Sonic Banality in the Zone of Interest

Let us start at the conclusion: Rudolf Höss, the film’s central figure, departs from a jubilant Nazi celebration, complete with grotesque trappings like a swastika ice sculpture. He is elated by the news that he will return to Auschwitz to resume his role as commandant, preparing for the imminent "shipment" from Hungary. In a phone conversation with his wife, he remarks, “He really does not have much fun, as he was too busy thinking about how he might gas the entire room,” followed by an acknowledgment of “how difficult it might be.” As he descends the stairs, he is suddenly overtaken by nausea, appearing on the brink of vomiting. The image then cuts abruptly to the present day. The camera reveals Auschwitz-Birkenau in its current state as a museum or memorial (the complexities of these terms will be discussed later). This shift is accompanied by the abrasive soundscape of vacuum cleaners, the rhythmic slap of a mop on tile, and the reverberating echoes of footsteps as custodians maintain the site. One cleaner meticulously wipes down the ovens once used for cremation—ensuring they remain free of dust—while another polishes a window that looks out onto a mound of human hair, remnants of countless victims.

At that moment, one might shed a tear, feeling a revulsion that, while different from Höss’s, was deeply rooted in the banality depicted. Is today’s reality so distant from the past? Does this meticulous preservation truly fulfil the pledge of "never again," or does it numb us to our complicity? Director Jonathan Glazer has said this film is not about the past; it is about the present.^[1] This essay explores how sound can be both iconic and mundane and argues that we must pay closer attention to what appears unremarkable.

In her first essay in this series, "Moral Diegesis in Schindler’s List (1993)," Huether examines the film’s traditional musical score. In her second essay, she delves into the intertwining of visual and musical symbolism in Jojo Rabbit, analysing the use of popular music alongside the visual and vocal representations of the Holocaust. Now, her third and final essay in the series, she focuses solely on the auditory. This concluding piece aims to deepen our understanding of how Holocaust icons reverberate in the sonic sphere.

The Zone of Interest—Overview

The Zone of Interest takes its cue from the true story of real-life Nazi Rudolf Höss, who oversaw Auschwitz as its commandant. The film portrays the stark contrast between Höss’s serene life with his family, set in an elegant house and garden right next to the concentration camp. Jonathan Glazer, the director, frames the characters not as grotesque monsters but as “non-thinking, bourgeois, career-driven horrors,” illustrating how they transform unimaginable cruelty into something so commonplace that it fades into the background. Further stating that he was driven to “dismantle the idea” of Nazis as “almost supernatural.” Glazer wanted, to highlight the ordinary, the banality. “The more fragments of information we uncovered…the more [Glazer] realized that they were working-class people who were upwardly mobile. They aspired to become a bourgeois family in the way that many of do today.”^[2] Simply, with the Third Reich they saw opportunity and they latched on as tightly as they could, and for a time, they reaped their rewards.

They had the house of their dreams—next to a death camp—with a garden larger than whole properties that most could afford. They had the newest heating system, hand carved bannisters, four bedrooms, an office, dining room, swimming pool, the list goes on. They were living the life, as Hedwig—Rudolf’s wife—called it, that the “Führer envisioned for all of Germany.” Aside from the ordinariness of the Höss’s life, there really is no plot, only a series of average scenes that if a viewer had no previous context of the Holocaust or had been informed that this was indeed a film about the Holocaust, perhaps maybe would have no idea. The majority of visual icons are absent, aside from the few SS uniforms, the occasional swastika, some barbed wire and the the wall that separates the Höss’s from the death camp. There are no trains, no “Arbeit macht frei” sign, no golden stars of David, no aggressive dogs at the arrival of the trains. But while these iconic visuals were absent, their sonic counterparts were not.

Holocaust Sonic Icons—From Potent to Mundane

In Holocaust Icons: Symbolizing the Shoah in History and Memory, Oren Baruch Stier examines how certain symbols from the Holocaust have become significant cultural markers.^[3] He clarifies the concept of an “icon” by referencing the Oxford English Dictionary, which defines it as a symbol that represents something larger.^[4] Stier notes that an icon acts as both a depiction and a symbol. When it comes to Holocaust icons, these are not just historical artefacts but powerful representations of that era. Their distinctiveness lies in their connection to both the original events of the Holocaust and their enduring significance in modern times. These icons continue to shape how the Holocaust is perceived and remembered long after World War II. These visual icons include all those referenced above, and several others—think piles of shoes, hair, Anne Frank.^[5] These visuals have become so interlaced with Holocaust memory that it is practically impossible to separate them; however, think of their sonic referents. If heard on their own, some may hold that interlaced connectivity, yet most would not. Consider someone living in rural America who might regularly drive across train tracks. When they approach the tracks and hear a train whistle, do they immediately think "Holocaust?" Or if a postal worker rang their doorbell and their dog runs towards the door barking, would they tense up and think "here comes the SS?" The answer is clearly "No." But in relation to the visuals, the sound of a train whistle on its own is ordinary, but in the context of the Holocaust, it’s a metonym for one of the most dynamic visuals of the Holocaust, the mass deportation, the horrors of the journey to concentration camps, and the brutality and death that followed.

Sound has a certain constancy that visual artefacts or symbolic representations may not share. While images, objects, and even written words can be imbued with specific meanings that evolve over time or be interpreted in varied ways, certain sounds—like a dog barking, a train whistle, or human sounds such as coughing or gagging—remain fundamentally the same, detached from interpretation and stripped of deeper meaning. This sameness lends them a kind of banality, hinting at how these ordinary sounds were the very essence of the zone of interest, a stark reminder that families like Höss could have been any one of us. In the context of a sound icon, its power lies not in the sound itself but in its contextualization. The iconic nature of a sound isn't necessarily intrinsic; rather, it becomes iconic when it is associated with a significant event or moment in time. The banality of the sound juxtaposed with the gravity of its context might even amplify it, forcing the listener to confront the ordinariness of what, in another setting, would be unremarkable. This tension between the unchanging nature of sound and the potent meanings they can carry when tied to specific memories or histories adds complexity to how we understand sound icons. It underscores that the power of a sound icon lies in its associative context rather than its inherent qualities.

But How? The Zone of Interest’s Process

After beginning at the end, it’s only fitting to close with the beginning. There remains two final questions: 1) How did The Zone of Interest earn its Oscar for “Best Sound,” and what does that sound accomplish? 2) What does it mean when one refers to Auschwitz-Birkenau as both a “memorial” and a “museum”? These two inquiries are connected in their exploration of how sound shapes perception and memory.

The opening of the film sets the tone for what follows. While it’s understandable to begin the film without realizing it’s about the Holocaust, failing to recognize the importance of listening creates a barrier. The initial moments guide the viewer through sound, starting with a minimalist screen—simple white text against black—that signals a shift in sensory engagement. Two contrasting musical lines, one discordant and unsettling, the other harmonious, alternate before merging into a layered dissonance. This soundscape, unaccompanied by visuals, continues for almost three minutes, compelling the audience to focus solely on listening. As the soundscape evolves, whispers and bird chirps join in, adding texture and complexity. When these elements fade, and the music subsides, the chirping re-emerges, now bright and lively, accompanying the film’s first visual scene: a peaceful family picnic by a river. This auditory introduction primes the viewer for a film that demands attention to subtle and uncomfortable sounds woven into everyday life. It suggests that comfort and horror might coexist, that mundane sounds can mask deeper truths, and that context is everything.

Throughout The Zone of Interest, the auditory world becomes an integral narrative device, telling the story of the Holocaust not through direct confrontation but through insinuation and contrast. The soundscape blends the ordinary with the ominous, equating the cries of a baby with the screams of victims, the joyful barking of a beloved family dog with the menacing growls of SS guard dogs, and the casual echo of footsteps with those of marching soldiers. This seamless integration of sound and image creates a backdrop that subtly unsettles, drawing the viewer in without overtly commanding their attention. The result is that the horror is felt in an almost subconscious way, creeping into awareness as the film progresses. Even the final footsteps of the Höss family echo in the cleaners’ steps in the last scene, blurring the line between past and present and prompting a question: how much has Auschwitz-Birkenau truly changed? This question haunts as the film ends.

This raises question of the dual identity of Auschwitz-Birkenau as both a “memorial” and a “museum.” In the film Treasure (2024) by Lena Dunham, which is based on a true story, a Holocaust survivor and his daughter Ruth are visiting Poland where Ruth seeks to understand her family’s suffering and loss. In several scenes, Ruth bristles at the Polish reference to Auschwitz-Birkenau as a “museum,” insisting:

Um, it’s not a museum. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Guggenheim, even the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland—those are museums. But Auschwitz? Auschwitz is a death camp.^[6]

Yet, by the end, Ruth leaves with postcards, books, and photos. This tension underscores the paradox of places like Auschwitz-Birkenau, which serve both as memorials to unfathomable tragedy and as museums that are, by nature, sites of education and consumption. The site’s official title even, “Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial Museum,” encapsulates this duality. Sound plays a crucial role here, too, as it blurs the line between past and present. The creaking of footsteps, the echoes of cleaning, and the whispers of tourists all meld into a single auditory experience that questions whether the act of preserving memory inadvertently desensitizes us.

The Zone of Interest forces us to confront these questions through its masterful use of sound, suggesting that even in spaces meant to memorialize, we must remain vigilant. We must listen—not just to the iconic sounds that we’ve come to associate with horror but to the everyday, mundane sounds that can carry those memories forward or risk numbing us to complicity.

By Kathryn Agnes Huether

Sources 

[1] Sean O’Hagan, “Interview: Jonathan Glazer on his Holocaust film Zone of Interest—“This is not about the past, it’s about now,” The Guardian, Published on March 12, 2024, Accessed on October 11, 2024.

[2] Sean O’Hagan, “Interview: Jonathan Glazer on his Holocaust film Zone of Interest—“This is not about the past, it’s about now,” The Guardian, Published on March 12, 2024, Accessed on October 11, 2024.

[3] Oren Baruch Stier, Holocaust Icons: Symbolizing the Shoah in History and Memory (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2015).

[4] “Icon,” Oxford English Dictionary, Accessed on November 1, 2024, www.oed.com/dictionary/icon_n.

[5] Stier’s work examines four: Anne Frank, Railcars, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” and the number “Six Million.”

[6] Treasure, directed by Julia von Heinz (Seven Elephants GmbH, Good Thing Going, Haïku Films, 2024), streaming service.