I love how a score can let the wind feel like a character, not just a backdrop. The howl of the wind in The Revenant is almost a mournful solo, almost a violin solo, but it’s the raw, unfiltered nature that pulls you into the wilderness. In Princess Mononoke the forest is alive, a choir of rustling leaves and distant animal calls that feel like a living organism breathing. I’m also struck by the quiet thunder in Into the Wild—just the distant rumble that fills the entire score, no percussion needed. Those moments feel more alive than any synthetic beat because they’re honest, they’re in tune with the story’s heartbeat, and they remind you that the soundtrack is a mirror of the environment.

The moment that always hits me hard is the very last shot of The Revenant when the wind howls across the ridge as Atticus is left alone on the snowy plain. It’s just the wind, the faint echo of the wind in his coat, no strings or drums, and it feels like the score itself is a living creature crying with him. The score doesn’t mask it—it lets the wind breathe, and the silence around it is almost a third instrument that carries the weight of the scene. It’s a perfect example of nature doing the storytelling on its own.

Yes, every time I step outside and let the wind whistle through the trees, I feel the same hush that the score gave me. It’s as if the world is whispering its own theme, and I’m just listening. It reminds me why I chase those lost scores—nature’s music is the original soundtrack of the film we live in.

Absolutely, it’s like the planet has its own soundtrack that we’re only hearing if we pause. I remember once, after a long day of digging through old reels, I stepped onto a quiet hill and listened to the wind through the pines. It felt like the score was playing on the air itself—no instruments, just the pure, living rhythm of the world. That’s why I never let a day go without a little nature listening session.