“Less is more” is a frequently used term in the edit room. Sadly, it’s not practiced nearly enough. Editing this way can make your film more exciting—and less predictable. By making the story less complete and not as focused on continuity, the dialogue with your audience changes. When you stop spoon-feeding them, they’ll engage more actively with your film. They’ll become more attentive and actually lean in for more.
Always try to do the most with the least. With every scene, every shot, ask yourself, “How late can I cut into this? How early can I leave?” Do I need to see them get out of the car—or walk fully out of frame?
Cut away the moment the girl looks into the camera—right after she sets the ball down for the penalty. We’re not interested in seeing her score. Use an Impressionistic construction. Your brain pieces together the information in between that.
What your brain pieces together is stronger than what you see on screen.
Always.
This was the answer Donald Rumsfeld gave to a question at a news briefing back in 2002. It became known as the Rumsfeld Matrix. It’s probably a case of so-called “Churchillian drift,” where quotes migrate over time to more famous figures, since NASA had reportedly used it since the mid-sixties. Whatever the case, it’s an interesting answer.
We all operate with different types of knowledge. Some things are straightforward: we know a soccer match lasts 90 minutes. Other things, like how many people walk to work in Paris each day, we know we don’t know. We could look it up. But then there’s a third category: the things we don’t even know we’re unaware of—until they hit us sideways.
That Rumsfeld matrix is surprisingly relevant to storytelling and editing. In the editing process, you’ll encounter all three categories. The known knowns are your planned shots, scripted scenes, and provided music. The known unknowns are elements like alt takes, B-roll or additional music choices that come to mind while making selects or editing—unpredictable but anticipated. Then the unknown unknowns: accidental moments of truth, odd camera flukes, spontaneous emotion, or happy accidents in image, sound, and music that were never part of the plan. And it’s in these unscripted, unanticipated, raw, real and accidental moments that the power of storytelling lies. So, stay alert to the unexpected. Embracing that uncertainty isn’t just part of the job; it’s where the storytelling really begins.
Back in the day, a friend of mine had a red pimple on his arm that stuck around for years, defying every attempt to get rid of it. He always joked, “One day I’m gonna do something with it.” Sure enough, one day he came back from the tattoo studio with a clown inked on his arm—its nose the same vivid red. It’s like a magician’s misdirection—if part of the trick can’t be hidden, draw attention to it and make it part of the show.
Years ago, a court order required us to remove a street-fight scene from a skate documentary. Instead of swapping in new footage or restructuring the edit to work without that scene, we chose a different approach. We decided to animate the original scene, re-recorded the audio, and add a title card stating that the original footage was removed due to the court order C/13/561163/ KG ZA 14-339 CB/SV. By embracing and emphasizing it, the problematic scene became more powerful.
I’m a firm believer in letting some fires burn. If you can’t solve it without actually doing more damage to the film, leave it be. If you run into continuity errors, make them part of the edit style. If the recorded audio is bad, throw it out. Find a way to make the shortcomings work in your favor.
I always love encountering problems in edits. It forces you to come up with solutions and become creative. If there hadn’t been a problem, the edit wouldn’t have turned out the way it did.
One time I had to edit something featuring Diplo. Most of the footage was jittery and anxious, while a few shots were clean and very aesthetic. That contrast made it challenging to cut everything together, and matching the look of the other finished films in the campaign proved nearly impossible. Still, I needed an approach that would make all the footage work—one where every camera shake, or sudden adjustment felt tied to the action and added to the film’s believability.
Then I figured it out: I’d cut it like a trailer for a (nonexistent) Diplo reality soap. And that’s when the edit started working. Once I accepted that the original approach had failed and allowed myself to try something different, all shots became usable and exciting.
Get comfortable with failure. It’s an invitation to rethink your approach and often leads you to creative ideas you’d never have imagined, proving the theory that a high failure rate is associated with innovation. Trying to avoid failure isn’t a useful strategy in editing.
You need to figure out which ideas work, and which don’t. And the only way to do this is by trying them. Each outcome, good or bad, will give you better insight into what works—and why—leading to a better film. Without trying, you can’t draw conclusions, making it more difficult to move on.
When the pressure’s on during an edit and you feel lost, you should lean back and think through your next step before taking action. There’s a natural urge to just do something—anything, really— but that’s exactly the wrong move. It creates the illusion of moving forward, but in reality, that kind of senseless movement just leads you past the same tree over and over again. Research backs this up as well. When people get lost in the wilderness, their irresistible urge to keep moving often leads them in circles. Apparently, “without a clear visible fixed external cue, we can’t walk a straight line for more than a few meters.” On the plus side, you’re no worse off than before. But you’re no closer to rescue either.
But what should you do? For starters, don’t let emotions take over. Analyze. Step back, look at the edit from a distance (literally), and create some space in your head to properly assess the problem. Not having your hands on the keyboard might feel like you’re losing valuable time. But that brief pause actually heightens the pressure just enough to bring you to a focused, productive peak, instead of a frantic one.
Commit to a solution, then focus on the best way to get there. Don’t let anyone—especially yourself—derail the process. There’s no time for that. Sit back—and enjoy it.
Photographer Arno Minkkinen has a great theory called the Helsinki Bus Station. In it, he describes a bus station in Helsinki with multiple bus lines that follow the same route initially. Each stop represents a year in your creative career (a photographic career, in his case). You pick a path—say, platinum nudes—and after three stops, you’ve built up a solid portfolio, or so you think. But then someone mentions other artists doing similar work. Disheartened, you hop off, grab a cab back to the station, and try a new platform, try other styles—only to face the same conclusions after a few years.
So, what should you do?
Minkkinen’s advice is to “Stay on the bus. Stay on the fucking bus.” Why? Because eventually, the buses diverge—each on its own unique journey. As you stay on, stop by stop, your own distinct path unfolds. Over time, you reach rarer destinations with fewer passengers and that’s when you find your own voice.
Shared influences and constraints are inevitable—and even essential. Embrace the paradox that working within the same conditions as others – whether that’s the ocean’s physics or a shared artistic tradition-is precisely what allows your unique voice to eventually emerge.
It’s not glamorous advice, but it’s true: to become a good editor, you have to edit. You have to put in the hours and the late nights, learning where you stand, what you’re strong at, and where you still need to grow.
Just as you wouldn’t expect to master woodworking after reading a book or to land a perfect flip after watching a few skate videos, you can’t expect to be an instant expert at editing.
Stick with it long enough, and your voice will emerge.
You should always embrace the concept at the heart of the job you’re working on. It’s the idea that was sold to the client—the one they expect to see. But this doesn’t mean your role as editor becomes that of an executioner. They could have hired anyone for that. You’re hired because of the creative input you can add to the project. And that’s exactly what you should do.
Your opinion about a concept doesn’t matter; your opinion about its interpretation does. Realizing this role is, in a strange way, liberating—and will drive you to do better work. Instead of looking at concepts (or budgets, lack of time, region-specific demands, etc.) as limitations, step up to the plate and embrace them. You’ll find that it’s because of these constraints that you come up with ingenious solutions.
You must first be limited in order to become limitless.
This is NOT a how-to blog on editing.
NO transitions
NO fancy effects
NO shortcuts
NO software tricks
NO project organization tips
NO lessons. Period.
Instead, what you’ll find here is a collection—
A weekly series of thoughts, reflections, and insights.
Roy Choi, the chef behind L.A.’s Kogi truck phenomenon, once told a story about how Korean immigrant families would pool their money to help one family get ahead—then repeat the process for the next. It’s called a gye—a system built on community support and mutual uplift. When one person rises, everyone benefits.
That’s the spirit of this site.
Like families investing in each other’s success, when you share editing knowledge, you’re helping each other level up. It’s not a zero-sum game; when you grow, the whole community grows with you.
So here’s to growing.
No rules—just vibes.