The History of Sound
Patience, my love.
Grand Théâtre Lumière. Black tuxedos. A strictly formal atmosphere. I was at my most anticipated film of the 2025 Cannes Film Festival: The History of Sound.
This is a story about two men — Lionel and David — who meet at a college bar and quickly bond over a shared passion. Or rather, a few shared passions: one of them is music, the other is each other. After a separation caused by David’s departure to war, the two reunite for a journey through the American countryside, assigned by the university where David used to teach. Their goal: to collect and record local folk songs across rural Maine. At least, that’s how Lionel remembers it. But their romance, their memories, and what actually happened turn out to be far less straightforward than it initially seems.
This is a slow-burn, atmospheric film — filled with Americana music, sound as a metaphor for emotion, and people who don’t quite know how to communicate or love. It’s a story about uncertainty and wasted time, about regret and misunderstanding. A story of blind spots and attempts to live life the way it feels safest. If just hearing that resonates with you, then you’re probably like me. But if you're not me, I can’t promise this film will be for you. And therein lies both its brilliance and its curse.
The History of Sound is highly specific and laser-focused. It’s for a very narrow audience, and I can already predict the confusion it will cause once it hits wider release. Many will rush to compare it to a more polished Brokeback Mountain, and to that I offer Paul Mescal’s response from the Cannes press conference, when one journalist asked about the similarity to the iconic queer drama: “You probably didn’t watch The History of Sound closely enough if that’s what you see.” And I couldn’t agree more. These comparisons simply reveal how limited many people’s experience with queer cinema still is — as if any story about two gay men in the early 20th century automatically becomes a replica of Ennis and Jack’s tale. It’s not.
The History of Sound is far from a tender love story. It’s more of a brutal reminder of the past — and a subtle warning of how quickly we’re heading back in that direction. It demands patience. The emotional payoff comes only in the second half. By the midpoint, it’s easy to wonder if the film is going anywhere at all, but if you stay with it and let it unfold, the emotional undertow eventually hits, and hits hard.
You experience that undertow primarily through Paul Mescal, the emotional center of the film. Josh O’Connor, while absolutely vital to the story and arguably its strongest element, is on screen far less than you might expect. His presence is felt through absence — his actions drive the narrative forward, but it’s Mescal who has to make sense of it all. And this dynamic works. Did one actor outshine the other? At times, yes — O’Connor feels more delicate and convincing. But Mescal carries the full weight of the lead role, and the film lives or dies on his performance. He pulls it off. That’s exactly what I was applauding at Cannes for at least five minutes, while Mescal shed a tear or two.
Oliver Hermanus has crafted a film that is far from perfect, but very precise. It will likely split audiences into two camps — those who feel it in their bones, and those who simply don’t connect. And both reactions are valid. There is no right or wrong here. For me, it struck a chord. I hope some of you are lucky enough to feel that, too.
7.5/10
