Said soundman is played by Toby Jones, that squat, distinctive character actor, disappearing into the role of a meek professional struggling to keep hold of his dignity and his sanity. Jones, who’s so violence-adverse he won’t squash a spider, is dismayed to discover that the Italian film he’s been misled into working on is pure sadistic schlock. (When he mentions the “equestrian” angle that was used to rope him in, Cosimo Fusco’s condescending producer replies: “Oh yeah, a horse-riding girl. She’s just not horse riding anymore.”) There’s an element of fish-out-of-water comedy here, as the out-of-place Brit copes with a steady stream of slights, including the filmmakers’ attempts to stiff him out of airfare. Antonio Mancino’s director, a horndog hack with pretensions of artistic seriousness, spends more time on the casting couch than in the studio. Fusco lobs insults at everyone in sight. A bored secretary (Tonia Sotiropoulou) skirts her duties. None of them demonstrate an iota of respect for the gifted craftsman they’ve brought in to class up their bottom-feeding genre exercise.
Slowly but surely, cinema and reality begin to blur for Jones, and Strickland—an up-and-comer with a flair for slow burns—traces his descent into madness. As a psychological thriller, Berberian Sound Studio is often hypnotic, but it’s also a little one-note: About halfway through its slim running time, the film begins to repeat itself, offering only minor variations on its Blow Out-meets-Suspiria metholodogy. The whole thing works better, perhaps, as a procedural tribute to the art of audio engineering. Strickland zooms in close on dials and knobs, displaying a fetishistic appreciation for the tools of the trade. He also honors the nuances of Foley work and ADR, making a case for mixing-board magicians, watermelon smashers, and vocal virtuosos as the true unsung heroes of moviemaking. At its core, this is a film about cinema’s ability to rewire the brain—an organ best accessed, Strickland argues, through the ear canals.
