Border force; the power of creative constraints

An open brief, a moveable deadline and a blank cheque: on paper, it’s the recipe for boundless creativity. The reality, as numerous pieces of research show, is that the opposite is true. 

Freedom can be paralysing; constraints and limited options can actually promote creativity. It’s why Jack White of the White Stripes famously works with just two instruments and a strict palette of black, white and red, and why the Covid-19 pandemic – with its economic, situational and environmental restrictions - arguably produced some of the most innovative creative work in years. As Tomas Gianelli, Creative Director at DUDE London, puts it: “To think outside the box, first and foremost, we need a box. The smaller the box, the easier it will be to think outside of it.”

Freedom can be paralysing; constraints and limited options can actually promote creativity.

But does there come a point when that box becomes impossible to break free from? Where constraints stifle, rather than feed, creativity? And how much depends on the type of limits – budgetary, logistical, legal or the breadth of the creative brief itself?

Above: A 'blank cheque', either financially or creatively, doesn't always guarantee success. 

Open briefs are often held up as the gold standard for creativity, but according to Rory Sutherland, Vice-Chairman of Ogilvy UK and behavioural science expert, it’s not that simple: “A brief needs to be highly precise in defining its objectives, without being overly prescriptive as to the means used to attain them.” In other words, setting out a specific destination, but leaving it up to creative minds to decide how to get there.

It was just such a brief that birthed Channel 4’s recently reimagined idents [below], which saw the iconic ‘4’ return to lead the viewer into a series of 25 looping scenes, all representing the different worlds of modern Britain, united by a distinctive, spiralling camera movement.  

“A brief needs to be highly precise in defining its objectives, without being overly prescriptive as to the means used to attain them.”

“The initial brief was purposefully loose and wide open to interpretation,” explains Mike Skrgatic, Co-Founder and Creative Director at VFX company Time Based Arts and creator studio Art Practice, but fundamentally the idents had to represent the unique, alternative values of Channel 4 and the unheard voices it was originally created to represent – and in doing so, uphold the creative heritage of the channel. The idea “had a lot to carry”, with multiple directors involved, so Skrgatic decided to put some parameters in place: “I felt that a visual system could offer structure and support this amount of diverse content.”

He came up the central concept of an infinitely looping number four that would serve as the foundation for everything: “An endless, spiralling loop, with a set of rules that allows everything and anyone in.”

Above: Channel 4's award-winning idents had restrictions which allowed any idea to sit harmoniously together.

The creative concept had three ‘rules’: the Channel 4 logo, the cube motif and the signature spiralling camera movement. “Constraining these variables created a visual language that defined the canvas for the idents to play out in – the multiple worlds within the Channel 4 universe,” explains Skrgatic. But rather than restrict creative, the rules allowed for “any idea or image to sit harmoniously together, side by side, in one very rich and diverse tapestry of voices, techniques, scales, perspectives and orientations.”

While the limitations of screen time and the fixed camera move meant the direction of a scene had to be blocked out to work around the movement, rather than the other way round, in terms of ideation, everything was valid. “It meant the directors could embellish their scenes with even greater craft – whether it was cast, location, wardrobe, production design… detail ran deep throughout,” says Skrgatic.

Rather than restrict creative, the rules allowed for “any idea or image to sit harmoniously together".

In a similar vein, Blinkink director Raman Djafari “really had to make an effort to organise [his] thoughts” when he received a virtually open brief for Coldplay’s feelslikeimfallinginlove [below]. There were just two constraints on the concept: the video had to “showcase a variety of different animation styles and use interesting transitions between those styles”, and represent “the idea of finding love”.

Above: Coldplay's feelslikeimfallinginlove video featured a guiding principle of visual diversity, but emotional cohesion.

Faced with the huge task of selecting talent from around the globe, Djafari came up with a guiding principle of visual diversity, but emotional cohesion: “I needed to curate [the animators] in a way that allowed for both diversity and cohesion. So, I chose artists who all have a kind of emotionality to their style, despite the differences in their visual approaches.” 

To streamline decisions even further, he organised the scenes into three ‘chapters’ – longing, searching and finding – thereby giving himself “a simple way to choose the emotional intent behind each sequence, which helped organise the many ideas I had in the beginning.” The result is a dreamlike voyage by two souls through time and space, realised by 15 different animators in stop-motion, 2D, 3D and digital painting, oil pastels on paper, watercolour and laser cut felt.

Compared to branded projects, music video briefs are generally “a blank cheque to come up with an idea from scratch”.

Compared to branded projects, music video briefs are generally “a blank cheque to come up with an idea from scratch”, says Djafari. But, ironically, this "blank cheque" creative freedom is often curtailed by financial restrictions – namely, budgets that would be, as Reset director Ninian Doff puts it, “the sandwich budget on an advert”. Having made his first promo [below] for the princely sum of £20 (the majority of which was spent on bread and pastries for a cast of feral crows), Doff is well versed on inventive ways of stretching minimal funds to realise an ambitious creative vision. In the early days of his career, his solution was simple: learn how to do everything himself, from editing to 3D modelling, grading, sound recording, lighting and after-effects. 

Above: Music videos, like Ninian Doff's debut, often cost the same as “the sandwich budget on an advert”.

“There’s no idea you can’t achieve, especially now technology has democratised filmmaking so much,” Doff says, citing his video for Graham Coxon’s What’ll It Take, which featured a digital monster built out of hundreds of fans’ limbs: “That was essentially impossible [to achieve on that budget], if not for the fact I could say: I know how to do this in post, and will personally do the work.” 

In the same vein, Doff figured out the “weird post trick” used to create the uncanny split-screen effect seen in JJ Doom’s Guv’nor entirely on his own, shot a full test video and presented it to the artist. “Again, the budget was nothing, but the big visual hook was baked into me being the director.”

"Most people think bigger budgets equal better videos, but I don’t think it’s true.”

Does more money automatically mean more creative work? “As a rule of thumb, most people think bigger budgets equal better videos, but I don’t think it’s true,” ponders Untold Studios director Charlie Sarsfield, whose videos for Jordy and JME’s Wonderkid [below] and Kojey Radical’s Gangsta were both shot on shoestring budgets. “Bigger budgets allow for more toys, jobs, drones, car rigs – or even, in some cases, an extra shoot day – which are all cool, but if the foundation of your video – the idea – sucks, then the video will suck too.”  

Djafani agrees that a vision, passion and creativity are all essential, but points out that more money allows for better working conditions and wages - which ultimately does lead to better work.

Above: “As a rule of thumb, most people think bigger budgets equal better videos, but I don’t think it’s true,” says Charlie Sarsfield, who directed Jordy and JME’s Wonderkid.

While there’s comparatively more creative freedom in music videos than adverts, how much is the track itself a form of ‘constraint’? After all, as Sarsfield points out, most fans identify with the lyrics of a song, or at least sing along to them. He doesn’t see lyrics as a true restriction, however, more as a framework for “building the sandbox that [you] work within [as a director]. [Lyrics] should inform the world in which you build, that can either be subtle or in more obvious ways.” Djafari, too, sees working with music as a help, rather than a hindrance, because the song provides a ready-made narrative structure.

In the advertising world, it’s not just prescriptive briefs or micro-managing clients that can constrain creative brains.

In the advertising world, it’s not just prescriptive briefs or micro-managing clients that can constrain creative brains: certain highly regulated sectors, like healthcare or finance, are encircled by the long and unyielding arm of the law. Earlier this year, DUDE London were tasked with creating a bold, provocative campaign to launch sex toy company Love Not War (LNW) and champion a more sustainable approach to masturbation - based on the insight that in-shower masturbation contributes to a staggering 300 million litres of water wastage annually. 

The issue? Advertising sex toys through paid media comes with numerous legal restrictions – no excessive skin on show, no explicit product displays and words like 'sex toy' or 'masturbation' are banned. “Given these limitations, we asked ourselves: 'What if we personified inanimate objects to bring a human element to the campaign without showing skin?'," explains creative director Tomas Gianelli. 

The result was Break Up With Your Shower Head [below], a quirky spot featuring heartbroken shower heads sharing their stories of being replaced by LNW’s products. It wasn’t just the comic tone that set it apart from competitors’ more serious messaging; by launching on World Environment Day, the campaign leveraged a green angle, allowing it to gain coverage “in spaces where discussions about sex are typically taboo”. To get round the paid media constraints on showcasing sex toys, DUDE also partnered with influencers, whose channels are considered owned media and therefore free from those restrictions.

Above: Some restrictions aren't financial, or even creative, as with DUDE London's work for sex toy company, Love Not War.

While external limitations are generally unavoidable, many creatives work under self-imposed constraints as well. After a period of saying yes to “all videos, all budgets, shapes, sizes, and music genres”, Sarsfield has laid down a personal rule: “I ask whether I can bring something new to their [the brand or artist] visual language or not – and if the answer is no, I’ll pass on the project.” 

Doff has also introduced strict time constraints when working on personal projects for TV and film. “The only way I can finish a first draft of a film no one has asked for is to say to myself that I only have four or five weeks to write it,” he says. “Then I have to gaslight myself into thinking my entire self-worth is based upon me hitting this entirely arbitrary deadline and getting up at 5am to write in order to meet it.”   

Perhaps the most definitive proof that limitations can produce incredible creative results is Straight8, the famous industry filmmaking competition.

Perhaps the most definitive proof that limitations can produce incredible creative results is Straight8, the famous industry filmmaking competition defined by the tightest of production constraints. Entries must be on one cartridge of Super 8mm cine film, with one single take of each shot: no grading, no editing, no post and no synched sound. The first time that entrants get to see their completed films is at the live premiere.

Above: The ultimate in embracing filmmaking restrictions; Straight 8.