CODA: How Film Soundscapes Foster Identity Within the Built Environment
By Kate Mazade
As the women-led, 2022 Golden Globe-nominee for Best Drama, CODA gives volume to how sound defines space and our place within it.
CODA is a briny New England coming-of-age story about a teenage girl wrestling through high school drama, musical aspirations, and familial obligations. The film’s title, a musical term for the tail end of a song, holds double meaning as an acronym for Child of Deaf Adults (CODA).
Having premiered at the 2021 Sundance Festival, CODA stars rising Welsh actress Emilia Jones (Netflix’s Locke and Key) as Ruby Rossi, a 17-year old singer who is the only hearing member of her family. Decked out in mis-fitting hoodies, graphic tees, and worn red sneakers, Ruby serves as the interpreter for her culturally deaf family. Portrayed by deaf actors Marlee Matlin (Children of a Lesser God), Troy Kotsur (No Ordinary Hero), and Daniel Durant (Switched at Birth), the Rossi family runs a small fishing business in Gloucester, Massachusetts.
An English and American Sign Language (ASL) remake of the 2014 French film La Famille Bélier by Victoria Bedos, the extensively subtitled film translates every asinine teenage insult and matronly chide into simple sans serif type, while the emotive sign language transforms volume into motion.
Writer and director Sian Heder (Tallulah) led the nearly all-female team of creators who brought CODA to life. Alexandria Wailes and Anne Tomasetti served as the ASL masters on set, directing the dynamic language. With cinematography by Paula Huidobro, production design by Diane Lederman, set decoration by Vanessa Knoll and Amy Morrison, and costuming by Brenda Abbandandolo; the production doesn’t overwhelm the storyline. It embeds the narrative in the world, speaking to our immersion in and adaptation to the way things are.
The story follows Ruby in her everyday life, with each setting offering a distinct visual and auditory environment.
Waves crash on the rusting hull of the Angela + Rose, the Rossi’s fishing trawler. Gulls squawk overhead while the heavy metal wench screeches as it hauls in the day’s catch. Coils of damp rope and oily plastic buckets fester under the grit and elbow grease of family business.
At school, choral melodies float through the warm music room, where light streams through the two-story windows and washes along the rich hardwood floors beneath the shiny baby grand piano. The harmonies bounce along the sage acoustic panels as Ruby finds friendship with those who share her passion.
A plastic record player rattles songs from forgotten bands in a cramped attic bedroom. Ruby’s contradictory responsibilities are revealed through peeling floral wallpaper and sunflower curtains that tease rock posters taped to the ceiling and waders hung over the chair.
Each evening, Ruby returns to the family dining table on the covered porch of their weatherworn fishing cottage. When night surrounds their old shake-shingle bungalow and the tarp-covered rowboats morph into dark shadows, the family gathers around a picnic table with a pastel vinyl tablecloth. The sunny floral table covering is the lightest thing in the space—a metaphor for the family members that surround it—worn around the edges but bright and whole.
It seems roundabout to use a movie about a singing teenager to talk about architecture. But every place has a soundscape with back-, mid-, and foreground, ambient noise, clues, signals, directions, and tone. Our surroundings influence the way we move through the world, and they contribute to how we see ourselves.
And if that environment is missing a key element, such as sound, how does it change? What happens when sound is replaced by something else—like motion? How does it influence the way we interact with others or places? How does the altered environment affect our identities?
The film is full of clues that the built environment is designed for hearing people with minor adaptations for the deaf—like strobe light alarms, visual telephones, or having to reach in and flick the light on and off rather than knock on the door. Social interactions like radio communications, business transactions, and musical performances often leave deaf persons in isolation. These shortcomings have to be bridged with other people.
Perhaps this review is more of a reminder than a criticism—a reminder to stop and observe how we interact with our environment and to consider how others experience it. CODA exposes hearing as a privilege in the built environment. Often we see accommodations for differently-abled individuals as modifications to existing infrastructure—rather than integrated into initial design.
How can our designs welcome and empower all people? How can our designs say, “You are part of this world”?
The film is part of a small but rising movement showing language minorities and linguistic alternatives on the big screen—one that has been recognized for inclusion, narrative, and creative approach to sound representation. Darius Marder’s Sound of Metal premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in 2019 and was quickly picked up by Amazon Prime, receiving numerous accolades including Academy Awards for Best Film Editing and Best Sound. John Krasinski’s A Quiet Place (2018) and its sequel star deaf child actor Millicent Simmonds and have together secured over 40 nominations and film awards.
CODA has already been named one of the Top 10 Movies of 2021 by the American Film Institute Awards, and both Emilia Jones’ and Troy Kotsur’s performances have been recognized by the Gotham Awards. In the 2022 Golden Globes, the film was nominated for Best Motion Picture Drama alongside Kotsur’s nomination for Best Supporting Actor. Thirteen more nominations—including the Hollywood Critics Association Film Awards and Critics’ Choice Movie Awards—are currently pending and will be announced early in 2022.
CODA is available for streaming on Apple TV+