History of Sound is a gentle, tender film…
Warm in the way a mild autumn sun warms your hands.
Comforting in the way an effortless love surrounds you.
Like a lullaby softly sung to help you fall asleep.
We see a man playing his guitar on the porch of a wooden house in the forest.
A young man singing mourning songs around a fire when his father dies.
Laments sung by people forced to leave their land.
A man playing someone else’s grief on his violin while suffering from his own heartbreak.
Music and sound feel as essential as bone and muscle—part of the human body.
History of Sound follows two men who fall in love—first with music, then with each other.
Their bond is genuine and beautiful.
They travel through the mountains, knock on doors, visit people’s homes, collecting songs.
With each tune they gather, the sounds that enchant them also soften and deepen their love.
Have you ever shared a connection with someone that you searched for in every corner of your life afterward?
Is there anything more real than spending your whole life chasing the memory of a few months collecting music in distant villages with the person you loved?
The film flows like a calm river on a clear spring day.
The light always falls gently across the story.
The warmth of early-1900s wood meets the shadows of war, separation, and death.
As losses slip away along a forest path, what remains is a lump in your throat… and a song.
I love Paul Mescal’s calm yet powerful acting.
He doesn’t express emotions through big outbursts—he lets them unfold slowly.
The way he absorbs everything in silence makes his emotions spread softly across his face, his jawline, and his blue eyes.
The light reflecting off his character Lionel’s thin metal glasses emphasizes his delicate, thoughtful nature.
I cried at the end of History of Sound.
A film that treats music and sound with such care—both conceptually and emotionally—was always going to affect me deeply.
From the first frame to the last, I took in every moment and held it in my heart.
I think I’ll revisit it, not to feel the pain of what is lost forever, but to feel the joy of having experienced it at all.