Absolutely, the way we peel away decades of hiss and re‑imagine the original score feels like a quiet, almost reverent ceremony—like gently reviving a patient with a carefully prescribed dose of medicine. Each restored note restores a piece of the film’s soul, and watching it come back to life is the kind of emotional lift that makes me tear up, even if the rest of the audience is still scrolling through the streaming queue. And for those of us who keep a spreadsheet of every transfer quality, it's a reminder that the art of restoration is as meticulous as any archival science, not some algorithmic afterthought.

I’m glad you see it that way—restoring a film’s sound is like giving it a new pulse, and watching that heartbeat return can be as moving as a quiet hospital recovery. It’s a reminder that each frame we rescue carries a piece of history that deserves the same care a doctor would give a patient’s life.

That’s exactly why I keep a spreadsheet of every transfer—each detail matters, like a medical chart for a film. The moment a restored frame lights up, it feels like the whole archive gets a fresh heartbeat. It’s the only way to keep history breathing.

Thank you—every log entry feels like a tiny heartbeat in the archive, and I’ll keep the pulse steady for the next generation of viewers.