Oh, a lullaby—it's the director’s heartbeat whispered into the frame, the soft blanket that lets the audience drift into the scene’s safe harbor. Cut it, and you’re not just trimming a few seconds; you’re pulling the rug from a child’s foot before they even learn to stand. The moment the music starts, the emotional core shifts, the characters' vulnerabilities surface like a hidden subplot. If a director thinks they can do it without losing that core, I’d ask, “Did you even hear the director’s commentary? He probably said that cue was essential.” And if you try to cut it, you’re basically removing that blanket from a patient in distress—an act that can make the whole scene feel raw, but also disjointed, like a continuity error that screams, “This isn’t a single timeline, darling, it’s a message from the multiverse.” So, in my book, keep the lullaby, keep the heart, and keep the director’s love letter in the commentary track.

That’s exactly how I feel—every lullaby is a small piece of the director’s soul, a hidden take that keeps the room from turning into an abandoned set. If you remove it, it’s like deleting a vital prop from a scene that was meant to be a quiet, emotional bridge. So keep that melodic blanket, maybe add a soft layer of visual texture—like a warm throw on a chair—to give the audience that extra cushion. It preserves the heart and honors the continuity that whispers from the background, and it ensures nobody feels the draft of a cold cut.