BEACON #12

Simplicity

Filmmaker Jonathan Glazer once said something that has stayed with me. In a discussion about his film *Under the Skin*, he spoke about simplification and put it like this: “The perfect machine is the one with the fewest parts. You don’t start with the fewest parts—you distill 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 stuck with me—not as a statement about film, but as something I could just as easily have said about magic. Though perhaps the bit about luck should be amended to: “If you’re lucky *and* work hard, you get there.”

*Under the Skin* is a 2013 science-fiction film that’s anything but a typical Hollywood blockbuster. Scarlett Johansson plays a nameless alien who drives through the streets of Glasgow, luring lonely men into a kind of underworld where she consumes them. The plot sounds strange, almost abstract—and that’s intentional. Glazer tells it with a minimum of means. There’s no bloated storyline, no unnecessary explanations, and no distracting subplots. The story itself is the distillate, and behind it lies a deeper narrative or message that I won’t delve into here. What interests me most are the stylistic choices and how Glazer crafted the film.

In his approach to visual language, Glazer relied primarily on natural light. He literally questioned every artificial light source and mostly rejected them. His guiding principle for the film’s entire visual style was “unadorned.” He wanted everything to feel as it is—no aesthetics for aesthetics’ sake, no decoration standing between the essential and the viewer.

The result is remarkable. Since the entire film is visually so restrained, so muted, and so monochromatic, every small deviation from this immediately becomes meaningful. For instance, Johansson’s character wears a top in a vibrant color in one scene—against a backdrop entirely in subdued, unassuming tones. That single color, that lone luminous element, draws all attention to itself. It needs no explanation. It works because everything else fades in comparison. We can—and should—apply this principle in magic as well.

We often use the simplest props for our miracles. For example, four coins, a glass, and a cloth. Or an ordinary deck of cards or a piece of rope. Objects that are familiar to everyone from everyday life and appear entirely unremarkable. And yet, the most impossible things happen to these very objects. If you study the routines of the great masters like Slydini, Vernon, Ramsay, and others, keeping an eye out for this principle, you’ll notice that the best routines use the simplest props. This is especially true for the so-called “classics” of magic.

The simplicity of the props is no coincidence. It is a dramaturgical tool. The more familiar the object, the greater the contrast to the impossibility of what happens with it. A coin passing through a tabletop before everyone’s eyes, for example, is far more astonishing than an exotic object no one knows—because we all understand how a coin works. We know what it can and cannot do.

Glazer does the same—though not with props, but with people. Many of the “victims” of his aliens in the film are not actors: They are real passersby from Glasgow, filmed by hidden cameras without their knowledge. As a result, they behave naturally because they are truly themselves. And it is this authenticity that makes what happens next so unsettling. We think we recognize these people because the simplicity of their actions and behavior is familiar to us. And then they vanish, forcing us to reflect.

Familiarity is unexpectedly followed by the impossible. That is the essence of magic. There is another, perhaps even more important aspect through which this simplicity can be achieved: what we leave out.

A typical Hollywood blockbuster is packed with everything imaginable. A soundtrack tells us what to feel. Rapid cuts leave us no time to think, adding pace to the film. Multiple plotlines intertwine. Nearly every shot is filled with visual noise. None of this happens by accident: It is meant to entertain, capture attention, and work.

But there is a cost. This noise distracts. It fills the space so completely that no room remains for our own thoughts, feelings, or interpretations. The viewer is guided through the film like through a cluttered room: There is always something new to see, but nowhere is there space to pause.

Glazer refuses to do this in his film. He allows scenes to breathe and permits silence. He leaves viewers uncertain about what they should focus on, forcing them to look for themselves, decide for themselves, and interpret for themselves. This is less comfortable for the audience—but far more effective.

What does this mean for us?

When we perform a trick, we make countless decisions about staging—the surrounding details. How is the object positioned? What else is on the table? What are we wearing? What do we say? What do we show the audience before the actual moment arrives? What actions do we take?

Most of these decisions are made without enough thought. We pick some background, some lighting, and don’t give much consideration to the items on the table. The same often goes for the words we say during the trick. Then we wonder why the impact is weaker than we hoped.

Glazer asked himself: What is truly necessary? What does the audience need to grasp the essence of the story? Everything else gets cut.

The neon-colored top in one scene works because the rest of the image is subdued. If the entire film were shot in bold colors, the top wouldn’t stand out. It means something because it’s the only element that contrasts in that setting.

Translated into our world of magic: If everything imaginable is cluttering the table or stage, nothing stands out. If only one object exists—and the impossible happens to it—it unleashes its full power. Simplicity isn’t a limitation; it’s a deliberate choice. Often the harder one.

Glazer waited several years between his first two films. Then another nine years until *Under the Skin*. Compared to other directors/producers, he doesn’t produce much. He prefers to distill. The result is three films, each carrying more weight than dozens of other directors’ films combined.

We don’t have to wait years, of course—we can start asking ourselves now: What in my magic presentation is truly necessary? What enhances the impact of my magic, and what is just superficial noise?

For simplicity, as Glazer understood, is not a natural starting point. It is the result of a long process of elimination. You achieve it by stopping to add things and starting to remove them.

Until next time,

Alexander