerie song with gongs, bird songs, and chimes plays, eventually turning into a lullaby, but one played by electronic instruments. This music combines both peaceful and chilling sounds, calling back to the good memories from the parent the pistachio represents, and to the uncertain future without the parent, no longer accessible. The good (memories and experiences with those we love) cannot occur without the bad (those we love leaving) eventually occurring.

Throughout the film, the man’s phone has been buzzing with texts from his sister, but obsessed with the pistachio, he ignores it. Yet at the end, the man cannot ignore the news anymore, as his sister (dressed in funeral black) physically comes to him to comfort him. The man is forced to face the bad occuring, which we learn is death.

We learn the specific answer to who has died and why this pistachio is so special when the man’s pistachio frenzy results in him imagining a giant pistachio imitating his mother’s womb. Angelic music plays, beckoning him to the womb, in which he curls up in. Just as the man is trying to get this one pistachio open, he is trying to get his (now dead) mother back. 

But this angelic chanting music is not just angelic. It soon morphs into more of a demonic chanting music, sounding like screeching instead of calling. This change of music directly reflects the genre of dark comedy that Open is. Not only is this at first light-hearted film actually about a deep topic of losing who you love, but this demonic music warns of the agony that can happen if you try too hard to go back to what is lost. Physically, this was represented by the occurrence of blood after too many tries of opening the pistachio.

The pistachio protects its seed too firmly. This never ending protection is one of the best definitions of a mother’s love. Just like the physical properties of the pistachio shell, a mother will grab on to her children so tightly and do her best to protect them from harm and never let them go. In this film, the young man is trying to cling to this feeling of love he will never (at least so obviously) be able to feel again. Next time you eat a pistachio, remember to acknowledge what you have when you have it, and to feel the love surrounding you. Thank your mother or motherly character in your life today, and perhaps offer her a pistachio and a story.

A documentary humanizes the referee of the most popular sport worldwide

By Olivia Spraul

“Das Spiel (The Game)” is a 16-minute documentary that follows FIFA referee Fidayi San throughout a major league soccer match. The unusual focus on the referee rather than the match is meant to humanize the polarizing officials at the center of “the beautiful game.” The film follows San through the pregame, the match, and his ride home with his father, highlighting his personal and professional facets. The viewers witness contentious calls, moments of doubt, and a formidable block of fans that is a force to be reckoned with.

One striking feature of the film is its use of sound. Director Roman Hodel showcases the sounds of a crowded stadium and overlapping conversations, punctuating them with moments of silence that highlight the pressure and isolation faced by the officials. Noise is also utilized to alternate between the internal and external perspectives of various people within the stadium.

Internal and External Quiet

Silence plays an integral role in bringing the audience into the referee’s position. The short plays with two kinds of quiet: quiet due to external circumstances, and quiet within someone’s mind. This internal quiet is a representation of forced calmness. San’s psychological state does not match what he actually hears, as the sound still exists, but he must outwardly represent control and neutrality. 

The short opens with a moment of external silence, with San in the locker room, waiting for the game to begin. Noise from the stadium is heard in the background: hinting at the ruckus to come. However, when compared to the raucous crowd noises, the quiet of San and his fellow referees is like the calm before a storm. This dichotomy highlights the physical separation between the referees and the fans.

The sound works jointly with the camera: the referee is the narrative focal point and the subjective point of audition. At 08:10, just after San makes a controversial call, we only hear his breathing. Amid a wide shot of the stands, teeming with thousands of fans, San is alone. He must face the unyielding mass without a sign of uncertainty and separate himself, so that his decisions are less affected by social pressures. His isolation promotes impartiality. 

The Power of Words

As noted above, San is vocalizing constantly on the pitch. He narrates the events on the field and calls out actions of the players. While seemingly jumbled and insignificant, every word has a distinct purpose. When he calls out a player for his attitude, San is establishing authority (11:15). When he analyzes a controversial play, he is creating data to justify his choices and to inform the rest of the officiating team (4:15). Others in the stadium have the choice of saying things off-hand, but San has no such luxury. His every word can be heard by his crew and can alter the course of the match. The fans in the crowd speak more than San, yet their words are given no focus. This implies that, although they say more, what they say possesses less impact. The crowd is a loud voice, but only the referee’s matters. On the field, San must have conviction and show no indecision, even if that does not represent his internal state.

The end of the film is quiet. The stands are empty, the lights are off, and San is driving home with his father, having an ordinary conversation. This ending reminds viewers that, although tensions run high during a match, it is still a game. For San, this is just a job, no matter the stakes. His father’s simple “It was a good match,” makes every previous moment seem less important. This humanizes San and makes him more relatable. 

For most referees, it is often not until something goes wrong that their presence is noted. In these moments, they become controversial figures, easy targets for ire. This documentary reminds viewers that the referees they vilify are simply people who sometimes make mistakes, feel pressure, and question themselves. Hodel humanizes the referee and puts a new lens on their decisions, emphasizing that, at the end of the day, the referees are simply doing a job. “Das Spiel” serves as a window into the intense world of a FIFA referee: the oppressive noise, the isolating silence, and the immense pressure placed upon just a few words.

How film can render the breathtaking panic prior to a job interview

by Wilson Murphy

The title of Paul Shkordoff’s short film—Benjamin, Benny, Ben—calls out the anxiety of his protagonist: who is repeatedly trying out, on his way to a job interview, with which name he will introduce himself: Benjamin, Benny, or Ben? In seven minutes, the film tracks his tense, emotional journey that allows us to enter into his world, exploring themes of identity, societal pressures, and resilience. Film critic Céline Roustan praised the film in her short essay on the Short of the Week website for elevating this seemingly simple walk into a gripping “authentic journey. Every shot and sound works to draw us closer to Benny’s distress as he tries to not only curb his anxiety while overcoming a course of obstacles, societal expectations, and the burden of self-doubt.

The opening scene throws us into a blurry shot of Benny walking toward the camera, leaving viewers unsure if he’s speaking or thinking. The sound crosses what Robynn Stiwell has called the “fantastical gap,” where the diegetic and nondiegetic worlds overlap (link). It reflects the disconnect between his thoughts and reality around him, while walking through nature to get to his interview and is occupied by his rehearsals. When the ambient noise of footsteps, cars, and birds begins to replace his voice, the film shifts from his thoughts to the physical environment.

At the 1:40 mark, the tension breaks when Benny falls in the mud. The camera, which had been following him from behind, moves to his front, finally revealing his face as he stumbles. The sudden, amplified thud of his body hitting the ground becomes a catastrophe. The sound of distant cars continues, as if calling out the socioeconomic gap of lacking access to transportation.

The camera lingers as Benny hesitates, looking back, questioning whether he should continue. A light ringing draws us into his mind, as the heavy breathing and stillness of the environment seem to hit pause to show this hesitation. His breathing, while diegetic, is more than just a physical detail. As Yacavone claims, sounds can “resist being adequately defined by, or reduced to, serving a narrative or denotative function” (link). The breathing bridges the gap between Benny’s anxiety and us feeling his emotions. The scene then transitions to Benny walking underneath a tunnel, again highlighting the inaccessibility of transportation. For the first time, the audience sees Benny from the front: his pace quickens, but he could never catch up with the speeding cars above.

As he enters the restaurant to clean his clothes, the city noises fade, replaced by muffled sounds inside. This brief silence feels like a respite, but it’s soon interrupted by the knocks on the restroom door. The knocking grows louder and more insistent, an accelerando matching his panic. The camera closes in on Benny’s hands as he scrubs his shirt, as he frantically whispers, “Why did I fall? So clumsy.” This knocking increases Benny’s stress—amplified by the social pressures of Black man using a bathroom seemingly off limits.

A subtle yet devastating detail follows: a cut to Benny’s application in the bathroom confirms that he is on the way to his job interview. However, there is no shot of taking the application with him, leaving the audience to question not only whether he will arrive at the interview on time but also if he left it behind. This moment showcases his vulnerability and the pressure of social judgment and the upcoming interview.

As Benny resumes his walk, the soundscape shifts again. His rehearsals become faster, more fragmented, as he cycles through versions of his name—which Roustan notes particularly resonated with her, especially for those with anxiety. Rehearsing can provide a sense of control, but it can overcomplicate thoughts, leaving Benny uncertain about something as simple as how to introduce himself. Each iteration feels like a grasp for control in an uncontrollable situation. The distorted rhythm of his speech represents his feelings of “inner turmoil” as he approaches his interview, while the sounds of cars and city chatter fade in and out, mirroring his mental state.

The absence of music underscores the film’s authenticity. Shkordoff relies on diegetic sounds—the hum of traffic, the rustle of Benny’s shirt, the distant chatter of unseen people—to ground the audience in Benny’s world and emphasize his isolation. Even as he tries to center himself, the noise refuses to let him escape. 

As Benny approaches the interview, the ambient chaos fades, replaced by the intimate sounds of his heartbeat and breathing. This “negative of sound” marks his focus as he gains the courage to face the interview (link). The screen fades to black as he whispers, “Be yourself,” a mantra that feels both hopeful and desperate. When the screen returns, Benny is seated in the waiting room. His posture is low, his breathing is heavy, but there’s a shift. The slumped shoulders that once seemed to carry the weight of the world now straighten, ever so slightly. The breathing slows, changing from ragged gasps to steady inhales and exhales. In this stillness, Benny captures a small but profound victory over his nerves, preparing himself for what lies ahead.

The contrast between his discombobulated appearance and the corporate environment suggests that the seven minutes of his walk has told us everything about the seventeen years that it took him to get to this point. We don’t know whether Benny left his application behind. We don’t know how he will perform in the interview. We don’t know whether he will get the job. But we know the stakes. And we do know that he has arrived somehow at a sense of who he is. When the interviewer greets him, “Hi Benjamin,” he responds, “It’s Benny,” to which she responds, “Benny, nice to meet you.” And we know why: because Paul Shkordoff made us walk with him for the last seven minutes.