Sensory Loneliness: a Sound of Metal Reaction

I’ve started making my way down the list of newer films I have been putting off—starting with Oscar-nominated titles. I won’t be reviewing every single one (probably) since reviews are actually the thing I’m least interested in writing. For this film though, I felt the need to organize my thoughts into a long-form response since I have lived my entire life with only four senses. This “review” (or reaction, rather) is not objective by any measure; it is driven by a very personal place. It also won’t focus on most of the “film” elements, but on Ruben himself. (Which I justify, as this is a character study.) It is how I saw the story from a personal view. So, if you came here for a review or to read an objective two to three paragraph analysis of acting, cinematography, or editing, I’m sorry—that’s not what this is. If you’re interested in an emotional and personal connection to a film, however, I hope this reflects what you wanted to read.

I am an anosmic. That means I cannot smell anything; not a delightful Italian dinner, not a fart (or perfume) from someone sitting next to me on the bus. My anosmia is congenital, so I have been this way since birth. I didn’t know it, though, until I was about seven or eight. Any kid who grew up in the US in the 1990s remembers those fat, scented markers. That very sentence may have triggered that olfactory-memory connection you have to Mr. Sketch. My experience, my memory, is different though. My classmates used to sniff each color with glee and talk about it with one another. But whenever I tried, no matter how far up my nose I stuck the felt tip, the air I sucked in never changed. Nonetheless, I laughed with my friends and pretended to experience the same thing that they were, just echoing the things they said. We also had popcorn days at my school and while everyone else whispered in anticipation, I was left wondering fearfully if I was just too dumb to learn how to smell. Clearly, that was not the case and the older I got and the more I learned about anosmia (which my mom also has) the more I realized that it was just something that made me different and made the way I have to navigate life a little different as well. There are challenges and hazards. I have anxiety about how my clothes, breath, or body might smell. Smoke, spoiled food, or a gas leak could go undetected. When people learn this I have to assure them that it’s true multiple times and have had fish bait, bleach, and shoes shoved under my nose to prove it. But I’ve never technically “lost” anything. Smelling is never an experience I will have, so my adaptation was much easier once I understood it was not a character flaw or signal of my intelligence, just an invisible disability that needed to be (and could be) worked around. Obviously, smelling is not hearing. To hear is much more essential to your safety, communication, and everyday life experience. And because my anosmia is congenital I never had to cope with the loss of enjoyment that sense had previously brought me. I never had to relearn living. That said, do not mistake that to mean I cannot grieve for something that never was. Or that I cannot feel Ruben’s pain in a way that someone with all five senses will never, ever understand.

From early on in the film we hear tiny sounds from day-to-day life that we may take for granted: an air can, a bird chirping, the tapping of a keyboard. It’s clear what the filmmaker’s intention was in using this technique. We as an audience become hyper-tuned into what we passively hear and how we would miss those sounds if we, too, lost our hearing. In the beginning, I didn’t think much extra about it, even as he was cooking. It wasn’t until the camera lingered on the cup of coffee Joe made for Ruben that I was hit with a wave of empathy separate from the one I felt just from the nature of the performance and the story. I love coffee in the morning. Even though I can’t sense the nuances of flavor the way most people can, I still taste food and drinks on my tongue. I love the taste of a well-made cup of coffee, but I will never know the feeling of smelling it as I wake up, or before I take my first sip. The way I experience meals is completely different than most people. I’ll never really experience the complexity of flavor the way others do, and my sensitivity to texture is heightened. And at that moment, watching Ruben try to cope with his new loss by focusing on the sight, taste, and probably smell of that cup, I was reminded of what I don’t have as well. The shot of rustling grass at nightfall, of Ruben and the class of children in the field after rainfall, impressed upon me not just the sounds that I would yearn for should I lose my hearing, but also of the scents that I will never know. The smell of rain is one that I have heard people call their favorite yet have the most difficult time explaining. As I watched Ruben and the kids in the open field, I was taken with how beautiful the shot was. More than that though, the context of the story made me consider the way that Ruben was experiencing that moment, how I would have experienced that moment, and how someone with all five senses would experience that moment. I thought about coping with losing a primary, and extremely important, sense. I thought about a lifetime of missing a secondary, and much less imperative, sense. I thought about how most people will never understand either of these experiences and how I was viewing this film from a perspective radically different than most—including, in some ways, the director. And I think that is why I connected with the end of the film so much, and why I have the one big criticism that I have.

Ruben spends the runtime of the film trying to find a way to fix his ears. Despite Joe’s advice, no real plan, and a volatile mental state, he makes that leap. In his situation, I would, too. The sinking feeling you get when you hear how he must experience the world with the surgery, though, is enough to make anyone pause. I’ve been asked more than once if I knew there was a way to bring scent into my life would I do it? I have always said no. I think the flood of smells, and having no concept to match them to anything in particular, would be overwhelming and unbearable. Watching (and listening to) Ruben remove his sensors I felt a strong sense of understanding towards his search for peace—not because I felt that exact moment, but because I have been asked if I would strongly consider a similar choice. And I have a frame of reference to make that decision. I wasn’t surprised by his rash actions or his moment of clarity. I do think the screenwriter may have been wrong to frame his decision in the way they did, however. I understand that his addiction and his co-dependency on Lou (and attaching his sobriety to her) were negative factors driving his decision, and part of why Joe was so disapproving. I also know the director’s grandmother experienced sudden hearing loss, which contributed to the way he chose to mold and interpret the screenplay. But to me, the judgment and disapproving nature the narrative has towards this man trying to reinstate something so fundamental as hearing was an odd choice. He is so lost without his ears and the connection that they give him to Lou, to his audiences, and to a passion. While he could have found those things through the children he was teaching and the others in the facility, I think that his “old life” still had value if we are to view this as a literal film, and not a larger metaphor for sobriety. It makes sense to want him to stabilize and heal before making the decision and I know the reasons for that choice were at least in part unhealthy. However, when you have experienced loneliness or empty space, it’s also natural to want to fill that void or connect that loss. To do so in a way that wasn’t harmful shouldn’t feel so judged. Riz Ahmed’s performance is deeply empathetic and I wish the narrative had been the same throughout—even when Ruben made misguided choices. It’s important to send the message that impairment does not need to be viewed with pity and that disability does not m automatically mean an unfulfilling life. However, as someone born with a sensory impairment, I was struck with the feeling that while they meant to be empowering in their message, the filmmakers came across as judgmental. The answer to Ruben’s internal struggle lies in the middle. He needs to find peace and purpose, but he is not wrong to wish to hear again.

It’s devastating to see how he’ll never experience the music he loves or the pleasure in small sounds, and they shouldn’t have glossed over it. When I saw that I felt deeply for this character and the real-life people he represents. I thought about shared loneliness in stirring a cup of coffee, knowing we would each miss a vital part of that. About how when I stand in a field after it rains I can hear the newly emerging birds and dying winds that would be lost on him; and how he could experience comfort and memories through breathing in a way that I cannot even comprehend. To be missing a piece of the human experience is difficult and often lonely. Lonely is how you feel when you’re in first grade pretending to know what every other kid around you is feeling together. It’s knowing that the woman you love and make music with left you completely alone without showing any interest in meeting your needs first. The feeling of disconnect where an otherwise shared experience would be is not lost me. So I saw this movie, and this character, differently than most viewers probably did. And though there is a difference in the impact on daily life, communication with the world around us, and our background stories, I felt a kinship with Ruben. That makes this film, this performance, a success for me—in the way that I have before been left a little closed off from others, I have felt solidarity in this film and its decision to make all of its viewers experience a lack of sense actively rather than through passive storytelling. I was reminded, again, how much representation in art truly does matter, and I am so excited to see an inclusive cinematic future.