Oliver Hermanus’s The History of Sound is the kind of film that seems almost destined to be admired rather than loved. Adapted from Ben Shattuck’s short story, the film unfolds with the slow precision of a well-tuned violin — exquisite in craftsmanship, but curiously lacking in any kind of warmth. On paper, it’s a deeply romantic premise: two young men in early 20th-century America, Lionel (Paul Mescal) and David (Josh O’Connor), embark on a journey through rural Maine to record folk songs on wax cylinders. Along the way, they fall in love, their story echoing the fleeting, fragile melodies they collect. In execution, however, the film’s emotional resonance often feels oddly muted.
Hermanus, whose earlier films Beauty, Moffie and Living were celebrated for their subtle emotional textures, brings the same meticulous attention to period detail here. Every frame gleams with painterly beauty: mist over a valley at dawn, the soft crackle of old recording equipment, the tender glow of lamplight on a sleeping face. The production design and cinematography are undeniably lush — the film looks and sounds impeccable. Yet this polish becomes part of the problem. Everything feels just a little too curated, too careful, as if Hermanus were afraid that a single unscripted moment might ruin the mood.
Mescal and O’Connor, two of the most emotionally transparent actors of their generation, deliver sensitive, technically flawless performances. Mescal’s Lionel — a humble farm boy with perfect pitch and synaesthesia — ought to bring an ecstatic immediacy to the story, yet the script barely explores these gifts beyond a few lyrical voiceovers. O’Connor’s David, the academic idealist, is drawn with the same restraint. Their chemistry simmers quietly, but rarely ignites. The love scenes, while tender, are almost antiseptic — moments to be remembered wistfully rather than lived passionately. Compared with their earlier, more visceral performances in All of Us Strangers and God’s Own Country, this feels subdued.
There are, to be fair, moments of quiet power. A late sequence involving the rediscovery of an old wax recording delivers a haunting emotional payoff, and Lionel’s solitary travels in the years after their separation evoke a melancholy that lingers long after the credits roll. Hermanus captures loneliness beautifully — perhaps too beautifully. The result is a film that feels more like an elegy than a living, breathing romance.
In the end, The History of Sound is a film of extraordinary refinement and limited emotional frequency. Its heart beats faintly beneath layers of aesthetic perfection, a love story remembered rather than felt. For some, its delicacy will be moving; for others, frustrating. It’s a film that wants to sing but only manages to hum — graceful, tasteful, and just a little too afraid of breaking into song.
