The Power of One (Banal) Scene
It’s still winter in the northern hemisphere, and the season’s weight lingers in the music I’ve been drawn to lately (as it is the rainy season in Singapore). Songs that echo the greyness outside, the kind that seem to hum with the undercurrent of seasonal affective disorder (SAD). One of them is Cicatrice (Scar) by Tawsen—a sparse, heart-wrenching track accompanied by a one-take music video. Just an injured man in a seemingly abandoned building, shaving his head, looking into a handheld pocket-sized mirror. The setting is presumably Belgium, where Tawsen lives, a place known for its relentless grey skies even beyond winter.
At first glance, the scene is simple—banal, even. But the depth comes in the questions it provokes: Who is this man? How did he end up here? How did he get injured? Why is he shaving his head? What’s going on? The moment lingers, charged with meaning, precisely because it refuses to explain itself.
It reminded me of an article by Jeff Somers (Seinfeld was right; That’s a story) which I read in Writer’s Digest about using the everyday as a trigger for a bigger story. How something as mundane as eating a sandwich can be the beginning of a masterpiece. It’s a concept I find myself returning to often, both in what I write and in the stories I’m drawn to—narratives that unfold within the fabric of daily life but are rich with internal depth of both characters and storylines.
Some of the most compelling stories are rooted in the ordinary. Take Proust’s madeleine—a small, unassuming cake that unravels a flood of memory and introspection. Or the way Before Sunrise (1995) builds an entire film around two people simply walking and talking, their dialogue weaving intimacy out of the mundane. These moments resonate because they mirror our own lives: filled with unspectacular, fleeting details that, when examined closely, reveal unexpected weight and beauty.
For me, this is what makes storytelling powerful. Most of us lead such normal lives, but in those lives are moments of revelation, transformation, longing. A well-crafted scene doesn’t need spectacle; it needs resonance. One experience, one detail, one moment—expand it. The ideas that matter most aren’t necessarily the grand ones. Sometimes, all it takes is a single scene, perfectly observed, to make us feel something real and spectacular.