Historical accounts of film sound technology are often marked by hegemonic technologies that grew to become standardised across diverse national industries. However, the focus on these dominant technologies often obfuscates matters of power and subversion in technological development, thus effacing histories of innovative sound technologies developed to provide competitive advantages to emerging industries. This essay explores one of these obscured histories by addressing the existence of a technology developed in the early years of synchronous sound in Mexico: the Rodríguez Sound Recording System (RSRS). I argue that this technology constitutes a relevant precedent of tactics that exist at the border between subversion and compliance with dominant film technologies and discourses. To explore this idea, the text traces the industrial context and development of the RSRS, as well as the possible reasons for its demise and the implications of its effacement from film history. This exploration demonstrates that the RSRS is a relevant case for study of often effaced subversive practices in early synchronous sound, disrupting the presumption that only the industries that could afford the costs associated with novel sound technologies were able to access synchronous sound film-making.
In tandem with the rise of streaming services in the past decade, television series’ soundtracks have gained increasing visibility in the paratextual media sphere. Series composers now frequently participate in ‘making-of’ engagements that often spotlight physical musical instruments despite the ubiquity of virtual instruments and DAW-based soundtrack production environments. Synthesising approaches from media studies and organology, I elucidate how musical instruments in soundtrack featurettes guide the reception and interpretation of contemporary television series by taking Variety’ s ‘behind-the-score’ featurette for the Disney+ series The Mandalorian (2019–present) as a paradigmatic case study. By tracing television series music back to its instrumental elements, I aim to highlight how a soundtrack’s aesthetic and narrative impact is contingent upon the technology utilised as much as upon the inspired cognition of the composers, thus drawing attention to the material and practical conditions of soundtrack production and reception.
The film Treasure (Buczkowski, 1949) unfolds against a backdrop of communist upheaval in post-World War II Poland. Despite the presence of Soviet troops in the country, the romantic comedy cleverly avoids any direct references to the USSR. The comedic element carries a subtle propaganda dimension, skilfully employing music reminiscent of the pre-war era, notably the foxtrot. Infusing dance rhythms with chaotic sounds creates a noisy revolutionary anxiety, expected to be followed by tranquillity, music, and love. Deliberate concealment of Soviet culture during the peak of the struggle for the new political system intriguingly helped present the new regime as native, underscoring a commitment to the continuity of Polish culture and Poland's attachment to the West. In Treasure, expectation and hope are intertwined with noise and heteroglossia; sonoclash is a kind of a moral crusade. American-inspired music is a bridge, leading from a state of uncertainty to a new and reassuring situation. The film's protagonist, Mr Rascal, functions as both a catalyst and a model, embodying contradictory sounds. The rapid socio-political changes are assimilated through a skilfully crafted sonic landscape.
The theatrical release of A Quiet Place Part II (AQPII) in May 2021, following months of cinema closures due to COVID-19, was dubbed a ‘referendum on the future of moviegoing’ (Paramount). The film imagines a post-apocalyptic future where humans must remain silent to survive, and the film-makers were adamant that the much-delayed sequel, just like the first instalment, would have to be experienced in cinemas. Whereas the ‘permanent campaign for moviegoing’ (Acland) historically has tapped into the loudness of cinematic sound, the marketing campaign for AQPII showcased ‘spectacular silence’ instead of ‘spectacular sound’ (Grainge) as its unique selling point. This article argues that the franchise’s reversed sonic economy is part of a broader shift in the meanings and values of the cinema as a place for listening. By zooming in to a specific musical gesture pivotal to the film and its promotion, and examining film trailers, pre-show announcements, and audience surveys, I suggest that the Quiet Place franchise is indicative both of the increasing importance of silence in indexing the specificity of the cinematic experience and of a growing tension between traditional cinemagoing and ideals of sonic control and privatisation that are endemic to the technological interfaces of late capitalism. This article was published open access under a CC BY licence: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/ .
