Abstract

Disassembling the Diegesis: Diegetic Rupture, Reflexivity, and the Referencing of Unreality in Post-classical Narrative Film Soundtracks
Calum White, University of Edinburgh
Calum White is Editor-in-Chief of Sonic Scope; this did not influence peer review.

In this study, I explore uses of music that appear counter to its more traditionally understood role. Whereas film music is often discussed as a means to influence a viewer’s emotional response, imply geographical and historical settings and generally immerse the viewer within a film’s diegesis whilst remaining subordinate to the image, this study focuses on how sound and music can elicit what I term ‘diegetic rupture.’ I argue that diegetic rupture occurs when the sound-image hierarchy is subverted, forcing the viewer to recognise the film as a constructed fantasy, thereby seeming to disrupt their immersion within the diegesis. In order to make this argument, I draw upon studies of audiovisual dissonance to assess how such techniques can provoke diegetic rupture and what the implications of these instances are. Following an examination of reflexivity and how immersion can be challenged, I focus on two core principles that can contribute to the disassembling of a diegesis: uniquely stylised directorial voices; and the blurring of diegetic boundaries. I ultimately argue against the prioritisation of immersion when assessing film, and instead advocate for the acknowledgement of diegetic rupture as capable of underscoring subtext, exacerbating emotional resonances, increasing our attachment to characters, and, somewhat paradoxically, intensifying our immersion within a diegesis.

1. Introduction

The 1990s were a pivotal decade in the evolution of contemporary cinema. While every new decade has brought with it new techniques and technologies, the 90s saw film embrace ironic and postmodern sensibilities, both in their emotional detachment and their attitude toward popular culture, a shift that director John Carpenter attributes to the need to appeal to the “cynical, young, new [1990s teenage] audience who believe very sincerely that they’re smarter than the movies they see.”1 Perhaps the most celebrated exemplification of these sensibilities is Scream (Wes Craven, 1996). The film tells the familiar tale of an American town, a masked killer, and the local teenagers, who seem well aware that they are starring in a horror film. 

The film opens with a ringing phone. Home alone, teenager Casey answers, only to hang up after assuming the caller dialled the wrong number. The phone rings again. This time, Casey entertains this mystery caller, and they begin discussing their favourite horror films. In perhaps the film’s most audacious moment, and the first instance of overt reflexivity, the caller quizzes Casey on director Wes Craven’s earlier film A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) (00:02:06): 

Caller: Is that the one where the guy had knives for fingers?

Casey: Yeah, Freddie Kruger.

Caller: Freddie, that’s right. I liked that movie. It was scary.

Casey: Well, the first one was but the rest sucked!

The scene begins without any musical accompaniment, with only the sound of crickets providing a continuous soundscape. This changes, however, after the conversation takes a sinister turn (00:02:26):

Caller: You never told me your name.

Casey: Why do you want to know my name?

Caller: Because I want to know who I’m looking at.

The camera then pans toward Casey as a low-pitched piano motif is introduced. This previously flirtatious conversation subsequently takes on a far darker tone as a harp and highly pitched strings are added, further increasing the tension. As the scene progresses and Casey gets more distressed by the caller, the music matches her fear, only subsiding to add further suspense and provide jump-scares. The scene reaches its climax with Casey fleeing from the caller, accompanied by strings and a horn section, before she is caught and killed.

Despite its chilling denouement, Scream’s prologue exhibits an irreverence and self-awareness that continues throughout the film, while its horror elements are treated sincerely, resulting in a genuinely unsettling experience. In combining these seemingly disparate binaries, Scream acts as both a postmodern disassembling of the horror genre and an unironic slasher. Valerie Wee notes this, referring to Scream and its sequels as emblematic of a “hyper-postmodernism,” further stating that “referencing in the Scream trilogy is distinctive because it is not restricted … to occasional, passing allusions confined to the level of subtext. Instead, a significant proportion of the intertextual referencing in the Scream films function as text.”2

However, while Scream diegetically employs textual and satirical reflexivity, this does not extend to Marco Beltrami’s original score, which remains faithful to the traditions of contemporary horror scores with the use of such tropes as sustained strings, stingers and dissonance.3 Beltrami’s score therefore assists in immersing us within the diegesis, even as the film’s reflexivity seems to deny us such an experience through its evident awareness of itself as a film.4 This is common within the “spoof” genre, with Miguel Mera noting that comedy films often use music as a “straight man” to draw the audience into the constructed fiction, even as the jokes do the opposite.5

However common this juxtaposition is, it nevertheless raises the question of how a film’s irreverence could extend to its score and how its soundtrack could display a similar level of reflexivity to that found in Scream’s dialogical narrative. In this paper, I explore this idea, examining how music and sound have been employed as reflexive elements within Western narrative film. I hypothesise that, rather than enhancing the credibility of a film’s diegesis, music and sound can be strategically used to signify its artificiality, thereby actually disassembling the diegesis and disturbing the viewer’s immersion. For this, I will refer to what has been termed ‘diegetic rupture.’ Prior to exploring diegetic rupture, however, it is important to outline exactly what I mean by ‘immersion.’

1.1. Immersion, Ruptures and Breaks

Immersion has often been discussed with regards to audiovisual media, for example, film, television, and video games. The causes of immersion have often been debated and remain outside of this essay’s scope. What is more pertinent is what I am specifically referring to when I use the word ‘immersion.’

In Miguel Mera’s chapter on spatial presence in films set in space, he draws upon Werner Wirth et al. to assert that immersion can lead audiences to feel “personally and physically present” within fictional film worlds.6 Mera also cites Cara Marisa Deleon, for whom immersion is predicated on an audience being “no longer aware of the two-dimensionality on the screen.”7 While both Mera’s and Deleon’s understanding of immersion appears reliant on an audience's subconscious perception of the audiovisual media’s world as being ‘real,’ Murray Smith suggests that it relies on a conscious decision on the part of the audience, stating that it is dependent on “a form of pretense or make-belief.”8 Ben Winters also insinuates that immersion is a conscious choice, stating that “we do not necessarily think of characters occupying our real world,” but see them as extensions of the fictionalised world we are viewing; a world we know does not truly exist, but one that we choose to believe in.9

Mera’s, Deleon’s and Smith’s discussions of immersion shape my own understanding of it, and it is the affects outlined above that I refer to when I discuss immersion through this essay. However, perhaps of most pertinence to my essay, is Deleon’s assertion that immersion occurs when the audience simply “forgets they are watching a film.”10 It is diegetic rupture that reminds them.

As defined by Josie Torres Barth, diegetic rupture is when “the previously unacknowledged extradiegetic level of the story, [sic] is revealed to the viewer,” thereby bringing the film’s believability into question.11 Katherine Spring, meanwhile, has identified it as the moment within musical films when the narrative is suspended in order for the characters to perform their song and dance routines, a process that Rick Altman has called the “audio dissolve.”12 Adjacent to Barth’s and Spring’s definitions, I posit diegetic rupture as explicit instances of disruption to a viewer’s immersion within a narrative film’s diegesis. This initially appears aligned with Barth’s above description of rupture; however, as will become clear, my understanding of rupture extends beyond the breaking of the fourth wall and can occur far more subtly. Ultimately, what these interpretations of diegetic rupture share is the idea that its occurrence causes the viewer to recognise that they are not watching an autonomous, real-world narrative, but a constructed illusionary world. Referring back to Deleon’s terminology, it reminds them that they are, in fact, watching a film.

Exploring how rupture can emanate from a film’s soundtrack should prove fascinating, given the general assumption that film music should act to enhance the viewer’s immersion within the diegesis while remaining mostly ignored. Claudia Gorbman addressed this in the aptly titled Unheard Melodies: Narrative Film Music, citing music’s role in “[increasing] the spectator’s susceptibility to suggestion.”13 The significance of ‘rupture’ as a key aspect of my study revolves around Gorbman’s designation of film music here, as it acts to disrupt the diegesis, diminishing the viewer’s belief in the world they are experiencing. Following this understanding of music’s ability to disrupt a diegesis, diegetic rupture can have antithetical consequences to those Gorbman suggests. By disturbing immersion, diegetic rupture can threaten the credibility of the film world as its artificiality is made explicit, thereby lessening music’s potential for emotional manipulation.

Also key to my study is reflexivity, which Curt Hersey describes as when “[a film’s] director encourages the viewer to be constantly aware of the fact that they are watching a film.”14 Hersey describes such instances as “diegetic breaks.”15 When discussing diegetic breaks, Hersey states that “one is really talking about a cognitive shift in attention.”16 This points to the fundamentals of diegetic rupture alluded to by Murray Smith, who claims that, while immersed within a fictional diegesis, the audience “in some ways loses normal consciousness.”17

Such a loss of consciousness is essentially where our immersion derives from, as I noted above. However, when diegetic rupture reminds us that we are watching a film, subconsciously believing or consciously pretending that we are experiencing an authentic, lived-in world becomes a much greater task.

1.2. Post-classical Cinema

While my interpretation of diegetic rupture differs from how it is used in the works of scholars like Barth and Spring, there are many studies that similarly examine reflexive techniques that can create audiovisual dissonance. These concepts will be discussed below. Their prominence can largely be attributed to an evolution of classical Hollywood cinema, leading to what has been described as “post-classical cinema.” This era can be traced to the 1970s and ostensibly became fully realised in the 1990s.18

In discussing ‘classical’ cinema, David Bordwell outlines the tacitly mandated guidelines that “Hollywood film strives to conceal its artifice through techniques of continuity and ‘invisible’ storytelling.”19 Prompted by technological innovation, the aversion to such convention has since become commonplace. Yet, for Bordwell, post-classical cinema does not demonstrate a rejection of classical Hollywood tropes, but rather an intensification of them. He refers to contemporary filmmaking production as one of “intensified continuity,” outlining four key techniques that encapsulates this practice: “more rapid editing”; “bipolar extremes of lens length”; “more close framings in dialogue scenes”; and “a free-ranging camera.”20 Meanwhile, Jeff Smith expanded upon these categories in an attempt to ascertain how intensified continuity may sound: “increased volume; low frequency effects; expanded frequency ranges; the spatialisation of sound; the ‘hyperdetail’ of contemporary Foley work, and; the use of nondiegetic sound effects as stylistic punctuation.”21 Bordwell’s and Smith’s techniques allude to an embrace of artificiality in mainstream cinema that does not hide, but rather highlights, its artifice. This is most evident in Smith’s notion of non-diegetic sound effects, which I will explore below.

The longstanding use of these techniques in mainstream cinema points to the general acceptance of intensified continuity by conventional audiences.22 This may imply that artificiality and diegetic rupture is simply not a concern for many viewers, perhaps due to having become cineliterate enough to accept certain traits as habitual of conventional cinema, similar to longstanding and unquestioned techniques, such as voice-over narration and non-diegetic music. Although not necessarily as explicit as Scream, intensified continuity demonstrates a willingness to toy with reflexivity in film, by making its constructed elements far more noticeable than in the “classical Hollywood style” that Bordwell describes.23 The contrast of today’s audiences’ willingness to accept such obviously artificial musical elements is highlighted by Alfred Hitchcock’s refusal to include a musical score in Lifeboat (1944) during sequences wherein the characters are lost at sea, asking “where would the music come from?”24 The degree of facetiousness of this question is uncertain; however, it exemplifies the historically conservative attitude regarding the suggestion of artifice and potential for diegetic rupture.

While audiences have perhaps become more understanding of certain cases of diegetic rupture and its impact has lessened, the role viewer expectations play in the effect of diegetic rupture remains to be explored. Furthermore, questions remain over how diegetic rupture can be achieved aurally and why a filmmaker may aspire to disrupt a viewer’s immersion by placing a film’s artificiality in such prominence. Finally, upon determining how and why diegetic rupture occurs, I seek to determine whether the prioritisation of immersion is practical when assessing film, or if it is simply an out-dated and unhelpful term, more emblematic of a classical Hollywood era.

In doing so, I will focus on two overarching principles: overt stylisation, wherein I will explore numerous unconventional uses of music and sound that appear integral to a filmmaker’s authorial voice; and the arguably narrower and more easily identifiable blurring of diegetic boundaries, where music and sound appear to transition between the traditional realms of diegetic and non-diegetic. I should of course note that it is not my intention to provide an exhaustive and exclusionary list of methods of diegetic rupture, but rather to explore some of the techniques that can make apparent the unreality of an inherently artificial medium that we nevertheless attempt to immerse ourselves within.

2. Stylisation and the Filmmaker’s Voice

The prevalence of diegetic rupture in contemporary cinema can most easily be attributed to certain filmmakers’ personalised directorial voices. One such director is Edgar Wright, who has developed an almost instantly recognisable style and is most notable for the irreverent implementation of standardised filmmaking traits. Wright’s directorial voice is nowhere better exemplified than in his zombie apocalypse parody Shaun of the Dead (2004).

During the film’s opening scenes, we are introduced to protagonist Shaun as the prototypical slacker: lacking a clear direction in his life, content with spending his time playing videogames and getting drunk while neglecting his relationship with his girlfriend Liz. In an early sequence presented in a rapid montage, we see Shaun and his flatmate Pete preparing their breakfasts, (00:04:49). The monotony of these actions is juxtaposed by Wright’s use of editing and sound. As Pete opens the drawer to pull out a knife, the camera zooms in, accompanied by an exaggeratedly loud sound of the drawer sliding open. We then see him spreading jam across his toast, stirring his tea and putting away a bottle of milk, with each sound effect dramatically enhanced, while a low, ominous drone continues throughout this three second sequence (see Figure 1).

The volume of this drone is increased with every camera zoom, adding ironic suspense to mundane actions, and attributing a tactility to the camera that, by conventional filmmaking practice, should not exist within the film’s diegesis at all. Yet, this drone alludes to the physical movement of the camera through the space, further suggesting that, although the characters may not be aware of the camera’s presence, the film is self-conscious enough to recognise and acknowledge its physicality. 

Paul Hegarty points to a similar use of sound in the films of Chantal Akerman, specifically pointing to Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975), which, he claims, “exceed the visuals through unexpected levels of volume.”25 For Hegarty, in Jeanne Dielman, where the titular protagonist is seen doing everyday chores, the exaggerated volume of ordinary housework “means that sound is not just turned up but magnified, open to detailed theory,” allowing for a postulation of deeper philosophical implications of everyday tasks.26 In Shaun of the Dead, these implications point to a comedic statement on the monotony of daily life, while the aural reference to the camera’s presence draws the viewer’s attention to the film as a constructed medium.

Wright is one of countless directors whose use of sound and image demonstrate tropes of intensified continuity. As Shaun of the Dead demonstrates, and as I argued prior, many of these practices intrinsically signify a film’s artificiality, therefore provoking diegetic rupture. When discussing diegetic rupture through stylisation, it is important to note David Bordwell’s claim that “flagrantly self-conscious” filmmaking techniques, as seen in the above sequence, “have become default values in ordinary scenes and minor movies.”27 While this suggests that the impact of rupture may have a diminishing influence following oversaturation, I maintain that the overt exhibition of artificiality should nevertheless be understood as diegetic rupture, as it attracts the viewer’s attention and thereby underlines its falsity. 

The diegetic rupture in the above sequence from Shaun of the Dead derives from the incorporation of Jeff Smith’s notion of “nondiegetic sound effects as stylistic punctuation.”28 Here, Smith’s concept is exemplified by the prolonged crescendo of the drone, which seems to add a “whooshing” sound to the zooming camera.29 In conjunction with Smith’s other strategies of intensified continuity, stylistic punctuation further heightens the sensorial affect of modern film. This has been discussed by James Wierzbicki, who cites technologically enhanced sound effects as fundamental to “infusing the scene with credibility.”30 While the more realistic nature of the “spatialisation of sounds … creates an immersive aural environment for the viewer,” when used in isolation, non-diegetic sound effects contrastingly add a level of reflexivity by directing the viewer’s attention to the absurdity of the camera’s presence.31 Smith refers to this potentially reflexive sound by noting that added physicality “increase[s] … the self-consciousness of the film’s narration.”32

It must be noted that self-consciousness and reflexivity are not interchangeable. Jay Ruby, for example, has explicitly stated that a work can be self-conscious without being reflexive; the latter occurring only when overtly demonstrated, as with the recognised physicality of an unseen, omniscient camera.33 In the case of Edgar Wright, the evident self-consciousness in the techniques hypothesised by Smith is used to enhance his film’s cartoonish reality and consequently makes the viewer aware of the camera, resulting in reflexivity and diegetic rupture. When considering the comedic and irreverent nature of his films, this reflexivity is somewhat unsurprising. 

There are, of course, films that employ similar self-conscious techniques in decidedly non-comedic ways. Director Darren Aronofsky often makes use of similar editing techniques as Wright in what have been dubbed “hip-hop montages”: rapidly edited sequences underlined by exaggerated sound effects that provide a rhythmic quality that more traditional montages lack. One example can be seen in Requiem for a Dream (2000) (00:05:47). The montage both depicts and simulates the use and effects of drugs through twelve clips, each lasting less than a second. Each image is closely synchronised to a unique sound effect, such as a fizzing sound as heroin is heated and a high-pitched ringing as a pupil is dilated (see Figure 2).

The meticulous, rapid editing of image and sound in this sequence leads Tarja Laine to note that “the outcome is chaotic and controlled at the same time, implying a situation just about to skid out of control.”34 In addition to Laine’s analysis, in adding non-diegetic sound effects and a subsequent tangibility to otherwise standard cinematic practices, Aronofsky’s hip-hop montages appear, at least superficially, to imitate a similar effect as the camera “whooshes” used by Wright. However, as I discussed above, while rapid editing is indicative of the constructed nature of film, they are often forgiven by audiences who have come to acknowledge them as illustrative of contemporary filmmaking. The saturation of rapid editing and montages throughout the history of film, in addition to the otherwise realistic diegesis and tonally appropriate, if somewhat incongruous, sound effects, allows Aronofsky’s hip-hop montage to avoid the diegetic rupture found in Shaun of the Dead. While this may appear paradoxical given that both films essentially employ the same technique, it nevertheless signifies the creative licence available to filmmakers working to depict believable film worlds.

2.1. Elongation and Aporia

Regardless of whether one may experience diegetic rupture in the above sequences, it remains unequivocal that manipulated sound effects can toy with a film’s depicted reality. Holly Rogers has referred to such use of sound effects as “disrupted listening,” offering the terms “sonic elongation” and “sonic aporia.”35 Sonic elongation occurs when “noise from within the film’s world is broadened until it becomes unfamiliar: when source sounds abstract from their visual referents to take on musical form and texture.”36 One commonly examined example of sonic elongation can be found in the opening scene of Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979), wherein we see protagonist Captain Willard staring at the ceiling fan of his hotel room. While the fan spins, it is accompanied by the sound of a helicopter’s spinning rotors, giving the uncanny appearance of the fan creating the sound of the helicopter (00:03:41) (see Figures 3.1-3.3).

Rogers draws a parallel between sonic elongation and what we understand as conventional source sounds within film, referencing William Whittington’s description of sound as “one of the most highly constructed aspects of cinema.”37 Whittington discusses the “hyperrealism” of film sound as exaggerated “through attentiveness to considerations, such as sound perspective, localisation, psychoacoustics, and spectacle,” an exaggeration a contemporary viewer may likely accept as standard cinematic practice.38 Rogers, meanwhile, posits sonic elongation as adjacent both to Whittington’s hyperrealism and the self-consciousness of Smith’s sonic intensified continuity.39 As such, in contrast to ‘realistic’ sound effects, Rogers asserts that “sonically elongated ones trouble both the credibility and smoothness of filmic narratology” and, ultimately, “lead us deep into the heart of the fiction, generating moments of intense interiority through the gradual dislocation of sound and image.”40 This resulting dislocation exacerbates the evident inauthenticity of a film’s diegesis, although, as we saw with the Wright and Aronofsky examples, such a technique may well be used to satirical or subtextual effect, thereby seemingly justifying any occurrence of diegetic rupture.

The audiovisual dissonance found in Apocalypse Now, meanwhile, presents a highly stylised sound design in a potent signification of the war’s psychological impact on Willard, who lays in bed, staring at the ceiling fan and hearing nothing but the instruments of war he is surrounded by. It will be useful here to also draw upon Nicholas Cook’s discussion of audiovisual dissonance. Cook identifies three distinct characteristics of music within multimedia: conformance, contestation, and complementation, the latter being sound that “exhibits neither consistency nor contradiction,” and leaves room for incongruent music to remain complementary to the image and narrative.41 This complementation principle is clearly at play here as the sonically elongated helicopter/fan helps to establish the mental state of our protagonist, efficiently laying out the film’s subtext in a short, simple instance of what Michel Chion labels “audiovisual counterpoint.”42 Again, as with the case of Requiem for a Dream, any potential diegetic rupture here is justified as it is used to express the protagonist’s psychological state, which is fundamentally linked to the film’s textual and subtextual narrative.

Whereas elongation presents the viewer with an embellished sound effect, as Rogers notes, sonic aporia “rarely deliver[s] moments of direct synchronicity with an image.”43 Rogers exemplifies aporetic sound by pointing to the films of David Lynch and his use of “room tone,” a term described by Isabella van Elferen as “an uncomfortable buzz of white noise.”44 Examples can be found in the sound design of Eraserhead (1977), which contains a “continuous wash of warped industrial sounds, roars, barks, and whooshes … [which] rarely garners acknowledgement from the characters, whether or not they are aware of its presence.”45 

However, it can be argued that the surrealism which infuses Lynch’s films excuses the seemingly inexplicable presence of these sounds. Furthermore, acknowledging that viewers may well expect to find in Lynch’s films a large degree of eerie and dreamlike qualities subsequently suggests that diegetic rupture could be largely attributed to the expectations of a viewer. If viewers understand Lynch’s film worlds as ethereal and abstract or, returning to the case of Shaun of the Dead, are familiar with Wright’s oeuvre and his tendency to create highly stylised, cartoon-ish film worlds, suggestions of artificiality and diegetic rupture may more easily be overlooked. This contradicts my previous assertion that diegetic rupture is more forgivable when occurring in a realistic diegesis, for while Lynch’s and Wright’s films are far from realistic, their directorial voices paradoxically justify occurrences of rupture.

A more recent example of sonic aporia and room tone is Midsommar (Ari Aster, 2019). Early in the film, protagonist Dani is seen on the phone, discussing her sister Terri (00:06:12) who we have learnt has bipolar disorder which causes Dani to fear for her safety. During this conversation, a very faint, underlying drone can be heard. Given the information the audience has already gleaned from the dialogue, combined with an assumed knowledge of the film’s plot and genre, this soundscape adds an unsettling feeling to the scene, exacerbated by the uncertainty of its sound source. As there is no obvious justification for this noise, the immersion that the audience had experienced due to the realism of the film thus far is challenged, although not entirely ruptured, due to the room tone’s relative subtlety.

The cases of Eraserhead and Midsommar demonstrate what Kristin Thompson has termed “perceptual ‘roughening’.”46 This occurs when a “film confronts the spectator with an unusual device which is difficult to perceive smoothly.”47 Though Thompson goes on to discuss perceptual roughening within montage, it remains useful terminology in these cases as, while not explicitly disrupting the diegesis in the same way as non-diegetic sound effects, it does challenge the viewer to question the diegesis they are immersing themselves within. Such disturbing films as Eraserhead and Midsommar threaten diegetic rupture, not by explicitly pointing to their artificiality, but by providing moments wherein, as Rogers notes, “sound breaks from its original audiovisual affiliation to form a de-synchronised musical texture, [and] our familiar modes of aural attentiveness … are troubled.”48 In this, Lynch and Aster use diegetic rupture as a means to heighten the disturbing effect their films aspire to achieve, and in doing so arguably increase the viewer’s immersion into the respective film worlds.

2.2. Incongruence and Subtext

Perceptual roughening can extend beyond Thompson’s intended use of the term. While the examples discussed thus far contain generally unrealistic, unexplainable, and exaggerated sound effects, it is important to discuss instances of non-diegetic scoring. Discussions of this scoring method offer an adjacent paradigm of audiovisual dissonance, a more thematic dissonance, wherein the accompanying soundtrack provides a contrast to the film’s period, tone and subtext. This is similar to what Steven Willemsen and Miklós Kiss term “incongruent film music,” which, they state, “expresses qualities that stand in sharp contrast to the emotions evoked by the events seen.”49 Drawing upon a psychoanalytical framework, Willemsen and Kiss ultimately conclude that, despite the attention it demands, incongruent film music can actually resolve in a prioritisation of the image.

To exemplify incongruent film music, Willemsen and Kiss point to the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs (Quentin Tarantino, 1992), which is accompanied by the upbeat pop song “Stuck in the Middle with You” by Stealers Wheel playing from a nearby radio (00:55:07). Though this song “immediately calls for attention” due to its inappropriateness, it does not disrupt the film’s diegesis, as a character is clearly seen turning on the radio and the song is subsequently introduced by the radio DJ.50 Furthermore, this radio station is heard throughout the film, thereby actually increasing the believability of the diegesis as a genuine, lived-in world. This makes apparent that incongruent film music does not necessarily equate to diegetic rupture. However, rupture can occur when incongruence is employed within certain circumstances. 

A common technique that can have this effect is the use of anachronistic, pre-existing songs, for example in Marie Antoinette (Sofia Coppola, 2006), which depicts the life of the 18th-century French monarch with non-diegetic accompaniment from mostly 1980s popular music. Initially, the dissonance between the score and the diegesis appears intended to portray the youthful exuberance exhibited by the titular character. Journalist Hayden Manders suggests this, claiming that the soundtrack represents the “very real, very arresting, and uniquely millennial sense of ennui.”51 For Willemsen and Kiss, a deeper analysis is common following incongruent film music, as viewers, unsure how to respond to such counterpoint, must rely on “different inferential strategies and interpretations that serve to naturalise the [audiovisual] conflict,” hence further removing them from diegetic immersion. Drawing upon Krin Gabbard’s writing on jazz music in film, David Ireland seems to share this viewpoint, writing that incongruent music can provide opportunity for “critical reflection,” rather than the passive immersion that is often assumed when discussing film music as a means to heighten the viewer’s emotional susceptibility, as argued by Claudia Gorbman.52 Following this, Marie Antoinette’s anachronistic incongruence invites a critical evaluation from its viewers to ascertain why we are hearing this soundtrack. In doing so, many similarities are revealed between these songs and Marie Antoinette beyond the rebelliousness of youth.

The most obvious example is the use of the song “Kings of the Wild Frontier” by Adam and the Ants, a band known for their period-based costumes. As Theo Cateforis details, these costumes took inspiration from numerous time periods, most crucially the French revolution, hence drawing clear aesthetic parallels with Marie Antoinette.53

Arguably of most relevance is the use of songs by Bow Wow Wow, due to the unlikely biographical similarities between lead singer Annabella Lwin and Marie Antoinette. Marie Antoinette, for example, was just 12 when she was promised as a bride and 14 when she was married, while Lwin was 13 when she underwent “manipulations and sexualisation in the media,” under the tutelage of manager Malcolm McLaren.54 Both Marie Antoinette and Lwin essentially lost all autonomy to patriarchal societies and figures from a young age, yet both were able to retain a degree of individuality and nonconformity. This is noted by Hazel Cills, who wrote that Lwin’s “spirit, as the thrashing, controversial teenage frontwoman … was an inspiration for how Coppola wanted to portray her Marie Antoinette.”55 Clearly, while the incongruous soundtrack causes diegetic rupture, following a holistic analysis of the featured bands, it highlights a relevance that justifies its presence, again bringing to mind Cook’s suggestion of complementary sound that can be both consistent and contradictory.56 In this, the songs point to a continued relevance of the film’s themes of teenage rebellion, patriarchal dominance and female subjugation. Willemsen and Kiss posit this as a potential outcome for incongruent film music, citing its ability to “emphasise and strengthen the power of the image on its own.”57 Despite its anachronism, in paralleling Marie Antoinette’s themes, the importance of the narrative is heightened, thereby providing an understandable reasoning for disturbing diegetic immersion.

Marie Antoinette’s thematically appropriate soundtrack can be contrasted with Baz Luhrmann’s adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 novel, The Great Gatsby (2013). Despite the 1920s setting, the soundtrack is mostly comprised of contemporary hip-hop artists. Luhrmann explained the use of this music by stating his desire to achieve “the same level of excitement and pop cultural immediacy toward the world that Fitzgerald did for his audience … in our age, the energy of jazz is caught in the energy of hip-hop.”58 There is perhaps a further argument justifying the use of hip-hop, as The Great Gatsby, similar to Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet (1996) and Moulin Rouge! (2001), remains a decidedly modern film due to the abundance of post-classical filmic techniques. These out-of-place soundtracks therefore represent a distinct signature feature, emblematic of Luhrmann’s authorial voice. If viewing The Great Gatsby from this perspective, as one might with Lynch or Wright, the soundtrack may not disturb one’s immersion. However, such an assertion would be disingenuous to the themes raised by the film and its source material, for while the use of Bow Wow Wow clearly mirrors Marie Antoinette’s subtext, Luhrmann’s use of pop music often actively contradicts the story’s true meaning. 

As Lauren Rule-Maxwell notes, much of Fitzgerald’s work features “indictments of American materialism during the Jazz Age,” and this idea extends to The Great Gatsby.59 Yet, the subtlety with which the book expressed these themes are undercut by the film’s extravagance and flamboyant excesses. This was a point of contention for many reviewers upon the film’s release: A. O. Scott of The New York Times described the film as a “lavishly theatrical celebration of the emotional and material extravagance that Fitzgerald surveyed with fascinated ambivalence,” while Ian Nathan wrote in Empire that “Luhrmann is effectively commenting upon decadence with decadence.”60 This thematic dissonance is most notable in a party scene (00:23:31). This sequence, in which Luhrmann appears to gleefully depict the indulgence taking place, features two songs: “Bang Bang” by will.i.am; and “A Little Party Never Killed Nobody (All We Got)” by Fergie, Q-Tip and GoonRock, each song a postmodern amalgamation of 21st-century hip-hop and 1920s jazz instrumental flourishes. Each also contains conventional lyrical narratives revolving around a celebration of hedonism and displays of material wealth, further mirroring the extravagance onscreen. While some artists on the soundtrack have critiqued ideals of the American Dream and capitalist decadence, such as Lana Del Rey (see “National Anthem” from 2012’s Born to Die) and Jay Z (see “The Story of O.J.” from 2017’s 4:44), the absence of critical voices from the film’s party scenes mark a distinct lack of evaluation of the book’s primary themes. Instead, the songs appear to endorse the revelry and decadence. As such, the soundtrack disrupts the film’s diegesis without commenting on the narrative. It remains instead a shallow stylistic choice to parallel the film’s contemporary visual aesthetic, with an apparent prioritisation of stylisation at the expense of thematic consonance.

Such thematic dissonance echoes Kay Dickinson’s core thesis in her book Off Key: When Film and Music Won’t Work Together, in which she explores films that demonstrate a combination of image and “inappropriate” music, with the implication being that such instances lead to diegetic rupture.61 For Dickinson, there are many reasons why music may be inappropriate for a film. Most pertinently she points to “situations where music and cinema misunderstand or embarrass each other, seem utterly clueless about each other’s intentions, with one insensitively trampling upon the messages the other has so meticulously tried to articulate.”62 Written in 2008, this can read as a prescient definition of The Great Gatsby. 

Whereas Marie Antoinette disrupts the diegesis to highlight the continued relevance of its themes, The Great Gatsby appears solely to disturb the diegesis in order to retain Luhrmann’s signature aesthetic, therefore providing contestation without complementation. This lack of synergy ultimately leads to a diegetic rupture caused by, to borrow Dickinson’s terminology, the music’s “trampling” upon the narrative’s subtextual message.63 Much like with the films of David Lynch, audiences may view The Great Gatsby with the understanding that it is a heavily stylised adaptation and therefore be forgiving of rupture, diminishing its impact. However, while Lynch’s soundscapes seek to evoke a similar visceral response to the often-unsettling visuals, The Great Gatsby’s soundtrack seems more intent on mass commercial appeal, with a lack of self-awareness apparent in the juxtaposition of soundtrack and subtext. Evidenced in the case of Marie Antoinette, disrupted immersion need not be an adverse occurrence; however, in this instance the incongruence disturbs the viewer’s immersion while signifying a confused message, forcing us to seek justification for the audiovisual dissonance where there likely is none, and thus detracting from our immersion purely for the sake of Luhrmann’s artistic vision. As such, although diegetic rupture can add further analytical possibilities or heighten emotional resonance, without these critical or thematic elements, it simply removes us from the diegesis through postmodern eccentricity. 

Marie Antoinette and The Great Gatsby’s borrowing of pre-existing pop are examples of what Julia Kristeva has termed “intertextuality,” a common stylistic practice in demonstrating a film’s reflexivity. As I will now discuss, a key modern-day practitioner of intertextuality is director Quentin Tarantino.

2.3. Intertextuality

Intertextuality was introduced by Julia Kristeva in her 1966 essay Word, Dialogue and Novel, describing it as “a mosaic of quotations,” and it has since become an unavoidable facet of contemporary culture, particularly in the films of Quentin Tarantino, who regularly makes use of it through pre-existing music.64 The relationship between image and music within his films has led Gorbman to term Tarantino a “mélomane”: a director for whom music acts “as a key thematic element and a marker of authorial style.”65

Tarantino’s use of diegetic music can be understood as heightening the perceived realism of the diegesis. One example is in Jackie Brown (1997), as Jackie’s nascent relationship with bail bondsman Max Cherry is provided a diegetic leitmotif in The Delfonics’ “Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time).” While diegetic intertextuality can be used for diegetic intensification, supplementing character development and therefore contributing to a realistic film world, Tarantino has latterly used non-diegetic intertextuality to disrupt the believability that his earlier films tended to cultivate. This stands as a curious case study when exploring the blurring of diegetic boundaries. Further, Tarantino’s postmodern collage of film music, in referencing other films, ultimately acts as an allusion to its own artificiality. This is demonstrated in Inglourious Basterds (2009), which presents an alternative vision of World War Two.

The soundtrack features music from films as diverse as Eastern Condors (Sammo Hung, 1987), The Entity (Sidney J. Furie, 1982) and The Battle of Algiers (Gillo Pontecorvo, 1966). Each of these musical cues acts as equally effective instances of diegetic rupture, regardless of their instrumental, timbral or tonal appropriateness to the World War Two genre. The use of Ennio Morricone’s “Algiers November 1, 1954,” from The Battle of Algiers, for example, provides a curious case of intertextuality (00:29:21). While the music itself appears suitable for the jailbreak sequence it accompanies, it is important to note that the events that inspired The Battle of Algiers did not occur until the late 1950s, at least ten years after the events of Inglourious Basterds. This is an anachronism also present in the referencing of the above films, set in 1970s Vietnam (Eastern Condors) and 1980s America (The Entity). The use of these scores raises the question, how can this music be playing if it has yet to be written within the diegesis? Much like the anachronism found in Marie Antoinette and The Great Gatsby this logical incongruence forms the basis of the diegetic rupture, as these scores ultimately highlight Tarantino’s directorial voice rather than the verisimilitude of the film’s diegesis. In using these scores, Tarantino employs a reflexivity that can be seen as an aural equivalent to the parodic, intertextual dialogue discussed earlier in Scream. Further similarity to Scream is in the subtlety with which this intertextuality is displayed: unabashedly overt, yet recognisable only to those with the requisite knowledge of the films being referenced. Unlike Marie Antoinette and The Great Gatsby, wherein the music’s inappropriateness instantly attracts attention and disrupts the diegesis, Inglourious Basterds’ musical diegetic rupture may be less apparent to the uninitiated viewer.

While Tarantino’s intertextual scores exhibit re-appropriation of pre-existing scores, more overt cases of diegetic rupture can be seen in his earlier films, such as the previously discussed Jackie Brown, Tarantino’s homage to 1970s blaxploitation films. This tribute is visible in the casting of blaxploitation icon Pam Grier, and further reference to the genre can be heard in the use of songs from blaxploitation films. As outlined above, diegetic intertextuality does not necessarily destabilise diegetic credibility. Yet, diegetic rupture becomes inevitable in Jackie Brown as many of the films whose music is heard also star Pam Grier. This is notable in one scene where, after being questioned by police, Jackie is escorted into a jail cell accompanied by the song “Long Time Woman,” a song sung by Grier herself in the film The Big Doll House (Jack Hill, 1971) (00:32:14). Jackie Brown also features several songs from another Grier-starring film, Coffy (Jack Hill, 1973). The use of these songs reminds the viewer that Pam Grier is not Jackie Brown, but an actress, while Jackie Brown is not presented as a believable diegesis but yet another Pam Grier film. 

This use of music can be interpreted as Tarantino’s attempt at meta-humour, using pastiche to point to the film’s constructed nature, and using blaxploitation soundtracks as an inside joke with his audience. Yet, for those unfamiliar with the films being pastiched, these diverse soundtracks may simply appear as evidence of Tarantino’s typically vibrant directorial style. As Richard Dyer notes, the efficacy of pastiche is reliant on it being “understood as pastiche by those who read, see or hear it. For it to work, it needs to be ‘got’ as a pastiche.”66 As such, for the probable majority of viewers who do not “get” the pastiche, given the relative obscurity of the films Tarantino references, diegetic rupture would likely not arise. It is perhaps somewhat ironic that diegetic rupture is the reward for those who get the joke, suggesting that immersion and the concealment of artificiality are not integral to the enjoyment of a film. Meanwhile, the limited number of viewers who will understand the pastiche suggests that intertextuality should not be understood exclusively as a means of rupture. Rather, we can understand Jackie Brown as characteristic of the typical depthlessness of postmodernism, lacking substantive meaning and representative of Fredric Jameson’s description of pastiche as “mimicry, without any of parody’s ulterior motives, amputated of the satiric impulse.”67 This “blank parody” signifies a distinct differentiation between Jackie Brown and Marie Antoinette, which, as we have seen, uses its postmodern techniques to enhance thematic substance.68

Following this, we can see Tarantino’s intertextuality as a means to create new works comprising of pre-existing aspects, while the viewer’s recognition of this amalgam, and any consequent diegetic rupture, is incidental. To return again to the notion of audience expectations, viewers well versed in the blaxploitation genre might reasonably expect to hear such songs within a postmodern homage to the genre. In this case, any suggestion of diegetic rupture could be understood as an intensification of the generic tribute and seen as further opposition to my previous assumption regarding rupture as inherently negative.

Clearly, there are numerous ways for filmmakers to ascribe their films a unique, authorial style by infusing aural embellishments, with many of these techniques proving integral to the occurrence of diegetic rupture. Many of these techniques may appear to have little in common; yet, they all invert the traditionally assumed dominance of image over sound. This suggests that diegetic rupture occurs when the previously “unheard” score subverts the audiovisual hierarchy and is prioritised over the image.69 Even in such circumstances, audiences’ clemency toward diegetic rupture is predicated on their expectations from a film’s soundtrack. This is challenged by thematically incongruent scores, which suggests we prioritise Cook’s notion of complementary difference.

Ultimately, my previous prioritisation of immersion is misleading. We should instead consider diegetic rupture as an equally effective quality, with the disassembling of a diegesis capable of amplifying both emotion and subtext. Furthermore, I previously stressed the importance of reflexivity in purposefully provoking diegetic rupture. The examples given here, however, suggest that reflexivity does not definitively disrupt immersion.

These assertions are largely dependent on our expectations from certain filmmakers, as they can affect how we perceive both the film world and its rupturing. It remains to be seen how filmmakers may intentionally subvert expectations and provoke diegetic rupture by toying with the most fundamental basis of film music: the dichotomy of diegetic and non-diegetic music.

3. Blurring Diegetic Boundaries

To address this, we must return to reflexivity. A useful recent example is in Jim Jarmusch’s 2019 horror-comedy The Dead Don’t Die, which demonstrates what I refer to as a blurring of diegetic boundaries. During an early scene, two police officers are driving in their patrol car when they begin to notice some unusual occurrences (00:05:11). One officer, Cliff, first comments on how light it is despite the late time, while the other, Ronnie, realises that his watch has stopped working. Their police radio then turns to static as Cliff is speaking on it, prompting Ronnie to check his mobile phone, only to discover it has died despite having been fully charged. At a loss, Ronnie switches on the radio and finds a station playing the same country song that accompanied the film’s title sequence (00:03:39). Cliff immediately notes how familiar the song sounds, which prompts the following exchange (00:08:49):

Cliff: What is that song, Ronnie?

Ronnie: It’s “The Dead Don’t Die.” By Sturgill Simpson.

Cliff: Sturgill Simpson? Why does it sound so familiar?

Ronnie: Well, ‘cos it’s the theme song.

This visibly confuses Cliff, but he does not question Ronnie’s explanation. The image then cuts to exterior shots of the car driving through the town, while the song continues to play.

Ronnie’s knowledge that the film is a film is obviously intended for comedic purposes. By conveying this knowledge, his placement within the diegesis is thus subverted, as he joins the audience in their understanding of film convention. The song does not explicitly cross any diegetic boundaries, yet its occurrence in the title sequence leads the viewer to understand it as the theme song, prior to it being described as such by Ronnie. In commenting on its familiarity, it is suggested that Cliff, along with the viewer, hears the song during the recent title sequence. This therefore places both the characters and the title sequence, the latter of which occurs within an ambiguous diegetic plane, within the same diegetic space. 

The reflexivity demonstrated by Ronnie is indicative of many comedies which seek to undermine the viewer’s assumptions of inflexible diegetic boundaries, and this technique can be seen elsewhere as an attempt to elicit a much broader range of emotions. Claus Tieber and Christina Wintersteller have discussed reflexivity within film music, noting that such discussions often pertain to issues regarding its “diegetical status.”70 This obscuring of music’s diegetic status makes apparent the inherent falsity of the medium, which raises questions regarding the viewer’s immersion within a narrative and the potential for diegetic rupture: what effect does diegetic ambiguity have on the immersive qualities of a film? If our understanding of film is largely predicated on the distinction between the diegetic and non-diegetic, how can we forgive the blurring of these spaces, as we do the techniques discussed prior, and remain immersed despite the overt denigrating of ostensibly sacred diegetic boundaries? Further to this, the longstanding rigidity of the diegetic dichotomy marks any subversion inherently unexpected. This therefore draws a contrast with the expected stylised rupture of some filmmakers discussed above and can cause us to query how diegetic rupture’s impact can be diminished when achieved by such unanticipated means. Finally, can we understand diegetic rupture through the blurring of diegetic boundaries as suggestive of a deeper meaning, similar to the way we can do so when exploring rupture through stylisation?

The distinction between ‘diegetic’ and ‘non-diegetic’ has provoked much debate regarding their efficacy in describing film sound. Robynn Stilwell, for example, has advocated for the recognition of a “fantastical gap,” between diegetic and non-diegetic planes, while Ben Winters has claimed that accepting the idea of a ‘non-diegetic’ space is “representative of an unwillingness to recognise film’s inherent ‘unreality’.”71 As Winters alludes to here, the presence of film sound is intrinsically artificial, yet is often only deemed as such when it is understood to be blurring diegetic boundaries. Therefore, instances of diegetic blurring must provoke diegetic rupture, for if film sound is to remain firmly within its designated diegetic space, we might more easily forget the film’s “inherent ‘unreality’.”72 If understanding diegetic rupture as an unavoidable effect of the blurring of diegetic boundaries, it could be easy to dismiss all instances as detrimental to a viewer’s immersion and the believability of the diegesis. However, as we have previously seen, techniques that we might assume to provoke diegetic rupture may actually enhance our immersion, or at least disrupt our immersion while adding further thematic value to the image.

3.1 Deacousmaticisation and Metalepsis

As The Dead Don’t Die’s opening makes clear, diegetic ambiguity can easily be exploited for comedic purposes. Perhaps the most famous instance of this occurs in the western spoof Blazing Saddles (Mel Brooks, 1974), as Sheriff Bart rides through the desert, accompanied by non-diegetic big band jazz (00:25:14). This musical style contrasts the typical scoring conventions of most westerns, and the audience’s incredulity regarding the musical genre is exacerbated as the camera pans to reveal that it is being played by jazz artist Count Basie and his orchestra (see Figure 4). With this, the music we assumed to be non-diegetic is revealed to be onscreen and diegetic.

Michel Chion calls this “deacousmaticisation,” the process of revealing the previously unseen source of sound, thereby providing an ostensibly realistic rationalisation for its presence.73 Of course, the realism is discretionary, as exemplified in Blazing Saddles, which exploits the viewer’s cineliteracy by subverting their expectations of non-diegetic music. For Miguel Mera, the humour from these gags derives from the ridiculousness of the viewer’s expectation that there should be an omnipresent musical backing to the narrative, stating “it is our gullibility that inspires the humour.”74 The joke, therefore, is on us. This subversion of audience expectations is clearly the primary objective here, as the referencing of a film’s artifice is, in such circumstances, comedic. 

Mera refers to this as “diegeticising,” whereby previously non-diegetic music undergoes the process of becoming diegetic.75 This at first appears similar to deacousmaticisation; however, a key discrepancy remains regarding the original understanding of the music as non-diegetic. While deacousmaticisation “designates the process by which an acousmêtre visually materialises as a finite body in space,” it perceives the previously acousmatic sound as diegetic, albeit emanating from an unseen source.76 Mera’s diegeticisation, meanwhile, appears to imply the opposite: the transition from non-diegetic to diegetic. This is an important distinction, as, to undergo diegeticisation, Count Basie’s orchestra must have been non-diegetic prior to its revelation as diegetic. Mera’s terminology therefore becomes problematic, as it must be understood that Count Basie was at no point non-diegetic, despite the absurdity of his presence. Regardless of the terminology used, both deacousmaticisation and diegeticisation present the illusion of diegetic blurring, even if, as in Blazing Saddles, the music never actually crosses the diegetic/non-diegetic boundary.

Deacousmaticisation and diegeticisation imply a technique that could perhaps be discussed as non-diegeticisation: the transitioning from diegetic to non-diegetic. This process has more commonly been known as metalepsis, taken from Gérard Genette’s discussion of narratology.77 Though not initially concerned with narrative film, Genette’s term provides an opportunity to discuss diegetic rupture, resulting from the obscuring of diegetic boundaries.

For Genette, metalepsis occurs following “any intrusion by the extradiegetic narrator or narratee into the diegetic universe (or by diegetic characters into a metadiegetic universe etc.) or in the inverse.”78 Metalepsis is a clear transition between diegetic realms, one that ultimately acts to disturb the “shifting but sacred frontier between two worlds, the world in which one tells, [and] the world of which one tells.”79 Such “intrusion” into a film’s diegesis can be found in The Big Lebowski (Joel Coen, 1998) when, in the final scene, the film’s narrator interacts with the diegetic protagonist before turning to the camera and makes his omnipresence evident by summarising the film’s narrative: “it was a pretty good story, don’t you think?” (01:51:07) (see Figure 5).

Metalepsis is a common comedic trope, as discussed by Michael Betancourt in his examination of a sequence in Austin Powers in Goldmember (Jay Roach, 2002) where a character misreads and reacts to subtitled dialogue. These metaleptic gags, Betancourt states, revolve around denying the viewer “a privileged view and understanding of what is happening on-screen, forcing the audience into an awareness of its artificiality.”80 We can therefore understand metalepsis within comedy as fundamentally disruptive to immersion; however, as I suggested above, this should be expected of the genre.

In addition to comedic metalepsis, musical metalepsis is common within non-comedic films and can be seen in The Irishman (Martin Scorsese, 2019), as the viewer is introduced to the film’s antagonist, Tony Provenzano (01:15:40). Tony is first introduced entering a room, accompanied by a non-diegetic musical backing, “Qué Rico el Mambo” by the Perez Prado Orchestra (see Figure 6.1). The song’s volume is then reduced as the image cuts to Tony giving a speech (see Figure 6.2), before cutting again to a windshield shot of three men driving in a car (see Figure 6.3). The use of non-diegetic music to connect disparate shots in this way is common practice in narrative film and is a recognisable enough editing trope so as to not disturb diegetic immersion. This immersion, however, is upended as one of the men in the car changes the radio station and, in doing so, turns off the previously non-diegetic song (see Figure 6.4). The station is changed back, and the song continues (see Figure 6.5). The image then cuts again to an exterior, eye-level shot of the car driving by (see Figure 6.6). At this point, the sound quality of the song is reduced to a more authentic 1950s radio sound and fades as the car drives away, making explicit that the music is emanating from the car’s radio and the point of audition has moved from within the car to the pavement.

The music in this sequence undergoes what Genette describes as “the passage from one narrative level to another,” rupturing the immersion established through the film’s otherwise realistic plot and tone.81 I would further argue that this realism exacerbates the rupture, as such a technique is unexpected and antithetical to what the audience is likely accustomed to in a film of this sort.

Another curious instance of musical metalepsis occurs in The Truman Show (Peter Weir, 1998). The Truman Show depicts the life of Truman Burbank, the unwitting star of a reality television show, as he is recorded by countless cameras at every minute of the day, while the film’s narrative cuts between Truman’s life, viewers of “The Truman Show,” and the show’s producer, Kristof. The real-life viewer is led to assume that any instance in which we see Truman’s life as being broadcast as a part of the television show. This premise introduces the notion of hypodiegetic, or “a narrative embedded within another narrative.”82 In the case of The Truman Show, the hypodiegetic layer is the one inhabited by Truman, essentially a story being told by Kristof at the diegetic layer and being viewed by the real-life audience at the non-diegetic layer. An instance of musical metalepsis occurs in one sequence as Truman drives to work, listening to the radio (00:03:55). The image then transitions to an establishing shot of Truman’s hometown, before cutting to Truman walking down the street, while the same piece of music continues, uninterrupted. Werner Wolf refers to this sequence as “bottom-up metalepsis … paradoxically transgressing the border of the hypodiegetic in the direction of the diegetic level.”83 During this sequence, artificiality is highlighted, as the real-life viewer is provided the same privileged access to Truman’s life as the fictional, diegetic viewers. Yet, the artificiality of The Truman Show is not the subject of the diegetic rupture, but rather the television show “The Truman Show.” Wolf notes this in the above quote, suggesting that the metalepsis is not occurring through the blurring of diegetic and non-diegetic levels, but the diegetic and hypodiegetic levels, for the supposedly non-diegetic music is presumably still audible to the fictional viewers. This sequence provides an example of metalepsis occurring as diegetic music remains diegetic, albeit inaudible within Truman’s hypodiegesis. Such metalepsis, therefore, does not rupture the diegetic immersion but heightens it, as the real-life viewer is put in the same position of the fictional viewers and sees Truman’s life from their point of view. This emphasises the unreality of Truman’s life and the world he inhabits, while creating a point of connection between the diegetic and non-diegetic viewers.

The blurring of diegetic boundaries, therefore, does not necessarily provoke diegetic rupture, as in The Irishman, but rather what we could term ‘diegetic intensification.’ Much as in the case of Bordwell’s discussion of post-classical cinema, this term can be useful in understanding sound that, while neither realistic nor necessarily disruptive, can actually assist in the construction of a believable diegesis. 

The supposedly sacred boundary that separates the realistic diegetic and the fantastical non-diegetic is evidently far more flexible than some may assume and remains a key technique in exhibiting diegetic rupture. We may previously have considered diegetic rupture as damaging to a film’s enjoyment, yet some of the examples discussed can be understood as intensifying the diegesis’s believability. The potential for diegetic rupture remains, albeit predicated on the viewer’s expectations and understanding of filmic tropes. Indeed, if bearing certain expectations, rupture may even enhance our immersion. With this, I assert that the blurring of diegetic boundaries, and any subsequent diegetic rupture, is an innocuous occurrence, and can enhance the subtextual or personal implications for the film.

4. Conclusion

While the films I have discussed differ in their genres, themes, and eras, they all share a similar constant: the unconventional use of music and sound that, to some degree, and intentional or not, disassembles the diegesis and acts as a disruptive agent to the viewer’s immersion. I initially referred to this disruption as diegetic rupture, placing perhaps an inordinate value upon the notion of complete immersion. This evaluation was predicated on Claudia Gorbman’s suggestion that film music’s key role is to subliminally envelop the viewer into the diegesis.84 My original notion of diegetic rupture pointed largely to instances of music and sound that deliberately interrupts this envelopment, calling attention to the film’s existence as a film, and the diegesis as a fictional world, in an unequivocal failure to remain unnoticed. 

While my understanding of diegetic rupture remains unchanged, it has become apparent that it occurs not simply because of poor scoring or inappropriate placement, but as a conscious decision made by filmmakers seeking an affective aural occurrence. Further, there are numerous reasons for which filmmakers may choose to provoke diegetic rupture: foreshadowing impending catastrophe; highlighting subtext; enhancing aesthetics; heightening emotional responses; or simply for inside jokes. Regardless of its intention, diegetic rupture points to David Ireland’s suggestion that incongruence can provoke the viewer to critically assess a film, rather than passively experience it.85 The subtextual aspects that can be realised following the disassembling of a diegesis in this way emphasises the impracticality of regarding diegetic rupture as inherently adverse to the success of a film. This also points to the intrinsic irrationality of emphasising total immersion when assessing a film.

The side-lining of immersion is most evident within the comedy genre, yet diegetic rupture indicates that demonstrating reflexivity does not hinder our enjoyment of a film, nor does it eradicate the bonds we have formed with its characters. Rather, diegetic rupture can intensify this bond, and therefore our immersion, by having the characters address us directly, assigning them a relatable yet anachronistic soundtrack, or by compelling us to situate ourselves alongside diegetic voyeurs observing a metadiegesis.

The profundity of diegetic rupture and its potential for intensified immersion is intricately tied with subjectivity. As is perhaps inevitable within post-classical cinema, many of the filmmakers discussed above seek in some way to reject, remodel, or reimagine traditional filmic conventions. While the vagaries of these filmmakers often result in diegetic rupture, the longevity of these revised practices can lead to a diminution of their impact. As such, my initial assumption of diegetic rupture as an unambiguous occurrence is further revealed as ill-founded, as the disruption to our perception of a film world’s believability is almost entirely dependent on the expectations we bring to the film.

Ultimately, we need to consider diegetic rupture not as a detriment, nor immersion as the fundamental objective, but rather a valuable tool in adding implicit elements to a film. When used as such, diegetic rupture should be commended as a filmmaker’s endeavour to endow their work a greater significance than is apparent onscreen. 

Of course, this leaves open the possibility that diegetic rupture may be used solely to infuse a film with a unique aesthetic. Given its prominence in contemporary mainstream film, however, diegetic rupture should be considered a conventional, post-classical filmic trope with the capacity to act as both a shallow attempt at unique aestheticism and an aural representation of deeper thematic qualities. In an era of post-classical cinema, where ensuring immersion lies largely within the remit of technological advancements, we should see some form of diegetic rupture as a necessity for a filmmaker to retain their personalised voice, while also enrapturing the viewer and compelling them to critically consider tacit aspects of the film. Without this, contemporary film is likely to become merely a passive medium, allowing viewers to engage in its narrative without considering its didactic, thematic undertones.

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Media Cited

A Nightmare on Elm Street. Directed by Wes Craven. Film. New Line Cinema: New York City, 1984.

Apocalypse Now. Directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Film. Omni Zoetrope: San Francisco, 1979.

Austin Powers in Goldmember. Directed by Jay Roach. Film. Team Todd: Burbank, 2002.

Blazing Saddles Directed by Mel Brooks. Film. Crossbow Productions: New York City, 1975.

Coffy. Directed by Jack Hill. Film. American International Pictures: Los Angeles, 1973.

Eastern Condors. Directed by Sammo Hung. Film. Bo Ho Films: Hong Kong, 1987. 

Eraserhead. Directed by David Lynch. Film. AFI Center for Advanced Studies: Los Angeles, 1977.

Inglourious Basterds. Directed by Quentin Tarantino. Film. A Band Apart: Los Angeles, 2009.

Jackie Brown. Directed by Quentin Tarantino. Film. A Band Apart: Los Angeles, 1997.

Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles. Directed by Chantal Ackerman. Film. Paradise Films: Brussels, 1975.

Lifeboat. Directed by Alfred Hitckcock. Film. 20th Century Studios: Los Angeles, 1944.

Marie Antoinette. Directed by Sofia Coppola. Film. Columbia Pictures: Culver City, 2006.

Midsommar. Directed by Ari Aster. Film. A24: New York City, 2019.

Moulin Rouge! Directed by Baz Luhrmann. Film. Bazmark Productions: Sydney, 2001.

Requiem for a Dream. Directed by Darren Aronofsky. Film. Thousand Woods: Los Angeles, 2000.

Reservoir Dogs. Directed by Quentin Tarantino. Film. Live America Inc.: Van Nuys, 1992.

Romeo + Juliet. Directed by Baz Luhrmann. Film. Bazmark Productions: Sydney, 1996.

Scream. Directed by Wes Craven. Film. Woods Entertainment: Toronto, 1996.

Shaun of the Dead. Directed by Edgar Wright. Film. Studio Canal: Paris, 2004.

The Battle of Algiers. Directed by Gillo Pontecorvo. Film. Casbah Film: Algiers, 1966.

The Big Doll House Directed by Jack Hill. Film. New World Pictures: Atlanta, 1971.

The Big Lebowski. Directed by Joel Coen. Film. Working Title: London, 1998.

The Dead Don’t Die. Directed by Jim Jarmusch. Film. Animal Kingdom: New York City, 2019.

The Entity. Directed by Sidney J. Furie. Film. American Cinema International: Los Angeles, 1982.

The Great Gatsby. Directed by Baz Luhrmann. Film. Village Roadshow Pictures, Los Angeles, 2013.

The Irishman. Directed by Martin Scorsese. Film. Tribeca Productions: New York City, 2019.

The Truman Show. Directed by Peter Weir. Film. Scott Rudin Productions: Baldwin, 1998.

Biography

Calum White is a second year PhD student at the University of Edinburgh. His thesis explores the use of music and sound in film and the soundtrack’s potential for representing a film’s politics, focusing specifically on conservative ideologies in 1970s American narrative film. Prior to this, he received undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in popular music research at Goldsmiths, University of London where he primarily explored the influence of politics, economics and postmodernism in both film and popular music. During his postgraduate degree in 2019, Calum co-founded the journal Sonic Scope and has acted as editor-in-chief since 2021.