Reviewed: Noise - A History on BBC Radio 4

Give us a Scooby.

Noise: A History
BBC Radio 4

“We assume the past was much quieter,” chides David Hendy in the opening seconds of his new 30-part series (weekdays, 1.45pm) on the history of noise (“turning up the volume on the past; making sense of history through sound”). Hendy is clearly walking down a New York street and then suddenly – unusual travel budget alert! – hauls us to a black cave in Burgundy looking for evidence of life from 20,000 years ago. “Put humans in a cave,” whispers David, feeling his way along the bare rock, “and it can become quite unnervingly noisy. If we hum or sing, the cave . . . sings back as if the cave itself is alive.”

How nose-stroking can a lunchtime show get? In the background, terrible sounds recur: groans repeatedly dissolving into the kind of surprised, rising grunt issued by an on-hisuppers Scooby-Doo. “That’s Igor Resnikov,” admits David after a moment, awed. “He’s a French archaeologist conducting an interesting experiment.” No way. Igor communicates exclusively through grunts and taps, uttering not a human word, leaving us to imagine him rocking through weeks of intense glooms, a jungle of bone medallions nestling in a hairy chest, occasionally visited by neuropsychologists and economic historians eager to widen the scope of their funding applications. Igor has been searching for the most aurally resonant places in cave systems for decades, proving that 80 per cent of prehistoric paintings occur in places where the acoustics are particularly unusual. David insists it’s incredibly interesting –but the moment Igor detects something that sounds outré, he turns on his torch and finds a painted bison. “Something drew them to these most inaccessible chambers . . .” ferrets Hendy, a professor of media and communication at Sussex who one suspects is never more than a phone call away from a mixed mezze at the Lebanese opposite Portland Place. “Whoever created this art seems to have chosen acoustically ‘interesting spaces’ as if mesmerised by echoes . . .”

Next up: the alarm calls of the vervet monkey, the “talking drum” and a song to summon rainforest spirits. Put like that, this sounds like the most sub-avant-garde and brilliant new programme on BBC radio. And what a way to intro The Archers!

Professor David Hendy makes some noise. Photograph: BBC

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, After God

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Women on the edge: new films Jackie and Christine are character studies of haunted women

With their claustrophobic close-ups and desolate wide shots, both films are stunning portraits of life on the brink.

Jacqueline Kennedy and Christine Chubbuck may not have had much in common in real life – the former briefly the US first lady, the latter a put-upon television news reporter in the early 1970s in Sarasota, Florida – but two new films named after them are cut resolutely from the same cloth. Jackie and Christine are character studies of haunted women in which the claustrophobic close-up and the desolate wide shot are the predominant forms of address.

Both films hinge on fatal gunshots to the head and both seek to express cinematically a state of mind that is internal: grief and loss in Jackie, which is set mainly in the hours and days after the assassination of President John F Kennedy; depression and paranoia in Christine. In this area, they rely heavily not only on hypnotically controlled performances from their lead actors but on music that describes the psychological contours of distress.

Even before we see anything in Jackie, we hear plunging chords like a string section falling down a lift shaft. This is the unmistakable work of the abrasive art rocker Mica Levi. Her score in Jackie closes in on the ears just as the tight compositions by the cinematographer Stéphane Fontaine exclude the majority of the outside world. The Chilean director Pablo Larraín knows a thing or two about sustaining intensity, as viewers of his earlier work, including his Pinochet-era trilogy (Tony Manero, Post Mortem and No), will attest. Though this is his first English-language film, there is no hint of any softening. The picture will frustrate anyone hoping for a panoramic historical drama, with Larraín and the screenwriter Noah Oppenheim irising intently in on Jackie, played with brittle calm by Natalie Portman, and finding the nation’s woes reflected in her face.

Bit-players come and go as the film jumbles up the past and present, the personal and political. A journalist (Billy Crudup), nameless but based on Theodore White, arrives to interview the widow. Her social secretary, Nancy Tuckerman (Greta Gerwig), urges her on with cheerleading smiles during the shooting of a stiff promotional film intended to present her warmly to the public. Her brother-in-law Bobby (Peter Sarsgaard) hovers anxiously nearby as she negotiates the chasm between private grief and public composure. For all the bustle around her, the film insists on Jackie’s aloneness and Portman gives a performance in which there is as much tantalisingly concealed as fearlessly exposed.

A different sort of unravelling occurs in Christine. Antonio Campos’s film begins by showing Christine Chubbuck (Rebecca Hall) seated next to a large box marked “fragile” as she interviews on camera an empty chair in which she imagines Richard Nixon to be sitting. She asks of the invisible president: “Is it paranoia if everyone is indeed coming after you?” It’s a good question and one that she doesn’t have the self-awareness to ask herself. Pressured by her editor to chase juicy stories, she goes to sleep each night with a police scanner blaring in her ears. She pleads with a local cop for stories about the darker side of Sarasota, scarcely comprehending that the real darkness lies primarily within her.

For all the shots of TV monitors displaying multiple images of Christine in this beige 1970s hell, the film doesn’t blame the sensationalist nature of the media for her fractured state. Nor does it attribute her downfall entirely to the era’s sexism. Yet both of those things exacerbated problems that Chubbuck already had. She is rigid and off-putting, all severe straight lines, from her haircut and eyebrows to the crossed arms and tight, unsmiling lips that make it difficult for anyone to get close to her. That the film does break through is down to Hall, who illuminates the pain that Christine can’t express, and to the score by Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans. It’s perky enough on the surface but there are cellos sawing away sadly underneath. If you listen hard enough, they’re crying: “Help.” 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era