One of the things we we did on Resonance in the project’s spirit of testing things out we’d never done before, was not only a creative choice - an ‘old Hollywood’ style orchestral score - but also recording the score with live musicians. For me a a director, hearing Ken’s score (which by this stage I knew pretty intimately) performed by people in a room with real instruments was an unexpectedly moving experience. I was truly blindsided by it!

Here’s a bit of a Q&A chat with the man himself, and his approach to the music.

You can listen to his amazing score for the film on Spotify now.

Enzo: I remember the first time Ryan showed us a fully de-aged Barbara Bingham as Amelia. What was going through your mind?

Barbara: Silence. Not excitement, or "Wow, that's clever." It was much more emotional than that.

For a moment, I wasn't looking at visual effects. I was looking at a woman I hadn't seen in over thirty years. She looked familiar, but she also felt like someone I'd spent a lifetime becoming. I recognised her instantly, yet I realised how much life she'd still had ahead of her. She didn't know about the joys, the losses, the mistakes, the resilience. She hadn't lived any of it yet. That's what caught me off guard.

The mist and fog that features in Resonance is a narrative device, and it's doing a lot of structural work in this film a much as anything else on screen.

Here's the practical reality first, because I think it's good to have context about what the location actually looked like before we touched it: a modern coastal clifftop property. Genuinely beautiful. Also, on its own, not remotely otherworldly. Clean lines, good light. Nothing about it says the rules of time no longer apply here until you start deciding what to add and what to take away.

The question we were actually solving wasn't "how do we make this look scary" - this is the least ‘scary’ film I’ve probably ever made - it was "how do we make this feel like it exists slightly outside of time." An increasingly chaotic fog turned out to be the answer for me at a script level, as it yielded a few positives.

I’ve spent about fifteen years on film sets, absolutely loving my work. I am not built for a desk job, a 9-5 where I can predict what will happen each day, I want the ups and downs of a literal rollercoaster, where one day you’re slowly climbing a hill, crossing things off your to dos, before suddenly you’re racing through surprise twists and turns, curveballs, explosions, trying desperately to hold on.

Hair, makeup and prosthetics was my calling card to the industry, a department where my art skills found a place amongst that rollercoaster. Film sets, in case nobody’s told you, are chaotic by design, but in HMU it’s a department that at least has some sort of a linear career ladder. Assist, artist, key, department head, there’s usually an easy category that describes you and what your responsibilities are on any given set.

Producing has no ladder. Producing is more someone saying ‘see that building on fire? We hear you’re good under pressure, here are the keys’.

I was lucky enough to rely on Andrea Tan who was cast as my daughter, Eliza. But because of the way we filmed the visual effects sequences, she also became my scene partner whenever we were creating Clara and Amelia together. If I was playing Clara, Andrea would change into Amelia's costume and wig so I could perform opposite "Amelia." Then we'd switch. I'd put on Amelia's wig and costume, Andrea would change into Clara's wardrobe, and suddenly I was playing opposite "Clara."

As actors, we build our performances around relationships. We instinctively ask, Who is this person to me? On Resonance, that answer kept changing while the face opposite me remained the same. One minute Andrea was my daughter Eliza, the next she was Clara and then Amelia. It was a constant mental recalibration.

Barbara texted me one morning: "I need to show you something, can we jump on a Zoom?"

That's it. That's the whole opening. No pitch, no treatment, no sense of scale. Just a colleague I'd worked with before asking for twenty minutes of my time.

On the call, she showed me a property she had access to for a couple of months - completely unhindered. No residents. No other crews or productions competing for the space. Extraordinary in the way locations almost never are when you're making something on no money. Then she asked the question that actually started all of this: "Do we want to film something?"

I think she meant a short film. Realistically, that's the sane read of that sentence. I opened Final Draft that weekend anyway, and by the time I looked up again, I wasn't writing a short film.

Ten weeks later, we wrapped a three-week shoot on a feature.

I want to tell you why this film exists before I tell you what happens in it.

Resonance took shape in the quiet that followed my father's passing. The script came together during a period of professional stillness that happened to coincide with personal loss - and loss, I've found, has a way of making space for the kind of reflection that produces your most honest work, whether you're ready for it or not.