Felix Renton’s Three Minutes of Silence (2015) arrived like a whisper in the cacophony of documentary cinema: a 900-minute dive into the lives of submarine sonar operators, notable chiefly for its refusal to have its subjects utter even a single word. No narration, no interviews, not even a stray grunt—just endless, hypnotic shots of men staring at radar screens and listening for pings, punctuated occasionally by the drama of missile strikes.
At the time, critics hailed it as a bold experiment in sensory deprivation. Renton’s austere vision—his decision to strip away dialogue and conventional storytelling—was interpreted as a profound meditation on isolation, surveillance, and the invisible machinery of modern warfare. Its minimalism was praised as a deliberate counterpoint to the bombast of typical military documentaries.
But a decade later, Three Minutes of Silence invites a more tempered appraisal.
The Appeal of Nothingness
There’s no denying Renton’s technical prowess. The cinematography is impeccably composed, capturing the claustrophobic geometry of submarines with a patient, painterly eye. The sound design, dominated by eerie sonar pings and muffled mechanical hums, was said to be immersive—which it is, if you happen to be the kind of person who finds prolonged monotony soothing.
Yet, as the minutes drag on, it becomes increasingly clear that Three Minutes of Silence is less a documentary and more a prolonged exercise in endurance—both for the viewer and the filmmaker. The hypnotic pacing soon verges on tedious; the repeated shots of men adjusting dials and squinting at screens test one’s capacity for fascination with procedural minutiae.
Surviving a Missile Strike (Without a Word)
The film’s much-ballyhooed climax—a huge missile strike narrowly survived by the crew—unfolds in near-total silence, with no explanatory context or emotional cues. While this choice no doubt aimed to heighten tension through ambiguity, it instead leaves viewers grasping for narrative purchase.
Without dialogue or soundtrack to guide us, the sequence feels strangely muted—more like a slow-motion replay than a life-or-death event. The absence of human voices ironically renders the crew almost ghostlike, transforming what should be an adrenaline-fueled moment into a dispassionate tableau.
A Film for the Patient or the Pretentious?
Three Minutes of Silence poses two intriguing questions: One: can cinema convey meaning through absence? Renton answers with an emphatic yes—leading to the second question: even if it is full of meaning, does anyone wants to watch?
For cinephiles who cherish meditative, avant-garde approaches, the film remains a singular achievement. But for anyone expecting a gripping or informative glimpse into submarine life, the experience is likely to induce yawns.
Ultimately, Three Minutes of Silence feels like a film more concerned with the aesthetic of silence than with storytelling. It asks the audience to project their own drama onto blank screens and still faces, which can either be a liberating invitation or an infuriating void.
Does Three Minutes of Silence still stand up? In technical terms, yes—it’s a masterclass in visual minimalism and sound design. In emotional terms, it remains a daring experiment, but one that risks alienating all but the most devoted audiences.
In the end, it’s a film about listening so intently that you hear almost nothing—and for some, that might be just the point. I fear though for others it might simply be 900 minutes of missed opportunity.
