Title: The Sound of Music
Release date: 2 March 1965
Starring: Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer, Eleanor Parker
Director: Robert Wise
Synopsis: A free-spirited governess brings music and joy into the lives of a stern widower and his seven children in pre-war Austria, as they face the looming threat of Nazi occupation.
Reviewed by: Jasmine
A Joyful, Courageous Musical That Sings Its Way Into Your Heart
Some films feel like a warm embrace. The Sound of Music is one of those rare treasures — a story that doesn’t just entertain, but uplifts. It hums with heart, innocence, and strength in a way that transcends generations, time zones, and genres. Whether you’re watching it for the first or fiftieth time, it never loses its ability to inspire.
At the centre of the story is Maria, played with luminous energy and grace by Julie Andrews. From the moment she twirls on the mountaintop, arms open wide to the hills “alive with the sound of music,” she captures your heart. Maria isn’t perfect, and that’s precisely her charm. She’s clumsy, impulsive, and unsure of where she fits in — but she’s also bursting with life, compassion, and a deep sense of purpose. Andrews imbues her with just the right mix of strength and vulnerability, making her both a heroine and a human.
Christopher Plummer’s portrayal of Captain Georg von Trapp is layered and subtle. At first glance, he’s rigid and emotionally distant — a father who’s turned grief into structure, whose heart seems locked away behind discipline and decorum. But slowly, under Maria’s influence and through the return of music to his household, he softens. Their relationship unfolds naturally, with a kind of tension and tenderness that never feels forced.
The von Trapp children are more than a charming chorus line — each one brings a unique personality to the screen. The way Maria wins them over through song, play, and genuine connection is a quiet triumph. Moments like the “Do-Re-Mi” montage or the puppet show for “The Lonely Goatherd” brim with simple joy, reminding us of the magic that music can bring to even the most fractured family.
But what elevates The Sound of Music is its balance between lightness and gravity. While the first two acts are filled with whimsy and romance, the shadow of World War II is never far off. The final third of the film introduces real stakes: the rise of Nazi power, the loss of national identity, and the courage it takes to resist. The von Trapps’ decision to flee Austria becomes not just a plot point, but a moment of profound moral clarity — the quiet defiance of a family refusing to compromise their values.
Robert Wise’s direction is spacious and sensitive. He lets the landscape of Salzburg breathe, capturing the lush green hills and grand architecture in sweeping widescreen. The cinematography, especially in the musical numbers, invites you into the frame rather than overwhelming you with spectacle. Each shot feels considered — gentle, never hurried.
And then there’s the music. Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein’s score is iconic for a reason. “Edelweiss,” “My Favorite Things,” “Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” and the titular “The Sound of Music” are more than just songs — they are emotional guideposts. They underscore character growth, transition, and connection. The lyrics are simple, yet resonate with surprising depth.
Perhaps the most touching part of The Sound of Music is its reminder that joy is an act of bravery. Maria brings light into a darkening world, not by force, but by faith in goodness — in laughter, in love, in song. The film doesn’t pretend that life is free of hardship, but it shows us that courage can look like singing in the face of fear, or choosing family over safety, or loving fully even when you’re unsure of the outcome.
From laughter to resistance, The Sound of Music celebrates the healing power of love and song.
In the end, The Sound of Music is more than a musical. It’s a meditation on resilience. On how love — in all its forms — can heal, transform, and endure. And that, sometimes, a song really can save the day.
