This has been a year of reckoning with stillness, even amid so much noise — stillness with our thoughts, anxieties, and moments of self-knowing. Discomfort doesn’t begin to cover it. It’s hard to know the full scale of rebuilding we’ve had to do behind private walls in 2020, coming to terms with an inescapable home and a less escapable self. For that reason, Darius Marder’s Sound of Metal packs a more allegorical punch than it probably intended: how do we inhabit the uncertainty of our time, and still find moments of grace — and grace in stillness — when everything feels so unmoored.
Riz Ahmed plays Ruben, a heavy-metal drummer and recovering addict whose hearing, one day, disappears. The loss is both professional and personal, as Ruben’s partner (Lou, played by Olivia Cooke) is his not only his bandmate but a mutual anchor of support through four years of recovery. The strength of their bond is deeply-felt here, a source of real love and even co-dependency. With a connection so tied to their music and shared past, the shifting circumstances of Ruben’s life begin to outsize their relationship. When Lou finally forces Ruben to accept residential support from a commune for deaf people — headed by a deaf Vietnam vet (Paul Raci) — the sacrifice of their partnership, even for the short-term, does not feel small.
At the camp, Ruben’s simple but weighty task is to “learn how to be deaf.” This is not purely a technical exercise, but a wholesale rewiring of what deafness is, in his mind. Is it a disability to be corrected, or a way of being that is to be accepted and even celebrated? While the latter seems to be the guiding mantra of Ruben’s new home, acceptance is not an easy challenge to bear. Riz Ahmed communicates that hardship beautifully, anchored not in broad emotion but in quiet, sub-surface moments of pain, tolerance, and recognition.
Don’t be deceived by the title. Sound of Metal is not a non-stop deluge of noise, avoiding any deep-dive into Ruben’s heavy-metal lifestyle or any equally heavy-handed score. Instead, Marder smartly forces us to sit in the muffled sounds of Ruben’s headspace, to anxiously crane our necks out alongside him to understand what the hell is going on. The film’s sound design earns particularly high marks by planting us in that deafness, and all in service to its main, empathetic goal. Even as we shift uncomfortably against the silence, we have the space to experience true, un-manipulated tenderness. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
That is a sobering and teachable takeaway for us all.