The film “Sound of Metal” rings true, but for reasons that have less to do with audiology.

By Richard Einhorn

One day, a musician’s worst nightmare comes true. Without any warning at all, he permanently loses his hearing, plunging headlong into deep, bottomless silence.

This sounds like the “elevator pitch” for last year’s “Sound of Metal,” a terrific film in which music, hearing loss, and deafness serve as the backdrop for an exploration of loss and difficult life choices in the face of an unexpected personal tragedy. 

A Relatable Experience That Upended My Life

In fact, it’s a description of what actually happened to me 11 years ago. Like Ruben Stone in the movie, I—a composer and record producer—experienced sudden sensorineural hearing loss, and like Ruben, it upended nearly every aspect of my life.

Yes, the audiology in the movie is not “true to life,” but as far as I was concerned, it didn’t matter. After all, it’s a movie, not a textbook, and I’ve never looked to Hollywood for accurate medical information. “Sound of Metal,” like all good narrative fiction, focuses on the emotional journeys of its characters. And for me, having actually gone through similar situations to those in “Sound of Metal,” the film rings very true.

One day while setting up for a pre-concert event, Ruben, a heavy metal drummer (brilliantly portrayed by Riz Ahmed) hears some odd sounds in his head. Then much to his horror, his hearing completely flatlines.

Like Ruben, my sudden hearing loss was equally dramatic. In June 2010, I decided to get away from everything to focus on my music. I was feeling a bit dizzy as I drove up to western Massachusetts but didn’t think it was anything but allergies. I was still dizzy when I got to the motel and went to sleep.

I woke up at 5 a.m. and knew immediately something was terribly wrong. My ears were buzzing with tinnitus and odd ringing sounds, similar to but much louder than those Ruben experienced in the movie. Then I noticed I could no longer hear the very loud air conditioner in my room. I had gone deaf.

Panicked, I jumped out of bed and immediately collapsed to the floor. I had severe vertigo and the room was spinning all around me. I knew I had to get to the emergency room. I crawled slowly to the desk to find a phone book. The words in the Yellow Pages swam in front of my eyes. It took over 30 minutes to locate a cab listing.

Like Ruben, “I Couldn’t Hear a Thing”

Sudden hearing loss in both ears—what Ruben experiences in the film—is uncommon. More typical is what happened to me. Only one ear, my right, was damaged by whatever caused my sudden hearing loss. But unfortunately, I already had significant hearing loss in my left ear (moderate to severe, and due to otosclerosis, a bony overgrowth in the inner ear). And so, the result was exactly the same as it was for my fictional double: For all intents and purposes I simply couldn’t hear a thing. 

At first, just like in the film, the medical professionals had to write everything they said down on paper. But as I waited to get examined, I texted my wife back in New York City and she, a resourceful person, found a smartphone hearing app. I downloaded it. Wearing earphones, I was able to use my phone as a microphone and amplifier to hear what my doctors were saying.

Watching Ruben take his hearing test brought back my own painful memories of that awful day. That sense of “this really can’t be happening…,” his nervous fidgeting and desperation, the struggle to understand, even partially, what was being said—yes, that’s exactly what it was like.

While Ruben received no medication in the film, I was prescribed steroids in the hope they would mitigate permanent cochlear damage from my sudden hearing loss. It didn’t matter. In the end, my hearing was just as irretrievably ruined as his. But again, my experience was more complex. 

Around two weeks later, I started to hear something in my damaged right ear—but it wasn’t anything good. Speech sounded like a science-fiction robot screaming at the top of its (mechanical) lungs. The sound was far stranger than any of the hearing loss simulations heard in the movie and extremely disturbing. Even now, that crazed robotic distortion in my right ear is still there, a major interference with my ability to hear speech and enjoy music.

In the movie, Ruben, a recovering addict, joins an idyllic communal house for Deaf recovering addicts and takes a class in ASL (American Sign Language), quickly becoming fluent. The house is run with tough love by a Deaf Vietnam vet named Joe (in a pitch-perfect portrayal by Paul Raci, the son of Deaf parents). Joe instructs Ruben—who can barely control his emotional turmoil—to get up every morning, go to an empty room, and just sit. If he can’t sit still, Ruben should take a pad and pen and write. Write anything.

I’m not a recovering addict and my attempts to learn ASL all failed, but once again, the film echoes my own experience. As with Ruben, I often became overwhelmed by the isolation hearing loss imposes and anxiety over the future. I didn’t have a guru like Joe to lean on but I picked up a self-help book for artists that described a simple routine called “morning pages.” Get up early, grab a pen and a pile of paper, and before doing anything else, write out three pages. Subject? Anything at all.

Similar Coping Strategies for My Own Sudden Hearing Loss

I started writing the next day and have done so every morning since, by now scribbling out well over 11,000 pages. I have ranted, waxed philosophical, written out dreams, analyzed poetry and art, sketched short stories, and imagined alternative lives. After a few years of morning pages, I added meditation to my morning routine.

For me, journaling and meditation are critical coping strategies for the stresses hearing loss generates. I found it quite moving to watch the fictional Ruben reenact nearly the same morning ritual that I have actually been performing for over a decade—and was quite amused to see that his handwriting is just as bad as mine! It is one more example of how emotionally resonant the film is to my lived experience of sudden hearing loss.

Ruben opts for cochlear implants, hoping to restart his musical career. Joe, who is proudly Deaf and has no use for implants, immediately kicks him out of the house. Ruben then flies to France to rejoin his girlfriend Lou. He attends a party held by her father, a pop songwriter, and quickly learns that the implants are no panacea. He can’t distinguish individual voices over the party’s din. 

Hearing Loss and Music Perception

When Lou and her father perform a soft ballad together, Ruben tears up, not because the song is so sentimental but because he can’t follow the music; his implants mangle the melody and harmonies.

I don’t have implants, but once again, I’ve been there. Since my sudden hearing loss, large parties are often excruciating experiences. Like Ruben, I retreat to a corner and simply watch, impatient to get somewhere quiet. As for music—well, I’ve trained myself not to think about it. While my remaining ear enables me to hear well enough to compose—I’m creating music as much as ever—my perception of music is diminished and far less visceral.

We last see Ruben alone on a park bench. He takes off his speech processors and everything’s silent. Ruben straddles two worlds now, a hearing world where he no longer easily fits and an enticing Deaf world which, because of his implants, may also not fully accept him.

In the hearing loss community, many people I know worry that “Sound of Metal” may discourage people with profound hearing loss from getting cochlear implants. I don’t know if that will happen but it certainly hasn’t changed my mind.

Cochlear Implants Are a Deeply Personal Choice

While on paper I’m a candidate for a cochlear implant, hearing aids still help me cope reasonably well. If, as is likely, my hearing loss eventually progresses to the point where aids provide no more benefit to me, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to get cochlear implants. That said, I have some friends with profound hearing loss who would never consider them, a position I also support. This is a personal decision.
 “Sound of Metal” is a powerful film with well-drawn characters that are brought to life by a fantastic cast that includes numerous members of the Deaf community. The film also has a gorgeous, evocative soundtrack of unusual music, electronic sound effects, and hearing loss simulations. 

Regardless of the liberties it takes with actual hearing health practices, it feels all too real to someone who actually experienced sudden hearing loss. What Ruben goes through is what I and many others have as well. The emotional weight of hearing loss is often given short shrift. This film shows how serious and all encompassing hearing loss can be. 

Richard Einhorn is a composer, record producer, and hearing loss consultant and advocate. His music has been performed by major orchestras around the world. The former chair of the board of the Hearing Loss Association of America, he regularly speaks and writes about hearing loss issues with a focus on improving hearing health technology. “Sound of Metal,” directed and co-written by Darius Marder, is available on Amazon Prime Video. This story originally appeared in the Summer 2021 edition of Hearing Health magazine.

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