One of the most common complaints I heard about The History of Sound after its first press screening at Cannes was that Brokeback Mountain had done this story already. After all, we can only have one queer story about longing and lost love in collective memory. That's the rule, apparently.

It's also a false equivalence unless you think that every story about love is the same. By that logic, Sleepless in Seattle is the same film as The English Patient.

The History of Sound is the story of two queer men who meet, fall in love, and go their separate ways. Years pass, and they meet again, just as briefly as before. Decades go by, and the longing never goes away.

This is a film where the greatest emotions exist in long moments of silence. They bloom in those pained stares into nothingness, where one can imagine an entirely different life, if they'd only taken a step in another direction.

Surrounding that void is a framework of folk music, which the two men, Lionel (Paul Mescal) and David (Josh O'Connor), initially bond over. Already in that first scene, we can tell this isn't a traditional love story. Their meeting isn't so much meet-cute as it as clinging to a likeminded soul. The location is a rowdy bar, where David plays the piano mostly to himself. In a moment of curiosity and playful teasing, he coaxes Lionel into singing for the entire bar, yet it's clear only David truly listens.

From there, they share the music and the stories under the guise of collecting it for future generations. Yet it feels as if they're preserving fleeting memories for themselves. As if knowing their story isn't meant to last.

The story then moves across the years and continents. Lionel longs for David, but when his letters go unanswered, he seeks to reinvent himself the way society wants him to. We catch glimpses of these attempts in Rome and England, usually at the tail end of the relationships, when they've already ran their course. Writer and director Oliver Hermanus doesn't romanticize the melancholy. One day things just end. There is something comforting in such finality.

The History of Sound, despite its name, is a muted, often desperately quiet film. The songs themselves are simple stories of moving on with grief. Only these are lessons neither Lionel nor David are ready to learn. In one heartbreaking scene, a repeating chorus echoes throughout the ages from a tinny, broken recording, and we realize how there's tragedy in preservation. It can never measure up to the memory.

This is a fascinating film because it defies easy categorization. It holds itself back on purpose, which in turn will drive away those yearning for neat ribbons to that which rarely makes sense. Those who loved the messy tapestry of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button or the wistful sorrow of First Cow will find a feast in The History of Sound.

It reveals what kind of film it is at the very beginning, and you shouldn't try to second guess it. There's a scene early on, where Lionel explains how sound itself is the vibrations of the world around. It's a simple explanation of complex machinations. That's what The History of Sound captures. The vibrations of love and memory throughout our lives, and how they echo in ways we can't comprehend far into the future.