(Oxford Music - Media) K.J. Donnelly-Occult Aesthetics - Synchronization in Sound Film-Oxford University Press (2014)

Occult Aesthetics
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THE OXFORD MUSIC / MEDIA SERIES
DANIEL GOLDMARK, SERIES EDITOR
Tuning In: American Narrative Television Music

RON RODMAN
Special Sound: The Creation and Legacy of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop
LOUIS NIEBUR
Seeing Through Music: Gender and Modernism in Classic Hollywood
Film Scores
PETER FRANKLIN
An Eye for Music: Popular Music and the Audiovisual Surreal
JOHN RICHARDSON
Playing Along: Digital Games, YouTube, and Virtual Performance
KIRI MILLER
Sounding the Gallery: Video and the Rise of Art-Music
HOLLY ROGERS
Composing for the Red Screen: Prokofiev and Soviet Film
KEVIN BARTIG
Saying It With Songs: Popular Music and the Coming of Sound to
Hollywood Cinema
KATHERINE SPRING
We’ll Meet Again: Musical Design in the Films of Stanley Kubrick
KATE MCQUISTON
Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film
K. J. DONNELLY
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Occult Aesthetics:
Synchronization in
Sound Film
K. J. Donnelly
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1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Donnelly, K. J. (Kevin J.)

Occult aesthetics : synchronization in sound film / K. J. Donnelly.
pages ; cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978–0–19–977349–7 (hardcover : alk. paper)—ISBN 978–0–19–977350–3 (pbk. : alk.
paper) 1. Motion picture music—History and criticism. 2. Music and occultism. 3. Sound
in motion pictures. I. Title.
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TAB LE OF CON TEN TS
Preface vii
Acknowledgments xi
1. Introduction: The Lock of Synchronization 1

2. Synchronization: McGurk and Beyond 14
3. Sound Montage 44
4. Occult Aesthetics 70
5. Isomorphic Cadences: Film as ‘Musical’ 94
6. ‘Visual’ Sound Design: The Sonic Continuum 123
7. ‘Pre’ and ‘Post’ Sound 154
8. Wild Track Asynchrony 181
9. Conclusion: Final Speculations 200
Notes 210
Bibliography 236
Index 249
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oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd vi 11/1/2013 12:04:27 PM
P REFA CE
The initial impetus for this project came to me not when engaged with films
or music, or when reading theorists such as Eisenstein or Chion, but
while looking out of the window. Upon moving to the seaside town of
Aberystwyth in mid-Wales in the early 2000s, I was struck, as many cannot
fail to be, by the intermittent bursts of sound and vision afforded by jet air-
craft of the Royal Air Force. I learned rapidly that it was one of the principal
areas of Britain for air conflict simulation. I had been told that there were
strict guidelines on how low these planes were allowed to fly in populated
areas, but these were not adhered to. In the run up to another of Britain’s
seemingly regular punitive actions overseas, these jet planes disconcerted
me by appearing to use the building in which I was teaching (the tallest on
campus) as a target for bombing runs during my classes. On one highly
memorable occasion, I was standing in the marina when a jet came in from
the sea to land at a height that would not have cleared buildings. I saw the
pilot’s face and could even make out the intricacies of his headgear. At this
point, the jet obliquely shot upward at an angle of about 60 degrees. What
was so shocking about this incident was not the proximity of the activity,
but the fact that it initially took place in an eerie, disconnected silence, a
fraction of a second before the devastating blast of sound from the plane.
This was a more extreme instance of the unremitting experience of having
jet planes in the vicinity, where the key aspect of their presence was the dis-
connection between sound and image. In most cases, one hears the sound
and then has to look for the presence of the plane, which is most successful
if one looks well ahead of where the brain informs us that it might be. On
rare occasions, we might see a plane fractionally before the sound reaches
us. This disparity of perception dictated by the different speeds of sound
and light imparted a disconcerting and uncanny aspect to the planes,
where they seemed to be lacking something essential and then appeared
to leave behind more than they should. The most disconcerting moments
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were those where, in a fraction of a second, one could see the plane and
anticipate its sound, but in that split second wonder if the sound was ever
going to arrive. Furthermore, this division emphasized to me the essential
and sensual difference between sound and image: The image appears cogni-
tive whereas the sound appears physical.
This experience was complemented and enhanced by moving to a
part of town where there was anomalous and often notably poor televi-
sion reception. Owning an antiquated TV set did not help. After getting
advice, I found that I could not plug together my old, small set with my new
home-cinema sound and video system, and that while the latter could plug
into the building’s external aerial, the TV could not and had to run off its
own mini-aerial. This meant that when I wanted to switch channels, I had
to change both the TV and the sound system. This situation led to many
moments of ambiguity, when I was not sure whether I had changed both
to the same channel. This happened far more often than I ever would have
imagined. Depending on what was on television, sometimes there was a
coherence between the image track and the sound track of radically dif-
ferent programs, while, less commonly, there was a seeming disjunction
that I perceived in a show with its actual soundtrack, merely because I was
anticipating such by not feeling secure in knowing whether the image and
sound were from the same channel.
Sometimes research has a long genealogy and deep roots. My grand-
mother was a tasseomancer—a tea-leaf reader—and a fanciful interest
in the unapparent and bizarre has been a characteristic of my family. Yet
this was also allied with a strong sense of practicality and understanding
that was more ‘scientific’ than superstitious. This is far from unique, but it
inculcated in me an assumption that there is a hidden world underneath
the banal surface and a desire for the specialist knowledge that might
unlock it or emanate from it. These might be unfounded assumptions, per-
haps little more than prejudices. Critical theory has a generative function
in that, in its best form, it grapples with unknowables, making them into
something more tangible—although never quite making them unproblem-
atically understandable, in other words, never making them into a sim-
plistic reduction. Theory also has something of medieval alchemy about it.
I can vividly remember the first time I came across psychoanalytic theory
as an undergraduate student. Admittedly, some of Freud’s ideas had long
been ensconced in popular culture beyond the academy and the hospital,
but nevertheless, the more detailed and more outré versions still had a
significant impact on me. We were required to read some of Freud’s case
studies, and I was gripped. There was something absolutely compelling in
Freud’s grappling with problems that were initially beyond comprehension
[viii] Preface
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with theoretical tools that were beyond immediate logic. I sometimes think
back to Freud’s case studies in the face of so much instrumental and pro-
saic ‘research’ being completed in universities these days. Freud’s ‘research
questions’ are fairly straightforward, but his methods and his ‘research
answers’ are so far beyond, so much more imaginative than the sorts of
answers these same questions might receive if they wanted to remain fund-
able under today’s circumstances (in the UK but elsewhere too). I was never
sure whether these conclusions, or indeed the methods, were to be taken as
unassailable truths. But I was sure that there were answers that were worth
debating and a potential door being opened to different ways of think-
ing. I say this because to some, in these times, the use of psychoanalysis
as a device in the study of film is anathema. Some declare that it has an
‘unproven’ scientific status, while others suggest that its insights might
be obtained elsewhere and through other means, and others still merely
see it as an obfuscatory discourse that provides nothing concrete for the
study of film or wider culture. I am far from a ‘psychoanalytic’ theorist.
However, I can see the value of such an approach and am fully convinced
that its alchemical ability to turn some base symptoms into philosophical/
theoretical gold is beyond doubt. If I wanted a simple, definitive answer,
then perhaps I would not value its magical operation. But I realize that the
nature of my inquiry and object of scrutiny make it unlikely that there is an
absolute and unassailable answer, and I would be happy with some concep-
tualizations that can allow us to address some of the questions rather than
supply an outright answer.
There is something of the occult about ‘theory,’ particularly the form
that is being used in this book. It is in some ways closer to acts of divina-
tion than it is to instrumental ‘social’ research. An important inspiration
is Walter Benjamin’s dictum that open-minded research cannot dismiss
soothsaying from coffee grounds.1 I might add tea leaves. And I want to
play a little along the line dividing rational ‘science’ and inquiry, and more
‘irrational,’ imaginative speculation. As psychological underpinnings and
inspiration, this study uses scientific, functional, neurological, and physio-
logical ideas about human beings and sound to develop its argument about
the perceptual primacy of cinema’s dynamic interplay across synchronized
and unsynchronized sections of film. The process of synchronizing image
and sound is Pavlovian in that, in many cases, there is an expectation of one
corresponding with the other, and their relationship can be wholly defined
by learned associations. For example, the sound of wood blocks clashing
together is the accepted conventional sound of someone being punched
or kicked in an action film, whereas the actual act of doing this involves
no such sound. Michel Chion notes that the seeming unity of sound and
Preface [ i x ]
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image, what he calls ‘synchresis,’ is Pavlovian, and that “[t]he effect of syn-
chresis, is obviously capable of being influenced by cultural habits. But at
the same time, it very probably has an innate basis.”2 There is a strong phys-
ical foundation to the yoking of eye and ear through image and sound syn-
chronization, but it is perhaps more profitably approached as an essentially
psychological process. Maurice Merleau-Ponty characterized embodied
perception as a more important stage than abstracted cognition,3 and the
dominance of cognitive film theory in recent years has tended to atomize
analysis—reducing activities and objects to minute subcomponents, while
avoiding the ‘bigger picture.’ Such reduction has been happier dealing with
narrative development than with more general aspects of the film experi-
ence. The whole point of synchronization is that, at heart, diverse com-
ponents (sound and moving image) are unified by the phenomenological
experience of the audience member. Furthermore, as I have noted already,
these components might well embody different impulses: the image as cog-
nitive and the sound as more physical and more readily perceived.
[x] Preface
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ACKNOW L ED GM EN TS
Some material in this book has appeared in a different form in “On the
Occult Nature of Sound-Image Synchronization” in Cinephile, vol. 6, no. 1,
Spring 2010, 39–43; “Saw heard: Musical Sound Design in Contemporary
Cinema” in Warren Buckland, ed., Film Theory and Contemporary Hollywood
Movies (London: Routledge, 2008), 103–123; “Europe Cannibalizes the
Western: Ravenous” in Kathryn Kalinak, ed., Music in the Western: Notes
from the Frontier (London: Routledge, 2012).
Included are my own musical transcriptions of John Carpenter’s main
theme from Assault on Precinct 13 (Jack-O-Lantern Music Publishing Co.)
and Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (written by Douglas Ingle, pub-
lished by Alfred Publishing Ltd.).
It has been suggested to me that in my previous books I have been mini-
mal, perhaps even parsimonious, in thanking people. I will try harder to be
a more thankful person.
OUP editor Norm Hirschy went well beyond the call of duty in helping
the birth of this book. Although I was inspired by too many filmmakers and
musicians to list here, my research was consistently given energy by the
theoretical writings of Theodor Adorno, Walter Benjamin, Michel Chion,
Sergei Eisenstein, and a few less obvious ones who remain half-hidden. The
following people were very kind, reading and commenting on at least some
of the material: Daniel Goldmark (a great series editor), Liz Weis, Warren
Buckland, Kathryn Kalinak, Tim Bergfelder, Claudia Gorbman, Royal
S. Brown, Lisa Coulthard, and readers at Cinephile, as well as two very help-
ful but anonymous report writers for OUP. These people helped in some
way: the Film and Music departments at the University of Southampton,
Mila Cai, Beth Carroll, Michael Chanan, Michel Chion, Carol Churchouse,
Glen Creeber, Andy Curtis-Brignell, Leah Curtis, Jack Curtis Dubowsky,
Mark Goodall, Ian Q. Hunter, Neil Lerner, Dan Levene, Wilfred Marlow,
Isabelle Munschy, Michael Nyman, Mike Pearson, Becca Roberts, Ron
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Sadoff, Jamie Sexton, Ann-Kristin Wallengren, and anyone else I failed to
mention. Very importantly, these people tried to keep me sane: Portsmouth
F. C., Robert Donnelly, Joan Donnelly, and Mandy Marler. Heartfelt thanks
to all of you.
[xii] Acknowledgments
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CH APTER 1
Introduction
The Lock of Synchronization
Art is magic delivered from the lie of being truth.

—T. W. Adorno1
I n Michelangelo Antonioni’s Blow Up (1966), there is a highly illustrative

and notably singular moment in cinema. David Hemmings is entertain-
ing Vanessa Redgrave in his apartment. He puts on a jazz record as they
light cigarettes. He then exhorts her to smoke “against the beat.” They then
both attempt to smoke, drawing in and exhaling out of synchrony with
the rhythm of the music. In effect, they simply smoke slowly and avoid
the conspicuous synchronization of drawing in or exhaling on an empha-
sized beat.2 In this sequence, screen time is undermined as a coherent
unity, while corresponding with the rest of the film where space and time
are made ‘occult’—blown-up, re-experienced, and made ambiguous: A ‘new
world’ is revealed underneath the quotidian everyday. It might be argued
that the way the film re-presents banal time-spaces as mysterious and com-
pelling reveals how film in general is all about radically rethinking the idea
of time and space.3 A focus on synchronization can do the same for the
‘space’ between sound and image. In essence, the discussion about synchro-
nization here is not merely aesthetics or a problem of cognitive activity, but
rather a way of thinking about the world. Thus, matching or not matching
sound and image (so-called parallel and counterpoint) might be construed
as different ways of thinking. This is not too fanciful. Important theoreti-
cal work has already opened up some of the territory. Sergei Eisenstein’s
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primary interest was aesthetics in service of political and social opportuni-
ties. Similarly, Hanns Eisler and Theodor Adorno’s discussion of film music
was concerned with social and political aspects of culture and aesthetics.4
In recent years, these concerns have receded, in favor of political discussion
merely being the domain of positivistic approaches to a wider notion of cul-
ture or, perhaps worse, culture merely being approached as a weak symp-
tom of the social. As part of this equation, aesthetics have been relegated
to a very minor role of importance, which at least has bolstered a tendency
to hermetically sealed aesthetic research.
Film is an audiovisual medium except for isolated cases. This book would
like us to remember this more often, and to think of the music of sound
and the sound of music as defining features of the experience, through the
registering of the centrality of sound’s momentary interaction with image.
There are a handful of crucial, defining characteristics that mark out sound
film (and indeed audiovisual culture more generally5) as a unique aesthetic
and perceptual entity. They are all thought via sound although defined via
image: non- or extra-diegetic status (where sound appears not to emanate
from the world on-screen), off-screen sound (where the audience does not
see the origins of the sound but assumes it to be near to what we see on
screen), and synchronization and asynchrony (where sound can match
events on-screen or appear to a lesser or greater degree to be unconnected).
Although there has been some interest in the first two categories, there has
been no notable or sustained research about the last.
In this book, I have used the term ‘occult’ because film sound can often
have an effect that is not immediately apparent and sometimes rather mys-
terious, but almost always powerful. Although the term means ‘hidden,’ it
often connotes something unapparent and magic. Film sound can often
have such an effect, but it also became one of the hidden aspects of film in
criticism and analysis, where it has often been treated as something that
is not quite real and of little import next to the seemingly all-important
image. While my use of the word in this book follows from the definition
provided, it inevitably has something of its other implication. The aesthet-
ics of film—particularly when dominated by sound and music—can work
in an unapparent and ‘magic’ manner, yielding startling results from the
product of sound and visuals that do not succumb to easy explanation. We
should remember that while on the one hand, synchronization is a tech-
nical process, on the other, it is a psychological state engendered by film
and something beyond simplistic and banal description. The word ‘occult’
merely means hidden or unapparent; it should not be equated with sinister
or evil characteristics. Things that can be hidden away might be deemed
‘occulted,’ and the term has some currency in medical circles for events
[2] Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film
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taking place inside the body that remain unseen. However, I also rather like
the connotations of mystical and secretive ritualistic activities, which are
far from being a stranger to the processes of cinema. My starting point is
that aesthetics are occult. The way they work is far from being simple, logi-
cal, or easily understood, and, particularly in the case of film, they strive
to conceal their processes and foster the impression that something else is
going on instead. The ‘occult aesthetics’ of this book revel in the mysteries
of the irrational at the heart of the film experience: desiring never to lose
the texture, the feel, of the aesthetic while hoping to know something of its
intimacies and secrets. One of its open secrets is the separation of sound
and image and their union through mechanical (and increasingly digital)
synchronization. This operation is occult in the sense that it is knowledge
that must be kept hidden and secret. Synchronization of sound and image
has to be hidden as a process to allow for sound cinema’s function as an
engaging medium that appears to render a coherent world on-screen and
in sound. Beyond this, there is also something occult about the process
generally, where two radically different media can be fused in perception,
generating something that is infinitely more than the sum of its parts.
THE FUNDAMENTAL LIE: ILLUSION
The essence of the overwhelming majority of films is the combined illu-

sion of eye, ear, and brain: that of a coherent image and sound, often pre-
mised upon the depiction of human beings on-screen. As Rick Altman
notes, “. . . the sound film’s fundamental lie [is] the implication that sound
is produced by the image when in fact it remains independent of it.”6 This
audiovisual sleight of hand is so central to films that it is beyond being
considered remarkable. However, at certain times, we can be made pain-
fully aware of its importance. When a film or television program goes ‘out
of synch,’ our enjoyment can be ruined and the spell of the diegetic effect
(the ‘illusion’) broken. We cannot fail to notice immediately when sound is
momentarily out of synch with images, especially on television (or, for that
matter, if we have become accustomed to dubbed dialogue in the cinema7).
If it is only a slight delay—it is nearly in synch—we can mentally ‘overlook’
the discrepancy by ‘compensating’ and concentrating less on the conduct
of dialogue and lips on-screen. Because of this unconscious/pre-conscious
mechanism, other elements like sound effects and music can get away with
very slight delays, often without notice or comment.
Ever since initial attempts to accompany recorded sound with image
(and vice versa), there have been concerns about synchronizing the two,
I N T R O D U C T I O N : T H E L O C K OF S Y N C H R O N I Z AT I O N [3]
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realizing that out-of-synch sounds and images tend to undermine the film
experience. While films could have soundtracks of music that were only
vaguely in synch, the development of the ‘talkie’ was premised upon precise
synchronization, creating an illusion of a world on-screen of space, move-
ment, and corresponding sound. Thus sound cinema became founded upon
such so-called synch points, around which the fixed matching of image and
soundtracks cohered. These are commonly moments of dialogue, where
the on-screen character’s mouth movements should be consistent with
the sounds of the words, as if they were being produced directly. However,
there are also many other notable synch points, such as sound effects,
particularly when an action seen on-screen has an anticipated sonic coun-
terpart (for instance, a gun being fired). Similarly, incidental music also
provides a number of synch points with the action on-screen, marking an
activity most obviously with an emphasized ‘hit,’ a stinger or sonic punch,
indicating the conclusion of a sequence or narrative segment with music
that offers a degree of closure, or entering at a significant point to provide
and enhance dramatic aspects of the narrative.
These moments serve to anchor the images and sounds together, forging
the illusory unity of the sound film as a medium. Michel Chion provides a
definition of such ‘locking’ moments:
. . . [a p]oint of synchronization or synch point [is the] audiovisually salient

synchronous meeting of a sound event and a sight event. Example: a dra-
matic cut in both image and soundtrack, sound effect or striking musical
note, or cadence, or emphasized word of dialogue, coinciding with an action,
a zoom in, etc.8
He also notes that it is “. . . like an accented chord in music.”9 These are sig-
nificant moments of punctuation in film, but in their solidifying of the
primary association of image and sound into an illusory whole, they are
ontologically essential to sound cinema. Such events are not usually regis-
tered consciously by a film audience. They seem unremarkable, normal in
fact. Apart from non-diegetic music, film sound overwhelmingly attempts
to give the impression that it is a natural state of affairs, doubling the way
things are in the world outside the cinema. Mary Ann Doane noted that
in classical Hollywood films and beyond, “The invisibility of the practices
of sound editing and mixing is ensured by the seemingly ‘natural’ laws of
construction which the sound-track obeys.”10 The illusion of cinema, and
its fundamental perception as something closely related to the real world,
has undoubtedly been one of the most fundamental characteristics of the
medium. However, it has also militated against certain types of analysis.
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As time-based art forms, film and music have many fundamental attri-
butes in common, despite clear differences. Isomorphic structures on large
and small scales, and patterns of build-up, tension, and release are most
evident in both, as are strong conventional concepts of ‘what fits with
what’ and dynamic patterns of presentation, re-presentation, develop-
ment of material, planes of foreground and background, withholding clo-
sures and marking minor as well as final conclusions to the musical piece
or film. Film, both in terms of its conceptualization and practical produc-
tion, embraces sound and image analogues (in terms of rhythm, both liter-
ally and metaphorically), ‘Mickeymousing’ in music, or gesture and camera
movement being matched by or to the ‘sweep’ of music, to name but a few
instances.
This book is concerned with sound and image synchronization and the
associated psychology and its implications. I aim to reassess film from the
point of view of it being less a representational medium at heart and more
about the combination of sound and image. This might move analysis into
abstraction and away from dealing with film as a recognition and compre-
hension. As part of this, another of my concerns is to detail how far ‘musi-
cal’ procedures have an impact on film more generally, not only on sonic
aspects, but also on the rendering of images. Taking a lead from neuro-
aesthetics, I partially address the notion that culture emanates from or is
determined by patterns in the human brain and physical human percep-
tion.11 This is less than controversial, but it does pull analysis away from
cultural/ideological traditions and re-engages with matters of the physical
and perceptual. It is broadly clear that sound and image (and their syn-
chronization) in cinema are modeled on sight, hearing, and synchroniza-
tion processes in human hardware. Indeed, art and cultural objects might
well emanate from basic perceptual-cognitive requirements more than
‘higher level’ ones. For instance, Leonard B. Meyer notes that short musi-
cal phrases come from the ability of the human memory to retain that spe-
cific amount of material, rather than any accrued convention of musical
culture.12 Similarly, Philip Ball’s The Music Instinct argues that modernist
classical music undermined principles that make music understandable
to all, not because these principles were traditional but because the con-
vention derived from patterns readily recognized by the human brain.13
In terms of film, analysis has tended to look for determinants in narra-
tive and neglects the likelihood that film structures are derived from some
innate perceptual-cognitive requirement. It is striking how extraordinarily
well certain visual configurations work with certain music when wearing
an iPod or similar personal stereo. Human senses and brains have powerful
pattern-seeking abilities and tendencies, which allow for rapid cognition
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but also can lead to confusion in complex environments. Apophenia (origi-
nally considered only a psychotic condition) entails finding unapparent
connections and significance in things—seeing patterns where they do not
exist.14 A particular version of this relating to images and sounds is called
pareidolia and is outlined further in chapter 4. Albert Bregman discusses
the notion of ‘chimeric percepts,’ named after the mythological composite
beast that had a lion’s head, a snake’s tail, and a goat’s body.
An example of an auditory chimera would be a heard sentence that was cre-

ated by the accidental composition of the voices of two persons who just
happened to be speaking at the same time. Natural hearing tries to avoid chi-
meric percepts, but music often tries to create them. It may want the listener to
accept the simultaneous roll of the drum, clash of the cymbal, and brief pulse of
noise from woodwinds as a single coherent event with its own striking emergent
properties.15
Yet when sound is added to vision, there is a further dimension. More

than simply moments when filmmakers, musicians, and others involved
in the process have designed the keying of sound to image, there is the
phenomenon of ‘synchresis,’ a neologism Michel Chion coined that com-
bines ‘synchronism’ with ‘synthesis’ and which is “. . . the spontaneous and
irresistible weld produced between a particular auditory phenomenon and
visual phenomenon when they occur at the same time. This joins results
independent of any rational logic.”16 Illusion is founded upon synch points
where sound and image match each other precisely, be it spoken words or
music and screen dynamics. Chion’s synchresis describes the appearance
of a perceived connection between sound and image, pulling them into a
seeming unity of either illusion or aesthetics.17 The rivets holding the pro-
cess together are moments of precise synchronization between simultane-
ous sound and image events.18 Furthermore, these points involve mutual
implication of sound and vision, as discovered in the 1970s by McGurk and
MacDonald.19 Moments of sonic and visual unity work around distinct per-
ceptual phenomena for sound and image (which are detailed in chapter 2).
These suggest that the sum of seeing and hearing is not a simple, transpar-
ent access to reality at all due to hearing affecting vision and vice versa.
Consequently, there is no such thing as ‘pure music’ or a pure visual dis-
course. This underlines audiovisual culture as a radical object, as a mix-
ture of the exploitation of cross-referencing and the synergy of the human
senses.
As I noted, there is a tendency for synchronization to be perceived
where it was not necessarily intended, at points in the film where sound
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and image cohere in an effective manner that establishes a sense of their
marriage. What appears to be a diverting example of precisely this is the
phenomenon known as ‘Dark Side of the Rainbow’ or ‘Dark Side of Oz.’ If
one begins to play a DVD or video of The Wizard of Oz (1939) and mutes
the sound while playing Pink Floyd’s album Dark Side of the Moon (1973),
the two seem to fit together surprisingly well. Some contend that it is no
coincidence that there appears to be a synchronization, and that it is the
hidden logic of the rather esoteric Pink Floyd record.20 Others have pointed
to Jung’s concept of synchronicity, where there is a seemingly meaningful
coming together of two disparate elements.21 Rather than happening by
chance, as a so-called coincidence, there is a logic to the event that is not
quite apparent.22 Others still have had recourse to the explanation that the
human mind wishes to find unity and cohesion, even in situations where
there is little likelihood of finding much. Without necessarily trying to
alight on one explanation, what interests me is that there appear to be syn-
chronizations, and these appear to hold together a loose structure of sound
and image in an astonishingly coherent fashion. Elements seem to gel, and
synchronization is less a matter of consistently precise ‘hits’ of notable ele-
ments, than more a sense of flow being met by similar dynamics and nota-
ble portals of development being matched, as well as the words to songs
appearing to comment on the screen action. So, there is some magic in
Oz. The wizard in The Wizard of Oz might serve as an apt metaphor for cin-
ema. Having heard about the wizard’s powers throughout her time in Oz,
Dorothy meets him at the film’s conclusion. He is large, loud, and impres-
sive. She and her companions assume the unity of the booming voice and
strange visuals as a ‘real’ and highly singular, powerful being. This is all an
illusion, achieved by a man with a machine. Once the illusion is removed,
so is the power of the wizard.23 The overwhelming majority of films exploit
the illusory characteristics of the medium to present a world that on some
level is taken to be reality by its audience. The combination of sound and
image is a mechanical operation that appears to render a perceptual reality.
Also like the wizard, cinema makes the audience wide-eyed, unable to see
and hear beyond the thin veil of the illusion to the mechanism that grips
them in a state of such awe. An awareness of the illusion of cinema ought
to lead us to be concerned with perception and artifice. On one level, of
course, cinema is a miracle of illusion, allowing us to see and hear the world
in a magical manner. But on the other, it is a huckster’s trick, underlined by
Richard Pryor playing the Wiz in the film of the same title (1978) as a failed
politician. In the 1930s, Sergei Eisenstein and Sergei Yutkevich expressed
surprise that the United States despite all its sophistication had not over-
come the simplistic desire for ‘illusionism’ in film.24 Their pronouncement
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remains valid today, and analysis has to step back to break the illusion.
Maurice Merleau-Ponty stated that
It is because we are through and through compounded of relationships

with the world that for us the only way to become aware of the fact is to
suspend the resultant activity, to refuse it our complicity . . . [and] . . . in order
to see the world and grasp it as paradoxical, we must break with our familiar
acceptance of it. 25
Mary Ann Doane elucidates the process of illusion forged by sound in

mainstream cinema, observing that the synchronization of image and
voice is ‘sacrosanct’ and that ‘invisible’ synchronization is to obscure
the medium’s ‘material heterogeneity’ (and hide its origin in artifice and
industry). Conventional construction, founded upon synchronization, set
up a stable auditory-spectatorial position, “. . . holding at bay the potential
trauma of dispersal, dismemberment, difference.”26 The crucial element in
this process is the point of synchronization, or synch point, which holds it
all together. It is the crucial lynchpin in the process of retaining a sensible,
often comforting discourse from a collapse into disturbing meaningless-
ness and chaotic psychological and material disorder.
So, the absolute essence of sound film is the synchronization of image
and sound at key moments that hold together the film experience. I should
note here that I am essentially discussing cinema, where a big screen and
big sound can produce an overwhelming effect rather than merely minor
interest, rather than television. The basis of cinema in a precise synchroni-
zation of the audio and the visual is evident to the degree that it has been
considered unworthy of serious or sustained consideration. Furthermore,
film tends to move between moments of synchrony between sound and
image and points where there is no synchronization. This is quite likely the
beating heart (or breathing lungs, perhaps) of cinema as an audiovisual
medium. Regarding audiovisual culture from this perspective illuminates
it in a form that removes the overly familiar aspects that militate against
sustained and detailed theorization, from a sonic point of view at least.
I would suggest that synchronization offers a form of repose, moments
of comfort in a potentially threatening environment that is overwrought
with sound and image stimuli. In consequence, the lack of synchronization
between sound and images has to be characterized as potentially disturb-
ing, perhaps even moments of textual danger. Thus the interplay between
the two becomes the central dynamic of audiovisual culture, and its objects
can be reconceived and newly understood along these lines. Film might
then be seen as a series of dynamic plays of plenitude and rupture across
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film’s audiovisual synchronization that manifest film as a psychological, as
well as aesthetic, drama.
THE MUSIC OF VISUALS: ASYNCHRONY AND THE DYNAMIC
As almost an opposite of synchronization, asynchrony refuses the moment

of synchronization. Sergei Eisenstein was one of the first theorists to artic-
ulate a notion of film image and sound working through difference and
contrast rather than mutual representation. This desire for asynchrony was
evident in his theory of film and sound working either in parallel, doing
the same thing, or in counterpoint, marking an independence of image
and soundtracks. This notion of parallel and counterpoint as descriptive of
the relationship of image and sound can be traced back to the famous and
often-cited “Statement on Sound” by Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov.
Using musical metaphors, this endorsed counterpoint as a manifestation
of the montage principle they espoused, stating that film sound should aim
at a “. . . sharp discord with the visual images . . .” to realize the audiovisual
potential of cinema.27 They were interested in the space between image
and sound communication.28 On an aesthetic stage, however, cutting- edge
music of course can be accompanied by banal and conventional visuals, and
vice versa. In the vast majority of cases, the weld between music and image
is strong enough to furnish something of the qualities of sound and image
to each other, to the point where it is rare to come across a notably banal
song with an interesting video or an interesting song with a banal video.
This situation illustrates vividly that there is a significant creative poten-
tial in the space between the music and the image as accompaniments to
one another. Questions of what images should accompany certain pieces of
music predated recording, let alone the complementing of screened images
with recorded music and vice versa. Yet there always has been some idea of
conventional and acceptable matches of images with sounds. Illustrative
images for music have always had a certain ambiguity, although the closer
the images relate to a reproduction of a live performance of what can be
heard on the soundtrack, the less ambiguous the relationship of sound and
image. In this book, I wish to remove what at times might be arbitrary divi-
sions between sound and music, allowing us to think of film soundtracks as
essentially ‘musical’ rather than simply representational.
In terms of film production, key sequences (such as dialogue) tend
conventionally to have action matched to sound through direct syn-
chronization, yielding the illusion of a coherent reality. However, many
sequences (sometimes including dialogue sequences) are not shot with
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location or synchronized sound. This habitually is added later, as part
of the post-production stage (not just the musical score but also dia-
logue re-recording or dubbing, recorded sound effects, and Foley29).
Consequently, there are plenty of points where visuals and sound do not
match directly, sometimes only vaguely, and sometimes in a manner that
is not immediately apparent. The cinema is less concerned with capturing
reality than it is with producing a composite of sound and image that will
be accepted by audiences, and is thus essentially conventional in charac-
ter.30 At heart, this process uses the same time to pull often different spaces
together. As well as the process of their interaction, the aesthetic nature of
both sound and image tracks regularly gets overlooked. A film soundtrack
might be conceived in musical terms. After all, centuries of development in
musical theory have furnished one of the most highly developed means of
analyzing sound and thinking in sonic terms. Film scores have their own
synch points, which delineate momentary junctures where music synchs
directly with action. The most extreme form of this is Mickeymousing,
where music directly and slavishly mimics screen action, often for comic
effect. These synch points are the keystone moments in sound film. We
might reconceptualize films as a forward movement though time from
moments of synchronization of image and sound through unsynchronized
moments and back to synchronized moments. In musical terms, this is
reminiscent of the harmonic movement of classical tonality, where music
in the tonic key then ‘develops’ by modulating into different keys before
returning home to the tonic key. Indeed, it is advantageous to think of tem-
poral progression in musical terms, where images form notable cadences
conjoining or ending sections of space, narrative, or activity. In fact, as an
abstract ordering of time, music ought to prove an important analytical
approach for understanding film. This process can be fleeting or take longer
and unfold in a more leisurely manner.
Noel Burch observes that “The fundamental dialectic in film, the one
that at least empirically seems to contain every other, is that contrasting
and joining sound with image.”31 Audiences and analysts may not focus
on it, but Burch is correct to point to relations of proximity or distance
between sound and image as crucial. Furthermore, the synchronization
of sound and image constitutes a drama of play between order and chaos,
or perhaps between safety and uncertainty. Asynchrony threatens to pull
apart the contract of film’s illusion of sound and visual unity into a miasma
of disparate and potentially meaningless elements.
The overwhelming majority of films are constructed with synchroni-
zation in mind, either through conscious points of synchronization that
guide sound and image editing or through less clear notions of aesthetic
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choice. There is a concrete status to such synch points and dynamic hits
(from an aesthetic and perceptual, as well as an industrial point of view).
Traditions of editing techniques and staging techniques, added to the rela-
tions of shots and gestural aspects of shapes and characters on-screen, all
coalesce into a sense of synchronization of sound and image in film. On
the other hand, synchronization is also a perceptual phenomenon, and the
finished object of the film is received by audiences as an object that, among
other things, involves rapid shifting and oscillation between precise syn-
chronization and asynchrony.
Theories of film have emphasized the need for continuity, yet films are
clearly a dynamic relationship between conventional continuity and novel,
discontinuous elements. This is nowhere more evident than in the ‘who-
dunit’ detective film, where we are shown certain events but not others,
and important clues are withheld until late in the film. Perhaps we should
spend less time thinking of films as a progression from start to finish and
more as a containment of energy, of balance between elements that a skill-
ful filmmaker is able to hold in precise relationship, making a deft blend
of light and dark, energy and repose. Large sections of film retain a sense
of balance, but this can be undermined or exploited for effect. Yet this
dynamic and psychological balance wards off disturbance, and a concen-
tration of asynchrony with less resolution in synchrony is a characteristic
of certain tense and disturbing sequences in avant garde, art, and horror
films. Despite a regular desire for thrills, Freud’s ‘Nirvana Principle’ pro-
poses that people ultimately want to be tranquil.32 The nervous system
functions to make the tension caused by extreme emotion dissipate, to
be discharged as soon as possible. Yet film audiences only want questions
posed that are answerable by the film, and mainstream audiences tend to
be upset at narrative and representational ambiguities. The anxiety that
may well arise during long passages of asynchrony might be disquieting, as
it reminds us on some level of antiquated silent cinema, mime, and ancient
cultures back from the grave, like the eponymous Knights Templar villains
of The Tombs of the Blind Dead (1971), who are silent, relentless, and malev-
olent manifestations of the long dead, an upsetting outburst of silence in
sound cinema.33 There is, of course, an important historical genealogy to
this dynamic between synchrony and asynchrony. Movement between syn-
chrony and asynchrony clearly derives partly from a movement between
the talkies (dialogue-based cinema) and earlier silent cinema, where sound
and image were more independent and music was able to take the lead in
some situations. Some sequences have minimal amounts of synchronized
sound and maximum un-synched sound. The relation of sound and image
makes an unregistered dynamic play of plenitude and rupture across time
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that manifests film as a psychological and aesthetic drama irrespective of
the events depicted.
BRIDGE
The construction of sound in the cinema, while incorporating music, might

also be seen to have a certain musical impetus more generally. Film editor
Ernest Walter has stated, “. . . the sound editor assembles his sound effects
to create an almost musical effect in some sequences. . . .”34 Although this
book spends less space scrutinizing dialogue and voices in detail, it looks to
how sound and image are orchestrated across time (‘horizontally’) through
great investment in moments or sustained sections of synchrony (‘verti-
cally’). Whereas it might easily be argued that all sonic aspects in cinema
are sound effects, and I agree that they are, I approach sound effects and
dialogue more as music, or at least as retaining an aesthetic sensibility that
might in some way be related to music. The aim of this book is to provide
a view of cinema as an audiovisual medium through a focus on the central
characteristic of synchronization of sound and image into a seeming single
event. The book’s thesis argues that the crucial essence of sound film is the
synchronization of image and sound at key moments that hold together
the film experience.
Generally speaking, although there have been a welter of recent stud-
ies on film sound, there has been little thought about the relationship of
sound and image beyond its production and narrative function. Apart from
moments in Michel Chion’s work, there is almost nothing written about
cinema as a synchronization of sound and image. I think this should be
approached as a central issue in the study of film sound. After all, the audio-
visual lock is the lynchpin of sound cinema. Most writing about cinema has
abided by the illusionist perspective that encounters it as a coherent object
or, worse, has assumed that it is in essence visual. It is high time that delib-
eration on the matter attempted to rethink and restate the medium and
phenomenon in more sophisticated terms.
In this book, I concentrate overwhelmingly on mainstream narrative
films and only fitfully address documentaries, experimental and avant
garde films, musicals, and animated films. One reason for this is the fact
that film production and exhibition are dominated by such films, and they
retain a dominant place in the psychology of cinema. Furthermore, some
of these other genres and formats tend to have highly specific processes,
which would have taken far more space to address than available for a
book such as this. Later in the book, I suggest that film musicals have had
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a distinct influence on films that are not musicals, while I also point to the
impetus of avant garde aesthetics evident in many films with more main-
stream characters.
It seems almost inconceivable that there has been no major study of film
sound and image synchronization. However, this book does not manifest a
full and systematic treatise on the subject, or even a general introduction,
but instead attempts to theorize film as an audiovisual medium by address-
ing the synchronization of moving images with recorded music, sound
effects, and voices. Although this may initially seem to be a high-concept
book with a couple of wild ideas about ‘how cinema works,’ it actually aims
to take a sideways look at film and music aesthetics in order to see and
hear cinema differently: precisely as an audiovisual enterprise with a highly
particular aesthetic that derives from this essential fact. By necessity, this
book does not evade dealing with relevant issues that define our consid-
erations here, but it does not lose the principal theoretical and aesthetic
arguments at the expense of peripheral concerns. Note that while the dis-
cussion touches many bases, the constraint of space does not allow for a
systematic working through of large topics such as technology, industrial
practice, and historical developments. The focus is to remain on theoretical
matters, but with a foot on those concrete moments of synchronization.
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CH APTER 2
Synchronization
McGurk and Beyond
A lthough there are many books that provide a basic outline of how films
are made from the point of view of filming and editing footage, few
focus on the soundtrack and its combination with the images. Indeed,
many of the techniques involved are even unfamiliar to those well versed
in filmmaking. The inclusion of a historical backdrop and technical descrip-
tion is important for this book, as the emergence of synchronized sound
and image chiefly followed an industrial imperative enabled by develop-
ing technology. This chapter provides some technological information but
concentrates more on outlining aesthetic procedures and addressing the
psychology of synchronizing sound and image.
Synchronization has been at the heart of cinema since the implementa-
tion of recorded sound, yet scholarship has regularly ignored this essential
but not immediately visible aspect of cinema. The dominant approach has
been to deem film a visual medium, ignoring the significant sonic com-
ponent and, crucially, ignoring the fact that sound and image are yoked
together at the center of the filmmaking process.1 General studies of film
persist in marginalizing sound, and it appears to remain viable for authors
to proclaim film as a visual medium, although perhaps less sanguinely than
their forebears.2 Across the history of serious writing about film, isolated
writers such as Kurt London, Sergei Eisenstein, and Hanns Eisler and
Theodor Adorno exhibited strong concerns with sound and sound-image
aesthetics. In more recent years, however, Michel Chion’s writings (partic-
ularly in their English translation and condensation by Claudia Gorbman)
appear to have built a foundation by pulling sound processes to the center of
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discussions of film aesthetics. Chion’s writings have been highly influential,
and virtually all writings about film sound published in the last few years
draw heavily upon his ideas and analyses. Other writers such as Elizabeth
Weis, John Belton, and Rick Altman have also voiced concerns about the
process at the heart of film and all contemporary audiovisual culture, while
Claudia Gorbman and Royal S. Brown have been isolated but authorita-
tive spokespersons for film music. Yet these have been practically voices
in the wilderness. Indeed, interest in film sound and film music remained
peripheral until the turn of the second millennium, with the implication
that these were roundly unimportant aspects of film. Despite exponen-
tially increasing interest in these matters, there remains a tendency merely
to approach synchronization as a fact to produce the illusion of talking
characters on screen. The illusionistic aspect of cinema—undoubtedly
one of its foremost defining characteristics—is taken for granted rather
than interrogated as a mysterious process that is able to both effortlessly
hide and call attention to itself. In my discussion here, I engage with most
of these writers but have accorded a particular position of importance to
Eisenstein, who, more than any other, was concerned with the synchroni-
zation of sound and image and had a number of striking ideas about syn-
chronization as a practice and also as a political-psychological process. In
this chapter, I deal with theoretical and practical aspects of synchroniza-
tion. It is important to provide something approaching a description of the
technical process of synchronization and illustrate how this developed and
what impact it had on film aesthetics.
The synchronized recorded sound film may well predate cinema as
we know it. Thomas Edison’s assistant W. K. L. Dickson claimed to have
demonstrated synchronized sound and moving image on film as early
as October of 1889.3 In 1900, Gaumont more famously exhibited its
‘Phono-Cinema-Theatre’ at the Paris Exposition. These short song films
matched sound to image using recording cylinders and acoustic amplifi-
cation, while in 1904, Oskar Messter distributed the similar ‘Biophon’
song films and Georges Mendel distributed short films of operatic arias.4
In 1906, Eugene-Auguste Lauste patented a device that recorded sound
and image simultaneously. All of these did not culminate in talking films
but became something of a historical dead end. Warner Brothers’ show-
ing of its Vitaphone system in the late 1920s caused the wide-scale adop-
tion of films with synchronized recorded sound, although the newest part
of the technology was in fact electric sound amplification. The Western
Electric sound-on-film system, using variable density imaging on cellu-
loid, became the Hollywood standard after an agreement in 1928 and by
February of 1930, 95 percent of Hollywood’s output had synchronized
S Y N C H R O N I Z AT I O N : M C G U R K A N D B E YO N D [15]
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recorded sound.5 In the earliest years of sound cinema, ‘synchronized’ or
‘synched up’ originally meant essentially fitting music to a film, rather than
matching sound effects and dialogue to images. At the end of the 1920s, a
number of silent films were retrofitted with recorded music in this manner,
with the music conceived very much as a supplement to the images. The
conjunction of silent films with recorded sound in the late 1920s marked
a highly momentous intersection of existing industries, bringing together
film, music, and communication companies. For instance, Warner Brothers
merged with Western Electric (which was the telegraphy company AT&T) to
form the sound film company Vitaphone, while in 1928, RKO was formed
from merging RCA (Radio Corporation of America) with Keith-Orpheum.
Although not its origin, such multimedia conglomerates were the blueprint
for the form of cultural industry cross-platform enterprises that are evi-
dent today. Many film histories have failed to register that events outside
the film industry were the central deteminant. As Rick Altman noted but
few still seem to acknowledge, “. . . Don Juan, the Vitaphone shorts, and The
Jazz Singer were an outgrowth of the record industry.”6 The conjoining of
the capabilities of the sound recording industry with moving image-based
film studio output not only forged a new aesthetic object; it also created a
new psychological experience.
Sound provides the dimension of space for film, serving a crucial
function in expanding the surface of its flat images. Illusion is keyed to
notable synch points that are sometimes used to sound-edit a film and
provide an underlying logic to the film as perceptual object and abstract
aesthetic. Michel Chion coined the term ‘synchresis’ to describe the
spontaneous appearance of synchronized connection between sound
and image.7 This is a lock that magnetically pulls together sound and
image in the same perceptual space. We expect the two to be attached.
While this can be in evidence outside of the world of electronic screens
or projectors allied with electronic speakers, for the purposes of discus-
sion here, it is worth noting that the effect seems particularly strong
and solid when sound and image are perceived as a potential unity in
a film, television program, or video game. Chion goes on to declare
synchresis ‘Pavlovian’ and capable of cultural influence, “[b]ut at the
same time, it very probably has an innate basis.”8 While we the audi-
ence assume a strong bond between sounds and images occupying the
same or similar space, the keystones of this process are moments of pre-
cise synchronization between sound and image events.9 This illusion of
sonic and visual unity is the heart of film and related media. Being per-
ceived as an utter unity not only disavows the basis in artifice, but also
has dissuaded much in the way of serious questioning of film as more
oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 16 11/1/2013 12:04:28 PM

than simply a visual medium. The commonsense notion among writers
dealing with film is that image dominates and sound is often little more
than its supplement. There is no reason why this should be the case for
film analysis and criticism, despite constant assertion of film as being a
visual art. As Roy Armes noted, “Sound is not ‘subordinated’ to image—
but industrial discourses . . . compartmentalized sound.”10 It is therefore
not easy to think beyond these ingrained limitations.
THE PSYCHOLOGY OF SYNCHRONIZATION
The branch of neuroscience that is referred to as ‘sensory neuroscience’

investigates the brain processes that underpin perception. Through neuro-
imaging, different areas of the brain can be seen to be activated when deal-
ing with specific pursuits or when faced with certain situations.11 Although
this may suggest a form of compartmentalization in the brain, with certain
parts dealing with particular things, it seems that in most cases, more than
one area is activated. The brain increasingly has become understood as a
parallel processor, where brain sections might deal simultaneously with
different sensory information, but not in a totally separate manner. These
sections are also intimately connected, so that one can influence the other
(such as odor and taste), so the brain’s functions are not compartmental-
ized or fully separated.12
Should we draw a line between perception and cognition? An approach
that has dominated cognitive film theory assumes that such a division is
futile and that all brain processes and understanding should be housed
under the rubric and conception of cognition. For the purposes of this
book, I am happier to adopt a division that retains a sense of percep-
tion’s physical basis and a distinction from cognitive processes as being
‘higher order.’ Perception is in essence physical in that it involves transfer-
ring sound waves and light into electrical impulses in the brain through
a process known as ‘transduction.’ This makes a ‘proximal stimulus’ (the
raw signals entering the brain) that is processed on a basic level as sensory
information before the cognitive processing of that information (thinking).
To illustrate this, our ancestors’ understanding that an animal may be a
predator or possible food would be a cognition, whereas simply registering
the animal’s presence and basic physical aspects would be at the level of
perception. This higher level activity is sometimes called ‘judgment,’ and
such mental activity has more to do with thought as it is commonly rec-
ognized than to do with a basic level of understanding or reaction: lower
order activity dealing with stimuli that is more physically based but an
oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 17 11/1/2013 12:04:28 PM

essential and foundational precursor to cultural contemplation.13 Grasp of
synchronization is surely at this primary level.
According to Joseph Ledoux in The Emotional Brain: The Mysterious
Underpinnings of Emotional Life, brain states (unconscious affect) and
physical body states (conscious or unconscious expressions of emo-
tion) are stored in and retrieved from the amygdala in the brain’s limbic
region.14 These emotional memories are associated with the particular
perceptual situations in which they initially arose and are then trig-
gered by similar ones. These are not simply cognitive memories, and
indeed the associated process of cognition takes place elsewhere in the
brain; stimulus recognition takes place before cognition. Unconscious
affect always creates emotion, whereas conscious cognition does not
necessarily do so, and “. . . emotion and cognition are best thought of
as separate but interacting mental functions mediated by separate but
interacting brain systems.” 15 Ledoux’s work suggests that emotion is
less concerned with a cognitive response so much as an immediate and
almost physical reaction to a situation with a preexisting emotional
state. Debates that have endeavored to blanket the whole human pro-
cess from stimulus to response as cognition do a disservice to cognitive
psychology by watering down the strong foundations of the theory and
the ideas involved.16 Cognitive psychology’s notion of perception is that
there is a small amount of stimulus and the ‘work’ all takes place as a
cognitive process in the brain. This so-called mental model affirms that
stimulus requires the considerable brain input of ‘enriching’ through
hypothesis-testing. On the other hand, there is the notion of direct per-
ception, sometimes called the body model, a ‘realist’ approach that pos-
its there is much stimulus that is translated directly into an isomorph in
the brain.17 Traditionally, perception was seen as passive—until Gestalt
experiments made significant steps in proving otherwise.18 But can we
have one without the other? While much takes place at a primary, per-
haps essentially physical or physiological level, it necessarily precedes
higher level thinking processes, yet is crucial in defining the courses
these might take.19
Cognitive psychology has tended to deemphasize the process of per-
ception, often merely declaring it an instrumental part of the more gen-
eral cognitive process. Inspired by Gestalt psychology, in this book, I try
to place more emphasis on perception. This reinstates a physical aspect
to the process denied by cognitive psychology-inspired approaches.20 It
also makes for a more solid demarcation between lower order and higher
order brain processes, between those of basic understanding and a more
culturally acquired sense of registering relationships between things and
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ensuing implications. This division might, in a simple way, be seen as that
between general human hardware and more specific human software that
is uploaded later.
The dominance of cognitive psychology in debates about culture and
the unregistered slippage of the term ‘cognitive’ into notions wider than
ideas governed by cognitive psychology have muddied the waters in terms
of debating aesthetic effect. Although I am more than happy to accept the
insights provided by cognitive psychology (or cognitive science as it is
sometimes called), there are distinct aspects of the aesthetic process (for
film especially) that are poorly accounted for by such an approach. The
reader might appreciate that this book’s concern with the process of syn-
chronizing sound and image as the central aspect of sound cinema means
that a cognitive approach along such lines might be less attractive. Instead,
I prefer to proceed from a psychological position that has solid founda-
tions in scientific experimentation: Gestalt psychology.21 It is also not a ‘big
theory that explains everything with a couple of basic tenets,’ but it pro-
vides a number of principles that can offer insight. Taking its origins from
experiments addressing human perception, often of visual objects, Gestalt
psychology has proven itself adept at dealing with this most basic level of
human activity. However, it has not been widely exploited to provide sig-
nificant insight beyond this, into more complex forms of understanding.
Perhaps this is why Gestalt psychology has proven unattractive in the study
of film or narrative-based culture like literature. As an empirical endeavor
emanating from repeatable experimental situations, Gestalt psychology
appears more scientific than the forms of psychology that have dominated
analysis and interpretation in the arts. The others have seemingly proven
themselves better at dealing with narrative and representation, two ideas
that have dominated critical approaches to film. Yet Gestalt psychology
has not been without influence in other arts such as fine art, architecture,
and music. It is also not as if Gestalt psychology has had no impact in the
study of film. Max Wertheimer theorized ‘phi phenomenon,’ where broken
movement is perceived as continuity: the epicenter of film. This gradually
replaced the notion of the ‘persistence of vision,’ which was thought to
account for the illusion of movement in successive frames.22 It is also not
without some significance that one of the earlier classical film theorists was
a follower of the principles of Gestalt psychology. Rudolf Arnheim wrote
important books such as Film as Art (1958) where he discusses the ‘partial
illusion’ of film and focuses on ‘expressive’ aspects at the nexus of the for-
mal and the representational. Arnheim wrote more about other arts than
film, although his theories have valence across media and approaches. In
“The Gestalt Theory of Expression” (1949), he theorized that expressive
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aspects of art objects have a form of ‘structural kinship’ with correspond-
ing mental states.23 This notion of isomorphism, or ‘psychophysical par-
allelism,’ between mental state and object/situation perceived has some
currency in how we understand the world, as well as art. However, as Meraj
Dhir convincingly argues, the designation of Rudolf Arnheim’s writings as
‘classical’ or of historical merit has prevented current film theorists from
seeing the enduring viability of his approaches.24
Although Gestalt psychology does not begin from ‘given’ concepts like
much empirical analysis, there are some core concepts to Gestalt approaches
that emanate from experiments and are proven to be essences of human
perception. Absolutely central is the act of perception itself (defined as
becoming aware of or grasping sensory information/stimulus). Gestalt
psychology was one of the first approaches to posit ‘active perception,’
whereby a dynamic relationship is posited as existing between descrip-
tion in the brain and impulses arriving in the senses, rather than the real-
ist position of simple and passive processing between sensory input and
mental understanding. For Gestaltists, the brain is approached as holistic
(self-organizing with the whole different from the sum of its parts), pro-
cessing in parallel and with analogue procedures that have similarities to
outside events.
Analytical approaches include the principles of totality, psychophysical
isomorphism, and experimental analysis (starting from the phenomenon
itself), which privilege actual experimental activity and experience. There
are a number of laws for Gestalt psychology that work to group together
similar or proximate objects. These include the laws of closure, similarity,
proximity, symmetry, continuity (continuation of patterns), and common
fate (where objects moving in the same direction are perceived as a unity).
Among the most useful insights of Gestalt psychology are that we attempt
to order the stimuli we perceive in as simple and regular form as possible
(called the ‘good Gestalt’).25 Perhaps the most well-known Gestalt charac-
teristics are so-called reification, whereby we ‘finish off ’ incomplete shapes
(proving that perception is generative) and multi-stability, whereby single
objects might be perceived in alternation as two different yet stable enti-
ties. As can be seen from the images of the Necker cube and the Rubin vase
(figures 2.1 and 2.2), perception is active, rather than passive and merely
representational. The existence of planes of figure and ground on a percep-
tual level demonstrates the ability to construct three-dimensional space
from the two-dimensional, along with our mental ability to flip between
two mental constructions of the same flat image. These well-known dia-
grams not only illustrate precisely how the process of perception and cog-
nition is bound up in us imagining the missing parts that make up the
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Figure 2.1: Necker Cube.
Figure 2.2: Rubin Vase.
crucial whole, but also show how central the process of pattern-finding is
to human endeavor.
Despite the fact that most Gestalt theories and experiments from its
halcyon era in the early part of the 20th century were based on purely
visual aspects, there is evidence of aural objects following similar processes.
Hearing is not a purely physical process. A sound wave hits the ear and is
converted immediately into a neural signal, but the processes of percep-
tion and the brain develop it into something more. This is illustrated by the
dominance of psychoacoustic phenomena in current processing of audio
signals: We hear what is geared precisely to our hearing process (psycho-
acoustics) rather than to what is a good reproduction of an actual sound
(as in the old hi-fi approach). One audio phenomenon that is sometimes
taken advantage of in audio equipment is ‘phantom fundamentals.’ These
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are low pitches heard when there is no signal of the sort present. The brain
produces a sense of an underlying pitch from patterns in the differences
of frequencies present. Such principles work for the perception of sound
too, although not in precisely the same manner. It is possible to hear and
register two sounds simultaneously, whereas usually one sound will be reg-
istered over another or even be hidden (physically masked) by the other.
Dual hearing—or ‘dichotic listening’ as it is sometimes known—takes
place more effectively when we are able to segregate audio streams more
easily because of noticeable spatial, pitch, and tonal differences in the two
sound sources.26
Recent scientific activity has found some proof of sensory-neural pro-
cessing fitting with Gestalt psychology’s estimation of perception, which
was established well before current scientific capabilities. The Zürich group
has had recent success in relating Gestalt phenomena to activities of neu-
ral networks and single neurons, correlating neurophysiology with phe-
nomenological deductions.27 Thus the theory that events are apprehended
through an analogue process is strengthened by empirical work on physi-
cal aspects of the brain on a microscopic level. It is not far to jump from
some sort of analogue isomorphism between stimulus and registering in
the brain to imagine that the isomorphism between real world and sound
and image in the cinema is significant, as would be a sense of isomorphism
across art and communication forms.
One of the central processes of sound cinema is the unifying of image
and sound into a single Gestalt perception. When the unity is not appar-
ent, we have a desire for it and in some cases ‘connect the dots’ to complete
a coherent picture, as illustrated most vividly in the general impression
provided by montage. Our desire for a unity of perception—sound and
image appearing as a seamless, unproblematic representation of real-
ity—has been exploited mostly unwittingly by the cinema. According to
Gestalt psychologist Kurt Koffka, “An incomplete task leaves a trace which
is unstable, compared to a non-closed figure. Such figures possess, as we
know, a tendency towards closure, and we find that this tendency is also
a characteristic of the trace of an incomplete act.”28 So, just how much do
we imagine? Cinema is often about ‘giving an impression’ and sleight of
hand in terms of making us register something emotionally and cognitively
from elements that add up to something rather less. A fine example of this
occurs, for example, in the murder in the shower in Psycho (1960), which
never shows an impact of knife on skin, even though that is our abiding
impression. Our perception follows the ‘law of minimum principle,’ accord-
ing to John Benjafield: “We do not perceive what is actually in the external
world so much as we tend to organize our experiences so that it is as simple
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as possible . . . simplicity is a principle that guides our perception and may
even override the effects of previous experience.”29 At this point, we should
remember that film consists of a limited repertoire of standardized shots
in standardized relationships, with highly focused and structured sound.
This pared-down basic audiovisual language rendering of the real world is a
correlation of our perception and understanding of the world as simple and
understandable. In this way, film embodies the law of minimum principle,
emanating perhaps less from any direct representational relationship of
film material to the world outside and more from the human mechanisms
of pattern-seeking and the Gestalt processes of ‘filling in the gaps.’ Kurt
Goldstein notes that
. . . the tendency toward the good Gestalt finds its explanation as an organismic
phenomenon. The explanation lies in the tendency toward preferred behavior,
which is the essential prerequisite for the existence of a definite organism. It is
a special expression of the general tendency to realize optimal performances
with a minimum expenditure of energy as measured in terms of the whole. The
operation of this tendency includes the so-called ‘prägnanz’, the closure phe-
nomenon, and many other characteristics of Gestalt. In fact, they are only intel-
ligible from this tendency.”30
So the grounding of the process is physiological, based in the body’s hard-

ware and basic mechanisms rather than a ‘thinking’ part of cognition.
A common criticism of Gestalt psychology is that, for the purposes of
humanities and arts research, it furnishes answers that tend toward the
merely descriptive and provides little mileage for analysis. Perhaps it does
not have readymade answers at hand for traditional interpretive film stud-
ies, but its central principles lie at the heart of film as a medium and thus,
I would suggest, are a crucial key to unlocking the physical, as well as the
cultural and social, mechanisms of cinema.
Methods inspired by Gestalt approaches adopt fundamental positions
in relation to film as an object and research as a process. Human percep-
tion has a tendency to ‘join up’ elements of an object into a meaningful,
coherent—and seamless—whole. This offers an explanation, therefore,
of why representational cinema seems like reality. We ask no further
questions of it. We take in the whole and do not pay attention to all
the elements individually. This grasping of situations as a whole is one
of the most profound insights of Gestalt psychology. The mechanisms
by which this takes place are empirically proven (and sit uneasily with
the ‘atomistic’ approach of cognitive psychology-inspired analysis). In
tandem with this, when confronted with an object, structures appear
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for us no matter what is actually physically present. Human hardware
is determinedly pattern-seeking, looking for—and inevitably find-
ing—some sort of sense, be it narrative, representational, relational, or
whatever. A Gestalt-inspired approach might find something more or at
least make us more aware of the process.
It is crucial to note the desire for unity among audiences, who aim at
concretizing ‘the good Gestalt’ of an object, taking it as a unity rather than
a fragmented ragbag of disparate elements. No matter how abstract a film
might be, human beings search for patterns of meaning and understand-
ing. Perception is an active process and might be differentiated from higher
level cognition. It also has a physical character rather than necessarily con-
sisting of a purely logical and computational process. We perceive sounds
and images as part of a whole, not separately, except in certain situations
when a single sense is heightened by a paucity of impulses from the other
senses. This is, of course, why silence is so compelling in films and why
horror films regularly exploit darkness or impinged vision and make the
audience focus on sonic aspects. The conceptual lock of sound and image in
films is mental rather than technical, but it is essential to investigate the
technical procedures that render sound cinema as an object that can be
apprehended with such effect by the human senses.31
SOUND AND VISION MULTIPLIED: BEYOND THE

MCGURK EFFECT
Although the understanding of our physical processing of sound and image

is probably still quite primitive, there have been some important insights
from research into our perception and cognition of sound and image in
combination. These studies are often focused on so-called cross-modal
effects, when one sense is implicated or changed by the input of another
sense. What some have termed ‘congruence studies’ proceed from the
congruence-associationist model established for analysis of film music by
Sandra Marshall and Annabel Cohen.32 This identifies structural congru-
ence, particularly temporal congruence, between film and music as having
the power to ‘cement’ the sound and visual elements together, although
perhaps not necessarily all of them. After this initial marriage, the perceiv-
ing subject will likely associate similar sonic elements with the on-screen
object. (For example, slow, sad music might in a Pavlovian manner become
associated with a single character on-screen.) When sound and image
on-screen are synchronized, we associate the two, perceiving them as a
single entity, or at least as directly and intimately related. Once this takes
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place, other attributes of sound become attributed to the visual object too.
Although this has been a foundational study of massive influence, there
have been some criticisms and caveats. Marshall and Cohen’s experiment
involved using human subjects who gave responses to moving shapes on a
screen alongside sounds. Their conclusions extrapolate from this to make
general pronouncements about film that are not borne out by their study.
One response to their study by Scott Lipscomb and Roger Kendall staged
a similar experiment but this time used moving film images.33 They found
that music has the ability to shift perception/cognition of moving images.
Particularly in the ranges of potency (how strong a reaction might be to
images) and activity (affecting the degree that image events are perceived
as more extreme in terms of speed or movement, or non-movement).
However, a high degree of congruence is required for these effects, without
which sound and vision will be perceived as running on separate indepen-
dent channels. One of the significant points to be drawn from their conclu-
sions is that synchronization is an absolutely central element in achieving
congruency between sound and image, and thus crucial in achieving the
dramatic effects of the synergy of sound and image.
There are further important points of perceptual-cognitive reality that
should be approached as highly significant for any study of film that accepts
the audiovisual basis of the medium. Some of the most famous phenom-
ena include the ‘McGurk effect,’ whereby the visual influences the sonic;
the ‘ventriloquist effect,’ whereby the sonic and the visual spontaneously
appear to cohere; and the ‘bounce-inducing effect,’ whereby sounds refor-
mulate our perception of visual activity. I will adumbrate a few of these to
illustrate how far relations between sound and image do not follow simple,
commonsense patterns, and thus why the fundamentals of the relation-
ship need more concentrated and subtle thought.
The McGurk effect (occasionally called the McGurk-MacDonald effect)
is an audiovisual phenomenon that demonstrates the interaction of
sound and image stimuli in perception and cognition. Rather than being
totally separate channels, our vision is able to affect our hearing, sug-
gesting that the senses are never fully autonomous when used in com-
bination. First stated explicitly in an article in Nature in 1976, McGurk
and MacDonald pointed to the perceptual phenomenon whereby images
of a person’s mouth making a sound, when added to a recording of a dif-
ferent vocal sound, added up to the perception of a different sound.34
In other words, despite being the same, the sound appears to change
when accompanied by visuals of different mouth movements. This is
highly evident in the cases of particular combinations. The most-often
cited is the use of a visual image of a mouth saying ‘ga’ and the sound
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of a person saying ‘ba,’ which is perceived as sounding like closer to ‘da.’
A phoneme (sound) combined with an almost matching viseme (image
of sound being produced) when seen and heard together yield a differ-
ent phoneme for the perceiver. Illustrating that visuals can change per-
ceptions of sounds, this phenomenon also significantly demonstrates
the fundamental interrelatedness of sound and image. Indeed, it sug-
gests that fully isolating sound or image may be invalid. It certainly
suggests that blanket assertions of film being a purely or mostly visual
medium should be long banished. The implications for sound may in
fact be more profound. Indeed, any appeal to the purity of musical expe-
rience is thrown into question.
The ventriloquist effect is another instance of the phenomenal
effect of sound and vision combined. When images and sound rela-
tions are ambiguous, sound compels the perceiver to try to make sense
of elements by integrating sound and vision into a single event. The
perceiver will aim at obtaining a ‘good Gestalt,’ following ease of under-
standing and simplicity of organization. Consequently, when presented
with images and sounds that might possibly be construed as the same
source, we assume it is so.35 This, of course, is the basis of film sound
synchronized with image, where so much of the sound is not a direct
recording of a unified pre-filmic/recording event, but unified at the
point of perception by the audience. This is part of the phenomenon
that has been called ‘auditory capture,’ when sound appears to attach
itself immediately to image. The term was used in the 1994 special issue
of Psychomusicology by Annabel Cohen with John Fentress and Valerie
Bolivar, where their experiments used images with certain narrative
content but varied musical accompaniment.36
‘Motion bounce illusions’ include the bounce-inducing effect, which was
demonstrated by Sekuler, Sekuler, and Lau by having two concentric target
shapes moving toward and through each other on a screen.37 Once sound is
added at the point of coincidence, it seems as if they are bouncing off each
other, whereas without sound, it does not appear this way. This illustrates
how sound affects, indeed radically changes, visual perception. It shows
a sense of congruence whereby adding two media together produces the
effect of their direct relationship. It also vividly illustrates the centrality
of precise temporal synchronization in the primary perceptual-cognitive
effects.
An experiment by O’Leary and Rhodes demonstrated that a succession
of high- and low-pitched tones can influence the perception of a series of
fast-moving dots on a screen. The dots alternated high and low positions,
being perceived as moving up and down or as continuous and unmoving.
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Adding alternating high and low sounds led to the perception of two sepa-
rate unmoving dots in high and low positions on the screen (without the
sound, they would not have appeared so). Change in perception of objects
in a scene (through sound addition) can lead to changes in perception of
movement.38 Along similar lines, an experiment by Shams, Kamitani, and
Shimojo concluded that lone flashes of light on a screen accompanied by
multiple beeping sounds became perceived as regular, faster flashes of
light.39
It seems that there are some fundamental aspects of the human brain
that aim not only to join together sound and image stimuli, but also aim
to assign a certain significance to the marriage of the two at vital points.
These effects are without doubt at the center of cinema and have been
exploited consistently, albeit unsystematically and with only an intuitive
and unconscious awareness of their importance. A clear example would be
cinema’s exploitation of dramatic moments of synch very obviously, such
as the loud entry of music at an emotional moment of revelation in a film.
One might argue that there seems little point in founding the study of film
on an objective inventory of elements that are ‘there’ as part of the film. It
seems far more prudent to proceed from the point where we understand
that film is an amalgam of effects, many of which precisely add up to more
than the sum of their evident parts. We would do well to be aware of this
more often. These findings have profound implications for understand-
ing sound cinema. We should remember that it is problematic to deal with
sound and image as separate entities—and thus with the commonplace
assertion that film is a visual medium. The synergetic effect of the sound
and image amalgam is the heart of cinema, and indeed it is why its illu-
sory character can be so convincing. These experiments also underline the
absolute centrality of those precise moments of synchronization. It is in
these momentary links that the heart of cinematic effect is animated and
invigorated.
As previously noted, the brain functions as a parallel processor.
Neuroscience has made momentous discoveries about our mental hard-
ware, displacing a simple notion of a single ‘processor’ and modular parts
for different senses. Senses are not compartmentalized: There is a mutual
implication of hearing and seeing, as testified to by the McGurk effect and
other sound-image phenomena. There are some vivid illustrations of the
synchresis of sound and image that are marked as exceptions to the rule
of convention. In these cases, the audience is not supposed to trust its per-
ception of the voice and moving lips appearing as a unity. An absolutely
extraordinary case in point is in the version of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (orig-
inally released in 1927) that was assembled, re-edited, and provided with
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music by Giorgio Moroder (released in 1983). In one memorable sequence,
Bonnie Tyler sings “Here She Comes” as accompaniment to the false Maria
whipping the crowd of downtrodden proletarians into a frenzy in order to
make them rise up against their oppressive social masters. What appears
most bizarre about this sequence in the Moroder version is that on a num-
ber of occasions, the vocals of the song appear to synchronize precisely with
the mouth of Maria on-screen goading the crowd. The effect is uncanny,
and this must stand as one of the very few examples of post-synching a
song to action when moments of direct synchronism join sound and image
in an ‘impossible’ mixture of the diegetic and non-diegetic. Indeed, the
synchresis of Tyler’s singing voice and Maria’s mouth movements cannot
have gone without discussion during the Moroder version’s construction.
Indeed, it almost looks like a mistake. The marriage of the song and the
diegetic action at times look almost like a song sequence in a film musical.
Yet as soon as it does, the vocal synchronization becomes lost as quickly
again. This adds up to a bewildering sequence in which the synchronization
oscillates between synchrony and asynchrony.
This illustrates the tendency of human perception-cognition to seek—
and almost always find—patterns of meaning. This is similar to the occa-
sional mistake in cheaply made and rapidly produced television, when a
person on-screen moves their mouth at the same time as a voiceover
commentary. The momentary effect is disquieting: a moment of confu-
sion quickly replaced by realization that voice and person on-screen are
not one and the same.40 These phenomena are illustrated vividly in films
that depict ventriloquism.41 The celebrated ventriloquist doll section of the
Ealing portmanteau film Dead of Night (1945) exploits the mechanism at
the heart of sound cinema. Indeed, ventriloquism more generally is pre-
mised upon human perception and the desire for sound and visual unity
through the process of pattern-seeking and Gestalt organization of exter-
nal world objects into the most logical, aesthetically and cognitively pleas-
ing arrangement. The story segment concerns a ventriloquist (played by
Michael Redgrave) whose act, it increasingly becomes apparent, is not one
of matching his voice to the doll’s movements but his pretending to oper-
ate a living doll. Or is he psychologically disturbed? The uncanny potential
of synchronized sound and image is clear, and its exploitation underlines
how far matching sound and image is more than an unsophisticated mech-
anism to render a sense of reality in films. The McGurk effect informs us
that the addition of image track and soundtrack is not a simple product.
Two and two make five, or the two tracks add up to something different: a
third thing that is more than each individually and quite possibly the magic
product at the very heart of cinema itself.
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OPTIONS FOR JOINING SOUND AND IMAGE
Although I have been emphasizing the contrived character of the majority

of seemingly unified sounds and images in films, there is also a strong tradi-
tion of retaining a sense of sound that actually belongs with its image. Such
‘direct sound’ (or son direct in French) has remained a strong tradition in
documentary filmmaking and television, where shooting takes place with
live sound recording, and editing endeavors to enshrine the direct connec-
tion between sound and image as a recorded event. In more mainstream
filmmaking, direct sound is less common except in certain national film
production traditions, such as in France. John Belton notes that
The initial practice (ca. 1926–29) of mixing sound while it is being recorded and
recording it (except for music that was often added later) at the same time as the
image is recorded locks the sound indexically into the pro-filmic event of which
it is the record, giving it an immediacy and integrity resembling that of the
image. The introduction of rerecording and mixing in the early thirties breaks
that indexical bond of sound to the pro-filmic event.
. . . The building of the sound track, using the image rather than the pro-filmic
event as a guide, now becomes a final stage in the ‘realization’ of the image.42
Charles O’Brien points to the French preference for son direct, sound
recorded simultaneously with the image, as suggesting an alternative to
the Hollywood model. Sound reproduces a performance staged for the
recording (rather than the U.S. procedure of assembling different compo-
nents). O’Brien notes that direct sound almost defines a national French
filmmaking style.43 It is highly evident in films by Straub and Huillet,
Godard, Rivette, and Eustache, among others, and marks a startling
contrast with Hollywood: “Instead of the recording of the actors’ perfor-
mances, sound-film work in 1930s Hollywood was understood in terms of
a process of assembly, whereby scenes were constructed from separate bits
and pieces—shot by shot, track by track.” 44 A son direct approach equates
the microphone with the camera, with the assumption of a parity of space
and time between the two. The desire for less in the way of artifice chimes
with André Bazin’s notions about the ability of cinema to catch and retain
something of reality. Rick Altman describes the adoption by Hollywood of
uniform volume single-position sound (as in radio) rather than matching
the scale of the image.45 This has implications for sound editing, when the
soundtrack editor need not worry too much about retaining a single posi-
tion of recording and can mix elements from diverse sources more easily
into the whole.
oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 29 11/1/2013 12:04:29 PM

The traditional functions of sound in cinema are as an agent of ‘dialogue
cinema’ (the talkies, the basis of much television), allowing us to hear
actors talking, and to provide a sense of the real where objects on-screen
have a correspondingly believable or at least congruent sound, clarifying
image events. This anchorage dispels ambiguity, although sound has the
equal capability to contradict visual events. In certain genres, such as hor-
ror, off-screen sound also appears consistently as a device.46 The last case
aside, film sound almost always aims to be unremarkable, part of the seam-
less continuity demanded by the illusion of a coherent world on- screen to
which we are party.
Film production usually involves three options for dealing with sound.
First, there is shooting with location sound that is synchronized to the
visual footage. This is live, as for television events and broadcasts, and was
the norm on classical Hollywood soundstages. Second, there is the less
common use of prerecording sound, where shooting takes place to an exist-
ing soundtrack. This is where a recorded playback is acted along to, as in
musical song sequences, and the image track is usually edited later to fit
the sound recording. The third method is post-synch sound, where sound
is added afterward. This can be in the form of dialogue replacement and
adding ambient sounds if the difficulties of location shooting had led to a
poor recording or filming without location sound. Also, this is the proce-
dure where preexisting music can be added and the film edited to accom-
modate their duration and dynamics, and where special sound effects can
be added, such as the sound of the light sabers in Star Wars (1977). (See
further discussion of this matter in chapter 7.)
The film soundtrack comprises three elements. In terms of production,
these can often be compartmentalized until they are united in the film’s
final mix. They are dialogue, sound effects, and music. Traditionally, these
areas have had different responsibilities and origins: dialogue (actors,
sound recordists), sound effects (sound recordists but until the last couple
of decades primarily the sound editor), and music (composer, performer,
music editor). In recent years, the position of bringing all these activities
together in the film soundtrack’s final mix falls to the sound designer,
although in many cases, that person will retain the less grand and more tra-
ditional title of supervising sound editor. In terms of synchronizing sound
and image, there are massively strong conventions as to how broadly a film
might be synchronized with its soundtrack. Dialogue is often synchronized
in a conventional way that renders most of the lip movement precisely syn-
chronous with the vocal sounds that make up the whole of the person talk-
ing on-screen. Sound effects vary, with some requiring precise synchrony
with an image or event on-screen, while others are more ambient. Music
oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 30 11/1/2013 12:04:29 PM

often retains only a loose synchrony with the mood of events on-screen,
but it will make precise, dynamic emphases at certain points in concert
with notable image events.
Broadly, there are three types of sound and image relation. These run on
a spectrum from tight synchronization at one pole and total asynchrony
at the other. In between, there is the possibility of plesiochrony, where
sound and image are vaguely fitting in synchrony, but lack precise refer-
ence points. Focusing on dialogue, Siegfried Kracauer noted four possible
forms of synchronization and asynchrony derived from real-life situations
and transferred to the cinema. First is the ‘norm’ in talkie films, where we
see and hear a person speaking simultaneously. The second is where we
hear a speaker’s words but see something else in that space, in a cutaway to
something else. The third option is off-screen sound, where we hear some-
thing and try to find its origins. This example is inspired by Pudovkin, and
Kracauer describes it: “We hear a cry for help from the street, look out of
the window, and see the moving cars and buses without, however, taking in
the traffic noises, because we still hear only the cry that first startled us.”47
The fourth is extra-diegetic sound, where a voiceover without any notable
connection with the diegetic world guides us through the film.48 Sergei
Eisenstein has much to say about synchronism in sound cinema. In the
well-known essay “Synchronization of Senses” from The Film Sense, he has
a section he describes as the “ABCs of every sound-cutter,” which takes his
persistent musical metaphor for cinema to an extreme. He sets out differ-
ent musical descriptions of what he identifies as levels of synchronization49:
(1) Natural. This is ‘purely factual synchronization’, matching diegetic

events on screen with suitable sounds (voice matches moving lips,
sound of door slamming as event takes place on screen). This is in no
way artistic, but merely serves to relate sounds and images in the most
direct manner.
(2) Metric. From these simplest circumstances—simple ‘metrical’ coinci-
dence of accent (film ‘scansion’)—it is possible to arrange a wide vari-
ety of syncopated combinations and a purely rhythmical ‘counterpoint’
in the controlled play of off-beats, shot-lengths, echoed and repeated
subjects, and so on.50 This is the abstract play of rhythm of sound and
image elements.
(3) Rhythmic— . . . shots cut and edited together to the rhythm of the
music on the parallel sound-track51 This provides a sense of rhythmic
movement through making the cuts correspond with the beat of the
music, or is rhythmic structure (the first beat of a bar, the opening beat
of a two- or four-bar unit, etc).
oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 31 11/1/2013 12:04:29 PM

(4) Melodic—as a melodic line; the successive movement of a linear ele-
ment where we are able to understand there is a higher unity to a suc-
cession of elements
(5) Tonal—changes in the emotional tone of a succession of related items.
(In a rough analogy pitch can correspond to the play of light, and tonal-
ity to colour.”52)
Any of these may become the determining compositional concern, and dis-
sonance between elements is an option.53 These distinctions have rarely
been taken up by recent film analysis. As montages, Eisenstein has focused
on editing aspects, as well as other developmental elements, while interest
in sound-image relations is less important in this instance. Conventions of
precise editing, spotting, and placement are the keys to riveting images and
sounds together. We can take these divisions of sound and image further:
(a) Dialogue based. This is where we see people speak and the words reg-
ularly match mouth movements on screen. This was the innovation
brought to the cinema by the coming of synchronized recorded sound
in the late 1920s, the so-called talkies, and still evident in many films
or most obviously on television soap operas or interviews. This marks
the ‘degree zero style’ of most sound films.
(b) Sound effects based. We see and hear activities that occur simultane-
ously. Good examples here are single gun shots, doors slamming, body
punch impacts, or the turning of a key starting a car engine.
(c) Punctuation. In these cases, there are sonic emphases on an element
such as a cut, a piece of dialogue (such as a revelation), a particular
shot, or dramatic camera movement. The impetus is from narration
rather than representation and consequently it often (although not
always) takes place in the non-diegetic music and tends to ‘underline’
narrative activity.
(d) Mickeymousing music. On-screen activities are doubled precisely by
music. The term originated in a pejorative term for music that simply
aimed to mimic or ‘double’ events on-screen like the music in some
cartoons. Perhaps the most evident example of this is the ‘stinger’ (or
‘shock chord’) used in horror films to accompany a shocking or violent
act. For example, at the moment when Michael Myers stabs a charac-
ter in Halloween (1978), his act of knife-thrusting is accompanied by a
blast of non-diegetic electronic keyboard sound.
(e) A general and vague musical matching. Rather than corresponding to
the fall and momentary dynamics of each minor event in a precise man-
ner, music often marks a distinct change in screen activity, or merely
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the tenor of that activity. General developments on screen inspire and
are matched by a corresponding change in musical activity.
Less concerned with editing than Eisenstein, the five-point list below enu-
merates options for sound-image relations. Although all forms of screen
activity unmatched with sounds constitute asynchrony in a way, there are
some quite particular forms that asynchrony regularly takes:
(1) Mechanical or electronic faults. In this instance, there is a lack of direct

synchrony between images and their sounds when the projector goes
out of time to a separated soundtrack or when electronic algorithms are
insufficient to keep image and sound in precise time. The ‘slip’ so that
sound or image slightly lags behind is one of the most noticeable forms
of asynchrony, as it is an error. This plagued early sound film and is still
evident in many audiovisual files on the Internet. Robert Spadoni notes
on the transition to sound film: “Every synchronization mishap served
to remind viewers that the bodies speaking on the screen constituted
whole entities only tenuously, ones that had been pieced together in
a movie studio and that could come apart quite easily once inside the
movie theater.”54
(2) Voiceover narration. This is almost always ‘synched’ on some level, fit-
ting with the on-screen activities or commenting upon them. Indeed,
it is the rare voiceover that has no fairly direct connection with the
images, even though it usually has extra-diegetic origin.
(3) Off-screen sound. This will often be ‘resolved’ by showing its origin
fairly rapidly. Sustained passages of off-screen sound are traditional to
many horror films, where a monster will not be shown but be cued by
isolated part images and sounds.
(4) The pace of representation varies between sound and image. Some
films use slow- motion sequences at their most dramatic points, but
the mainstream film convention is that sound should not follow the
image into slowed down speed but remain at the conventional (normal)
tempo. Hence, synchronization in slow- motion sequences is often
almost nonexistent. (See further discussion of this disparate synchro-
nization in chapter 8.)
(5) Images from one space-time are accompanied by sounds from another
space-time; for instance, when the story of a past event is being nar-
rated by a character in the present and it is accompanied by images of
the event in the past, while the narrating voice continues. Images swap
diegetic status—and become extra-diegetic (as a memory or illustra-
tion) while sound remains diegetic.
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(6) When the dynamics and mood of the images are accompanied by music
of different dynamics and character. Examples of this would include
‘classic’ sound and image counterpoint as described by Eisenstein,
Pudovkin, and Alexandrov,55 or anempathetic music, where music
is ‘out of step ‘with the character and dynamic of the narrative and
images.
(7) Images on-screen are accompanied by a total lack of sound (a ‘dead
soundtrack’), or vice versa. In these situations any precise synchroniza-
tion clearly is out of the question.
(8) When there is an ambiguity of connection, but no perceptible synchro-
nization of screen and sound speaker, although it may not ‘jar.’ This can
be the case in many montage sequences, or also when a pre-recorded
song accompanies a sequence with little structural or semantic connec-
tion to the accompanying images.
(9) When there is no discernible connection whatsoever. Even with cre-
ative application to the riddle, we have trouble making a solid and last-
ing connection between sound and image.
SYNCHRONIZATION TECHNOLOGY: ‘RUBBER NUMBERS’
In recent years, the digital dominance of audiovisual industries has meant

that sound and vision in projection, as well as production, has increasingly
become the dominant practice. The development of synchronized recorded
sound in the late 1920s had a direct requirement for both precise and stan-
dardized playback and synchronization between image and sound. Warner
Brothers made an indelible impact on the film world with its synchronized
sound films; first, Don Juan (1926) with its recorded music and later, The
Jazz Singer (debuting at the end of the same year) with its passages of
synchronized dialogue and songs. These both used a sound system called
Vitaphone, which added large shellac discs of recorded sound to the exist-
ing film projection apparatus. Synchronization was achieved by means of
pulleys and drive shafts, was mechanical, and regularly presented plenty of
difficulties for the securing of precise synchronization of sound and image.
This system was swept aside by a competitor that had far less of a problem
with synchronization, the so-called sound on film system (developed first
by Fox/Western Electric as Movietone and RCA’s Photophone). Although
Vitaphone’s discs produced better sound quality, the marriage of images
and sound on a single celluloid reel not only made for ease of projection
but, significantly, also prioritized a sound and image system in which loss
of synchrony was a rarity. Instead of cutting sound into the grooves of a
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disc, this system used optical sound, which is premised upon a light camera
converting sound into image by allowing light controlled by a microphone
or other voltage to imprint onto celluloid film with a standard surface of
emulsion. Variations in electrical pressure derived from microphones were
applied to a light valve (either from a microphone or an existing record-
ing) that controlled the amount of light hitting the film. Once on film, it
could be edited, mixed, and then added to the edge of a film print. Once
developed, the soundtrack part of the film has an image of light and dark,
which is then either a variable density recording, where the density or
opacity varies in successive sections, or a variable area recording, where
the transparent track bordered by opaque bands varies in its width.56 The
quality of sound depends on the resolution of the photosensitive emulsion
on the film, and later, on the quality of the reproduction equipment in the
film theatre. Optical sound on film is a highly practical system in that it
is not easy for sound and image to fall out of synch or for the soundtrack
to become physically damaged. The sprocket holes on the edge of the film
itself enable a direct mechanical coupling that became the key to synchro-
nized sound and image. This also enabled editing with much more ease.
Barry Salt notes:
The basic tool for sound editing had already been introduced at the beginning
of sound filmmaking, and this was the multiple synchronizer just as we know it
today in its unadorned form without track reading heads. Originally its purpose
had been to keep the several simultaneous picture tracks obtained from multiple
cameras filming in synchronism with each other during the editing, and hence
finally with the sound-track on disc, but by 1930 both multiple camera film-
ing and sound-on-disc were abandoned. The synchronizer was then used just to
manipulate the series of pairs of picture track and sound track, and keep them
in synchronism during editing. This simple procedure gave no way of hearing the
words on the sound track, was extremely inefficient, and was not conducive to
scene dissection into a large number of shots. But in 1930, the sound Moviola
became available, and from 1931 the Average Shot Lengths in Hollywood films
started to drop.57
The flat bed Moviola editing desk remained virtually unchanged, but with
an addition to the soundless one of a photoelectric sound head reading the
tracks, all with a rigid shaft drive for precise synchronization. This device
remained in nearly the same form until the 1970s. Certain developments
allowed for the absolute precision required in the process of synchroniza-
tion. For example, electric clocks were developed with motor mechanisms
that rotate in relation to the speed of the power station alternators that
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produce electricity, either as an integral multiple or a sub-multiple. This
allowed for precision in chronography without minor interferences from
the nature of electricity itself, indeed exploiting its precisely periodic
nature. In terms of film production, a rapid development was the clapper-
board or slate, which was recorded as a sonic snap by the sound recordist
and the visual counterpart of that action by the film camera. This single
event then becomes the precise reference point to check and establish for
alignment of filmed images and location sound into a single unity of sound
and vision in the editing process. The frame where the sound and image are
matched thus was called the synch frame.
In terms of synchronizing music to images, Mickeymousing is perhaps
the most obvious form. This describes music that mimics movements in
the image like cartoon music that doubles the comic movements of a screen
character like a shadow. A lesser degree of correspondence is more common,
where action and mood are matched by the dynamics of music. For example,
a sad and quiet scene is accompanied by undynamic and soft music, while
an energetic fight scene is accompanied by kinetic music, sometimes with
a strong pulse and often making rhythmic punches or emphases. Indeed,
the relationship of music and image often directly follows the principle of
analogy, a vestige of silent film’s intermittent provision of sound effects
with musical accompaniment. Sound and image analogues take the form
of rhythm, gesture, and movement. For instance, a broad turn of camera
movement can often synchronize with a palpable sweep of music.
Music almost always needs to fashion precise synchronizations with
images. In the 1930s, Hollywood composer Max Steiner was instrumental
in the development of what became known as ‘click tracks,’ which enabled
the precise synchronization of sound and image. The process initially
involved punching holes in the film to make bursts of light (punches and
streamers) when it is projected for the musicians to synchronize to as they
perform.58 The click track not only allows for the composer to write pre-
cisely to the image but also works as a metronome, allowing the conductor
to synchronize musical performance with precision.59
In the 1950s, magnetic tape on reel-to-reel machines took over from
optical sound, most notably on expensive productions with stereo sound.
At first, this procedure involved a large sprocketed tape, which was quickly
replaced by 6.25mm tape with a coordinating synch pulse derived from the
camera motor speed and also present in the projector motor. Blackham
describes the process:
The 6.25mm recording is transferred to sprocketed tape and the sync pulse on
the tape used to control the speed of the sprocket recorder motor. In the case of
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sprocket recorders with mains sync motors, the reproduced sync pulse is locked
to the mains and the 6.25mm replay machines varied in speed to keep the mains
and the sync pulse in step.
The sync pulse from the camera can be the mains frequency (in the case
of a camera with a mains sync motor) or may be obtained from a small AC
generator driven by the motor. The most modern systems use a camera
motor whose speed is locked exactly to the divided-down output of a crystal
oscillator. The sync pulse at the sound recorder is derived from an oscillator
of the same frequency. This then eliminates cable or radio links between the
camera and the recorder.60
The development of more flexible handheld cameras demanded sound

capabilities that could be used to catch events as part of a whole. In 1960,
the Nagra portable tape recorder became available; it was based on a quartz
clock mechanism controlling the motor, which allowed precise timing in
the face of the unreliability of earlier portable tape recorders.61
The widescreen film format, which became prominent in the 1950s,
meant that sound again became uncoupled from the single roll of cellu-
loid. In many cases, projection adopted magnetic tape, which afforded bet-
ter quality than optical sound and was a suitable counterpart to the large,
epic images on-screen. In most cases, it was also in stereo rather than the
cinema norm of monophonic sound up to this point. In order to achieve
mechanical synchronization, film exhibition was dominated by the process
of ‘direct coupling’ using motors (such as Selsyn or Syncrostart motors)
that are interlocked, or alternatively by a flexible coupling between projec-
tor and tape player. The drive motors of the two machines share a common
central shaft that keeps both sound and image in constant synchrony.62
Each Selsyn motor must be powerful to control and regulate the driving
motors in the different devices. The drawback is that the whole mechanism
is large and unwieldy, with gears and timing belts, large rotating mechani-
cal components, and a big external distributor. Constant speed motors
replaced governed motors. These are induction motors, based on the fre-
quency of mains electricity, and so run at 50 Hz in the U.K. Projectors also
used stroboscopes, which gave a static signal when the image on the projec-
tor was in synch with the audiotape. The shutter speed of the projector can
be varied, as can the speed of the film reel’s movement through the pro-
jector—but not the speed of the magnetic tape, illustrating that synchro-
nization was forced to follow the audio requirements more than those of
the visuals. Electrical synchronizers were in some cases a replacement for
mechanical synchronizers, which had a phase relationship between tape
speed and film speed. If the projector changed speed, then so did the phase
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relationship, which was then automatically compensated for. Similarly,
the electronic version uses unheard or visual pulses to hold the two tracks
together, derived either from a control track on the tape or the projector’s
shutter speed.63
In the 1950s, there were notable developments for sound and image
in cinema, particularly the increased use of stereo sound and widescreen
images. The requirement for multiple projectors and a desire for higher
quality and multitrack sound led, as I have noted, to an uncoupling in some
cases of sound and image from the single piece of celluloid. John Belton
points out:
The advent of wide-screen cinematography—whether the Grandeur sys-

tem (1929–30), Cinerama (1952), CinemaScope (1953), or Todd-AO/70mm
(1955)—provides a wider visual field for the sound track to duplicate, necessi-
tating multiple track, stereo sound. In Fox’s CinemaScope process, for example,
four different tracks play on three separate speakers behind the screen and on
one ‘surround’ speaker.64
This ‘surround’ speaker usually contained off-screen sounds, and most

obviously voiceover narrations, indicating that sound from an off-screen
source was thought to occupy a different physical, as well as mental, space.
This seems to compound the use of asynchrony, yet such aspects were
quickly integrated as unproblematic parts of film style. On a physical level,
the use of magnetic tape for sound allowed for better sound quality but
reengaged precisely the problems of synchronizing two machines that had
plagued Vitaphone at the beginning of synchronized sound cinema. Things
were less problematic this time around, though, with electronic coupling
allowing for precise synchronization.65
While sound on film remained dominant in smaller and less sumptu-
ous film theatres, television’s small speaker and poor frequency range used
different image formats. The regular option was 16mm film, but from the
late 1950s, videotape increasingly became used for audiovisual culture,
although television remained primarily a live broadcast medium well into
the following decade. Videotape also increasingly became an option for
editing film footage. As Ashley Shepherd notes,
Many projects are shot on film for the look but edited on video for ease, then
are delivered to the public on video, whether on television or on videotape and
DVD. . . . Typically, film will be transferred to video for editing, effects, and com-
puter manipulation. Then, once the film is in final form, it will be transferred
back to a celluloid film print for presentation in theatres.66
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In recent years, almost all sound and synch work is done on digital work-
stations. In 1967, ‘timecode’ for videotape was introduced by the Society
of Motion Picture and Television Engineers (SMPTE). It allowed for abso-
lute precision in synchronization, as well as precise film editing. This is
an 80 bit code, which works from a displayed eight-digit, 24-hour clock
(hours:minutes:seconds:frames) that also presents frame rate measured in
frames-per-second.67 Timecode is the fast-advancing number on the bot-
tom of the screen in rough-cut footage that can be seen sometimes in DVD
extras, for example. This is crucial for precise synchronization, mediating
between the separate devices. Exploiting this, ‘Genlock’ is a generator lock
that synchronizes at least two video/sound sources, such as cameras, and
allows direct switching between them without loss of continuity and image
rolling. This synchronizes color, frame, vertical and horizontal aspects of
the image, as well as the soundtrack. It contains a shared ‘reference synch’
across hardware, involving a ‘trigger synch’ on the master device being con-
nected to the internal clock of studio hardware. This clock can be an atomic
clock or one based on an external standard (more recently based on GPS for
shooting cameras).68
It is no exaggeration to state that the advent of digital sound and
image equipment has revolutionized production of films. In terms of
post-production, there have been radical changes with the rapid movement
toward nonlinear editing (on computer rather than physically cutting up
film and tape). Processing is now completed largely by computer software,
with suites of programs such as those by AVID and Pro Tools dominating.69
For synchronization, Pro Tools uses an internal audio clock but is also able
to use an external reference point, such as Sync I/O or USD, which provide
the most reliable time clocks to hold together pace and synchronization
of sound and image. In terms of digital distribution, MPEG digital video
format is standard (along with AVI, MOV, and others very prominent on
the Internet).70 While celluloid film may still be used for shooting, in many
cases, it will still be digitized to allow for nonlinear editing and sound con-
struction and treatment. Films now use an electronic clapperboard called
a ‘smart slate’ that displays information in numerals rather than chalk
written on the older snapping version. Significantly, the electronic form
also carries a timecode. This allows for easy synchronization by the film
(and sound) editor. Instead of manually lining up the sound and image,
the editor, after the transfer from film to videotape, merely notes the time-
code and punches the details into a synchronizer that matches the code of
sound and image and thus automatically puts the two in synch. Despite
radical change, the basic concept of filmmaking has remained remarkably
constant.
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Analogue video with an LTC (longitudinal timecode) is able to be
fed directly to a synchronizer linked to musical software. This was
still roughly synchronized by hand from the video deck, while a more
sophisticated system allowed control from the software via MMC
(MIDI machine control) or through nine-pin serial machine control
(these tend to have different decks that use VITC, or vertical interval
timecodes. This process was simplified dramatically by the advent of
totally digital editing capabilities. Once the image is held as digital, it
is simply imported into the musical software program, such as Logic or
Pro Tools.71 Indeed, the conversion from analogue to digital sound and
image processing has changed the system radically in terms of the pos-
sibility of manipulation, while retaining the basic process of sound and
image matching and mixing that was already in place. As a development
of the analogue electronic synching system, Pro Tools uses a system of
synchronization called ‘synch beep’ or ‘two pop.’ This has a single frame
audio signal (1kHz at –20dB), where a tone is inserted into each audio
file two seconds before the picture begins. Less expensive ‘soft studios’
(aka Digital Audio Workstations, or DAWs) such as Logic, Cubase, and
Ableton Live allowed for quick and easy creation and fitting of music to
images from the mid-2000s onward. The composer is given a digital file
of film in rough-cut form and composes to it, with any precise tempo-
ral changes required taking place later. Precise numerical references for
synchronization are called ‘timestamps’ and mark when certain added
sounds (such as a music or sound effect) should be placed or begin. This
is an update of the ‘spotting’ process for composers (working out which
sequences need music). For sound effects as well as music, ‘hits’ can
be entered into the sequencer as temporal markers, around which the
music can be written and constructed. The options for Pro Tools are to
link it to a separate visual machine (a digital video or videotape deck or
film projector) or to import the film and synchronize it in Pro Tools and
then put in ‘markers’ for where sounds will be ‘laid in.’ More specialized
programs exist for dealing with voices, with dialogue-aligning software
such as Synchro Art’s VocALign plug-in, which analyzes original sound
and adapts new recording to fit it.72 Despite far-reaching developments,
it remains largely a process of having a clapperboard for synching film
and sound using markers in a counting system for indicating where
sounds will be placed.
Writing about technological developments often focuses on
multi-channel (spatial) sound and Dolby high-definition sound quality.73
Sound diffusion through the theatre space developed dramatically in
the late 1970s, with films such as Apocalypse Now (1979) being released
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with Dolby Split Surround, which had six discrete sound channels, add-
ing up to an overall impression of dramatic three-dimensional sound
space. The creative process of deciding how to synchronize sound and
image involves personnel such as the film director, sound designer, edi-
tor, sound editor, and dubbing mixer. In some cases, these jobs might be
shared or doubled. A so-called ‘hit list’ is compiled (often by the music
editor) that details important image events for the sound editor, music
editor, and music composer. For the latter, it defines the space of each
cue they are to write and details all the points the music has to ‘hit.’
Star Wars (1977) was remarkable for its sound, with sound designer
Ben Burtt creating new sounds and expanding the sonic palette expo-
nentially. In terms of music, despite technological developments mak-
ing the process much quicker and easier, procedures have in essence
remained pretty much the same. The tradition of matching music to
film broadly has been in place since the 1930s and either involves music
being composed to fit images or existing recordings being edited to fit
images.74 The former involves ‘spotting’ followed by the construction
of charts of music timing breakdowns and requirements (known as ‘cue
sheets’). After this the composer then ‘lays out’ the empty score onto
manuscript paper (sometimes on computer), setting tempos and bar
structures, and then composes the music and records it; then it must
be editedto fit the film. All of these developments illustrate the critical
importance of precise synchronization in production and exhibition.
As well as delineating historical events, this chapter has endeavored to
detail the older processes that were the origins of the current methods
and conventions of synchronizing sound and image.
CONCLUSION
With the advent of electronic synchronization, the filmmaking process

became less mechanical and ultimately more easily achieved with recourse
to wholly digital equipment. Indeed, it is now possible to have music pro-
duced for images by a computer program that constructs and fits sonic
accompaniment to the footage fed into it.75 The total integration of film-
making processes through digital programs has opened up the possibility
of dictating the outcome, although this has not been taken up on a large
scale. Such programs also indicate how far conventions dominate, in that
they follow a number of rudimentary rules that are deemed to be impor-
tant in audiovisual culture. The key appears to be the dynamics of music, as
it is actually far easier for the program to auto-edit footage to fit its music.
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Nevertheless, the assumption is of equivalence of dynamics, and finding
corresponding aesthetics between music and film footage.
Fostering the sense of cinematic illusionism remains at the heart of
mainstream film, and this has conventionally led to sound naturalism and
its correspondent audiovisual naturalism. This marks a zero degree of style
for mainstream cinema, an unremarkable stylistic given, but crucially also
an expectation, which some films intermittently work to confound if for
only a short period of time. Of course, there is no reason why films should
not be accompanied by music that appears almost totally unsynchronized
with the screen. However, in mainstream cinema, convention dominates
to the point where even slight divergences from the norm come to be con-
sidered remarkable. The aim of conventional approaches, by and large, is to
remain almost imperceptible, one might say. Most mainstream narrative
cinema follows a conventional blueprint of ‘transparent’ style, where aes-
thetic aspects refuse to call too much attention to themselves in order to
function primarily as vehicle for content, rather than comprising the con-
tent themselves. The corresponding ‘togetherness’ of non-diegetic music
and the rest of the film is the overwhelming aim, as taught by courses on
filmmaking and film music the world over. Too much divergence is often
considered unproductive, and limits are set by Eisenstein’s notions of
parallel and counterpoint (which are discussed in detail in the following
chapter), although the latter is considered more of an occasional effect on
the former’s norm. So despite the range of possibilities offered by sound
and image synchronization, mainstream film has been happy to remain
within a relatively narrow band of aesthetic possibilities. Avant garde film
and video art have not,76 but consequently they have at some point sacri-
ficed the ‘illusionism’ of representational cinema, one of its most powerful
aspects. There is an assumption that sound’s relationship to image is either
(a) a homology or (b) a supplement. Although it is not quite the same, this
appears remarkably similar to Eisenstein’s formulation of parallel and
counterpoint relationships.
A good number of experiments into the perception of simultaneous
audio and visual events have been completed by psychologists, scientists,
and neuroscientists. Conclusions seem to be that people are not absolutely
precise in their perception of simultaneous events, and their acceptance
of synchronization varies in different situations.77 However, differences of
synchronization of less than 20 msecs do not register.78 Clearly, watching
a film in the cinema requires close synchrony of voices with mouth move-
ments, whereas on a small television this is not so imperative. However,
this is far from maintaining that people will accept asynchrony. Indeed,
it appears to be the opposite. Although these experiments are certainly
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relevant, they are not dedicated to film material. There is a narrow margin
of perception, with a difference between point of objective equivalence and
accepted point of perceived equivalence being 35 msecs for audio, 30 msecs
for audio delays, and 85 msecs for video delays.79
In a 1960s book about making sound films, D. M. Neale
noted: “Synchronization can be divided into three categories: loose sync,
where an error between sound and picture of five or even ten seconds can
be tolerated; close sync, where the error cannot exceed more than one or
two seconds over the whole length of the film; and lip-sync, where there
must be no error at all.”80 This underlines the fact that there are films where
synchronization matters little—such as some avant garde and amateur
films—and the fact that most writers about film follow the tacit assump-
tion that all films are based on dialogue. This goes so far that film theorists
can continue to discuss film as essentially visual when the vast majority of
films are dialogue-centered talkies. Furthermore, writers about film sound
have tended to focus on sound effects and music and implicitly bracket
off dialogue as part of the rest of the film and somehow less ‘sonic.’ Yet
dialogue is the most tangible point of seamless union between sound and
image tracks, and the central endeavor of editing in most films.
The fusion of elements that takes place at synch points is highly signifi-
cant and should not be underestimated. This coalescence is taken by the
audience as an assumption of relationship, an admittance of direct connec-
tion. This is essentially a psychological process, even if there are different
forms of synchronization that might yield psychologically different situa-
tions. Yet these points should not be mistaken merely for edits; many are
on-screen events that are matched to the occurrence of particular sounds.
Over the past two decades, the development of mobile cameras has led to
less cutting, and the use of high-quality spatialized stereo has also encour-
aged more independence of sound and image, as well as less need to con-
stantly orient the audience spatially.
Traditionally, film meaning has followed the notion of the Kuleshov
experiment’s montage in conceiving of film’s crucial interior relationship
as a succession, where different images arranged in order add up to a third
idea not necessarily present in either constituent. However, as theorists
like Eisenstein noted, music’s simultaneous relationship of elements (har-
mony, counterpoint) offers an important means of understanding film as
simultaneity. Furthermore, like the Kuleshov effect, the McGurk effect
illustrates that a similar montage process takes place between sound and
image, producing a protean synthesis that is beyond mere constituent ele-
ments and not only a strong illusion of reality, but also a magical embodi-
ment of ideas and emotion unlike any other.
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CH APTER 3
Sound Montage
A lthough it is commonplace to assume that so-called new technology

has radically shifted the aesthetic and theoretical terrain, a few highly
influential studies have pointed to direct continuity with earlier concerns.
For instance, Lev Manovich’s highly influential book The Language of New
Media, published just after the turn of the second millennium, contains a
significant section on the 1920s and ’30s Soviet film director Dziga Vertov
and extrapolates his pioneering theoretical and filmmaking concerns into
modern screen and speaker culture.1 Montage theory also remains at the
heart of filmmaking and cinema studies, although many of its original con-
cerns and insights have perhaps receded from view. Sound montage, theo-
rized with the arrival of recorded synchronized sound in films, was the first
theory of sound, as well as image, and sometimes explicitly derives ideas
and inspiration from music-based theory.
Montage theory of the 1920s and ’30s feted asynchrony, looking to gaps
between components and discourses that could manifest easily as gaps
between image track and soundtrack. This was a film-specific theory that
has had an influence in other arts, setting film at the heart of more recent
multimedia theory. It emerged at a point when synchronized recorded
soundtracks had just become an integral part of cinema and an unencum-
bered initial view of potential was achieved that was perhaps more difficult
once the medium was established with pervasive conventions. Rather than
focusing exclusively on representation, these early theorists, most notably
those in the Soviet Union, looked into the linguistic and expressive pos-
sibilities of film and, significantly, straddled what later became an insur-
mountable divide: that between mainstream narrative cinema and avant
garde cinema. This enabled the questioning of conventions, and we should
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remember that many cinematic conventions were in a state of flux in the
late ’20s and early ’30s, although expediency for achieving good quality
sound meant that films soon became more conventionalized than ever,
particularly in the U.S.A., where filmmaking followed a Fordist model of
industrial production.
The continued relevance of this body of theory from the first part of
the 20th century resides not only in its concern with complex processes
at the heart of film,2 but also in that it had an interest in synchronism of
sound and image that has not been followed up significantly by later film
theory, or indeed even become a point of minor interest for most recent
filmmakers. As Siegfried Kracauer noted, these early sound cinema theo-
rists assumed that counterpoint between elements and asynchrony were
intimately related.3 Their focus was on the gap between image and sound
aesthetics, something that inevitably is always present to some degree,
although narrative films put much effort into eliding any gap and ward-
ing off the dangers of such fissures. Indeed, the overwhelming majority of
films feign that there is no gap to open and that film is a unified output not
reliant upon the hidden synchronization of sound and image.
THE COMING OF SYNCHRONIZED SOUND
As noted in the previous chapter, in 1926, The Adventures of Don Juan used
discs to provide a musical accompaniment for the film, while the more cel-
ebrated The Jazz Singer, which premiered at the close of the same year, also
used discs but concentrated more on the synchronized performances of
songs and particularly dialogue.4 Within five years, silent films had been
pushed to the margins in many countries and almost forgotten in some.
Yet, at what point did a strong sense of how synchronized image and sound
emerge? Of course, there was already a strong sense of how sounds, espe-
cially music, should fit with the moving image, yet this changed with the
addition of recorded sound. It seems that almost immediately, there was an
intuitive notion of how recorded sound and image should coalesce, emerging
from a sense of verisimilitude. Moving lips were expected to match appro-
priate sounds precisely. For a time, Hollywood produced some films not
only in English but also in other languages, such as the Spanish-language
version of Dracula (1931) shot simultaneously with different actors. In
Europe at the same time, multi-language versions of films were produced;
yet within a few years, the dubbing of films became the norm, with some
national audiences accepting a certain discrepancy between mouth move-
ment and vocal sound. Some temporary techniques to ameliorate the gap
S O U N D M O N TAG E [45]
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of sound and vision included editing the length of shots so that they better
matched the sounds of the new overdubbed language. The projection of
silent films had not only regularly involved the use of live music but also
other sonic elements, including live sound effects.5 Indeed, in the 1920s,
there were carefully synchronized live accompaniments that mixed effects
and voices spoken from behind the screen, with a number of commercial
companies supplying this service in the U.S.A.6 Such practices went some
way toward creating the blueprint for sound in the cinema.
Rapidly, there emerged a sense, allied to industrial expediency, of divid-
ing the responsibilities of the soundtrack into elements: dialogue (which
was and is the most important), sound effects, and music. The first was
the key to the emergence of sound cinema as a new object, and techni-
cians sourced from the telecommunications industry aimed to make voices
as intelligible as possible. Musicians had their own associated technicians
derived from the music performance and recording industry. Sound effects
had more in common with the former than the latter, although it quickly
grew into something of its own division and specialty. The key person hold-
ing all these together was the sound editor, who, in conjunction with other
film technicians such as the principal editor and director, was responsible
for pulling the mélange of elements into a coherent whole that comple-
mented the filmed images. Seamlessness and the need for the soundtrack
not to call attention to itself as an element in any way not attached directly
to the illusion of image and sound were the most important consider-
ations. The means for achieving these were, as with every other element
of the Hollywood studio system of the 1930s and to a lesser degree every
other popular national cinema, through industrial standardization. The
strategy for sound was almost never to approach it as a creative element
within the system of the film but more so as merely a conventional ele-
ment. Thus written discourses existed to standardize best practices and
establish film sound as a process that had a right and wrong way of doing
things, along with particular examples of difficult problems solved and out-
standing instances of good craftsmanship that were held up as models for
continued sound technician activity. Rick Altman details the debate during
the 1930s about whether sound should match its volume to the proxim-
ity of the image, or whether it should retain a fixed position in the face of
camera mobility through cutting.7 The latter won out, despite the former
appearing more logical.
As with Hollywood film products of the studio era, conventions led not
only to speed and ease of production but also to an ease of audience con-
sumption of material when standardized aspects made style seem almost
transparent, and audiences had to expend a minimum amount of mental
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energy thinking about sound and image elements that were not part of
the illusionistic developments on-screen. The 1938 book Motion Picture
Sound Engineering, which stemmed from a series of lectures, states that
“The listener should hear by means of the recording the same sound he
would have heard had he been present when the original was created.”8 This
seems naïve, particularly by the later 1930s.9 Some earlier discussions were
more sophisticated. Kenneth F. Morgan noted in the 1931 book Recording
for Motion Pictures:
The dubbing of sound is analogous to trick photography and duping which have
long since been adopted as useful adjuncts in the composition and editing of the
motion picture . . . the art of dubbing has developed with great rapidity and is
already a fundamental part of sound pictures.10
Morgan then goes on to emphasize the illusionistic status of what is seen

and heard. He points to the established status of music accompanying film
and its technological foundation through unsynched discs of sound effects
and music that were made available in the wake of the earliest synchro-
nized sound films.11 He noted that “The addition of music . . . was known
as ‘scoring’; when sound effects or dialog were added the process came to
be known as ‘synchronizing.’ ”12 The process of fitting music was not sim-
ply matching timing, as with the precise spotting of dialogue and sound
effects. It was arguably a more artistic affair, of fitting mood and broader
movement and emphasizing the most emotional moments.
The debut of The Jazz Singer in Britain showcased a number of
converged concerns. The program at London’s Piccadilly Theatre on
September 27, 1928, included a number of other films with synchro-
nized sound. One was a film of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra
performing the overture to Tannhäuser by Wagner. The reviewer in
Melody Maker, the journal aimed at cinema and popular musicians,
noted that the orchestra pit at the theatre was covered in flowers, per-
haps not only to hide the absence of musicians but also to signify the
“graveyard of musicians’ hopes.” The reviewer also noted that when the
film showed oboes in close-up, the audience expected a rise in their
volume.13 The review detailed how the audience laughed each time the
image and sound went out of synch, which clearly was an intermittent
problem.14 Another film screened was a British-made African travelogue
called Simba, which used the Phonotone system. The reviewer noted,
. . . the Phonotone music to ‘Simba’ must be said to be a comparative failure.

No special synchronization was noticeable, and an equally satisfactory result
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could have been produced from ordinary ‘radio amplified’ gramophone
records played on a machine which had no means of synchronizing it with
the film.15
Indeed, the transition period from silent to sound films not only included
talkies but also so-called sound films that were shot silently and then ‘fit-
ted up’ with recorded music with varying degrees of artfulness and suc-
cess. This aesthetic remained as a technique inside the new sound cinema.
Originating in silent film musical accompaniment, this synchronizing of
music to non-speaking sections of films marked a persistence of a silent
filmmaking style lacking direct connection between sound and image track.
In many films, there is still a division of sorts between regimes derived
from talkies and sound films.
EISENSTEIN AND MONTAGE
At this time, technological possibilities excited many filmmakers and theo-

rists alike. Sergei Eisenstein’s conception of montage touches on the gap
between two pieces of film.16 According to him, the juncture of the edit is
the key moment when the real work of cinema takes place. These gaps regu-
larly are glossed over by mainstream film. Gaps between shots often aim to
register as nothing, as something that we don’t see. In theory, these voids
are ‘black hole’ collapsed spaces of time and space, negated by the classical
continuity system (and its more recent variants). However, for Eisenstein,
these are the points when there is the most potential, in aesthetic, emo-
tional, and political terms. Eisenstein’s notion of montage is based on dia-
lectic, a clash between seemingly disparate elements making for a physical
and mental jolt. This conception differs from the idea of montage practiced
by some other influential Soviet filmmakers of the time, such as Vsevolod
Pudovkin, who also saw montage as the key to cinema, but rather as a more
passive joining of ideas, which is still not the same as the invisible editing
system promulgated by classical Hollywood.17 Pudovkin suggested that con-
trasting sound and image allows for perception that doubles the spectator’s
physical perception of real life, and thus was a mode of realism able to make
complex representations and expressions. He discussed asynchronism in
his book Technique of the Film (translated into English in 1929).18 While
Pudovkin saw montage as ‘linking,’ Eisenstein, in “A Dialectic Approach
to Film Form” (1929), saw it as ‘collision’ (and thus dialectical, leading to a
higher synthesis of clashing elements), and compared it to an engine that
drives the film forward.19
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For Eisenstein, art is about conflict, with a mission to make manifest
the contradictions of modern existence. In “Methods of Montage,” written
in 1929 before sound was an option in Soviet films, Eisenstein makes a
distinction between ‘metric montage’ and ‘rhythmic montage.’20 The for-
mer is based on similar lengths of film used (using a specific number of
frames). This involves regular shots irrespective of their content, and was
used regularly by Dziga Vertov and Vsevelod Pudovkin. Rhythmic mon-
tage, on the other hand, has frame content of the same significance as the
film length, so its practical length derives from the specifics of content and
movement within the frame. ‘Tonal montage’ is based on the characteristic
emotional tone of the film, communicating an emotion directly through
the image, while ‘overtonal montage’ (also known as ‘associational mon-
tage’) has an abstract effect due to the conglomeration of the film’s metric,
rhythmic, and tonal attributes. The most complex, and also the most effec-
tive, form of montage was ‘intellectual montage,’ whereby the juxtaposi-
tion of intellectual affects would lead to a new synthesis of the aspects of
the film, creating an impression of an idea or object not present. Eisenstein
saw this as a potential synthesis of science, art, and the class conflict, and
its awareness that motivated Soviet cinema, exemplified by the end of his
film Strike (1925), where images of a violent attack on striking workers are
intercut with footage of a bull being killed in a slaughterhouse.21 This auda-
cious moment in cinema also corresponded with Eisenstein’s description
of the ‘montage of attractions,’ which should be premised upon the use
of non-contextual, seemingly unconnected images for emotional impact.22
Eisenstein’s insightful deliberation about the capabilities of editing in
film remains a striking piece of theory, although it has only been influential
for film scholarship as a general notion about the power of editing, rather
than persisting as a range of production strategies or as an accepted mode
of aesthetic analysis. In his later “Synchronization of Senses,” Eisenstein
considers sound as a part of this montage system. He comprehends it as
essentially empowered when it becomes ‘vertical montage,’23 when there is
an opportunity for divergence in the content of image and sound. Sound
montage extends the system but retains the basic principles. Eisenstein
describes the addition of a soundtrack as “. . . a new ‘superstructure’ [that]
is erected vertically over the horizontal picture structure.”24 The implication
of this explicitly Marxist language is that sound can elucidate a more sig-
nificant structure than the more basic visual one. Indeed, it is clear that the
possibilities offered by sound montage in addition to visual montage seri-
ously expanded the expressive capabilities of cinema. Eisenstein empha-
sized the sophisticated abilities of cinema, seeing it as more than simply
a storytelling device, as arguably the view that had become dominant
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in Hollywood cinema. Although film montage first concerned the domi-
nant aspect or tendency in the frame, secondary stimuli, overtones, and/
or undertones were also of significant concern to Eisenstein. Overtones
only emerge in the dynamics of interaction and development of diverse
elements. These visual and aural overtones mark what he referred to as the
‘fourth dimension’ of film, which is felt rather than necessarily registered
directly.25
Eisenstein’s theories have always proved attractive, although often
more to film theorists than filmmakers, perhaps. At the turn of the fourth
decade of the 20th century, Eisenstein’s concept of montage embraced the
possibilities of the new sound cinema, looking for a dialectic interaction
among the ensemble of elements. This is much more complex and less sat-
isfactory than his earlier theories, simply transporting the potential of the
gaps between their (quantifiable) meanings. It is the coming of sound that
allows for the concept of counterpoint to bloom (although it could conceiv-
ably have been theorized in relation to elements within silent film as well).
In 1930, Eisenstein, along with Pudovkin and Alexandrov declared in their
famous “Statement on Sound”:
It is well known that the principal (and sole) method which has led cinema to
a position of such great influence is montage. . . . And so for the further develop-
ment of cinema the significant features appear to be those that strengthen and
broaden the montage methods of influencing the audience. If we examine every
new discovery from this standpoint it is easy to distinguish the insignificance
of colour and stereoscopic cinema in comparison with the great significance of
sound.26
This is a remarkably sanguine manifesto, luxuriating in the aesthetic pos-

sibilities afforded by the new capabilities opened up by sound cinema. The
“Statement on Sound” is careful, however, to note how synchronized sound
is likely to be used in a banal manner. The key for Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and
Alexandrov is the massive potential for montage in the form of asynchrony
between sound and image and, more precisely, in dialectical contradiction
of meaning and association between sound and image. First experiments
should aim at “. . . sharp discord with the visual images . . . [resulting in] a
new orchestral counterpoint of visual and sound images.”27 The diametric
opposite of this is likely what they dismiss as more banal ways to use sound
in film. These follow “. . . an incorrect understanding of the potential for
the new technical invention [which] might not only hinder the develop-
ment and improvement of cinema as an art form but might also threaten
all its formal achievements to date.”28 In aesthetic terms, this might well
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be borne out with recourse to the standardized practices of mainstream
cinema since that time. But, of course, the potential of any aesthetic or
technology is almost never fully in constant use. At heart, this potential
that Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov are writing about is montage,
broadly conceived. While they might fete asynchrony and its radical pos-
sibilities, they fail to register the massively effective illusory character of
synchronized sound and image. This is dismissed as being an application
‘along the lines of least resistance’ and making cinema into a form of ersatz
theatre. They note that the initial period of sound adoption will likely
involve “. . . synchronizing exactly with the movement on the screen and
creating a certain ‘illusion’ of people talking, objects making a noise, etc.”29
This is a prescient description of the sound-image relations that dominated
early sound cinema, and some might argue still dominates certain forms of
film and television. They argue that sound destroys montage. Capturing an
object on film ‘neutralizes’ it, cutting it off from its context and time and
allowing it to be used as an icon. The inclusion of an associated sound rein-
states its sense of self and place, giving it an independence and aesthetic
‘inertia.’ According to Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov,
Sound used in this way will destroy the culture of montage, because every
mere addition of sound to montage fragments increases their inertia as such
and their independent significance; this is undoubtedly detrimental to montage
which operates above all not with fragments but through the juxtaposition of
fragments. Only the contrapuntal use of sound vis-à-vis the visual fragment of
montage will open up new possibilities for the development and perfection of
montage.30
Adding significant amounts of non-diegetic sound or emphasizing simulta-

neity mitigates the combined sound and image’s tendency toward inertia.
The assumption—which quickly became dominant to the point of invis-
ibility—was that the shot should come with its own sound, and that the
sound-image composite was the central pillar of sound cinema and its
younger relations. The “Statement on Sound” suggests that the only way to
halt the slide into such naturalism and away from the aesthetic possibilities
of cinema is by the use of asynchrony. Montage in synchronized sound film
should come from
. . . finding an inner synchronization between the tangible pictures and the differently
perceived sounds. . . . this is far beyond that external synchronization that matches
the boot with its creaking—we are speaking of a ‘hidden’ inner synchroniza-
tion in which the plastic and tonal elements will find complete fusion. To relate
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these two elements, we find a natural language common to both—movement.
Plekhanov has said that all phenomena in the final analysis can be reduced into
movement. Movement will reveal all the substrata of inner synchronization that
we wish to establish in due course.31
There is undoubtedly a sense of movement in both music and film,

although it is elusive as to how far these might cohere or be workable on a
logical level.
Eisenstein developed this notion further in an essay that appeared in
The Film Sense, where he created a diagram of the movement as he saw it
in a piece of film and its accompanying music. The diagram is impressive
but not built on a solid foundation. Eisenstein’s correlation of movement
in music and images seems too direct and without basis. However, it is a
diagram that has an important historical place in the study of film and in
the study of film music, in that it makes direct correspondence between
still frames of film and notated music, illustrating precise aesthetic devel-
opments in the celebrated battle-on-the-ice sequence from Eisenstein’s
own Alexander Nevsky (1938). Eisenstein had noted the power of vertical
montage, which the tabulationmakes plain, and pointed out that sound
montage necessitated the addition of a new part to the instrumental musi-
cal score: that of the image, to create an ‘audiovisual score.’32 However,
despite this being impressive, Robert Robertson’s analysis of it rightly
finds some small discrepancies and some ‘flights of fancy’ that mean that
the description and corresponding explanation are not as precise as one
initially might imagine.33 Despite the problematic status of his diagrams,
Eisenstein’s aspirations toward aesthetic integration and analysis are still
laudable. A crucial aspect of the Nevsky diagram is that it focuses on events
point-counter-point, illustrating the synchronization of elements rather
than simply enumerating aspects that add to narrative development.
PARALLEL AND COUNTERPOINT
The notions of parallel and counterpoint as descriptive of the synchro-

nous relationship of image and sound can be traced back to the famous
“Statement on Sound” by Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov. Their
essay introduced this strong and widely used theoretical concept to both
cinema analysis and filmmaking. It postulated that sound works either in
parallel with or in counterpoint to the visuals. These terms are elaborated
on by Eisenstein and have formed a foundational, but not unproblematic,
approach in both analysis and production of film. Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and
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Alexandrov warned about the dangers of parallelism and feted the poten-
tial of counterpoint. Their interest was in the gap that might be opened up
in terms of both meaning and aesthetics between sound and image, rather
than merely having both working toward the same end.
The term ‘parallel’ has predominantly been used to describe sound ‘doing
the same thing’ as image rather than going off on its own path. This indi-
cates providing the same meaning as, or directly supporting the meaning
of, images. Equally, though, it can mean aesthetic ‘doubling’ when more
abstract aspects in the image are paralleled by sound. So, on the one hand,
parallel might designate meaning and tone when, for example, a sad scene is
accompanied by apparently sad music. On the other, it might mean dynam-
ics, when an extreme example would be the Mickeymousing of action by
music, with on-screen movements triggering the rise and fall of musical
dynamics in a tight accompaniment.
Dialogue and sound effects conventionally parallel activities in the image
track. Synchronism is therefore of paramount importance for films that are
premised upon dialogue scenes and the illusion of a pro-filmic event being
captured by camera and microphone. Non-diegetic music, however, is not
restricted by such concerns. David Bordwell notes that film scores have a
pleonastic character, which allows them to simply double the meanings of
what films are supplying through other means of narration.34 If scores are
conceived as simply furnishing the same message, in narrative terms, they
are therefore redundant or at best merely a reinforcement of the film’s gen-
eral message. However, much of the time, music is not sending any such
quantifiable message; yet regularly the film’s score appears consonant with
the images and dialogue, marking a seeming parallel of sound and image.
Perhaps a better formulation would be that sound works as a parallel when
it is not aiming at contradicting the existing meaning in other elements.
It is indeed difficult to gauge how far music in films might double existing
information or add to narrative development. However, as Royal S. Brown
rightly notes:
. . . film music can contribute in an overwhelming way, via its tendency to hyper-
explicate, to passivity in the viewer/listener. In other words, a given passage
of music, instead of leading the viewer/listener towards an open and/or para-
digmatic reading of a given situation, imposes a single reading by telling the
viewer/listener exactly how to react to and/or feel that situation.35
This is a crucial point. Thus film incidental music is a device that aims to
destroy ambiguity and multivalence, and to help ward off any potential
worries, not only about asynchrony but also about other gaps in the images
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and sounds and their possible psychological implications. Considerations
of film music have tended to retain a focus on the narrative (and an associ-
ated cognitive effect) at the expense of any material, physical, and emo-
tional effect. Yet, the classical film score and its more recent relations had
clear material functions, most obviously to aid in aesthetically ‘papering
over the cracks’ to join film fragments (spaces, edits, etc.), but also as a sop-
orific, enveloping and cocooning the audience in a womb of sound. Rather
than discussing matters on a communicative level, I prefer to discuss mat-
ters on a level of perception of ‘togetherness.’ After all, synchronization is
more or less a fact. The overwhelming majority of film scores produce film
sequences that are corresponding and congruent, with occasional, some-
times very occasional, forays into counterpoint, be it of an anempathetic
or dynamically contrasted nature.
Mickeymousing is the most obvious manifestation of the parallelism of
film scoring with on-screen action and dialogue, following the rise and fall,
mood, pace, etc. It is often decried but it is effective and has proved a highly
resilient strategy for film music composers. Its name derives from the
tendency in cartoon music for the music to provide (often comic) sounds
for movements of characters on-screen. It can be highly efficacious when
not used in a crass and crude manner. One example is at the opening of
Atonement (2007), when the Briony character’s purposeful walking along
a corridor is accompanied by music that includes a regular typewriter beat
that matches the pace of her stride and derives from her earlier use of a
typewriter. The sonic derivation is clearly that of a typewriter, although
it has more of the character of a multi-firing sample than a diegetic type-
writer sound that is synchronized to on-screen action. Later in the film,
composer Dario Marianelli also uses the sound of a ball bouncing against
a wall around which his music coheres, and mixes soldiers singing diegeti-
cally with the non-diegetic score during the highly dramatic Dunkirk beach
sequence. Film score composer Ernest Gold once declared:
When I first started in the business, the old school of thought was that you
go for the physical thing—somebody closing a door, somebody hanging up the
phone, that sort of thing. I prefer to find a meaning or a change in the dramatic
line to justify a musical entrance. [One might call the former] . . . the faucet form
of movie scoring—you turn it on and you turn it off.36
He seems to suggest that this method is more a thing of the past, but in
a broad sense, film scores still regularly follow activity, making the sort of
dynamic moves that emanate directly from screen action, and in the most
crass situations aim for an imitation of screen action, even if only for comic
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effect. Such precision of parallel between music and image activity was
enabled by composer Max Steiner’s development of a synchronization sys-
tem premised upon a hole in a single frame providing a visual pulse when
projected, becoming the industry standard click track to allow accurate
matching of sound and image.37
Dialogue and sound effects are less likely to counterpoint activities in
the image track. However, as a sparing device, mainstream cinema utilizes
counterpoints of certain kinds. For example, voiceovers might be charac-
terized as counterpoints to the diegetic world depicted on-screen, partic-
ularly when they are from the point of view of a dead protagonist as in
Sunset Boulevard (1950) and American Beauty (1999). However, these are
often not a counterpoint but seemingly fully integrated. More confusing is
the voiceover that opens L’Aneé derniere a Marienbad (1961), which has an
elusive connection with the images on-screen. Michel Chion states:
Audiovisual counterpoint will be noticed only if it sets up an opposition between

sound and image on a precise point of meaning. This kind of counterpoint influ-
ences our reading, in postulating a certain linear interpretation of the meaning
of the sounds.38
Such a form of oblique commentary seemingly undermines a Bazinian

sense of unity in film and its representational veneer. Eisenstein’s musical
approach to film aesthetics considered elements as abstract entities with
an almost infinite range of combinatory possibilities. Dialectical clash-
ing of components would be brought to some form of resolution. Yet the
‘antiphony’ between voices that he advocated is not really contradictory,
and it is clear that in some ways, Eisenstein was more interested in the
potential for clashing and contrasting aesthetics. Therefore, anempathetic
sound or music is almost the perfect example of counterpoint between
sound and image. As discussed by Claudia Gorbman, this occurs when
music is indifferent to the emotion of a situation on-screen and marks a
definite effect.39 Counterpoint in terms of meaning leads to contradiction;
in terms of tone, it leads to anempathetic sound or music; and in terms of
dynamics, it results in effective contrasts; but it rarely leads to any sense of
incommensurability between sound and image. There is, of course, much
more opportunity in mainstream narrative film for music as counterpoint
than there is for diegetic sound.
Caryl Flinn noted that film music composers’ use of thematic tech-
niques and orchestrations to work around dialogue and sound effects
“. . . suggest[s] that a more contrapuntal (as opposed to parallel) relation-
ship exists between film music and other elements of the classical film’s
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complex: indeed, several composers state that they consider their most suc-
cessful scores to be those which are ‘integrated’ most wholly with the film.”40
Thus Flinn argues that the practice of classical Hollywood scoring exceeds
the dominant view that the soundtrack must parallel the image and/or the
narrative. George Burt discusses film music’s contrapuntal aspect, in which
music and film interact, each having an impact on the other:
In music, counterpoint evokes the transfer of attention from one voice to

another as an enrichment of the total experience. . . . This happens in film as
well, though to a limited extent. There are occasions when the score takes on a
more noticeable role, if only for a short period of time—even a few seconds. This
can occur at the beginnings and endings of scenes or at climactic points where
dialog and action come to a momentary pause. Still, this momentary transfer
of attention in no way mitigates our preoccupation with what is on the screen.
Under the best of circumstances, it substantiates what is on the screen by filling
in where dramatic extension is required.41
In music, the term ‘counterpoint’ tends not to designate superimposi-

tion but rather the independence of musical voices or lines that neverthe-
less still make sense together. A notable subcategory is ‘contrary motion,’
when one voice modulates upward in pitch while another simultaneously
goes downward in pitch, both retaining a pleasing relationship melodically
(temporally) and harmonically (simultaneously). Theoretical counterpoint
in film appears to describe something more extreme. For example, film his-
torian Richard Maltby noted that during the silent cinema, live musical
accompaniment had potential for deviation:
In some venues, . . . such as the movie theaters catering to African-American

audiences, which employed jazz-based ‘race orchestras,’ the relationship
between sound and image was one of deliberate counterpoint, as the orchestras
played music ‘against the grain’ of the movie, ignoring the narrative and the
sheet music library, undermining or satirizing the white cultural forms of the
movie. . . .42
An exemplary instance of music counterpointing film was the phenomenon

early in the second decade of the 20th century, when silent film musicians
would ‘fun’ the film they were accompanying by applying inappropriate
music. This practice of burlesquing a film’s original intentions caused a
debate in the U.S. about the nature of music’s relation to film exhibition.43
The practice persisted into the era of synchronized sound films, although in
a different form in comedy films and cartoons.
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A similar but unrelated phenomenon, derived from the potential for
music not to fit the film it accompanied, persisted as an occasional device
in sound cinema: namely anempathetic music. In a sense, anempathetic
music is the opposite of Mickeymousing in that, rather than following the
rise and fall of screen dynamics, it aims to directly contradict the emo-
tional tone of the on-screen narrative and representations. Probably the
best-known instance is a sequence in Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs
(1992), which I further discuss later. Here, Mr. Blonde (Michael Madsen)
cuts off the ear of a tied-up policeman to the accompaniment of the banal
and jaunty pop song “Stuck in the Middle with You” by Stealer’s Wheel.
Most examples involve diegetic sound or music, often with a mechani-
cal character. For instance, in Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), the sound of the
shower continues indifferently as the camera focuses on Marion’s static face
after she is stabbed to death. In another Hitchcock film, The Birds (1963),
crows gather threateningly on a jungle gym outside the school as we hear
the children inside singing a repetitive nonsense song. A particularly good
example is in the Coen brothers’ Miller’s Crossing (1990), where gunmen
are coming to kill gang boss Leo (Albert Finney) as he relaxes while listen-
ing to the sentimental Irish song “Danny Boy.” Their relentless approach is
intercut with his repose in close-up until the point when they arrive and an
extremely violent fight with machine guns takes place. The song carries on
over the action without interacting on a level of dynamics, its emotional
tone at odds with the violent action it accompanies.
Cases of non-diegetic music working anempathetically with the image
track tend to come across as self-conscious irony: for instance, Stanley
Kubrick’s use of the sentimental song “We’ll Meet Again” (sung by Vera
Lynn) at the conclusion of Dr. Strangelove (1964) as nuclear bombs
explode; or his use of the overture from Rossini’s opera La Gazza Ladra
to accompany, indeed choreograph, a fight between Alex and his droogs
and Billyboy’s gang in the theater, among many other instances of musical
anempathy in A Clockwork Orange (1971). Often, non-diegetic music work-
ing in an anempathetic manner appears as a direct ironic commentary.
For instance, the thriller Shallow Grave (1994) concludes with Alex (Ewan
McGregor) lying either dead or dying with the money everyone has been
pursuing hidden under the floorboards beneath him. This is accompanied
by Andy Williams’s jolly song “Happy Heart,” while in Trainspotting (1995),
the same actor has a drug overdose to Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day,” a song that
already appears ironic.
Though not usually anempathetic, music for a contrasting or problem-
atic character might be construed as a form of counterpoint, perhaps
making a subtle commentary on the action: for example, self-consciously
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anachronistic film scores such as Michael Nyman’s for The Draughtsman’s
Contract (1982) and Craig Armstrong’s for Plunkett and Macleane (1999),
particularly the dance sequence in the latter. Musical anachronisms abound
in film but are rarely noticed by audiences if the music fits general conven-
tions for drama or period representation. Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette
(2006) includes some period music but intersperses it with contempo-
rary rock and pop music, including electronic music by Squarepusher and
Aphex Twin, along with songs by Adam and the Ants, Bow Wow Wow, and
The Strokes, among others. Anachronisms such as this can short-circuit
audience expectation by undermining convention, potentially producing
a Brechtian alienation that emotionally distances the audience from the
film.44 Yet often, contrasting aesthetics can have a pleasing effect, with a
different dynamic tone, such as in the opening of Candyman (1992), when
a vertical downward helicopter shot moves the frame slowly and inevitably
along Chicago’s streets accompanied by Philip Glass’s fast, rhythmic music.
A more celebrated instance of this is the use of Strauss’s The Beautiful Blue
Danube waltz to accompany a slow-moving spaceship in 2001: A Space
Odyssey (1968). Although not contradictory, in this last case, the image
and soundtracks are far from conventional and amount to a shock in
expectations. These last examples appear less concerned with providing
a sense of commentary than fashioning explicit instances of ‘horizontal
freedom,’ where soundtrack and image track appear highly independent of
each other.
THE PERSISTENCE OF THE SILENT AND EARLY SOUND

FILM MODES
Some early sound filmmakers were adamant that the capabilities for
the application of sound to cinema were only fulfilled by making films
that eschewed the conventionalized talkie format. The Russians previ-
ously discussed were not the only concerned people. The fear articu-
lated in the “Statement on Sound” that the path of least resistance for
cinema with synchronized recorded sound was likely filmed stageplays
was realized quickly, aided by Hollywood’s industrial production-line
approach to making films. British documentary filmmaker Basil Wright
made a distinction between the talkie and the sound film. He suggested
that the talkies are not cinematic and that they should be seen as wholly
exclusive categories.45 Wright noted that sound was an essential part
of silent cinema and that among filmmakers with ambitions beyond
the merely conventional, there was a fetishization of counterpoint and
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asynchrony, stating, “If you put any natural sound which doesn’t corre-
spond with the visual action, you make a dull highbrow film!”46 French
filmmaker René Clair noted that “The talking film is not everything.
There is also the sound film—on which the last hopes of the advocates
of silent film are pinned.”47 In such films as Sous le toits de Paris (1930),
Le million (1931), and A nous la liberté (1932), Clair championed the idea
of the ‘sound film’ as opposed to the ’talkie’, attempting to integrate
asynchrony rather than slavishly matching sound to screen content. He
noted that dialogue scenes in which the director showed a reaction shot
of the listener rather than simply synchronizing with the speaker were
important for moving beyond the demonstration “. . . that the actor’s
lips opened at exactly the same moment as the sound was heard—in
short, that their mechanical toy worked beautifully.”48 However, some
early sound film experiments were less aimed at integration with
mainstream narrative film than Clair’s work. David Bordwell cites
Pudovkin’s Deserter (1933), where the sounds of sweet music and chil-
dren’s voices accompany shots of the bourgeoisie in cars, culminating
in a sound bridge of a woman’s voice shouting “The truth about the
strike!” before we see her handing out leaflets. “For many cinéphiles
such sonic montage—much more hard-edged than Clair’s ingratiat-
ing auditory metaphors—pointed the way to true sound technique.”49
Perhaps the clearest example of this is Dziga Vertov’s first sound film
Enthusiasm (1930). Near the beginning of the film, Vertov startlingly
juxtaposes images of drunks with the sounds of Eastern Orthodox reli-
gious services. Similarly, Joris Ivens’s Song of Heroes (1931) was an early
Soviet sound documentary about industrial activities in the new town
of Magnitogorsk in the Urals. The film’s music by Hanns Eisler was con-
ceived more as a collaboration than an added-on feature and was aimed
at explicit counterpoint with the images.
Ironically, the advent of recorded sound invented ‘silence’ in the cin-
ema. Although there may have been quiet at times in film theatres, it was
rarely a part of the highly atmospheric and distinctive quietness of some
early sound films. Along with Universal’s Dracula (1931) and Frankenstein
(1931), with their long periods of near silence, which within a few years
would have been broken by incidental music, Fritz Lang’s M (1928) is also
a strikingly quiet film. Similarly, Carl Theodor Dreyer’s Vampyr (1932) has
long, spooky passages of silence that suggest that the film’s synchroniza-
tion might have failed and that the film atavistically returned to the modes
of silent cinema. It is these very sequences without staged dialogue that
allow for a strong aesthetic effect, moving beyond character identification
into dreamlike ambiguity.
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While Eisenstein lauded the image flexibility of silent film, Siegfried
Kracauer noted that a return to image takes place in many films with
synchronized sound:
If speech is in the lead, even the most knowing film maker cannot avoid syn-
chronizing it with the images in ways which disqualify the latter as a source
of communication. Conversely, if the visuals predominate, he [sic] is free to
avail himself of modes of synchronization which, in keeping with the cinematic
approach, advance the action through pictorial statements. . . . In case verbal
communications prevail, the odds are that the imagery will parallel them. The
reverse alternative—speech being de-emphasized—greatly favors counter-
point, which stirs the visuals to become eloquent. Eisenstein and Pudovkin were
of course not wrong in advocating a contrapuntal use of sound. But from the
present viewpoint they did so for the wrong reasons.50
Near the start of the Spanish horror film Tombs of the Blind Dead (1971),
the character Virginia jumps off a train and visits a deserted village where,
after a while, she encounters the Knights Templar ghosts of the film’s title.
This sequence lasts nearly 22 minutes and includes only two lines of dia-
logue when Virginia shouts to ask if anyone is there, but the soundtrack is
not silent by any means. Virginia’s activities make distinct (often hollow
and echoing) diegetic sounds, while atmospheric music proceeds through-
out the second part of the sequence, halting only momentarily for an
anticlimax when Virginia encounters a stray cat. The resurrection of the
skeletal monsters involves deep rumbles and the music by Anton Garcia
Abril (which has retained a regular 4/4 rhythmic loop with bass notes alter-
nating a tritone apart) becomes denser as accompaniment to the silent
figures. Organ and piano bass are accompanied by religious choir music
and noises from percussion, glissandi, and tape effects. Metallic-sounding
echoes dominate the soundtrack, not only in elements of the music but
most noticeably on the diegetic sounds made by Virginia. While the ghosts
appear silent (and move in slow motion), Virginia appears to hear some-
thing—quite possibly the loud choral music that accompanies the mon-
strous but serene figures. This extended dialogue-free section of Tombs
of the Blind Dead can be accounted for by a number of determinants. One
is that sounds and action are more atmospheric than dialogue, and thus
the horror film is often a repository of the traditions of the sound film.
Another is that films made to be dubbed into foreign languages can often
depend less on dialogue scenes. In cases like this, it is immaterial which
language the film is in, making light work of subtitling duties.
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Kracauer states that “All the successful attempts at integration of the
spoken word have one characteristic in common: they play down dialog
with a view to reinstating the visuals.”51 He might have suggested that they
also allowed for loud, dominant music, a predominance of sound effects,
and dramatic interactions between sound and vision that are more often
able to take a counterpoint approach to their relationship.
While Eisenstein’s description of the movements of multiple lines, as he
notes, is perfectly possible without sound, a soundtrack proliferates ele-
ments and their complexity of interaction. Dialogue, sound effects, and
music often interact subtly in films, although their relationship may be
formulaic in many cases. In less common cases, there is a montage of sonic
elements that does not mesh into a distinct unity but pulls the soundtrack
apart into separate lines.52 An interesting case in point occurs in John
Carpenter’s Assault on Precinct 13 (1976): a highly memorable sequence
entailing a seemingly chaotic soundtrack that mixes diegetic sound,
including music, with non-diegetic incidental music, and works across the
integrity of the diegetic music in a slow but extremely tense sequence that
concludes with a little girl being shot dead.
All music for the film is derived from the title theme or a quieter and
more reflective theme. The film’s opening title theme reappears across the
film and begins with a ticking drum machine beat, which often appears
alone in the film as a tense element (associated with the threatening gangs
in the film). Director Carpenter regularly writes and performs his own
film music, usually using synthesizers and led by a strong sense of musi-
cal minimalism. His main theme for Assault on Precinct 13 is minimal in
the extreme, based on the repetition of a single five-note rhythmic figure
in minor mode (figure 3.1), which is then moved up a minor third, down
a fourth, and then up a whole tone. This generates a four-bar structure
based around the (non-functional) harmony of I-III-VII-I. The regularity
sets up certain expectations in terms of time, while Carpenter also uses
simple, instantly apparent and modular elements: bass, fanfare-like mel-
ody, mechanical percussion. All of the music apart from the beatbox is
played on an analogue synthesizer and has a highly distinctive timbre. The
main theme motif is played in the bass register, which is well differentiated
from other musical activity through the distinctiveness of the timbre and
Figure 3.1: Assault on Precinct 13 (1976) Main Theme (John Carpenter).
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pitch register. There is a gradual entrance from higher-pitched synthesizer
chords matching each harmonic change, with a featured suspension of the
fourth resolving slowly to the (major) third of the VII chord. This suspen-
sion resolution is redolent of church organ music, and indeed has become
something of a clichéd representation of the religious in Western popular
culture, and perhaps hints at the faith and martyrdom of those under siege
in the film.
In probably the film’s most startling sequence (see figures 3.2–3.12
and table 3.1), a man in an ice cream truck fears being shot by passing
gang members. He serves a girl an ice cream cone but she comes back for
a different flavor and is shot dead by one of the gang members. Diegetic
sound is sparse in the sequence, which is often dominated by the continu-
ous ticking sound of an echoed beatbox (continuous sixteenth notes of
artificial-sounding hi-hats); this persists and drifts in and out of focus as a
continuous beat throughout the action without dynamic change in relation
to image events. The diegetic tinny bell-like music-box tune of Strauss’s
“Emperor Waltz” is played by the ice cream truck, at times masked by the
beatbox pulse and at other times creating a cacophonous aural fabric.
While these two musical tracks fade in and out, they are also superim-
posed. A strategy of cross-fading would be the conventional way of dealing
with two competing sonic discourses. However, here, they are left to fight
it out between themselves. Despite stereo separation adding clarity, the
intermittent effect is of chaotic sounds running on top of one another.
This sound-on-sound montage makes the sound and image synchro-
nization highly confusing. An immediate effect is that the non-diegetic
music does not appear synchronized with the diegesis in any meaning-
ful way. Beyond traditional sound montage, this might be approached
as montage from a distinctly musical point of view, even though the
montage of sounds might initially seem musically contradictory. Rather
than any sense of musical polyphony, this appears simply as simultane-
ity, mixing diegetic and non-diegetic music in a manner that refuses
to harmonize them directly. Although upon first appearance together,
the ice cream truck waltz and beatbox are virtually in time, later the
meters differ and at other times merely come across as chaos. The
pulse of each is often unsynchronized, with the two channels of music
simply appearing as a random superimposition. This sequence estab-
lishes a unified pulse, but then introduces another with the effect of
‘de-synching,’ making things extremely disorienting. This incidence of
multi-voiced polyphony involves a range of channels (visuals, dialogue,
sound effects, diegetic music, and non-diegetic music) that undermines
the traditional hierarchy between the latter two and allows their almost
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oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 64 11/1/2013 12:04:33 PM
Figures 3.2–3.12: Assault on Precinct 13 (1976): Ice Cream Truck Sequence.
independent coexistence. This sequence also has two strands of nar-

rative in operation: the little girl getting her ice cream unaware of the
danger and the ice cream man’s concern about the slow passing of a car
of gang members up and down the road. The narrative trajectory is to
conclude the sequence with the two strands coalescing with the gun-
shot. This also marks the ‘musical’ closure of the sequence.
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Table 3.1. TIME NARRATIVE: EVENTS AND MUSIC.
The girl sees the ice cream

truck: “Daddy . . . .” (figures 3.2 Diegetic sound of ice cream truck tune, playing
0.27:54 and 3.3) Strauss waltz: tinny, resonant, and slightly flat.
Sounding across the diegetic ice cream truck
music, the presence of the gangsters’ car is
indicated by the non-diegetic score, which
consists of ticking regular sixteenth notes
Ice cream man’s point of view
on a drum machine (closed hi-hat sound).
0.28:19 shot in truck side mirror.
These commence as two bars of 3/8, one with
(figures 3.4 and 3.5)
emphasized sixteenth notes, the other not.
Starting out almost in time with the ice cream
truck waltz, they ‘pull it’ into being heard as
following their tempo.
The sixteenth note beat almost imperceptibly
changes pulse, so that the emphases are not
regular and the beat becomes merely a continuum
of mechanical sixteenth notes, with a chaotic
series of emphases. It sounds as if the music
The car turns as the girl runs to was cut. As she runs, the deep bass notes of the
0.29:17
the ice cream truck. main theme enter briefly and quietly (in 4/4)
alongside the regular beating pulse (in 3/8 at this
point). All the time, the ice cream truck music
has persisted—out of time with the pulse—
although often masked by other sounds and the
non-diegetic music.
Ice cream man: “. . . I’m
closed.”Girl: “Your music’s After she points it out, he switches the truck
0.29:20
still playing.” He gets her an ice music off abruptly.
cream. (figures 3.6 and 3.7)
The ice cream man looks in side The sixteenth note non-diegetic pulse continues
0.29:31 mirror and watches the gang car briefly until he sees the gangsters’ car disappear,
disappear. whereupon it fades and halts.
Droning, sustained deep synthesizer notes enter
A gang member appears in the (making an A minor chord with the lower A and
0.29:42 door gap behind the ice cream higher C most audible). Despite pitch remaining
man. (figure 3.8) constant, intensity varies through filtering of the
overtones.
The gang member puts the gun The pitch of the lower note raises to Bb as the
0.29:58 barrel in the ice cream man’s chord sustains. A deeper synthesizer tone with
mouth. (figure 3.9) filter sweep dominates, anticipating a gunshot.
Girl: “Hey, this is regular vanilla.”
The intensity of the sustained chord increases,
0.30:13 (figure 3.10) She returns to the
with constituent tones varying in volume.
truck: “I want vanilla twist.”
0.30:25 Gang member shoots the girl. The gunshot (with a silencer and sounds like a
(figures 3.11 and 3.12) blast of white noise) is the cadence that resolves
the sustained chord. Silence ensues.
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In musical parlance, these two independent and rhythmically ori-
ented musical discourses construct a polyrhythm that is complex and
not coordinated. While each is its own magnetic center of activity that
pulls for the listener’s attention, they also manage to make occasional
and almost-random momentary harmony. Musical superimposition is
often a complex and not immediately pleasing effect. In art music, it has
most readily been associated with the American composer Charles Ives,
whose music sometimes borrowed melodies from elsewhere and then
played them simultaneously in different keys. 53 A more recent and more
obscure example is V/Vm Test Record’s Dimitri Shostakovich adapta-
tion The Missing Symphony, which digitally time-stretched and super-
imposed all 15 of Shostakovich’s symphonies so that they all fit into a
single cacophonous duration.54 It emerges as utter chaos, with no divi-
sion into significant moments and no possibility of finding (and recog-
nizing) coherent streams, the whole movement of sonic dynamics being
lost in the melee. This strategy is equally rare in film music, although
another example takes place in Wojchiech Kilar’s score for Bram Stoker’s
Dracula (1992), where, at a few points, two different themes of radi-
cally different character are simply played at the same time over one
another. Kilar’s score quite rigidly pursues a leitmotiv structure, and
in the concluding chase of Dracula, a deep minor mode ostinato bass in
the strings is overlayed by the superimposition of a violin playing the
melody of the love theme, with a full string crescendo to conclude the
cue, and with no concession to mixing them together.
One reason for the rarity of such sonic superimposition is that it is dif-
ficult for the brain to process. As Bregman’s auditory scene analysis sug-
gests, the mind works to segment and differentiate sonic elements by
finding a hierarchy in the sounds present.55 Coherent melody lines are dif-
ficult to process when simultaneous, although a degree of dual listening is
possible. Simultaneous lines can lead to schizophrenic listening, where we
listen to some of one and then some of the other, or strain to try and hear
both at the same time. Furthermore, such musical superimposition marks
something of an asynchrony in that it loses the rhythm of the film, creating
a musical cross-rhythm that does not mesh satisfactorily. A notable effect
of this is that synch points appear redoubled by their existence in such
an uncertain environment. Strangely, the 2005 DVD (and later Blu Ray)
release of Assault on Precinct 13 with isolated music track option allows
the removal of the ice cream truck music, leaving a more conventional and
unremarkable effect.56
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CONCLUSION
The crucial notion of parallel and counterpoint, while perhaps not generat-
ing a tremendously robust analytical method, 57 nevertheless remains an
important analytical lens for filmmakers and film criticism. As descrip-
tive of the fundamental relationship of image and sound, these terms and
ideas can be traced back to the massively influential “Statement on Sound”
by Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov. Using musical metaphors, this
endorsed counterpoint as a manifestation of the montage principle they
espoused, stating that film sound should aim at a “. . . sharp discord with
the visual images” to realize the audiovisual potential of cinema.58 They
were interested in the space between image and sound communication.
On an aesthetic stage, however, cutting-edge music can be accompanied of
course by banal and conventional visuals, and vice versa. In the vast major-
ity of cases, the weld between music and image is strong enough to furnish
something of their qualities to each other, to the point where it is rare to
encounter, for instance, a notably banal song with an interesting video or
an interesting song with a banal video. This situation illustrates vividly that
there is a significant creative potential in the space between the music and
the image as accompaniments to one another. Questions of what images
should accompany certain pieces of music predated recording, let alone the
accompaniment of screened images with recorded music. Yet there always
has been some idea of conventional and acceptable matches of images with
sounds. Illustrative images for music have always had a certain ambiguity,
although the closer the images relate to a direct reproduction of a live per-
formance, the less ambiguous the relationship of sound and image.
An insistent strand in early film theory (often referred to as classical film
theory) was interested in the conjunction and disjunction of sound and
image and how the effect of sound relies upon its nature being unperceived,
in order to lull the cinema audience into a sense that they are beholding
a seamless audiovisual entirety. There were crucial theoretical writings in
the 1930s (shortly after the onset of synchronized sound cinema) that
attempted to grasp the complexities of the sound film in theoretical and
practical terms. Since then, with one or two notable exceptions, there has
been a conspicuous paucity of theory concerned with the soundtrack and
its relationship to the film image. Making a return to classical film theory
is significant. The theoretical ideas generated at the birth and early years
of sound cinema are still relevant and cast a shadow, if sometimes only
faintly, over more recent theory. The loss of original aesthetic concerns of
film analysis to imports from other disciplines arguably has hamstrung the
aesthetic analysis and theorization of film as an audiovisual medium.
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Although I started this chapter by noting the centrality of Soviet mon-
tage cinema to recent theorizations of new media, specifically in Lev
Manovich’s writings, the influence from this earlier historical period is
also evident among filmmakers. For instance, Alexander Graf notes of
German director Wim Wenders that a characteristic “. . . in all of his films,
is a relative autonomy of the soundtrack from the image. In this Wenders’
position is a development on the film-ideological debate among Soviet
directors Sergei Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin and Grigori Alexandrov in
1928. . . .”59 Soviet montage cinema is taught in film schools and universi-
ties, although the implications of its ideas about asynchrony rarely appear
to have had more than a passing influence. Yet momentary counterpoints
are more common than ever in recent films. According to Béla Balázs, film
sound has the potential to open up new experience. At its most expressive,
when sound is asynchronous to the picture, the lack of necessity for it to
appear natural allowed it a more symbolic deployment open to greater art-
istry.60 However, following Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov, he also
opined that synchronized recorded sound dissipated this potential habitu-
ally by the overwhelming convention of making film into an illusion of the-
ater. Yet counterpoint has remained, sometimes appearing determinedly
as asynchronous moments in films that are dominated by dialogue scenes,
at points when music comes to dominate or action pushes aside the spoken
word, or when the film’s narration takes a dramatic and bold turn from the
zero degree of film style that Eisenstein characterized as a simple paral-
lel for sound to its master, the image. These might be often characterized
as being residuals from films that were not talkies, the earlier silent film
regime, and the transition period of sound film with its interest in sound
but not in dialogue.
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CH APTER 4
Occult Aesthetics
A s I noted in the opening chapter, ‘occult’ does not necessarily mean

‘satanic,’ pagan, or in any way evil or negative; it merely means unap-
parent. The term can be used to describe any hidden workings or processes
that are unable to be observed. For example, ‘occult bleeding’ is a medical
term for bleeding that takes place out of sight. Occult tends to have con-
notations of magic and the mystical, and invokes the notion of mysterious
ritualistic underpinnings of the everyday world. All these aspects are rel-
evant for the discussion of what I call ‘occult aesthetics’ in this book.
Aesthetics can work in mystical, magical, and unapparent manners, and
the synchronization of sound and image in the cinema is an exemplary
case in point. It is far from straightforward. Despite the impression of an
unproblematic composite of sound and image, the relationship of the two
is always more complex than it initially might seem. Horror films appear
to know more about the occult of aesthetics than other films: They play
around with this lynchpin of cinema far more than other genres. There is
something potentially disturbing about the cinema’s illusion that has a
determinedly supernatural character. Film could be understood as a conju-
ration: as a magical act of illusionism that dazzles the audience into believ-
ing it.1 This was a persistent notion in the early days of film. One of early
cinema’s alleged effects was known as the ‘train effect,’ where audiences
feared physical impact upon seeing the Lumière brothers film L’arrivée d’un
train en gare de la Ciotat (1895), specifically when the train on- screen travels
toward the camera.2 The illusionism of this phenomenon was burlesqued in
Uncle Josh at the Moving Picture Show (1902), when a country rube visiting
town gets up next to the screen in a cinema, thinking that he can interact
with the uncanny shadows of people depicted. Although it may have been
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a cause for mirth, the illusion of film has an impact: We believe it on some
level. In fact, to a degree, film keeps us as children, constantly amazed and
engrossed in its magic. Perhaps it is no surprise then that there has been
a glut of ‘magic’ films recently that are almost as popular with adults as
they are with children, such as the Harry Potter films, the Narnia films, The
Golden Compass (2007), and The Lord of the Rings films. The success of the
literary originals aside, some might argue that the degree of magic por-
trayed in films has risen with the capacities for computer animation, but
this has always been an insistent strand of cinema, certainly since Georges
Méliès’s startling conjuring tricks and wild special effects in films at the
turn of the 20th century.3 The ‘hidden’ aspect of all such magic is crucial:
In his discussion about melodrama, Peter Brooks invokes what he calls the
‘moral occult,’ which
. . . is not a metaphysical system, it is rather the repository of the fragmentary

and desacralized remnants of sacred myth. It bears comparison to unconscious
mind, for it is a sphere of being where our most basic desires and inner dictions
lie, a realm which in quotidian existence may appear closed off from us, but
which we must accede to since it is the realm of meaning and value. The melodra-
matic mode in large measure exists to locate and to articulate the moral occult.4
The weakening of religious belief in the wake of the Enlightenment and

industrial revolution led to the seeming disappearance of religious rep-
resentations of good and evil, which became hidden or partially masked
by the surface of reality. Brooks argues that melodrama as a form engages
this repository of ideas, and similarly, I argue here that there is a half-
hidden ‘occult’ in the fundamental aesthetics of sound cinema: one that
plays across representational and emotional concerns with basic percep-
tual movements between synchronization and asynchrony. The marriage
of sound and image is a form of hidden rite, matching the occultist belief
that clandestine rituals control and underpin the world while remaining
hidden to the naïve and unsuspecting population. Furthermore, the secret
marriage of sound and vision includes the fragmentary residuals of silent
cinema, as well as the promise of wholeness. Tom Gunning suggests that
recorded and synchronized sound cinema was likely a product of the desire
to reunite hearing and vision, which had been divided by technology a few
decades earlier, “. . . a desire to heal the breach.”5
In this book, I approach theory as having something of the occult in
itself. When dealing with culture as intangible as the shadows of film and
the fleeting squeaks of musical sounds from a speaker, theory can take
on something of the form of divination, trying to find something not
O C C U LT A E S T H E T I C S [71]
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immediately apparent or obvious. Indeed, theory has a generative function
in that, in its best form, it grapples with unknowables, making them into
something more tangible—although never quite making them unprob-
lematically understandable. In other words, theory can never make them
into a simplistic reduction that passes itself off as guaranteed knowledge.
Retaining a sense of the occult means realizing that hidden aspects might
be the most important ones, and by their obscured nature, the most dif-
ficult to pin down.
Despite its concealed formation, there was a determinedly ritualistic ele-
ment to the synching up of sound and image in the early years of cinema—
before it was achieved mechanically—that remains at the heart of cinema.
To achieve convincing and immersive illusion, the ritual of synchronization
must be completed to satisfaction. Yet similarly, theoretical investigation,
as well as scientific experimentalism, involves clear, ritual aspects, includ-
ing following certain strict and quasi-religious procedures to open the por-
tal from the known to the unknown.
As noted previously, there were some highly specific meanings ascribed
to the term ‘synchronization’ at the time of the arrival of sound cinema,
derived specifically from fitting music to a film. These had implications
beyond simply making a unity of sound and image. Robert Spadoni notes:
Synchronized voices are understood to accompany moving lips rather than

to issue from them. This connotation helps to explain instances in which the
word is applied, during the early sound period, to describe sloppy post-dubbing
and even foreign speech that has been dubbed over English-speaking mouths.
The sense of synchronization as something more provisional than essential
accorded well with a viewer’s impression of synchronized speech as a marvelous
mechanical gimmick. The novelty of the technique guaranteed that even if there
had been no discernable problems with the synchronization, the quality of the
sound, or the disparity between the locations of the loudspeakers and the speak-
ing mouths, viewers still would have experienced a heightened awareness of the
artificial nature of cinema as a direct result of sound.6
He points to the audience’s sensitivity to material aspects of the film

medium at this historical juncture, and suggests that this was exploited
by films at the time, particularly horror films. According to Spadoni, the
uncanny nature of film sound in transitional period cinema is translated
into supernatural, seemingly monstrous bodies on screen, such as that
of Frankenstein’s monster, Dracula, or the characters in Tod Browning’s
Freaks (1932). Thus technology offered a potential for complex repre-
sentation through the uncanny assemblage of sound and image. Rather
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than improving the illusion, Spadoni suggests that it initiated a form of
reception interference or static, with an effect more intense than mere illu-
sion, expressing an embodiment of the aesthetic disturbance afforded by
the cultural possibilities of technological developments.7 The illusionism
of cinema is doubtless a profound effect, but the potential disturbance
invoked by asynchrony can also be an extreme effect, although different
in nature. I would argue that there is a residual psychological disturbance
to the divorce of sound and image in cinema, despite the conventional use
of asynchrony for passages of films. There appears to be some evidence
that early sound films unsettled audiences—who had a heightened aware-
ness of the new formulation of cinema—as images appeared less real than
silent, but more uncanny because sound was a strange new addition to the
familiar images on the screen. In addition, David Toop points to the sonic
at the core of the notion of the uncanny more generally.8 The heart of cin-
ema then contains a potential disturbance at the center of one of its most
enduring and engaging aspects: the illusion of sound and image unity.
THE DYNAMIC OF SYNCHRONIZATION
Sound film routinely tends to travel in the midst of moments of synchrony

between sound and image, and points when there is no apparent synchro-
nization. Approaching audiovisual culture from this more abstract per-
spective illuminates it in a form that removes the overly familiar aspects
that have militated against sustained and detailed theorization of sound in
films, and the notion of sound cinema more generally.
Points of synchronization constitute something of a repose, a default
position of normality that furnishes moments of comfort in a potentially
threatening environment that can be overwrought with sound and image
stimuli. Correspondingly, the lack of synchrony between sound and images
has to be characterized as potentially disturbing for the audience, per-
haps even as moments of aesthetic and representational danger. Indeed,
McGurk and MacDonald noted that asynchrony tends to prove upset-
ting.9 Thus, from this perspective, the interplay between the two becomes
the central dynamic of audiovisual culture, and its objects can be recon-
ceived and newly understood along these lines. Indeed, contemporary
mainstream film is sometimes conceived as movement from set piece to
set piece, with filler material in between. (Indeed, the exigencies of film
finance and production dictate that certain ‘featured’ sequences are nodes
where the budget is concentrated.) We can rethink film, though, as a dif-
ferent form of temporal movement, between moments of synchronized
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repose and unsynchronized chaos. Films contain a large amount of asyn-
chronous sound that we tend not to notice or register consciously: They
aim to ensure that we do not linger on these moments. However, every
film that has a synchronized soundtrack will evince this sort of forward
development or movement. Rather than merely conceiving of this as an
industrial process and a byproduct of the conventions of framing, record-
ing, and post-production, I mean to engage this as something potentially
more profound. It can be approached as an abstract, unconscious, and
aesthetic drama, where film might play out momentary and instinctual
understandings of and responses to the world. Within this system, precise
synchronization and complete asynchrony represent different extremes
of film and extremes of experience for the viewer/auditor. Asynchrony
(non-synchronization), or at least an uncertain relationship of synchroni-
zation between images and sounds, renders the audience uncertain, making
them uneasy or anxious. At the opposing pole, (absolute) synchronization
suggests to us, or dramatizes for us, a situation where all is well with the
world: Everything is in its rightful place. Ambiguity about synchronization
(or a total lack of it) is potentially unsettling. At the very least, it is a dif-
ferent ‘mode’ from synchronized ‘normality’ on screen. Scientific insights
and biological determinism might help to understand how synchronization
appears to serve films. Human beings likely react to discontinuity between
what is seen and what is heard on an unconscious or preconscious level.
According to developments in neuroscience and sociobiology, we possess
physical, hardwired processes whereby we are informed about the space
we occupy through a combination of the senses. A disparity between visual
perception of a space and its apparently attached sound (or vice versa) will
have an instant effect. Such unprocessed reactions likely set in process an
unconscious unease or dissatisfaction. This mechanism may have evolved
for human defense and might inform us, for example, that a dark ravine
with no echoes might contain a large, unseen predator. Such biological con-
cerns about sound’s perception and its place in our survival were doubtless
transposed into cinema and exploited by that most sensual of audiovi-
sual media. Since the advent of 5.1 Surround Sound cinema, soundtracks
have spatialized their elements as never before. Features such as the
in-the-wings sound effect still can, if used in an unsubtle and crass manner,
make us partially turn our heads, forcing an involuntary physical reaction
to sound. It is worth remembering that in psychobiological terms, sounds
that emanate from anywhere except directly in front of us, initially at least,
are perceived as a potential threat. Indeed, as these points attest, there
is something absolutely primal about the synchronization of sound and
image. Clearly, the senses of hearing and seeing are not totally separated.
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The cross-referencing of the two, making for a seamless continuum of per-
ception, would have to be taken as the normality of human physicality. The
exigencies of the human body clearly are partially activated and altered in
significant ways by the cinema. I suspect that moments of synchroniza-
tion between sound and image provide feelings of coalescence, joining up,
and ultimately integration. Integration on an aesthetic level homologizes
feelings of integration on a level of well-being and ultimately social integra-
tion. Following Adorno’s approach to culture as ‘concentrated social sub-
stance,’10 I would suggest that the abstract play of synchronization in films
(indirectly at least) mirrors the social and psychological processes of under-
standing our place in the world and our perception of risk in modern life.
Film manipulates audience emotion and desires. Gestalt psychology
concerns similar ‘vectors’ of energy, and film appears to marshal audience
energy in its movement from tension to repose, sometimes very crudely.11
Similarly, the movement between asynchrony and synchronization forms
vectors of emotional and psychological dynamics. These ideas are evident
in some musical theory. For example, music theorist Leonard B. Meyer
notes that
Both music and life are experienced as dynamic processes of growth and decay,
activity and rest, tension and release. . . . Emotional behavior is a kind of com-
posite gesture, a motion whose peculiar qualities are largely defined in terms
of energy, direction, tension, continuity, and so forth. Since music also involves
motions differentiated by the same qualities, ‘musical mood gestures’ may be
similar to behavioral mood gestures. In fact, because moods and sentiments
attain their most precise articulation through vocal inflection, it is possible for
music to imitate the sounds of emotional behavior with some precision. Finally,
since motor behavior plays a considerable role in both designative emotional
behavior and in musical experience, a similarity between the motor behavior of
designative gestures and that of musical gestures will inforce [sic] the feeling of
similarity between the two types of experience.12
The analytical dominance of a model of film as being essentially narra-

tive or representational has marginalized approaches that attempt to
think of film as dynamic movement or emotional cathexis. Cathexis usu-
ally describes an investment of emotional or mental energy in something
(or a form of channeling psychological and emotional energy). Of course,
certain types of film have been founded very explicitly upon the direction
of emotional energy and manipulation of audience anxieties and desires.
Synchronization is only one of the ways that energy is cathected, while
there are a plethora of dynamic devices that regulate tension and release in
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arousal and emotional terms, alongside narrative revelations and cathartic
outlets of extreme excitement, etc. In an isolated article that discusses syn-
chronization, John Belton noted:
This perceptual process of testing or attempting to identify sound can, through a

system of delays that postpone the synchronism of sound and source, be manip-
ulated to create suspense, both in the area of voice/dialog and in that of sound
effects, calling attention to sound as a device by playing with our perception of
it. The identification of a voice with a body can be delayed, as in the case . . . of
The Wizard of Oz (1939), in which the Wizard’s unmasking occurs at the precise
moment that synchronization is established; the achievement of synchroniza-
tion creates a unity whose completeness spells the end of a hermeneutic chain
within which an enigma is introduced, developed, prolonged and resolved. Or in
the more complex case of Psycho (1960), in which off-screen sound is employed
to create a nonexistent character (Mrs. Bates), the particular revelation of
the sound’s source carefully avoids synchronism: we never see Bates speak in
his mother’s voice; even at the end, his/her request for a blanket comes from
off-screen and his/her final monologue is interiorized. Image and sound here
produce a tenuous, almost schizophrenic ‘synchronization’ of character and
voice, which precisely articulates the fragmented nature of the enigma’s ‘resolu-
tion’ and completes an ‘incompletable’ narrative.13
Belton reaffirms the importance of the moment of synchronization as a

point of stability in the film’s development but significantly also in the
film’s dynamic landscape. This ‘pull’ is so strong that we not only search for
that unity but also desire it deeply in its absence. Consequently, we often
imagine that simultaneity equates with causality; in other words, sound
appearing at the same time as image is often understood as a single event.
This is more the case in cinema than in the real world, where visual and
sonic aspects have limited characteristics of quality, space, movement, and
conventional relationships. An example that occurs on television some-
times is when a news report with a voiceover is accompanied by an image
of a person on-screen speaking. We have a desire to match the two into a
unity. This is further illustrated by the confusion caused by the difference
in speed between sound and light: a gunshot that is heard after someone is
hit by a bullet; jet planes that fly by dragging their roars behind them. The
drifting apart of the components of single events are an ontological dis-
ruption and a cognitive disturbance. This is why a confusing confluence of
sound and image at the same time can short-circuit our perception momen-
tarily. This principle of simultaneity often suggests that a causal connec-
tion might easily be related to the Gestalt principles of proximity, whereby
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objects that are close together are construed as belonging together; conti-
nuity, whereby elements that appear to create a united form are perceived
as intimately connected; or common fate, whereby objects seemingly mov-
ing in the same pace and direction are perceived as unified.
SYNCHRONIZING SOFT MACHINE(S)
The physical hardware of human beings is of paramount importance for

understanding how sounds and images are perceived, despite being largely
ignored by film theory. After all, concepts do not merely materialize in
consciousness from nowhere. The grounding for all understandings is the
physical limitations set by the human body, and these are exploited explic-
itly by sound and image culture. The mechanism of the human ear involves
a succession of physical processes initiated by sound striking the eardrum
before a neural signal is sent to the brain. Sound waves vibrate the ear-
drum, which articulates a mechanism of small bones that impart move-
ment impulses to the cochlea, the spiral-shaped canal of the inner ear. The
eighth cranial nerve runs from the cochlea directly to the cerebral cortex.14
Human hearing conventionally has a range from 20 Hz to 20 kHz (this
is ten octaves, although it decreases with age), and frequencies below 20
Hz are not processed by the ear but can be felt by the body. We would do
well to remember the physical basis of our dealings with the outside world,
particularly in the case of sound, which actually imparts a physical impact
upon us: We are touched and vibrated by sound waves. Vision, of course,
is no less mechanical in its operation. Yet despite the regular assertion of
film as a visual medium, it seems conventional to approach it as a cerebral
medium, one that appears almost ready-formed in our consciousness.
Neuroscience supports the notion that the brain functions as a parallel
processor, with different brain locations specializing but often dealing with
matters simultaneously rather than in a simple modular manner where
certain parts of the brain deal exclusively with specialized functions.15
Although scientists increasingly know more about the brain, its processes
are still beyond detailed and definitive account. Sometimes understanding
may be forced into a déjà vu, splitting the signal in the brain with a delay
in reception and processing, particularly as a discrepancy exists between
the speeds of aural and visual perception and processing. This lapse could
be compounded by the physical makeup of the brain as a parallel process-
ing device that channels impulses to different regions and works on them
simultaneously. Asynchrony in sound and image might lead to a divided
and fragmented state approaching schizophrenia. This schizoid state is
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embodied by the aesthetic fact of a division between the unsynched sound
(i.e., non-diegetic music) and the co-temporal image (the illusion of people
talking on-screen in two-dimensional space).
Brains appear to be able to go ‘out of synch.’ Normally, the left temporal
lobe receives messages from the right, but if the parietal regions of the
brain (which have a spatial role) go quiet, the frontal lobe (often thought of
as the ‘executive’) can think that the body has disappeared.16 Asynchrony
between the two hemispheres of the brain can impart the impression that
something strange is happening, and bizarre occurrences such as out-of-
body experiences can take place.17 Such hemispheric asynchrony can divide
and confuse broad cerebral functions. Many functions and activities in the
brain involve more than one location. Broadly speaking, however, emotion
and music processing take place predominantly in the right hemisphere of
the brain (the ‘creative’ side that is associated with the left ear). Indeed,
there is a surprisingly strong division of brain activities in different hemi-
spheres of the brain. While the left hemisphere is predominantly ‘verbal’
and concerned with language and logical thought, the right hemisphere is
predominantly ‘nonverbal’ and deals with more emotional matters.18 Music
is mostly (but not exclusively) processed by the left hemisphere, unless it is
essentially a vehicle for words.19
The human brain seeks and finds patterns, and this has clearly had a
central determining role on structures and formations in art and wider cul-
ture. A similar perceptual process to the ‘cocktail party effect’ (named after
the fact that people can hear their own name mentioned across a noisy
room at a party) called psychoacoustic masking is utilized regularly and
unconsciously by people to focus on certain sonic elements in a complex
soundscape, while managing to ignore other sounds to the point of their
not registering. This ability also enables us to phase out crackly noise on
an old record or poorly tuned radio and listen to the music as if it is not
obscured, or for people who live next to a noisy road to not register the
background drone of traffic. This is part of essential pattern-seeking mech-
anisms in the human brain that are easily best illustrated with reference to
sonic phenomena. The brain appears to use a correlative process for recog-
nizing sonic patterns in a similar manner to how electrical circuits look for
signal patterns.20 Schemata are held up to the complex of sounds looking
for a fit. This can lead to a so-called psycho-acoustic phantom effect, where
we hear what is not there through over-concentration on expectations of
hearing certain sounds. A low threshold of acceptance will lead to a find-
ing of the patterns too easily and in places where they might not exist.
The brain can fill in the missing parts of the pattern, although white noise
allows for elements to be singled out into a distinct pattern where one
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might not exist independently. There is a similar process with vision, which
can take place in situations of very low light. Heightened states of percep-
tion (as a result of anxiety, for example) can lead to this effect, such as in
situations of potential danger or in houses that are supposedly haunted.21
The term ‘pareidolia’ describes the phenomenon of the brain discovering
patterns where none exists, or the perception of significant meaning or a
pattern in something ambiguous: in other words, the act of finding sense
in the senseless.22 A more extreme form is ‘apophenia,’ originally a psy-
chotic condition of finding unapparent connections and significance in
things where meaningful patterns actually do not exist. This is particular
to images and sounds.23 In perceptual terms, this involves a vague stimu-
lus being perceived as distinct, often seeing animate objects in the inani-
mate. Examples could be a cloud being construed as a human form and the
famous Rorschach blot test, which is projective of the patient’s personal-
ity and state of mind as the blots are ambiguous but standardized.24 Yet
such pattern recognition is of course also responsible for extreme detective
work and scientific breakthroughs as much as it is for illusions and delu-
sions. In some cases, sound can be interpreted more readily for patterns
than visual aspects. For example, ‘phantom fundamentals’ are low-pitched
sounds heard where none is present. In this situation, the brain interprets
patterns from differences in present sounds’ audible harmonics and ‘cre-
ates’ the impression of a lower note.25
If pareidolia suggests a misinterpretation of stimuli, it goes some way
toward explaining the illusion of sound and image as unified and living
on-screen.26 As discussed in chapter 2, the McGurk effect is concerned with
the matching of phonemes (basic units of speech sound) and visemes (basic
units of speech in visual terms). Perception of speaking involves both sound
and visual cues, rather than simply the former as many might expect. This
phenomenon demonstrates that there is not a solid perceptual-cognitive
division of sound and image. Chion describes the process of synchresis
as a phenomenon of almost gravitational ‘pulling’ of sound and image
together.27 An associated form or mode of psychology is attached to the
synchronization of sound and image. The illusion of unity is enough to
engender a sense of reality on some level. This is not quite the same as out-
side the cinema, yet it has its own situation, rules, and beliefs. Such orga-
nization, according to Wolfgang Köhler, “. . . refers to the fact that sensory
fields have in a way their own social psychology.”28 Such Gestalt psychology
confirms (rather than is inspired by Kantian idealism), which suggests that
we do not perceive the world as it is but impose a sense of cause-effect rela-
tionships on it that are derived from something approaching ideal forms
inside our head. Aesthetics have solid psychological implications. Indeed,
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one might imagine that it is their heart. Moreover, such forms might have
materiality as proformas or templates, and these can sometimes become
confused and misapplied. Being ‘out of synch’ is arguably a mental state.
In essence, a similar malady relates to sound. ‘Schizophonia’ describes the
splitting of sounds from their original contexts. The founder of acoustic
ecology, R. Murray Schafer, is the originator of the term:
I coined the term schizophonia in The New Soundscape intending it to be a ner-

vous word. Related to schizophrenia, I wanted it to convey the same sense of
aberration and drama. Indeed, the overkill of hi-fi gadgetry not only contributes
generously to the low-fi problem, but it creates a synthetic soundscape in which
natural sounds are becoming increasingly unnatural while machine-made sub-
stitutes are providing the operative signals directing modern life.29
Schafer makes many relevant points. His notion relates directly to technol-
ogy and its ability to foster a disjunction of spatial perception. This state
is a little like permanent existence in an uncertain echoing environment,
where the precise origins of sounds are not immediately apparent and are
difficult to pinpoint.30 Such a sense of uncertainty about the source of a
sound can be a cause for anxiety. Acoustic ecology’s answer to current
stressful environments is to limit sourceless sound or to emphasize sound
that is continuous and fairly predictable, so that we know where we are
with it. The same applies to other areas of culture: Music that aims to pro-
mote relaxation habitually lacks any startling sound events or surprising
elements. There should be no sounds that demand us to enquire of their
origins. As we might expect, music that targets the opposite effect will
often contain precisely what is lacking in such relaxing music. Cinema also
exploits these characteristics. A startling sequence in David Lynch’s Lost
Highway (1997) involves the spectral ‘mystery man’ (as the film’s credits
call him) using a mobile telephone. Here, despite standing next to him, this
obscure character, played by Robert Blake with a ghostly whitened face,
informs the film’s protagonist Fred (Bill Pullman) that he is at Fred’s home
‘right now.’ He entreats Fred to call and speak to him on a mobile phone
and verify this statement. Fred calls and then speaks to the very man who
nevertheless appears to be standing opposite him. The film might have sug-
gested to us that it was some sort of ventriloquist trick but instead plays
it seriously. The audience is left in little doubt that there are some bizarre,
supernatural machinations afoot. The mystery man’s entrance and exit
are marked by a sound dissolve, whereby the diegetic music at the party is
removed to leave silence as the backdrop to his conversation with Fred. On
one level, this is telegraphing the extraordinary narrative situation, but on
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another level, this sequence is emphasizing the artificiality of the illusion
created by sound and image synchronization.
Fred’s reaction to the mystery man’s division of sound and image is one
of shock. Such a rupture of asynchronous division within a film premised
upon conventional sound and image relations inaugurates something of
a trauma. Indeed, it is through the undermining of the established audio-
visual normality in a film that such a contrast proves traumatic. At least
partly, this extreme example under discussion works precisely as a rupture
to audiovisual naturalism, the unremarkable sound and image relations
that the audience grasps as normal and does not register as an organized
discourse. Asynchrony more generally can mark a degree of psychological
trauma in films through its negation of the contract of illusory unity in
sound and image relations. The clinical state of psychological trauma is
damage to the psyche, often occurring when an event overwhelms an indi-
vidual’s ability to deal with the emotions, ideas, and memories of that expe-
rience. It might be a horrifying experience or a violation of familiar ideas
about the way the world works that leads to confusion and anxiety. Indeed,
dangers may always be perceived as potentially present even when they are
not. So trauma can range from the extreme to the mild, with causes that
also vary correspondingly.31 Trauma can invoke feelings of low self-esteem,
depression, and possibly even a sense of loss of identity.
People suffering from trauma need to avoid triggers or stressors. If
we transpose this psychological condition to film perception, we might
imagine that audiences could crave the normality of mainstream cinema
while finding overtly challenging aesthetics or difficult avant garde films
as something to avoid as stress producers. Indeed, it is reasonable to sug-
gest that there is much about mainstream cinema that provides a sense of
reassurance for audiences, who know where they are with the conventional
regime of mainstream representational films.32 Perception and its limita-
tions can inspire anxiety and agitated mental states. For instance, there
are highly disturbing states such as the neuropsychological disorder akin-
esthesia (sometimes called akinetopsia), which is the inability to perceive
movement, in which the sufferer perceives instead a series of still images.
This motion blindness is a rare condition, often arising from brain dam-
age. Another perceptual-cognitive state of anxiety appears far more com-
monly: Cognitive dissonance involves holding two seemingly contradictory
ideas simultaneously. This leads to anxiety and stress (or other negative
emotional states). Normally, ideas held simultaneously by an individual
are considered consistent and thus ‘consonant’ with one another, and
moments of dissonance short-circuit the functioning system to a greater
or lesser degree. Lionel Festinger’s original theory from the late 1950s
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stated that cognitive dissonance occurs when two cognitions that are abso-
lutely inconsistent with one another are held by an individual.33 This posi-
tion is a highly anxious mental state to occupy, and the mind’s desire is
to attempt to negate one of the notions as soon as possible. We have a
drive to ameliorate such cognitive dissonance and thus limit the amount
of mental stress to which we are subject. Processes to reduce such cogni-
tive dissonance include ego defense mechanisms such as rationalization.
Indeed, self-justification procedures become central in allowing a cohabita-
tion of such incommensurable concepts.34 The so-called double bind is a
situation in which a subject receives different and contradictory messages
or impulses, and this untenable situation of cognitive dissonance often
produces a state of physical arousal, a tangible state of anxiety, where the
individual is visibly upset or disconcerted. Similarly, motion sickness can
occur when the brain receives conflicting messages from the eyes and ears
about acceleration. Ears detect only changes in acceleration, rather than
movement itself—totally failing to notice constant movement. If a train
journey is not smooth, focusing on the page of a book during acceleration
leads to the brain deciding that the disjunction between sonic and visual
information is illness of some sort, triggering a vomiting reflex. States of
arousal, as psychologists term heightened awareness and physical symp-
toms of anxiety or excitement, have become an essential component of
certain leisure activities. The proximity of disturbed and aroused states can
also be exploited. For instance, amusement park rides are founded upon
the concept of anxiety as stimulating and enjoyable. Despite taking place
in a controlled situation and environment, there is the threat of physical
danger, which is at the heart of the extremity of experience and enjoyment
derived from that. Films also offer this experience on a number of levels,
so it would be no surprise if anxiety derived from cinematic aesthetics was
not also, in its own way, enjoyable and exciting while also being physically
and emotionally anxious.
The denial of sound and image synchronization at crucial points in
films manifests something similar to a momentary episode of cognitive
dissonance. The lack of synchronization potentially offers a disunified
communication to the film audience. Though in some cases, this is not
consciously exploited by filmmakers, in others, it clearly inaugurates a
short-term policy for the purposes of cinematic impact. An illustration of
sound and image disjunction leading to cognitive dissonance is evident in
Michelangelo Antonioni’s The Passenger (Professione Reporter, 1975). There
is an astonishing sequence in which the reporter (Jack Nicholson) is assum-
ing the identity of the man he met the previous day who has now sud-
denly died. As he pastes his own picture into the dead man’s passport, the
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soundtrack consists of a conversation between the reporter and the dead
man that is temporally unconnected to what we see. After some minutes,
the camera focuses on a reel-to-reel tape, revealing that we are listening
to a conversation that was recorded the previous night. If we think of this
sequence in terms of a classical sound counterpoint, the key is in the space
between the meaning of the soundtrack and image track and their seem-
ing temporal dislocation. However, thinking of it in more abstract terms,
the key moment becomes the renewed unity of the sound and image at the
point when we realize that we are listening to a tape. Indeed, this is a very
dramatic moment, but it is also an imperative instant in structural and
perceptual terms.
The initial audience reaction is likely to imagine that the sequence is tak-
ing place in the character’s head. We might think this for a while, but the
sequence sustains and proceeds beyond the conventional for subjective
sequences, and the expected return to normality fails to appear. Of course,
the return to film style normality does appear after a long period, but with
the retrospective motivation of the uncoupled soundtrack as an audiotape
running. The shot of the reel-to-reel tape machine is the visual answer to
the question that has been posed by the film’s asynchrony. The ambigu-
ity of sound and image relation asks to be addressed by the audience and
retains their mental state in a split frame of mind, holding what we expect
to be a unity apart and short-circuiting cognition until this dissonance is
resolved.
An ostensibly mainstream narrative film, Point Blank (1967), directed
by British director John Schlesinger, effects a chaotic sound and image
style. The film has an elusive narrative about the seeming return from
the dead of Walker (Lee Marvin) to avenge himself on his former partner
and wife, both of whom double-crossed him. As we might expect from a
film premised upon disconnection, embracing narrative ambiguity, dream
sequences, flashbacks, and subjective images, there is an intermittent but
insistent appearance of asynchrony. At the film’s beginning, Mal Reese is
talking to the film’s protagonist Walker, telling him about the situation at a
prison. As his voice continues, the image track transforms to Reese literally
showing Walker around the prison itself. During this shot, Reese is ges-
ticulating and clearly addressing Walker, but this is not synchronized as a
voiceover continues. This opening section contains a number of incoheren-
cies if the film is approached in traditional terms, including temporal con-
fusion and repetition. At the point when Walker is approaching his wife’s
(and Reese’s) house, the sequence begins with Walker in a medium shot
walking purposefully toward the camera with loud and echoed footsteps
making an insistent beat. This sound continues as the image track moves
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though a succession of shots lacking any synchronized sound, with the
footstep beat persisting relentlessly, until the point when Walker smashes
through the front door of the house and grabs his wife in a simultaneous
blast of sound and movement. This is the moment when synchronization
returns, as the lead-up to this has contained images and spaces that clearly
were not related to the sounds of the footsteps, apart from in a symbolic
sense of determined advance upon his wife. Point Blank begins in a most
confusing manner, following a poetic path, but one that is intent on set-
ting up a confused state in the audience. A less immediately challenging
beginning to a film (but one with a similarly problematized synchrony) is
Sunset Boulevard (1950). It begins and concludes with a voiceover from a
dead man, whom we see floating inertly in a swimming pool. This is a curi-
ous and rare effect that appears to confound or challenge cinema’s sense
of credible illusion. Sunset Boulevard does not emphasize the impression
or indeed ask the audience to work it out, but rather just uses it as a mildly
troubling frame for the rest of the film’s action.
Such asynchrony can sometimes act like Brechtian alienation
(Verfremdungseffekt). It has the ability to alienate the audience from the
comfort of the illusion of a habitually coherent world of sound and image
on-screen. This strategy usually aims to make audiences momentarily
‘stand outside’ the film and take a critical distance from the film as an illu-
sion. It is premised upon assumptions about audiences and their expecta-
tions of cinematic convention, meaning that it is largely only effective as
an occasional device in the context of illusionistic and immersive film style.
If this strategy is used in avant garde films, it is often immaterial as audi-
ences suspend the expectations of mainstream film conventions and often
replace them with others more particular to avant garde cinema.
Some of the French New Wave films exploited both the engaging illu-
sion afforded by film and the potential for undermining it for aesthetic and
political reasons. In Jean-Luc Godard’s Pierrot le fou (1965), for example,
there is a mock battle sequence that consists of a diorama of model sol-
diers and planes that is accompanied by seemingly real war sounds. This
self-conscious disjunction of sound and image wields the realistic sounds
of war to alienate any emotional immersion and destroy any illusion of the
models as representative of a war. This approach appears less poetic and
more parodic. Perhaps on one level, it is even poking fun at the film conven-
tion of using model shots in large-scale battle scenes. Whatever its actual
aim, it alienates the audience from the illusion of the world on-screen as a
reality to which they are unseen perceivers, causing a disconcerting effect.35
In recent years, such stylistic approaches have become more widely uti-
lized as a specific artistic technique in films. The British biographical film
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of the celebrated eponymous violent prison inmate, Bronson (2009), uses
a variety of sound and image dislocation techniques to tell a complex and
static story in an engaging but semiotically rich manner. The film opens
with a stylized shot showing Bronson (Tom Hardy) facing the camera in a
medium shot. He addresses the film audience: “I’m Charlie Bronson.” The
shot cuts to a reverse shot that is immediately behind him, then to a dif-
ferent medium shot (with a different camera angle and different lighting).
His voice retains the same acoustic quality, but now it becomes a voiceover,
no longer synchronized as his mouth remains closed. The shot returns
to the original frontal medium shot with the voice synchronized again.
Accompanying this shot is some minimal non-diegetic music consisting of
a single tone of deep bass to which is added a high string tone. As this
proceeds, the image cuts to a shot of Bronson naked behind the bars of
a cell doing push-ups, lit with an unlikely and stylized red light. Singing
begins on the soundtrack at the precise moment when an image appears
of a warden opening a door in long shot. An immediately ensuing shot of
fighting in a cell is accompanied by a lack of any diegetic sound but the song
persists. The image track then cuts to the original medium shot of Bronson
as he laughs (with synchronized diegetic sound having returned), and the
film’s title is superimposed beneath his face. This sequence revels in its
visual discontinuity, but in terms of sound, the song continues throughout
much of it while synchronized sound alternates between matching unity
and dislocation. Sonic continuity is often the foundation for visual discon-
tinuity, emphasizing the semiotic inter-reliance but aesthetic divergence of
the two tracks.
Extreme forms of disjunction are highly disorienting, particularly when
there is sustained sound and image independence. Here, synch points
become much more important, as something to hold onto in a wash of per-
ceptual ambiguity. A more extreme example is evident in Gus Van Sant’s
controversial film Elephant (2003), which was based on the events of the
Columbine High School massacre. The film uses some sound art/sound-
scape recordings to startling effect. Hildegard Westerkamp’s recordings
“Türen der Wahrnehmung” (“Doors of Perception”) (1989) and “Beneath
the Forest Floor” (1992)36 and Frances White’s “Walk Through Resonant
Landscape #2” (1992) appear in the film without adaptation, although
at times with some diegetic sound appearing simultaneously. These are
not music in the traditional sense, but more assemblages of sound field
recordings in a structured whole. At one point in Elephant, student Nathan
(Nathan Tyson) walks to meet his girlfriend, traversing a sports field, into
school corridors, out into a yard in between, and then back inside the school
to meet her. The sequence begins with diegetic sounds from the sports field,
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as well as what appears to be the distant non-diegetic sound of Beethoven’s
“Moonlight Sonata” played on a piano. At the point of the cut when Nathan
crosses the threshold to enter the building, there is a radical shift in the film
soundtrack. While the non-diegetic Beethoven remains, instead of differ-
ent ambient diegetic sounds for the school interior, the Westerkamp piece
ensues. It begins with the sound of a choir that could almost be diegetic
sounds but then progresses into the body of the piece, which incorporates
most notably many sounds of doors opening and closing along with other
field recordings that clearly have no connection with what the audience is
seeing on-screen. The expectations of diegetic sounds are confounded as
events happen silently until a degree of diegetic sound reappears later in
the sequence. Yet the sounds on the soundtrack are clearly not music in
the conventional sense, nor are they existentially connected to any origins
on-screen. This sets up a sense of dislocation through the dichotomy of
representational images and unrelated sounds as a replacement for those
that we might imagine as ‘belonging’ to the images. When Nathan is in
the courtyard, Westerkamp’s piece presents the expansive soundscape of a
train station, which, although its appearance matches the change in space
back to exterior, the expected change in diegetic sound is instead replaced
with a radical disconnection. Some of the sounds are almost fitting, but
never quite, while much of the sound confounds expectations about sound
film synchronization conventions. As Nathan opens the door back into the
school’s interior, the sound of the door is synchronized with the sound of
a door in Westerkamp’s piece, returning a sense of synchronized unity of
sound and vision and restoring the illusory effect of narrative film.37 This
is an example of ‘musical’ sound in film, with what might be construed as
film sound effects ceasing to be mere sound emanations from the world
on-screen and becoming a musical aspect of the whole. It makes plain the
artificiality of the welding of sound to image as an illusionary unity but
also emphasizes the aesthetic interplay of elements evident in most films.
UNPROBLEMATIC ASYNCHRONY AND SOUND BRIDGE

TRANSITIONS
Asynchrony is not a problem for cinema, far from it. It is one of the natural
states of sound cinema. When set in a dynamic relationship with synchrony,
it creates a powerful effect. Yet at other times, it can be simply a strategy
for industrial reasons. Cheaply made films, not prestige products or main-
stream blockbusters, often appear to have long passages of unapparent
synchrony when all sound has clearly been added in post-production. Such
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films often have their own sense of psychology. For example, films screened
in the middle of the night on the Horror Channel tend to have fewer and
more Spartan scenes with precise synchronization than mainstream films.
This is a type of production with its own psychological world molded by
sound and image style as much as is the most sumptuous Hollywood pro-
duction. Indeed, some areas of film production do not aim for solid syn-
chrony but nevertheless work perfectly.38
In terms of music and image, anything potentially goes with anything.
Synchronization here has less to do with maintaining the illusion of cin-
ematic representation than it has with forming a different aesthetic whole.
This is most clearly illustrated in sequences that remove most diegetic sound
to allow a pure and strong interaction between a loud piece of non-diegetic
music and a succession of images. Discussing the use of recorded songs on
film soundtracks, Alan Williams notes:
Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising includes recorded popular music on its soundtrack
without raising issues of dominance or veracity. In that film, image and sound
run parallel, with frequent points of rhythmic and semantic coincidence; yet the
two channels remain separate because a common origin (reference to a dieg-
esis) is never posited—except inasmuch as it is the film-maker who has matched
them. Music cannot dominate the image, nor vice versa, since they do not share
any common ground to do battle.39
A good example of this and the parallel running of audio and visual
tracks is the conclusion of Michelangelo Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point
(1970). The final sequence is startling and in many ways disconnected
from the rest of the film. Indeed, it can stand up as a short film in
itself, and almost operates as an avant garde film inserted into a more
mainstream narrative film. After multiple shots from different angles
of an exploding house, the sequence settles into a succession of highly
singular images of exploding household items in slow motion, with the
pro-filmic events recorded with a high-speed camera. These include,
perhaps most memorably, a working television set and a frozen chicken,
the latter of which flies through the air with the grace enabled by slow-
motion photography. There is little sense of screen direction and con-
tinuity, merely a succession of shots with the premise of showing the
unusual explosive imagery. It is accompanied by a piece of music by
Pink Floyd called “Heart Beat Pig Meat” (a version of “Careful with
that Axe, Eugene”). This is a wordless two-part piece that is relaxed
and organ-led until it bursts out with vocal screams and guitar noise.
It is a remarkable piece of music in many ways. John S. Cotner wrote a
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chapter about “Careful With that Axe, Eugene” in Kevin Holm-Hudson’s
book Progressive Rock Revisited, noting that “. . . the beauty of the piece
is that it allows for multiple readings.”40 It certainly has a general ambi-
guity, bringing together Pink Floyd’s tradition of improvisation with
the more conceptual character their music would take on in the future.
Most versions contain the same core musical elements, including a sin-
gle chord harmony, a continuous beat and bass line, an improvisatory
organ melody, a build-up in dynamics with whispered vocals that go
back down again, and a section of climactic vocal screaming. The musi-
cal aspects of the song encapsulate Pink Floyd’s evolution in that there
is no real musical development in the traditional sense. Instead, the
piece is based on atmosphere, dynamics, and, most notably, concept.
This loose musical format lent itself to a fair degree of improvisation,
and the piece’s lack of traditional song focus certainly makes it more
conducive to being used as an accompaniment to images.41 Although
it is not based on song form, the song retains four-bar structures and
has an unwavering pulse in 4/4 time. It never has the flexibility of a
traditional film score, yet “Careful With that Axe, Eugene” proved itself
a durable piece of music for accompanying moving images. A version
of the piece had already appeared in The Committee (1967), under-
lining the ability of the music to be both accompanying (fitting with
images) and foregrounded (standing on its own, like absolute music).
Although there is no direct connection between sound and image in
the concluding sequence of Zabriskie Point, there is a shared sense of
aesthetic movement that comes from the undulation of the music and
the slow trajectories and visual vectors of moving items on-screen. The
music keys the altering of the diegesis, which becomes indistinct and
of a metaphorical character, while the music, remaining non-diegetic,
retains its integrity. Significant developments in the music appear to
articulate the sequence as a whole, proceeding from the point when the
music starts and the images settle into a pattern of regular shots of
explosions. There is a significant dynamic change in the music some
way through, when it builds to a crescendo surmounted by sustained
screaming and heavier and louder articulation by the instruments. The
only synch point of note is at the moment of the harrowing scream
in the music, which coincides with one of the explosions. The conclu-
sion of the sequence is a crude cut that simply amputates the music in
mid-phrase as it abruptly halts the images of the explosions. This is a
remarkable sequence that may well be more familiar to people these
days as a sequence in itself than as a part of Antonioni’s film.42 Although
Zabriskie Point is not quite a mainstream film, by and large, it follows
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Figure 4.1: Zabriskie Point (1970).
the conventions of narrative filmmaking—apart from the concluding

sequence of explosions (figure 4.1), which exhibits many characteristics
of avant garde cinema, including repetition of filmed events, lack of
directional continuity, and lack of synchronized diegetic sound. In the
context of the rest of the film, this style and the dramatic asynchrony
appear disruptive. Indeed, this poetic sequence appears to be inspired
by the celebrated insert shots in Eisenstein’s Strike (1925), with this
sequence as a larger non-diegetic insert, here seemingly representing
the destruction of consumerism and bourgeois society. It signals the
conjoining of narrative representational film with more abstract film.
Asynchrony in avant garde cinema is far from always being disruptive.
There is often less of a solid sense of diegetic and non-diegetic too, a
corollary of the fact that many avant garde films lack a sense of a strong
diegetic world.
Sound bridges are the points when the joins are problematized but also
dramatized. They manifest a form of montage and fashion a momentary
asynchrony quickly resolved by the payoff of returning to synchrony. Sound
bridges are one of the best illustrations of the principles of montage, where
different ideas or spaces can be joined through a transition that is more
than simply functional. A lack of synchronization potentially offers an
incoherent and dislocated communication to the film audience. Commonly,
the sound of a particular scene is replaced by the sound of another while
the former remains visually on-screen. In most cases, the change of dieg-
esis will be signalled strongly by sound; in other words, the sonic character
of the two different scenes will be marked rather than sounding similar.
At the point when the audience is confronted by visuals and sound that do
not match into one illusory space, there is clear cognitive dissonance in the
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disjunctive messages, with the possibility of the production of anxiety that
will then be dissipated once the images of the first diegetic space catch up
with the sound and match the second diegetic space in a seeming unity of
spatial perception.
In the Atom Egoyan film The Sweet Hereafter (1997), main charac-
ter Stephens (Ian Holm) and his daughter’s friend (called Alison) are on
a plane, in a sequence that includes visual and sound flashbacks. He tells
her about having to rush his daughter to the hospital after a potentially
fatal spider bite. To calm her, he sang her lullabies. As he narrates this
story on the plane, the sound of a lullaby sung by a man is heard. Later,
when Stephens meets the Otto family, he talks to them and we hear his
voice from elsewhere saying, “I did everything that the loving father of a
drug addict is supposed to do.” Then the image moves to the plane where
Stephens is saying this to Alison. This film has a particularly malleable
approach to sound’s matching with image. This final example is a sound
bridge between two different times, rather than the more prevalent move-
ment between two spaces. The free relationship between sound and image
gives an impressionistic account of the personal psychology of litigation
lawyer Stephens as he deals with a tragedy that has killed a town’s children,
and his ongoing troubled relationship with his own daughter. Egoyan’s
use of confused sound and image augurs a trauma in the film’s principal
character and his engagement with others who have experienced a similar
trauma. Stylistically, trauma is not only expressed through disengagement
of sound and image synchronization; it is also instilled in the audience
through that same process. The Sweet Hereafter’s intermittent flashbacks
move backward and forward but less to explicate character information in
a coherent manner than to perhaps give some of the schizoid impression of
trauma. Indeed, this is a profoundly disturbing film, obscured partly by the
sound and image relations, which at times have similarities to the opening
of Point Blank previously discussed.
Comedy films have often exploited the seemingly irrational conven-
tions of cinema for the purposes of humor. In Scary Movie 3 (2003), there
is a dramatic sound bridge shock cut as a joke at the point when Cindy
Campbell (Anna Faris) realizes she must visit a place that requires taking
a ferry. There is a shot of a boat crossing water. At the point when she has
this realization, a sound bridge allows the boat’s horn to shock her, before
the image cuts to the boat again. This is, of course, a parody of one of the
most famous and earliest of shock cuts, that in Alfred Hitchcock’s Blackmail
(1929).43 Protagonist Alice’s scream cuts to the scream of the landlady as
she finds the dead body. This is a highly self-conscious effect at a precise
synch point. Although it is solidly synchronized, it remains a disjunctive
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effect. This was during sound cinema’s absolute infancy and illustrates that
the play of synchronizing sound and image was at the heart of the narrative
sound film as an effect and variation from the domination in this period of
showing talking heads. Rather than alienating the audience, this homol-
ogy of the shock of screaming works to heighten the effect of shock in the
film. This moment marks a modest form of montage and moment of chaos,
but with retrospective motivation—a normalizing realignment—after a
moment of potential confusion. It is not so much a narrative strategy as
an effect emanating from the possibility of image and soundtrack’s conver-
gence and divergence
Sound bridges can move outward to an elsewhere while retaining a foot
in the established diegesis. Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) is about the mys-
terious disappearance of some schoolgirls at a remote rock. The sung hymn
Rock of Ages begins over images of the Australian countryside, during a
scene where such a sound clearly cannot emanate diegetically. The images
of the countryside in long shot are then replaced by close-up images of a
‘missing’ poster, and finally, after some time, the visual diegesis reaches the
aural diegesis as we are shown synchronized images of a congregation sing-
ing the hymn in church. We also hear some disconnected sounds of people
searching for the girls before they are lost. The soundtrack has remained
constant, and the image track has modulated. This is an extreme form of
sound bridge where, instead of spanning two different times and spaces, it
traverses three, while belonging only to the final one.
Adorno and Eisler noted that songs appearing in films were good exam-
ples of the principle of montage undermining illusionism.44 In Michael
Powell’s Wings of the Morning (1937), for example, famous Irish tenor John
McCormack appears and sings a song, which cues stereotypical landscape
images of Ireland appearing as non-diegetic inserts. This breaks the film’s
diegesis (and its illusion) for the duration of the song, but no lasting dam-
age is incurred. This is an example of what film historian Charles Barr has
called ‘Montage Anglais’ because of its strength of tradition in the British
(or should that be English?) cinema.45 This involves a song being the vehi-
cle for a montage of diverse images. The song is usually of diegetic origin
and thus allows for images that are from outside the more common use of
non-diegetic song as accompaniment to a traditional montage sequence,
when time is collapsed and a long period is shown compressed in a short
succession of shots. Another prime example of this occurs in Chariots of Fire
(1981), where the singing of “To be an Englishman” leads the image track
into a montage of non-diegetic inserts of other locations while the sound
track remains firmly diegetic and follows the temporal arrow of the film’s
diegetic world. Similarly, in Joseph Losey’s The Go Between (1970), in the
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sequence of celebration in the barn after the cricket match, the song “Take
a Pair of Sparkling Eyes” is sung diegetically by Ted (Alan Bates) accompa-
nied by Marian (Julie Christie) on the piano. Once the song begins, the
established sound of the music continues, but the image cuts away to the
modern day of the film, when the camera looks from outside the window
as the adult Leo (the ‘go between’) is waiting to see the aged Marian in a
flat. These images have no corresponding sound. As the song progresses,
the image track returns to reengage the visual diegesis of the song. This
is an example of the sound and music remaining diegetic while the image
in effect becomes a non-diegetic insert. The song’s production is depicted
at the start with precise vocal synchronization, and the time shift marks a
radical movement into asynchrony. However, because of the song, we know
that the lost diegesis is bound to return, and that marks the flash-forward
imagery as only temporary and lacking the uncertainties that characterize
some sound and image asynchronies.
CONCLUSION
Asynchrony has potential to disturb, whether it is through sustained loss

of the synchronized norm or through momentary anomalies. For instance,
in a lengthy sequence from the Australian thriller Black Water (2008), a
woman walks through trees in a swamp accompanied by echoed and rather
tuneless music and well-defined sounds of her footfalls and grasping of
trees. As she reaches the end of the trees, we hear isolated sounds of water
gurgling—suggesting that there might be something there—but the water
in the shot appears calm. This minor disjunction causes some disquiet, but
it is not blatantly ‘telegraphed’ so it is not immediately evident to the audi-
ence, perhaps merely setting up an unconscious anxiety. In their initial
article about the McGurk effect, McGurk and MacDonald note that asyn-
chrony tends to be upsetting.46
Alternation between asynchrony and synchrony is far from uncommon,
although it rarely registers as a specific device of film. At times, it marks
a fundamental dynamic movement that functions largely by its processes
remaining unconscious rather than on the surface of the film. There is a
significant difference between not having precise synch points and clear
asynchrony as a policy. Asynchrony as a policy is evident in many avant
garde films and in a fair number of music videos. However, in narrative
films, there is a strong tradition of movement between clear synchroniza-
tion of sound and image and situations when the relationship between the
two is more equivocal.
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While Eisenstein stressed the montage potential of asynchrony, where
it can open up the possibility of different meanings, I am more concerned
with a lack of synchronization as a potential breach in the fabric of illusion,
where ambiguity might disrupt the immersion of cinema’s unity of sound
and image. We cannot assume that a lack of synchronized sound and image
is ‘radical aesthetics’ as the alternation between precise moments of syn-
chronized sound and image, and degrees of movement away from this, is
endemic in audiovisual culture. This alternation augurs cinematic normal-
ity, with some films playing around with latent psychological disturbance.
So, while conventional, this is a step beyond the illusionistic processes of
film and constitutes a dramatic movement by film style only, through the
crucial but unacknowledged ‘occult’ lynchpin upon which cinema is reliant.
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CH APTER 5
Isomorphic Cadences
Film as ‘Musical’
T he notion of the ‘music of the spheres’ often referred to a sense of bal-

ance and geometric proportion rather than necessarily to music. It
derives from a belief about the assumed relationship between celestial bod-
ies and was elaborated by Johannes Kepler in his 1619 book Harmonices
Mundi, although its origins derive from mystical ideas of proportion in cre-
ation expressing its celestial creator. This ancient notion was founded on an
assumed hidden mathematical relationship between elements in the skies
and was also embodied in musical relationships as something of a prime
and mysterious emanation from existence. According to Kepler, these mov-
ing bodies produce sound. However, this music of the spheres was not actu-
ally audible and was perhaps not even sound, let alone music. However,
the idea of music as being more than simply an aural phenomenon, which
drifted out of fashion with Renaissance learning, returned in a different
form in avant garde culture of the 20th century. This chapter might be
the point when this perhaps illogical impression meets the wrongheaded
notion that film is essentially a visual medium, rather than an audiovisual
medium. It takes an interest in how far film might be musically inspired
and how far a focus on sound and music can—and indeed, already does—
‘think’ film. Moving bodies on-screen are rarely silent. The chapter begins
by looking into perceived similarities among film, film sound, and music,
and then looks at film’s aesthetic elements in a more abstract manner than
has often been the case in the study of film.
In an interview, Michel Chion declared: “. . . I think you have to under-
stand music to be able to talk about sound in cinema.”1 Broadly speaking,
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I have to agree. There are different forms of knowledge about music, and
though some may be of less help than others, a musical sensibility and sen-
sitivity are doubtless of benefit for addressing sound in the cinema. I am
far from the first to note the similarities between music and film,2 from the
standpoint of aesthetics, as well as from analysis. Indeed, musical analysis
has much in common with other forms of cultural analysis—something
that is not often registered, particularly by musicologists.
Music and sound sometimes dominate films, determining the aesthetic
patterns and having particular ramifications for sound and image synchro-
nization. The obvious case is film musicals (and their television cousin, the
music video), but such techniques are also apparent in films that are not
musicals, and this chapter focuses on some of these. Dominance by music
is not surprising, perhaps, given that there has been a perceived close rela-
tionship between the processes of the moving image and music. Indeed, on
some levels, there appears to be a shared core of aesthetics and assump-
tions. Many discussions of audiovisual culture fail to live up to the descrip-
tion. Those that do manage illustrate a sense of equivalence of sound and
image in terms of production and consumption. This supports a sense of
the value of using for each ‘channel’ analytical techniques that are usually
reserved for one or the other. After all, if the two can be so intermingled on
an aesthetic level, then surely the use exclusively of one or the other ana-
lytical approach is ultimately doomed to failure or at least to banal conclu-
sions. It is not unreasonable to assume that human physicality/mentality
has defined the form of culture. Indeed, film, music, and other culture have
indelible similarities on differing levels and in some cases tangibly simi-
lar underlying aesthetics. If, as is likely, these derive partly from similar
underlying perceptual-cognitive structures in the brain, then not only are
different media more closely related in essence than has previously been
registered, but more abstract principles can also most profitably be used for
the analysis of film. Although it is not unreasonable to approach film music
as film aesthetics rather than music per se, film, especially certain types of
film, might be approached as ‘musical’ with the visual forming an exten-
sion of the heard aspects. As Royal S. Brown notes, the analysis of film
has suffered at times from an overwhelming focus on representation and
narrative, and conversely, music analysis has been dominated by a focus on
abstract formal elements to the detriment of representational or significa-
tory aspects.3 What happens when we consider the two together? There is a
persistent tradition of likening the two, with film and music evincing struc-
tural similarities such as cadences, which in both tell the audience where
they are with events, often marking some sort of conclusion to a passage
and cutting time into consumable segments.
I S O M OR P H I C C A DE N C E S : F I L M A S ‘ M U S I C A L’ [95]
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EQUIVALENCE: SYNAESTHESIA AND ISOMORPHISM
In Eisenstein’s analyses, he looked for a common denominator between

music and image, and touched at first upon the notion of movement.4 His
sense of equivalence between film images and music was informed by a
sense of structural resemblance at a profound level, allied to a sense of
synaesthetic mixing of stimuli and sensation.5 Synaesthesia is a medical
condition whereby stimuli from one sense can seemingly supply stimuli in
another. An example of this is the ability that some have to taste sounds,
or at least to have certain taste impulses when confronted with certain
sounds. This condition increasingly has been invoked to account for close
interactions and seeming equivalents between different media, perhaps
most particularly between music and the visual arts.6 I would suggest that
one of the advantages of thinking along these lines is that it emphasizes
the bodily (perceptual-cognitive) aspects of sound and image relations,
where the effect is physical rather than simply analogous or metaphorical.
The concept of synaesthesia tells us something: that there is an agreement
of the possibility of equivalence between sound and image.
The history of music’s coupling with the moving image has built up a
sense of conventional synaesthesia, an equivalence of music and image; at
least, there is a tradition of using particular forms of music to accompany
certain images (and vice versa). Certain sounds appear to invoke certain
images. There is without doubt a strong sense of what fits what. Figurative
images aside, there is a tradition that marries certain visual kinetics with
certain types of sound and rhythm. Energetic music tends to complement
energetic images. Busy music gives an impression of movement, although
fast repetition can also give the impression of stasis. The cross-rhythm
of the beat and edits or other punctuations in the image can furnish an
abstract sense of aesthetic play or a compelling mesh and feeling of move-
ment. Either smooth and gliding or sudden and abrupt screen motions
often seem to fit the movement of music well. The former can be seen in
films like An American in Paris (1951) as much as in recent music videos.
As temporal media, film and music have a good degree in common, and
the two can be conceived in similar terms. Musical development relies on
aspects such as cadence, dynamics, presentation, re-presentation, develop-
ment of material (themes can be narrative or theoretical as much as musi-
cal), and use of foreground and background planes, etc. Often a degree of
equivalence might be found between music and image: Music might well
be image or might manifest it. There is, of course, a whole tradition of pro-
grammatic music, which aims in essence at evoking images or ambiences of
a specific place or event. Fine examples would be William Bax’s “Tintagel”
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or Debussy’s piano prelude “La cathedrale engloutie.” A strong tradition
exists of matching certain sounds with particular representational notions
as much as certain sounds become associated with particular images more
strongly in film music. Peter Kivy discusses the matter:
. . . as I am using the phrase ‘musical picture’, musical pictures can be divided into
two kinds: those, like the cuckoo in the Pastoral [Beethoven’s 6th symphony], or
(I believe) [Honegger’s] Pacific 231, where the illustration would be recognized
as such without text, title, or even minimal information that one is listening to
an illustration; and those like The Iron Foundry [1928 Mossolov piece], perhaps,
or the thunderstorm in the Pastoral, where one only needs to know that one is
listening to illustrative music in order to identify the object of the illustration,
but would need no information other than that. . . .”7
Honegger’s Pacific 231 aims to evoke a train through analogous rhythmic

figures that instantly suggest similar illustrative images, while Mossolov’s
The Iron Foundry needs more information to point the listener in its
intended direction. Kivy’s second type of musical picture often does not
need too much direction for its audience, although on occasion, titles or
verbal information can be crucial in establishing the object of representa-
tion that the composer desired to express through the music. Such musical
pictures clearly feed in to the modes of representation in film incidental
music, and indeed have expanded the existing equivalences of music and
image in the tradition of illustrative and impressionistic program music.
The addition of images to the tradition of programmatic music forms a
redoubled sense of specificity to representation or, some might argue, pro-
duces a high degree of redundancy.
Furthermore, there are some important areas of intersection between
film and music on a conceptual level, where one is reconfigured in the form
of the other. The most notable of these would be the film musical and its
younger relation, the music video. Film musicals, like operas, are structured
into featured song sections and sections of narrative importance. In operas,
these are arias and recitative, while in film musicals, production numbers
or song sequences are interpolated with sections of the film that use con-
ventional dialogue and music in the background as in mainstream dramatic
films. This alternation provides a wider film structure that has nothing to
do with the requirements of the narrative material and everything to do
with the conventions of presenting songs in a film format. A third analogue
is the leitmotiv as used in Wagnerian opera and the classical film score. In
the latter case, the drama might be ‘read’ to a greater or lesser degree by
interactions between leitmotivs that register the presence and interaction
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of characters on-screen. This distinctive process is perhaps paracinematic
in that it might make sense outside cinema. After all, it is possible in many
cases to listen to the cues from a classical film score in order and follow
the film’s development. Mickeymousing, the precise mimicking of visual
movement, gesture, and action by music, is evident in an extreme form in
many cartoons. However, it might be conceived more as a sliding scale from
precise momentary copying to only occasional matching. Horror film sting-
ers are sometimes simply an isolated blast of Mickeymousing. Such precise
matching is similarly related to more vague action matching by the music,
where it might follow kinesis, surface, or even more vaguely the emotional
and energetic mood on-screen. Conceptions of scoring the moving image
run from matching action (dealing with the surface) to matching emotion
(the film’s underlying level). Such correspondence is at a fundamental level
and illustrates how far a direct equivalence is thought to exist between
moving images and music.
Music and film as moving image certainly have aspects in common: Both
are temporal structures of dynamics and both have manifested highly con-
ventional mainstream forms. The Kantian idealist formulation suggests
that materials may differ but underlying aesthetics are the same: Culture
has a common essence and is different merely in its surface manifesta-
tions.8 Such structural similarity is often identified as isomorphism. This
term has had a loose history in the analysis of film but a more solid ante-
cedence in Gestalt psychology, where isomorphism is a central principle.
Here it has a more precise meaning: that there is an analogy between brain
activity and stimulus input. The implication is that similar structures in
different media are related in a way not dissimilar to the relation between
an artistic stimulus and the configuration of the brain activity it causes.
Certain arts have clear essences in common with others. This assumption
is hardly new: For example, there is an assumption that television and film
are closely related, and even a notion that film and novels are quite similar.
Are all narrative-based arts similar in essence? The industry of adaptation
might suggest so. According to Rudolf Arnheim,
Gestalt psychologists hold that expressive behavior reveals its meaning directly
in perception. The approach is based on the principle of isomorphism, accord-
ing to which processes take place in different media may be nevertheless simi-
lar in their structural organization. Applied to body and mind, this means that
if the forces which determine bodily behavior are structurally similar to those
which characterize the corresponding mental states, it may be understandable
why psychical meaning can be read off directly from a person’s appearance and
conduct.9
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This sense of analogue perception can be very close to a notion of unprob-
lematic realism in conceptualizing our senses’ relation to the real world.
However, it need not be. Furthermore, this takes place on a primary physi-
cal level rather than being unimpeded access to the world as direct thought,
as realists aver. So, perception-cognition does not just shape understand-
ing; the interior of the brain dictates formal and comprehensive aspects of
culture, at the very least.
Assumptions about the equivalence of sound and image on a struc-
tural and material level are most evident in less than mainstream culture.
Indeed, ‘visual music’ is a term often applied to abstract films that make
some form of equivalence of their visual aspect with the abstract processes
of music. Some, like Norman McLaren and Len Lye, aimed at a complete
synthesis of music and image into a whole inspired probably more by music
than anything else. McLaren is most renowned for abstract animations
often instigated explicitly by pre-recorded music. Good examples of this
are Fiddle-Dee-Dee (1947) and Boogie-Doodle (1948), both of which involve
shapes move around continuously on-screen as accompaniment to music.
His later film Canon (1964) illuminates three musical canons (starting with
“Frere Jacques”) in images of moving blocks, animated people, and manip-
ulated filmed images of people. Such illustration assumes an equivalence of
music and moving image. Going further into positing an essence of music
and other art, McLaren’s Synchromy (1972) was premised upon the filming
of various shapes on both the film and the optical soundtrack at the edge
of the film. The images from these shapes therefore comprise the film’s
sound and thus the film and soundtrack are the same in terms of material,
although that does not add up to an equivalence of the final product of
sound and vision.
One of the most consistent figures working with musical conceptions of
film is Austrian avant garde filmmaker and artist Peter Kubelka, who made
a series of short 16mm films that question the mainstream convention of
synchronizing sound and image. His policy of asynchrony is evident in his
early films such as Mosaik im Vertrauen (1955), where regularly discontinu-
ous images have a soundtrack that is also not seemingly directly connected.
Probably his most well-known film, Unsere Afrikareise (1966) consists of
documentary ‘records’ of hunting trips in Africa, where the focus on certain
visual elements is set in collision with the sounds of those same elements,
usually through non-synchronization of images with their corresponding
sounds. In describing Unsere Afrikareise, Kubelka noted:
Vertov and Buñuel had worked already with the same postulate, namely that
natural synchronism is not the ideal, that there is the possibility of separating
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this natural synchronism and speaking through a sound which is not going
naturally with the image. Here is the great possibility of sound in film. . . . In
Afrikareise, if you attentively look at it, each movement of the body, and animal,
a hand or a plant corresponds to the sound, as if it were created by this move-
ment. It is different from Vertov: my film is, so to speak, an artificial naturalist
film. I use the habit of the spectator to believe in synchronism.10
Organized into elements of hunting (animals, places, hunters, natives,

etc.), Kubelka’s Unsere Afrikareise has the sound from one accompany the
image of another, yielding an initially confusing but ultimately highly ana-
lytical effect. Asynchrony is hardly a rarity in avant garde film. For example,
British avant garde filmmaker Guy Sherwin tends not to use sound in the
manner of mainstream films. One review of his work noted:
Sherwin’s films are often silent, and some that use soundtracks, such as Filter
Beds or Under the Freeway, feature sound that’s asynchronous from image. This
alienation effect ideally leads the audience to question their expectations of
both the noise inherent in the image, and the correlation of sound and vision.11
Of course, such use of sound in avant garde cinema is not the exception.
Kenneth Anger had a propensity to use unsynchronized musical accom-
paniments in many of his films, such as Scorpio Rising (1964) and Kustom
Kar Kommandos (1965). Similarly, Andy Warhol’s films, such as Sleep
(1963), Screen Test #1, and Screen Test #2 (both 1965), have no synchro-
nized soundtrack and can be screened silently or with some form of live or
mechanical music added.
Perhaps more often, film has attempted to integrate music on a more
profound level. Oskar Fischinger made a number of abstract animated
films that had only musical soundtracks. For example, An Optical Poem
(1937) accompanied Liszt’s Second Hungarian Rhapsody and Motion Painting
No. 1 (1947) used Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, the latter of which
paralleled the structure of the music but was not closely synched as if
Mickeymoused. Franziska and Stefan Themerson’s 11-minute The Eye and
the Ear (1945) was made to fit musical pieces by Karol Szymanowski, creat-
ing visual aspects to accompany individual musical elements. For example,
pulses in the music are accompanied by rhythmic aspects in the image such
as water dripping and ripples on the water’s surface. In the third piece, geo-
metric shapes on-screen form direct analogues of the musical elements.12
The Canadian film Thirty-Two Short Films About Glenn Gould (1993) was a
highly singular account of the concert pianist’s life. It consists of 32 varia-
tions, portrayed on film, as a series of fragments about Gould based on
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the structure of one of the musical pieces that made him famous: Bach’s
Goldberg Variations. Some of these short films are interviews and others
are reconstructions of episodes from Gould’s life. There is a section called
“Gould Meets McLaren: Animation by Norman McLaren” where a fugue
is accompanied by animated moving circles that turn and divide, follow-
ing the activity of the music. Almost all the music for the film consists of
recordings of piano music played by Gould, and the film aims to express
that the structures of the music and film are shared.
Indeed, such technical equivalence is also evident in films by Walter
Ruttmann, Len Lye, and Stan Brakhage, among others. The goal of sty-
listic and thematic autonomy in these films makes many of them appear
superficially similar to absolute music. It is not difficult to make com-
parisons among musical minimalism, Mark Rothko’s paintings, Michael
Snow’s Wavelength (1967), or Andy Warhol’s slow and static films like
Sleep. Technical equivalence across the arts is not necessarily due to
cross-fertilization or inspiration but may be due to underlying similari-
ties emanating from available technologies, prominent ideas of the time,
influences of art/artists individually or in groups—perhaps even down to
a sense of trying to alter human perception. There is a strong undercurrent
in the assumptions of many 20th-century artists and musicians that intel-
lect offered the possibility of undermining traditions that have been built
upon evolutionary processes, thus halting pandering to the most basic in
human perception and the simplest forms of cognition.13
Although we ought to be careful not to assign too much to the abili-
ties of music, it does appear to have a fundamental and powerful effect on
most people. Discussing culture more generally, Suzanne K. Langer sug-
gests that musical structures directly resemble human emotional struc-
tures. Correlations are certainly evident: “There are certain aspects of the
so-called ‘inner life’—physical or mental—which have formal properties
similar to those of music—patterns of motion and rest, of tension and
release, of agreement and disagreement, preparation, fulfillment, excita-
tion, sudden change, etc.”14 In essence, this notion posits that the outside
(culture) corresponds with the inside (the psyche). This is perhaps not too
surprising when considered in a general sense. After all, broadly speaking,
tonal structures follow a number of simple principles based on showcasing
sonic material, repeating and developing, contrasting dynamics, and bring-
ing elements to partial and ultimately full closure. These are principles that
might be mapped onto much time-based art and culture. It is certainly not
too bold a suggestion to indicate these aspects of structuration as being evi-
dent in the audiovisual procedures of film. Some might say that studies of
culture have lauded (bourgeois) individualism or celebrated the capabilities
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of our species to the detriment of stronger understanding. Humanist inter-
ests have limited potential answers. So culture is the way it is less because
of creativity and tradition than because of the physical structures of our
heads and senses. While it is perhaps an antiquated assumption, without
necessarily having accumulated much in the way of empirical evidence to
back it up, the notion that music’s essential form corresponds on some
physical/emotional level with the interior of the human body and mind has
remained surprisingly robust. Aristotle posited that art imitates, and likely
imitates human emotions and states of mind, while for Kant in his Critique
of Judgment, music manifested an art of “the beautiful play of sensations,”
thus conceived as lacking representational, semantic, and expressive prop-
erties. This position on music remains a dominant one, what Peter Kivy has
called “musical purism.”15 Indeed, this characteristic (even if something of
a misnomer) is one of music’s attractions as an aspiration and inspiration
for other arts and media. As a pure art, art music has become a figurehead
for other arts, with the assumption that other arts can share its essence,
spirit, or aesthetics. In its abstraction and sense of self, can we use it for
analyzing other media? The fact that it has been used as a metaphor for so
long means that it has valence in the domain of other art forms. In the case
of cinema, music has been a partner since its inception. Yet the hermeti-
cally sealed character of much musicological technique and analysis has
made the insights of the academic discipline inaccessible to other areas of
culture, and has militatedagainst the sustained use of musicology as a tool
for the analysis of culture beyond music.
Hitchcock saw himself as being like a conductor of an orchestra, and
also likened a trumpet solo to a close-up shot while he equated a long shot
with muted orchestral accompaniment.16 In his 1963 article “On Style,”
Hitchcock wrote: “[Film] Construction to me, it’s like music. You start with
your allegro, your andante, and you build up.”17 One might argue that it was
his own particular conception of what music was, but we might also won-
der if he confused the nature of music and the nature of film and perhaps
his own relationship to music.18 Nevertheless, Hitchcock was persistent in
his interest in music: Eight of the central protagonists in his films were
musicians of one sort or another.
It is only a short leap to see further equivalences between films and
pieces of music. The musical processes of repeated and developed leitmotiv
themes can easily be compared with narrative or iconic elements of films
or television dramas. Narrative structure might then be rethought as a
succession of elements that interact, appear, and disappear over time. For
instance, Robynn Stilwell noted that the 13-episode first series of ‘new’
Doctor Who (2005–) “. . . can bear the load of functional narrative leitmotifs,
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and itself demonstrates a structure reminiscent of music: perhaps nothing
as strict as sonata form but a fantasy on various leitmotifs, both narrative
and musical.”19 The ingrained notion of film being like music has strong
roots. A filmmaking manual discusses what sort of music to use in films:
In selecting music for a film, analyse the plot very broadly. Decide which points
constitute the crises and which to treat as interludes. In a story film, see if there
are two main themes: hero and heroine, or hero and villain. Many successful
plots are constructed on the same plan as a sonata movement in music. The
first theme (hero) and a second theme (villain). These are established separately
and then you have interplay or development of the two themes. This reaches
the main climax, followed by a repetition of the original themes. In music this
repetition is called the recapitulation.20
On a more theoretical level, Noel Burch has pointed to a deep-structure

equivalence between film and music. Following Eisenstein’s lead, he finds
equivalent or analogue processes between film and music. 21 Indeed, Burch
emphasizes the claim for an existential relation rather than a merely vague
similarity between the two different arts. His influence as a film theorist
is often not openly recognized in recent years despite his influence on a
whole generation of film theorists and theory. David Bordwell, in “The
Musical Analogy,” pointed to how music had been used as metaphor by
filmmakers and critics precisely because it is an abstract system of organiz-
ing elements in relation to each other.22 The fact that much music appeared
to refer only to itself rather than elements ‘outside’ suggested a pure art.
Bordwell followed Burch in seeing the systematic abstraction of integrated
serial music as a mode that would have had clear attractions for filmmak-
ers, particularly those working in a more abstract mode.
Yet it seems possible to move beyond metaphor to verge upon a direct
equation of film and music. Eisenstein discusses ‘plastic music,’ where
sounds and music are expressed by almost equivalent visual elements. This
was a commonplace activity in silent cinema, and in sound cinema it was
most clearly evidenced by landscape shots, which lack the narrative burden
of other images and function more as a vehicle for emotion than narrative
information. He writes about “. . . a similar emotional landscape, function-
ing as a musical component. . . .”23 In this way, the visual might be conceived
as musical, and a more intimate connection between moving images and
sound might be sought. Eisenstein also discussed the musically inspired
‘polyphonic montage,’ with its simultaneous advance of multiple series
of lines, each with an independent compositional course.24 Following the
example of musical polyphony, Eisenstein looks at his film The Old and the
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New (1929), where he develops seven themes throughout the film’s proces-
sion sequence. Indeed, he tended to sustain his musical conception of film
throughout his writings. In a lecture to filmmakers, Eisenstein declared:
Where you set action to music or song, you lead it towards purely musical reso-
lution. . . . If you do not work on the metrical relationships between depiction
and music, that is, if there is no primitive, direct relationship between musical
and visual accents, between the ‘lines’ of music and the montage segments of
expression, that makes it doubly difficult.”25
And of course, a tension or question in the music might be resolved or

answered in the images as well. A most tangible instance of this notion of
build-up and resolution between musical and visual elements is related by
composer Geoffrey Burgon, who declared that dramatic cues can be at their
most effective when they finish early and allow the event taking place on-
screen to function as the musical cadence or resolution.26 Eisenstein clearly
thought carefully about the musical implications of filmic developments
and was constantly concerned about the music-like aspects of film. He even
discussed a more esoteric notion about direct correspondence among qual-
ities of sound and image and representations. His “Theory of Ocular Music”
declared a correspondence of words, music, and colors through standard-
ized cultural associations. He supplied examples such as ‘sun shines on val-
ley’ being rendered as softly descending tones that suggest violet and green
coloring.27 Of course, his contentions are not easily verified and might be
more profitably approached as an aesthetic aspiration, a technique that
might allow for enhanced cinematic effect rather than direct communica-
tion of distinct ideas. Eisenstein’s famous diagram of the relationship of
music and image in a sequence from Alexander Nevsky (1938) has inspired
but also infuriated and frustrated scholars.
Eisenstein’s considerations involved sound and to a degree image, as well
being conceived in basic musical terms. He was far from alone in consider-
ing all sound as music. Although the film soundtrack might be approached
as if it were music, this is surely enabled by increasing awareness of the
sonic and material aspects of music. Founder of acoustic ecology R. Murray
Schafer, points to the situation in the wake of modernist avant garde and
experimental music, where music might be taken as synonymous with all
sounds:
To define music merely as sounds would have been unthinkable a few years
ago, though today it is the more exclusive definitions that are proving unac-
ceptable. Little by little throughout the twentieth century, all the conventional
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definitions of music have been exploded by the abundant activities of musicians
themselves. . . . Today all sounds belong to a continuous field of possibilities lying
within the comprehensive dominion of music.28
After all, if music is able to include all sorts of sounds, then why shouldn’t
the organizational and analytical principles of music be brought to bear
on soundscapes—both inside and outside of films? Surely this can offer
some insight into the sonic complexities that are taken for granted in the
experience of films. Those working on sonic aspects of films need some-
thing of a musical appreciation of sound, including care with sonic details
and attention to the precise relationship of simultaneous and successive
sounds. Speaking in 1937, John Cage noted:
Wherever we are, what we hear is mostly noise. When we ignore it, it disturbs
us. When we listen to it, we find it fascinating. . . . We want to capture and con-
trol these sounds, to use them not as sound effects but as musical instruments.
Every film studio has a library of ‘sound effects’ recorded on film. With a pho-
nograph it is now possible to control the amplitude and frequency of any one
of these sounds and give it rhythms within or beyond the reach of the imagina-
tion. Given four film phonographs we could compose and perform a quartet for
explosive motor, wind, heartbeat, and landslide. . . . If this word ‘music’ is sacred
and reserved for eighteenth- and nineteenth-century instruments, we can sub-
stitute a more meaningful term: organized sound.29
Cage’s celebrated definition of music as organized sound was influential

(and apparently followed a similar formulation by Edgard Varèse). His dis-
cussion already, before the Second World War, suggested the possibility of
film sound effects and music being unified. It is of paramount importance
to recognize that Cage’s statement on the one hand expands the idea of
what constitutes music, but on the other opens up a conceptualization of
film sound as essentially musical rather than representational.
DOWNBEATS AND HYPER-SYNCH
Music is more often recognized as an art of time than an art of space.

George Burt notes that “. . . a given musical form can provide a supra rhyth-
mic structure on a broad scale.”30 As an example, Burt cites director Richard
Fleischer’s claim that Hugo Friedhofer’s fugue on the “Dies Irae” in Between
Heaven and Hell (1956) was not cut to the music, but nevertheless it all
fitted together extremely cohesively.31 Music coheres the other elements,
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often irrespective of direct synchronization. The celebrated sequence in
Psycho (1960) of Marion (Janet Leigh) driving in the rain until reaching
the Bates Motel has little clear synchronization between music and image.
According to Nicholas Cook:
Herrmann’s angular, repetitive music does not connect in a literal manner with
anything that is visible on the screen; it does not obviously synchronize, for
instance, with the regular rhythm of the wiper blades, or the irregular rhythms
outlined by the lights of oncoming cars. And whereas its busy quality, its high
level of activity, could be seen as corresponding to the speed of the car and the
rain, the music continues at its own pace as the car slows and stops. Rather than
corresponding to anything that is visible, the music jumps the diegetic gap, so
to speak, ‘seeking out’ and uncovering the turmoil in Marion’s mind, and thus
transferring its own qualities to her.32
Indeed, this is a good example of Chion’s notion of synchresis, where there

is a spontaneous weld of sound and image irrespective of qualities of fit-
ting together. As Cook notes, the correspondence of sound and image is
tenuous at best. Perhaps the relationship between sound and image in this
sequence ought to be approached as asynchronous, where each track has
a strong sense of its own direction and part of the depth of effect comes
from the music’s repetitive and rhythmic purposefulness in the face of the
image track’s uncertainty. The less direct the connection between music
and image, in terms of diegetic production, rhythmic concurrence, or
emotional register, the more the music might appear to be anempathetic
music—not emotionally engaged with the emotional character of events
on-screen. In the American Film Institute’s documentary film Bernard
Herrmann: Music from the Movies (1992), film editor Paul Hirsch discusses
this sequence and emphasizes the way that the audience’s anxiety during
the sequence does not stem from the image track, which merely has an
alternation of a frontal medium shot of Marion driving and the reverse of
car headlights hurtling toward her. Instead, Hirsch maintains it is solely
Herrmann’s music that provides the sense of apprehension. The music has
a regular rhythmic and bar structure (a pulsing 2/4 with well-demarcated
sections in alternation), so despite unconventional sound and harmony, in
terms of temporal structure, it is very comprehensible, perhaps even facile.
The two structures, the regular musical form and the regular alternation
of two shots do not correspond and thus have no strong synch points. In
other words, there is no palpable synchrony between sound and image in
this sequence. I would contend that this attribute is a critical contributor to
the anxious mood in this celebrated passage of Hitchcock’s film.
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Of course, these examples clearly are not incommensurate asynchrony
or in any sense do they amount to any sort of contradiction between
sound and image tracks.33 They are, however, instances of a form of cinema
beyond the dominant regime of synchronized dialogue sequences. Caryl
Flinn rightly points out that the feting of asynchrony and positing of music
as a ‘disruptive’ element have been overstated at times,34 to some degree,
perhaps under the inspiration of Eisenstein, but more following the line of
amplifying (or perhaps even imagining) the subversive in culture.35 On rare
occasions, though, music unmistakably opens the possibility of dislocation
with the image track. This may not necessarily be disruptive but often can
take on a disturbing disposition. A notable example is Silent Hill (2006),
where the videogame was transposed directly into film, and the sound
rebuilt around the existing music for the game. This music embodies an
essence of the Silent Hill character,36 exemplifying the highly singular series
of games produced by the Japanese company Konami. On the face of it,
the games concern a third-person character’s navigation through the misty
ghost town of Silent Hill, under threat from various unsavory creatures
while attempting to solve a compulsive mystery. It is a ‘third-person sur-
vival horror game’ in which the player explores a three-dimensional naviga-
ble environment, solves puzzles, collects items, stays alive, and endeavors
to solve a central mystery. It contains a strong subtext of psychological
disturbance, suggesting that it may all be a fantasy of the protagonist,
along with a persistent suspicion that all is never quite what it seems.37 The
music and the entire sound design for each of the games was written and
produced by AkiraYamaoka,38 a specialist in videogame music.39 As they say
in the games industry, Silent Hill was ‘ported’ from one format to another,
aiming at as little adaptation as possible.
The film imports its musical aesthetics directly from the videogame, and
this has a significant impact on its character. Although much music in the
game is interactive in that the player triggers music by certain acts or by
entering certain locations, the music for Silent Hill is dominated by sus-
tained music for ‘cut scenes’ (which are like film scenes depicting events)
and repetitive pieces that, even if they are not looped, have a continuous
character. There is no direct action matching by the music during gameplay,
so the music appears as fairly distinct pieces with their own integrity. Thus
the music makes the film a fragmentary experience—it contains little rep-
etition and not much sense of a sonic continuity (i.e., no repeated themes,
no orchestral, no songs, and no particular musical genre). However, for
someone who has played these games and interiorized the game music,
the experience is a constant evocation of memories of the game and feel-
ings associated with it.40 The music becomes like a long finger probing the
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memory and gaining direct access to feelings stemming from the game
experience. The dominance of musical asynchrony enhances and develops
a feeling of unease, disconnection, and uncertainty. The lack of repeated
themes of a traditional film score makes for a feeling of schizophrenia (each
second of the film is made anew) rather than intermittent return and the
repose offered by the use of repeated themes or related musical material.41
As an assemblage, the music might be divided between the dominant pieces
with their own integrity, which are often ambiences (by Yamaoka, derived
from the game) and momentary dramatics, notably isolated stingers and
flourishes (Jeff Danna’s few and newly added minimal, momentary action
cues). The nature of the videogame music, as atmospheric musical loops
often devoid of dynamics means that synchronization with images is pre-
cluded as an option. Furthermore, the sounds of ambience include drones,
rumbles, distant clunked metal, bowed metal/microphone feedback, and
echo and reverb, making for an effect far removed from traditional emo-
tional film scoring. As this description suggests, there is also a strong ten-
dency (imported directly from the games) to mix score and sound effects
into a single unified sonic field.42
Songs can mismatch or dominate due to their solid form and regulated
beat. We might imagine that conventional musical structures are just
that—having come into being due merely to cultural traditions and the
establishment of easy-to-follow rules. Yet Leonard Meyer notes that the
commonplace use of four- to eight-bar structures is not merely a conven-
tion, but rather derived from what can be stored in short-term memory.43
So, many have asserted that the conventional structure of popular music
in essence may be much derived from human physical capabilities and
requirements. Much accessible music uses four- and eight-bar structures,
and so-called song form articulates these blocks in repetitive structures of
alternation and variation (for instance, AABA, ABAB, ABACAB, etc.). These
structures present a small amount of musical material in a highly compre-
hensive format. Though the understanding of these structures is largely
unconscious, the familiarity of changes at certain points, the returns of
choruses and verses, or the move to a ‘middle eight’ section for an instru-
mental solo, are all highly predictable to anyone who has listened to much
popular music. This is massively important for the audience’s anticipation
of dramatic changes in the music and is regularly exploited by films.
Musical structures offer a preexisting frame into which musical content
can be placed and developed. Alternation is a central strategy, as is the
readability of certain important milestones throughout the piece that usu-
ally augur a different vector or tactic (the move to a sing-along chorus, the
divisions between movements of symphonies, the triumphant return of
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the main musical material, for example). The sort of alternating structures
evident in popular song (as well as in some classical forms) bears remark-
able similarity to the bare bones structure of space in some films. Perhaps
the best example is from television, when the soap opera Dynasty (1981–
91) famously used a pared-down structure of establishing shot and then
alternating shot-reverse shots, as nearly every scene was a dialogue-led,
set-bound sequence. Of course, this repeated structure is evident in many
mainstream films, but usually those that really deserve the title of talkie
or those that are made with heavily restricted resources. Narrative and
dialogue-based film language is a clear preexisting structure that show-
cases certain developments and leads to certain expectations, precisely in
the manner of popular song form.44
The temporal aspect of a song can provide a film sequence with its central
organizational spine. Musical time can replace film time. Yet musical time
is profoundly different from the time schemes of cinema. It is continuous
rather than flexible and gapped like time in films; time in pop music is, for
the song’s duration, a regime of the beat’s rigorous reiteration. The conti-
nuity of the beat is the marker of time, held within song form’s harness-
ing of the block repetitions of musical material that govern popular music.
The most prevalent structure of repetition and variation is the sequence
of AABA, with B as a variation and the A afterward as a return to what
has already been established. This dynamic is clear in popular song where
the chorus functions as a form of ‘home’—the return to what we know
and desire to hear. This is clearly essential in the psychological dynamics
of the structure. Indeed, the structure might be seen at heart as a psycho-
logical structure, rather than merely a strategy from the point of view of
production.
Films that use preexisting songs often evince a musical structure that
marks the dramatic structure. This might be less on a large scale, but more
in terms of image editing and visual movement. In the 1980s, some films
had seemingly coherent musical scores built from a succession of pop
songs. An example of this is Manhunter (1986) (figures 5.1–5.3), which
foregrounds songs during certain key moments in the film, such as the
Shriekback song that dramatically accompanies the sequence of serial killer
Dollarhyde’s intimacy with his blind colleague Reba. Although the film
nominally has an underscore by Michel Rubini and the Reds (writing and
recording separately), in effect it works as a number of pieces, most of them
songs, that appear as blocks of music, unlike traditional scores written to
fit action. Unlike most horror films, Manhunter by and large has less than
scary music, although it has a fine example of anempathetic music, when
the Iron Butterfly song “In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida” (figure 5.4) accompanies
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Figures 5.1–5.3: Manhunter (1986).
the climactic sequence of investigator Will Graham’s defeat of Dollarhyde.

During emotionally heightened moments when Reba is on the verge of
being killed and the police are converging on the house, the song’s two-bar
riff continues relentlessly, interrupted only by the song’s chorus. As it
appears diegetically, it is absent during the shots of the police but quickly
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Figure 5.4: Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” Main Riff.
takes on the high sound quality of non-diegetic music and articulates the
action. At the point when Graham jumps through a plate-glass window, the
images follow the music’s dynamic. As he runs up in slow motion, “In-a-
Gadda-Da-Vida” has a quiet dropout, but the organ builds in intensity as
there is a showy slow-motion shot of Graham approaching the window
(toward the camera). At the precise moment when he smashes through the
window, the music explodes back into the main riff with all instruments,
and the image track reverts to normal speed for the confrontation between
investigator and serial killer. Despite the song being edited at times, it is
not cut in this sequence, and the music’s dynamic trajectory becomes that
of the drama.
So-called song form is premised upon clear patterns of repetition and
alternation, leading to an expectation of repeated musical material that
provides pleasure when it reappears from a formal and temporal point of
view. As Adorno has noted in his appraisal of popular music,
The whole structure of popular music is standardized. . . . The whole is pregiven

and preaccepted, even before the actual experience of the music starts. . . . The
composition hears for the listener. This is how popular music divests the listener
of spontaneity and promotes conditional reflexes. . . . The schematic build up dic-
tates the way in which he [sic] must listen. . . .45
Although Adorno is determinedly pejorative in his dealing with popular

music, it is possible to glean some important points from his analysis. The
comprehensive format of popular song form tends to dictate how various
elements are understood, which means that much so-called popular music
(and much other music as well) does not need to tax the listener’s brain
too much during consumption. Consequently, Adorno also—and charac-
teristically—points toward the social implications of musical form. From
the point of view of synchronization, clear musical structure often encom-
passes important moments that forge notable coupling points with impact
in aesthetic or narrative terms.
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AUDIOVISUAL CADENCES
Synch points are the name given in production to the points where sound
is keyed precisely to image, to hold the two in place. These can fit lip move-
ments on the one hand, or have the music hit a climax at the precise moment
of a dramatic shot. They might be approached as the crucial pillars of struc-
ture in a film, the unapparent but architecturally and psychologically prime
aspects that hold up a surface of content upon which we are directed to
focus. In Audio-Vision, Michel Chion’s compound of books edited and trans-
lated into one by Claudia Gorbman, he notes that synch points make “. . . a
point where the effect of synchresis is particularly prominent, rather like
an accented chord in music.”46 Synchronization thus has more to do with
perceptual aspects than simply being a regular convention of the film edit-
ing process. There is no manual of staging and editing film for synchrony.
Indeed, rather than being easily dismissed as merely a process followed by
film technicians in post-production, synch points emerge from the essence
of sound cinema: the confluence of sounds and images. Sounds will often
seem to be keyed to images on-screen, and not necessarily as belonging
to them. Non-diegetic music, emanating from a different (unrepresented)
space from the world on-screen, still synchronizes and emphasizes sig-
nificant moments. And as Chion suggests, significant words can cause a
dramatic effect of synchronism with events on-screen, as indeed can the
confluence of almost any visual and sonic activity. He goes on to state that
while films contain an overwhelming number of synch points, only a few of
these are of important structural significance:
. . . the primary synch points . . . are crucial for meaning and dynamics. In the case
of synch dialogue, for example, you might find thousands of synch points, but
only certain ones are important, the ones whose placement defines what we
might call the audiovisual phrasing of the sequence.47
Certain synch points clearly function as sonic cadences, appearing at nodal

points in the film, that call out for a musical hit or emphasis of some sort.
These junctures are where the film changes gear or aims for some extra
narrative redoubling or emotional impact. This process can be stylistic (in
other words, material) or gestural, and regularly involves some combina-
tion of these elements. Often, the dynamics of a sequence are built up in
visual terms through editing and interplay of space, such as shot contrast,
although the dynamic line of a sequence can emanate primarily from the
dialogue. Gestural aspects of the actors on-screen can also be imperative
in the developmental progress of a sequence and dramatic movement by
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figures on-screen, as much as by camera or editing, which can provide a
sense of plenitude or dramatic climax in a sequence no matter how short or
small the dynamic change.
Synch points manifest something of an abstract line of dynamics and
drama. This is often intimately related to narrative development but
sometimes might purely have aesthetic determination (in the desire for
momentary effect, for example). These points can be relatively regular.
For example, in horror films such as Halloween (1978), there are regular
build-ups in terms of tension that are capped by a moment of violence
or an anticlimax, with the former usually accompanied by a loud musical
stinger. Musical hits function in a similar manner to diegetic sound hits,
with the diegetic sound of a knife stabbing into flesh being an equivalent of
an accompanying stinger chord in the incidental music. Indeed, these are
both synch points of the most precise order. If the visual impact of Michael
Myers’s blade on a victim was pre-empted slightly by a stinger (or missed
momentarily), the effect would be highly bizarre. It would undermine the
sense of aesthetic, as well as representational, unity at which such films
wholeheartedly aim.
Cadences are points in the melodic and harmonic syntax where a conclu-
sion is marked, however briefly. Often involving traditional chord changes
(movements in harmony), cadences mark endings or pauses in a similar
manner to commas, semi-colons, or periods. Indeed, temporal structures
in music can often be subdivided into linguistic structures involving phras-
ing and cadence. The first sets up temporal units based on an interior logic
in the music, while the latter marks changes and points to conclusions, be
they temporary or final. Both film and music exhibit cadences. The most
obvious one in traditional music involves a movement from the chord
of the dominant to the tonic to mark a strong sense of ending, as illus-
trated in the common appearance of ‘Amen’ at the end of some Christian
hymns (predominantly a plagal cadence [IV-I]). In film, the conclusion of a
scene is sometimes underlined by fades (or cross-fades), which was a par-
ticularly common stylistic aspect of classical Hollywood filmmaking. Also,
the end of a film might be signaled by a crane shot moving up and away
from the event or place depicted. Audiences who have experienced even
a few films will most likely understand this linguistic turn. Synch points
are audiovisual cadences of a sort and, like musical cadences, might be
conceived as more than simply punctuation. They might be conceived as
the lynchpins holding the system firmly together. As Michel Chion points
out, “Synch points . . . give audiovisual flow its phrasing, just as chords or
cadences, which are also vertical meeting of elements, can give phrasing to
a sequence of music.”48 Indeed, it seems fairly straightforward that films
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are structured through audiovisual cadences. In fact, cadence derives from
the Latin cadere, meaning ‘to fall,’ and is most evident in spoken moments
such as the end of sentences and emphasis through intonation. This struc-
turation is evident in the accent in poetry but perhaps more clear in music,
where a sense of finishing and starting sections is often extremely clear.
When it comes to audiovisual cadences, significant elements appear to
fall together, as evident in extremely dramatic synch points of sound and
image, which yield a sense of great significance and intense aesthetic effect.
One paramount aspect of cadences is the sense of expectation. In Emotion
and Meaning in Music, Leonard B. Meyer noted that music leads us to expect
certain developments, most clearly through its use of melody, harmony,
and tonal structure.49 Of course, that expectation may not be fulfilled, but
music will often lead in broadly predictable directions. Michel Chion noted
that cadence in film is more than exclusively a musical advent:
Musical form leads the listener to expect cadences; the listener’s anticipation
of the cadence comes to subtend his/her perception. Likewise, a camera move-
ment, a sound rhythm, a change in an actor’s behaviour can put the spectator in
a state of anticipation. What follows either confirms or surprises the expecta-
tions established—and thus an audiovisual sequence functions according to this
dynamic of anticipation and outcome.50
Sound and image often cohere cadentially to mark section boundaries, as

well as to emphasize certain important moments in films. Indeed, films
vary in how they use synchronized cadences. Some might use them as a
succession or progression, while others may have more of a free flow of
abstract dynamics. Indeed, a film’s synch points might be thought of as an
abstract line of dynamics and drama, much as pieces of music can often
be mapped as a succession of cadential moments. Indeed, the audiovisual
possibilities are, by and large, limited in mainstream films. As noted ear-
lier, such nodal points, which ask for a musical or sonic hit or emphasis
of some sort, might be where the film changes gear or aims for some nar-
rative or emotional impact. This can be achieved through stylistic or ges-
tural elements. The effect of such sequences is often not noted consciously
by the audience, but in certain cases, they can be used as a self-conscious
device. The British film Bronson for instance, discussed previously for its
asynchrony, also employs an extreme form of precise and regimented
synchronization. The film generally is very self-conscious about its music
and the way it is used, exploiting a wide range of preexisting recordings,
from Wagner’s “Siegfried’s Funeral March” from Götterdämmerung and
Verdi’s “Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves” from Nabucco to the Pet Shop Boys’
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song “It’s a Sin.” In fact, it is so self-conscious that its aesthetic strategies
appear almost too unambiguously ironic. In the sequence where Bronson is
released from prison, the action is edited and staged around the New Order
song “Your Silent Face.” The instrumental introduction to the song is pro-
tracted and has a regular structure that is used as the temporal foundation
for the film’s visual action. As the beat begins, a stylistic format takes shape
where cuts or some notable visual movements on-screen take place at the
important structural beats that begin each two- and four-bar strophic unit.
Perhaps the most evident point is where the melodica enters as Bronson
walks out into the sunlight of freedom. Thus the extremely clear structure
of the song dictates the fall of the action, and the audience understands the
temporal importance of these musical moments. This all seems too much,
and such precise synchronization lays bare the effect and artifice of cinema.
Like songs, incidental music can take on a clear relationship of asyn-
chrony with the image and other sound aspects of the film. Sometimes
music in a film can persist following its own temporal logic that is not tied
strongly, or indeed at all, to the events on-screen. For example, the highly
dramatic conclusion of the cannibal western Ravenous (1999) involves a
sustained and repetitive musical cue that relentlessly keeps its pulse going
at a steady rate, while the dynamics, volume, and density of the music gen-
erally build throughout. This cue accompanies an extended duel between
the film’s two principal characters, the cannibal Colquhoun/Ives (Robert
Carlyle) and Boyd (Guy Pearce). This sequence lasts over nine minutes,
moving through a succession of violent acts perpetrated by the lead char-
acters on each other, culminating in both of them being caught in a large
bear trap that appears to spell their doom. During this long and varied
sequence, which contains only a few lines of dialogue, there is loud and
foregrounded music on the soundtrack that refuses to follow the ebb and
flow of narrative activity but instead goes on its own course, based on its
own musical logic. This is a repeated loop of eight bars in 3/4 time and runs
for over nine minutes—covering the whole concluding action of the film,
the confrontation between Boyd and the formidable cannibal Colquhoun/
Ives. It concludes with them apparently both dying. The music is a waltz
that with each repetition adds successive layers of electronic keyboard,
electronic drum, synthesizer drones, and sustained deep bass notes. The
commencement of the two characters’ confrontation is startling in that
the music repeats with absolutely no development for nearly two minutes.
The sound of electronic keyboards with a distinctive wobbly pitch begins
at 1.19:43 in the film’s running time, during dialogue between Boyd and
Colonel Hart (Jeffrey Jones). At the point when the latter asks the former,
“Can you be trusted?” to which Boyd replies “Of course not,” the regular
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pulse of three notes of the waltz’s foundation commences but continues
without development as Boyd cuts Hart’s throat and proceeds to seek out
Colquhoun/Ives.51 It is almost two minutes before the first change to the
musical ostinato when some echoed percussion and dulcimer enters. The
piece follows an additive logic, with each new layer of music accumulating
density. In succession, there is a deep synthesizer drone (on Eb) with a very
modern-sounding filter sweep (sounding something like a wah wah pedal)
that accompanies the swordfight between the two characters, along with a
descending high synthesizer line,52 dulcimer, and finally vocal chorus. Each
development takes place within the repeated bar structure, often enter-
ing on the first beat. The point where the dulcimer enters matches the cut
and dramatic appearance in close-up of Colquhoun/Ives with a sinister red
cross in blood painted on his forehead (figure 5.5). The image track directly
exploits the structure of the music. Indeed, this procedure has been evi-
dent throughout Ravenous, where dramatic events are underscored by the
entry of a particular instrument in a repetitive (and usually additive) piece
of music. The building of drama in the music is through an additive pro-
cess that also exploits the cumulative effect of extreme repetition. The con-
clusion of the duel occurs at 1.28:56 when a large bear trap shuts loudly
trapping both of the characters in a deadly embrace. The music that has
been building interminably halts precisely at this moment, although a deep
synthesizer drone remains and continues through the ensuing sequence,
joined by a deep Native-American wail, as the film humorously concludes
with the arriving general eating the stew containing human meat and pre-
sumably inadvertently allowing the cannibal weendigo spirit to enter him.
During this sequence, the music develops very slowly. Each successive
addition is a musical loop that builds the density of the music. The image
Figure 5.5: Ravenous (1999).
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track is full of variation, running from close- ups, to traveling camera shots
and POV shots. However, as table 5.1 indicates, developments are keyed to
progress in the additive piece of music. This table demonstrates how closely
the structures of the action and the music are interlocked. The music has
a highly logical and systematic structure, developing almost automatically
with regular and mechanical additions of successive layers.53 Narrative
developments parallel musical developments. Changes in music match
changes in activity; this is different from the usual arrangement in most
mainstream films where points of impact and important words are under-
scored and emphasized musically. This sequence of confrontation has some
moments of distinct inspiration from Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns,
with the dramatic facial close-ups and slow buildup to a duel being reminis-
cent of the denouements of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1967) and Once
Upon a Time in the West (1968).
Table 5.1. TIME NARRATIVE: EVENTS AND MUSIC.
Three notes rising in pitch and in waltz time

begin as Boyd says, “Of course not.” The
Dialogue between Boyd texture is sparing at this point. Dialogue
1.19:43 and Hart. continues.
Echoed percussion hits and dulcimer
1.21:40
tremolos are added.
A deep droning synthesizer tone enters,
Boyd cuts Hart’s throat and
and the continuous pitch is elaborated
1.22:45 a swordfight ensues between
through filter sweeping that accompanies the
Boyd and Colquhoun.
swordfight.
A sustained high note enters and then
Boyd goes out into the fort’s develops into a loop of high synthesizer
1.23:34
yard looking for Colquhoun. notes sounding like a female voice playing a
descending melody.
Cutting to a dramatic close-up
shot of Colquhoun turning to Loud dulcimer is added at the precise point
1.25:08
reveal he has a cross daubed in of cutting.
blood on his forehead.
The music becomes louder; rhythmic triplets
1.25:39 The pair reengage.
in the voices are added.
Voices clearly enounce the words “Save Our
1.27:45
Souls Lissa.”
1.28:56 The bear trap shuts loudly, The music stops at precisely the same
trapping the two fighting men. moment, but the deep synthesizer drone
remains.
oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 117 11/1/2013 12:04:41 PM

There are broad dynamic changes in the music matched directly through
film editing to events. The piece remains a repeated loop of eight bars in
3/4 time, its regularity expressing some of the inevitability of the nega-
tive outcome of the fight. The piece has a formal character, with something
emotionally cold about the music’s indifference to the events depicted.
The additive structure of the music, where an extra layer is added every
four bars, makes the music relentless and not geared toward visual events.
Indeed, it seems to pull along those events through the synchronizations
(cuts or action movements) at the onset of each four-bar section. The lack
of emotion in the music is doubled by its mechanical progression that is
matched in the imagery, which imparts a comic edge to a disturbingly vio-
lent scene while retaining a firm sense of the unresolved until the resolu-
tion through termination.
Films that are dominated by musical processes can be a source of anxiety
for the audience, particularly when expectations might be confounded. For
instance, Led Zeppelin’s concert documentary The Song Remains the Same
(1975) spices up the recording of a live performance at Madison Square
Garden with fantasy sequences for each member of the group. The star-
tling aspect of this is that, although the sound remains diegetic, the images
become non-diegetic, inserted as a different diegesis from elsewhere.
Making sense of these sections as traditional film is not a viable undertak-
ing. For instance, guitarist Jimmy Page’s visual sequence occurs during his
extended guitar solo in “Dazed and Confused.” It clearly was shot with little
regard for accompanying the music but edited for some broad moments
of synchronization, where dramatic turns in the music are matched to
significant developments in the image track, including a shadowy figure’s
ascent of a hill with him swinging a multi-imaged and colored sword, and
the return from this ‘holiday’ in the images to remarry with the continu-
ous soundtrack. The latter marks the point when the extended guitar solo
concludes and the rest of the band rejoins to continue with the song. The
fantasy section accompanies an unconventional guitar solo, using violin
bow and echo unit, with some wordless vocal accompaniment from singer
Robert Plant. The moment of rejoining involves the guitar abandoning its
extended techniques for a more straightforward exciting rock guitar solo
with muscular rhythm from drums and bass guitar. This rejoinder is not
just a coming home technically (away from avant garde noise and back to
the traditional attractions of rock music); it is a dramatic coming home in
the image track, and its synchronization with the sound track redoubles
the effect.
This sequence manifests a certain anxiety on the levels of the music and
the film’s aesthetics. Attempts to find a pattern in the images and music as
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a unit fail, and instead there is merely disjunction. The point at which the
corresponding images return feels almost like a relief, bringing the audi-
ence back to what it knows and indeed, what it probably wanted to see in
the film: a direct packaging of the concert experience. The key is that this
is not a mainstream film but more an autonomous soundtrack with image
accompaniment. This tells us that it is less a part of film tradition and prob-
ably more a part of the music industry. This example—and indeed, most of
the film—illustrates how far we assume that we are confronted with a uni-
tary event when in fact we are not. The whole logic of the film is to present
itself as a record of an event, and yet both soundtrack and image track are
collages of different recordings of different events. The fantasy sequences
thus become the most divergent, and in fact perhaps the least deceptive, of
the film.54 It is a mark of their lack of requirement for establishing verac-
ity that these are almost wholly unsynchronized, in direct contrast with
the precise synchronization achieved throughout the sequences of Led
Zeppelin onstage. The fact that these sections of the film, and particularly
the section just discussed, seem anomalous to mainstream film aesthetics
illustrates the conventional manner in which most dramatic films attempt
to regulate aesthetically induced anxiety. Mainstream film works hard to
ameliorate uncertainty and manages anxiety through its careful and judi-
cious use as an occasional device. Sustained asynchrony fosters diegetic
uncertainty, leading to an unfulfilled expectation of the return of synchro-
nization and the normality of dominant film style.
An exceptional illustration of heightened anxiety through sustained
asynchrony is the version of Victor Sjöström’s The Phantom Carriage (1921,
Körkarlen) with a soundtrack by KTL made in the 2000s. The film is an
anxious-enough encounter, with many tense and disturbing moments.
But with an added soundtrack of droning music, it becomes an almost
unbearably unnerving experience. The score is, loosely speaking, ‘drone
rock,’ although it lacks drums and consists primarily of distorted electric
guitar and programmed electronics. Broadly speaking, the music follows
the dynamics of the action, but its movement is often almost negligible. It
usually retains a sense of droning throughout most scenes and owes some-
thing to musical minimalism in its recourse to repetition as essence. The
repetitive, continuous nature of the music means that it does not aim at
precise synchronization, revealing sustained asynchrony as terror induced
by the music’s lack of connection. Significantly, the audience has trouble
finding audiovisual patterns and for extended periods, the film seems to
de-constitute into a representational image track and a disconnected and
traumatized soundtrack. The KTL version of The Phantom Carriage embod-
ies Robert Fink’s description of cultural repetition as an embodiment of the
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Figure 5.6: Decasia (2002).
Freudian death drive: a terror of stasis,55 where there appears to be little or

no prospect of progress or of return to the normality of synchronization
(unless it is the surrender of image to sound and its redirection into mecha-
nized stereotypical movement). A step or two away is Bill Morrison’s film
Decasia (2002) (figure 5.6) and its associated music by Michael Gordon.
Although this is usually referred to as a film and sold on DVD, it was ini-
tially more of an art event, and perhaps this near misrecognition adds to
the effect of expectation. Subtitled “The State of Decay” and compiled from
old disintegrating nitrate silent film images from film archives, it appears
to be on the verge of collapse itself. Decasia is the point at which repre-
sentation disintegrates into abstraction. However, this sense is enhanced
by Michael Gordon’s repetitive phase and drone-based music, which at
times gradually changes pitch but seems to have little direct relation to the
images, and in fact none that might be described as synchronized. The lack
of synchronization and the consequent relentless marching apart of sound
and image tracks make for an incoherent single experience, despite the fact
that both tracks might well make sense on their own.
CONCLUSION
One of the earliest theorizations of sound cinema, by Russian film

director-theorist Sergei Eisenstein, appeared inspired predominantly by
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music, which he applied as a guiding principle and a metaphor that he sus-
tained across his analyses. As discussed in chapter 3, this rightly stands
as one of the foundational considerations of the essential relationship
between sound and image, although Eisenstein’s theories of montage have
inspired more in the way of debate. He diagrammed the similarity between
film and an orchestral score on music manuscript paper, with horizontal
(in temporal succession) and vertical (simultaneous) relations apparent,
what semiologists call the syntactic and paradigmatic dimensions that are
evident in time-based cultural objects such as film or music.
An isomorphic relationship between film and music, where aesthetics
are shared, assumes that on some level there is a common heart. A more
abstract approach to film than is fashionable can yield insights. In recent
years, notions like the ‘music of the spheres’ have returned to art and popu-
lar conceptions of aesthetics. Since the success of Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci
Code and its film adaptation (2006), the notion of the ‘divine proportion’
or ‘golden section’ has been more widely appreciated than ever. The ratio
of 1 to 1.618 was used by classical Greek mathematicians Pythagoras and
Euclid, as well as later artists like Leonardo Da Vinci. It is has even been
discovered in art and culture that had little idea of consciously following
any such ‘magic’ formula. Pre-existing abstract formulas abound though.
Charles Barr discussed the mathematics of narration in Hitchcock’s films
and pointed to how the systematic use of numbers of frames was applied
in editing, and that such abstract formalism was utilized covertly in main-
stream cinema, rather than being solely the preserve of avant garde film-
makers such as Peter Kubelka.56 It seems almost an accepted reality that
music is essentially mathematical on a fundamental level. The Schillinger
system of learning musical composition is based on mathematical struc-
tures and principles, and William Rosar notes what Fred Steiner called
Bernard Herrmann’s ‘module technique’ for film music composition, which
used an arithmetical and symmetrical structure of bars: multiples of two
bars within eight-bar structures. This is flexible and fits the momentary
format of films with ease.57 Hsu and Hsu note that music can be under-
stood mathematically on a complex rather than simple level: “. . . the musi-
cal effects of a composition can be expressed as deviations from fractal
geometry,”58 proceeding from natural harmonies, and analysing a piece by
Bach with reference to Benoit Mandelbrot’s ‘fractal’ equations. Copernicus
suggested that, given the stars move across space, they must make a sound.
This celestial music may be inaudible, and some have suggested it is musi-
cal merely in its fundamental nature. It denotes an essential harmony of
the universe and thus music in the extreme of its abstract sense, but also
its most natural. This esoteric (although dominant until the Renaissance)
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philosophy about proportions and mathematical/geometrical relations
was premised upon an idea of natural essences, with astral bodies, their
relationships, and movements being as mathematically predictable and
significant as the relationships of musical harmonics. These are all part of
a universal sacred geometry. All of this adds up to a sense of underlying
structure that is not merely functional but has the potential to be pro-
found—irrespective of content or other significant aspects. Such a focus on
abstract structure also points to a potential shared level for cultural prod-
ucts, a platform shared with nature and all objects of the universe, from the
sacred to the profane.
While the book’s discussion has focused on the implications of synchro-
nization between sound and image, we would do well to remember that
synchronization is also at the heart of music and thus central to film’s sonic
aspects. All musical ensembles have to be in time, and much studio record-
ing is done to click tracks derived from those used in film music produc-
tion from the 1930s onward. Though on occasion, music may segue poorly
into a film or involve seemingly crude processes of sound and image edit-
ing, it is far from uncommon to have sequences structured around music,
if not from the perspective of production, from the perspective of how a
sequence is perceived. Sometimes music can be the structure around which
film footage is edited—a situation far more common than many real-
ize—or it can be the hook and beat that furnish cohesion to a sequence
for its audience. Indeed, the whole soundtrack for a film perhaps ought
to be conceived in musical terms. After all, centuries of development in
musical theory provide one of the most highly developed means of ana-
lyzing sound and thinking in sonic terms. Furthermore, developments in
electronic and avant garde music have absorbed sound effects and pursued
inclusive theory and practice. So perhaps synch points are essentially sonic
moments. After all, synch points are regularly geared around sound and
sonic structure, and therefore constitute the key moments in sound film
as a coherent unity.
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CH APTER 6
‘Visual’ Sound Design

The Sonic Continuum
F ilm sound has experienced some radical developments in both tech-

nological and aesthetic terms over the last 30 years or so. The tradi-
tional basic speaker system in cinemas in many cases has been replaced
by a multi-speaker system that involves a significant spatialization of
film sound allied to a remarkable improvement in sound definition. These
changes augur an altered psychology at the heart of much new cinema,
instilled by sound’s increased importance for films:
The sound of noises, for a long time relegated to the background like a trouble-
some relative in the attic, has therefore benefited from the recent improvements
in definition brought by Dolby. Noises are reintroducing an acute feeling of the
materiality of things and beings, and they herald a sensory cinema that rejoins
a basic tendency of . . . the silent cinema. The paradox is only apparent. With the
new place that noises occupy, speech is no longer central to films.1
Michel Chion points to technological developments in cinema that

have had a notable impact on film aesthetics. Any movement from a
speech-centered cinema to one that allows more prominence to ‘noises’
is potentially a shift from a cinema dominated by synchronized dia-
logue to one with significant amounts of asynchrony and sound as an
effect in itself, whether through loud music or featured sounds. James
Lastra comments on the emergence of sound design since the 1970s as
a distinctive aspect of film: “Technological and economic factors surely
exerted a determining pressure, and the stylistic norms that emerged
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surely derived from existing techniques in both the film and music
recording worlds.”2 Indeed, in the increasing cohesion between sonic
elements in film, it has rarely been recognized how far musical impera-
tives have determined the final product. While film scores and featured
songs are an obvious result of the impact of music on contemporary
film, a less obvious one is the degree to which sound effects and dia-
logue are marshaled in a quasi-musical manner. Perhaps the clearest
indication of this is that sounds like music are increasingly classified
as timbre (the particularities of individual solo sound) and structure
(what fits where within the continuum).
UNIFIED SOUNDTRACKS
Cinema over the last few decades has evinced an unmistakeable fusing
of the soundtrack elements.3 Much as classical film musicals fused music
with dialogue (or more accurately, we should use the term ‘voices’), some
recent films have fused music with sound effects, creating a sonic contin-
uum. Music in film has a significant interaction with other elements of the
soundtrack, as well as with the images, and one might even argue that its
interaction with dialogue outweighs its interaction with images. In recent
years, the development of converging digital sound technology has allowed
sound designers to use musical software to enhance sound effects in films
and allowed music composers to produce their own music incorporating
elements of sound effects. Such developments, in line with technologi-
cal convergence, aesthetic convergence, and harmonizing platforms and
industries have meant that music is no longer simply an ‘add-on’ to films,
but rather integrated almost genetically on a conceptual level: instigating
film titles and narratives, and perhaps even having films as spin-offs from
existing music, while continuing to inspire and articulate the most emo-
tional and exciting moments of the overwhelming majority of films and
other audiovisual media.
Technology has played a critical part in recent developments in film
sound and music, and technological determinism is always an attractive, if
too-easy, answer to questions of change. The availability of relatively cheap
and easily programmed keyboard synthesizers at the turn of the 1980s led
to an explosion of popular music and musicians exploiting the potential of
these instruments. This had a notable impact on films. In the 1970s, John
Carpenter’s scores for his own films sounded unique in their use of simple
textures with monophonic synthesizers, but by the next decade, they were
sounding more like some of the contemporary pop music they had partly
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inspired. Greek keyboard player Vangelis came to some prominence for his
scores for Chariots of Fire (1981) and Blade Runner (1982), and while rock
keyboard players like Rick Wakeman and Keith Emerson had dipped their
toes into film scoring, by the mid-1980s, pop groups using drum machines
and synthesizers were producing scores, such as Wang Chung’s for To Live
and Die in L.A. (1985). The revolutionary development from analogue to
digital sound has had a notable impact on many aspects of cinema4 and
on music and sound perhaps more than most other areas, allowing minute
alteration and precise manipulation of all aural aspects. By the turn of the
millennium, it was possible for musical scores to be constructed and fitted
to a film on a computer screen at home, using AVID (or similar) and digi-
tal audio workstation (DAW) technology. Consequently, filmmakers like
Robert Rodriguez are easily able to construct the scores for their films them-
selves, making film less of a collaborative medium, and making music less
collaborative perhaps than ever. The elevation of the DAW has revolution-
ized music production, allowing easy construction of high-quality music on
a home computer, although most of the top Hollywood film composers only
use them for mock-ups until the final recording with an expensive orches-
tra (although one that is usually digitally beefed up). The development of
sequencing software has had a direct influence on the styles of music being
produced in the popular music arena. Examples of the dominant types of
software sequencers include Steinberg Cubase, Sony Logic, Ableton Live,
and Propellerheads Reason. One of the central tenets of such computer
technology is that music can be reduced to recorded components that are
then processed, through audio enhancement/distortion and looping, with
a passage of music repeated verbatim. This latter aspect was responsible
for the proliferation of dance music in the 1990s that was developed in
home studios, with an emphasis on the manipulation of sound samples,
pre-recorded passages of music that could be adapted, treated, and woven
together into a new musical composition. Such music technology instils
an awareness of sound and the ability to manipulate it electronically. This
encourages a ‘sound for sound’s sake’ approach focusing on the treatment
of sound on a basic level (e.g., reverb, filters, positioning in the stereo
mix, etc.) more than the traditional virtues of composition enshrined in
so-called classical training (harmony, counterpoint, orchestration, etc.).
This can lead to a confusion about what might constitute music and what
might constitute non-musical sound, and at the very least has challenged
the limited notions of music that were in wide circulation. Such technology
is not only used by musical people but also by sound designers and editors,
who use digital technology and techniques to manipulate sound effects the
same way that composers use the same methods to compose music. While
‘ V I S UA L’ S O U N D DE S I G N : T H E S O N I C C O N T I N U U M [125]
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on the one hand, composers are more aware of sound as an absolute than
perhaps ever before, film sound people are approaching soundtracks in a
manner that might be deemed musical, or at the very least betrays a musi-
cal awareness of the interaction of elements and their particular individual
sonic qualities.
Many contemporary films contain a unified and intricate field of music
and sound effects. This inspires a certain sonic (and audiovisual) complex-
ity, while the more self-contained nature of the soundtrack inspires less
in the way of extended passages of synchronization. One context for this
is the use of digital electronics for both music and sound effects, which
means that music is increasingly conceptualized in sonic terms (or at least
in electronic terms of basic sound manipulation, dealing with concepts
such as envelope, filtering, etc.). On the other side of the coin, there is an
increasingly musical conceptualization of sound design in such films, where
sound elements are wielded in an artistic manner, manipulated for pre-
cise effect rather than merely aiming to duplicate and complement screen
activity. Consequently, the distinct psychologies of music and sound effects
mix. There is a notable collapse of the space between diegetic sound and
non-diegetic music. This manifests a collapse of mental space, between the
film’s ‘conscious’ and its ‘unconscious.’ Rick Altman wrote about the differ-
ences between diegetic and non-diegetic music: “By convention, these two
tracks have taken on a quite specific sense: the diegetic reflects reality (or at
least supports cinema’s referential nature), while the [non-diegetic] music
track lifts the image into a romantic realm far above the world of flesh and
blood.”5 In a similar manner, the unified field of sound merges these dis-
tinct channels, potentially mixing (by the film’s terms) the objective and
subjective, fantasy and reality, fixed perception and unstable reverie, con-
scious and unconscious, and not least, musical aesthetic and communica-
tional aesthetic.
The convergence of music with ambient sound and sound effects contra-
venes the cinematic tradition of solid demarcation between such elements.
As I have suggested, modern sound design in films might be understood as
essentially musical in nature. After all, sound designers use musical soft-
ware and digital products designed primarily for the production of music
(such as the industry standard Pro Tools). This has led to a more aesthetic
rather than representational conception of sound in the cinema. For a long
time, cinema sound was thought of essentially in terms of clarity of dia-
logue and the uncluttered and functional composition of diegetic sound
elements. A new impetus is particularly evident in films that have recourse
to technical, as well as representational, extremity, most notably in the
horror film.
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Traditionally, film incidental music’s effects include eliciting and affirm-
ing emotion, clarification or provision of information (such as mood and
setting), furnishing a sound bath that immerses the audience in the film
world, as well as the more traditional functional aspects that include
attempting to provide continuity across edits and joins between shots and
time-spaces. As such, the score can also furnish a sense of filmic move-
ment while also functioning to clarify and articulate a formal structure for
the film (through punctuation, cadence, and closure). Related structural
functions might also include anticipating subsequent action in the film and
commenting on screen activities or providing a further symbolic dimension
not evident in other aspects of the film. In separate writings, Noel Carroll,
Jeff Smith, and Roy Prendergast all quote a newspaper article from the
1940s wherein the respected composer Aaron Copland posited five catego-
ries of film incidental music function6: “. . . creating atmosphere; highlight-
ing the psychological states of characters; providing neutral background
filler; building a sense of continuity; sustaining tension and then rounding
it off with a sense of closure.”7 Music has many material functions. It regu-
larly has an enormous influence on the pacing of events and ‘emphasizing
the dramatic line.’8 David Raksin notes that it was common to enter before
the required emphasis with what was called ‘neutral’ music in the trade,9
before being more emphatic with the music or making a specific musical
effect. Such neutral music has given rise to pejorative descriptions of film
music as ‘wallpaper’ or ‘window dressing,’ which, perhaps in some cases, is
justified. Music regularly performs an instructive role, creating meaning by
representing ideas, objects, and emotions. Indeed, it performs a primary
role in eliciting emotional responses in the audience and in providing con-
sent and encouragement for the audience’s emotional responses.
Without assuming an unassailable cinematic ideal of sound and image
in harmony, it should be admitted that in mainstream films, sound is over-
whelmingly functional. It works to elide itself as contract more perhaps
than any other element of film. Some theorize that we perceive the diegetic
world on-screen as an unproblematic reality (on some level),10 and sound is
one of the principal elements that convinces us that the space on-screen is
real. After all, one might argue that most sounds in films exist essentially
to bolster or ‘make real’ the images we see on-screen and the surround-
ing world we imagine. Consequently, when we see faces on-screen talking,
we expect to hear what they are saying; when a car drives past, we expect
to hear those corresponding sounds. The fact that we hear a representa-
tion of those sounds, a convention that allows crisply heard voices and
unobtrusive car engine sounds rising and then falling in pitch and volume,
but not intruding on the important conversation, underlines just how
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conventional film sound is. Certainly, this is apparent if it is compared to
the sounds recorded from an integrated microphone mounted on a home
video camera.
However, having stated this, film sound still retains a principal func-
tion: to guarantee the illusionistic world on-screen. Random sound effects
used in avant garde films might serve as an obtrusive reminder of the fab-
ricated nature of film sound (and indeed synchronized cinema more gener-
ally) and point to our expectation of film sound to be merely a vehicle for
the illusions on-screen. Now this is a very different traditional function
from that of music in films. Perhaps such a unity of sound effects and music
might be approached as moments of aesthetic effect, whereby sound effects
are precisely sonic effects, such as the disconcerting noise coming from the
attic early in The Exorcist (1973). This instance is not simply a sound; it is
an emotional effect, more like an emanation from the id, a manifestation of
primary psychology. Such opportunities are opened up by the recession of
sound’s representational function, which frees it to fulfil more in the way of
direct emotional and aesthetic roles, in short, making film sound more like,
or perhaps even a part of, the musical dimension of films. Consequently,
great care can be taken with qualitative aspects of certain sounds—as the
sounds have value in themselves rather than merely being conventionally
representative of sounds from a small, stereotypical repertoire (a tradition
that remains the case in much television production).
Michel Chion describes the new sonic space offered by directional
multi-speaker surround sound as a ‘superfield’ that changes the percep-
tion of space and thereby amends the rules for constructing audiovisual
scenes.11 Although it retains much of traditional monaural film, he insists
that it is an extension of off-screen space and qualitatively different from
previous sonic space. Along similar lines, Philip Brophy uses the term
‘acousmonium’ to articulate the new tactile and multidirectional space.12
Chion continues with his description:
I call superfield the space created, in multitrack films, by ambient natural sounds,
city noises, music, and all sorts of rustlings that surround the visual space and
can issue from loudspeakers outside the physical boundaries of the screen. By
virtue of its acoustical precision and relative stability this ensemble of sounds
has taken on a kind of quasi-autonomous existence with relation to the visual
field, in that it does not depend moment by moment on what we see onscreen.13
This new expanded field is beyond the simple space of dialogue and
sound effects, but it is one where their interaction with music might
prove to be the key to its organization. This development has inspired
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new aesthetics. According to Chion, Dolby multitrack favors passive
off-screen sound, which works to establish a general space and permits
more free movement for shots (more of which are close-ups) within
that space, without any spatial disorientation of the viewer-auditor,14
although there is a corresponding tendency to keep speaking characters
on-screen as spatial anchors.
A further part of this process, evident in some films, is the conver-
gence of music and sound effects, with a concomitant collapse of the strict
demarcation between the two that reigned earlier. Of course, to a degree,
it has always been impossible to fully and clinically separate the musical
score from sound effects. Musical scores regularly have mimicked, empha-
sized, or suggested certain sound effects in the diegesis. Similarly, sound
effects in films are regularly more than simply an emanation from the illu-
sory diegetic world constructed by the film. They often have symbolic or
emotional valences that outweigh their representational status. Indeed, it
might be argued that much music in general has spent a lot of time and
energy in attempting to approximate, or at least take inspiration from,
the natural world and human ambiences, from birdsong to the rhythmic
sounds of machinery. So talking in terms of a solid distinction between the
diegetic sound effect and musical accompaniment becomes difficult upon
closer scrutiny and deeper thought. However, in terms of film production,
there has been a relatively solid divide: Musicians and composers produce
music for film, and Foley artists and sound editors are responsible for con-
structing a conventional series of sound effects to accompany on-screen
action. The advent of digital sound technology and the relative accessibility
of complex sound- treating equipment had a notable impact on the pro-
duction process. An early example of this was the development of special
sound for Evil Dead 2 (1987), where the sound of a creaking rocking chair
was merged with sound recordings of a scream, using digital synthesizers
to fuse the sounds on a genetic level. A more recent example of the process
is Resident Evil (2002). The film begins with a voiceover narration accom-
panied by metallic and booming non-musical sounds, leading into a loop
of one of the electronic themes Marilyn Manson wrote for the film as the
action follows the events of a laboratory accident. Shortly afterward, when
protagonist Alice studies what appears to be her wedding photograph, we
hear music that sounds like it was composed from various non-musical
sound samples, in other words, reorganized and repeated shards of sound
effects. Her contemplation is halted abruptly by a nearby door opening.
Sonically, this involves a very loud and percussive sound matched to the
image of an automatic door. Yet the consistency of the sound is certainly
not at odds with the preceding music, firmly supplying the impression of a
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continuum of organized sound that is able to be more rhythmic and more
melodic while retaining a foot in diegetic sound effects and ambiences.
Such a unified field of music and sound effects is evident in a good num-
ber of recent films, although this once-marginal tradition might profitably
be traced back to an origin in silent cinema, where the live music performed
to accompany the film in many cases did the sound effects. This is probably
more evident in the film scoring tradition where music will mimic or sug-
gest certain diegetic sound effects, even though they may well be present
on the soundtrack anyway. There was a minor tradition of certain sound
films having a clear sonic continuum that fully merged music and sound
effects. Probably the best example is Forbidden Planet (1956), which had a
soundtrack of ‘electronic tonalities’ by Louis and Bebe Barron. For the pur-
poses of film production, this could not be credited as music, and indeed,
its origins in recordings of ‘cybernetic sound organisms’ that were then
collaged to fit the film evinces a process far removed from the dominant
traditions of Hollywood film scoring. There is a direct confusion over the
sources of sounds. Some of the electronic sounds appear to be function-
ing like incidental music, and some are clearly synchronized with images
on-screen (such as the monster, for example). Others appear to be environ-
mental, marking the ambience of the unfamiliar alien planet and adding to
the sense of the exotic and uncharted that the film represents. In his study
of the sound and music for Forbidden Planet, James Wierzbicki notes that
this was not an isolated case, and by traversing the membrane of conven-
tional sound functions pointed to a new psychology:
In contrast [with traditional orchestral scores of the time], electronic sounds

in scores for many 1950s science-fiction films were strikingly non-traditional,
and thus they tended to blur the long-standing boundary between non-diegetic
underscore and diegetic sound effect. Electronic sounds did not simply accom-
pany ‘foreign’ narrative objectives; in many cases, they seemed to emanate
directly from them.15
Similarly, Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963) has a soundtrack that

mixes sound effects and music. It contained no underscore in the tra-
ditional sense. Instead it used electronic sound design (apparently
Herrmann’s idea), which was recorded in Munich with experimentalists
Remi Gassmann and Oskar Sala. Herrmann, Hitchcock’s regular com-
poser at the time, was the advisor, and the final product, while using
synthetic bird noises, remains related to the musique concrète produced
by experimenters like Pierre Schaeffer and Pierre Henry in the 1940s
and ’50s. The Birds’ sound design approached music as merely another
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element of the soundtrack and replaced a musical underscore with
sound effects that nevertheless are fairly musical in their inspiration.
Although the soundtrack appears to represent bird sounds that match
the action on-screen, they were in fact produced electronically and only
vaguely synchronized with the birds on-screen. It might be more apt
to characterize the soundtrack to The Birds as a continuum of ambient
bird sounds that are most clearly emphasized in the sequences of bird
attacks.
Another film that has a soundtrack that goes beyond simple sound
effects and music is David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977), which makes particu-
larly harrowing use of ambient sound in the background throughout the
film. Alan Splet’s sound design collaged industrial sounds, metallic noises,
rumbles, and wind into a disturbing and continuous sonic backdrop for the
film’s action.16 It is not unchanging and moves to the foreground at times.
Arguably, it takes something from the general function of film scores,
which provide a sonic backdrop and a vague mood for the action. The fact
that these sounds were not easily classified as non-diegetic music meant
that they were more satisfactorily accounted for as acousmatic sound
effects: the sounds seemingly emanating from some dreadful but indis-
tinct industrial machines somewhere in the distance. Indeed, Alan Splet’s
sound work was far more than merely recording and compiling sounds
for use in films. An available three-disc set, Sounds from a Different Realm,
showcases Splet’s work along with his collaborator Ann Kroeber. Some of
the pieces are called “Unusual Presences” and illustrate the construction
of nearly autonomous sound environments, some of which were used in
David Lynch’s films. Despite the collection nominally being a set of sound
effects, it manifests more of a sustained, canned atmosphere, rather than
being simply recorded sound effects ready for general use.
FILM SOUND AS MUSIC (AND MUSIC AS FILM SOUND)
The effect of a unified field of sound and music is the destruction of conven-
tional use of sound in films, with a concomitant questioning of the relation-
ship of sound to image. Certain contemporary films evince a unified sound
design that conceives of the film’s sound in holistic terms rather than as
the traditionally separate music, dialogue, and sound effects. Miguel Mera
and David Burnand note:
Modernism is inherent in the technologically enabled means of audio pro-

duction in filmmaking that encourages the alliance of music and sound
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design as a recorded and edited form, and thus is at odds with the rehashed
nineteenth-century orchestral scores typical of classic cinema, flown into the
virtual orchestra pit of the movie theatre.17
Such films with a unified sound field deal with it in highly sophisticated
terms. Sound effects are not simply about matching what the screen
requires to verify its activities. Instead, sound effects can take on more of
the functions traditionally associated with music: emotional ambiences,
provision of tone to a sequence, or suggestions of vague connections. In
short, film sound as a unified field has taken a high degree of its logic from
music, and more specifically from music in films in the form of non-diegetic
or incidental music. Films such as 7even (1997) or Ju-On: The Grudge (2002)
contain notable sequences in which sound could be construed as music or
as sound effects. In both cases, the ambiguity is doubtless part of the gen-
eral effect of the film. In Donnie Darko (2001), a voice (belonging to ‘Frank’)
appears in the night, telling Donnie to wake up. This is accompanied by
deep ambiguous rumbles and what might be construed as supernatural
sounds. It is certainly not easily recognizable as a film score, but it equally
fails to identify itself as sound effects for anything in the diegetic world.
There is a seemingly organic mixture of diegetic sound and music evident in
the London underground-set Creep (2004). At the start of the film, one of
a pair of sewer workers disappears down a tunnel and as the other searches
for him, the soundtrack embraces deep sub-bass rumbles that are ambigu-
ous as to whether they are diegetic or not.18 As his desperation grows, the
music grows in volume, featuring metallic sounds and developing from the
deep rumbles into a more clearly organized pattern, and thus more clearly
becomes music.19 Like much of the film, this sequence exploits the dra-
matic and psychological possibilities of an extended range of bass tones
available in 5.1 Dolby sound.
Indeed, since the advent of multi-track recording technologies in the
1960s, Dolby stereo and surround sound in the 1970s, and digital sound
technology in the 1980s, soundtracks have become increasingly complex
and sophisticated. Elisabeth Weis points to the exponential expansion of
sound resources indicated by the number of sound technicians working on
recent films in comparison with the number on a film during the heyday of
the Hollywood studio system.20 The division of labor is often quite precise,
although the supervising sound editor or sound designer will tend to have
dominion over all sonic resources. Many directors have a significant input
to the final sonic character of their films, while ones like David Lynch also
design the sound for their films. Film soundtracks are constructed with
great care and creativity. Any attempt to approach the unified soundtrack
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as simply sound effects is doomed—to banal results. The only viable
approach is from a musical point of view. After all, music has been the sci-
ence of sound for a very long time, and it is clear that aesthetic impulses
are highly significant in determining film soundtracks, rather than merely
representational concerns (making sounds match screen actions).
Sometimes it seems easy to forget that for centuries we have had a the-
ory of organized sound relevant to the cinema: music. Music is at heart
about organizing sound events in time, and some of its dominant concepts
are highly evident in sonic organization in films. For example, the general
ambience assigned to a space is conceived as ‘backing’ to the ‘aria’ or singing
voice of dialogue. A more recent tradition has been concerned with making
sound recordings into music: musique concrète, which developed in France
after the Second World War and was based on the manipulation and distor-
tion of sound recordings on magnetic tape. Although it would be a massive
reduction to suggest that it is similar to film sound, there nevertheless are
shared points of interest and assumptions. It is hardly fortuitous that the
primary theorization of film sound comes from an individual with a back-
ground in electroacoustic music and training in musique concrète. Michel
Chion has introduced a large number of terms and theories from this
body of thought and praxis into the study of film. As one of the few areas
to deal with sound, often in musical terms, musique concrète should be a
stopping-off point (however brief) for any analysis of film soundtracks.
SAW ’S MUSICAL SOUNDS
The horror film Saw (2004) has a highly distinctive soundscape. There is
often little solid demarcation between incidental music and sound design;
consequently, sound effects can sound synthetic and music can sound like
sound effects. The film’s sonic elements have a very intimate relationship
that marks the film as unconventional, although since the turn of the mil-
lennium, it has become more common for films to eschew the dominant
convention of music/sound effects/dialogue atomization. Saw’s music was
written and performed by first-time film music composer Charlie Clouser.
Up to this point, he was known for his remixes of existing songs, adapt-
ing and rebuilding sonic material rather than creating as such. Hence, it
might be possible to approach Clouser’s work in the Saw films as an adapta-
tion, a partial remix, of the sound world as a whole, rather than merely the
music alone. His music in the films is often unmelodic and not immediately
memorable or obviously empathetic; it focuses instead on texture and tim-
bre and plays upon confusion between what might traditionally be termed
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film music and sound effects. The films often wield sound either explosively
or in a disconcerting and semi-dislocated manner. Furthermore, Saw illus-
trates the assimilation of new technologies and techniques and the con-
comitantly different assumptions about cinema’s diegetic world and the
place of sound in it.
The Saw films center on the activities of the Jigsaw Killer, a serial killer
who is at pains to threaten or kill people in creative and imaginative ways
that are specific to each individual. This involves a high level of invention,
as well as meticulous planning leading to a tortuous route of potential
escape for the protagonists. The first film starts with two men waking in
the basement of a deserted building, both handcuffed securely but with
clues about possible escape (and, most significantly, redemption for their
sins). Saw adopts a striking aesthetic of matching a sumptuous sound-
scape to what are often overwhelmingly static visuals. Apart from a welter
of flashback sequences, the whole film takes place in this one basement
room. The soundtrack thus serves to provide variation for the audience
and remove the potential for boredom. Although the narrative is gripping,
the visuals are often quite pedestrian and the soundtrack’s use of unusual
timbres and unfamiliar activities compensates for this to a degree. Thus
the limited diegetic space inspires a sonic drama, where the aural elements
encourage a feeling of space that is denied by the film’s visual construc-
tion. The claustrophobia of the film is highly effective, but it is enhanced
or thrown into relief by a feeling of expanded space in the soundtrack.
There is copious use of reverb and echo, which make the film feel like it
is taking place in a large arena of emptiness rather than an over-lit base-
ment room. This provides a striking mismatch of claustrophobic visual
space with expansive and echo-laden sonic space that is dramatic in itself.
Furthermore, it makes for a psychological mismatch between the image
track and the soundtrack that is further enhanced by the uncertain status
of much of the sound (diegetic sound effect but also non-diegetic music).
The limited diegetic space forces the sonic space’s elevation in importance
to the point where the film’s sonic space manifests an expansion of experi-
ence and simultaneously a fragmentation of the vaguely coherent subject
position of the spectator (as theorized long ago and far away). In Saw, the
Jigsaw Killer hears (rather than sees) the proceedings throughout, unper-
ceived by the two protagonists. Indeed, the film could be characterized as a
‘point of audition sound’ acousmonium for him, offering a sonic experience
close to ours as the audience. (Could this be seen as an aural development
of Hitchcock’s Rear Window [1954]?) Thus the spectator-auditor position in
the film might be construed in this way to furnish the auditory equivalent
of the person sitting in the film theatre 21
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The film’s music composer Charlie Clouser started off as an electronic
music programmer involved in television incidental music before becom-
ing known as a member of the industrial rock group Nine Inch Nails and
subsequently as a remixer for many rock groups, producing new versions
of recordings with a highly individual stamp on them.22 Clouser joined the
Saw project after director James Wan had used a number of Nine Inch
Nails pieces in the films’ temp tracks.23 Clouser had been a member of that
group in the mid to late 1990s. A background in electronic sound manipu-
lation is advantageous for a film that requires something radically different
from a conventional orchestral film score and, indeed, Clouser approached
the score in a far from traditional manner. He was interested in using
non-musical sounds, such as metallic clashing and banging, “[s]ounds that
might have originated in the sound effects. Subconsciously, I think almost
sound as though these might be unseen characters to attack, on the other
side of the wall. . . . [There was also a concern with b]lurring the line, and
having industrial sounds that spring from the background of the movie
[which] might make the viewer less aware of the music as music and that
more aware of the general sense of tension and anxiety we were trying to
create.”24 Director James Wan wanted to use the score precisely as an effect,
for psychological impact rather than merely for emotional impact. Clouser
noted: “Usually, I don’t try to use sounds that will clash against the sound
design—doors slamming, gunshots, things like that. But because of the
character of the music that James [Wan] wanted it would involve a lot of
metal screeching and banging types of sounds, which were going to get in
the way of the sound effects, so it was the skillful mix that kept everything
together.”25 While the final mix may accommodate Clouser’s sounds, as well
as sound effects, it works with similar sonic material in what appears to
be a unified field of sound and music. It is little surprise that when asked
to list influences on his work, Clouser mentioned Louis and Bebe Barron’s
electronic sounds/music for Forbidden Planet.26
The likely main source of Saw’s temp track was Nine Inch Nails’ 1999
double album The Fragile, which included slow atmospheric music, as well
as more up-tempo and noisy songs. While Trent Reznor was (and remains)
the principal player in the group, Clouser was a mainstay at this point. An
indication of Clouser’s importance for the textural and ethereal tracks is
his credit on the track “The Great Below” for ‘atmospheres.’ The Saw scores
are premised upon music as provision of atmosphere, although they might
be characterized as a distinct alternation of non-musical sounds and spare
synthesizer tones with kinetic mechanical drum patterns characteristic of
certain industrial rock groups, particularly Nine Inch Nails. Clouser noted
that he used the sections with energetic percussion patterns “. . . to build
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adrenaline.”27 These sections include the speeded-up images of a man
caught in razor wire and some of the ‘reverse bear trap’ sequence, in which
a character has to beat a time limit to remove a piece of potentially fatal
headwear.
While the drum-based passages provide energy, much of the rest of the
music is sparsely textured. The type of music Clouser concentrated on
focuses on the vertical aspect:
[Tracks] . . . usually have a level of density, which is greater than most scoring
cues, in terms of the number of things happening and how much attention you
have to pay to them to decode it all. That kind of works against a lot of people
coming from a record background when they’re scoring because they wind up
making it sound like a record and it might be too busy or too dense to serve as
‘background.’28
While many forms of music that work outside the cinema can be reined
into films effectively, Clouser points to a concern with momentary tex-
ture and the vertical aspects rather than the melodic or developmental.
In fact, Saw tends to use emotionally cold sound/music throughout, lack-
ing all emotional warmth and expressing partial disconnection. This lack of
empathy can be related to Michel Chion’s notion of anempathetic music,
where mechanical music or music that follows its own logic continues over
emotional action without matching the mood of the images.29 In Saw, the
connection of sound to images can be vague, and the music provides atmo-
sphere and energy that match screen mood and action, but it refuses to
provide anything that connects with the characters on an emotional level,
never taking advantage of one of the principal functions of film music,
which is to allow the audience to empathize with the characters on-screen.
One aspect of Clouser’s score that is instantly striking is the sheer varia-
tion of sounds. It utilizes a wealth of electronic tones, as well as sounds
derived from samples. However, it is nevertheless scored, in certain ways,
in the traditional sense. For example, it uses the deep drones that are
conventional to horror films and dramatizes and punctuates the voice of
the Jigsaw Killer as it heard on a tape. That Clouser conceived his music
in terms of sound elements that would form a sonic foundation for each
scene30 denotes a process closer to soundscape creation than to traditional
film scoring. A sound art infusion is further evident in Saw in Clouser’s
copious use of sounds originating from Chas Smith’s metal sculptures that
were designed to be bowed and scraped to create sounds.31 Clouser used
recordings of these as raw material, manipulated in digital samplers but
often retaining their original metallic sonic character.
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When the two protagonists notice a dead body lying on the floor
between them, there is a revolving shot and close-ups of the body’s
bloodied head and the gun clasped in its hand. Each shot d is accom-
panied by a sonic hit, creating a regular rhythmic pulse of sound and
image. Matching the dramatic and unusual visual, the sound also acts
unconventionally, including some reversed sounds and music alternat-
ing between the front two speakers, a rarity in films and a highly obtru-
sive sonic activity.
When Adam tries to get the tape player from the dead body’s hand, there
is an echoed drum hit marking and synchronizing the action. In the wake
of this, as Adam uses his shirt and a rag to get the tape player, the music
moves through a number of fairly distinct sonic passages: a high, falling
ethereal monody interrupted by a sound reminiscent of a distant train
passing, a short, high-pitched squeaky sound, a deep drone (that sounds
like an electronically treated male voice choir), and a brief burst of repeated
guitar feedback. Then there is a synchronized metal sound, similar to that
of a bowed cymbal, followed by deep echoed sounds (like a large water
tank being hit). Sonically, this sequence seems very much a succession
that emanates from the ease with which contemporary digital technology
encourages the use of sonic loops (particularly from DAWs and their ease
of manipulating samples and musical blocks). This is further underlined at
the moment when Adam finds a saw in a bag in the toilet cistern, which is
accompanied by what sounds like heavily echoed guitar feedback looped
and repeated into a single musical figure.
As befits a film with narrative twists and turns and an aura of uncer-
tainty, there are notable sections that lack synchronization between sound
and image. Beginning at 38:26, there is a sustained sequence of asynchrony
lasting nearly three minutes with only occasional synch points, starting
where there is a non-diegetic sound hit to indicate that time has passed
from the previous shot of Dr. Lawrence Gordon’s daughter being menaced,
first by seeing an eye in her open closet door while a voice says, “Goodnight,
little girl” (figure 6.1). Next, Mrs. Gordon and her child appear tied up, and
there are a few synched footsteps (of Zepp, whose face is not yet visible),
while the little girl cries. Then there is a shot of the mother and child with
synchronized crying and moaning sounds. Mrs. Gordon says, “Get away
from her!” However, the overwhelming majority of this extended sequence
is not synchronized. The sustained shots of the tied-up couple from behind,
showing Zepp threatening the backs of their heads, has a continuity of
crying sounds but fails to continue showing their origin. At 39:58, there
is another non-diegetic sound hit signalling a cut to an outside shot (on
closed-circuit television) of Zepp looking out the window, which moves
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Figure 6.1: Saw: “Goodnight, little girl.”
Figure 6.2: Saw: “Who are you, little man?”
from being on camera to being on a television set with an awkward refram-

ing cut. This is accompanied by a voiceover of uncertain origin: “Who are
you, little man? I see you . . .” (figure 6.2). As the camera pans right from the
television set, it alights on a former policeman who investigated the Jigsaw
Killer, as he stares out the window of a nearby building. Although we are
unable to see that he is the origin of the voice (and the voice’s close sound
and profound bass tones sound similar to those of the Jigsaw Killer that we
have heard on cassette recordings already). At 40:22, the ex-policeman is
on-screen and rapidly it becomes apparent that he is the owner of the voice
(despite the complete lack of shots that synchronize this voice with his
moving lips). At 40:44, a shot of the back of his head exposes a wall covered
with newspaper clippings about killings, beginning a substantial montage
sequence with the words “I should never have let you go” (figure 6.3). As
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Figure 6.3: Saw: “I should never have let you go.”
the montage sequence takes off, music based on the film’s main theme with
an insistent beat based on regular eighth notes begins to drive it along,
although always ceding prominence to the voiceover and sound effects.
This montage includes images of various aspects of the Jigsaw Killer case
and Dr. Gordon (many of which we have already seen), including voices
both synchronized and unsynchronized, close-ups of newspaper head-
lines synchronized precisely with the sound of a camera clicking or by
an anvil hit, and some vague synchronization of sound and image in the
shots repeated from Amanda’s tribulation (with the reverse bear trap on
her head) from earlier in the film. The montage sequence finishes at 41:22
with a shot of the policeman (before his discharge) and Dr. Gordon in a car,
returning the film to a regime of regular synchronized dialogue and stan-
dard sound-image relations.
Saw contains sections with only sparse dialogue, which therefore lack
the most regular and clear lynchpin of synchronized sound and image.
Furthermore, the fact that Saw is based on two characters (Lawrence
and Adam) chained up in one room allows for dialogue without showing
the speaking characters. The audience is aware of the spatial setup and
so the camera has more freedom of movement. Chion notes that the
development of the sonic superfield has erased the tradition of spatial
scene construction in films by losing the requirement for establishing
(and re-establishing) long shots, “. . . because in a more concrete and
tangible manner than in traditional monoaural films the superfield
provides a continuous and constant consciousness of all the space sur-
rounding the dramatic action . . . such that the image now plays a sort of
solo part, seemingly in dialog with the sonic orchestra in the audiovisual
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concerto.”32 The sonic aspect of Saw certainly evinces much variation,
but it also consistently uses sounds of obscure origin, such as drones,
scrapes, and loud bumps, all of which could be construed as diegetic
sounds but more likely are non-diegetic, lacking any origin in the film
world on-screen. The concomitant lack of synchronization in this equa-
tion adds up to a degree of mental uncertainty, emphasized by the film
for the purposes of horror. At times, Saw gives the impression of having
a soundtrack with a dislocated nature, at least partially uncoupled from
the image track of the film.
PSYCHOLOGICAL SOUND SPACE
Acousmatic sound is essentially ambiguous in that we are not sure of

its precise origins.33 While their origins may become apparent later, in
psychological terms, such sounds can mark a distinct uncertainty and
a potential threat. In Saw, we hear much in the way of metallic sounds
that could well have diegetic origins. They certainly don’t sound like a
traditional film score. But then there is no indication of any diegetic
origin for these sounds. They question the status of the diegesis and,
significantly, add to a sense of ambiguity of environment by confusion
of sound and image. Similarly, there are regular bass rumbles (almost
sub-bass rumbles) on the film’s soundtrack. Are these diegetic? That
information is never furnished by the film. The potentially disturbing
effect of such ambiguous sound is discussed by Chion, who points to
the essential ambiguity of such sounds. Their origins are immediately
obscure, although their source might be understood later. In psycho-
logical terms, such sounds are perceived as a potential threat in that
they remain uncertain for the listener.
As an aural counterpart to the rare non-diegetic insert,34 we might won-
der if recent cinema is wielding the non-diegetic sound effect, which likely
has the same ambiguity as acousmatic sound, although it sounds like it
could emanate from the world on-screen, yet it cannot be retrospectively
understood and placed in the surrounding (diegetic) world.35 It indeed
has lost its synchronization absolutely, in that there is no possibility of
its matching the screen world, and thus it manifests an extreme of mental
confusion and potential threat. The horror genre has often been premised
upon the drama of off-screen space concealing the unknown, such as in
films like Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960). However, in Saw, these sounds are
not only off-screen, they are ‘off world.’ They are sounds from nowhere,
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occupying the same space as the film’s non-diegetic music, which also
emanates from an obscure space somewhere that is not existentially con-
nected to the world represented on-screen. Now, non-diegetic music is
purely conventional and as such does not invite direct questions about its
origins. However, sound effects are anchored to screen representations.
They provide the spatial and confirming aspects of activities on-screen
or nearby still in the diegetic world. From time to time, however, sound
effects appear to come from outside the diegetic world, most notably in
surreal or horror films. For example, in the remake of The Fog (2005), as DJ
Stevie Wayne (played by Selma Blair) sits in her car, there are deep, threat-
ening sounds. Their status is ambiguous. They might be part of Graeme
Revell’s non-diegetic music, or they could be diegetic sounds of the mys-
terious fog itself. However, in all likelihood, they are non-diegetic sound
effects.36 This appears literally to be an occult aesthetic, yet such general
ambiences function emotionally and work to immerse the audience in
the film more effectively in sonic terms than might be possible as a visual
effect. There are highly effective low-volume continuums, such as Freddy
Kruger’s basement in the Nightmare on Elm Street films, or in spaceships
like the Starship Enterprise in the Star Trek films and television series. Rick
Altman, McGraw Jones, and Sonia Tatroe note that some Hollywood films
in the 1930s had continuous low-volume atmosphere sound, which had the
function of enveloping the audience in a film’s sonic space.37 Such envelop-
ing is an effect of the extension of sonic space, which is a characteristic of
surround sound but also an effect of the degree of reverberation (or reverb)
evident on any recorded sound.38 In audio terms, reverb expresses space as
the equivalent of showing it visually. Furthermore, the use of electronic
reverb, adding a sense of space around a recorded sound, might be seen as
a prime signifier of sound as aesthetic in films rather than following any
vague attempt to reflect the space represented visually on-screen. Philip
Brophy notes that, “[p]sychoacoustically, reverb grants us an out-of-body
experience: we can aurally separate what we hear from the space in which it
occurs.”39 This inconsistency of sound space represented on the soundtrack
and the expected sound ambience that would have emanated from the
space represented on-screen is not only evident in Forbidden Planet but also
in films like Saw. It illustrates a degree of mental separation emanating
from the evident mismatch in Saw of expansive, reverb-drenched music
and sounds with an enclosed and circumscribed visual space. We might
go further and approach electronic reverb and echo as a manifestation of
a state of mind more than it is a representation of anything. After all, it
does not signify diegetic space but something beyond, an emotional and
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unconscious enveloping of sound. In his discussion of Forbidden Planet,
Philip Brophy continues:
Reverb is heavily applied to Forbidden Planet’s synthetic sound effects firstly to

invoke the expansive opening of interplanetary frontiers, and secondly to invoke
an imposing sense of size and space. At least fifteen centuries of European
church architecture used reverb to conjure up thundering scale and omnipotent
power; sci-fi movies followed suit with their own brand of technological mysti-
cism and God-fearing morality.40
So it has nothing to do with representing the world on-screen and more

to do with providing an effect and an emotional tone. Annabel Cohen
notes that
The affective quality [of music] is consistent [with the diegesis]; the acoustical
aspects of the music are not. Although the affective associations produced by
the music seem to belong to the corresponding images, the sounds that pro-
duced those associations do not. Somehow, the brain attends to this affective
meaning, while ignoring or attenuating its acoustical source.41
As noted earlier, the unification of sound effects and music conjoins the
distinct psychologies of music and sound effects. The use of electronic
echo and reverb marks a musical appropriation of sound space, unifying
diegetic and non-diegetic sound as a psychological effect more than as a
representational counterpart of the images on-screen (and diegesis of
recorded voices). Sound theorist David Toop points to the “. . . attraction to
the synthetic mimicry of resonance, the structural potential of delays and
the physicality of sound waves in enclosed space has evolved into a wider
exploration of time, space and sound. . . .”42 This quotation may have been
aimed at a certain tendency in music, but it is equally applicable to the use
of sound in some films, films that are interested, in one way or another,
in exploring mental and psychological space. In other words, these films
are about mental space, enabled by the sonic dimension of the film that is
beyond representational functions.
SONIC SYMPHONIES
The close relationship between music and sound effects is highly evident
in mainstream films made after the second millennium. DJs and electronic
musicians Mike Truman and Chris Healings worked with film composer
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Harry Gregson-Williams on The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and
the Wardrobe (2005) and The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian (2008). As
well as having programming duties and helping Gregson-Williams with dig-
ital sounds, they also provided sonic backdrops to his music that were less
traditionally musical than related to film sound effects. Healings explains:
For the first Narnia, he wanted all these effects where the girl first walks into
the forest, so we used trees creaking, boats creaking, forest noises, cracking ice,
wind and so on. We used lots from the Sony Pro Series Sound libraries of sound
effects, taking them and running them through Reaktor [software], and mixing
them with non-digital sounding pads to create these ‘frozen’ effects for Harry to
lay his orchestra on top of.43
Increasing numbers of digital musicians are working in film. An early

example of a musician who worked with sound as a raw resource and found
his way to the cinema was Brian Williams (usually known artistically as
Lustmord). Starting in left-field rock music, some of his early recordings
were of specific spaces (such as the Dunster Abattoir in Bangor,Wales, and
Chartres Cathedral in France on Paradise Disowned [1984]). He worked
with the experimental rock group SPK when they were using ‘found’ metal
percussion, and he went on to produce regular recordings that sounded
like they were inspired by horror film soundtracks. His 1990 album Heresy
is seen as inaugurating the ‘dark ambient’ subgenre, while albums such
as The Monstrous Soul (1992) make copious use of horror film samples in
their nightmarish soundscapes. Over the past decade or so, Williams has
worked in Hollywood as a musical sound designer, usually in collaboration
with composer Graeme Revell (with whom he collaborated in SPK in the
1980s). Williams’s role in films like The Crow (1994) was to provide certain
sounds and ambiences that can be used in the film or in Revell’s score. This
suggests a unified sound design that is musical in its origin, as testified to
precisely by Williams’s screen credit.
A musical approach is meticulous with orchestration of sounds matched
by a fundamental concern with sound qualities. Jay Beck notes that “The
Exorcist [1973] is unique in the evolution of film sound for how it blurred
the boundaries between sound effects and music. [Certain distinctive
sound effects] . . . took on the musical function of leitmotifs throughout
the film, and their repetition carried an emotional connection to a prior
scene.”44 Director William Friedkin had declared a desire not to use conven-
tional musical scoring methods, and some of that function was adopted by
sound effects. Beck points convincingly to the overriding interest in timbre
that led to highly characteristic and singular sounds in such films. In The
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Exorcist, for example, the attic sound whose origin we never see was made
by mixing sounds of guinea pigs running on a sandpaper-covered board,
fingernails scratching, and a bandsaw flying through the air.45 Although
Beck is right to declare The Exorcist a unique case, the blurring of the
division between music and film sound is far from a new phenomenon.
Edmund Meisel, who wrote the prominent score for Eisenstein’s Battleship
Potemkin (1925), was mixing music and ‘noises’ in the 1920s and ’30s. In
1941, Marian Winter noted that
In his use of percussion instruments Meisel anticipated many effects of sound

film; the use of noise—Geräuschmusik—was his special interest, and after sound
film was an actuality he made a series of six records for Polydor which incor-
porated various noises into ‘effect music’—Street Noises, The Start and Arrival
of a Train, A Train Running till the Emergency Brake is Pulled, Noises of a Railway
Station, Machine Noises, A Bombardment and Music of the Heavenly Hosts.46
Such atmosphere was rarely pure music in the concert hall sense. Similarly,
the sense of integrated sound design is not necessarily simply a develop-
ment from digital technology and practices. Indeed, there is evidence of
this aesthetic approach going back to the earliest years of synchronized
sound cinema.
If we remember the basic sound capabilities available in 1931 when
Josef von Sternberg’s Shanghai Express (figures 6.4–6.16) was made, the
aesthetic character of the film’s soundtrack emerges as all the more remark-
able. At this point, films were struggling with recording basic dialogue, and
interest in sound beyond this was a rarity. Shanghai Express (like a num-
ber of von Sternberg’s films) evinces an intermittent and powerful sense
of dislocation between image and soundtracks. The film contains almost
no music, as it was produced at a time when incidental music had yet not
established itself as a mainstay of Hollywood sound cinema.47 A startling
sequence takes place near the film’s beginning, when the train pulls out of
Peking (Beijing) heading for Shanghai. The train is stopped by a crowd of
people and animals as it traverses a heavily populated area. This sequence
is extremely arresting in visual terms. A mass of lateral movement in the
foreground of the frame, consisting of people moving in different direc-
tions, is gradually parted by the appearance of the train in the distance of
the center of the frame and moving toward the camera. Slowly but surely,
the mass of people disperses to reveal the train coming directly toward the
camera but subsequently being halted by a cow standing on the tracks.
This triggers the interpolation of shots of an old man speaking to the cow,
encouraging it to move from the tracks, and the driver of the train regularly
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Figures 6.4–6.16: Shanghai Express (1931).
blasting the horn. The driver does this impassively without obvious annoy-
ance, and the old man’s words to the cow remain untranslated, as words in
Chinese (although for the purposes of authenticity, it should be Mandarin,
it is actually Cantonese) that for the overwhelming majority of the assumed
audience would merely have been textural in effect, and a sign of exotic
authenticity. This whole sequence is accompanied by the relentless, slow
tolling of the bell on the train. Once the train halts, there is the sound of
the steam engine. Whie a traditional analysis of the sequence might look for
narrative cues and a sense of development along these lines, this would not
account for the sequences in any satisfactory manner. The whole sequence
is dreamlike and appears to contain little in the way of narrative informa-
tion but much in the way of texture and abstraction. Indeed, extended sec-
tions of the film seem less interested in meaning in the semantic sense
than they are in the play of aesthetics as a path toward internal mental
states, or perhaps dream states. One remarkable aspect of the soundscape
in this sequence is the repeated sound of the bell. This marks something
of a slow rhythmic backdrop, dividing and structuring the sequence tem-
porally. The bell appears as a referent sound, around which all else in the
soundfield is keyed. There is a notably slow-paced dialogue scene between
Magdalen (Marlene Dietrich) and Captain ‘Doc’ Harvey (Clive Brook) in
a strange succession of frontal two-shots (containing both characters)
and shot reverse shots, rather than conventionally intercutting a series of
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angled shot reverse shots. Some of the shots become closer but many are
considerably obscured by pennant flags blowing in between the camera and
the two actors. Director von Sternberg was celebrated for his baroque stag-
ings and fetishized framings of Dietrich. He is also renowned for having a
propensity for notably slow pacing matched by a sparse soundtrack. This is
not to suggest that the film is silent, merely that sounds are often isolated
or spaced apart by a lack of other sounds and continued ambient tone. Thus
the soundtrack to Shanghai Express establishes a sense of quietude, some-
thing of the silence evident in dreams perhaps. Von Sternberg’s films with
Dietrich are all notably dreamlike, and the soundtrack often functions as
one of the major contributors to this effect.
The pivotal and defining soundmark of the tolling bell (providing a
regular key rhythm, with its iconic inevitability of persistence) in the
first sequence and the ensuing literal polyphony of voices make for a rich
soundtrack that does not miss the emotional dimension provided by inci-
dental music that would have been the norm later in the decade. To a high
degree, I would suggest, this soundtrack is organized in musical terms.
While its dynamics remain largely on one level of volume and intensity,
it structures a play of contrasts in organization of timbre. There is a dis-
tinct character to the timbres of different voices: the slow and deliberate
English-accented diction of Clive Brook as Doc, the smoky thick-accented
Dietrich as Shanghai Lily (who is also known as Magdalen), pert Anna Mae
Wong as Hui Fei, languid and airily pitched Walter Oland as Henry Chang,
and the rough and guttural barks of Eugene Pallet as Sam Salt. The contrast
is most notable between the languid (Dietrich, Doc, Chang) delivery and
the sharper (the more anxious Salt). Indeed, the qualities of Dietrich’s voice
are an attraction in themselves. The words she enunciates are sometimes
hard to make out, yet that matters little as her voice is a sumptuous sonic
texture, a timbre as distinctive as Miles Davis’s horn or Jimi Hendrix’s gui-
tar. Dialogue sequences, rather than being perfunctory, at times clearly
play around with sonic alternations and patterns: Dietrich’s (and Wong’s)
non-Anglo-American (for the purposes of the film) diction and articula-
tion, Oland’s spurious Chinese accent, and Pallet’s brash American Salt as
the sonic foothold for the assumed American audience.48 Clear contrasts
exist between languid vocal delivery (Dietrich, Brook, and Oland) deliv-
ery and more urgent and angular (Pallet and the French soldier Lenard)
delivery.
Apart from dialogue, there is little that is clearly synched to its ori-
gin: the horn blasts and the man’s words to the cow stand out. Before
this, there is a general noise from the crowd and the distant tolling of the
train’s bell, and then the indistinct rhythm from the static train’s steam
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engine. This all builds a sense of disconnection between sound and image.
We are presented with little that is directly synchronized until the dia-
logue sequence between Shanghai Lily and Captain Harvey, whom she calls
‘Doc’ in a wooden and unnatural, almost alienated manner. Apart from the
ambiguity of multiple names and identities, the dialogue is stilted, befit-
ting the bizarre history the two have as lovers, but more than this, there
is a concentrated play upon the timbre of Dietrich’s voice and her exotic
accent. The film’s visual fetishism is matched and sometimes eclipsed by its
aural fetishism.49 As was the case in other significant films of the time, such
as Frankenstein (1931) and Dracula (1931), there are critical passages of
silence. Indeed, the advent of synchronized recorded sound cinema allowed
the appearance of silence as a structured aspect of films. This embodies an
evident psychology of its own, encouraging the audience to be quiet and
engage more deeply with the film.50
At times, the collusion of sounds mark almost a symphony, a sounding
together of disparate elements corralled into a coherent whole. When there
is a proliferation of sounds, it is tempting to discuss them as being orches-
trated and indeed, they appear to be set out at least partly for their sonic
qualities rather than any narrative necessity. Furthermore, such musical
strategies as polyphony (the use of many distinct voices, often concur-
rently) and klangfarbenmelodie (the construction of a continuous melodic
line through a diverse array of sounds) appear evident. That Shanghai
Express achieved this with limited sound and synchronization technology,
and at a time when basic sound and image relations dominated Hollywood,
is astounding. Aesthetic possibilities divert the film, making the its visual
structure fluid, in that it is not dependent on narrative and dialogue as
agents of progression. Shanghai Express clearly illustrates an apprecia-
tion of sound beyond its immediate semantic content, most clearly when
Chinese is spoken and not translated. This puts the sounds on the side of
music (as part of the emotional) rather than as a functional agent of nar-
rative development, and it is one of the reasons why the film has such a
unique, dreamlike atmosphere.
CONCLUSION
Of course, music and sound effects have always been mixed despite efforts
to keep them separate. Film scores have regularly imitated diegetic sounds
(as indeed has music habitually imitated the sounds of nature). However,
in recent years, there has been more radical confusion of score and sound
effects. These two aspects of film sound, distinct since the coming of
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synchronized sound cinema, have converged and crossed what once was
a fairly impermeable membrane between them. The personnel involved in
their production often remain as distinct as in the heyday of the Hollywood
studio system, but techniques and hardware have encouraged a conver-
gence. Developments such as this need acknowledgment from those study-
ing film. The increased depth of aestheticization evident in many recent film
soundtracks renders many analyses that ignore their nuances little more
than naïve descriptions of ‘what happens’ in those films. Narratological
concerns should allow for the fact that sound-dominated films are essen-
tially sensual experiences.
Now, on one level, some of this discussion might seem naïve. Austere
music might well sound like sound effects to the uninitiated. I am aware
of this—but there is a tradition of sound effects in film (and also in some
television, and more prominently in videogames), and these recent scores/
soundtracks engage those traditions more than they come from outside
(from art music, for example). However, a number of recent films offer very
rich sonic landscapes that work on their own independently of their films.
This could be traced to the tradition of programmatic music, illustrating
vistas and places through sound, a tradition reinvigorated by certain ambi-
ent and new-age music. There might also be an influence from sound art,
which has been a burgeoning area of the art world over the past couple
of decades. It is incontrovertible that the category of music has expanded
to include many other sounds: for instance, CDs of natural sounds, not
just of singing whales, but recordings of natural landscapes, such as the
Global Journey CD Nature Recordings: Thunderstorm,51 not to mention the
recorded soundscapes of sonic artists like Hildegard Westerkamp. Such
soundscaping has perhaps less to do with any attempt to objectively record
a sound environment than it has to do with configuring sound psychogeo-
graphically as personal and emotional landscapes. To a degree, this process
might also be identified in some films that aim to produce a mental and
psychological aural landscape, as is the case in Saw, but this was also evi-
dent at the birth of sound cinema in a maverick film like Shanghai Express.
Freed from a functional role and the diegesis, and freely mixing diegetic
sound with music, film sound is able to manifest direct emotion and a pri-
mary psychology. The tradition of sound mixing and construction devel-
oped by classical Hollywood and influential the world over was premised
upon a solid demarcation of sound effects, dialogue, and music, and with a
concomitant clarity of purpose for each stratum and the system as a whole.
This appears to reflect a sense of clarity of purpose and solid understand-
ing of the relationships between things in the world that marked protean
American cinema of the time. By the same token, the collapse of consensus
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about sonic clarity might reflect social and political developments—per-
haps the cultural confusion is a reflection of, or simply emanates from, a
social and political confusion. We can speculate about such a reflection,
but what is beyond doubt is that there is a remarkable collapse of the space
between diegetic sound and non-diegetic music. This manifests a collapse
of mental space between film’s conscious and its unconscious, and perhaps
not only between rational and irrational elements in horror films but also
in cinema beyond.
Sounds are of interest in themselves and their individual qualities rather
than simply affording general semantic value. Pierre Schaeffer’s concept of
‘reduced listening’ encourages a focus on the sound itself instead of cause
and meaning (sound as itself rather than as a vehicle for something else).52
Although film sound offers much in the way of potential sensuality, there
is nevertheless a mental search for origins and explanations, inculcated by
the very audiovisual nature of film. Some acousmatic sounds pose ques-
tions, and on occasion, sounds can detract from diegetic effect and narra-
tive development. In the early 1930s, British documentary filmmaker Basil
Wright pointed out that, “Once orchestrated, [any sound] will become as
abstract as music. Orchestrated abstract sound is the true complement to
film. . . . It can intensify the value of, say, an aeroplane in flight in a way which
natural aeroplane sound could not achieve.”53 His sense was that sound in
the cinema was not the same as sound outside. We realize this: Sounds of
punches and rain, among other things, have to be exaggerated in films, and
we should never forget that many sounds are less a direct representation
than an aesthetic construction.
Film scores traditionally have mimicked and bolstered sound effects,
but increasingly, sound effects have become film music. Music in films has
an intimately close relationship with the film’s overall sound design: when
there is a convergence of sound effects, ambient sound, and music. On the
one hand, this might be attributed to the development of digital surround
film sound and the corresponding importance of sound design in main-
stream films. On the other, though, it might be accounted for by social and
cultural aspects outside cinema: There has been a gradual but exponen-
tial increase in the degree of ambient sound and music over the past two
decades.54 Increasingly, film sound effects are often used less to bolster a
sense of verisimilitude than they are to create an aesthetic effect as, for all
intents and purposes, music. Sound design in these films might be under-
stood as essentially musical in nature, following a musical logic rather than
any other.
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CH APTER 7
‘Pre’ and ‘Post’ Sound
T he cliché of the pianist playing a tune while delivering dialogue was

a characteristic film phenomenon in the 1940s. Casablanca (1942)
and To Have and Have Not (1944) had convincing pianists. Films such as
Dangerous Moonlight (1941, U.S. title: Suicide Squadron) were less credible,
with Anton Wallbrook’s concert pianist-fighter pilot perched at the key-
board often facing the camera in order to avoid a close-up of inappropri-
ate hand movements as he declaimed. Unconvincing pianists on-screen
can undermine the illusion of a film’s unity of sound and image. The
problem was, of course, that filmmaking conceived of such piano playing
as merely an incidental part of the action, of little importance. However,
such details can be among the most important determinants in furnishing
a sense of unity and illusion. Anticipation can look fake, as can exagger-
ated and out-of-time movement. More convincing performances (such as
in Sam Peckinpah’s Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia [1974]) live less long
in the memory than the less convincing (British film Love Story [1944]).1
Considering these sequences discloses not just the illusionism central
to cinema but the logic of connecting sound and associated image as an
assumed source, as an organic cause-and-effect unity, one that was filmed
and recorded as a single pro-filmic event.
Most sound in films is post-synchronized one way or another. Almost
all music in films is added in post-production, most commonly a musi-
cal score. Since the earliest days of synchronized sound films, there has
also been a process called ‘tracking,’ whereby library music (also known as
stock music) or other existing music can simply be added to film footage
in post-production, on occasion with little care for the precision of image
and sound coherence exhibited by films that have music written to fit their
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precise dynamics. Sometimes films can shoot to music that defines the
staging and decoupage of a sequence, as in film musicals, and sometimes
film can be cut to music added in post-production. Although much music
and sound appear to be synchronized to moving images on film, with the
corresponding assumption that image and sound were created at the same
time (or that music was created as a secondary supplement to the prime
images), the reality of film production is often far from this. Animated
films, for example, tend to record the soundtrack first so that it may be
used as a guide for the actual animation. Achieving things the other way
around is much more problematic, although far from impossible. Sound
and music might predate a film and provide a blueprint for its staging,
shooting, and editing or, as in most cases with sound and incidental music,
they can be added onto a film that is, conceptually at least, not too far from
being a finished product.
This chapter considers pre- and post-production sound, addressing the
various conventional forms and degrees of synchronization in circula-
tion. The opening section of this chapter looks into lip-synching, where
screen actions are matched to preexisting sound and music. In these
cases, the correspondence of image and sound is at the behest of the pri-
mary element: sound. Subsequently, this chapter considers the reverse of
the lip-synching: dubbed dialogue, which replaces an original voice with
another and emphasizes the artificiality of the audiovisual lock of sound
cinema. Generally, this chapter addresses some of the practices that work
against a notion of sound ‘belonging’ with its corresponding image and
maintaining an organic relationship. Although we tend to perceive sound
and image as a seamless unity, both pre- and post-synch sound are not fused
organically with the image. Instead, the unity is formed in the moment of
confluence and illustrates not only Michel Chion’s notion of synchresis but
also how far audiences are willing to accept sounds and images that do not
belong to each other as unproblematic composites.
Synchronizing images to preexisting music involves the cutting of images
to sounds or staging events in front of the camera to existing sound record-
ings (and in many cases both). On the other hand, post-synching of sound
to images involves dubbing of voices and adding music later (as is the tra-
dition in mainstream film scoring). While preexisting sound matched by
images tends to be highly integrated, as sound dominates and image move-
ments are motivated by sonic activity, it contains a grain of the uncanny.
The regular lack of corresponding sound space between sound and image is
highly conventionalized, but it can be disturbing if used in a manner that
normally might require a realistic (a different convention) relationship of
image and its attendant sounds. Similarly, there is also the slight potential
‘PRE’ AND ‘POST ’ SOUND [155]
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for anticipation of the sounds by the images, where the staging of move-
ments to fit the sounds might overeagerly preempt the sounds by a fraction
of a second.
Post-synchronized sound might initially seem to be far less integrated
than the norm: Voice dubbing often involves a lesser or greater degree of
mismatch. Sometimes this involves anticipation but more often comprises
lateness and failure to matching with any precision. Similarly, film scores can
be loose in their relationship to actions on-screen, although there is a tradi-
tion of being perhaps too precise, embodied by Mickey Mousing, whereby
actions are mimicked crassly with precise synchronization by the music.
The use of preexisting music as a score can often go unnoticed. However,
in certain cases (such as when pop songs are used as a non-diegetic score),
the organization of the images bears closer relationship to the structure
and texture of the music than to any notion of the film as an object with its
own logic beyond music.
In these regimes of synchronization, the gap between seeing and hear-
ing can be the defining aspect. The width of the gap is crucial, as is how far
it can give without losing a sense of synchronization. In some cases, the
loose bond can stretch impressively and the degree of give contained in
the seeming unity of sound and image is proven to be highly robust and of
momentous tensile strength. Michel Chion notes the difference in speed
of cognition between the faster sound and the slower image.2 The key to
each approach is convention, permitting a wide variety of relationships to
remain acceptable. Mainstream films by and large aim for a kind of sonic
naturalism (as discussed in previous chapters) that arguably has come to
fulfill Eisenstein’s fears about the potential for sound in films to be reduced
to the production of what is, in effect, filmed stage plays.3 Rick Altman
characterized the talkie as ventriloquism, with sound and image merely
reproducing dialogue and prescribing standard visual style.4 For many
films, this remains the norm. This ‘zero degree’ style of sound cinema (the
dominant, unremarkable conventions of sonic naturalism) is the format
that goes unnoticed as seemingly natural in its overwhelming prevalence
and simplicity. Proceeding from this zero degree style of sound cinema,
this and the following chapter look at points of divergence from this norm.
Up to this point, the book has dealt with the process of movement
between synchronized sound and images and asynchrony as a general
process. This chapter encounters a number of strategies that, while not
abrogating the dynamic, maintain distinct agendas of their own. The articu-
lation of sound and image around synch points can lead to different econo-
mies of synchronization, whereby particular approaches yield idiosyncratic
schemes of audiovisual unity and disunity. Rather than simply oscillating
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between simple synchronization and asynchrony, as described and investi-
gated previously, some of the formats under discussion in this chapter are
defined absolutely by their approach. For instance, the use of playback or
so-called lip-synching in film musicals retains a constant synchronization
(and for dance it is only slightly less). This chapter illustrates the strategies
that often (although not in all cases) become sustained regimes of synchro-
nization, and in the process mark a break from the convention of move-
ment between synchronization and asynchrony. Indeed, each method of
matching audio and visual detailed here is an exception one way or another
(determined by genre, aesthetic approach, director’s individual method, or
cultural transformation) to the dominant modes of mainstream dramatic
cinema.
LIP-SYNCH PLAYBACK
The influx of synchronized recorded sound to films in the wake of The Jazz
Singer (1927) amazed audiences and enthralled them with the illusory syn-
chronization of the images and voices of actors. It was hardly surprising
that musicals should be one of the first film genres to boom in the earliest
years of sound cinema. They were relatively easy to make and quite quickly
had the option of a musical recording being played back for the actors to
mime rather than relying on the vicissitudes of awkward dialogue record-
ing on the set. In Singin’ in the Rain (1952), much jollity is made of the
turmoil caused in Hollywood by the arrival of the talkies 25 years before
the film’s release. Indeed, the film is illustrative of the absurdity of the
illusion that lies at the heart of sound cinema. Successful silent actor Don
Lockwood (Gene Kelly) attempts to rework his currently scheduled silent
film as a synchronized sound film. When the finished product is screened,
it has a comic effect on the audience members, who are driven into parox-
ysms of laughter by the use of melodramatic silent acting allied to repeti-
tious and inane dialogue by the sound film format. The utter humiliation
of Don and his attempt to cross over to sound films arise when the film
falls out of synch and the audience is confronted with visual events made
ridiculous by inappropriate dialogue and sounds. The film appears less
interested in the disjunction of voice and image than in the comic effects
of the inappropriateness of matched word and action. Of course, Singin’ in
the Rain bases this sequence on an apparently common occurrence in the
early years of sound cinema that was particularly regular before the ousting
of Vitaphone’s sound-on-disc by the sound-on-film process: that of losing
sound and image synchronization.
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Figure 7.1: Singin’ in the Rain (1952).
While interested in the disruption of synchronized sound and the pro-

cess of early sound films, Singin’ in the Rain is also concerned with voice and
image synchronization in the form of the convention of lip-synching or
playback. This is dramatized when Lina Lamonte’s (Jean Hagen) inelegant
voice is dubbed by Cathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds) (figure 7.1). However,
the voice that we hear is not Debbie Reynolds’s but rather Jean Hagen’s.
The film’s final song, a version of the film’s title song, appears to be sung
on stage by Lina while it is lip-synched live by Cathy who is singing from
behind a curtain as the former mimes.5 However, in reality it is again not
Reynolds’s voice, as all her songs in the film were actually sung by Betty
Noyes, who never appears on-screen.6 So, not only does the film lie to us, it
also tricks us with double-bluffs. With perception, Carol Clover notes that
So wide is the gap between what Singin’ in the Rain says and what it does that
one is tempted to see a relation between the two—to see the moralizing surface
of Singin’ in the Rain as a guilty disavowal of the practice that went into its own
making.7
The film’s dramatization of its own deception illustrates a live process that
can be similar to its screen counterpart. Some musical performers have had
recourse to using live vocal doubles, although in more cases, they utilize
playback recordings to which they can mime. Perhaps the most celebrated
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case is that of Whitney Houston at the opening ceremony for the 1991
Superbowl, as elucidated by Steve Wurtzler in his article named after the
official explanation (“She Sang Live but the Microphone was Turned Off ”).8
The concluding song of Singin’ in the Rain very self-consciously indicates
that the audience should be aware of artifice, and that popular culture
objects like the film they are watching not only employ such modes of
deception, but also playfully inform their audience of the fact that tradi-
tional musical films are made by filming actors miming to a playback of a
sound recording.
Although Singin’ in the Rain might be approached as an exception to the
mainstream classical musical in some ways, it also exhibits more traditional
procedures of song synchronization. Songs such as the iconic sequence of
Don singing the title song as he dances in the rain entail him bursting into
song accompanied by an invisible orchestra, while the concluding version
of the same song mimed to by Lina appears as if it is a real recording of a
song being performed live. In previous writing, I suggested two terms to
differentiate between means of visual accompaniment to a song or dance
sequence in musicals.9 I used the term ‘performance mode’ to designate
an attempt to express an ineluctable connection between images seen and
sounds heard, indicating where images appear to confirm the production
of simultaneous sounds. Moving away from this, sometimes images show
only some of the music’s production. The clearest example of this would be
the bursting into song of the integrated film musical, for which I used the
term ‘lip synch mode,’ deriving from the industrial process of matching
the lips to a preexisting musical playback. Both the performance mode and
the lip synch mode offer a greater or lesser degree of the experience of the
performers of the song or dance for the implied audience. The performance
mode references a documenting of ‘the real,’10 while the lip-synch mode
tends to signify a hyperbolic move to ‘fantasy,’ the former being associated
particularly with backstage musicals and the latter with integrated musi-
cals such as Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954) or South Pacific (1958).
Like many musicals, the film of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the
Opera (2005) mixes the two, with operatic arias sung in public at the opera
house using the performance mode and songs sung intimately between
characters using the lip-synch mode. As this description suggests, the two
modes often work in different manners, with the former more amenable
to use in mainstream dramatic films and the latter indicating a traditional
integrated film musical. Indeed, the performance mode is a valid descrip-
tion of the filming of live performances in music documentary films like
The Last Waltz (1978) with The Band or Some Kind of Monster (2004) with
Metallica, or isolated musical performances in dramas, such as Lauren
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Bacall singing Sob Sister while leaning on a piano at a party in The Big Sleep
(1945). Perhaps a more recent instance of this would be Bill Murray sing-
ing karaoke at an apartment in Tokyo in Lost in Translation (2003). While
the lip-synch mode has traditionally signified the genre of the film musi-
cal, there have still been isolated cases where its non-realistic aspects have
graced films that follow less fantastic traditions than the musical. In most
cases, however, it aspires to fantastical effect to a lesser or greater degree.
In Bollywood and other popular Hindi films, there is a strong tradition of
including fantastic songs using the lip-synch mode, which does not mean
that these films should be approached using the body of thought accrued
around the classical musical, although the similarities should not be disre-
garded. Bollywood film production focuses notably upon the song playback,
using famous (indeed, very identifiable) singers whose sounds are then
lip-synched by a different person on the screen. Such a situation is perhaps
a rarity in mainstream Hollywood films, unless, of course, the film hap-
pens to be a biographical film or biopic about a famous singer, like What’s
Love Got to Do With It (1993), which starred Angela Bassett as singer Tina
Turner, The songs Bassett appeared to sing were re-recordings completed
for the film by Turner herself. The situation blurs slightly when it comes to
some other musician biopics. Val Kilmer not only made a highly effective
Jim Morrison, but he also did some of his own singing for Oliver Stone’s
The Doors (1991). Indeed, it is challenging to tell which of the singing is
Kilmer’s and which is Morrison’s. The same goes for Andy Serkis as singer
Ian Dury in Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll (2009), where he sang Dury’s songs
throughout the film. A similar process also took place with Control (2007),
the British biopic of the short and tragic career of Ian Curtis, the singer for
Joy Division. Actor Sam Riley sang some of Curtis’s lines in certain songs
performed in the film while the group playing musical backing at times was
clearly not Joy Division. There is some veracity in this artifice, though. Joy
Division’s studio sound was highly singular, whereas they sounded more
generic when live, and it is in the film’s live performances that the reality of
Joy Division’s sound is replaced by the reality of the actor’s performance.11
In David Lynch’s Wild at Heart (1990), Nicholas Cage (as Sailor) was
originally going to mime to Elvis Presley songs but ended up actually using
his own voice as it fitted the songs well enough. Wild at Heart broke one
of the cardinal rules of serious mainstream cinema in that it borrowed
directly from such a stylized and unrealistic form as the film musical. On
a couple of occasions, the film indulges the audience with almost comic
song moments (within the context of a film that at times has a tone of
extreme gravity) that owe much to film musicals. Indeed, the film’s open-
ing appeared to be a denial of audience expectations. David Lynch had
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just come to some popular prominence due to the success of his television
serial Twin Peaks (1990–91). Almost as if he wanted to deny the quirky and
good-natured aspects of that program, the film opens with one of the most
violent sequences imaginable, when lead character Sailor smashes another
character’s head repeatedly on a marble stairway. This violent action is syn-
chronized to fast, rhythmic, thrash metal riffs. Such a heavily punctuated
guitar-based rhythm is highly effective in an action sequence because it is
particularly well-defined structurally, making for emphatic beats as quarter
notes with regular 16th notes muted in between. At the time of Wild at
Heart’s production, such music was almost never used as an accompani-
ment to action, but there has been a growing number of instances of its use
in films, such as in the attempted rape scene in Alien3 (1992).12
There are notable moments when Wild at Heart adopts the disposition of
a film musical, although these are isolated occurrences. In the first musi-
cal sequence of the film, Sailor and girlfriend Lula (Laura Dern) are at a
dancehall where the group Powermad is playing. Their fast, kinetic thrash
punk inspires Sailor to do some energetic and gymnastic dancing. He then
has a confrontation with another man and a potential altercation ends up
being only narrowly avoided. The band has stopped playing and the focus is
firmly on the confrontation between the two characters. Immediately after
this, Sailor climbs up onto the stage with Powermad. They commence play-
ing the Elvis Presley song “Love Me” and he provides the lead vocals for the
song, singing directly to Lula who is standing in front of the stage. Little
attempt is made to hide that this is a playback recording, even though it
uses the performance mode and could be presented as if it is a real event.
Although the sequence is not comic, it has an unmistakable sense of the
ironic through its recourse to a technique distinctive of the more fantastic
musical format. In terms of musical strategy, Wild at Heart goes further. At
the conclusion of the film, after Sailor has walked away from Lula and his
young son, he is beaten up by a gang of youths, and a fairy then appears
to him, floating in the sky. Although the film has included some strange
moments, this is unprecedented. The fairy tells him to return to his family,
and Sailor runs through the street and catches up with them, whereupon
he climbs onto the roof of a car and sings “Love Me Tender,” another song
associated with Elvis Presley. This song sequence follows the strategies of
the traditional integrated musical form, where a character bursts into song
with no musicians present (what I have termed the lip-synch mode). The
musical backing is thus non-diegetic, like a musical score, while the singing
is diegetic, like dialogue. There is a shift of audiovisual regime, via an audio
dissolve,13 where the dominant strategies of narrative cinema recede to be
replaced by the modes of the film musical.
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This sequence seems contradictory, as the rest of the film does not
involve techniques that are associated so directly with the fantastical and
stylized film musical. Indeed, some sections of the film appear to aim for
quite hard-hitting impressions of the real rather than the stylized, partic-
ularly in terms of the aforementioned sequence of violence at the film’s
opening. However, in some ways, the “Love Me Tender” sequence fits the
continued and exaggerated representation of emotional extremes that is
a feature of Wild at Heart, and of course, music is a primary signifier and
means of expressing extreme emotion in the cinema. These sections of the
film come across as clear fantasy more than other sections, and they aim to
engage with the golden age of Hollywood, both in terms of the referencing
the film musical’s aesthetic format and in terms of its dream factory opti-
mism, a rarity in post-classical Hollywood films.
The “Love Me Tender” sequence at Wild at Heart’s conclusion embodies
a not- uncommon trend in films that has become more prevalent in recent
years, that of ‘pre-fitting’ a film, whereby existing recordings are integrated
and visual sequences are filmed to fit them while they are being played
back. Such playback sequences bear a notable resemblance to music videos
and arguably mark one of the most obvious points of cross-fertilization
between films and music videos. Such musical sequences can often take the
form of a set piece and retain a notable demarcation from the rest of the
film, like traditional film musical song sequences. An early example along
such lines would be Charlie Chaplin’s song and dance sequence near the end
of Modern Times (1936), where he broke the film’s defiant strategy of sonic
limitation to incidental music and some featured sound effects, allowing
the audience to hear his singing voice. A more recent example would be
the dance competition sequence at Jackrabbit Slim’s in Pulp Fiction (1994),
where Vincent (John Travolta) and Mia (Uma Thurman) dance to Chuck
Berry’s “You Never Can Tell.” Both sequences involve only diegetic sounds
but remain distinct set pieces that are a reminder of the nomadic modes of
the film musical, as well as making for integral sections that can easily be
excised for publicity purposes.
The key ingredient of this process arguably takes place in the shooting
of the sequence, where synchronization is aimed at by the actors. Music,
however, is the primary object, seeing as it already exists and thus compels
the film’s visual aspects to cohere around its material aspects rather than
vice versa. In discussing Fred Astaire’s singing and dancing, Alan Williams
notes: “The phenomenological effect is that the visuals become in some
way an extension of the song. Astaire’s body is not given as the point of
origin of the music, but rather as the sign of the origin of the music, which
thereby seems to emanate from the whole image.”14 Indeed, the process of
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pre-fitting casts the images as subordinate to the song or piece of music,
which, to a lesser or greater extent, is interpreted by the staging and cutting
of the images. The simple process of synching image and sound appears to
signify or give an impression of ‘the real’ in films, yet the use of conven-
tions connected to film fantasy in more dramatic contexts can prove to be
innovative but also disruptive.
Overall, pre-fitting films by starting from the music can permit music
to dominate, as in the case of film musicals, where the visuals are staged
to fit preexisting sounds, namely the song recordings. The fact that music
dominates the production in such sequences proves that this is in fact the
most integrated that sound and image can be: retaining a regular sense
of synchronism.15 However, there is nonetheless the persistent potential
for a mismatch of precise synchronization of sounds to their seeming ori-
gins on-screen. This can become an uncanny effect of nearly preempting
sounds with corresponding movements. Miming actors might anticipate
the sounds or music, a situation that readily can be identified in cheaply
produced playback sequences. One of the clearest examples of this on
British television was the BBC’s Top of the Pops (1963–2006), a parade of
best-selling records where singers and musicians with a few notable excep-
tions mimed to their records. In similar modestly budgeted films, such
as the music revue Gonks Go Beat (1965), musicians’ actions are not well
matched to the recordings they attempt to visually accompany.
A fundamental issue in relation to the use of playback is how far the
sequence aims to reproduce a performance that appears to be real (per-
formance mode) or one that expresses fantasy (lip-synch mode). The for-
mer strives to convey the reality of the performance, particularly in the
face of widespread and understood falsification of live performance.16 The
visual elements, most notably the style of camerawork and editing, func-
tion as guarantors of the reality of the event more than the sound. For
instance, while accompanied by non-diegetic music, Fred Astaire’s dances
invariably entail little cutting and the consistent use of a full-stage ‘tableau’
long shot, in order to establish the space within which the reality of perfor-
mance can take place.17 Although it might be a moot point as to how much
and what level of reality is present in such sequences, there is nevertheless
an appeal to the camera and microphone as devices that capture an event.
As an aesthetic of recording action, the use of long takes with synchro-
nized sound guarantees the veracity of the event as transmitted. The key
with playback sequences is the staging of visuals to complement an existing
musical recording, expanding the notion of choreography beyond planned
movement to embrace facial and bodily expression, as well as camera move-
ment.18 Central to such pre-fitting of film with music is that filmmakers
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(directors, music editors, sound designers, etc.) often maintain a strong
concept of what is required from their knowledge about the music that will
be used to animate the sequence.
MATCHING EXISTING MUSIC
The use of preexisting music in a film is known in the industry as ‘tracking’

and can take place with library music, written especially for use in films
for general moods, or recordings of music that were not intended for use
in film.19 The preponderance of recordings used in mainstream films are
instrumental classical music or jazz, or pop songs; in many cases, they are
used as non-diegetic music, as a replacement for a specially written score to
fit the film’s requirements. In some cases, the film fits the music’s require-
ments and there is a persistent feeling that these might less be films with
musical accompaniment than they are music accompanied by images that
to some degree might be seen as emanating from the sonic original. While
pop songs are common in mainstream films, on occasion, classical music
has been used as non-diegetic music, and the images can become choreo-
graphed to the rhythmic and dynamic patterns of the piece used.20 A fine
example is the renowned use of the Strauss waltz The Beautiful Blue Danube
accompanied by the slow, graceful images of spaceships gliding in slow
motion in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Initially, this
might seem highly incongruous but in filmic terms, the images lack a sense
of much movement and this is provided by the music.21 The regime is not
fully synchronized and lacks regular synch points, although the decoupage
and staging are clearly dictated by the requirements of music more than
anything else. In discussing 2001: A Space Odyssey, Claudia Gorbman notes
the sense of dislocation between music and images in Kubrick’s “audio-
visual choreography” of this sequence, commenting that both Michel
Chion (music is “outside”) and Royal S. Brown (a “parallel emotional/aes-
thetic universe”) also indicate a lack of integration in the highly successful
sequence.22
Kubrick’s The Shining (1980), like his earlier 2001: A Space Odyssey and
Barry Lyndon (1975), predominantly used a soundtrack of preexisting
pieces of music.23 While it appears that these pieces were not played on
set,24 their place in the final product is prominent to the point of domi-
nance. Kubrick had commissioned Wendy Carlos to provide a score for the
film but then rejected almost all of it in favor of his selection of art music
pieces, only some of which were used as the temp track for the rough cut of
the film.25 These pieces of music excerpted from larger pieces are dominated
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by dissonant and austere sounds, ranging from Béla Bartok’s “Music for
Strings, Percussion and Celesta” to Krzysztof Pendrecki’s “Dream of Jacob.”
Although some of the pieces were adapted, cut, remixed, and combined
for the film’s requirements, they nevertheless have a significant impact on
the sense of structure and articulation of elements in the image track, and
perhaps to a lesser degree on the other elements of the soundtrack. It is
difficult for a film to accommodate such pieces without adaptation.26 The
tendency is for such music to inspire the film’s editing to cohere around
the rhythms of the music, or for the action to be matched in a manner
that makes it appear as if it had been staged and choreographed to the
music. A good illustration of this in The Shining is the sequence where Jack
Torrance (Jack Nicholson) is enraged after his wife accuses him of hurting
their son. He walks toward the back-pedaling steadicam camera operator
in one of the shorter corridors of the hotel (figure 7.2) and makes vigor-
ous and violent arm movements, which ape but do not temporally match
the stabs in the music. One violent movement is accompanied by a musi-
cal sforzando that appears like a classic horror film stinger chord. Other
arm movements, however, are not matched by musical stabs. Yet more
sforzandi appear in the music, disconnected from the action and seemingly
out of synch, at least potentially. This is a bizarre and singular effect. It is
like Mickeymousing knocked out of whack. This partial recognition of a
well-worn and clichéd technique proves erroneous. Techniques here serve
to disorientate the audience, partially through film syntactic disjunction
but also through ambiguities about synchronization.
Figure 7.2: The Shining (1980).
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This sequence inculcates the impression of the world out of synch.
Indeed, Kubrick subtly follows such strategies of audience disconcertion
throughout the film. One notable moment along these lines is the dialogue
scene between Jack and Grady in the toilet, when the 180 degree line is
traversed by the camera in the midst of a conventional shot reverse shot
sequence. This breaks one of the cardinal rules of spatial continuity in cin-
ema and has the effect of ‘misusing’ the audience’s understanding of spatial
conventions. Jack appears (following the expectations set up by continu-
ity) to move positions from left to right. Of course, this is a significant
moment in the narrative’s progression, and such supernatural/psychologi-
cal ruses are central moves in the film’s development.
One memorable sequence involves Jack going to room 237, and the ensu-
ing sequence is almost devoid of diegetic sound, instead containing loud
music.27 At times, the dislocation of the sound and image tracks works as a
psychological effect. The sequence just described is highly unnerving, with
events unfolding in a slow and almost dreamlike manner, while the music
involves regular bursts of sound building to a slow pulse that is not synched
with anything apparent on-screen. Perhaps one reason for the effective-
ness of the music in this sequence specifically and in the film more gener-
ally is its relationship to primary physical aspects, notably the body’s sound
functions. The human heartbeat is homologized by regular intermittent
blasts of musical and diegetic sound, including Danny’s pedal car’s alterna-
tion between the sounds of the floor and the carpet as he pedals down the
endless corridors of the Overlook Hotel, and Jack rhythmically bouncing a
ball against the wall. The heartbeat as part of the film’s non-diegetic sound
is most prominent when Jack meets the woman in room 237.28 While this
appears to unfold in slow motion, the soundtrack contains no correspond-
ing diegetic sound and instead has a musical heartbeat that implicates a
nervous audience in the body of the film (this appears to be a hangover
from Wendy Carlos’s almost totally rejected score). As a complement to the
film’s doubling of our own deep body sounds, we also hear a high-pitched
whine not dissimilar to the sounds produced by our nervous systems. This
is evident in the Ligeti and Penderecki pieces, although they have been
sonically enhanced for the film. Such physical aspects are not necessarily
rarities in music, which is often more organic (or at least more organically
inspired) than many often realize. Here, the sound and music manifest in
metaphorical form the beating heart and subjectivity of the film, as well as
its nervous audience, suggesting an external force to the images (the evil in
the hotel?).29 The reuse of existing music usually does not allow for excep-
tionally precise synchronization. The sense of coalescence has to come from
the overall tone of the action, music, and editing process.
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The Shining’s use of existing music derives from the filmmaking tra-
dition of applying preexisting recordings of music as library or stock
music, when off-the-shelf musical cue recordings are simply edited
into film rather than having a composer manufacture a specially writ-
ten score. It was not uncommon for Hollywood studios to cut up music
from a film to facilitate the reuse of it in other (often lower prestige)
productions. Perhaps the best example would be the use of edited sec-
tions from Franz Waxman’s music for The Bride of Frankenstein (1935)
in the adventure serials Flash Gordon (1936), Flash Gordon’s Trip to Mars
(1938), and Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe (1940), as well as in
other films of the time. Originally, this cheaper form of film music con-
struction was the domain of low-rent film productions, but in recent
years, its status appears to have changed. Robynn Stilwell and Philip
Powrie’s edited book Changing Tunes: the Use of Pre-Existing Music in
Film is dedicated to the prevalent use of existing recordings of music in
films, as either non-diegetic or diegetic music.30 It demonstrates that,
although far from new, the process of using preexisting music in films
has become a cultural norm and prevailing practice in recent years, with
both pop songs and art music. Although some might be concerned with
the potential jeopardy to the cultural status of some pieces of art music,
there is not much concern with how existing music and new images
are synchronized. Yet it is not respected concert hall music that domi-
nates this process but commercial pop song recordings. Indeed, some
films are assembled around a succession of pop songs that seem to
manifest in some cases a more coherent unity (as a soundtrack compila-
tion album) than the accompanying film does. Nonetheless, a series of
songs can be used to sophisticated effect in films,31 with directors like
Quentin Tarantino wielding pop songs as centrally important elements
in his films.32
The both celebrated and disparaged sequence in Tarantino’s Reservoir
Dogs (1992), when Mr. Blonde (Michael Madsen) cuts off the ear of a tied-up
policeman, is soundtracked memorably with the 1970s pop song “Stuck in
the Middle with You” by Stealer’s Wheel. The song could easily have been
presented as non-diegetic music, but instead appears diegetically played
on a radio. Broadly, it serves the same function, but it crucially articulates
diegetic, as well as narrative, action as the torturer dances to its inanely
bopping rhythm. The song also adds a further sense of the grotesque to the
horrific scene and embodies Michel Chion’s notion of anempathetic music
that remains indifferent and refuses to concur with the emotional dispo-
sition of events unfolding on-screen.33 The actual moment of the captive
policeman’s ear being severed is particularly horrifying, even though there
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are no explicit shots of the act and indeed the camera turns coyly away into
the corner to avoid capturing the event.34 The fact that we get sound with-
out images makes it all the more horrific.35
The point when Mr. Blonde steps outside of the claustrophobic torture
room into the daylight provides momentary (and welcome) respite from
the ongoing torture, but it also provides relief from the song playing on
the radio. The music’s decline in volume moves the audience away from
horrific activity (as the camera follows the torturer), but soon Mr. Blonde
returns, and the rise in the volume of the music signals to the audience that
it should prepare for further beastliness. The music functions as the agent
of torture in this sequence and forces other elements to synchronize with
it, namely the movement of actors on-screen and points of narrative devel-
opment. The continuity of sound is the skeletal backbone of the sequence
rather than any narrative of torture; indeed, it closely resembles traditional
song and/or dance sequences in film musicals in that the image almost
becomes an accompaniment to the song. This is an intermittent strategy
throughout Reservoir Dogs, where the fictional radio station ‘K-Billy Super
Sounds of the Seventies’ with its deadpan-voiced DJ (comedian Steven
Wright) imparts a sonic continuity across the film and affords the opportu-
nity for audio dissolves into sequences with foregrounded music and mar-
ginal diegetic sound.
While the use of pop songs in films has been a customary practice since
the 1980s,36 there are few films that resort to such emphasis on the songs
or foregrounding of the music more than Reservoir Dogs.37 Much popular
music can appear equally in the background in films. Indeed, for some
years, there has been an area of music production that has had its eye on
the possibility of being used as instrumental music in film or television.38
D. J. Shadow’s 1997 album Endtroducing . . . has supplied a few pieces that
should be familiar from their constant use for atmospheric moments on
television programs and in films. One of the pieces, Stem/Long Stem, was
originally supposed to have singing on it, but instead, as D. J. Shadow him-
self observed:
. . . [I] opted for the instrumental version. It was probably a good thing, because
the track is the one that somebody in Hollywood is always wanting to use for
some scary movie. [laughs] Not that that’s all that matters, but Stem was par-
ticularly important to articulate a cinematic feeling.39
The success of this piece among others demonstrates conclusively that

incidental music need not precisely match and support the dynamics of a
scene. Instead, the footage it accompanies might be cut to fit its temporal
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and dynamic impetus, or the matching of sound and images can assume a
looser character.
In recent years, the process of fitting, staging, and cutting film to a piece
of preexisting music has become common and more carefully crafted than
in previous years. The rhythmic impetus of the music and its structure in
most cases cannot be significantly altered, with the consequence that the
images and the editing have to accommodate the temporal dynamics of
the music. By and large, broad, sustained musical patterns accompany slow
visual movements and occasional cuts, whereas active, busy music with
strong rhythmic impetus usually accompanies sequences of rapid action
with fast cutting.
Such use of existing music is a tradition with a long past. During the
silent period, there were music libraries or compendiums of already exist-
ing sheet music that would then be woven together by a film theatre’s
musical director. These included Giuseppe Becce and Hans Erdmann’s
Kinothek (1919), Edith Lang and George West’s Musical Accompaniment of
Moving Pictures (1920), and Ernö Rapée’s Compendium (1924, 1925). With
the advent of recorded music for film, library music ceased to be written
music on paper and became recordings to furnish general moods and pro-
vide aural wallpaper for low-budget film productions. Nonetheless, there
is a legacy from these music libraries, not least in the manner that films
can be ‘fitted up’ with music derived from an unrelated source. A sense of
aesthetics, dynamics, and care in sequencing of music and image is essen-
tial to effective post-synchronization of sound with images. The process
discussed above bears an unmistakable similarity to the routine of ‘fit-
ting up’ or ‘synchronization’ as it was often known, when silent films were
furnished with a fabric of existing pieces of music. This was a customary
technique from the second decade of the 20th century until the displace-
ment of silent cinema with live music by films with synchronized recorded
soundtracks some two decades later.40 Indeed, ambition led to some excep-
tionally artful musical scores built from compilations of musical material,
such as Joseph Carl Breil’s for D. W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915), and
William Axt and David Mendoza’s for King Vidor’s The Big Parade (1925),
among many other films.
THE PERSISTENCE OF SILENT SOUND
One might argue that post-synching the images with sounds is a natu-
ral state of affairs in film, as this was the norm until the advent of sound
cinema, and where sounds and music would be added live as the film was
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being projected. Silent cinema had a certain amount of autonomy for
images and music respectively, which was conventionalized by the recorded
soundtrack’s domination by matching dialogue. However, as I noted in ear-
lier chapters, there is certainly a strong case for the survival of the aes-
thetics of silent cinema in the margins of mainstream cinema, such as
in montage sequences, where music can often take the foreground and
diegetic sound often recedes to nothing. Generally speaking, foregrounded
music tends to appear in sequences when dialogue has receded, or when
there is a visual spectacle that requires something of an aural equivalent in
terms of impressiveness.
In recent years, it has become possible and even quite popular again to
experience silent films with live music. Rather than simply being superseded
by the cinema of synchronized sound, perhaps silent cinema remained alive
and well around the edges of dominant cinema.41 Indeed, many avant garde
films were distributed without soundtracks and were shown silently, and
some came with only vague directions about how they should be accom-
panied.42 Yet we might find something similar to silent films close at hand.
During action sequences, mainstream films almost never record location
sound, and in situations where filming is not completed easily, there is often
no attempt to have a sound team there to record sound. Indeed, it remains
the case that the heart of contemporary mainstream cinema is dialogue and
the talking head shot (and variations), often held within a temporal struc-
ture of the shot reverse shot conversation. Mainstream cinema remains a
talkie in the precise sense of the antiquated term. Outside of these interior
shots where dialogic interaction between actors takes place, there is almost
another form of cinema: one where the camera moves quickly and freely,
where shots are less easily described than the standard terminology based
on relation to human characters (long shot, medium shot, close-up), and
where a divergence of sound and image tracks to a greater or lesser extent
is allowed. This might be approached as a persistence of silent film aes-
thetics. Famously, Alfred Hitchcock’s work is often charged with retaining
something from his youth in silent films as evidence of visual storytelling.43
This can be verified by looking for sequences without dialogue in his films
that were clearly not shot with location sound and often rely heavily on
music. Prime examples of this are the sequence of Marion driving in the
rain in Psycho (1960), Melanie waiting outside the schoolroom as crows
alight on the jungle gym behind her in The Birds (1963), and the fight on
top of Mount Rushmore in North by Northwest (1959). Dialogue often can
cease to be the motor of narrative development in favor of action, especially
in the last few decades when genres such as horror films, war films, and
action films have more generally prospered. In such films, when there are
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dedicated sequences of action, sound functions to convince the audience
of special effects, and provide impact (loud sounds) and emotion (music),
but there is not a regular reliance upon precise synchronization, apart from
isolated moments. The soundtrack can become semi-independent and not
dependent on synchronization with the image to the degree of the preva-
lent cinema fashion for sequences based on dialogue. Roger Manvell and
John Huntley suggest that Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey returned to the
modes of silent film through music and image independence and the mar-
ginalization of dialogue in the film.44
The persistence of silent film aesthetics might be identified elsewhere,
in music videos and in the way that silent films from the past have been
reformed for current consumption.45 It may seem an incongruent aspect
of this book to look at silent films when ostensibly dealing with synchro-
nized sound cinema. However, we should bear in mind that we experience
most silent films these days as DVDs or videos with locked, synchronized
soundtracks. In some cases, these might be historically accurate in terms of
what audiences at the time would have experienced, while in others, not.46
F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu: Eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922) has proved to
be something of a perennial silent horror film favorite and is available with
a number of different assigned soundtracks. There is Gillian S. Anderson’s
meticulously researched and constructed historical score, and there is
James Bernard’s score, which uses a more recent musical argot: the one
that was distinct to Bernard in his characteristic scores for many Hammer
horror films from the 1950s to the 1970s. Yet another available version
matches Nosferatu with music by the rock group Type O Negative.47 This
DVD amounts to an amateur tracking of the film, where the music is not
made to fit at all, yet the overall outcome is generally one of interest and
effectiveness. This is an independent production in a convincing sense of
the term. The group’s involvement was clearly small, perhaps even non-
existent. The DVD was put together by people who thought there was an
essential compatibility between Type O Negative’s music and the film. The
group’s music is gothic heavy rock, with deep declaiming vocals and dis-
torted, overdriven electric guitar. The subject matter of the group’s songs is
what might be called dark, being concerned with vampirism (album Bloody
Kisses) and werewolves (“Wolf Moon”) along with constant themes of sex
(“My Best Friend’s Girlfriend”) and death (“Red Water”). Some of these
issues are certainly evident in Nosferatu, so perhaps there is a deep level
where the music and images of the silent film cohere. However, the film is
not cut in any way to fit the songs, and the songs are not noticeably adapted
to fit the dynamics and temporal requirements of the film. Consequently,
the degree of synchronization is not high, and the sound and image in
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many ways appear to plow separate furrows. There are moments of sig-
nificant dynamic impact in the images that are not marked notably by the
soundtrack. Also vice versa: When the soundtrack reaches a crescendo or
highly dramatic moment, it is not reflected in the images. The majority of
the music used in the film derives from Type O Negative’s album October
Rust, probably their most successful album, released in 1997, and this DVD
release almost seems to function as a surrogate for a DVD release by the
group tied to their album.
The modern manifestations of silent films can tell us a fair amount about
synchronized sound cinema in that films can stand having large sections
where there is little clear synchronization if the screen is not consistently
peopled by human faces with moving lips. Gesticulating figures are not a
problem, and outdoor vistas or street chases really require little in the way
of precise synchronization of sound and image. However, in many cases
when silent films are accompanied by music that is not written or adapted
precisely to match action, there is a strong tendency to drift between
points of synchronization and asynchrony. These points can often be where
the music stops, starts, or noticeably changes character. Alternatively, this
might be fortuitous. In an essay about soundtracking silent films with
modern electronic music, Blair Davis quotes the response of one of his stu-
dents who pointed to the tangible delight at the screenings when there
appeared to be a serendipitous point of synchronization when a significant
on-screen event was matched by one in the accompanying music.48
This did not prove to be the case with Giorgio Moroder’s much discussed
and often decried version of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (released in 1984),49
which used some specially written synthesizer passages of incidental music
between a succession of contemporary pop songs performed by different
artists.50 The songs follow their own musical structures and only rarely
match the moments of emphasis in Metropolis, and indeed have an air
of indifference to the film caused predominantly by a lack of regular and
logical points of synchronization. The Pet Shop Boys’ musical accompani-
ment for Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin, which was first performed at a
free concert and screening in Trafalgar Square in London in September of
2004, was, perhaps unexpectedly, an attempt to produce orchestral music
of a character more consonant with the traditions of silent film accompa-
niment (at least with their manifestation at British establishments such
as that arranged by the Institute of Contemporary Arts in 2004 and the
Barbican in 2008). Its orchestral nature and precise scoring meant that
it was more art than pop and followed fairly directly in the tradition of
film-music live performances and DVD releases like Michael Nyman’s score
for Dziga Vertov’s Man With a Movie Camera (1929) (released on DVD in
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2002). Indeed, this angular, modernist film has proven to be highly popular
with re-scorers, with DVDs available with a number of musical soundtracks,
including those by the pop musicians Cinematic Orchestra and the silent
film specialists Alloy Orchestra. While these last examples endeavor to syn-
chronize musical events and dynamics with those of the screen, a num-
ber have followed the route described with respect to Nosferatu. In the late
1960s, there was a recording of Häxan (1922) with a jazz score and novelist
William S. Burroughs’s narration entitled Witchcraft Through the Ages. In
2004, there was a staging in New York for Black History Month of Oscar
Micheaux’s Within Our Gates (1920) with a new musical score by Fe Nunn,
allied to simultaneous poetry reading and a jazz band playing, making a
multi-media extravaganza out of the film rather than retaining any sense
of its originally intended mode of screening. A year later, DJ Spooky pre-
sented his Rebirth of a Nation at the Lincoln Centre for the Performing Arts
in New York, adding a soundtrack that at times did more to question than
aid D. W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915) and featuring critical commen-
tary and on-screen graphics .
Clearly, such unsynchronized music works as a film accompaniment,51
although arguably in a fundamentally different way from a dedicated score
that aims at a solid melding of the character and effects of the film images
and sound. In situations where there is less synchrony, actual moments of
synchrony become all the more noticeable and powerful. There is an inevi-
tability of moments when any images will match any random soundtrack
that has been added. As I mentioned in the introduction, it is now well
known that the Pink Floyd album Dark Side of the Moon (1973) appears
to fit the images of The Wizard of Oz (1939) remarkably well if the two are
synched up from the start (the composite often referred to as The Dark
Side of Oz). However, there are few really notable synch points, although
there appears to be synchrony where significant events and changes in
image and soundtrack occur simultaneously. The lack of regular synch
points allows for those seeming moments of synchronization to achieve
a powerful impact. Furthermore, the complexity of the music in its own
right can mean that more potential points of contact exist than in music
that avoids sudden or dramatic changes, which often can prove to be easily
synchronized with images in television reportage or documentaries. There
is a further question of ‘what fits what’ in terms of character in film and
music. Such broad matching of character is at the heart of the assump-
tion that Type O Negative’s brooding music fits the gothic atmosphere of
Nosferatu as much as a bright, childlike jingle might fit an advertisement
for a breakfast cereal. It might be argued that this match is at the heart
of mainstream cinema’s dominant use of orchestral film scores, where the
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patina of high art remains enough to impart a sense of artistry to the film
product.52 Equally, such specialist genre films as science fiction have a tradi-
tion of using unfamiliar and often electronic tones as an aural counterpart
to the distinctive character of their imagery and themes.53
VOCAL DUBBING
Examining voice dubbing can provide much information about film sound
processes and is of both metaphorical and descriptive value. In the early
1930s, film producers tried to work with MLV (multi-language versions)
format, whereby films would be made in more than one language. Probably
the most famous of these is Universal’s Dracula (1931), which was shot
back-to-back on set in English (with Bela Lugosi in the lead) and in Spanish
(directed by George Melford with Carlos Villar in the lead). In Europe, there
was an extensive program of production with films such as the German
film FP1 Antwortet Nicht (1932) also being made back-to-back in English
(released in 1933) and French. The expense of this mode of production led
to its demise54 and its replacement by the cheaper process of replacing the
spoken part of the soundtrack, or dubbing as it is commonly known.
Sadly, scholars have neglected to attend to voice dubbing in much detail.
Since the advent of synchronized sound cinema, there has of necessity
been a conventional process to allow for dubbing into different languages.
Certain countries (such as Greece, Sweden, and Holland) favor the use of
subtitles and the retention of the original soundtrack for a film. Others,
such as France, Italy, and Germany, have a fully developed industry to
allow for the dubbing of foreign-language films into their native tongues.
Indeed, we should remember that the tradition in the Italian film indus-
try is that films are shot without location or studio sound, all of which is
dubbed during post-production. Also, since the advent of ADR (automatic
dialogue replacement) technology, mainstream films everywhere recreate
the majority of their final dialogue during post-production.
In the earliest years of the talkies, voices were not unproblematic.
Richard Maltby and Ruth Vasey describe negativity in Europe toward early
American sound films in English. The front page of The New York Times
on May 11, 1930, had an article about boycotts of American sound films
that were being shown in countries including Hungary.55 They also point
to British criticisms of films with English spoken with an American accent.
Indeed, the poster for Alfred Hitchcock’s Blackmail (1929) not only boldly
stated, “The first full-length all talkie film made in Great Britain,” but also
boasted, “See and hear it. Our mother tongue as it should be—spoken!” The
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emphasis was not only on hearing spoken words but also on which version
of the English language was used. Ironically, the lead in Hitchcock’s film
was played by a Czech-born actress with a very strong middle-European
accent when speaking English. Hitchcock decided that Annie Ondra’s
voice was not usable though her image was. So, while she acted her scenes,
actress Joan Barry spoke her lines from off-camera, creating a remarkable
composite person, and one hardly as English as critics of American films
might have desired.
The dubbing of foreign-language films into other languages is not as
uniform as it might appear to English-language audiences. For example,
there are significant differences between the French and Italian modes of
dubbing. The French tend to try and match as tightly as possible to the lip
movements on-screen, while the Italians favor a more loose approach that
will not sacrifice quality of vocal delivery to synchronization.56 (This, of
course, might be taken as proof that some countries are accustomed to less
synchronization in sound and image to begin with.) Some techniques for
aiding the dubbing process include removing frames from the film to allow
the dubbed sounds to fit the lip movements better. Film purists blanch at
the prospect, but popular audiences do not know or indeed care too much.
In the 1980s, Dario Argento’s Profondo Rosso (aka Deep Red, 1975), now
regarded as a horror film classic and in some quarters feted as an art film,
was already on video release in Britain in an English-language version.
In 1993, the film was re-released by Redemption Video in a version that
repackaged the film and was seemingly aimed at an art-house audience.
The film’s English star David Hemmings was dubbed into Italian in this
version, despite the fact that he is speaking English as can be verified from
comparing the English language dub with his lip movements. Habitually,
Italian films were shot without location sound, with the whole of the
soundtrack being added in post-production. This not only made good use
of Cinecitta’s excellent sound facilities but also allowed for films to be shot
using actors who could not speak Italian and the production of master dubs
in post-production to facilitate easy export of the films. As with many other
Italian horror films of the 1970s, the version of Profondo Rosso that had
been in release in Britain and North America had contained a soundtrack
in English, but this U.K. video release was aimed for an art-house audience,
as evidenced by the fact that such cinemas in Britain always show films
in an original-language version with subtitles and almost never knowingly
show anything in a dubbed version, which is considered a rather philistine
approach to cinema. The keys to this process for this film then were the
retention of an ‘original’ Italian soundtrack to the film and the superimpo-
sition of subtitles in English. This not only denied the origins of the film in
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a world of post-synched soundtracks, but also led to the farcical spectacle
of David Hemmings’s voice being overdubbed by an Italian voice artist and
then subtitled in English.
There is a notable difference between U.S. cinema and television,
which prefer non-English-language films to be dubbed into English, and
U.K. cinema and television, which almost uniformly prefer subtitled ver-
sions. Before the advent of the DVD and its multiple soundtrack capabili-
ties, British cities often had cheap video shops that sold dubbed versions
of foreign- language films derived from the U.S. market releases. Having
already experienced the films in their native tongues, films such as The
Return of Martin Guerre (1982), which had been known by its French title
in the U.K., and Lasse Hallström’s My Life as a Dog (1985) in their dubbed
versions seemed slightly incongruous. The comic potential for dubbing is
high, of course. The Japanese television shows The Water Margin (1973)
and Monkey (1979–80) were broadcast in Britain with a soundtrack of ludi-
crous faux-Asian accents, while pornography’s cheap and hurried dubbing
has remained a perennial joke. The Jesus of Montreal (1989) has a comic
scene of characters dubbing a porn movie, and in Britain there is a tele-
vision show called Badly Dubbed Porn (2007–), which fashions comic nar-
ratives by adding a new soundtrack to non-explicit sequences from old
pornographic films.
Similar humor derived from the soundtrack ridiculing the image track
took place much earlier, in Woody Allen’s What’s Up, Tiger Lily (1966). He
took a Japanese spy thriller and rebuilt the film as a comedy. This involved
the shooting of some extra scenes that were inserted in the film but, per-
haps most significantly, it involved the total re-recording of the soundtrack.
The mix of sound effects and music was retained from the original, sold as
part of the film for foreign dubs. The dialogue track was rewritten and per-
formed by American actors to rescript the events depicted in the film as a
series of gags. Some of the dubbed voices are as convincing in their syn-
chronization with vocal movements as any dubbing.57 There is also a sig-
nificant extra musical input, from The Lovin’ Spoonful, who provide songs,
as well as appearing on-screen in an inserted scene. The group’s music
appears in no way alien to the film, though much of the dialogue does,
and indeed, this is where a significant amount of the comedy lies. Allen
saw the possibility for comic potential existing in the gap between visuals
and soundtrack, and most precisely between comic dialogue and apparent
seriousness in the image track.58
Post-synch sound is dominant in the international film industry. Some
filmmakers create the soundtrack wholly in post-production, while some
art film directors have retained the French tradition of ‘son direct,’ the real
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recording of sound that happens at the pro-filmic event when the camera is
recording. Voice dubbing (usually from one language to another) can prove
to be one of the most important ways to reorient a piece of film and sur-
rounding ideas. As a child visiting Germany, I was taken to see a film star-
ring some “famous American actors” called Terence Hill and Bud Spencer.
I had never heard of them and only years later discovered that they were
Italian and the films were not in the least American despite being westerns.
Some 80 percent of foreign-language films in Germany are dubbed, with
an aim to match lip movement as much as possible, including picking a
translation that fits mouths better than the exact translation would. Daniel
Meyer-Dinkgräfe notes how the dubbing of the television show Magnum
P.I. (1980–88) involves an actor with a deeper voice (Norbert Langer) that
fits Tom Selleck’s image perhaps better than his actual voice, while Arne
Eisholtz dubs the voices of Tom Hanks, Kevin Kline, and Bill Murray and
makes them sound largely the same.59 Dubbing can also allow for censor-
ship (indeed, this is one reason for some countries insisting on subtitling).
In Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious (1946), for example, the German dubbing
changed the Nazi scientist into a Slavic drug dealer.
The U.K. film Performance (1970) has a different soundtrack in the
U.S. than its British release, as the producers were worried that the Cockney
accent of crime boss Harry Flowers would not be understood by American
audiences. The U.K. release has actor Johnny Shannon’s characteristic
voice, but the U.S. soundtrack used an obscure English actor’s voice, whose
tones are clearer but highly disconcerting for a British audience familiar
with the character actor on-screen. Oddly, a video release of the film in
Britain in the mid-1990s was of the American version. This emphasized
a side effect of the vocal replacement: that of seemingly suggesting that
the gang boss is from a middle-class rather than a working-class back-
ground. This is not an insignificant development, enabled by recourse to
the so-called RP (received pronunciation) tones spoken by the middle- and
upper-class English.60
We need more suspension of disbelief than usual when it comes to clear
voice dubbing in cinema. Indeed, if one is not used to dealing with films
that have been dubbed, they can be an unnerving experience. (Of course,
conversely, if you are used to them, they are nothing remarkable.) As John
Belton noted: “The rather obvious intervention of technology involved with
[foreign language] dubbing severely circumscribes our faith in both sound
and image, provoking a crisis in their credibility.”61 Non-original dubbed
sound poses a distinct question. On rare occasions, television news might
broadcast footage in another language without the option of removing
the soundtrack, and we can discern talking in another language at a lower
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volume than our channel’s commentary. This not only emphasizes the lack
of connection between the footage and the added voiceover but also gives
the impression that our television station is merely using second-hand
news footage, which is why footage aimed at being sold overseas often
lacks an added commentary.62 While it is likely that people in countries
that habitually dub films might be more open to lack of synchronism than
those in countries that subtitle films, such lack of synchrony merely illus-
trates how far films can vary as objects and how different audiences can
be in approach and expectation. The overall effect of vocal dubbing is not
one of Brechtian alienation that distances audiences from films and it also
may well not be fully real, but it is conventional and thus naturalistic in its
own way.
CONCLUSION
To summarize, pre-fitting films by beginning with music can permit music

to dominate. Approaches include cutting images to fit the sounds (as in
The Shining) and/or staging to sounds (as in Singin’ in the Rain). Fitting
up sound in post-production, be it post-synching dialogue, dubbing into
another language, or adding music to a finished film, all open up questions
of the specific production context and agency involved in the process of
synchronizing sound and image. All the processes addressed in this chapter
follow conventions, although they may vary in their manifestation of broad
principles. Variations in acceptability of loose synchronization and what
constitutes being ‘in time’ are most evident in instances of foreign-language
dubbing but also apparent in other areas of film.
In the mid-2000s, editor Robert Ryang won a competition by recutting
Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining to make it appear to be a romantic comedy.
The apocryphal film’s title was changed to simply Shining, and the impres-
sion was given that it was a Nora Ephron film or similar heart-warming
story of the positive developments in a family relationship. The raw mate-
rial, images, and sounds from The Shining are reformulated into what
convincingly appears to be a romantic comedy where Jack has a romance
with Wendy and befriends her son Danny. While Ryang was highly selec-
tive about which shots to use, the key to reorientation was more through
the soundtrack than the editing of the visuals. Indeed, the only additions
are on the soundtrack. The first is the stereotypical Hollywood trailer
extra-diegetic voiceover, which provides defining guidance for the new
story and tone of the film. A crucial addition to the diegesis is an alien line
of dialogue (“I’m your new father” allegedly said by Jack to Danny), which
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imparts a momentous and alternative narrative vector. Apart from the
voice, music has a significant role to play, particularly in emotional terms.
The trailer first tracks some unsynched comedy music and then (trium-
phantly) Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill” to brighten the images. The music
provides a distinct dynamic to the piece, with the first half being quirky
and staccato like the music and the second being more sustained. Indeed,
the second part begins with the film’s opening, prolonged helicopter shots
of the Torrance’s car dwarfed by the spectacular Colorado scenery. Gabriel’s
song delivers a strong sense of emotional engagement with a smattering
of obscure but meaningful lyrics sung with feeling, and the line ‘I’m going
to take you home’ repeated as the song’s conclusion. This vectorizes the
recut footage from The Shining in a divergent direction, but the voiceover is
crucial for anchoring its new meanings. Indeed, the trend for mock trailers
uploaded on the Internet after significant recutting arguably relies essen-
tially on sonic alterations that provide a wholly different idea of the film.
One of the clearest indications of the impact of CGI (computer gen-
erated imagery) is in the ‘talking animal’ film, which also illustrates the
desire for precise synchronization of voice and lips. For instance, the films
The Cat from Outer Space (1978) and Look Who’s Talking (1989) included
a cat and babies, respectively, whose voices could be heard but were not
matched with their lip movements. Since CGI’s widespread adoption, this
minor film genre (if it even can be called that) has seen the precise match-
ing of lips and sounds, as was the case in Babe (1995) and Underdog (2007).
The movement is often effective but slightly uncanny, not quite convinc-
ingly real (to my eyes and ears, at least). Part of this may be due to the
ultra-precise synchronization of voice and lip movements—it looks too
precisely matched—as well as the difficulty of surmounting the widespread
assumption of the impossibility of animal speech. Perhaps a rougher syn-
chronization could be effective, like a foreign-language dub that aims at
the overall spirit of the film rather than the technical meticulousness of
an arid process. Indeed, there was an almost convincing television comedy
starring a ‘talking’ horse, Mister Ed (1961), which (without CGI of course)
was able to apply a process remarkably similar to foreign- language dubbing
by attempting to match the horse’s almost random lip movements with
spoken dialogue.
The dubbing of voices to images bears a distinct resemblance to ventril-
oquism. During the 1980s and early ’90s, the Northern Irish Republican
Party Sinn Féin suffered British government censorship on television pro-
grams that showed their images speaking with their voices ludicrously
replaced by actors.63 Such a gap between sound and image is an everyday
occurrence in countries that dub foreign films rather than subtitle them,
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but it is also an occasionally showcased aspect of horror films when scary
voices are required. For example, in The Exorcist (1973), character actress
Mercedes McCambridge provided the demonic voice for the possessed girl
Regan (played by Linda Blair in most shots). Indeed, in some horror films,
demonic possession often adds up to little more than replacement of a per-
son’s voice. Ventriloquism as a metaphor for sound cinema (as Rick Altman
noted) reveals sound’s capacity to animate the inanimate and make the
inert visual. Animated films instantly confirm this peculiar and distinctive
effect. Ventriloquism’s vocal replacement can have a distinctly uncanny or
unnerving effect. A horror film about ventriloquism, Dead Silence (2007),
illustrates the unreliability of an assumption of direct causal connection
between sound and image. Probably the most famous film that touches on
ventriloquism is another horror film, Dead of Night (1945), where the syn-
chronized sound is a better indicator of life and consciousness than the
image. Since the advent of technology like ADR, an inorganic relationship
of sound and tied image has been at the heart of almost all mainstream
film production, in a form that retains—indeed strengthens—the illusory
character of the synchronized film. Filmmaking dominated by pre- and
post-production can question the illusion of sound cinema. The audiovisual
contract can, however indirectly, be jeopardized by the material heteroge-
neity of sound and image. Singin’ in the Rain may be partly about a lie, but
it is itself precisely a lie of this order.
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CH APTER 8
Wild Track Asynchrony
I t is possible to remove the soundtrack of a film and add one of your own
choice, whether using an editing suite or roughly synchronizing sound
and image hardware at home. Attempting this at random can have fasci-
nating consequences. Adding live radio asserts the separation of sound and
image, but recourse to a music disc can often have unanticipated conso-
nances between sound and image. These may be moments of synchrony
that seem to fit or a general sense of matching mood or tone, but on occa-
sion, it is the very independence and lack of cohesion between sound and
image that can be most effective.
Forms of disconnected sound include ‘wild’ disconnected sound,
extra-diegetic (as in conventional non-diegetic film scores), off-screen
sounds including acousmatic sound, and more subtle uses such as a gen-
eral ambient sound. Some off-screen sound has no connection with
screen activity, while other sounds may have an ambiguous connection.
Acousmatic sound lacks an immediately traceable source. It emanates from
an off-screen source that remains a mystery. The original term was used by
Schaeffer and later electroacoustic musicians to describe sound that had
lost its identifiable origin and thus might become a sound in itself—one
not implying a specific source—or might remain mysterious and make the
listener speculate as to its original origin. However, in film, the term is
applicable to sounds that can remain an off-screen mystery for a period or
have an off-screen origin that is never concretized.
PLESIOCHRONY
There are many situations when sound and image are not precisely matched
at all and may only seem to be in general accordance. The term used to
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describe something comparable in scientific and engineering terms is ‘ple-
siochrony.’ For film, this might designate a rough, general synchronization
that is not a proper matching of unified in-synch sound and image but fits
a general soundtrack to particular images. Rick Altman briefly touches on
the notion as ‘semi-synch’ in the concluding chapter of Sound Theory, Sound
Practice as
A characteristic of sound that is apparently synchronized with onscreen actions

of secondary importance. This technique is often used for the linking of stock
sound footage to mobs, parades, battles and other large-scale scenes where the
viewer cannot possibly check whether each sound is actually synchronized to an
onscreen image. Already employed in the early Fox Movietone News, this tech-
nique facilitates the use of generic sound and sound loops. It is heavily used by
television news to accompany background action in still photographs.1
Altman’s noting of the process as highly evident in Fox Movietone News

dates it to the earliest days of sound cinema, when such newsreels were in a
pioneering position, using the Movietone sound-on-film system before the
industry’s more general conversion. Documentary films, a close relative of
newsreels, have dealt in plesiochronous relationships between sound and
image by nature of their production background as much as their reper-
toire of accepted aesthetic strategies. Some television historical documen-
taries consist solely of silent film footage, such as The Third Reich in Colour
(2001). This included footage of the Normandy landings that had been
taken by either war correspondents or cine-film enthusiasts in the military,
and had of course been shot without any corresponding sound. The footage
was shown with sound accompaniments of gunfire, explosions, and general
machine noise, assembling a general parallel to the images. The assump-
tion was that audiences were unused to (and by implication, unhappy with)
images that lacked a corresponding and appropriate sound. This artificial
ambient sound has become a mainstay of television, and indeed has long
been present in film, although often in a more sophisticated form.
Indeed, plesiochronous sound appears regularly in crowd scenes and in
the background in city street scenes; in fact, it appears in all places where
a general noise is required that is vaguely consonant with expectations of
what should emanate from the visuals. In contemporary Hollywood films,
it is the ambience of urban or rural settings, while in much historical televi-
sion, it has a more basic psychological function: that of removing the silence
of soundless footage and thus rendering it more ‘normal.’ This is remark-
ably similar to some early sound films. In Hitchcock’s Blackmail (1929), this
is most evident in the sequence in Alice’s bedroom. Her mother enters and
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wakes her while removing the cover from her canary’s cage. The soundtrack
suddenly bursts into life with birdsong, although the sound does not appear
precisely synchronized, and the sound quality and volume do not match
the room space on-screen. It later finishes abruptly. More recent examples
of such general sound include the horror comedy film Severance (2006),
where, in its concluding scenes with a woman being attacked by an assail-
ant and man being attacked by another, the soundtrack consists merely
of a fairly undifferentiated fabric of seemingly diegetic grunts and hitting
impact sounds. These form their own continuum and do not match image
events precisely, much like the sounds of shouting and cracking impacts in
screen fights.2 Such sound is not uncommon. Indeed, it might also be easily
argued that much incidental music in films has a plesiochronous character.
This is because incidental music can be only approximately synchronized
to action.
The term ‘plesiochrony’ might be applied to different situations in sound
films. First, the term might be used for poor synchronization, when the
intention of precise synchronization is clear but not achieved. This was
endemic at the birth of sound cinema and remained a difficulty until the
sound-on-film systems assured a good level of precision. However, this
problem of delivery has never been fully vanquished, and such poor match-
ing of sound and image is evident in many Internet-delivered audiovisual
objects. What Altman is referring to might be approached as an ambient
strategy, whereby images without distinct or synchronized sounds are
accompanied by sound of a general but appropriate character. This aes-
thetic might be traced to part-sound films made during the years of tran-
sition between silent and sound cinema. In many cases, silent films were
‘fitted up’ with added sounds and had a handful of sequences reshot as
dialogue scenes, producing a ‘new’ talkie film.
TRACKS DRIFTING APART
In some films, music and/or sound can drift apart from the image track.
In this case, it becomes the soundtrack as a coherent and nearly indepen-
dent entity. This is far more often the case with non-diegetic music, which
already has a certain distance from the diegesis and on-screen activities.
A striking aspect evident in many of French director Jean Rollin’s films is
that large sections not only appear to have been shot without synchronized
sound recorded during shooting, but that the final product also retains a
lack of synchronization between soundtrack and image track. At times,
there is a remarkably high degree of separation, indeed autonomy, between
W I L D T R AC K A S Y N C H R O N Y [183]
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the action on-screen and the loud and continuous music track. The music
remains accompaniment, but it is part of an audiovisual regime that con-
centrates less on dialogue sequences than is the case with the overwhelm-
ing majority of mainstream dramatic films. A dreamlike and poetic slow
tempo to action and cutting along with minimal and sometimes no dialogue
characterize Rollin’s films. His Lèvres de sang (Lips of Blood, 1975) starts
with almost six minutes until there is any dialogue, the title card appearing
in an unhurried manner across visual action and non-diegetic music. The
film has protracted sequences of protagonist Frederic wandering around an
almost silent town at night, and later, scantily clad female vampires move
aimlessly around a deserted castle ruin. These sequences tend to contain
little in the way of diegetic sound and often have non-diegetic music that
does not match the dynamics of on-screen movement. There are few, if
any, clear synch points, meaning that there is a strong degree of autonomy
between music and image tracks and a sense of dislocation, reminiscent of
watching a silent film with unrelated music played on a CD player. Indeed,
these sequences are not far from Blair Davis’s experiments mentioned in
the previous chapter about students’ reactions to screenings of silent films
shown with unrelated modern music.3
This separation is often a symptom in low-budget filmmaking of the exi-
gencies of shooting without a sound crew and the luxury of location sound.
It is also testament to the ease with which post-production sound can be
utilized in an effective manner. Sharing production techniques with many
low-budget films, Herk Harvey’s Carnival of Souls (1962) incorporated sub-
stantial sections that were shot without location sound. Consequently, the
final film includes some sequences where dialogue and sound effects were
post-synched and some substantial sections where there is no diegetic
sound and loud non-diegetic music instead. These sequences, by and large,
are the eerie, atmospheric ones, such as those of the old building accompa-
nied by the sound of an organist (Gene Moore) playing a large theatre organ
like a Wurlitzer.4 Perhaps the most memorable non-synched sequences in
Carnival of Souls are those near the conclusion when a group of people (or
should that be souls?) chase the organist Mary and dance in the deserted
carnival and bathhouse building, with a total lack of diegetic sound and
accompaniment from the organ that has haunted the film’s soundtrack.
Such dissonant, atonal music is considered negatively. When Mary’s
church organ playing transmogrifies into discordant and eerie playing, the
pastor declares, “Profane, sacrilege” and fires her. The film has a certain
narrative ambiguity (are these simply ghosts or a temporal confusion of
past and present?), which is doubled by the film style and the ambiguous
relationship of images and sounds during the long periods lacking distinct
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points of synchronization. The effect of this is to provide significant cogni-
tive and emotional dislocation, aiding the films in their dreamlike atmo-
spheres. Perhaps these are indeed suitable representations or expressions
of disembodied souls in both films, where sounds are literally disembodied
while images are similarly disconnected, with the latter as spectral images
outside the sense of space established by sound.
In Alain Resnais’s L’aneé dernière à Marienbad (1961), there is a dif-
ferent form of divergence between image and soundtrack. As a film
that consistently manipulates audience expectations and defies narra-
tive and aesthetic conventions, it works to set up a gap between what
is shown on-screen and what is heard on the soundtrack. This seems
to be a distinct example of the sort of counterpoint that Eisenstein,
Pudovkin, and Alexandrov called for in their “Statement on the Sound
Film” (discussed previously). Here, they warned of the aesthetically—
and by implication, socially—regressive potential of certain strategies
in matching sound and image. For them, counterpoint was one of the
progressive options that opened up possibilities for the development
of cinema as art and communication. It is notable that L’aneé dernière
à Marienbad is such an isolated example among feature films, and it
might easily be argued that the dominant naturalism in narrative fea-
ture films manifests precisely the filmed stage plays against which
Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov warned.
The key is the space between image track and soundtrack. This is
where the real meaning is produced, where the real potential resides.
L’aneé dernière à Marienbad is a film founded upon ambiguity in terms
of narrative and depiction, and it contains extended passages of asyn-
chrony along with sequences of conventionally synchronized sound and
image. It is a startling and singular film, and it begins with a statement
of intent in terms of sound and image relations. A voiceover starts while
the film’s titles are still being shown, and it continues for eight-and-a-
half minutes, intermittently fading in and out. The audience is never
told the source of the voice. Once the titles finish, we are given a suc-
cession of slow traveling shots, mostly of the elaborate ceilings of the
palatial house that joins the voiceover and the organ music that began
with the film’s titles (Figure 8.1, 8.2and 8.3).
The whole of the opening appears to move the audience toward an
unfolding event: the performance of a play called Rosmer. The first
synchronization of sound and image takes place nearly six-and-a-half
minutes after the first shot of the house. Over a minute before this
point, the image track has reached the space in which the play is being
performed, but it has refused shots of events on the stage in favor of
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Figure 8.1
Figure 8.2
Figure 8.3
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traveling shots of the static audience watching the play, accompanied
by voices that have an ambient echo that differentiates them from the
opening voiceover and sets them within the space on-screen despite
their precise sources remaining absent. The first point of synchroniza-
tion is when we see the lips of one of the actors match the words we
hear, just before the play finishes. We have been shown these characters
before, but with their mouths closed as words were heard. This estab-
lishes the film’s dreamlike and dislocated atmosphere, with a sense of
purposeful movement and structure largely denied. While the traveling
shots appear to take us into the heart of the building and the play, there
is a desire to hold off direct engagement. The sequence has been accom-
panied by organ music by Francis Seyrig, the brother of the film’s star
Delphine Seyrig. His music has a distinct and continuous slow pulse
that matches the traveling shots in terms of character and provides a
sense of continuous movement for the audience’s guidance through
sound and image.5 The music lacks a clear sense of structural develop-
ment, which is not to say that it is a repetitive continuum, but that its
dissonant, but almost conventional, style provides a sense of emotional
non-involvement with screen activities compounded by its rhythmic
impetus as the driving force of the sequence, giving a sense of a slow
walk toward a target. The use of extended passages of asynchrony as a
policy wreathes L’aneé dernière à Marienbad in an emotional and cogni-
tive dislocation, emanating from its lack of specific time and space. In
a film such as this, counterpoints pile up, not just between sound and
image tracks, but between dynamics, perception, and the film’s concep-
tual terrain.
In these cases, there is a tendency for music to appear to be lacking in
structure (or in some other cases, for it to seem nothing but structure)
when disconnected from image, and to give the impression of continuity
due to the repetitive, continuous nature of sound and image relations as
much as any intrinsic character of the music or on-screen developments.
Robert Fink notes that film incidental music regularly follows a clear pat-
tern of tension and release that is less straightforward in minimalist art
music, which appears closer to stasis. He relates this to Freud’s notion of
the death instinct, a reaction to the compulsion to repeat.6 More clearly
structured music (with well-defined repetition and variations) can furnish
a stronger sense of holding the whole together. Yet in all cases like this,
there is arguably something of a return to the modes of silent cinema. The
independence of image and soundtracks, rather than forging a cohesive
unity, adds up to more when put together than alone and creates distinc-
tive effects through its lack of unanimity.
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ASYNCHRONY
I was disappointed when I first found out the truth about natural history
documentaries. Like most people, I imagine, I thought that I was experi-
encing a sound and image reality. Instead, of course, we are, in the over-
whelming majority of cases, experiencing images and sounds that were not
recorded at the same time and place. Indeed, it seems that the distance
between the filming and sound recordings might not only be continental
but can vary within each track and, for example, images of successive pan-
das might in fact be different ones that we assume are the same individual.
Soundtracks can, if anything, be more of a composite, and indeed, since
the advent of digital sound, might exhibit all manner of enhancements.
The natural history film and television industries (and their relation to
the natural history sound-recording industry) have specialist technicians
for different jobs, and sound recording is highly specialized and cannot
be completed in many cases with only a film camera crew in the vicinity.
Indeed, it has often been something of a tradition in the field of documen-
tary filmmaking that film images can be shot without any location sound,
which can be ‘faked’ later in the studio or, on the other hand, the imagery
might be accompanied by a different sound. There is an assumption here
that the latter emboldens the narration of films, with a strong voiceover
and some general ambient sound in the background, or even the use of
recordings from different places in comparison with the images on-screen.
Wild track sound, as it is known in the film and television industries,7
involves the accompaniment of the image track with unsynchronized
sound derived from elsewhere. While in aesthetic terms, cohesion of some
sort may be constructed between image and sound, there is no necessity
for its existence. Sometimes wild track sound can have no connection at
all with the image track, unifying highly diverse times and spaces. The use
of wild track sound became fairly prominent in television documentaries
in the 1970s. It allowed for images to be accompanied by voiceover narra-
tion, or in certain cases, by edited-together ‘vox pops’ (recordings of mem-
bers of the public replying to questions). This latter strategy allowed both
sound and image to appear to be mere recordings of reality with less of
an apparent interfering hand from the filmmakers. It also opened a space
between what was seen and heard by the audience. Doubtless a connec-
tion existed between what was said on the soundtrack and what was shown
in the image track, although sometimes this might be less than apparent
and allow for something along the lines of the ‘intellectual montage’ pro-
posed by Eisenstein. Thus the soundtrack in a documentary is able to mani-
fest a level of independent commentary to the image track, whether its
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relationship to the image is simple or oblique. Perhaps it is able to function
as a further level of truth for the documentary discourse.
Andrew Kötting’s faux-documentary road movie Gallivant (1996) uses
the soundtrack to furnish something of an aural memory for the film. The
film appears to be a documentary of a road trip around Britain that the
director takes with his daughter and mother. The film intermittently uti-
lizes wild track sound, with voices and other recordings cut in seemingly
at random and not obviously or clearly connected to the activities on the
image track. These destroy the illusion of sound and image naturalism. They
appear unconnected but we, the audience, attempt to make mental con-
nections between the sounds and images. Situations like this demonstrate
an extreme of asynchrony, where the two tracks have become uncoupled
and continue along their own paths independently. Sound perspective is
aberrant. We are faced with two distinct spaces: that of the image and that
within which the sound was (in most cases obviously) recorded. This leads
to a propensity for fairly close-miked ‘vox pop’ anonymous comments that
seem to defy the sense of space established on-screen.
In Gallivant, sound at times appears to directly represent memory.
This appears less derived from an analogue to the abilities and processes
of human memory than more derived from film language, where the
extra-diegetic ‘sound cut-in’ (particularly with a line of dialogue) was devel-
oped in classical cinema to denote an aural memory. In Gallivant, these
become sound flashes, literally sound bites where short phrases and short
monologues interject into the film, seemingly from nowhere.
There is, of course, a well-established convention in mainstream film
language that a snatch of extra-diegetic voice with a slightly echoed or
reverberating quality signifies a memory for the character on-screen.
However, Kötting appears to use such sonic memories as a counter-
point to visual memory. This makes for a film fabric that not only has
regular discontinuity of sound and image but where each has the abil-
ity to question more than reinforce the other. In some cases, the per-
formers are long dead, and even the limitations and distinctive sound
characteristics of the recording medium come to manifest an important
faculty of the music’s status as a memory.8 The encoding of memory
experiences into songs that people associate with certain moments of
private life in public can lead to Pavlovian emotional reactions at the
unannounced appearance of certain pieces of music. Popular songs as
manifestations of public memory are highly effective, and many embody
consensus thumbnail memories of certain periods that can function for
us even though we may lack or have radically different experiences of
the era personally. Indeed, unsynchronized sound can often function
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as a manifestation of memory for a character in a film. These might
be sonic flashbacks, aural counterparts to the more familiar flashbacks
(either as memories for a diegetic character or as a means of indicating
something to the audience), that often but not always include synchro-
nized sound, although sound is often a principal means by which the
audience is made aware that the diegesis has changed register.
An example of a film that on one level appears to be inspired by night-
mares is David Lynch’s debut feature film Eraserhead (1977). Yet on
another level, the film might be interested in the disturbing processes of
memory. Events seem to transpire without forewarning, and protagonist
Henry does not appear to remember certain events taking place. His emo-
tional disconnection from the film’s bizarre parade of events is doubled by
Eraserhead’s constant use of disconnected ambient sound. Indeed, one of
the most alarming aspects of the film is the soundtrack. The images, activi-
ties, and representations are disturbing enough, but Alan Splet’s sound
design creates an ambient continuum of unease. Behind the foreground
of isolated and awkward dialogue, there is almost continuous background
noise. This is acousmatic in that we are uncertain of the ultimate source of
the sounds, although some of them sound like they might emanate from
heavy machinery of some sort.
Gestalt theory emphasizes the importance of the perceptual phenom-
enon of the figure and ground, the object we focus on in the foreground and
its modest backdrop. We might focus on the figure, thinking that it is the
important thing, but it needs the ground for its own definition. This should
be kept in mind in relation to background ambiences in films. R. Murray
Schafer discusses the idea of what he calls ‘keynote sounds’ in the sonic
environment. Everything else in the soundscape takes on special meaning
in relation to these, and they can often constitute a background that may
remain unnoticed.9 Such sounds form a ground for the figures of what he
calls ‘signals,’ the more consciously noticed sounds that appear to be in the
foreground. In Eraserhead, we constantly experience a ghostly background
noise of industry. Schafer also refers to the ‘flat line’ in sound, which is
sound on a fairly continuous, undynamic level of volume and intensity. He
notes that this was introduced into daily life by the industrial revolution
and its expansion.10 The background ambience in Eraserhead marks a sonic
continuity, yet there is little visual sign of the industrial activity that might
constitute an origin for these sounds. It is almost as if they are a ghostly
memory, an uncomfortable reminder of a collapsed industrial heritage.
Splet’s sounds constitute an unhealthy background of sound following
Schafer’s analysis, an amplification of the sort of soundscape that many
people in cities experience as a matter of course.
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It might also be easily argued that we are far more used to acousmatic
sound and dislocated sounds and images than ever before. We are certainly
used to passing moments of distinct asynchrony in certain types of televi-
sion programs, although there has also been a tradition of its use in film
documentaries since the coming of recorded sound. Julien Temple’s two
films about the Sex Pistols and punk rock, The Great Rock’n’Roll Swindle
(1980) and The Filth and the Fury (2000), might be approached as two
halves of a whole, or as a statement and its contradiction. The latter is a
straightforward documentary while the former mixes documentary tech-
niques with many others, including parodic drama, animation, and event
reconstruction. There is a significant amount of shared footage between
the two films. One perennial problem for rock documentary filmmakers
is how to accompany song recordings. If there is no corresponding music
video and the filmmakers want images of the group to accompany the song,
they have to demonstrate some ingenuity. Matching live footage of a group
performing with the sounds of songs recorded in studios can often prove
less problematic than one might imagine. Audiences often fail to notice the
plesiochrony of such a marriage, particularly if there is a dearth of footage
that marks moments of synchronization, such as singing or distinct notes
being played on instruments. Sometimes, the live footage appears seam-
lessly fitted to a song that is not being performed. In The Great Rock’n’Roll
Swindle, there are some very poor-quality black-and-white images that
accompany the group’s version of Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.” These
images almost certainly were not recorded at the same time as the sound
and are highly unlikely to even depict the Sex Pistols performing the same
song. However, the images and sound are fairly well synchronized, to the
point where we might easily miss the subtle aspects of sound and image
that betray a lack of precise synchronization, and indeed, even the lack of
possibility of it being a unified synchronization of image and sound. In this
sequence, the images are rocked back and forth and almost manifest an
animation of still images. A lack of usable images leads at times to such
creative attempts to accompany the songs with an almost total lack of syn-
chronization. This song was a dire, impromptu performance, a studio out-
take that appears on the film’s soundtrack album and clearly had been dug
out of the dustbin for extra material to release after the group’s demise.
Similarly, another studio outtake that appears on the same album is used
for a prominent and sustained sequence in The Filth and the Fury. A cover
of Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers’s song “Road Runner” plays
for almost its full length, accompanied by disparate images of the group
performing live. At times, the matching of the song to the images is fairly
precise and gives the initial impression of being an authentic recording of a
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live performance by the Sex Pistols.11 However, at other times, the synchro-
nization is by necessity unconvincing, although other elements, including
a voiceover commentary, obscure any sense of the film being a guaranteed
recording of a live show.12 The continuity of music means that we are will-
ing to solely accept such general synchronization only in a handful of situ-
ations. These are in passing and thus not to be concentrated on. Otherwise
we might well feel cheated as we realized that the unification of sound and
image is not beyond the most cursory level. These moments follow to some
degree the tradition of documentaries of wild track, which comes from the
common procedure of recording sound and filming images separately, a
common way of proceeding with some documentary films.
PULLING APART
Sometimes sound and image tracks pull apart to remain coupled only at
isolated moments. Disparate synchronization transpires when the speed
of image becomes slow motion yet the speed of the sound remains nor-
mal. This is a well-established convention. The use of slowed-time sound
is rare to the point that audiences readily accept an extremity of difference
between sound and image speeds in the representation of a single event.
When a sequence goes into slow motion, it is almost never accompanied
by diegetic sounds that match the speed of the action. Thus it moves into
asynchrony. Its usual accompaniment is loud non-diegetic music that oblit-
erates diegetic sound or diegetic sound at the normal speed, which creates
something of a cognitive anomaly for the audience. While these two strate-
gies allow for aesthetic synchronization and coherence between sound and
image, the essential illusionistic synchronization of time and space repre-
sented on-screen and the time and space represented on the soundtrack
are riven apart.
A good example of this occurs in the western Breakheart Pass (1976)
when the train on which all the action has occurred is uncoupled and cars
full of soldiers roll backward off the tracks and over a precipice to their
demise. At this point, the images go into slow motion in order to show and
emphasize to the audience the utter destruction of the cars and their con-
tents. However, in contradistinction, the sound remains at the standard
speed, most notably the shouts of the unseen soldiers as the first impacts
take place. The divergence of image and soundtrack has nothing to do with
space and everything to do with time. Yet this separation of the image and
sound remains in the same space, depicting the same event, and it sets up
a philosophical contradiction: Where is the reality of this event? Is it in
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the sound more than the images? It would seem so, but the widespread
acceptance of slow motion means that we tend not to notice how far the
image is aestheticized and moved into abstraction. The Maysles brothers
and Charlotte Zwerin’s Gimme Shelter (1970) includes a sequence in slow
motion of the Rolling Stones seemingly performing Robert Johnson’s
“Love in Vain,” although the song retains the normal tempo of the studio
recording. In effect, there is no synchronization at all here, producing a
sense of dislocation that is evident not only in the film’s depictions but in
its film style. Earlier sound films were more aware of stepping back from
the image for contemplation and exploited it, but without the later conven-
tion of sound at normal speed. For example, Jean Vigo’s Zero de conduite
(1933) has a highly dramatic slow-motion dormitory battle in a school.
This is accompanied by Maurice Jaubert’s music, which was recorded
and then played backward, thus without any direct synchronization with
the images. This not only redoubled the bizarre effect of backward music
and slow-motion imagery but also compounded the whole with a lack of
synchronization.
Such disparate synchronization of sound and image speeds has become
increasingly evident in the faddish use of so-called avid zooms and speed
ramping, involving the sudden digital speeding up and slowing down of the
image. Although not the first film to use it, The Matrix (1999) was noted
for its use, while Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream (2000) was also a
consistent showcase for the technique.13 Many of the sequences that follow
this strategy use prominent music as a sonic mask but also employ sound
mixes both slowed and at normal speed. In the visually striking, classically
set 300 (2007), there is a fine illustration of digital speed changing when
the messenger of Persian King Xerxes is kicked into a pit by Spartan leader
Leonidas. This is still synched to precise points—most obviously the impact
of the kick; sounds fail to slow down and speed up but retain temporal con-
tinuity. Such different speeds of sound and image became a characteristic
of the television show The Dukes of Hazzard (1977–85), when car chases
and crashes took place. Of course, this process also became something of
a signature for Sam Peckinpah’s films, with sequences of extreme violence
being time-stretched to allow for the exquisite detail of the choreography
of violence.14 A similar situation of detached sound and image track is
the climactic shootout in John Woo’s Face/Off (1997). A child listens to
“Somewhere over the Rainbow” on a personal stereo, which occupies most
of the film soundtrack and contrasts sharply with the slow-motion violent
action.
A singular but related example of this process of detachment is the
conclusion of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) when, as the two
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outlaws run out of a house to their deaths, the image freezes, prevent-
ing (perhaps sparing) the audience from seeing the demise of the film’s
protagonists. However, the soundtrack continues, allowing the audience
to hear that they have been killed by a massive volley of gunfire. This is a
psychologically complex moment, with the soundtrack telling the audience
that they are dead but the image retaining a view of them alive. Crucially,
it is the soundtrack that carries the burden of representation, and the
audience is forced into using its visual imagination to understand what is
happening. Characterized by occasional but crucial synch points between
sound and image, almost all of a disparate synchronized sequence is clearly
not synchronized, yet an audience is unlikely to register that it is asyn-
chrony. Other forms of spectacle-based sequence do similar things. Indeed,
sequences that remove most diegetic sound often allow a strong interac-
tion between a loud piece of non-diegetic music and a succession of images,
returning momentarily to the aesthetics of silent cinema.
Hearing without seeing is more prominent in the cinema than seeing
without hearing. While this strategy has been used to express the world as
perceived by a deaf character, it can also be used as a disquieting strategy in
thrillers or horror films. Of course, infants are able to hear before they can
see, and the removal of this primary stimulus can have a substantial effect.
Anthony Storr notes in Music and the Mind:
A dark world is frightening. Nightmares and infantile fears coalesce with ratio-
nal anxieties when we come home at night through unlit streets. But a silent
world is even more terrifying. Is no one there, nothing going on at all? We sel-
dom experience total silence, except in artificial conditions . . . we are dependent
on background sound of which we are hardly conscious for our sense of life
continuing. A silent world is a dead world. If ‘earliest’ and ‘deepest’ are in fact
related, as psychoanalysts have tended to assume, the priority of hearing in the
emotional hierarchy is not entirely surprising; but I think it unlikely this is the
whole explanation.15
The withholding of sound is certainly able to have a horrifying effect. In

the horror film Dead Silence (2007), protagonist Jamie drives in a car with
the ventriloquist’s dummy Billy sitting in the backseat. Suddenly, the car
and all other diegetic sounds disappear leaving total silence. In the midst
of the eerie lack of sound, an acousmatic—unsynched and offscreen, pos-
sibly even non-diegetic—metallic scraping sound occurs, and the dummy
Billy subsequently turns his head to look at Jamie. Later, Jamie digs up
Billy’s grave. Again and equally suddenly, diegetic sound and non-diegetic
music halt abruptly; Jamie then looks around concerned, after which we
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hear a gradual and quiet return of diegetic sound. Exactly the same thing
happens in the ghost story The Innocents (1961) when the possible appear-
ance to the governess of a ghostly figure on top of the building leads to a
withdrawal of diegetic sound and a later appearance of uncanny electronic
sounds, both emphasizing the disconcerting effect of the apparition. These
examples manifest a dead soundtrack, which emphasizes the filmic event
through the removal of the contractual convention for sound and image
relations. Such blind spots are on some level an audio equivalent to the
dead image track evident when Quentin Tarantino turned his camera to
the wall and the audience heard the sounds of Marvin the policeman hav-
ing his ear cut off by Mr. Blonde in Reservoir Dogs (1992), as discussed in
the previous chapter. Other examples of moments when the sound track
‘dies’ occur in Saving Private Ryan (1998), where an explosion makes the
audience deaf along with the protagonist, and in Woody Allen’s Manhattan
(1979), where in an isolated sequence of memory or fantasy, a boy in a cape
flies off upward in a seeming moment of magical realism.
The real silence of a dead soundtrack is not the same as a perceived
silence, where room tone (a certain amount of quiet ambient diegetic
sound) is added to give the impression that events on-screen are in vir-
tual silence. Of course, non-diegetic music also has to recede for these
moments to be effective. David Sonnenschein notes that in moments when
we expect music but merely receive diegetic sound, a similar process is in
operation: “. . . the spectators . . . are drawn into examining the image more
carefully and actively, seeking to explain the strangeness of the silence.”16
In the context of films that habitually contain a lot of sound, its absence
certainly can seem strange, if not at times a disconcerting reminder of the
unstable union of sound and image. Furthermore, these moments exploit
the social feelings of unease generated by awkward silences, engendering a
desire for the normality of a soundscape not bereft of sounds.
OFF-SCREEN SOUND
By definition, off-screen sound is not synchronized with on-screen

sources, yet it often is synchronized with on-screen events. It
emphasizes a world beyond the film frame, which also might under-
mine film’s restriction to that narrow space for much of its dura-
tion. The most common form of off-screen sound is unproblematic
and includes immediate sounds or sounds emanating from objects
momentarily off-screen. This involves retrospective motivation
where we discover the origin of the sound, or situations where sound
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is unremarkable ambient sound that does not call itself into question
as an ambiguity. Other forms of off-screen sound are more ambigu-
ous. The use of non-diegetic or extra-diegetic sound is conventional,
most apparent in the habitual use of non-diegetic incidental music
and less so in voiceover narration. The origins of these are well
off-screen, as the space of its sound is fundamentally different from
that represented on-screen. Further conventional use of off-screen
sound includes subjective internal sounds, where we might hear the
voice of a letter being read silently or a character’s thoughts (which
can be more ambiguous), although, of course, much film sound (and
images) might indeed be construed as subjective. Such off-screen
sound also has particular cinematic functions concerning time
(when the memory sound of a voice or place is depicted). Objective
off-screen sound regularly has a function relating to space, extend-
ing on-screen space (we always hear more than we see) and provid-
ing a wider ambience. This embraces the general sounds of spaces
immediately beyond sight and those farther afield, with the qualities
of recorded sound providing important depth cues for the audience.
Beyond these, off-screen sound has distinct dramatic functions tied
to acousmatic status in that sounds can be ambiguous or puzzling
and then subsequently receive retrospective motivation once we are
allowed to see the origin of the sound—which can be important for
the audience or for diegetic characters alone. This is most common in
detective and mystery narratives, while in the horror genre, ghostly
sounds can remain unaccounted for, although they most often con-
stitute a symptom of a potential future threat.
Celebrated films premised upon narratives concerning recorded sound,
such as Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation (1974) and Brian DePalma’s
Blow Out (1981), use retrospective motivation to allow the protagonist and
the audience to understand ambiguous sound recordings that lack images.
Indeed, both films mark a virtual treatise on the possibilities and the limi-
tations of conventional film sound. In The Conversation, detective Harry
Caul (Gene Hackman) bugs a couple and gradually pieces together their
conversation and its implications, while in Blow Out, film sound effects
recorder Jack Terry (John Travolta) accidentally records the sounds of
what might be an assassination. In a sense, these films do not require much
analysis as they provide their own within the films themselves. They are
both premised upon the ambiguities posed by sound recordings, and the
understanding of such situations more generally, and of course the dra-
matic withholding of information that is gradually revealed. In each case,
retrospective motivation is crucial.
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Michel Chion’s (after Pierre Schaeffer) development of the notion of the
acousmatic, where a sound’s nature and origin may not be apparent, points
to a fundamental ambiguity created by sound cinema. The acousmatic
certainly has a source off-screen, but more significantly, it has an unap-
parent source. It emanates from an uncertain origin, furnishing it with an
insistent ambiguity. A crucial further characteristic of acousmatic sound
is that, by necessity, it lacks any distinct synchronization with on-screen
elements. This is not to say that it appears as an unsynched element as
it may well synchronize with off-screen activity, or in addition may synch
with non-diegetic elements such as music or voiceover. However, the most
common manifestation of the acousmatic, certainly the form discussed by
Chion, involves sound that lacks notable synchronization with other ele-
ments. Consequently, we should approach the acousmatic as commonly a
form of asynchronous sound that is not part of the dominant illusionistic
regime in synchronized sound cinema.
Acousmatic sound triggers the imagination. Doherty and Berry noted
that Acousmatic art is the art of mental representations triggered by
sound,17 while Robert Normandeau referred to acousmatic sound as “cin-
ema for the ears.”18 Off-screen sounds can certainly make us imagine
spaces and objects, but in many films they are used in a manner that does
not call attention to themselves, merely constituting a backdrop of ambi-
ence. Acousmatic film sound, on the other hand, wishes to be noticed,
even if the origins of the sound seem fairly straightforward. For instance,
off-screen enemies and threats are common in horror films. They also sup-
ply a psychological backdrop to films set in war trenches, as signs of the
enduring off-screen threat of the enemy, who are otherwise only evident
through their artillery shelling or the occasional appearance of their infan-
try. Sounds are often a more tangible sign; artillery, gunfire, and shouts
across the trenches provide anticipation for the run ‘over the top’ and even-
tual contact with the invisible enemy. Indeed, the trench-set horror film
Deathwatch (2002) played upon this invisible threat, with a British unit fac-
ing a malevolent enemy that they only later realize is not the German army
but rather a supernatural force. That the loose relationship between sound
and source is not only a narrative device but a psychological disturbance is
emphasized by Peter Hutchings:
Even when sounds are connected to their sources within horror films, there
is still sometimes a sense that sound and image are operating in relation to
different registers. The frequent mismatching of sound to image in horror
clearly offers the film-makers opportunities not only to denote the beyond-
ness or otherness of its monsters but also to dramatise extreme emotional
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states—especially that of terror —in ways not bounded by the limitations of
any particular performance.19
Acousmatic sound is a staple horror device as a threatening or anxiety-pro-

ducing off-screen effect. Indeed, a good example is the sound from the attic
early in The Exorcist (1973), which does not suggest an identifiable source and
is thus even more disturbing and affecting. In the Australian horror film The
Long Weekend (1978), a couple with marriage problems has gone to spend a
weekend camping near the shore in the outback. Everything about the natural
environment appears as a potential threat to them, and they are plagued by
harrowing wails at night that they eventually decide have been coming from
a dugong. Even this retrospective motivation is not fully without reservation,
yet there are cases where origins of sounds remain completely unexplained. In
Alien (1979), there is a synchronized off-screen sound of maximum equivocal-
ity. During the landing shuttle’s descent to the planet to investigate the distress
beacon, there is an ambiguous sound of unclear origin. This sound appears to
be unsynchronized with anything on-screen or in the diegetic world. It clearly
takes place in the on-screen diegetic, however, as one of the crew (Yaphet Kotto
as Parker) declares, “What the hell was that?” The speaker and the audience
receive no answer. There is startling ambiguity about the origin of this sound.
While at least one of the shuttle’s crew seems to hear it, the others are not
noticeably concerned. Is this a sound from the landing ship, a form of stress
creaking? Or is it non-diegetic in origin,20 a stray piece of the musical score
that has wandered into earshot of one of the crew? As such, it might well be a
sonic flash-forward to the alien, a premonition sound. This example appears
to be an absolute definition of the acousmatic in its original sense. “What the
hell was that?” might refer to its timbre as much as its origin. It is in fact a
Tibetan thighbone trumpet sound, and the audience will soon hear it more as
a thematic accompaniment to the alien in Jerry Goldsmith’s film score. This
moment marks a rarity in mainstream narrative cinema, with sound effects
colonized directly by music, proving the musical aspects of other areas of film
sound. The audience does not focus on this instance with apprehension, as con-
ventionally, such acousmatic sound will be retrospectively motivated. But, of
course, on some occasions, it is not explained later, and these are the moments
when the acousmatic manifests a most radical form of film asynchrony.
CONCLUSION
Perhaps it is more natural for sound and image tracks to de-constitute

into their separate channels than it is for them to form a cohesive unity
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and illusion. In discussing Luis Buñuel’s Les Hurdes (Land without Bread,
1933), which was shot without synch sound due to lack of finance, Barry
Mauer notes that “Each ‘track’ of Buñuel’s film—the visuals, the music,
the narration, and the text—does more than merely avoid synchre-
sis; each represents a different register of discourse.”21 When sound and
image tracks drift apart into states of some independence, they may well
become more like cohesive objects with their own integrity, as can be the
case with footage from a real event, for example, or a highly prominent
piece of music. They also, however, illustrate how far the principles of the
McGurk effect apply: Different impulses in sound and image add up to a
third term, where a new effect is produced that is more than the sum of the
two parts. Mediocre songs can appear far more pleasing in a film, and there
is an assumption in the film industry that good music can save a poor film.
There is always some sort of effect—as attested to by random soundtrack-
ing of films with CDs—precisely the sort of research I recommend for idle
moments (what Michel Chion calls ‘forced marriage’22). This works particu-
larly well with silent films because it illustrates the persistence of a silent
film aesthetic, which remains strong if unacknowledged in contemporary
cinema and other audiovisual culture.
One effect of the increasing integration of film soundtracks is that they
may gain a degree of independence in themselves and endanger the unity
of the film as a coherent object. This can certainly be the case with highly
featured music, which can render the rest of the film as little more than
visual accompaniment. In some art films, there has been a move toward
disjunction as a matter of aesthetic choice. Annette Davison points to
Derek Jarman’s The Garden (1990) as a film that uncouples the “. . . unity
of the sound and image track.”23 Jarman often made films on 8mm with
no synchronized soundtrack and sometimes publicly showed them silently.
This is not to suggest that Jarman had no interest in soundtracks. His
final film, completed as he was going blind, was Blue (1993), which had an
image track consisting of a blue screen throughout while accompanied by
an expansive and varied soundtrack. Much earlier, Walter Ruttmann’s early
sound film Week-End (1930) had also consisted solely of soundtrack with a
blank screen. While it might be argued that Ruttmann’s and Jarman’s films
were more like radio plays than films, and that this is no longer audiovisual
culture, they seem to suggest that just as it is possible for silent film to
be meaningful without sonic accompaniment, film can lose the image and
survive as an object.24
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CH APTER 9
Conclusion
Final Speculations
T here are two ways to look at the world: imagining that everything is

apparent, real, and on the surface, or imagining that everything is hid-
den, unapparent, and conspiratorial. If I had to choose between these two
poles, I would certainly take the second. Of course, we can never negate
either position, but the more sophisticated view of the world is that
processes and mechanisms are not immediately apparent and unprob-
lematically existing in consciousness. Film’s processes are far from straight-
forward, even if its final product can appear to be so. The occult of cinema
garners a massive psychological effect from the chemical amalgamation of
two elements causing a new and vital outcome.
During the final stages of writing this book, I was plagued with ill-
ness that caused temporary but profound deafness. The irony was not
lost on me. Watching television, I was happy to find that some channels
have subtitles for the hard of hearing. However, I quickly realized that
news and current affairs programs had subtitles that were well in tempo-
ral arrears to what was being discussed. This led to a strong and confus-
ing disjunction, where images and people were coupled with the wrong
thing. However, quite quickly, I adjusted. It seems that human perception
is able to compensate—after all, we already mix in our heads as impulses
from sound reach the brain before impulses from vision. Making a whole
does not necessarily require synchronized input. After all, watching films
with subtitles makes for a processing experience far different from films
otherwise. Furthermore, one of the dominant instruments of contempo-
rary audiovisual culture, the website YouTube, which hosts a cornucopia
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of easily accessible video imagery and sound, is inclined to have notice-
ably poor synchronization between sound and image. This suggests that
people are increasingly able to accept slight lags between corresponding
sound and images. Yet this also might imply that people concentrate on
the images less and value their unity less than in the cinema. Indeed, we
should remember that small screens such as television are rarely attended
to with the same psychological intensity as in film theatres, where sound
and image can be an enveloping and total experience.
Recent advances in digital technology have made the manipulation of
sound in the cinema much easier and hastened certain aesthetic devel-
opments in relation to sound and image. While these have enabled an
unprecedented degree of control for filmmakers, they have inaugurated
a progressively complex aesthetic experience for cinema audiences,
with increased use of asynchrony but a retention of the paramount key-
stones of so-called synch points, creating a pulsating heart of cinema.
Synchronization is not just a mechanical process of projection and edit-
ing conventions. It is a way of thinking and a psychological state of
mind. Taking inspiration from phenomena of human perception, most
obviously the McGurk effect, we should understand film’s combination
of sound/music and image as a synergy of human senses that exploits
not only the specifics of perception but also cross-references in various
locations of the brain. Neuroaesthetics suggests that culture emanates
from and engages with perceptual, cognitive, and neurological patterns
of the human brain, which suggests a fruitful potential for analysis less
in the cultural and ideological sphere than in the physiological and per-
ceptual sphere.1
The increasing use of asynchronous relations between sound and image
has seemingly served to corral soundtrack elements together. Or, on the
other hand, perhaps the increasing convergence of sonic elements has has-
tened the use of asynchrony more in audiovisual culture. The amalgamation
of incidental music and sound effects in film has become more insistent
in recent years, although it was always a tradition in certain more chal-
lenging films. This unifies the different impulses and motivations of the
two sonic discourses. This collapse of the space between diegetic sound and
non-diegetic music instigates a collapse of mental space between the film’s
conscious and its unconscious, if you like, by bringing together the differ-
ent traditional characters of sound effects (often banal and everyday, in the
real world) and music (soaring, emotional, and fantastical). This removes a
solid division between such aspects as not only fantasy and reality, but also
the objective and the subjective, fixed perception and unstable reverie, and
the aesthetic and the communicational.
C O N C L U S I O N : F I N A L S P E C U L AT I O N S [201]
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This book is premised upon the notion that film is precisely audiovisual
and that the aesthetics of sound are at the heart of the medium. This pro-
vides a starting point for all its analysis and theorization. Such a perspec-
tive allows for a rethinking of film, precisely as an aesthetic medium rather
than one where analysis can simply describe ‘people’ and ‘what happens’ as
if the critic or analyst were confronted with real events unfolding in front
of them. This is the most undemanding approach to an illusion. Theory
and criticism, one might argue, have focused on the wrong thing, assum-
ing that the heart of cinema is the illusion of continuity rather than the
lock of image and sound. This is why there are so many books on film that
merely focus on the narrative—following André Bazin’s influential notion
of film’s essence being that it on some level shows reality (an illusion of the
real world, at least2)—to the detriment of the many other aspects of film.
Indeed, film soundtracks are a powerful element of film, one that is still
underestimated in accounts of cinema, despite the prodigious amount of
money spent on film scores at the intersection of the film and music indus-
tries (two of the biggest cultural industries). The psychological importance
of film sound is borne out by experiments such as Repp and Penel’s, where
test subjects tapped their fingers in time with seemingly unified sound and
image events. The conclusion drawn was that the subjects relied more on
sound for the task than vision.3 Indeed, film audiences are more reliant
on sound than people might think; the majority of films may be based on
hearing spoken dialogue, but contemporary film can often house sumptu-
ous soundscapes.4 Lipscomb and Kendall concluded from an experiment
looking into musical accompaniment that there was “. . . evidence of the
powerful effect a musical soundtrack has on the motion picture experi-
ence.”5 Also, the perception of the same sequence changed when different
musical accompaniment was used, while Bullerjahn and Güldenring found
“. . . that each musical soundtrack creates its own particular type of film
and plot . . . [and that] film music polarizes the emotional atmosphere and
influences the understanding of the plot.”6 Precise points of synchroniza-
tion between sound and image are the lynchpins of film, television, and
audiovisual culture more generally. It is almost inconceivable to have visu-
als accompanied by sounds that are not intended in any way to match, and
in the vast majority of cases, a great deal of time and mental energy are
expended in working out how sounds will match images. This notion is far
older than the development of recorded and synchronized sound in the
late 1920s. And now, with the proliferation of audiovisual culture through
the Internet and portable devices, synchronization remains a crucial issue.
At a time when the aesthetics of cinema have been extruded to televi-
sion, videogames, and Web 3.0 (and beyond), it is a significant juncture to
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address the fundamental psychology of audiovisual culture. Rather than
simply following the dominant psychological frameworks in film studies
(cognitive psychology or psychoanalysis), discussions of the psychology of
sound film here have followed the inspiration of phenomenology in a broad
sense, seeing the essence of cinema as an act of perception induced by an
intimate relationship between a film and a committed viewer-auditor.
Generally speaking, my approach followed such lines, although my con-
cerns embarked from the scientific and the physical, more interested in
the body and unapparent effects in sound and image than in more tradi-
tional models of the cognitive spectator/auditor or studies of any empirical
audience.
Progressively, since the introduction of synchronized recorded sound,
technological developments have allowed for more precise editing and
synchronizing of sound and image. Developments in digital technology
over the last decade or so have enabled a previously unimagined degree
of control for filmmakers and an increasingly complex aesthetic experi-
ence for cinema audiences. Part of this has included direct exploitation of
non-synchronized sound. Concurrently, in the world outside the cinema,
we are in increasingly more situations where sound does not immediately
match our visual perception. One effect of being in a world where there is
increasingly less synch, where things seem more out of synch, is increased
mental disturbance, cognitive dissonance, and stress.
AESTHETIC SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY
Adorno notes that we should not see culture as merely a symptom of soci-
ety but as concentrated social substance,7 and indeed, we might find pro-
cesses in film and music that can tell us much about the social aspects of
which they are a part. Film in essence is a psychological process whereby
we are transported to different worlds and provided with some degree (a
lot or a little) of emotional involvement in what is represented on-screen.
Consequently, any investigation of the complexities of film as a process has
to have psychological inspiration, if not an explicit theory of psychology.
And, of course, any psychology of culture, or indeed, any consideration of
culture more generally, is at heart social. Eisler and Adorno see a central
connection between film music aesthetics and the social, where
. . . the alienation of the media from each other [film from its music] reflects a
society alienated from itself, men [sic] whose functions are severed from each
other even within each individual, therefore, the aesthetic divergence of the
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media is a potentially legitimate means of expression, not merely a regrettable
deficiency that has to be concealed as well as possible.8
Although it seems like an unfounded statement, it is merely a minor step

to encounter broader human processes evident in aesthetic procedures.
Significantly, they point to the central position of synchronization between
sound and image as the heart of a social unity, if perhaps only in poetic
form. In some broad manner, this might also partially account for the inde-
pendence of image and soundtracks evident in some films. Chion backs
this up:
Basically, the question of the unity of sound and image would have no impor-
tance if it didn’t turn out, through numerous films and numerous theories, to
be the very signifier of the question of human unity, cinematic unity, unity
itself. . . . It is not I but the cinema that, via films like Psycho and India Song, tells
us the impossible and desired meeting of sound and image can be an important
thing.9
So, whether this has viability on a social level or not, film sets out its
importance as a social feature on the stage of films themselves. The
primary but difficult relationship between scientific and physical facts
about sound and theoretical speculation into the imaginary zone of film
furnishes a tension, a dialectic, rather than a fully formed theory that
requires proving at some later date. These are speculations that likely
will never be proven to the satisfaction of scientists or staunch social
science positivists. One of the key points to retain here is that there is a
clear relationship between film’s occult processes and the world outside
of the screen and speakers.
The adding together of the two tracks forms a new unity that is more
powerful than each on its own. Eisenstein quoted Kurt Koffka: “It has
been said: The Whole is more than the sum of its parts. It is more cor-
rect to say that the whole is something else than the sum of its parts,
because summing is a meaningless procedure, whereas the whole-part
relationship is meaningful.”10 This sets up an early connection with Gestalt
psychology, although Eisenstein’s ideas are premised upon behaviorist
principles. Indeed, though, Pavlovian principles of conditioned stimuli
eliciting conditioned responses are clearly relevant for discussions about
film and sound synchronization. The central concern with simultaneity of
sound and vision stimuli was evident in Pavlov’s work, where conditioned
responses were elicited by the association of buzzers with the appearance
of dogs’ meals. This synchronization of sound and vision stimuli to create
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strong conditioned association is evident in American psychologist John
B. Watson’s famous behaviorist experiment with a little boy and a rat. A lit-
tle boy named Albert was given a tame white rat to play with. He liked the
rat, but Watson then made a disturbing noise by hitting a metal bar with
a hammer each time Albert touched the rat. The boy was soon associating
the rat with startling and scary blasts of sound, and he became afraid of the
rat. As Watson had predicted, generalization then took place, where Albert
became afraid of similar white furry things, including Santa Claus’s beard.11
The point of synchronizing sound and vision at a single point was clearly
crucial to the whole endeavor.
So these moments of coalescence are crucial, in psychological and by
implication social terms. Chion coined the term ‘synchresis’ to describe
the phenomenon of spontaneous magnetic clamping together of sound
and image into a seemingly single event. There is an associated form of
psychology attached to the synchronization of sound and image, wherein
the illusion of unity is enough to engender a sense of reality on some level.
This cultural configuration according to Wolfgang Köhler is underlined by
“. . . the fact that sensory fields have in a way their own social psychology.”12
Aesthetics have solid psychological implications, and social integration/
inclusion is implied through aesthetic integration (as Eisler and Adorno
noted). Large-scale consumerism, of course, has a vested interest in inte-
grated social inclusivity, and the mainstream film products of Hollywood
and other popular cinemas reflect this. Audiovisual techniques, and
audiovisual culture more generally, work for social inclusion as consum-
erist inclusion, yet the threat of exclusion hangs in the air (embodied by
avant garde film’s alienation effects). It is not simply consumer culture that
desires an integrated, non-alienated audience; for the state of social order
and stability, good consumers and happy citizens are vital. Film, like some
other areas of audiovisual culture, harbors potential worry in the possibil-
ity for the collapse of aesthetics into constituent elements, the failure of
illusion, and the alienation of the audience. Yet such aesthetics are exciting,
at least partly because of their ambiguity and threat of collapse, and asyn-
chrony is a fundamental element of film, with inevitable occasional appear-
ances and more sustained use as a device of anxiety. Its overuse can be
shocking and even fatiguing. In music, if there is too much concentration
in high-frequency ranges, the effect is tiring for the listener. Equally, the
use of sustained asynchrony might prove tiring for audiences not versed in
its extended use.
Characterizing film as a combination of intellectual image corralled
with emotional music and sound, Mary Ann Doane contends that
film sound
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. . . risks a potential ideological crisis. The risk lies in the exposure of the con-
tradiction implicit in the ideological polarisation of knowledge. Because sound
and image are used as guarantors of two radically different modes of knowing
(emotion and intellection), their combination entails the possibility of expos-
ing an ideological fissure—a fissure which points to the irreconcilability of two
truths of bourgeois ideology. Practices of sound editing and mixing are designed
to mask this contradiction through the specification of allowable relationships
between sound and image.13
Mainstream narrative films strive to remove uncertainty (unless it drives

the film forward) and attempt to contain anxiety through its rare and
careful use as a device. The appearance of sustained asynchrony cultivates
uncertainty about the illusory diegetic world on-screen, fostering an unful-
filled expectation of the return to the normality of synchronization and
dominant invisible film style. This dynamic of alternation follows a gener-
ally logical relationship, one of antecedent-consequent, and the essential
cause-and-effect logic of cinema.
An ecological approach to film soundtracks looks not only to an integrity
and autonomy of elements in themselves, but also sees/hears their inter-
relation as primary. In film, there are a number of different acoustic spaces,
often superimposed and simulated. For example, the space of recorded
dialogue, the space of replaced (post-production) dialogue, the space of
recorded music, and the space of prerecorded sound effects. Most of these
will not impose themselves in any immediately noticeable way on the
unfolding of a film diegesis in time. Yet they are nevertheless present and
might be perceived by the persistent and meticulous listener as a potential
destruction of the illusory composite of sound and image.
Of course, music is the terrain where all sound might be unified. The
music industry has had a big impact on neighboring industries, and music
as an aesthetic has had a significant impact on the audiovisual arts. This has
been recognized far less than it might have been. In films, music has had
an increasing but unacknowledged influence in recent years, due not only
to music’s ubiquity but also to the dominance of musical (in the extended
sense) ways of thinking about sound more generally.
For years, the sonic dimensions of society have been ignored as an aspect
of relevance to social analysis. All aesthetics have social implications; they
are never neutral. In a rush to find personal psychology behind cinema,
theorists have neglected social function or mass psychology in recent
years, which means that we fail to see cinema as a palliative, something
to make us feel better and confirm our worldviews. Approaching synch
points as a form of harmony, on one level at least, involves seeing them
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as an underlying philosophy of aesthetics, thus potentially a philosophy
of life itself. This might be termed a Pythagorean approach, in that it sees
a human or natural essence in the complexities and logics of mathemat-
ics, or in this case, in aesthetic conventions. After all, much in the way of
writing and spoken words has been expended upon the essential connec-
tions between mathematics and music, and we might conclude that both
are expressive of an underlying level of human existence and experience.
Edward R. Lippman notes that,
. . . in a type of Pythagoreanism, [composer Jean-Philippe] Rameau eventually

finds that music gives the law to every manifestation of human thought and
creativity. And . . . the structure of the music is indissolubly connected with its
expressiveness: its technical theory, that is, with its aesthetics, but also with its
metaphysical foundation.14
Lippman also notes that an understanding of the underlying principles of

arts such as music opens us to the realization that there are implications
beyond simply a practice: “A vibrating string is an audible unity of number
and length, of arithmetic and geometry, while the moral and emotional
influence of music suggests that its corresponding mathematical study may
possess ethical powers of its own.”15 This consideration of ancient Greek
musical theory highlights how theorists were unwilling to see culture shut
off from its wider implications. More recently, there has been a tendency
to ignore harmony (on whatever level) or the related senses of aesthetic
normality as psychological states that mainstream culture promotes.
Synchronization is a philosophy of society, embodying its veneer of social
harmony but also its requirement of some social discord. What is the effect
of being in a world where there is increasingly less synch? Quite likely, as
I noted earlier, it is mental disturbance and stress. Others might wish to
take this further. Cinema’s alternation of synchronization and seemingly
sourceless sound is a conventional dynamic that is a central characteristic
of sound cinema, but an existence without matching sound and vision risks
tipping into Schafer’s schizophonia as less a slightly anxious condition and
more a pathological state.
FINAL WORDS
This book has been concerned with synchronization and the associated
psychology suggested or constituted. It aimed to reassess film from the
point of view of it being less about representation and more about the
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combination of sound and image. To a degree, this has had the effect of
moving analysis into a more abstract constituency. Arguably, the first book
on film theory, Hugo Münsterberg’s The Photoplay (published in 1916),
theorized that film manifested an analogue of the workings of the human
mind.16 The synchronization of hearing and vision mark a fundamental
mechanism of perception, which therefore constitutes its own psycho-
logical mechanism. It is upon this foundation that the magic contrivance
at the heart of cinema and other audiovisual culture is instigated. Mary
Ann Doane theorized that ‘invisible’ synchronization hides film’s ‘material
heterogeneity,’ unifying mechanical elements into a breathing, believable
illusion. Keyed around synch points, this holds a stable position for the
audience, warding off the trauma of realizing the truth behind cinema.17
The potential catastrophic collapse of audiovisual unity into technologi-
cal components that lose the ability to hide their technological basis and
unemotional character is suggestive of a form of the Freudian death drive
(Thanatos), a tendency toward an inorganic and inert state. Against this,
synchronization of sound and image aims to retain an ordered, sensible,
and comforting experience from irrational chaos and the psychological ter-
ror of meaninglessness and futility.
It seems to me that a contemporary form of alchemy is the mixture of
scientific ideas, physics, and physical facts with more aesthetic arguments
that are founded upon different principles, ontologies, and epistemologies.
Rather than necessarily using one to justify the other, this book has aimed
to pull together theoretical speculation about a highly ephemeral object
through the means of accepted fact and contemplative conjecture. Broadly
blending scientific and critical theory components generates a tension, a
dialectic, rather than a theory that requires proving at some later date. And
these are speculations that will likely never be proven to the satisfaction
of died-in-the-wool scientists, social science positivists, or methodological
conservatives.
After all, methodological marriage (forced, shotgun, or otherwise)
matches this book’s interest in the marriage of sound and image tracks.
Indeed, the pulling together of these two separate technologies, impulses,
and sense stimuli marks the union of two separate ideas and the produc-
tion of something different. The concept of ‘synch’ involves the conjoining
of two ideas. In the process, something is gained in meaning, but some-
thing is lost as well. These two things are not necessarily unified, for exam-
ple, the sounds of punches in films, dubbed dialogue, or birds in natural
history programs. So synch is not about the natural but about belief (not
nature/realism but culture). Synchronization requires faith. We must pro-
vide our own belief for the system of suturing sound and vision to work.
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We fit the words we hear to the lips that move—as in the perennial favorite
TV outtake in which a horse’s lips move and match the words of a talking
man standing next to it. The joke betrays something of the truth: that it
is we who connect the horse’s movements with the sounds, rather than
there being any immutable bond between the two. Montage is the basic
principle. Eisenstein noted:
The basic fact was true, and remains true to this day, that the juxtaposi-
tion of two separate shots by splicing them together resembles not so much
a sum of one shot plus another shot—as it does a creation. It resembles a cre-
ation—rather than a sum of its parts—from the circumstance that in every such
juxtaposition the result is qualitatively distinguishable from each component ele-
ment viewed separately.18
Like the horizontal (across time) Kuleshov effect, which alternated the same
image of actor Ivan Mosjoukhine with images of different objects to yield
a sense of emotional and logical connection between the two, McGurkian
synchronization works vertically (of the moment) to conjoin separate ideas
into a whole, not unlike a so-called Hegelian synthesis, with two terms
combining to produce a third term. The outcome in film can be far less pre-
dictable and often more abstract and elusive. The effect of this third term
can be enough to blind us, but it is undoubtedly a piece of mechanical natu-
ral magic built around moments of sometimes unlikely unity.
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NOTE S
PREFACE
1. Gershom Sholem, Walter Benjamin: the Story of a Friendship (London: Faber and
Faber, 1982), 59.
2. Michel Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, edited and translated by Claudia
Gorbman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 63, 64.
3. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge,
1962), 232.
CHAPTER 1
1. T. W. Adorno, Minima Moralia: Reflections from a Damaged Life (London: Verso,
1978), 222.
2. Although this screen activity may not actually be against the beat (but rather slow
and not synchronized), it demonstrates how it can be difficult for film to be ‘out
of time’ to music.
3. A number of theorists have been interested in this phenomenon, including Gilles
Deleuze in Cinema 1 : The Movement Image (London: Athlone, 1986) and Cinema
2: The Time Image (New York: Continuum, 2005), although his interest remains
visual.
4. Sergei M. Eisenstein, The Film Sense, edited and translated by Jay Leyda
(London: Faber and Faber, 1943); Hanns Eisler and Theodor Adorno, Composing
for the Films (London: Athlone, 1994).
5. It should be noted that this book is discussing cinema as distinctly perceptual.
Films shown on television lack the strength of the immersive effect of big screen,
big sound, and directed concentration. Consequently, effects are likely to be much
reduced.
6. Rick Altman, “Introduction” in Yale French Studies, no. 60, 1980, 6.
7. Of course, even this can vary. For example, the French tend to be more tightly
synched to mouth movements than the more free Italians.
8. Michel Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, translated and edited by Claudia
Gorbman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 223.
9. Ibid., 59.
10. Mary Ann Doane, “Ideology and the Practice of Sound Editing and Mixing” in Teresa
de Lauretis and Steve Neale, eds., The Cinematic Apparatus (London: Macmillan,
1980), 47–48.
oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 210 11/1/2013 12:04:56 PM

11. Semir Zeki investigated the notion of a biological foundation to aesthetics, seeing
art as exploiting modular aspects of the brain and the structure of nerve cells.
Inner Vision: An Exploration of Art and the Brain (Oxford, UK: Oxford University
Press, 1999).
12. Leonard B. Meyer, Emotion and Meaning in Music (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1961), 207.
13. Philip Ball, The Music Instinct: How Music Works and Why We Can’t Do Without It
(London: Vintage, 2011).
14. See further discussion in Michael Shermer, The Believing Brain: From Ghosts and
Gods to Politics and Conspiracies (London: Robinson, 2012).
15. Albert S. Bregman, Auditory Scene Analysis: the Perceptual Organization of Sound
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), 459–460.
16. Chion, op. cit., 63, 224.
17. Ibid., 63–64.
18. Lipscomb and Kendall point to essential perceptual marking by points of syn-
chronization between sound and image. Scott D. Lipscomb and Roger A. Kendall,
“Sources of Accent in Musical Sound and Visual Motion” in Proceedings of the 4th
ICMPC (Liege, BE: 1994), 451–452.
19. Harry McGurk and John W. MacDonald, “Hearing Lips and Seeing Voices” in
Nature, no. 264, 1976, 746–748.
20. I first became aware of this phenomenon in the mid-1990s, when word-of-mouth
became translated to Websites. Since then, many have looked for synchronies
between various films and records. Pink Floyd’s music appears amenable: Their
song “Echoes” (from Meddle, 1971) appears to fit the final section of 2001: A Space
Odyssey (1968), which almost wholly lacks dialogue. This has been bolstered by
the persistent rumor that Kubrick originally asked Pink Floyd to score the film.
Recounted in Nicholas Schaffner, Saucerful of Secrets: The Pink Floyd Odyssey
(London: Harmony, 1991), 127.
21. This is when two events seem related but are not related according to regu-
lar principles of causality, but rather by an acausal connection. Carl Gustav
Jung , Synchronicity—An Acausal Connecting Principle (Princeton, NJ.: Princeton
University Press, 2010).
22. There are small companies, such as the DeVille Workshop (syncmovies.com), that
sell DVDs that add albums to the visuals of films, also including among others The
Black Matrix, soundtracking The Matrix with Metallica’s Black Album; The Ozzorcist
(The Exorcist and Black Sabbath’s eponymous debut album); and Planes, Trains and
Candy-O (Planes, Trains and Automobiles, and The Cars’ Candy-O).
23. John Belton notes that in The Wizard of Oz, the wizard’s unmasking occurs at the
precise moment when synchronization is established, completing a hermeneutic
chain in the film. “The Technology of Film Sound” in Elisabeth Weis and John
Belton, eds., Film Sound: Theory and Practice (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1985), 65.
24. Sergei M. Eisenstein and Sergei Yutkevich, “The Eighth Art: On Expressionism,
America, and of course, Chaplin” in Richard Taylor, ed. and trans., Sergei
M. Eisenstein, Selected Works, Volume 1, Writings 1922–1934 (London: BFI,
1988), 30.
25. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge,
1962), xiii, xiv.
26. Mary Ann Doane, “The Voice in Cinema: the Articulation of Body and Space” in
Yale French Studies, no. 60, 1980, 45.
Notes [ 2 1 1 ]
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27. Sergei M. Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov, “Statement
on Sound” in Richard Taylor, ed. and trans., Sergei M. Eisenstein: Selected Works,
Volume 1, Writings 1922–1934 (London: BFI, 1988), 113.
28. Silent cinema had a certain amount of autonomy for images and music respec-
tively, which was conventionalized by recorded soundtracks’ domination by
matching dialogue. However, there is certainly a case for the survival of the aes-
thetics of silent cinema in the margins of mainstream cinema, such as in montage
sequences, where music can often take the foreground, and diegetic sound often
recedes to nothing. Generally speaking, foregrounded music tends to appear in
sequences where dialogue has receded, or where there is a visual spectacle that
requires something of an aural equivalent in terms of impressiveness. The advent
of music video allowed more scope for a sustained sense of counterpoint among
communication, character, or aesthetics of sound and image.
29. Foley is the name given to effects produced by a person with a range of
sound-producing devices, such as coconut shells and a cat litter tray.
30. John Belton, “Technology and Aesthetics of Film Sound” in Elisabeth Weis and
John Belton, eds., Film Sound: Theory and Practice (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1985), 66.
31. Noel Burch, Theory of Film Practice (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1981), 90.
32. Although modern medicine can use the term to describe a conflict-free state, Freud
originally discussed it in terms of the death drive. Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation
of Dreams (New York: Empire, 2011), chapter 7; Fatima Caropreso and Richard
Theisen Simanke, “Life and Death in Freudian Metapsychology: A Reappraisal of
the Second Instinctual Dualism” in Salman Akhtar and Mary Kay O’Neil, eds., On
Freud’s ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’ (London: Karnac, 2011), 100–101.
33. Despite their vocal silence, they have their own associated music.
34. Ernest Walter (from The Technique of the Film Cutting Room), quoted in Doane, op.
cit., 49.
CHAPTER 2
1. “The pronounced misgivings in the period of transition to sound can be traced to
the rising awareness that films with sound live up to the spirit of the medium only
if the visuals take the lead in them. Film is a visual medium.” Siegfried Kracauer,
Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality (Oxford, UK: Oxford University
Press, 1960), 103.
2. Indeed, some of the most prominent film scholars have helped to perpetuate this
problem. For instance, Bordwell, Staiger, and Thompson’s The Classical Hollywood
Cinema devotes only a small handful of its epic wordage to sound and music,
an unforgivable exclusion in an otherwise excellent volume. The same goes for
Bordwell’s outstanding book Narration in the Fiction Film, which wholly ignores
narration in film musicals, despite his having addressed film music in other writ-
ing. David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson, The Classical Hollywood
Cinema: Film Style and Mode of Production to 1960 (London: Routledge, 1988);
David Bordwell, Narration in the Fiction Film (London: Routledge, 1987).
3. W. K. L. Dickson, “A Brief History of the Kinetograph, the Kinetoscope and the
Kineto-Phonograph” in Journal of the SMPTE, vol. 21, December 1933, reprinted
in Raymond Fielding , ed., A Technological History of Motion Pictures and Television
(Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1967), 12.
[212] Notes
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4. Martin Koerber, “Oskar Messter, Film Pioneer: early Cinema between Science,
Spectacle and Commerce” in Thomas Elsaesser and Michael Wedel, eds., A Second
Life: German Cinema’s First Decades (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press,
1996), 56.
5. Leo Enticknap, Moving Image Technology: From Zoetrope to Digital
(London: Wallflower, 2005), 110.
6. Rick Altman, “Sound History” in Rick Altman, ed., Sound Theory Sound Practice
(London: Routledge, 1992), 121.
7. Michel Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, Claudia Gorbman, ed. and trans.
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1994), 5.
8. Ibid., 63, 64.
9. Chion’s synchresis matches the ideas of Lipscomb and Kendall, both of which note
perceptual ‘marking’ by synch points. S. D. Lipscomb and R. A. Kendall, “Sources
of Accent in Musical Sound and Visual Motion” in the Proceedings of the 4th ICMPC
(Liege, BE: 1994), 451–452.
10. Roy Armes, “Entendre, C’est Comprendre: in Defence of Sound Reproduction” in
Screen, vol. 29, no. 2, Spring 1988, 11.
11. Such neuroimaging tomography (looking inside something) is often fMRI, func-
tional magnetic resonance imaging, which uses radio frequency waves to find
activity in the brain, but it could also be PET, positron emission tomography, or
SPECT, which uses gamma rays.
12. Mariano Sigman and Stanlislas Dehaene, “Brain Mechanisms of Serial and Parallel
Processing during Dual-Task Performance” in Journal of Neuroscience, vol. 28, no.
30, July 2008, 7585.
13. ‘Perceptual expectancy’ or a ‘perceptual set’ is a preexisting blueprint that allows
the rapid perception of similar things and situations.
14. Joseph Ledoux, The Emotional Brain: The Mysterious Underpinnings of Emotional
Life (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996), 265.
15. Ibid., 69.
16. Only a handful of books have attempted to pull emotions into a cognitive frame,
with various degrees of success. One of the first and most interesting was Carl
Plantinga and Greg M. Smith, eds., Passionate Views: Film, Cognition, and Emotion
(London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999), which included a chapter about
film music written by Jeff Smith.
17. An example of this is James J. Gibson’s ‘ecological model,’ which assumes that the
mapping of stimulus to cognition is absolutely one to one. Gibson, The Ecological
Approach to Visual Perception (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1979).
18. Evolutionary psychology (EP) suggests that the brain uses a significant propor-
tion of the body’s energy input (about 25 percent) and so must be its most signifi-
cant part for survival. J. C. Steven and Donald McBurney, Evolutionary Psychology
(London: Prentice Hall, 2003), chapter 4.
19. In recent years, there has been an amending of earlier cognitive psychology
approaches to emphasize the physiological level and even consciousness through
the notion of ‘embodiment.’ Francisco J. Varela, Evan Thompson, and Eleanor
Rosch, The Embodied Mind (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1991).
20. However, more recently, the notion of ‘embodiment’ increasingly has been taken
seriously to address lived experience for cognitive approaches, suggesting that the
human mind and experience have a crucial physical character rather than being
‘Descartian’ mental abstraction. Cf. Francisco J. Varela, Evan Thompson, and
Eleanor Rosch, The Embodied Mind (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1991).
Notes [ 2 1 3 ]
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21. Gestalt psychology contradicted the dominant form of psychology of the time,
‘structuralism’ (not to be confused with the approach in critical theory), which
saw the mind as comprised of separate modular functional constituents.
22. Gestalt psychologist Max Wertheimer discussed in detail the phi phenomenon at
the heart of the illusion of film. Accounting for the apparent movement of a suc-
cession of still images in film projection, phi phenomenon has now replaced the
notion of the persistence of vision as an explanation. Its focus is on the process of
perception rather than the other’s premise that images are retained on the retina
for only a short period, blurring them together. “Experimentelle Studien über das
Sehen von Bewegung” in Zeitschrift für Psychologie, no. 61, 1912, 161–265.
23. Rudolf Arnheim, “The Gestalt Theory of Expression” in Mary Henle, ed., Documents
of Gestalt Psychology (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1961), 308.
24. Meraj Dhir, “A Gestalt Approach to Film Analysis” in Scott Higgins, ed., Arnheim
for Film and Media Students (Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2011), 89–90.
25. This is called ‘Prägnanz,’ which is often translated as ‘pithiness,’ whereby we alight
on the simplest and most balanced pattern to register.
26. Claude Alain, Karen Reinke, Yu He, Chenghua Wang, and Nancy Lobaugh,
“Hearing Two Things at Once: Neuropsychological Indices of Speech Segregation
and Identification” in Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience, vol. 17, no. 5, 2005, 811.
27. C. Redies, J. Crook, and O. Creutzfeld, “Neuronal Response to Borders with and
without Luminance Gradients in Cat Visual Cortex and Lateral Geniculate Nucleus”
in Experimental Brain Research, no. 61, 1986, 469–481; Lothar Spillmann and
Walter H. Ehrenstein, “Gestalt Factors in the Visual Neurosciences” in L. Chalupa
and J. S. Werner, eds., The Visual Neurosciences (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,
2003); L. Spillmann and J. S. Werner, eds., Visual Perception: the Neuropsychological
Foundations (San Diego, CA: Academic Press, 1990).
28. Kurt Koffka, “On the Structure of the Unconscious” in The Unconscious: A Symposium
(New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1928), 60.
29. John G. Benjafield, A History of Psychology (Needham Heights, MA: Simon and
Schuster, 1996), 173.
30. Kurt Goldstein, The Organism. A Holistic Approach to Biology Derived from
Pathological Data in Man (New York: Zone, 1995), 292.
31. Chion states that synch points generally “. . . obey the laws of gestalt psychology.”
Chion, op. cit., 59.
32. Sandra K. Marshall and Annabel J. Cohen, “Effects of Musical Soundtracks on
Attitudes Toward Animated Geometric Figures” in Music Perception, vol. 6, no. 1,
1988, 95–112.
33. Scott D. Lipscomb and Roger A. Kendall, “Perceptual Judgments of the Relationship
Between Musical and Visual Components in Film” in Psychomusicology, no. 13,
1994, 60–98.
Nature, no. 264, 1976, 746–748.
35. D. Alais and D. Burr, “The Ventriloquist Effect Results from Near-Optimal Bimodal
Integration” in Current Biology, vol. 14, no. 3, 2004, 257–262.
36. V. J. Bolivar, A. J. Cohen, and J. C. Fentress, “Semantic and Formal Congruency
in Music and Motion Pictures: Effects on the Interpretation of Visual Action” in
Psychomusicology, no. 2, 1994, 38–43.
37. R. Sekuler, A. B. Sekuler, and A. B. Lau, “Sound Alters Visual Motion Perception”
in Nature, no. 385, 1997, 308; J. Vroomen and B. de Gelder, “Sound Enhances
Visual Perception: Cross-Modal Effects of Auditory Organization on Vision” in
[214] Notes
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Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance, vol. 26, no.
5, 2000, 1583–1590.
38. A. O’Leary and G. Rhodes, “Cross-Modal Effect on Visual and Auditory Object
Perception” in Perception and Psychophysics, no. 35, 1984, 565–569.
39. L. Shams, Y. Kamitani, and S. Shimojo, “Visual Illusion Induced by Sound” in
Cognitive Brain Research, 14, 2002, 147–152.
40. This was exploited by the TV comedy Mister Ed (1961–66), which had a horse’s
random lip movements vaguely matched to a human voice.
41. The Incredible Journey (1963) and its remake Homeward Bound: The Incredible
Journey (1993) were both made by Disney; they were both about a long and peril-
ous journey made by two dogs and a cat. The later version has the animals’ lips
moving. This is effortless because of current computer software that uses the
existing soundtrack to ‘match’ newly generated mouth movements.
Press, 1985), 70.
43. Charles O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound: Technology and Film Style in France
and the U.S. (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2005), 2.
44. Ibid., 1.
45. Rick Altman, “Sound Space” in Rick Altman, ed., Sound Theory, Sound Practice
(London: Routledge, 1992), 58–59.
46. A good example is the sound of a werewolf howl off-screen as we follow a potential
victim on-screen.
47. Siegfried Kracauer, Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality (Oxford,
UK: Oxford University Press, 1960), 111–112.
48. Ibid.
49. Sergei Eisenstein, The Film Sense, Jay Leyda, ed. and trans. (London: Faber and
Faber, 1943), 67–68.
50. Ibid., 68.
51. Ibid.
52. Ibid., 69.
53. Ibid.
54. Robert Spadoni, Uncanny Bodies: the Coming of Sound Film and the Origins of the
Horror Genre (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2007), 14.
55. Sergei M. Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin. and Grigori Alexandrov, “Statement
on Sound” in Richard Taylor and Ian Christie, eds,. The Film Factory: Russian and
Soviet Cinema in Documents 1896-1939 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1988), 234–5.
56. D. M. Neale, How to Do Sound Films, revised by R. A. Hole (London: Focal Press,
1969), 25.
57. Barry Salt, “Film Style and Technology in the Thirties: Sound” in Elisabeth Weis
and John Belton, eds., Film Sound: Theory and Practice (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1985), 39.
58. Roy M. Prendergast, Film Music: A Neglected Art (New York: Norton, 1992), 263.
59. Punching film gives clicks and scratching a frame diagonally, making so-called
streamers, allowing for more free timings as they appear and fade and give a sense
of where musical events should be happening. Flashes conventionally aligned with
circles above staff in the conductor’s score indicate the precise moments required.
Often, complex calculations were involved using a reference book often known as
‘The Knudson book’ (written by Caroll Knudson in 1965).
Notes [ 2 1 5 ]
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60. T. G. Blackham, “Film Sound Technique” in Studio Sound, vol. 13, no. 4, April
1971, 188.
61. The development and availability of the Nagra and Uher portable recorders
allowed for far easier location sound recording. Enticknap, op. cit., 127.
62. Blackham, op. cit., 188.
63. “If . . . the projector speeds up or slows down, the switches become out of phase,
the relationship is altered, and depending on the direction they are out of phase,
the value of the motor control resistance is altered and the projector is speeded up
or slowed down.” Neale, op. cit., 90.
64. Belton, op. cit., 68.
65. Some widescreen films retained the ‘sound on film’ system, which was far easier
for distribution and exhibition.
66. Ashley Shepherd, Pro Tools for Video, Film and Multimedia (Boston: Muska and
Lipman, 2003), 53.
67. Originally this was 25 per second in Europe (the ‘EBU Timecode’) and 30 per sec-
ond in North America, although revisions were made in 2008. Such timecodes
are not only for audiovisual products; they are also endemic in the production of
music. So the SMPTE’s is not the only timecode.
68. Slight variations can have impact. One apparent problem is that the speed
of light is faster than the speed of sound, meaning that with synchro-
nized filming, a distant sound source will appear to be slightly behind its
corresponding image.
69. During the first decade of the second millennium, AVID’s Media Composer
became the dominant sound editing program, while Apple’s Final Cut Pro also
gained in popularity.
70. Pro-MPEG is a body that has aimed to standardize industrial approaches to audio-
visual compressed digital media. It was founded just after the millennium and
replaced the earlier MPEG (Moving Picture Experts Group), which gave the name
to the digital audiovisual format.
71. A limitation is that with cheap capture cards in computers, frames can be ‘dropped’
from the digital copy that is worked on by the composer, and this will mean that
music can become out of synch with the film.
72. Shepherd, op. cit., 196.
73. See, for instance, Gianluca Sergi, The Dolby Era: Film Sound in Contemporary
Hollywood (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 2004); Mark Kerins,
Beyond Dolby (Stereo): Cinema in the Digital Sound Age (Bloomington, IN: Indiana
74. Indeed, it is most common for film music composers to use software that has
an essentially musical function for creation and is also suited to the image and
the mixing stage. According to a number of composers I spoke with, dominant
software at the time of the book’s writing include industry standard Pro Tools,
Apple FinalCut Pro, and Digital Performer (although often importing basic mate-
rial from Logic or Cubase).
75. “Significant audio changes are automatically detected; similarly the source
video is automatically segmented and analyzed for suitability based on cam-
era motion and exposure. . . . High quality video clips are then automatically
selected and aligned in time with significant audio changes.” Jonathan Foote,
Matthew Cooper, and Andreas Girgensohn, “Creating Music Videos Using
Media Analysis” in Multimedia ’02 Conference Proceedings, December 1–6
(Juan-les-Pins, FR), 553.
[216] Notes
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76. One also might argue similarly for music video, which often consists of separate
sound and image channels, meaning that it is unremarkable sometimes to remain
unsynched for sustained periods.
77. Armin G. Kohlrausch, Steven L. D. J. E. van de Par, Rob L. J. Eijk, and James F.
Juola, “Human Performance in Detecting Audio-Visual Asynchrony” in Journal of
Acoustical Society of America, vol. 120, no. 5, 2006, 3048–3085; C. N. J. Stoelinga,
D. J. Hermes, and A. G. Kohlrausch, “On the Influence of Interaural Differences on
Temporal Perception of Masked Noise Bursts” in Journal of the Acoustical Society of
America, vol. 120, no. 5, 2006, 2818–2829.
78. Although individual responses vary, auditory information is processed faster (the
brain activates 30–50 msecs earlier for sound than for image). Rob L. J. van Eijk,
Armin Kohlrausch, James F. Juola, and Steven van de Par, “Audiovisual Synchrony
and Temporal Order Judgments: Effects of Experimental Method and Stimulus
Type” in Perception and Psychophysics, vol. 70, no. 6, 2008, 966, 955.
79. This exhibits smaller thresholds than in many previous experiments using
impact stimulus for results. Steven van der Par, Armin Kohlrausch, and James
F. Juola, “Some Methodological Aspects for Measuring Asynchrony Detection in
Audio-Visual Stimulus” in A. Calvo-Manzano, A. Perez-Lopez, and J. S. Santiago,
eds., Proceedings of the Forum Acousticum 2002, CD-ROM (Porto, PT: Universidade
de Porto, Faculdade de Engenharia, 2002), 4, 2.
80. Neale, op. cit., 80.
CHAPTER 3
1. Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001).
2. Dominated by what is now commonly known as Soviet montage cinema of the
1920s and ’30s.
3. Siegfried Kracauer, Theory of Film: the Redemption of Physical Reality (Oxford,
UK: Oxford University Press, 1960), 115.
4. Although the coming of sound to cinema has been well documented in U.S. cin-
ema, it has received rather less of a focus in cinema elsewhere. To some degree,
it might be argued that this makes sense because all other countries the world
over had to follow the patterns established in the U.S. However, there were sig-
nificant local variations in activity, as testified to by Michael Allen’s discussion
about multiple turntable disc players in British cinema before the widespread
adoption of U.S. synchronized sound technology in film. Allen, “In the Mix: How
Electrical Reproducers Facilitated the Transition to Sound in British Cinema” in
K. J. Donnelly, ed., Film Music: Critical Approaches (Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh
5. In the second and third decades of the 20th century, George Beynon wrote a
manual for cinema accompanists that aimed to make standardized and pre-
cise synchronizations of live music with silent films. Beynon, “From Musical
Presentation of Motion Pictures” [1921], reprinted in Julie Hubbert, ed., Celluloid
Symphonies: Texts and Contexts in Film Music History (Berkeley, CA: University of
California Press, 2011), 61.
6. Rick Altman, “Introduction: Four and a Half Film Fallacies” in Rick Altman, ed.,
Sound Theory, Sound Practice (London: Routledge, 1992), 36.
7. Altman, “Sound Space” in Rick Altman, ed., Sound Theory, Sound Practice
8. Wesley C. Miller, “Basis of Motion Picture Sound” in Motion Picture Sound
Engineering (London: Chapman and Hall, 1938), 7.
Notes [ 2 1 7 ]
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9. Altman, op. cit., 46–47.
10. Kenneth F. Morgan, “Dubbing” in Lester Cowan, ed., Recording Sound for Motion
Pictures (New York: McGraw Hill, 1931), 145.
11. Ibid., 147–148.
12. Ibid., 148.
13. Anon., “The Debut of the Talkies: What Happened at ‘The Jazz Singer’ ” in Melody
Maker, November 1928, 1277.
14. Ibid., 1278.
15. Anon., “Sound Film Activity” in Melody Maker, October 1928, 1150.
16. Sergei M. Eisenstein, The Film Sense, Jay Leyda, ed. and trans. (London: Faber and
Faber, 1943), 18.
17. Kristin Thompson pointed out that there were in fact few Soviet ‘counterpoint’
films made during the era of Soviet montage cinema in the 1920s and ’30s.
Thompson, “Early Sound Counterpoint” in Yale French Studies, no. 60, 116.
18. Vsevolod Pudovkin’s writings were published as Film Technique and Film Acting
(London: Grove Press, 1958).
19. Eisenstein, Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, Jay Leyda, trans. (New York: Harcourt
Brace, 1949).
20. Ibid., 72–79.
21. There is a celebrated homage in Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979),
where a ritual killing of a cow is crosscut with Kurtz’s assassination.
22. The montage of attractions was later recast by Eisenstein as a more general dialec-
tical montage. He saw cinema as a crucial synthesis of the human endeavors of art
and science, whereas Pudovkin believed that film was more natural, with editing
and visual techniques being derived from aspects of human perception.
23. Eisenstein’s article on vertical montage, written in 1940, appeared in Selected
Writings, Volume II, Michael Glenny and Richard Taylor, eds. and trans.
(London: BFI, 1991).
24. Eisenstein, “A Course in Treatment” (1932) in Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, Jay
Leyda, trans. (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1949), 64–65.
25. Eisenstein, “The Filmic Fourth Dimension” (1929) in Film Form: Essays in Film
Theory, Jay Leyda, trans. (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1949), 71.
26. Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov, “Statement on Sound” in
Richard Taylor, ed. and trans., S. M. Eisenstein: Selected Works, Volume 1, Writings
1922–1934 (London: BFI, 1988), 113.
27. Ibid.
28. Ibid.
29. Ibid.
30. Ibid.
31. Eisenstein, 1943, op. cit., 67.
32. Ibid., 62. Aimée Mollaghan notes the diagram’s similarity to the screen format of
elements in current digital editing software (such as Final Cut Pro or Avid). The
Musicality of the Visual Film (Ph.D. diss., University of Glasgow, 2011), 40.
33. Robert Robertson, Eisenstein on the Audiovisual: The Montage of Music, Image and
Sound in the Cinema (London: I. B. Tauris, 2009), 175.
34. David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson, The Classical Hollywood
Cinema: Film Style and Mode of Production to 1960 (London: Routledge, 1988), 303.
35. Royal S. Brown, Overtones and Undertones: Reading Film Music (Los
Angeles: University of California Press, 1994), 10.
[218] Notes
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36. George Burt, The Art of Film Music (Boston: Northeastern University Press,
1994), 81.
37. Music in British films over the years has often seemed far less precisely synchro-
nized than music in Hollywood films. I have discussed this to some degree else-
where. One of a handful of reasons for this looser synchronization of music to
image was that respected art music composers often refused to write to precise
timings. They clearly did not think they should be subordinating their composi-
tional talents to the requirements of film, although they often were more than
happy at the degree of remuneration they received.
38. Michel Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1994), 38.
39. For discussions of anempathetic music, see Claudia Gorbman, “Anempathy:
Hangover Square” in Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music (London: BFI, 1987);
and Chion, op. cit., 123.
40. Caryl Flinn, quoted in James Buhler and David Neumeyer, “Film Music/Film
Studies” in Journal of the American Musicological Society, vol. 47, no. 2, 1994, 44; cf.
Annette Davison, Hollywood Theory, Non-Hollywood Practice: Cinema Soundtracks
in the 1980s and 1990s (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2004), 34.
41. Burt, op. cit., 6.
42. Richard Maltby, Hollywood Cinema (Oxford, UK: Wiley-Blackwell, 2003), 239.
43. Tim Anderson, “Reforming Jackass Music: the Problematic Aesthetics of Early
American Film Music Accompaniment” in Cinema Journal, vol. 37, no. 1, Fall 1997,
12–14; James Wierzbicki, Film Music: A History (Oxford, UK: Oxford University
Press, 2009), 34.
44. This is the sonic equivalent of the anachronistic piece of mise-en-scène in histori-
cal films, such as the typewriter and more in Derek Jarman’s Caravaggio (1986)
and a large number of objects in Alex Cox’s Walker (1987).
45. Basil Wright and Vivian Braun, “Manifesto: Dialogue on Sound” in Elisabeth
Weis and John Belton, eds., Film Sound: Theory and Practice (New York: Columbia
46. Ibid., 97.
47. Rene Clair, “The Art of Sound” [1929] in Elisabeth Weis and John Belton, eds.,
Film Sound: Theory and Practice (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 92.
48. Ibid., 94.
49. David Bordwell, On the History of Film Style (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1998), 36.
50. Kracauer, op. cit., 116.
51. Ibid., 106.
52. This is reminiscent of the overlapping lines of dialogue evident in some of Robert
Altman’s films.
53. With, for example, Ives’s Fourth Symphony requiring two conductors, and the sec-
ond movement quoting at least six tunes from elsewhere.
54. Dimitri Shostakovich, The Missing Symphony (V/Vm/ Test Records, VVMTCD10,
no year of release stipulated, but somewhere in the early to mid-2000s).
55. Albert S. Bregman, Auditory Scene Analysis (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,
1990), 459.
56. The “Restored Collector’s Edition” from Image Entertainment, DVD in 2005 and
Blu Ray in 2008.
Notes [ 2 1 9 ]
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57. Criticized heavily by many, including Nicholas Cook, who suggests replacing this
notion with three terms: “conformance, complementation, and contest.” Analysing
Musical Multimedia (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2000), 65, 103–104.
58. Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov, op. cit., 113.
59. Alexander Graf, The Cinema of Wim Wenders: The Celluloid Highway
(London: Wallflower, 2002), 140.
60. Béla Balázs, Theory of the Film: Character and Growth of a New Art (New York: Dover,
1970), 218–219.
CHAPTER 4
1. See, for example, Tom Ruffles, Ghost Images: Cinema of the Afterlife (Jefferson,
NC: McFarland, 2004).
2. Stephen Bottomore, “The Panicking Audience?: Early Cinema and the ‘Train
Effect’ ” in Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, vol. 19, no. 2, 1999, 177.
3. André Gaudreault, “Theatricality, Narrativity and ‘Trickality’: Re-Evaluating the
Cinema of Georges Méliès” in Journal of Popular Film and Television, vol. 15, no. 3,
1987, 110–119.
4. Peter Brooks, The Melodramatic Imagination: Balzac, Henry James, Melodrama, and
the Mode of Excess (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995), 5.
5. Tom Gunning , “Doing for the Eye What the Phonograph Does for the Ear” in
Richard Abel and Rick Altman, eds., The Sounds of Early Cinema (Bloomington,
IN: Indiana University Press, 2001), 16.
6. Robert Spadoni, Uncanny Bodies: The Coming of Sound Film and the Origins of the
Horror Genre (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2007), 17.
7. Ibid., 30.
8. David Toop, Sinister Resonance: the Mediumship of the Listener (London: Continuum,
2010), 126–127.
Nature, no. 264, 1976, 746.
10. Andy Hamilton, “Adorno” in Theodore Gracyk and Andrew Kania, eds., The
Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Music (New York: Routledge, 2011), 393.
11. Rudolf Arnheim, Visual Thinking (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2004), 139.
Press, 1961), 261, 268.
Press, 1985), 65.
14. The human ear consists of three chambers. Sound enters from the ear flap (the
pinna or auricle), follows into the outer ear, a cavity that leads to the tympanic
membrane or eardrum, which vibrates as the sound wave hits it. Beyond the ear
drum, the middle ear contains air (and thus becomes pressurized during flight).
This contains three bones: the stapes (stirrup), the incus (anvil), and the mal-
leus (hammer). The vibrating eardrum causes movement in the malleus, which in
turn moves the other two bones, with the stapes pushing the oval window, which
causes movement of the liquid in the inner ear. The liquid-filled cochlea is the
central organ of hearing in the inner ear and is sensitive to the effects of motion
and gravity, affecting the sense of balance. Here, movements in the liquid are con-
verted by sensitive hairs on the surface into an electrical impulse, which is then
fed into the neurological system.
[220] Notes
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15. Mariano Sigman and Stanlislas Dehaene, “Brain Mechanisms of Serial and Parallel
30, July 2008, 7585.
16. The primary sensory areas of the brain include areas of the upper brain, primar-
ily the auditory section of the temporal lobe and insular cortex, the somatosen-
sory section of the parietal lobe, and the visual section of the occipital lobe. The
association areas of the cortex are involved in primary perception and also more
complex thought.
17. Indeed, activities in the parietal lobe are often associated with meditative states.
Cinema arguably might take on some of the characteristics of meditation and
offers something perhaps related to an out of body experience.
18. Vernon B. Mountcastle, Medical Physiology (St. Louis, MO: C. V. Mosby, 1974), 579.
19. Anthony Storr, Music and the Mind (London: Harper Collins, 1997), 35.
20. Jennifer A. McMahon, “Perceptual Constraints and Perceptual Schemata: the
Possibility of Perceptual Style” in Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 61,
no. 3, Summer 2003.
21. Michael Shermer, The Believing Brain: From Ghosts and Gods to Politics
and Conspiracies—How We Construct Beliefs and Reinforce Them as Truths
(London: Times Books, 2011). Also see Daniel Dennett, Consciousness Explained
(Boston: Back Bay Books, 1992).
22. Graham Reed, The Psychology of Anomalous Experience: A Cognitive Approach
(Buffalo, NY: Prometheus, 1988).
23. This human tendency toward ‘patternicity’ is discussed in detail by Shermer,
op. cit.
24. The shapes are without structure, which is provided by the patient’s mind, illus-
trating unconscious concerns. The test’s scientific status is not agreed upon.
25. This phenomenon can be taken advantage of by audio equipment that wishes to
provide lower notes than the system appears capable of delivering.
26. Particularly so, given that auditorium sound is not necessarily even originating
from the same direction in which the audience is facing.
27. The notion of synchresis is an attempt to make a theoretical replacement for the
illusory sense of ‘reality’ found in cinema.
28. Wolfgang Köhler, Gestalt Psychology. An Introduction to New Concepts in Modern
Psychology (New York: Liveright, 1947), 20.
29. R. Murray Schafer, Our Sonic Environment and the Soundscape: The Tuning of the
World (Rochester, NY: Destiny, 1994), 91.
30. The Institute of Sound and Vibration Research at the University of Southampton
has a particularly impressive ‘live’ echo chamber, where even short spoken sen-
tences are unintelligible through sound reflection.
31. There is a constant danger of re-experience through a trigger. After a while, emo-
tional exhaustion might take over. This can lead to a state of complete lack of
emotions, communicational distance, and even problems with memory.
32. Freud’s work centred on psychological trauma. This is not the same as Jacques
Lacan’s work, which is more concerned with understanding through language.
For instance, Lacan’s “the Real” has a traumatic capability outside symbolization,
where categories fail. It is thus an object of anxiety par excellence. Jacques Lacan
and Wladimir Lanoff, “Fetishism: The Symbolic, the Imaginary and the Real” in
Journal for Lacanian Studies, vol. 1, no. 2, 2003, 299–308.
33. Lionel Festinger, A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance (Stanford, CA: Stanford
Notes [ 2 2 1 ]
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34. Some have suggested that Festinger’s original formulation needs rethinking.
For example, Elliot Aronson, “The Theory of Cognitive Dissonance: A Current
Perspective” in Leonard Berkowitz, ed., Advances in Experimental Social Psychology,
vol. 4 (New York: Academic Press, 1969), 1–34; Joel M.Cooper, Cognitive
Dissonance: 50 Years of a Classic Theory (London: Sage, 2007).
35. In the television series Space 1999 (1975) “End of Eternity” episode, alien
Balor fights the inhabitants of Moonbase Alpha to a fully silent soundtrack.
Later, when lead characters Konig, Bergman, and Helena wonder about the art
in Balor’s asteroid prison, we are shown shots of paintings of chaos with tor-
tured and aggressive faces, accompanied by extra-diegetic sounds of scream-
ing and terror.
36. These pieces also appear in Van Sant’s following film Last Days (2005), which is
based on the days leading up to the suicide of a rock star clearly based on Nirvana’s
Kurt Cobain.
37. According to Randolph Jordan’s extensive analysis, Westerkamp’s pieces,
rather than simply expressing alienation, connect interior subjectivity in the
film to a plane outside the diegesis, indeed outside the film. “The Schizophonic
Imagination: Audiovisual Ecology in the Cinema” (Ph.D. diss., Montreal: Concordia
University, 2010), 263. See further discussion in Danijela Kulezic-Wilson, “Sound
Design is the New Score” in Music, Sound and the Moving Image, vol. 2, no. 2,
Autumn 2008, 129.
38. Edward Tatnall Canby, “Sound Minus Synch: Part Two” in Studio Sound, vol. 13,
no. 8, August 1971, 403.
39. Alan Williams, “The Musical Film and Recorded Popular Music” in Rick Altman,
ed., Genre: The Musical (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981), 149.
40. John Cotner, “Careful with that Axe, Eugene” in Kevin Holm-Hudson, ed.,
Progressive Rock Revisited (London: Routledge, 2001), 84.
41. While it may not necessarily be ‘filmic,’ it certainly has a representational dimen-
sion. The screams suggest that the care urged in the title was not taken, while the
live version of the song on Ummagumma has the snare drum produce a ‘chopping
axe’ rim-shot sound. Programmatic music, which had extra-musical inspiration,
perhaps entered popular music from art music, yet one could also argue that the
‘program,’ the music’s representational aspects, could have been inspired at least
as much if not more by film.
42. Indeed, in 2009, a direct attempt to copy the visuals of this sequence was used in
a British television advertisement for home insurance.
43. Barry Salt calls it the “. . . first shock cut in cinema. . . .” Film Style and
Technology: History and Analysis (London: Starword, 1983), 284.
44. Hanns Eisler and Theodor Adorno, Composing for the Films (London: Athlone,
1994 [1947]), 73–74.
45. Charles Barr, “A Conundrum for England” in Monthly Film Bulletin, vol. 51, no.
607, August 1984, 234–235.
46. McGurk and Macdonald, op. cit., 746.
CHAPTER 5
1. Don Warburton, “Cinema for the Floating Ear” [interview with Michel Chion] in
The Wire, no. 294, August 2008, 26.
2. For instance, Danijela Kulezic-Wilson’s work, including “The Musicality of Film
Rhythm” in John Hill and Kevin Rockett, eds., National Cinema and Beyond (Dublin,
UK: Four Courts Press, 2004) and “A Musical Approach to Filmmaking: Hip
[222] Notes
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Hop and Techno Composing Techniques and Models of Structuring in Darren
Aronofsky’s Pi” in Music and the Moving Image, vol. 1, no. 1, 2008.
3. Royal S. Brown, Overtones and Undertones: Reading Film Music (Los
Angeles: University of California Press, 1994), 18.
Faber, 1963), 67.
5. Evident in his discussions of “nonindifferent nature,” the “musicality of land-
scape,” and the “musicality of color and tone.” Sergei M. Eisenstein, Nonindifferent
Nature: Film and the Structure of Things, Herbert Marshall, trans. (Cambridge,
UK: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 389.
6. However, Stan Link suggests that to understand the complex interactions of
sound and moving image, theorists might not need the concept of synaesthesia.
“Nor the Eye Filled with Seeing: the Sound of Vision in Film” in American Music,
Spring 2004, 90.
7. Peter Kivy, Sound and Semblance: Reflections on Musical Representation (Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 33.
8. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1987), 82.
9. Rudolf Arnheim, “The Gestalt Theory of Expression” in Mary Henle, ed., Documents
of Gestalt Psychology (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1961), 308.
10. Andre Habib and Frederick Peltier, “An Interview with Peter Kubelka” in Off
Screen, vol. 9, issue 11, November 2005 [www.offscreen.com/index.php/phile/
interview_kubelka/], accessed September 17, 2010.
11. Jon Dale, review of Guy Sherwin, “Optical Sound Films 1971–2007” DVD in The
Wire, no. 294, August 2008, 72.
12. This is similar to interactive iPhone applications for generative music, such as
Brian Eno and Peter Chilvers’s Bloom.
13. The loose movement of cultural primitivism at this same time suggested that
human processes were being bypassed by conventional, undynamic, and banal
developments, often assigned to the standardization of mass culture.
14. Suzanne K. Langer, Philosophy in a New Key: A Study in the Symbolism of Reason,
Rite and Art (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957), 228.
15. Kivy, op. cit., 143.
16. Francois Truffaut, Hitchcock (London: Secker and Warburg, 1968), 335.
17. Alfred Hitchcock, “On Style” in Sidney Gottlieb, ed., Hitchcock on Hitchcock: Selected
Writings and Interviews [original interview published in Cinema, 1963]
(London: Faber and Faber, 1997), 298.
18. Is this staking a claim on the most significant contribution to his films that was
beyond his control? Ironically, Bernard Herrmann, Hitchcock’s most famous
musical collaborator, was conductor of the CBS Symphony Orchestra for 15 years
and saw himself more as a conductor than composer.
19. Robynn J. Stilwell, “ ‘Bad Wolf’: Leitmotif in Doctor Who” in James Deaville, ed.,
Music in Television: Channels of Listening (London: Routledge, 2011), 137.
20. D. M. Neale, How to Do Sound Films, revised by R. A. Hole (London: Focal Press,
1969), 109–110.
21. Noel Burch, Theory of Film Practice (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1981), 95.
22. David Bordwell, “The Musical Analogy” in Yale French Studies, no. 60, 1980,
141–156.
23. Eisenstein, op. cit., 1985, 216.
Notes [ 2 2 3 ]
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25. Sergei Eisenstein, “From Lectures on Music and Colour in Ivan the Terrible” in
Selected Writings, Volume III [1946–7], Richard Taylor, ed. and trans. (London: BFI,
1996), 319, 321.
26. “Playing the Green Cathedral: the Music of Geoffrey Burgon,” DVD extra on Doctor
Who: the Seeds of Doom, BBCDVD3044, 2010.
28. R. Murray Schafer, The Soundscape: Our Sonic Environment and the Tuning of the
29. John Cage, Silence: Lectures and Writings (London: Marion Boyars, 1980), 3. On
p. 83, Cage notes that Edgard Varèse had used the term ‘organized sound’ to
describe music before him.
1994), 88–89.
31. Ibid., 100.
32. Nicholas Cook, Analysing Musical Multimedia (Oxford, UK: Oxford University
Press, 2000), 66.
33. The degree of difficulty of contradiction is well illustrated by a sketch in the sec-
ond series of the British comedy show Big Train (1998), where a film editor has
accompanied a director’s sad funeral scene with Status Quo’s “Rocking All Over
the World.”
34. Caryl Flinn, Strains of Utopia: Gender, Nostalgia and Hollywood Film Music
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 139.
35. A central strategy particularly for Gramscian Marxist-inspired cultural studies
approaches.
36. Indeed, director Christophe Gans initiated the film project by creating a demo
that he sent to Konami. This was cut to the game’s music, so the music was the
absolute foundation of the film.
37. The game series includes Silent Hill (1999, Playstation, later versions ported for
PC); Silent Hill 2 (2001, PS2, PC, Xbox); Silent Hill 3 (2003, PS2, PC); Silent Hill
4: The Room (2004, PS2, PC, Xbox), Silent Hill Origins (PSP); Silent Hill: Homecoming
(2008, PS3, Xbox, PC); Silent Hill: Shattered Memories (2009, Wii, PS2, PSP); Silent
Hill: Downpour (2010, PS3, Xbox); and Silent Hill: Book of Memories (2012, PS
Vita). A sequel to the film was released after a long wait: Silent Hill: Revelation 3D
(2012).
38. He was trained at an art school rather than a music school (so he was not classi-
cally trained). He joined Konami as a roster composer and musician at the age of
25 in 1993 (working on Castlevania: Symphony of the Night [1997]). By the time
of Silent Hill 3, Yamaoka had become the game producer for the PC version of the
whole thing. Composers such as Yamaoka and Nobuo Uematsu (Final Fantasy) are
cult celebrities among dedicated videogame players.
39. “Every sound and every line of sound that is in the game is done by me. And, I make
all my own sound effects . . . ,” “GDC [Game Developers Conference] 2005: Akira
Yamaoka Interview” in Game Informer magazine [www.gameinformer.com/News/
Story/200503/N05.0310.1619.39457.htm], accessed March 7, 2007.
40. Strangely, the music was credited solely to Jeff Danna, and Akira Yamaoka, the
composer of almost all the incidental music that appeared in the film, was instead
credited as executive producer of the film itself. Perhaps this suggests that the
music’s role in the transition from small to large screen was more important than
its merely incidental status. On first analysis, the music appears simply to ‘port’
[224] Notes
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Yamaoka’s game music into the film—as a temp track like Kubrick’s 2001: A Space
Odyssey (1968). However, upon closer inspection, some of the music has been
remixed and some re-recorded, although Kevin Banks’s credit as music editor sug-
gests that there was a need to cut pieces together.
41. The track “Promise: Reprise” is repeated, but the musical strategy is about presen-
tation rather than structural cohesion.
42. Silent Hill’s world appears to emanate from the neurotic mind of the game’s cen-
tral character. Indeed, the constant dislocation of sound and image establishes
the sense of aberrant psychology at the heart of the game. This might account
for the game and the film’s mismatch of expansive reverb-drenched music and
sounds, with misty visuals in the deserted town of Silent Hill, where we would
expect sound to be muffled and close-sounding.
Press, 1961), 207.
44. However, it should be noted that films based on the transmission of a pro-filmic
event, such as rock documentaries, are defined perhaps to a lesser degree by, or
certainly in different ways from, narrative film form. These might be construed as
visual emanations from music, something like song sequences in film musicals.
45. Theodor Adorno, “On Popular Music” in Andrew Goodwin and Simon Frith, eds.,
On Record: Rock, Pop and the Written Word (London: Routledge, 1990), 306.
47. Ibid., 190.
48. Ibid., 59.
49. Meyer, op. cit., 138; see also David Huron, Sweet Anticipation: Music and the
Psychology of Expectation (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2007).
50. Chion, op.cit., 55.
51. Eb followed by Bb a fifth higher, and then Eb a fourth higher than that, with each
on the downbeat of the looped bar of 3/4.
52. It sounds a little like a female voice and runs down a minor scale, including a chro-
matic sixth, from Eb to Bb (Eb Db C Cb Bb). This melodic motif (in different rhyth-
mic formation) appeared earlier in the film at the first appearance of Colquhoun,
who puts his face to the window.
53. Musical pieces throughout the film tend to be structured in this way. Although
pop music and Nyman’s particular form of orchestral music often have structures
like this, electronic ‘soft studios’ also encourage the construction of music in this
way, as proven by much electronic dance music.
54. An extraordinarily detailed analysis of album and film is provided by Eddie
Edwards. This illustrates how the soundtrack was a combination of edited parts
of different musical performances, while the image track is also a combination
of different performances, part of which was restaged at Shepperton Studios in
London. “The Garden Tapes” [www.thegardentapes.co.uk/], accessed May 8, 2011.
55. Robert Fink, Repeating Ourselves: American Minimal Music as Cultural Practice
56. Charles Barr, “Hitchcock, Music and the Mathematics of Editing,” unpublished
paper from Hitchcock and Herrmann, Partners in Suspense conference, York, UK,
June 2011.
57. William H. Rosar, “Bernard Herrmann: The Beethoven of Film Music?” in Journal
of Film Music, vol. 1, nos. 2–3, Fall–Winter 2003, 136–137.
Notes [ 2 2 5 ]
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58. Kenneth J. Hsu and Andreas J. Hsu, “Fractal Geometry of Music: From Birds to
Bach” in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States, vol. 87,
no. 3, February 1990, 938.
CHAPTER 6
2. James Lastra, “Film and the Wagnerian Aspiration: Thoughts on Sound Design
and History of the Senses” in Jay Beck and Tony Grajeda, eds., Lowering the
Boom: Critical Studies in Film Sound (Chicago: University of Illinois Press,
2008), 125.
3. Michel Chion notes that there was a desire for the full unification of film’s sound
elements from the early years of sound film, embodied by directors like Jean
Epstein, and then later among theorists of the 1970s, such as Jacques Aumont.
He comments that “. . . the dream, statistically speaking, has proven a total fail-
ure.” Film, A Sound Art, Claudia Gorbman, trans. (New York: Columbia University
Press, 2009), 204.
4. Gianluca Sergi, The Dolby Era: Film Sound in Contemporary Hollywood. (Manchester,
UK: Manchester University Press, 2004), 30.
5. Rick Altman, The American Film Musical (London: BFI, 1987), 11.
6. Noel Carroll, Theorising the Moving Image (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University
Press, 1996), 139; Jeff Smith, The Sounds of Commerce: Marketing Popular Film
Music (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 6; and Roy M. Prendergast,
Film Music: A Neglected Art (New York: Norton, 1992), 213–222.
7. Aaron Copland, “Tip to the Moviegoers: Take Off Those Ear-Muffs” in The New York
Times, November 6, 1949, section six, 28.
1994), 79.
9. Ibid., 80.
10. Siegfried Kracauer, Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality (Oxford,
UK: Oxford University Press, 1960), 33–34.
11. Chion, op. cit., 149–150.
12. Philip Brophy, 100 Modern Soundtracks (London: BFI, 2004), 38.
13. Chion, op. cit., 150.
14. Ibid., 85.
15. James Wierzbicki, Louis and Bebe Barron’s Forbidden Planet: A Score Guide
(London: Scarecrow, 2005), 26–27.
16. Cf. Liz Greene, “The Unbearable Lightness of Being: Alan Splet and Dual Role
of Editing Sound and Music” in Music and the Moving Image, vol. 4, no. 3, Fall
2011, 1–13.
17. Miguel Mera and David Burnand, “Introduction” in Miguel Mera and David
Burnand, eds., European Film Music (London: Ashgate, 2006), 5.
18. The burst of internationally successful Japanese horror films at the turn of the
millennium, such as The Ring (Ringu, 1998), Dark Water (2002), and Ju-On: The
Grudge (2002), all used low-frequency sound as an important part of their arsenal
of disturbing effects.
19. When protagonist Kate runs along the deserted underground train, the music
consists of a rhythmic loop of treated metallic sounds that are more sound effects
than musical in origin. This piece has notable similarities with some of Charlie
Clouser’s kinetic music in the Saw films.
[226] Notes
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20. Elisabeth Weis, “Sync Tanks: The Art and Technique of Postproduction Sound” in
Cineaste, vol. 21, nos. 1–2, 1995, 42–48.
21. Such as in other celebrated sonically based films like Coppola’s The Conversation
(1974) or DePalma’s Blow Out (1981).
22. Clouser composed and produced television music with Australian composer
Cameron Allen in the late 1980s before working with Nine Inch Nails and remix-
ing other musical artists. He worked on television shows, including Las Vegas
(2005) and American Horror Story (2011), and he also scored films, including
Death Sentence (2007), Resident Evil: Extinction (2007), and Dead Silence (2007).
23. Rob Sacks, “Charlie Clouser’s Scary Soundtrack for Saw” (interview with Charlie
Clouser) in NPR’s “Day to Day,” October 9, 2004 [http://www.nrp.org/templates/
story/story.php?storyId=4132853], accessed November 15, 2006.
24. Ibid.
25. Charlie Clouser, “Interview” at ign.com [http://music.ign.com/
articles/562/562509p1.html], accessed December 3, 2004.
26. Ibid.
27. Sacks, op. cit.
28. Clouser, op. cit.
30. Sacks, op. cit.
31. Ibid.
32. Chion, op. cit., 150–151.
33. Ibid., 71.
34. These are the proverbial shots of trains going into tunnels that allegedly implied
sex in silent films. They are likely apocryphal stories and the fodder of comedy.
Probably the most famous non-diegetic insert is during the violent riot that con-
cludes Eisenstein’s Strike (1925), where a shot from elsewhere of a bull being
slaughtered is inserted in the middle of the action..
35. See further discussion in K.J. Donnelly, “Saw Heard: Musical Sound Design in
Contemporary Cinema” in Warren Buckland, ed., Contemporary Film Theory
(London: Routledge, 2009), 103−123; and Klas Dykhoff, “Non-Diegetic Sound
Effects” in The New Soundtrack, vol.2, 2012, 169−179.
36. A philosophical problem is posed by the notion of the non-diegetic sound effect.
The concept of diegesis is itself highly questionable, being dependent on an
assumption made by an idealized audience member about the illusory world
on-screen.
37. Rick Altman, McGraw Jones, and Sonia Tatroe, “Inventing the Cinema
Soundtrack: Hollywood’s Multiplane Sound System” in James Buhler, Caryl
Flinn, and David Neumeyer, eds., Music and Cinema (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan
38. See further discussion of endemic use in recorded music in Peter Doyle, Echo and
Reverb: Fabricating Space in Popular Music Recording, 1900–1960 (Middletown,
CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2005).
39. Brophy, op. cit., 108.
40. Ibid., 108.
41. Annabel J. Cohen, “Film Music: Perspectives from Cognitive Psychology” in James
Buhler, Caryl Flinn, and David Neumeyer, eds., Music and Cinema (Middletown,
CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2000), 373–374.
42. David Toop, Haunted Weather: Music, Silence and Memory (London: Serpent’s Tail,
2004), 64.
Notes [ 2 2 7 ]
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43. Anon., “CM Producer Masterclass: Hybrid” in Computer Music, no. 129, Summer
2008, 48.
44. Jay Beck, “William Friedkin’s The Exorcist and the Proprietary Nature of Sound” in
Cinephile, vol. 6, no. 1, Spring 2010, 6.
45. Ibid., 7.
46. Marian Hannah Winter, “The Function of Music in Sound Film” in The Musical
Quarterly, vol. 27, no. 2, April 1941, 151.
47. Although, in Sweden, incidental music was established immediately with
recorded sound, foreshadowing the fashion in Hollywood. Christopher
Natzén, “The Coming of Sound Film in Sweden 1928–1932, New and Old
Technologies” (Ph.D. thesis, Stockholm University) in Stockholm Cinema
Studies, no. 10, 2010.
48. While Hollywood films always sold internationally, their primary target audience
was the U.S. market. It is difficult to imagine that a Chinese audience was ever
even considered for the film.
49. Josef von Sternberg’s films inspired some significant theory, discussed by Laura
Mulvey in her landmark article “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” in Screen,
vol. 16, no. 3, Autumn 1975, 6–18.
50. The sudden use of silence makes the audience more interested in what is being
depicted. David Sonnenschein, Sound Design—The Expressive Power of Music, Voice,
Sound (Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions, 2001), 127.
51. Global Journey record GJ3638, 2001.
53. Basil Wright and Vivian Braun, “Manifesto: Dialogue on Sound” in Elisabeth
Weis and John Belton, eds., Film Sound: Theory and Practice (New York: Columbia
54. Film has increasingly influenced television aesthetics and set up a gold standard
for audiovisual quality. On the other hand, it might also be argued that aesthet-
ics more at home in television—asynchrony included—are increasingly evident
in film.
CHAPTER 7
1. In The Mission (1986), when Father Gabriel (played by Jeremy Irons) plays the
oboe, his movements and fingering are convincing, but not for the music that is
heard on the soundtrack. Irons clearly mimed to a different piece of music during
the shooting of the film.
2. Michel Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1994), 11.
3. Sergei M. Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov, “Statement on
Sound” in Richard Taylor, ed. and trans., S. M. Eisenstein: Selected Works, Volume 1,
Writings 1922–1934 (London: BFI, 1988), 114.
4. Rick Altman, “Moving Lips: Cinema as Ventriloquism” in Yale French Studies, no.
60, 1980, 67–79.
5. Jeff Smith relates the extraordinary dubbing of the singing voices of Harry
Belafonte, Dorothy Dandridge, and Joe Adams by (often) white opera singers who
try to “blacken their voices.” “Black Faces, White Voices: The Politics of Dubbing in
Carmen Jones” in The Velvet Light Trap, no. 51, Spring 2003, 28.
6. Laura Wagner, “ ‘I Dub Thee’: A Guide to the Great Voice Doubles” in Classic
Images, November 1998 [www.classicimages.com/past-issues/view/?x=/1998/
November98/idibthee.html], accessed February 2, 2009.
[228] Notes
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7. Carol Clover, “Dancin’ in the Rain” in Critical Enquiry, vol. 21, no. 4, Summer
1995, 725.
8. Steve Wurtzler, “She Sang Live but the Microphone was Turned Off ” in Rick
Altman, ed., Sound Theory, Sound Practice (London: Routledge, 1992).
9. K. J. Donnelly, Pop Music in British Cinema: A Chronicle (London: BFI, 2001),
viii; see also K. J. Donnelly, British Film Music and Film Musicals (Basingstoke,
UK: Palgrave, 2007), 10–11.
10. A sense of the reality of performance can also be achieved through imperfection.
Jeff Smith notes that off-key singing in Popeye (1980) and Everyone Says I Love
You (1996) provided ‘amateurish charm’ and broke conventions of the Hollywood
musical. Op. cit., 29.
11. The live performances are clearly based on those recorded in the live film/video
Here Are the Young Men (Factory Video, FACT 37, 1982).
12. While there are isolated cases of thrash metal being used as incidental music in
films (such as John Carpenter’s Ghosts of Mars [2001]), it appears more readily in
television programs, particularly those that require the expression of energy, such
as the criminal entrapment documentary TV series Bait Car (2008).
13. Heather Laing points to the “simultaneous dual existence” of such songs as
semi-diegetic. “Emotional By Numbers: Music, Song and the Musical” in Bill
Marshall and Robynn Stilwell, eds., Musicals: Hollywood and Beyond (Exeter,
UK: Intellect, 2000), 8.
14. Alan Williams, “The Musical Film and Recorded Popular Music” in Rick Altman,
ed., Genre: The Musical (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981), 152.
15. A highly singular example of sound’s primacy is Chris Morris’s television program
Jaam (2000), which retrofitted images to an original radio show soundtrack.
16. The boom in live rock albums in the 1970s was accompanied by persistent (and
seemingly well-founded) rumors of live recordings at best being ‘sweetened’ by
studio remixing and at worst being extensively re-performed in the studio.
17. It is a bit more problematic when it comes to guaranteeing that singing is a real
event. There has been a trend for ‘warts and all’ singing, which announces its
ontological status as sub-professional, in contrast with the perfection of playback
singers in Hindi cinema. This method is embodied by Lee Marvin’s rough baritone
version of “I was Born under a Wondering Star” in Paint Your Wagon (1969) or
Michael Caine’s distraught singing of “It’s Over” at the conclusion of Little Voice
(1998).
18. The notion of pre-soundtracks (not to be confused with temp tracks) is dis-
cussed further in K. J. Donnelly, The Spectre of Sound: Music in Film and Television
(London: BFI, 2005), 39–40.
19. Siegfried Kracauer notes that scoring a film with known music can have a negative
effect, what he calls a ‘blinding effect.’ Theory of Film: the Redemption of Physical
Reality (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1960, 141.
20. Kristi A. Brown points to Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King” being reused
in Joseph Carl Breil’s score for Birth of A Nation (1915), as a whistled tune in
Fritz Lang’s M (1931), in the horror film Demons (1986), in the TV miniseries
Stephen King’s Needful Things (1993), and in the comedy Rat Race (2001). “The
Troll Among Us” in Phil Powrie and Robynn J. Stilwell, eds., Changing Tunes: The
Use of Pre-Existing Music in Film (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006), 74–75. I would
add the Norwegian film Trollhunter (2010).
21. Chion notes that “sound endows the shot with temporal linearization . . . [and] vec-
torizes or dramatizes shots,” orienting them toward a future or goal. Op. cit., 13.
Notes [ 2 2 9 ]
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22. Claudia Gorbman, “Ears Wide Open: Kubrick’s Music” in Phil Powrie and Robynn
J. Stilwell, eds., Changing Tunes: The Use of Pre-Existing Music in Film (Aldershot,
UK: Ashgate, 2006), 4–5; Royal S. Brown, Overtones and Undertones: Reading Film
Music (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994), 10.
23. In his films, there is only a loose connection between the existing pieces of
music and the images, with each retaining some autonomy. This is profoundly
different from Disney’s Fantasia (1940), where images were composed precisely
as an accompaniment to the musical pieces. For further discussion, see Kate
McQuiston, “An Effort to Decide: More Research into Kubrick’s Music Choices for
2001: A Space Odyssey” in Journal of Film Music, vol. 3, no. 2, 2010, 145–154; Irena
Paulus, “Stanley Kubrick’s Revolution in the Usage of Film Music: 2001: A Space
Odyssey (1968)” in International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music, vol.
40, no. 1, June 2009, 99–127.
24. Vivian Kubrick’s short documentary about the making of the film shows some of
Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring being played as they shoot the chase in the maze.
25. Carlos’s score included Sibelius’s Valse Triste, which was not used in the final
film. For more insight into the use of temp tracks, cf. Ron Sadoff, “The Role of
the Music Editor and the ‘Temp Track’ as Blueprint for Score, Source Music, and
Source Music of Films” in Popular Music, vol. 25, no. 2, 2006, 165–183.
26. Musical pieces are not only used in fragmentary fashion but altered, for instance,
at times through superimposition of an electronic heartbeat that was in Carlos’s
original music.
27. Most obviously here, but arguably the rest of the film can also be interpreted as
Danny’s fantasy.
28. For further discussion of the heartbeat added to the music, see K. J. Donnelly,
The Spectre of Sound: Film and Television Music (London: BFI, 2005), 35; and Ben
Winters, “Corporeality, Musical Heartbeats, and Cinematic Emotion” in Music,
Sound and the Moving Image, vol. 2, no. 1, Spring 2008, 14–21.
29. In the conclusion of the film, when Danny is chased in the maze by his father,
Jack’s voice has changed, transformed as a principal signifier of his change as a
person.
30. Phil Powrie and Robynn J. Stilwell, eds., Changing Tunes: The Use of Pre-Existing
Music in Film (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006).
31. Ian Garwood, “Must You Remember This?: Orchestrating the ‘Standard’ Pop Song
in Sleepless in Seattle” in Screen, vol. 41, no. 3, 2000.
32. Ken Garner, “ ‘Would You Like to Hear Some Music?’: Music in-and-out of Control
in the Films of Quentin Tarantino” in K. J. Donnelly, ed., Film Music: Critical
Approaches (Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press, 2001).
34. A similar sequence takes place in Oldboy (2003), where Oh Dae-Su cuts his tongue
off but the camera does not show the act.
35. Indeed, the effect is akin to Pavlovian classical conditioning, welding the asso-
ciation of the song with extreme violence. The song’s re-release as a single and
appearance on television ads served only to remind listeners of Reservoir Dogs. Or
was the assumption that most people seeing the ads had not seen the film?
36. The process of pre-fitting such music nevertheless relies on post-production,
where high sound quality music is dubbed onto the guide track to which actors
have been synchronizing their actions.
37. Tarantino’s building of scenes around songs is discussed in Garner, op. cit., 188–
205; and Ronald Rodman, “The Popular Song as Leitmotif in 1990s Film” in Phil
[230] Notes
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Powrie and Robynn J. Stilwell, eds., Changing Tunes: The Use of Pre-Existing Music
in Film (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006), 126.
38. See further discussion in K. J. Donnelly, The Spectre of Sound: Music in Film and
Television (London: BFI, 2005), 150–171.
39. Eliot Wilder, Endtroducing . . . (London: Continuum, 2006), 76–77.
40. As Martin Miller Marks notes, before 1910, accounts of cinema are only
rarely specific about the music used as accompaniment. Music and the Silent
Film: Contexts and Case Studies, 1895–1924 (Oxford, UK: Oxford University
Press, 1997), 31.
41. There are eccentric exceptions, such as the Canadian director Guy Maddin, who
has made extensive (and signature) use of antiquated silent film style and early
sound film style in his films.
42. Indeed, those with 8mm home movie equipment up until the 1960s would have
shown the film silently or with their own improvised soundtrack. The format that
became known as Regular 8 lacked a soundtrack on the film itself, unlike its later
development, the so-called Super 8.
43. Donald Spoto, The Art of Alfred Hitchcock: Fifty Years of his Motion Pictures
(London: Doubleday, 1992), 130.
44. Roger Manvell and John Huntley, The Technique of Film Music (London: Focal
Press, 1975), 253.
45. Indeed, there has been an occasional but persistent stylistic legacy of silent
films, for instance the direct influence of German Expressionist silent films
on the music video for The Kaiser Chiefs’ I Predict a Riot, Rob Zombie’s Living
Dead Girl, and in the Metz Schnapps ‘Judder Man’ advertisement of the
early 2000s.
46. For instance, Gillian S. Anderson’s work includes reconstructing and conduct-
ing a large number of silent era scores including De Mille’s Carmen (1915),
Pabst’s Pandora’s Box (1925), and Griffith’s Way Down East (1920). In the U.K.,
Ed Hughes has composed new orchestral music for silent films, even replacing
Edmund Meisel’s famous and celebrated score for Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin
(Bronenosets Potemkin, 1925).
47. Nosferatu: The First Vampire (Arrow Home Entertainment, ARRO219DVD, 2000).
48. Blair Davis, “Old Films, New Sounds: Screening Silent Cinema With Electronic
Music” in Canadian Journal of Film Studies, vol. 17, no. 2, Autumn 2008, 88.
49. Metropolis (1928, Fritz Lang), new edition overseen by Giorgio Moroder and
released in 1984. One of the only scholars to come out in favor of the film is
Thomas Elsaesser, who applauds Moroder’s attempt to refresh the film rather
than leave it as a museum piece. Metropolis (London: BFI, 2000), 59.
50. It should be noted that Moroder’s seeming lack of credentials for this project, as a
successful disco record producer (most prominently for Donna Summer), damned
him in the eyes and ears of many.
51. Claudia Gorbman notes that any music added to any image will work to a lesser
or greater degree and have some sort of effect. Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film
Music (London: BFI, 1987), 15.
52. It might also be convincingly argued that the orchestra provides a wide range of
tone color and dynamics, as well as an emotional tone that is often lacking in
other musical formats.
53. For further discussion on the matter, see K. J. Donnelly, “Constructing the Future
through Music of the Past: the Software in Hardware” in Ian Inglis, ed., Popular
Music and Film (London: Wallflower, 2003), 131–147.
Notes [ 2 3 1 ]
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54. Cf. Joseph Garncarz, “Versions” in Andrew Higson and Richard Maltby, eds., ‘Film
Europe’ and ‘Film America’: Cinema, Commerce and Cultural Exchange 1920–1939
(Exeter, UK: Exeter University Press, 1999).
55. Richard Maltby and Ruth Vasey, “The International Language Problem: European
Reactions to Hollywood’s Conversion to Sound” in David W. Ellwood and
R. Kroes, eds., Hollywood in Europe: Experiences of a Cultural Hegemony
(Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam Press, 1994), 68–93.
56. Charles O’Brien notes that both American and French films are tightly synchro-
nized. Cinema’s Conversion to Sound: Technology and Film Style in France and the U.S.
(Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2005), 1; while Michel Chion notes
this and contrasts it with Italian dubbing. Op. cit., 64–65.
57. In the late 1960s, it clearly was difficult to see holding a foreign cultural product
up to ridicule in this manner as being in poor taste.
58. This is not to suggest that there is no comedy in the image track. The film opens
with a female dancer in a club taking off her clothes. Her naked body is obscured
by superimposed print denoting that this is available only in the ‘foreign version’
of the film.
59. Daniel Meyer-Dinkgräfe, “Thoughts on Dubbing Practice in Germany: Procedures,
Aesthetic Implications and Ways Forward” in Scope, issue 5, June 2006 [www.
scope.nottingham.ac.uk/article.php?id=131&issue=5], accessed March 27, 2009.
60. As Colin MacCabe notes in his study. The consequence is most likely lost on North
American audiences. Performance (London: BFI, 1998), 42.
Press, 1985), 65.
62. Questions of direct connection between sound and image are less important in
television than in film because of differences in the mediums and traditions of
mode and place of consumption. Cf. Chion, op. cit., 37.
63. Cf. Liz Greene, “The Gentle Gunman: Stephen Rea—Voicing Republicanism” in
the proceedings from Sounding Out 5 (Bournemouth University, UK, 2011).
CHAPTER 8
1. Rick Altman, “Baker’s Dozen” in Rick Altman, ed., Sound Theory, Sound Practice
(London: Routledge, 1992), 251.
3. Blair Davis, “Old Films, New Sounds: Screening Silent Cinema With Electronic
Music” in Canadian Journal of Film Studies, vol. 17, no. 2, Autumn 2008, 88.
4. Julie Brown notes the organ’s spectral presence throughout the film. “Carnival
of Souls and the Organs of Horror” in Neil Lerner, ed., Music in the Horror
Film: Listening to Fear (London: Routledge, 2010), 3.
5. Although perhaps not narrative guidance. As Michel Chion notes, the music has
“. . . no discernible direction, it acts to create a feeling that those long tracking
shots in the baroque palace aren’t going in any particular direction either. . . .”
Film, A Sound Art, Claudia Gorbman, trans. (New York: Columbia University Press,
2009), 267.
6. Robert Fink, Repeating Ourselves: American Minimal Music as Cultural Practice
7. I have always wondered if the term was derived from wildlife filmmaking, where
habitually there is no location sound recorded to accompany the images, with
[232] Notes
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the completion of the footage with library or specially produced recordings dur-
ing post-production. It seems more likely that it is sound untamed by the image,
perhaps.
8. David Toop has written about soundtracks as a form of memory. Haunted
Weather: Music, Silence and Memory (London: Serpent’s Tail, 2004), 94–98.
9. R. Murray Schafer, Our Sonic Environment and the Soundscape: The Tuning of the
10. Ibid., 78.
11. David Laderman coined the term ‘slip synch’ to describe miming musicians fail-
ing to match the lip-synch on purpose to keep their credibility. “(S)lip-Sync: Punk
Rock Narrative Film and Postmodern Musical Performance” in Jay Beck and Tony
Grajeda, eds., Lowering the Boom: Critical Studies in Film Sound (Chicago: University
of Illinois Press, 2008), 272. The biographical documentary about the Sex Pistols’
bass guitarist, Sid Vicious: the Final 24 Hours (2006), clearly could not afford to use
their music and had vague sound-alike punk rock in the background throughout.
12. Some of the songs in the film have extra sounds dubbed onto them. The persistent
complaints by Johnny Rotten (John Lydon) (“Oh fuck it’s awful I hate songs like
that. The Pits. Stop it. It’s fuckin’ awful. Fuckin’ ridicularse. Wish I had the words.”)
sound as if they have been taken from the previous outtake under discussion.
13. Cf. the discussion of the musicality of similar sound and image interaction in
Aronofsky’s previous film, in Danijela Kulezic-Wilson, “A Musical Approach
to Filmmaking: Hip Hop and Techno Composing Techniques and Models of
Structuring in Darren Aronofsky’s Pi” in Music and the Moving Image, vol. 1, no.
1, 2008.
14. Cf. Jason Jacobs, “Gunfire” in Karl French, ed., Screen Violence (London: Bloomsbury,
1996), 171–178.
15. Anthony Storr, Music and the Mind (London: Harper Collins, 1997), 27.
16. David Sonnenschein, Sound Design—The Expressive Power of Music, Voice, Sound
(Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions, 2001), 127.
17. Douglas Doherty and Ron Berry, “Sound Diffusion of Stereo Music Over a Multi
Loud-Speaker Sound System, From First Principles Onwards to a Successful
Experiment” in Journal of Electroacoustic Music, vol. 11, Spring 1998, 9.
18. Robert Normandeau, “. . . Et vers un cinema pour l’oreille” in Circuit, (Revue
Nord-Américaine de Musique du XXe Siècle), vol. 4, nos. 1–2, 1993, 113.
19. Peter Hutchings, Hammer and Beyond: the British Horror Film (Manchester,
UK: Manchester University Press, 1993), 134.
20. Thus jumping the divide between incidental music and diegetic sound effects—
see some discussion of non-diegetic sound effects in chapter 6.
21. Barry Mauer, “Asynchronous Documentary: Buñuel’s Land Without Bread” in Jay
Beck and Tony Grajeda, eds., Lowering the Boom: Critical Studies in Film Sound
(Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2008), 143.
22. Chion, op. cit, 188.
23. Annette Davison, Hollywood Theory, Non-Hollywood Practice (Aldershot,
UK: Ashgate, 2004), 71.
24. This is perhaps the inverse of the BBC’s sound CD releases of the soundtracks
without images from some of their lost Doctor Who serials from the 1960s.
The BBC had destroyed their copies of the programs, but enthusiasts had used
tape recorders to preserve the experience of the broadcast for themselves. The
soundtracks tend to work remarkably well without the images, with only slight
and intermittent interventions from a narrating voiceover. This is the point when
Notes [ 2 3 3 ]
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the soundtracks of audiovisual productions start to become radio plays, as testi-
fied to by the similarity of these CDs to Doctor Who “Audio Adventures” made by
Big Finish Productions.
CHAPTER 9
1. Cf. Semir Zeki, Inner Vision: An Exploration of Art and the Brain (Oxford, UK: Oxford
University Press, 1999); Dahlia Zeidel, Neuropsychology of Art: Neurological,
Cognitive and Evolutionary Perspectives (London: Psychology Press, 2012).
2. There are influential writings about the realistic nature of film, such as those of
André Bazin in What is Cinema?: Volume 1 (Berkeley, CA: University of California
Press, 2004).
3. B. H. Repp and A. Penel, “Auditory Dominance in Temporal Processing: New
Evidence from Synchronization with Simultaneous Visual and Auditory Sequences”
in Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance, vol. 28,
no. 5, 2002, 1085–1099.
4. Gianluca Sergi, “The Sonic Playground: Hollywood Cinema and its Listeners” at
Filmsound.org [www.filmsound.org/articles/sergi/index.htm], accessed June 6,
2011; Barbara Flueckiger, “Sound Effects: Strategies for Sound Effects in Films”
in Graeme Harper, Ruth Doughty, and Jochen Eisentraut, eds., Sound and Music in
Film and Visual Media (New York: Continuum, 2009), 155.
5. Scott D. Lipscomb and Roger A. Kendall, “Perceptual Judgment of the Relationship
between Musical and Visual Components in Film” in Psychomusicology, vol. 13,
Spring/Fall 1994, 92.
6. Claudia Bullerjahn and Markus Güldenring, “An Empirical Investigation of Effects
of Film Music Using Qualitative Content Analysis” in Psychomusicology, vol. 13,
nos. 1–2, 1994, 110.
7. T. W. Adorno, The Philosophy of Modern Music (New York: Continuum, 2003),
130; Andy Hamilton, “Adorno” in Theodore Gracyk and Andrew Kania, eds., The
Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Music (New York: Routledge, 2011), 393.
8. Hanns Eisler and Theodor Adorno, Composing for the Films (London: Athlone,
1994), 74.
10. Kurt Koffka, Principles of Gestalt Psychology (London: Kegan Paul, 1935), quoted
in Sergei M. Eisenstein, The Film Sense, Jay Leda, ed. and trans. (London: Faber
and Faber, 1943), 19.
11. Despite the ease with which Watson instilled this response, he was unable
to remove it, and Albert remained frightened. Denise Winn, The Manipulated
Mind: Brainwashing, Conditioning and Indoctrination (London: Octagon Press,
1983), 59.
12. Wolfgang Köhler, Gestalt Psychology. An Introduction to New Concepts in Modern
Psychology (New York: Liveright, 1947), 20.
13. Mary Ann Doane, “Ideology and the Practice of Sound Editing and Mixing” in Teresa
1980), 50.
14. Edward A. Lippman, The Philosophy and Aesthetics of Music (Lincoln, NE: University
of Nebraska Press, 1999), 111.
15. Ibid., 85.
[234] Notes
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16. Hugo Münsterberg , The Photoplay: A Psychological Study (London: Appleton,
1916). Although in recent years, I have heard this idea inexplicably assigned to far
more recent sources.
17. Mary Ann Doane, “The Voice in Cinema: The Articulation of Body and Space” in
Yale French Studies, no. 60, 1980, 45.
Faber, 1943), 18.
Notes [ 2 3 5 ]
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oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 248 11/1/2013 12:04:59 PM
INDE X
300 (2007), 193 antiphony, 55

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), 58, 164, American Beauty (1999), 55
171, 211n, 225n, 230n An American in Paris (1951), 96
7even (1997), 132 L’ Aneé derniere a Marienbad (1961), 55,
185, 187
A nous la liberté (1932), 59 Anderson, Gillian S., 171, 231n
action films. See genre. animated films. See genre.
‘active perception’, 20 Anger, Kenneth, 87, 100
acousmatic, 131, 140, 153, 181, 190–1, Kustom Kar Kommandos (1965), 100
194, 196, 197–8 Scorpio Rising (1964), 87, 100
acousmonium, 128, 134 antiphony, 55
acoustics, 15, 80, 85, 104, 142 Antonioni, Michaelangelo, 1, 82, 87
psychoacoustic, 21, 78, 141 Blow Up (1966), 1
Adam and the Ants, 58 The Passenger (Professione Reporter)
Adorno, Theodor W., xi, 1, 2, 14, 75, 91, (1975), 82–3
111, 203, 205 Zabriskie Point (1970), 87–9
ADR (automatic dialogue replacement), Aphex Twin, 58
174, 180 apophenia, 6, 79
The Adventures of Don Juan (1926), 16, Apocalypse Now (1979), 40–1, 218n
34, 45 Argento, Dario, 175
akinesthesia (akinetopsia), 81 Profondo Rosso (AKA Deep Red, 1975),
Alexander Nevsky (1938), 52, 104 175–6
Alien (1979), 198 Armes, Roy, 17
Alien 3 (1992), 161 Armstrong, Craig, 58
Allen, Woody, 176, 195 Plunkett and Macleane (1999), 58
Manhattan (1979), 195 Aronofsky, Darren, 193, 233n
What’s up, Tiger Lily? (1966), 176 Requiem for a Dream (2000), 193
Alloy Orchestra, 173 Arnheim, Rudolf, 19–20, 98,
Alexandrov, Grigori, 9, 34, 50, 51, 52, 53, Film as Art (1958), 19
68, 69, 185 “The Gestalt Theory of Expression”
‘Statement on Sound’, 9, 50, 51, 52, (1949), 19–20, 98
58, 68, 185 art films. See genre.
Altman, Rick, 3, 15, 16, 29, 46, 126, 141, L’ arrive d’un train en gare de la Ciotat
156, 180, 182, 183, 219n (1895), 70
amateur films. See genre. Assault on Precinct 13 (1976), xi, 61, 65–7
anempathetic music, 34, 54–5, 57, 106, Astaire, Fred, 162–3
109, 136, 167 asynchrony. See synchronization.
Index.indd 249 10/18/2013 4:20:33 PM

atonal, 184 Benjafield, John, 22
Atonement (2007), 54 Bernard Herrmann: Music from the Movies
audiovisual, 2–4, 8–9, 12–13, 25, 33–34, (1992), 106
55, 68, 94, 101, 112–4, 119, 124, Bernard, James, 171
126, 128, 139, 153, 155–156, 161, Berry, Chuck, 162, 191
180, 183, 184, 202, 205–6, 208, “You Never Can Tell”, 162
216n, 228n, 234n “Johnny B. Goode”, 191
audiovisual cadence, 114 The Big Parade (1925), 169
audiovisual culture, 2, 4, 8, 15, 23, The Big Sleep (1945), 160
38, 41, 73, 93, 95, 199, 200–3, ‘Biophon’, 15
205, 208 The Birds (1963), 57, 130, 131, 170
audiovisual naturalism, 42, 81 Birth of a Nation (1915), 169, 173
audiovisual phrasing, 112 Black Water (2008), 92
audiovisual score, 52 Blackham, T.G., 36
audiovisual synchronization, 9 Blackmail (1929), 90, 174, 182
auditory capture, 26 Blade Runner (1982), 125
avant garde. See genre. Blow Out (1981), 196, 227n
AVI (Audio Video Interleave), 39 Blow Up (1966), 1
AVID Technology, Inc., 39, 125, 216n, Blue (1993), 199
218n body model, 18
Avid zooms, 193 Bolivar, Valerie, 26
Axt, William, 169 Bollywood, 160
Boogie-Doodle (1948), 99
Babe (1995), 179 Bordwell, David, 53, 59, 103, 212n
Bach, Johann Sebastian, 100–1, 121 bounce inducing effect, 25–6
Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, 100 Bow Wow Wow, 58
Goldberg Variations, 101 Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), 67
Badly Dubbed Porn (2007 - present), 176 Brakhage, Stan, 101
Balázs, Béla, 69 Breakheart Pass (1976), 192
Ball, Philip, 5 Bregman, Albert, 6, 67
Barr, Charles, 91, 121 Breil, Joseph Carl, 169, 229n
Barron, Louis and Bebe, 130, 135 The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), 167
Forbidden Planet (1956), 130, 135, Bring me the Head of Alfredo Garcia
141–2 (1974), 154
Barry Lyndon (1975), 164 Bronson (2009), 85, 114–5
Bartok, Béla, 165 Brooks, Peter, 71
Music for Strings, Percussion and Brophy, Philip, 128, 141–2
Celesta, 165 Brown, Royal S., xi, 15, 53, 95, 164
Battleship Potemkin (1925), 144, 172, Browning, Tod, 72
231n Freaks (1932), 72
Bazin, André, 29, 55, 202 Bullerjahn, Claudia, 201
Bax, William, 96 Buñuel, Luis, 199
Tintagel, 96 Les Hurdes (Land without Bread, 1933),
Becce, Giuseppe, 169 199
Kinothek (1919), 169 Burch, Noel, 10, 103
Beck, Jay, 133–4, 233n Burgon, Geoffrey, 104
Beethoven, Ludwig van, 86, 97 Burnand, David, 131
6th Symphony, 97 Burroughs, William S., 173
Moonlight Sonata, 86 Witchcraft Through the Ages (Häxan
Belton, John, 15, 29, 38, 76, 177, 211n [1922]) 173
[250] Index
Index.indd 250 10/18/2013 4:20:34 PM

Burtt, Ben, 41 comedy films. See genre.
Burt, George, 56, 105 The Committee (1967), 88
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid congruence-associationist model, 24
(1969), 193 contrary motion, 56
Control (2007), 160
Cage, John, 105, 224n The Conversation (1974), 196, 227n
Candyman (1992), 58 Cook, Nicholas, 106, 220n
Canon (1964), 99 Copland, Aaron, 127
Carlos, Wendy, 164, 166 Coppola, Francis Ford, 196, 218n, 227n
Carnival of Souls (1962), 184, 232n The Conversation (1974), 196, 227n
Carpenter, John, xi, 61, 124, 229n Apocalypse Now (1979), 40–1, 218n
Assault on Precinct 13 (1976), xi, 61, Coppola, Sofia, 58
65–7 Marie Antoinette (2006), 58
Carroll, Noel, 127 Cotner, John S., 87, 222n
Casablanca (1942), 154 counterpoint, 1, 9, 31, 34, 42, 43, 45, 50,
The Cat From Outer Space (1978), 179 52–61, 68–9, 83, 125, 185, 187,
CGI (computer generated imagery), 179 212n
Chariots of Fire (1981), 91, 125 Creep (2004), 132
Chion, Michel, vii, ix, xi, 4, 6, 12, 14–16, cross-modal effect, 24
55, 79, 94, 106, 112–14, 123, Cubase, 40, 125, 216n
128–9, 133, 136, 139–40, 155–6, Curtis, Ian, 160
164, 167, 197, 199, 204–5, 213n, Control (2007), 160
214n, 226n, 229n, 232n
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the The Da Vinci Code (2006), 121
Witch and the Wardrobe (2005), 143 Da Vinci, Leonardo, 121
The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian Dangerous Moonlight (1941) (Suicide
(2008), 143 Squadron [US title]), 154
CinemaScope (1953), 38 Danna, Jeff, 108, 224n
Cinematic Orchestra, 173 Davis, Blair, 172, 184
Cinerama (1952), 38 Davis, Miles, 150
Clair, René, 59 Davison, Annette, 199
Sous le toits de Paris (1930), 59 DAW technology, 40, 125, 137
Le Million (1931), 59 Dead of Night (1945), 28, 180
A nous la liberté (1932), 59 Dead Silence (2007), 180, 194, 227n
classical films. See genre. ‘Dead soundtrack’, 34, 195
classical music (and scores), 5, 10, 54, Deathwatch (2002), 197
97–8, 164 Debussy, Claude, 97
click tracks, 36, 55, 122 La Cathedrale engloutie, 97
A Clockwork Orange (1971), 57 Decasia (2002) ‘The State of Decay’, 120
Clouser, Charlie, 133, 135–6, 226n, 227n DePalma, Brian, 196, 227n
Saw (2004), 133–141, 152, 226n, Dern, Laura, 161
227n Dhir, Meraj, 20
Clover, Carol, 158 dichotic listening (dual hearing), 22
Cocktail party effect, 78 Dickson, W.K.L., 15
Coen Brothers, 57 Dietrich, Marlene, 149–51
Miller’s Crossing (1990), 57 Digital Audio Workstations, 40
cognitive dissonance, 81–2, 89, 203 direct coupling, 37
cognitive psychology (or Cognitive direct sound (“son direct”), 29, 176
Science). See psychology. disparate synchronisation. See
Cohen, Annabel, 24–6, 142 synchronisation.
Index [251]
Index.indd 251 10/18/2013 4:20:34 PM

dissonance, 81–3, 89, 203 Eisler, Hanns, 2, 14, 59, 91, 203, 205
D.J. Shadow, 168 electroacoustic music,133, 181
Endtroducing, 168 Elephant (2003), 85
D.J. Spooky, 173 Emerson, Keith, 125
Rebirth of a Nation, 173 Enthusiasm (1930), 59
Doane, Mary Anne, 4, 8, 205, 208 Ephron, Nora, 178
Doctor Who (TV series), 102, 233n, 234n Eraserhead (1977), 131, 190
documentaries. See genre. Erdmann, Hans, 169
Dolby sound, 40, 41, 123, 129, 132 Kinothek (1919), 169
Donnie Darko (2001), 132 Eustache, Jean, 29
The Doors (1991), 160 Evil Dead 2 (1987), 129
Dr Strangelove (1964), 57 The Exorcist (1973), 128, 143–4,
Dracula (1931), 45, 59, 151, 174 180, 198
The Draughtsman’s Contract (1982), 58 experimental films. See genre.
Dreyer, Carl Theodor, 59 experimental music, 104, 143
Vampyr (1932), 59
dual listening, 67 Face/Off (1997), 193
dubbing, 3, 10, 41, 45–7, 60, 72, 155, Fentress, John, 26
156, 158, 174–9, 208, 228n, 232n Festinger, Lionel, 81, 222n
The Dukes of Hazzard (1977–85), 193 Fiddle-Dee-Dee (1947), 99
Dynasty (1981–91) (TV series), 109 film structure, 5, 7, 23, 49, 97–8,
101–3, 109, 122, 127, 151, 156,
Ealing Studios, 28 165, 172, 187
Dead of Night (1945), 28, 180 Filter Beds (1998), 100
The Eye and the Ear (1945), 100 The Filth and the Fury (2000), 191
Edison, Thomas, 15 Fink, Robert, 119, 187
Egoyan, Atom, 90 Fischinger, Oskar, 100
The Sweet Hereafter (1997), 90 Flash Gordon (1936), 167
Eisenstein, Sergei, vii, xi, 1, 7, 9, 14, 15, Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe
31–4, 42, 43, 48, 49, 50–2, 55, 60, (1940), 167
61, 68, 69, 89, 93, 96, 103, 104, 107, Flash Gordon’s Trip to Mars (1938),
120, 121, 144, 156, 172, 185, 188, 167
204, 209, 218n, 223n, 227n, 231n Fleischer, Richard, 105
Alexander Nevsky (1938), 52, 104 Flinn, Caryl, 55–6, 107
Battleship Potemkin (1925), 144, 172, The Fog (2005), 141
231n Foley, 10, 129, 212n
“A Dialectic Approach to Film Form” Forbidden Planet (1956), 130, 135, 141,
(1929), 48 142
The Film Sense, 31, 52 ‘forced marriage’, 199
‘Montage Anglais’, 91 Fox/Western Electric, 34, 38, 182
montage of attractions, 49, 218n ‘Movietone’, 34
“Methods of Montage” (1929), 49–50 Fox Movietone News, 182
montage theory, 44, 48–9, 103–4, FP1 Antwortet Nicht (1932), 174
The Old and the New (1929), 103–4 Frankenstein (1931), 59, 151
rhythmic montage, 49 Freaks (1932), 72
sound montage, 48–52, 103–4 Freud, Sigmund, viii, ix, 11, 120, 187,
Soviet film, 44, 48–9, 59, 69, 217n, 208, 212n, 221n
218n Nirvana Principle, 11
“Statement on Sound”, 9, 50–2, 58, Friedhofer, Hugo, 105
68, 185 Fugue on Dies Irae, 105
Strike (1925), 49, 89, 227n Friedkin, William, 143
[252] Index
Index.indd 252 10/18/2013 4:20:34 PM

Gabriel, Peter, 179 Gonks Go Beat (1965), 163
Gallivant (1996), 189 The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1967),
Garcia-Abril, Anton, 60 117
The Garden (1990), 199 ‘good Gestalt’, 20, 23–4, 26
Gassmann, Remi, 130 Gorbman, Claudia, xi, 14, 15, 55, 112,
genre (film): 164, 231n
action films, ix, 170–1 Gordon, Michael, 120
amateur films, 43, 171, 229n Decasia (2002) ‘The State of Decay’, 120
animated films, 12, 71, 99, 100–1, Graf, Alexander, 69
155, 180, 191 The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle (1980),
art films, 175–6 191
avant garde, 11–3, 42–4, 81, 84, 87, Gregson-Williams, Harry, 143
89, 92, 94, 99, 100, 104, 118, Griffith, D.W., 169, 173
121, 122, 128, 170, 205 Birth of a Nation (1915), 169, 173
classical films, 19, 55, 68, 124, 159, Gunning, Tom, 71
160, 189
comedy films, 56, 90, 176, 178–9, 183, Halloween (1978), 32, 113
215n, 224n, 227n, 232n Hallström, Lasse, 176
documentaries, 12, 29, 58–9, 99, 106, My Life as a Dog (1985), 176
118, 153, 159, 173, 182, 188–9, Harry Potter (Films), 71
191–2, 225n, 229n, 230n, 233n Harvey, Herk, 184
experimental films, 12 Carnival of Souls (1962), 184, 232n
horror films, 11, 24, 32, 33, 60, 70, 72, Healings, Chris, 142–3
98, 109, 113, 126, 133, 136, 140, Hendrix, Jimi, 150
141–3, 153, 165, 170–1, 175, Henry, Pierre, 130
180, 183, 194, 196–8, 226n Herrmann, Bernard, 106, 121, 130, 223n
modernist films, 173 Hirsch, Paul, 106
musicals, 12–3, 28, 95, 97, 155, 157– Hitchcock, Alfred, 57, 90, 102, 106, 121,
63, 168, 212n, 225n, 229n 130, 134, 140, 170, 174–5, 177,
music videos, 92, 95–7, 162, 171, 191, 182, 223n
212n, 217n, 231n The Birds (1963), 57, 130, 131, 170
silent films, 11, 16, 36, 45–6, 48, 50, Blackmail (1929), 90, 174, 182
56, 58, 59–60, 69, 71, 103, 120, North by Northwest (1959), 170
123, 130, 157, 169–73, 182–4, Notorious (1946), 177
187, 194, 199, 212n, 217n, 222n, “On Style” (1963), 102
227n, 231n Psycho (1960), 22, 57, 76, 106, 140,
video art, 42 170, 204
westerns (incl. Spaghetti), 115, 117, Rear Window (1954), 134
177, 192 Holm-Hudson, Kevin, 88
Geräuschmusik, 144 Progressive Rock Revisited, 88
Gestalt psychology, 18–24, 26, 28, 75–6, Honegger, Arthur, 97
79, 98, 190, 204, 214n Pacific 231, 97
Gimme Shelter (1970), 193 horror films. See genre.
Glass, Philip, 58 Houston, Whitney, 159
The Go Between (1970), 91 Huillet, Danièle, 29
Godard, Jean-Luc, 29, 84 human psychology. See psychology.
Gold, Ernest, 54 Huntley, John, 171
The Golden Compass (2007), 71 Les Hurdes (Land without Bread, 1933),
Goldsmith, Jerry, 198 199
Goldstein, Kurt, 23 Hutchings, Peter, 197
Index [253]
Index.indd 253 10/18/2013 4:20:34 PM

India Song (1975), 204 Dr Strangelove (1964), 57
The Innocents (1961), 195 The Shining (1980), 164–7, 178–9
iPod, 5 Kuleshov experiment/effect, 43, 209
Iron Butterfly, 109, 111 Kustom Kar Kommandos (1965), 100
“In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida”, 109, 111
The Iron Foundry (1928), 97 Lang, Edith, 169
Ivens, Joris, 59 Lang, Fritz, 27, 59, 172, 229n, 231n
Song of Heroes (1931), 59 M (1928), 59, 229n
Ives, Charles, 67, 219n Metropolis (1927, re-released 1983),
27, 172, 231n
Jarman, Derek, 199, 219n Langer, Suzanne K., 101
The Garden (1990), 199 The Last Waltz (1978), 159
Blue (1993), 199 Lastra, James, 123
Jaubert, Maurice, 193 Lauste, Eugene-Auguste, 15
The Jazz Singer (1926), 16, 34, 45, 47, ‘law of minimum principle’, 22–3
157 Led Zeppelin, 118–9
The Jesus of Montreal (1989), 176 Jimmy Page, 118
Johnson, Robert, 193 Robert Plant, 118
“Love in Vain”, 193 The Song Remains the Same (1975), 118
Jones, McGraw, 141 Ledoux, Joseph, 18
Ju-On: The Grudge (2002), 132, 226n Leone, Sergio, 117
Jung, Carl Gustav, 7, 211n The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1967),
117
Kamitani, George, 27 Once Upon a Time in the West (1968),
Kant, Immanuel, 102 117
Kantian idealism, 79, 98 Lèvres de sang (Lips of Blood, 1975), 184
Kelly, Gene, 157 lip-synching. See synchronisation.
Kendall, Roger, 25, 202, 211n, 213n Lippman, Edward R., 207
Kepler, Johannes, 95 Lipscomb, Scott, 25, 202, 211n, 213n
Harmonices Mundi (1619), 95 Liszt, Franz, 100
Kilar, Wojchiech, 67 Second Hungarian Rhapsody, 100
Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), 67 Motion Painting No. 1 (1947), 100
Kivy, Peter, 97, 102 live performance, 9, 29, 30, 38, 46, 56,
Klangfarbenmelodie, 151 68, 100, 118, 130, 158–60, 163,
Koffka, Kurt, 22, 204 169–70, 172, 191–2, 217n, 222n,
Köhler, Wolfgang, 79, 205 229n
Kötting, Andrew, 189 Lloyd Webber, Andrew, 159
Gallivant (1996), 189 Phantom of the Opera (2005), 159
Kracauer, Siegfried, 31, 45, 60–1, 212n, London, Kurt, 14
229n The Long Weekend (1978), 198
Kroeber, Ann, 131 Look Who’s Talking (1989), 179
KTL, 119 The Lord of the Rings (Films), 71
Kubelka, Peter, 99, 100, 121 Losey, Joseph, 91
Mosaik im Vertrauen (1955), 99 The Go Between (1970), 91
Unsere Afrikareise (1966), 99–100 Lost Highway (1997), 80
Kubrick, Stanley, 57, 164, 166, 171, 178, Lost in Translation (2003), 160
211n, 225n, 230n Love Story (1944), 154
2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), 58, 164, Lovin’ Spoonful, The, 176
171, 211n, 225n Lumière brothers, 70
Barry Lyndon (1975), 164 L’ arrive d’un train en gare de la Ciotat
A Clockwork Orange (1971), 57 (1895), 70
[254] Index
Index.indd 254 10/18/2013 4:20:35 PM

Lye, Len, 99, 101 Messter, Oskar, 15
Lynch, David, 80, 131, 132, 160, 190 Metallica, 159, 211n
Lost Highway (1997), 80 Metropolis (1984), 27, 172, 231n
Eraserhead (1977), 131, 190 Meyer, Leonard B., 5, 75, 108, 114, 211n,
Wild at Heart (1990), 160–2 220n, 225n
Twin Peaks (1990–91), 161 Meyer-Dinkgräfe, Daniel, 177, 232n
Micheaux, Oscar, 173
M (1928), 59, 229n ‘Mickeymousing’, 5, 10, 32, 36, 53–4, 57,
MacDonald, John W., 6, 25 98, 100, 156, 165
magnetic tape, 36–8, 133 MIDI (Musical Instrument Digital
Magnum P.I. (1980–88), 177 Interface), 40
Maltby, Richard, 56, 174 Miller’s Crossing (1990), 57
Man with a Movie Camera (1929), 172 Le Million (1931), 59
Mandelbrot, Benoit, 121 Mister Ed (1961), 179, 215n
Manhattan (1979), 195 MLV format (Multi-Language Versions),
Manhunter (1986), 109–11 174
Manovich, Lev, 44, 69 Modern Times (1936), 162
Manson, Marilyn, 129 modernism, 131
Manvell, Roger, 171 modernist films. See genre.
Marianelli, Dario, 54 Monkey (1979–80), 176
Atonement (2007), 54 ‘Montage Anglais’, 91
Marie Antoinette (2006), 58 montage, 9, 22, 32, 34, 43, 48, 50–1, 61–2,
Adam and the Ants, 58 68, 89, 91, 93, 103–4, 121, 138,
Aphex Twin, 58 170, 188, 209, 212n, 217n, 218n
Squarepusher, 58 metric montage, 49
The Strokes, 58 Montage Anglais, 91
Marshall, Sandra, 24–5 montage theory, 44
The Matrix (1999), 193 rhythmic montage, 49
Mauer, Barry, 199 sound montage, 49, 52, 59, 62
Maysles Brothers, 193 Moor, Gene, 184
Gimme Shelter (1970), 193 Morgan, Kenneth F., 47, 218n
McCambridge, Mercedes, 180 Recording for Motion Pictures (1931),
McCormack, John, 91 47
McGurk, Harry, 6, 14, 24, 25, 27, 28, 43, Moroder, Giorgio, 28, 172, 231n
73, 79, 92, 199, 201, 209 Metropolis (1983), 27, 172, 231n
‘The McGurk effect’ (or ‘the Morrison, Bill, 120
McGurk-MacDonald Effect’), 24, Decasia: The State of Decay (2002), 120
25, 27, 28, 43, 79, 92, 199, 201 Morrison, Jim, 160
McLaren, Norman, 99, 101 Mosaik im Vertrauen (1955), 99
Boogie-Doodle (1948), 99 Mosjoukhine, Ivan, 209
Canon (1964), 99 Mossolov, Alexander, 97
Fiddle-Dee-Dee (1947), 99 motion bounce illusion, 26
Synchromy (1972), 99 MOV (digital video format), 39
Meisel, Edmund, 144, 231n Moviola, 35
Méliès, Georges, 71 MPEG (digital video format), 39, 216n
Melody Maker, 47 Multistability, 20
Mendel, George, 15 Münsterberg, Hugo, 208
Mendoza, David, 169 The Photoplay (1916), 208
mental model, 18 Murnau, F. W., 171
Mera, Miguel, 131 Nosferatu: Eine Symohonie des Grauens
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, x, 8 (1922), 171
Index [255]
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musicals. See genre. O’Brien, Charles, 29, 232n
music software, 39–40, 124–5, 143, occult, ix, 1–3, 70–2, 93, 141, 200, 204
215n, 216n, 218n off-screen sound, 2, 30–1, 33, 38, 76,
musicvideos. See genre. 129, 140, 181, 195–8, 215n
musical structure, 5, 23, 31, 41, 49, 61, The Old and the New (1929), 103–4
67, 88, 98, 100–3, 105–6, 108–9, Once Upon a Time in the West (1968), 117
111, 113–8, 121–2, 127, 150, 156,
172, 187, 207, 225n Pacific 231, 97
musique concrete, 130, 133 parallelism, 1, 9, 17, 20, 27, 31, 42, 52–6,
My Life as a Dog (1985), 176 60, 68, 77, 87, 117, 164, 182
pareidolia, 6, 79
Nagra portable tape recorder, 37, 216n The Passenger (Professione Reporter)
Narnia (Films), 71, 143 (1975), 82–3
The Golden Compass (2007), 71 pattern finding, 5–6, 21–4, 28, 78–9,
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the 101, 118–9, 201, 214n
Witch and the Wardrobe (2005), Pavlov, Ivan, 204
143 Pavlovian theory, ix, x, 16, 24, 189,
The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian 204, 230n
(2008), 143 Peckinpah, Sam, 154, 193
Neale, D.M., 43, 215n, 216n Bring me the Head of Alfredo Garcia
Necker cube, 20–1 (1974), 154
neurology (incl. neuropsychology and Pendrecki, Krzysztof, 165
neurophysiology), ix, 22, 81, 201, Performance (1970), 177
220n The Phantom Carriage (1921, Körkarlen),
neuroaesthetics, 5, 201 119
neuroscience, 17, 27, 42, 74, 77 Phantom fundamentals, 21, 79
neuroimaging, 17, 213n Phantom of the Opera (2005), 159
human neurology, 17, 27, 74, 77, 81, ‘phi phenomenon’, 19, 214n
201, 213n, 220n Phonotone, 47
A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), 141 The Photoplay (1916), 208
Nine Inch Nails, 135, 227n Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), 91
non-diegetic, 2, 4, 28, 32, 42, 51, 53–4, Pierrot le fou (1965), 84
57, 61–2, 66, 78, 85–9, 91–2, Pink Floyd, 7, 87–8, 173, 211n
111–12, 118, 126, 130–2, 134, plagal (cadence), 113
137, 140–2, 153, 156, 161, 163–4, plastic music, 103
166–7, 181, 183–4, 192, 194–8, plesiochrony, 31, 181–3, 191
201, 227n, 233n Plunkett and Macleane (1999), 58
non-functional harmony, 61 Point Blank (1967), 83–4, 90
non-linear editing, 39 polyphony, 62, 103, 150–1
non-musical films. See genre. pop music, 47, 57–8, 87, 108–9, 111,
Normandeau, Robert, 197 124–5, 156, 163–4, 167–8, 172–3,
North by Northwest (1959), 177 189, 222n, 225n
Nosferatu: Eine Symphonie des Grauens post-production, 10, 39, 74, 86, 112,
(1922), 171, 173 154, 155, 174–6, 178, 180, 184,
Notorious (1946), 177 206, 230n, 233n
nouvelle vague, 84 post-synch. See synchronization.
Nunn, Fe, 173 Powell, Michael, 91
Nyman, Michael, xi, 58, 172, 225n Wings of the Morning (1937), 91
The Draughtsman’s Contract (1982), 58 Powermad, 161
Man with a Movie Camera (1929), 172 Powrie, Philip, 167
[256] Index
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Prägnanz, 23, 214n Rear Window (1954), 134
Prendergast, Roy, 127 Reed, Lou, 57
Presley, Elvis, 160–1 reference synch. See synchronization.
pre-recording, 30, 34, 99, 125, 206 reification, 20
Profondo Rosso (AKA Deep Red, 1975), Reservoir Dogs (1992), 57, 167–8,
175–6 195, 230n
programme music, 97, 152, 222n Resident Evil (2002), 129, 227n
Propellerheads Reason, 125 Requiem for a Dream (2000), 193
ProTools, 39–40, 126, 216n Resnais, Alan, 185
proximal stimulus, 17 L’Aneé derniere a Marienbad (1961), 55,
Psycho (1960), 22, 57, 76, 106, 140, 185, 187
170, 204 The Return of Martin Guerre (1982), 176
psychology: ix-x, 2, 5, 8–9, 11–12, Revell, Graeme, 141, 143
14–23, 28, 42–3, 54, 73, 75, 79, reverb, 108, 125, 134, 141–2, 189, 225n
81–2, 87, 90, 93, 107, 109, 112, Reynolds, Debbie, 158
123, 126–8, 130, 132, 134–5, 140, Reznor, Trent, 135
142, 151–2, 166, 182, 194, 197, Rhodes, Gillian, 26
200–8, 213n, 214n, 221n, 225 Rivette, Jacques, 29
cognitive psychology (or Cognitive rock music, 58, 88, 118, 119, 125, 135,
Science), 18–19, 23, 203, 213n 143, 160, 171, 191, 222n, 224n,
Gestalt psychology, 18–20, 22–3, 75, 225n, 229n, 233n
79, 98, 204, 214n Rodriguez, Robert, 125
human psychology, ix, 5–6, 18–21, 23, Rollin, Jean, 183–4
28, 74–5, 78–9, 101, 166, 200–1, Lèvres de sang (Lips of Blood, 1975), 184
204, 208, 213n, 223n Rolling Stones, 193
psycho-acoustics, 21, 78 Rorschach blot test, 79
psychoacoustic phantom effect, 78 Rosar, William, 121
psychogeography/ emotional Rossini, Gioachino, 57
landscape, 103, 152 La Gazza Ladra, 57
psychophysical parallelism, 20 Rothko, Mark, 101
schizophrenic listening, 67 RP tones (received pronunciation), 177
synaesthesia, 96, 223n Rubin vase, 20–1
Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 9, 31, 34, 48–52, Ruttman, Walter, 101, 199
59–60, 68–9, 185 Week-End (1930), 199
Technique of the Film, 48 Ryang, Robert, 178
“Statement on Sound”, 9, 50, 51, 52,
58, 68, 185 Sala, Oskar, 130
Deserter (1933), 59 Salt, Barry, 35
Pulp Fiction (1994), 162 Saving Private Ryan (1998), 195
Pythagoras, 121 Saw (2004), 133–41, 152, 226n
Scary Movie 3 (2003), 90
Raksin, David, 127 Schafer, R. Murray, 80, 104, 190, 207
Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 207 The New Soundscape, 80
Rapée, Ernö, 169 ‘Schizophonia’, 80, 207, 222n
Compendium (1924, 1925), 169 Schaeffer, Pierre, 130, 153, 181, 197
Ravenous (1999), xi, 115–6 Schillinger system, 121
RCA (Radio Corporation of America), ‘schizophonia’, 80
16, 34 schizophrenic listening. See psychology.
RCA Photophone, 34 Schlesinger, John, 83
Reaktor (software), 143 Point Blank (1967), 83–4, 90
Index [257]
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Scorpio Rising (1964), 87, 100 sound naturalism, 31, 42, 51, 59, 69, 80,
Screen Test no. 1 (1965), 100 128–9, 152, 156, 185, 189
Screen Test no. 2 (1965), 100 sound on sound
Selsyn motors, 37 soundtrack, viii, 4, 9–10, 14, 28–30,
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954), 33–5, 39, 44, 46, 49, 56, 58,
159 60–1, 68–9, 74, 83, 85, 86–7,
Severance (2006), 183 91, 99–100, 104, 115, 118–19,
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll (2009), 160 124, 126, 130–4, 140–1, 143–4,
Sex Pistols, 191–2, 233n 150, 152, 155, 164–7, 169–78,
The Filth and the Fury (2000), 191 181–5, 187–95, 199, 201–2, 204,
Seyrig, Francis, 187 206, 211n, 212n, 215n, 222n,
Shallow Grave (1994), 57 225n, 228n, 229n, 231n, 233n,
Shams, Ladan, 27 234n
Shanghai Express (1931), 144, 149–52 Sous le toits de Paris (1930), 59
Shepherd, Ashley, 38 South Pacific (1958), 159
Sherwin, Guy, 100 Spadoni, Robert, 33, 72–3
Shimojo, Shinsuke, 27 Spaghetti Western, 117
The Shining (1980), 164–7, 178–9 The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1967),
Shostakovich, Dmitri, 67 117
Shriekback, 109 Once Upon a Time in the West (1968),
silent films. See genre. 117
Silent Hill (2006), 107, 224n, 225n speaker systems, 34, 123
Singin’ in the Rain (1952), 158–9 speed ramping, 193
Sinn Fein, 179 SPK, 143
Simba (1928), 47 Splet, Alan, 131, 190
Sjöström, Victor, 119 Sounds from a Different Realm, 131
The Phantom Carriage (1921, spotting, 32, 40, 41, 47
Körkarlen), 119 Squarepusher, 58
Sleep (1963), 100–1 Star Trek (films and TV series), 141
Smith, Chas, 136 Star Wars (1977), 30, 41
Smith, Jeff, 127, 213n, 228n, 229n Stealer’s Wheel, 57, 167
Snow, Michael, 101 Steinberg Cubase, 125
Society of Motion Picture and Television Steiner, Fred, 121
Engineers (SMPTE), 39 Steiner, Max, 36, 55
The Song Remains the Same (1975), 118 Stilwell, Robynn, 120, 167
sonic cadences, 112 Stone, Oliver, 160
song form, 88, 108–9, 111 The Doors (1991), 160
Sonnenschein, David, 195 Storr, Anthony, 194
Sony, 125, 143 Straub, Jean-Marie, 29
Sony Logic, 125 Strauss, Johan, 58, 62, 66, 164
Sony Pro Series Sound libraries, 143 Strike (1925), 44, 89, 227n
sound design, xi, 30, 41, 107, 123–7, The Strokes, 58
130–3, 135, 143–4, 153, 164 Sunset Boulevard (1950), 55, 84
sound diffusion, 40 Superfield, 128, 139
sound-effect, 3–4, 10, 12, 16, 30, 32, 36, surroundsound cinema, 38, 41, 74, 128,
40, 43, 46–7, 53, 55, 61, 74, 86, 132, 141
105, 108, 122, 124–6, 128–135, The Sweet Hereafter (1997), 90
151–3, 162, 176, 184, 196, 198, synaesthesia. See psychology.
201, 206, 224n, 226n, 227n, ‘synchresis’. See synchronization.
233n Synchromy (1972), 99
[258] Index
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synchronization: To Live and Die in L.A. (1985), 125
asynchrony, 2, 9–11, 28, 31, 33, 38, Todd-AO/70mm (1955), 38
42, 44–5, 48, 50–1, 53, 59, 67, The Tombs of the Blind Dead (1971), 11, 60
69, 71, 73–5, 77–8, 81, 83–4, tonality, 10, 32, 49, 51, 101, 114
86, 89, 92–3, 99–100, 106–8, tracking, 154, 164, 171, 232n
114, 119, 123, 137, 156–7, 172, Trainspotting (1995), 57
181, 187–9, 191–2, 197–8, 201, transduction, 17
205–6, 217n trauma, 81, 90, 119, 208, 221n
disparate synchronisation, 33, 192–4 trigger synch. See synchronization.
levels of synchronisation, 31–2 Truman, Mike, 142
lip-synching, 3, 27, 30–1, 43, 45, 72, Turner, Tina, 160
138, 155, 157–63, 175, 179, 209, Twin Peaks (1990–91), 161
233n Tyler, Bonnie, 28
post-synch, 11, 30, 154–6, 169, Type O Negative, 171–3
176–8, 184
reference synch, 39–40 Uncle Josh at the Moving Picture Show
‘synchresis’, x, 6, 16, 27–8, 79, 106, (1902), 70
112, 115, 205, 213n, 221n Under the Freeway (1995), 100
Trigger synch, 39 Underdog (2007), 179
Szymanowski, Karol, 100 Unsere Afrikareise (1966), 99–100
Tarantino, Quentin, 57, 167, 195, 230n Vampyr (1932), 59

Reservoir Dogs (1992), 57, 167–8, 195, Van Sant, Gus, 85, 222n
230n Vangelis (Evangelos Papathanassiou),
Pulp Fiction (1994), 162 125
Tatroe, Sonia, 141 Blade Runner (1982), 125
Television (TV), viii, 3, 8, 16, 28–30, 32, Chariots of Fire (1981), 91, 125
38–9, 42, 51, 76, 87, 95, 98, 102, Varèse, Edgard, 105, 224n
109, 128, 135, 137–8, 141, 152, Vasey, Ruth, 174
161, 163, 168, 173, 176–9, 182, ventriolquism, 28, 80, 156, 179–80, 194
188, 193, 200–2, 209, 210n, 215n, ‘ventriloquist effect’, 25–6
222n, 227n, 228n, 229n, 230n, Verdi, Giuseppe, 144
232n Verfremdungseffekt, 84
Temple, Julien, 191 Vertov, Dziga, 44, 49, 59, 99, 100, 172
The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle (1980), Enthusiasm (1930), 59
191 Man with a Movie Camera (1929), 172
The Filth and the Fury (2000), 191 Soviet Film, 44, 49, 59
texture, 3, 117, 124, 133, 136, 149, 150, video art. See genre.
156 videogames, 16, 107–8, 152, 202, 224n
Thanatos, 208 videotape, 38–40
Themerson, Franziska, 100 Vidor, King, 169
The Eye and the Ear (1945), 100 The Big Parade (1925), 169
Themerson, Stefan, 100 Vigo, Jean, 193
The Eye and the Ear (1945), 100 Zero de Conduite (1933), 193
‘Theory of Ocular Music’, 104 viseme, 26, 79
The Third Reich in Colour (2001), 182 visual music, 99
Thirty-Two short films About Glen Gould Vitaphone, 15–6, 34, 38, 157
(1993), 100 Von Sternberg, Josef, 144, 150, 228n
timecode, 39–40, 216n V/Vm, ‘The Missing Symphony’
To Have and to Have Not (1944), 154 (Shostakovich adaptation), 67
Index [259]
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Wagner, Richard, 47, 97, 114 What’s Love Got to Do With It (1993), 160
Tannhäuser, 47 What’s Up, Tiger Lily (1966), 176
Siegfried’s Funeral March White, Frances, 85
(Götterdämmerung), 117 “Walk Through Resonant Landscape
Wakeman, Rick, 125 no. 2” (1992), 85
Walter, Ernest, 12 Wierzbicki, James, 130
Wan, James, 135 Wild at Heart (1990), 160–2
Wang Chung, 125 wildtrack sound, 181, 188–9, 192
To Live and Die in L.A. (1985), 125 Williams, Alan 87, 162
Warhol, Andy, 100–1 Williams, Andy, 57
Sleep (1963), 100–1 Williams, Brian (AKA Lustmord), 143
Screen Test no. 1 (1965), 100 The Crow (1994), 143
Screen Test no. 2 (1965), 100 Wings of the Morning (1937), 91
The Water Margin (1973), 176 Winter, Marian, 144
Watson, John B., 205, 234n Within Our Gates (1920), 173
Wavelength (1967), 101 The Wiz (1978), 7
Waxman, Franz, 167 The Wizard of Oz (1939), 7, 76,
The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), 167 173, 211n
Flash Gordon (1936), 167 Woo, John, 193
Flash Gordon’s Trip to Mars (1938), 167 Face/Off (1997), 193
Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe Wright, Basil, 58, 153
(1940), 167 Wurlitzer, 184
Week-End (1930), 199 Wurtzler, Steve, 159
Weis, Elisabeth, xi, 15, 132 “She Sang Live but the Microphone
Wenders, Wim, 69 was Turned Off ”, 159
Wertheimer, Max, 19, 214n
West, George, 169 Yamaoka, Akira, 107–8, 224n, 225n
Westerkamp, Hildegard, 85–6, 152, 222n Yutkevich, Sergei, 7
“Türen der Wahrnehmung” (“Doors of
Perception”) (1989), 85 Zabriskie Point (1970), 87–9
“Beneath the Forest Floor” (1992), 85 Zero de Conduite (1933), 193
westerns (incl. Spaghetti). See genre. Zwerin, Charlotte, 193
Western Electric, 15–6, 34 Gimme Shelter (1970), 193
[260] Index
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Occult Aesthetics

oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd i 11/1/2013 12:04:25 PM

DANIEL GOLDMARK, SERIES EDITOR

Tuning In: American Narrative Television Music

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Donnelly, K. J. (Kevin J.)

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1. Introduction: The Lock of Synchronization 1

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Art is magic delivered from the lie of being truth.

I n Michelangelo Antonioni’s Blow Up (1966), there is a highly illustrative

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[2] Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film

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THE FUNDAMENTAL LIE: ILLUSION

The essence of the overwhelming majority of films is the combined illu-

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. . . [a p]oint of synchronization or synch point [is the] audiovisually salient

[4] Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film

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oxfordhb-9780199773503.indd 5 11/1/2013 12:04:27 PM

An example of an auditory chimera would be a heard sentence that was cre-

Yet when sound is added to vision, there is a further dimension. More

[6] Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film

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It is because we are through and through compounded of relationships

Mary Ann Doane elucidates the process of illusion forged by sound in

[8] Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film

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THE MUSIC OF VISUALS: ASYNCHRONY AND THE DYNAMIC

As almost an opposite of synchronization, asynchrony refuses the moment

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[10] Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film

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The construction of sound in the cinema, while incorporating music, might

[12] Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film

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[16] Occult Aesthetics: Synchronization in Sound Film

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THE PSYCHOLOGY OF SYNCHRONIZATION

The branch of neuroscience that is referred to as ‘sensory neuroscience’