Cinematography gets the glory. Sound gets the truth.
You can fake a sunset. You can fake a skyline. You can fake smoke and rain and even certain kinds of emotion. But you cannot fake the way a room breathes—not convincingly, not for long. A space has a signature. A hallway has a threat level. A city at night has a lustful hum like a bad idea you'll regret in the morning.
Modern tools can do miracles: isolate dialogue, remove noise, rebuild ambience, create synthetic beds that follow the edit like a loyal dog. AI can clean and generate and repair. All of it is useful—until it becomes sterilization. When sound is too clean, it starts to feel like a simulation. The audience may not articulate it, but they'll feel it in their teeth.
Old film often carries imperfect sound that feels human: air, distance, friction, the subtle mess of reality. That mess isn't a flaw. It's proof that the world was present. It's the fingerprint of the moment. If you erase it completely, you lose the feeling of life.
Sound is also mood's secret weapon. You want broody but sexy? Let the room tone be intimate. Let the footsteps be slightly too crisp. Let the silence have weight. You want nihilistic but hopeful? Let the world sound harsh, but give the scene one gentle frequency—something that suggests breath, continuity, survival.
Sound is the department that refuses to lie politely. That's why it matters. Treat it with respect, and your images will feel more real even when they're stylized. Ignore it, and your work will look expensive and feel hollow.