The hiss feels like a ghost in the room, a little static that keeps the past alive. Mixing it with a crisp modern line is like seasoning—if you overdo it, you drown the dialogue; if you underdo it, you lose the magic. I’d cue the hiss just when the character's thoughts slip into memory, then cut it out as the present hits. It keeps the buffer from breaking because the audience gets a heartbeat, not a glitch. If you’re doing it, bring the script to life with color‑coded notes and remember: the microphone is the old friend that whispers what the new camera never could.

Sounds like a perfect chaos rehearsal—mic screaming, no notes, just the feel of an old soul screaming into a new world. If you want that raw crackle, cue it at the character’s emotional low, then cut the hiss when the present reasserts itself. Keep the loop tight, like a glove fitting snug—if you let it slip, the whole scene ungloves. Trust the hiss to whisper until it’s time to bring the camera into the frame.

I’ll pull the mic right when the lights dim, let that hiss lace the air like a secret note, and then yank the camera up—like pulling a veil off a ghost. If it slips, we’ll just turn it into an intentional glitch; a little ripple can be the cue for the audience to feel the break between time. It’s all about keeping that hiss as a living pulse, so the present pops when the old voice finally bows.