There’s something hypnotic about The Way Things Go. The film, a 30-minute marvel by Swiss artists Peter Fischli and David Weiss, is nothing more than an elaborate sequence of chain reactions. One object sets another in motion, which triggers the next, and so on. It’s part Rube Goldberg machine, part performance art, and entirely captivating. Watching it feels like observing the universe reduced to its simplest mechanics—action and reaction, cause and effect.
And in that simplicity, there’s real joy.
What strikes me most about The Way Things Go is how it mirrors the structure of storytelling. Like the carefully balanced objects in the film, every good story relies on events unfolding in a natural, inevitable sequence. One action leads to another. Everything is connected, even if it doesn’t seem that way at first. The beauty lies in the momentum—once the story begins, you can’t look away.
The film also demands trust. As a viewer, you trust that each item will perform its role perfectly: the tire will roll, the candle will ignite, the bucket will tip. And the artists obviously trust the objects themselves. They understand their quirks, their tendencies, their potential for failure.
That’s not unlike how writers trust the elements of their stories. A character’s decision here sets off a cascade of consequences there. A subtle detail planted early blossoms into something profound later. When it all works, it feels effortless, as if the story is unfolding on its own.
A brief clip from the film captures this chain reaction in motion.
But what’s so fascinating about The Way Things Go is that nothing about it is effortless. Every single element has been placed with painstaking care. Every reaction has been tested and retested until it works flawlessly. The same is true of storytelling. Even the most natural, flowing narrative is built on the back of hard choices: what to include, what to leave out, how to keep everything in motion. It’s the hidden work that makes the final product feel alive.
Perhaps the most magical thing about the film is its playfulness. It doesn’t take itself too seriously. While the engineering behind it is genius, the sequence itself is full of absurdity. A tire rolling into a plank, which knocks over a ladder, which lights a fuse? It’s ridiculous and delightful. There’s a lesson in that too.
In both art and life, allowing room for a bit of whimsy, for moments that don’t “mean” anything but simply bring joy, is essential. Not everything has to be about the destination; sometimes, it’s about the chain reaction itself.
By the end of The Way Things Go, you’re left with a sense of satisfaction—not just because everything works but because you’ve been reminded of how interconnected the world can be. One spark, one motion, can set so much in motion. It’s a beautiful reminder: keep things moving, and you never know what wonders might unfold.
Scott Bryant 
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