The Singers

The Alchemy of the Dive Bar

In an era of cinema dominated by algorithmic precision and franchise expansion, Sam Davis’s *The Singers* arrives like a whisper in a crowded room—quiet, unexpected, and arresting. Adapted from Ivan Turgenev’s 19th-century short story, this 2025 short film transplants the Russian countryside to a timeless American dive bar, yet it retains the soul of the original text: the profound realization that beauty often blooms in the most desolate of soils. Davis, an Oscar-nominated filmmaker known for his documentary instincts (*Period. End of Sentence.*), here blurs the line between narrative and reality, casting viral buskers and folk legends to play versions of themselves. The result is not just a film about a singing contest; it is a meditation on the human need to be heard when the world has stopped listening.



Davis, acting as his own cinematographer, shoots on 35mm film, a choice that imbues the grimy bar setting with a painterly, almost religious texture. The visual language is claustrophobic but intimate; the camera hovers close to the faces of the patrons, capturing the geography of their weariness. The lighting—a mixture of neon haze and shadow—recalls the chiaroscuro of Caravaggio if he had painted in a sticky-floored pub. This aesthetic elevates the setting from a mere location to a purgatorial waiting room where lost souls congregate. The film does not shy away from the harshness of its characters' lives, yet the lens treats them with a dignity that is often denied to the working class in modern media.

The narrative spine is simple: a wager on who is the best singer in the room. However, the tension lies not in the competition, but in the vulnerability required to participate. The performances are raw, devoid of the polish of televised talent shows. When Chris Smither, playing a version of himself, launches into a haunting rendition of "The House of the Rising Sun," the film shifts gears. It is no longer a story about a contest; it becomes a séance, conjuring the ghosts of regret and lost time. The sound design here is masterful—the clinking of glasses and low murmur of conversation fade, leaving only the gravelly resonance of a voice that has lived a thousand lives.



Perhaps the film's most potent weapon is its casting. By utilizing actual musicians like subway busker Mike Young and *The Voice* alumnus Judah Kelly, Davis taps into a reservoir of authentic emotion that professional acting rarely reaches. There is a specific scene involving Will Harrington’s rendition of "It Hurts Me Too" where the artifice of cinema dissolves completely. We are watching a man bleed specifically through song. The camera lingers on the reactions of the other men—stoic, hardened faces cracking slightly under the weight of the melody. It is a testament to the director's faith in the "human core" of his story: that even in a place defined by escapism and numbness, art can pierce the armor.

*The Singers* is a reminder that culture is not created in boardrooms, but in the margins. It suggests that the most vital art is often ephemeral, happening in dive bars and subway stations, witnessed by a handful of strangers before disappearing into the night. Davis has crafted a film that feels less like a product and more like a captured memory—fleeting, melancholic, and undeniably real. In a cinematic landscape often obsessed with the future, *The Singers* asks us to sit still, order a drink, and listen to the present moment before it’s gone.