There’s something unsettling about silence. Not the kind that comes after a long conversation, but the kind that lingers in the air like a question you’re too afraid to ask. That’s the vibe ‘Pluribus’ exudes from its opening scene—a sci-fi thriller that dares to let the audience sit with the quiet. Created by Vince Gilligan, the man who turned Albuquerque into a character in his own right with Breaking Bad, this Apple TV series isn’t just another alien invasion story. It’s a psychological experiment in storytelling, where the absence of sound becomes as powerful as the presence of it. And honestly? I think that’s what makes it so fascinating.
Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: the silence. Gilligan’s team didn’t just rely on dialogue to drive the plot. They weaponized the void between words. Take the pilot episode, ‘We Is Us,’ which opens with the Very Large Array in New Mexico. The first shot is of those satellite dishes—cold, mechanical, and utterly alien. Then comes the sound design. Or rather, the lack of it. Phillip Palmer, the production sound mixer, describes how they shot the pilot almost linearly, starting from the beginning. But here’s what really sticks with me: the contrast between the pre-infection world and the post-infection one. Before the hive-mind virus, the world is alive with noise—airport chatter, wildlife, the hum of everyday life. After the infection? A vacuum. A terrifying, almost spiritual emptiness. Larry Benjamin, the re-recording mixer, notes how they used silence to sell the horror. ‘We had much more space between the notes,’ he says. And that’s the genius of it. Silence isn’t just a pause; it’s a character in its own right. It makes you squirm. It makes you wonder what’s lurking in the shadows of that quiet.
Now, let’s pivot to the music. Dave Porter, the composer, was tasked with creating a ‘wholly new environment’—a sound that hadn’t been heard before in Gilligan’s oeuvre. And boy, did they deliver. Imagine a full orchestra and choir, but twisted into something that feels both ancient and futuristic. The score isn’t just background noise; it’s a narrative device. In the pilot, the music starts with a sense of naivety, almost like humanity is excited to discover something it shouldn’t. Then it shifts into tension, horror, and finally, a haunting resolution. Porter’s work is a masterclass in emotional manipulation. But what makes this particularly fascinating is how it contrasts with the silence. When the music stops, the silence feels even more oppressive. It’s like the universe itself is holding its breath.
And then there’s the editing. Joey Liew, who edited the Emmy-nominated episode ‘Got Milk?’, talks about how silence can be a thriller in itself. The episode’s climax hinges on Carol being alone in a warehouse, and the only sounds are the diegetic noises of a refrigerator and, eventually, the absence of them. Liew says they pulled back the sound at the end, leaving only echoey footsteps. ‘That makes the audience lean in,’ he says. And I get it. There’s a primal fear in silence. It’s the same reason jump scares work—because the brain is wired to fill in the blanks. But here, the blanks are terrifying. You’re not just waiting for a scream; you’re waiting for something to break the quiet. It’s a narrative technique that feels both old and new, like a relic from classic horror films but reimagined for a modern, minimalist aesthetic.
What many people don’t realize is how much trust Gilligan places in the audience. This isn’t a show that spoon-feeds you information. It’s a puzzle, and you’re expected to piece it together. Thomas Golubić, the music supervisor, points out that the team had to avoid clichés from previous shows. ‘The Albuquerque we had in previous shows had to feel very different from this Albuquerque,’ he says. And that’s the challenge. How do you make a place feel familiar yet alien? By stripping away the sounds that defined it before. The silence isn’t just a stylistic choice; it’s a way of making the audience feel disoriented, like they’re stepping into a world where the rules have changed.
If you take a step back and think about it, ‘Pluribus’ is a reflection of our current cultural moment. We’re living in an age where information overload is the norm, and silence is a luxury. But here’s the thing: Gilligan and his team are asking us to embrace the discomfort of the unknown. They’re not just telling a story—they’re inviting us to sit with the uncertainty. And that’s why I think this show matters. It’s not just about aliens or viruses; it’s about how we process fear, how we navigate the spaces between words, and how we find meaning in the void. In my opinion, that’s the real horror. Not the alien hive-mind, but the silence that follows it—the silence that forces us to confront what we don’t know.
