‘The Underground Railroad’ Proves Barry Jenkins is a Master of Using Sound in Storytelling

Barry Jenkins‘ new Amazon series The Underground Railroad is a profound visual epic. Based on novelist Colson Whitehead’s modern masterpiece and clocking in at about 600 minutes long, it’s a tour de force from a rising genius in the film world. Jenkins has already conquered traditional cinema with such tender films as Moonlight and If Beale Street Could Talk, but The Underground Railroad challenges the artist further. Story-wise, it is a leviathan, pulling its heroine Cora (Thuso Mbedu) through a harrowing odyssey across a stormy sea of misadventure. Jenkins uses his command of visual language to immerse us in Cora’s journey, but he also uses sound. Whether it’s the way he leans into the sharp, violent bang of a bullwhip or lets Nicholas Britell’s score subtly ratchet up tension, The Underground Railroad proves that Barry Jenkins isn’t just a genius at visual storytelling, but deploying sound, as well.

The Underground Railroad tells the story of a young slave named Cora and her harrowing journey to freedom. The show’s title obviously references the metaphoric “Underground Railroad” of history, a collection of safe houses and “conductors” who helped runaway slaves make their way up the east coast to the northern states. However, author Colson Whitehead decided to deploy magical realism in his novel. In both the show and the book, there is a real literal railroad operating deep beneath the earth. Cora is led there by another slave, Caesar (Aaron Pierre), and she soon finds her fate tied to this mysterious rail line. The Underground Railroad takes Cora on a Gulliver’s Travels-esque odyssey through the southern states. Only in each new location she lands, Cora discovers a new speculative twist on the nature of racism.

Jenkins translates Cora’s journey in the books into a visual epic befitting her wild tale. Whole episodes are devoted to the horrors of each state or the origin story of the dogged slave hunter Ridgeway (Joel Edgerton), a man as obsessed with apprehending Cora as understanding the secret behind the railroad. What makes The Underground Railroad such a titanic triumph is how Jenkins pulls us into the smaller moments of his oversized opus. He does this not only by fixating on his characters with patient, lingering shots, but also through how he arranges the sound.

What’s interesting about this? Simply that Barry Jenkins is perhaps best-known for his command of the visual language of film. His poetic eye captures everything from a mesmerizing horizon under the indigo night sky to a catch in an actor’s throat. Jenkins himself has used The Underground Railroad as an opportunity to better establish what he calls the “Black gaze; or the gaze distilled.” But Jenkins also deploys sound in a striking way that deserves its own series of essays. There’s the crisp chirping of cicadas humming in the background of plantation-based shots, surrounding us in an inescapable auditory fog. Composer Nicholas Britell’s score is more ominous than usual, readying us for another dreadful fall. Sharp edits catch us off-guard, making us feel as paranoid as Cora herself is on the run. But the first, most haunting use of sound in The Underground Railroad comes early on in Episode 1 “Georgia.”

The Underground Railroad opens on the Randall plantation in Georgia. A rare celebration for elder brother James Randall’s (Justice Leak) slaves is interrupted by the cruel younger brother Terrence Randall (Benjamin Walker). Terrence wants to mock a rare slave boy who can supposedly recite the Declaration of Independence. Upon learning that boy is dead, the feat is demanded of another child. It’s not so much that the little boy stumbles over Jefferson’s words, but that he spills Terrence’s glass of wine, staining the master’s suit and shattering the crystal. Terrence begins beating the child and Cora steps in to take the boy’s blows. Her heroism only sets up both Cora and the child for a worse beating.

Both Cora and the little boy are tied to the same post in the pitch dark. A bull whip whistles through the air and comes down with a snap. Cora cries out. Another whip cracks and the little moan moans. Jenkins focuses his camera first on what is happening and then on how it’s received by a crowd of slaves looking on. As we turn away from the pain Cora is suffering, the sound of the bull whips becomes more terrifying. The cracks come without warning and sound like gun fire. While bull whips do sound a lot like gun fire in real life, in Hollywood, their cracks are often muted. (Or at least, associated with the heroism of icons like Indiana Jones.) Jenkins uses sound to recapture the chilling horror of the whip. It is a brutal instrument of oppression.

That’s just one example in a sprawling tapestry of masterful sound editing, foley design, mixing, and score. Jenkins layers sounds in The Underground Railroad to create mood and tell a story. Jenkins is a director at the top of his craft, fully aware that the magic of cinema isn’t just what’s on the screen; it’s the immersive experience of sight, sound, and shared empathy. The Underground Railroad might technically be TV, but it’s made with the power and precision of a cinematic masterpiece. And a huge part of that is sound.

Where to stream The Underground Railroad