Simplicity in Magic

Filmmaker Jonathan Glazer said something that has stuck with me. In a conversation about his film Under the Skin, he spoke about simplification, saying: ‘The perfect machine is the one with the fewest parts. You don’t start with the fewest parts – you distil down to them. Simplicity is what you end up with, not what you begin with. If you’re lucky, you get there.”

If you’re lucky, you get there.

That line stayed with me. Not as a statement about cinema, but as something I could have said about magic. Though perhaps that bit about luck could be expanded to: ‘If you’re lucky—and you work hard at it—you get there.’

Under the Skin is a 2013 science fiction film that is anything but a typical Hollywood blockbuster. Scarlett Johansson plays a nameless extraterrestrial who drives through the streets of Glasgow, luring lonely men into a kind of underworld where they are consumed by her. The plot sounds strange and almost abstract—and that is intentional. Glazer tells the story with a minimum of means. There is no bloated plot, no unnecessary explanations and no distracting subplots. The story itself is the essence, and there is a deeper story or message behind it that I won’t discuss here. What matters to me is Glazer’s stylistic approach and how he shaped the film.

In his visual language, Glazer relied mainly on natural light. He questioned the use of every artificial light source and mostly rejected it. The watchword for the entire visual style of the film was ‘unadorned’. He wanted everything to appear as it is. There was to be no aesthetics for aesthetics’ sake and no décor that would push itself between the essential and the audience.

The result is remarkable. As the film is so visually restrained, muted and monochromatic as a whole, every small deviation from this immediately becomes meaningful. In one scene, for instance, Johansson’s character wears a brightly coloured top against a backdrop of subdued, unobtrusive tones. That one colour, that single luminous element, draws all the attention. It needs no explanation. It works because everything else fades beside it.

We can—and should—apply this principle to magic, too.

We often use the simplest props for our tricks. Four coins, a glass and a cloth, for example. Or an ordinary pack of cards. Or a piece of rope. These are all objects that everyone knows from daily life—there is nothing special about them. Yet it is precisely these objects that undergo the most impossible transformations. If you study the routines of masters such as Slydini, Vernon and Ramsey and look for this principle, you will find that the best routines use the simplest props. This is especially true of the so-called ‘classics’ of magic.

The simplicity of the props is no accident. It is a dramaturgical tool. The more familiar the object, the greater the contrast with what happens to it. A coin passing visibly through a tabletop is more astonishing than an exotic object that nobody recognises, because we all know how coins work. We know what it can and cannot do.

Glazer employs a similar approach, not with props, but with people. Many of the alien’s ‘victims’ in the film are not actors; they are real passers-by in Glasgow who were filmed by hidden cameras without their knowledge. They behave naturally because they are truly themselves. It is this authenticity that makes what happens next so unsettling. We recognise these people because the simplicity of their actions and behaviour feels familiar. Then they vanish, which makes us think.

First, familiarity; then, the unexpected and impossible. That is the essence of magic. There is another aspect, perhaps even more important, through which this simplicity can be achieved: what we leave out.

A typical Hollywood blockbuster is crammed with everything imaginable. The soundtrack tells us how to feel. Quick cuts leave no time to think, injecting pace into the film. Multiple storylines interlock. Almost every shot contains visual noise. None of this is accidental; it is designed to entertain and grab our attention.

But it comes at a price. That noise is distracting. It fills the space so completely that there is no room left for your own thoughts, feelings or interpretations. The viewer is guided through the film as if through a crowded room, where there is always something new to see and nowhere to pause.

Glazer avoids this in his film. He lets scenes breathe. He allows silence. He leaves viewers uncertain about what they are supposed to see, thereby forcing them to look, decide and interpret for themselves. This is less comfortable for the audience, but more powerful.

What does this mean for us?

When we perform a trick, we constantly make decisions about the staging and everything around the effect. How is the object placed? What else is on the table? What are we wearing? What will we say? What do we show the spectator before the moment arrives? What actions do we perform?

We make most of these decisions without thinking them through properly. We choose a background and lighting without giving much thought to what we put on the table. This usually includes the words we use for the trick. Then we wonder why the impact falls short of what we had hoped for.

Glazer asked himself: what is truly necessary? What does the viewer need to grasp the essence of the story? Everything else can be removed.

The vividly coloured top in that one scene works because the rest of the image is restrained. If the entire film had been shot in strong colours, the top would not have had the same effect. It stands out because it is the only vividly coloured thing in that setting.

Translated into the world of magic, if everything imaginable is scattered across the table or stage, nothing stands out. However, if only one object is present and the impossible happens to it, it unfolds its full force. Simplicity is not a limitation. It is a conscious choice. Usually the harder one.

Glazer waited several years between his first two films. Then another nine years passed before Under the Skin. Compared with other directors and producers, he doesn’t release much work. He prefers to distil. The result is three films, each of which carries more weight than dozens of films by other directors combined.

Of course, we don’t have to wait years. We can start asking ourselves right now: what of what I do when staging my magic is truly necessary? What contributes to the impact of my magic, and what merely creates surface noise?

Because, as Glazer understood, simplicity is not a natural starting point. It is the result of a long process of omission. You achieve it by breaking the habit of adding and starting to cut.