Towards the end of Alison O'Daniel's documentary, a caption that reads [some dissonance] runs across the screen. This is, more or less, the best summation of this experimental multi-project. For anyone interested in the crimes around the missing instruments themselves, turn back now. The Tuba Thieves (2023) uses the thefts are a reference point but also, a larger metaphor about sound. How do you produce sound without an instrument (like voice) and how do we interpret sound? It is here where O'Daniel's work is both radical and deeply engaging.
Early on, Nyke's boyfrined NB (Nature Boy), recall's mistaking "fireworks for stardust." The deaf community, much like the elements of this film, feels caught in an "in-between." A sort of spatiality that occupies a socio-lectal space of sign language and invites (more so, requires) the audience to participate. Narrative, or lack thereof aside, this documentary works at its best when it asks questions of its audience. Have you ever likened the sound of skateboard wheels to the ocean? Have you ever counted down the decibels from a plane flying overhead? When you watch these conversations in sign language, you also hear the sounds of LA, a type of language in itself. Sometimes it's a bird cawing, sometimes it's air "whooshing," and sometimes it's a small electrical buzzing. The captions, which appear throughout, range from descriptive to verbatim. As the documentary progresses, you realize you are part of an experience in sound. These intentional choices being made by O'Daniel's influence what the audience takes away. You ask yourself, "what's important and what's worth hearing?" Moments of this film made me hyper aware of my own viewing experience. Suddenly, I felt like I was the only one in the room making any sound at all while watching dialogue and movement in front of me.
The film also made me think about other films centered around the deaf community in the last few years. Major films like best picture winner CODA (2021) or best sound winner The Sound of Metal (2019). This film also made me, as a viewer, think about how we use sound as a rhetorical mode of communication much like Sunday night's Oscar win for The Zone of Interest (2023). Unlike the other films that stared members of the deaf community, O'Daniel's makes a strong case for language, particularly miscommunication. Much of the film feels disjointed and disconnected at times but fragmented in ways similar to how we construct memory. We move from silent images to photographs, to nightclubs, high school music rooms, and more. We play active observers to pieces of conversation in sign language while also reading captions that describe sound more than mood.
While the narrative movements may be a bit hard to follow, O'Daniel's attempt at creating an engaging and unfamiliar film experience is largely successful. In the end, the theft's don't matter. The film ends on a hopeful and beautiful message about resilience and ultimately succeeds in foregrounding the deaf community. This one is a knock out 4/5.
Early on, Nyke's boyfrined NB (Nature Boy), recall's mistaking "fireworks for stardust." The deaf community, much like the elements of this film, feels caught in an "in-between." A sort of spatiality that occupies a socio-lectal space of sign language and invites (more so, requires) the audience to participate. Narrative, or lack thereof aside, this documentary works at its best when it asks questions of its audience. Have you ever likened the sound of skateboard wheels to the ocean? Have you ever counted down the decibels from a plane flying overhead? When you watch these conversations in sign language, you also hear the sounds of LA, a type of language in itself. Sometimes it's a bird cawing, sometimes it's air "whooshing," and sometimes it's a small electrical buzzing. The captions, which appear throughout, range from descriptive to verbatim. As the documentary progresses, you realize you are part of an experience in sound. These intentional choices being made by O'Daniel's influence what the audience takes away. You ask yourself, "what's important and what's worth hearing?" Moments of this film made me hyper aware of my own viewing experience. Suddenly, I felt like I was the only one in the room making any sound at all while watching dialogue and movement in front of me.
The film also made me think about other films centered around the deaf community in the last few years. Major films like best picture winner CODA (2021) or best sound winner The Sound of Metal (2019). This film also made me, as a viewer, think about how we use sound as a rhetorical mode of communication much like Sunday night's Oscar win for The Zone of Interest (2023). Unlike the other films that stared members of the deaf community, O'Daniel's makes a strong case for language, particularly miscommunication. Much of the film feels disjointed and disconnected at times but fragmented in ways similar to how we construct memory. We move from silent images to photographs, to nightclubs, high school music rooms, and more. We play active observers to pieces of conversation in sign language while also reading captions that describe sound more than mood.
While the narrative movements may be a bit hard to follow, O'Daniel's attempt at creating an engaging and unfamiliar film experience is largely successful. In the end, the theft's don't matter. The film ends on a hopeful and beautiful message about resilience and ultimately succeeds in foregrounding the deaf community. This one is a knock out 4/5.
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