I love movies with spectacle but spectacle can be a performance

Hear now, O seekers of wisdom, the words of J. J. Abrams, visionary of the modern screen: “I love movies with spectacle but spectacle can be a performance, it doesn’t have to be a creature.” At first, these words may seem simple, yet they carry the weight of an artist’s creed. He speaks not only of cinema, but of the essence of awe itself—that true spectacle is not confined to monsters, explosions, or special effects, but can live within the breath of an actor, the tremor of a voice, the gaze of a single soul captured upon the screen.

The ancients knew this truth long before the age of film. The Greeks built amphitheaters to house spectacle, yet their greatest plays contained no beasts of fantasy, no dazzling illusions of machinery. The spectacle was in the chorus’s cry, in Oedipus’s anguished realization, in Antigone’s defiance. The people gathered not for creatures, but for performance, for the spectacle of the human heart laid bare. Abrams’ words echo this eternal truth: that the greatest wonder is not in what dazzles the eye, but in what pierces the soul.

History too bears witness. Consider the oratory of Demosthenes, the Athenian statesman who rose from frailty to become a master of speech. With no grand stage, no beasts or tricks, he held whole assemblies in silence with the sheer fire of his words. His was a spectacle of courage, of passion, of unyielding spirit. So too can an actor or artist create a spectacle with nothing more than the trembling of their hand or the conviction of their tone.

J. J. Abrams, who has guided both blockbusters of vast scale and stories of intimate power, reminds us that cinema must never mistake noise for meaning. A thousand creatures may storm the screen, yet leave no memory behind. But one true performance—a look between lovers in parting, a whisper of resolve before sacrifice—may endure for generations. The human soul is the deepest stage, and when it reveals itself, it is more wondrous than the grandest digital creation.

The meaning, then, is not to despise spectacle of grandeur, but to recognize its higher form. Spectacle is wonder, and wonder is born whenever truth is revealed with power. This can come from the sweep of a vast battle, or from the stillness of a single tear falling on a quiet face. To limit spectacle only to creatures or effects is to misunderstand the essence of awe; to broaden it to performance is to embrace its truest form.

The lesson, O listener, is clear: in your own life, do not believe that greatness requires grand adornments. Your spectacle may not be in riches, power, or outward display. It may lie instead in the authenticity of your actions, the sincerity of your words, the quiet courage with which you face trial. When you give your fullest self in even the simplest moment, you create a spectacle that no crowd can forget.

Therefore, live as Abrams teaches: seek not only the creatures of fantasy, but the grandeur of truth. In your craft, in your words, in your deeds, let your performance be honest, let it be fearless, let it be alive. For true spectacle is not found in what is shown, but in what is felt. And if your life itself becomes a performance of integrity and passion, then all who witness it will leave transformed, as though they had seen the greatest spectacle of all.

So remember, children of tomorrow: spectacle need not roar; it may whisper. It need not dazzle the eye; it may stir the heart. Seek not the shallow wonder of creatures alone, but the deeper wonder of truth revealed—and in that revelation, you will find the immortal magic of art and of life.