In Quiet Mode: Sound Design
(or the Most Important Thing I’m Not Working On Yet)
There’s a moment at the end of the film Children of Men when the chaos suddenly stops. Gunfire, shouting, the clatter of a world collapsing—all of it drops out. And in that silence, the sound of a baby crying slices through the tension like a miracle. That moment broke me in the theater. It wasn’t the image of the baby that wrecked me—it was the sound.
I’ve been thinking about that moment a lot lately. Not because I’m actively in post-production (I’m not), and not because I’m knee-deep in editing dialogue or building foley layers (I’m not doing that either). I’m thinking about it because even in this creative in-between space I’m inhabiting right now—somewhere between returning and not quite returned—I can feel sound calling me back.
Not Rolling. Still Listening
Let’s be clear: I’m not in production. I’m not editing. I’m not fiddling with levels or Googling the right plugin to remove room tone from a handheld lav. What I am doing is thinking about what matters most in the kind of work I want to make next. And the truth is, sound has always mattered more to me than I let on.
There’s a tendency, especially after time away, to think about the comeback in visual terms—images, scenes, shots, lenses. But what I’m realizing (or re-realizing) is that the emotional core lives in sound . Sound is what lodges in the chest. It’s the thing that can elevate or ruin everything. And it's the one part of filmmaking I've historically treated as an afterthought, even when I knew better.
Sound Beneath the Surface
What I love about sound is how little it demands attention and how much it quietly controls everything.
You don’t notice great sound design. You feel it. You trust it. You experience it like muscle memory, like instinct. And when it’s done well, it can make a low-budget film feel cinematic, or make an actor’s performance land in your gut, not just your eyes.
When I was just starting out, I thought good sound was about having “clean audio.” Necessary, but basic. Now, I understand that sound is about shaping perception. It’s emotional editing. It’s pacing. It’s misdirection. It’s comedy. It’s horror. It’s the difference between a punchline landing and a scene falling flat.
The Devil’s in the Decibels
The kinds of stories I feel myself drifting toward—dark comedies, modern gothic shorts, character-driven weirdness that lives somewhere between genre and satire—they all depend on precision sound. A creaking floorboard. A mouthful of dental tools. A breath held a second too long. These moments aren’t just set dressing—they’re the story.
And yet, in past projects, I’ve treated sound like an afterthought. Something I could fix in post. Something that would just “come together” because the visuals were strong enough. That thinking doesn’t hold up anymore. It never really did.
The Silent Scream
After a long time away from filmmaking, I’m not diving headfirst into pre-production. I’m doing something slower, weirder, and maybe a little harder. I’m figuring out what kind of filmmaker I actually am now, and what kind of work I want to make—on purpose, not just by momentum.
That means thinking about sound design now, before there’s even a script in hand. It means asking:
What would it feel like to build a story around a sound rather than a shot?
What happens when the most important scene in your film is heard, not seen?
How do you use silence not as filler, but as a scream held in suspension?
These are not questions I would have asked in another life, but I’m asking them now. Because I’m trying to make space for the things I’ve historically ignored or postponed until the last minute—and sound is at the top of that list.
Learn to Listen
I’m not working with a sound mixer. I’m not creating foley in my bathtub. I haven’t booked a studio or laid down scratch dialogue. But I am preparing for sound, which is a kind of creative work too.
I’m making playlists for tone. I’m replaying the final ten minutes of Children of Men and letting myself cry about it. I’m writing dialogue with rhythm in mind. I’m taking notes on the difference between loud and full, between quiet and still.
And when I do return to the set—and I will—I’ll do it with better ears. Because if I’ve learned anything from being away, it’s this: the films I want to make next won’t just be seen. They’ll be heard.
If this kind of creative recalibration speaks to you, consider subscribing to the blog. I’m sharing more behind-the-scenes reflections as I find my way back to filmmaking—with intention this time.
What part of your process have you been putting off... and what might happen if you started with it instead?