Sound of Metal.
Don’t miss out on this unforgettable ode to silence.
“And that’s the point. That’s the kingdom of God.” These words, softly spoken near the end of Sound of Metal, capture the film’s profound message: silence isn’t an absence—it’s a presence.
Darius Marder’s Sound of Metal tells the story of Ruben, a heavy metal drummer whose life is upended when he suddenly loses his hearing. What unfolds is a deeply moving exploration of identity, acceptance, and what it means to truly listen. The film isn’t just a narrative about loss; it’s a love letter to silence—a reminder of its transformative power in a world obsessed with noise.
For much of the movie, Ruben fights against his new reality. His drumming career, his relationship, and his sense of self all seem tethered to sound. To him, silence feels like a void—something to escape or conquer. He clings to the hope of cochlear implants as a way to “fix” himself, believing that regaining sound will restore his old life. But the beauty of Sound of Metal lies in its refusal to offer easy resolutions.
Through Ruben’s time at a deaf community, we’re introduced to a different perspective. Silence, we learn, isn’t the enemy—it’s a space of profound connection and clarity. Joe, the community leader, teaches Ruben to sit with his stillness, to lean into discomfort rather than flee from it. It’s here that the film reveals its heart: the idea that true peace comes not from regaining what’s lost but from embracing what is.
The sound design is one of the film’s greatest triumphs. It immerses us in Ruben’s experience, oscillating between external noise and internal silence. These shifts aren’t just technical feats; they’re emotional gut punches. We hear what Ruben hears—and, crucially, what he doesn’t. In moments of stillness, the absence of sound becomes palpable, almost sacred.
By the end of the film, when Ruben removes his implants and sits in silence, it’s not a moment of defeat but of surrender. He’s no longer fighting silence; he’s resting in it. That final scene, where the world slows down and the noise dissipates, is a masterclass in cinematic storytelling. It invites us, the audience, to stop and listen—not with our ears, but with our whole being.
Sound of Metal is more than a film; it’s an invitation. In a culture that prizes speed and volume, it dares us to value the spaces in between. Silence isn’t empty. It’s where we find ourselves.
So, the next time you’re tempted to fill the quiet with distraction, pause. Let the silence settle. Feel its weight, its depth. As Ruben discovers, there’s a whole world waiting for us in that stillness—if we’re brave enough to listen.
Metta,
Drewsome.
