The Cut That Changed Everything: Jump Cuts
How the French New Wave’s jump cut paved the way for TikTok edits and beyond
Welcome to the second newsletter of Eddie AI, the assistant video editor for pros. The first article of the Red camera was a hit - thanks for all the messages, we loved hearing your stories of when you first saw and experienced a Red camera and/or met Jim.
This week Efosa is jumping into a cut that changed cinema forever (pun intended).
We’re talking about the rise of the jump cut and how legendary filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard took a scrappy editing choice and turned it into a cinematic rebellion. What started as rule-breaking in the streets of Paris somehow shaped how we cut everything from films to TikToks.
-Shamir
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Ever watched a film and suddenly felt like you missed something—but didn’t?
That was me the first time I saw Breathless (1960).
Image credit: Still from Breathless (1960), directed by Jean-Luc Godard. Courtesy of Les Films Impéria / StudioCanal.
One moment Jean Seberg is mid-conversation in a car. The next—bam—she’s jumped ahead in the same shot. No cutaway, no fade. Just... gone time. It felt like the movie had skipped a beat on purpose.
And that’s exactly what it did.
But nope—that was Jean-Luc Godard, deliberately screwing with rules of editing.
It wasn’t just weird. It was wrong.
A “mistake” created a whole new visual language. One that now shows up everywhere—from music videos to YouTube vlogs to TikToks.
This is the story of the jump cut. The cut that changed everything.
First: What the hell is a jump cut?
In simple terms: a jump cut skips time within the same camera angle. You’re watching someone talk, and suddenly—jump—they’re in a new position. Still in frame. Still mid-thought.
It breaks continuity. On purpose.
Before the ‘60s, this was considered bad editing. Amateur hour. Filmmakers were taught to hide the cut. Preserve the illusion. If the audience saw the seams, the spell was broken.
Which is why Breathless hit like a slap.
Godard didn’t just break the rule—he made it the whole point.
[JUMP CUT: Who was Godard?]
Jean-Luc Godard wasn’t just a filmmaker—he was an underdog with a camera and something to prove. No studio backing, no polished sets and barely a script half the time.
What he did have was a deep contempt for the polished dogma of Hollywood.
In this now-iconic image from the set of Breathless, you can see how he pulled off tracking shots: the cameraman seated in a wheelchair, pushed along by a crew member. No dolly. No track.
Pure DIY ingenuity.
It’s the kind of bold, make-it-work decision that defined the French New Wave. Where Hollywood would throw money at the problem, Godard threw creativity.
Enter: Godard, Cigarettes, and Chaos
Okay, so Godard wasn’t the first filmmaker to use a jump cut. Technically, that credit goes to Georges Méliès in the 1890s.
He discovered the trick by accident when his camera jammed, then restarted, creating a sudden “jump” in time. Filmmakers like Dziga Vertov in Man with a Movie Camera (1929) and a few experimental docs in the '50s also played with jumpy edits.
But here’s the difference: they used jump cuts as effects. Godard used them as a style.
Breathless was the first narrative feature to turn the jump cut into a statement. It wasn’t just about time—it was about tone. The film didn’t just break continuity; it dared you to notice.
Loose. Jazzy. Stylish.
Belmondo’s character asks a question.
Cut.
Same shot, but now minutes later. She answers “tu es un garçon” (you are a boy)
Cut.
He lights a cigarette.
Cut.
Now it’s already half gone.
Back then, the norm was to hide the edit but Godard didn’t care much for that.
He wanted you to know there’s an edit. Breaking the fourth wall. Saying:
“This is a movie. I’m the one making it. Watch me mess with time.”
Some critics called it genius. Others thought he was trolling.
Either way, no one forgot it.
Continuity vs. Chaos
To understand how wild this was, you have to remember: continuity editing was sacred.
The entire system of classical Hollywood filmmaking was built on smooth transitions. The 180-degree rule. Eyeline matches. Match on action. All designed to keep the viewer immersed—making editing invisible.
The jump cut created a new rhythm. One that felt closer to how we experience real life: disjointed and incomplete..
We lose focus. We skip details and we forget. It’s part of being alive and that’s what made Godard’s early work feel so vibrant.
The jump cut, in a weird way, felt more honest. It acknowledged that watching a film is an act of construction. That time is elastic. That what matters is emotion, not realism.
From French Rebels to Hollywood Cool
Once Breathless landed, the fuse was lit.
The French New Wave had already declared war on tradition: handheld cameras, real locations, natural light, improvisation. The jump cut became its signature middle finger.
It didn’t take long to cross the Atlantic.
Take Bonnie and Clyde (1967). In one of the film’s most intense sequences, Clyde spots cops in town while Bonnie is about to walk into a store. A barrage of rapid cuts: Clyde to Bonnie, to the cops, back to Bonnie, to C.W. Moss, back to the cops, then a two-shot of Bonnie and Clyde, then back to C.W. again.
Each cut ramps the tension. Later, as they pull off the road to meet C.W.’s father, the editing goes into overdrive—cutting between birds exploding out of trees, Clyde’s face, Bonnie, the bushes rustling.
It’s pure visual panic.
By the ‘80s, music videos picked up the pace.
MTV made the quick cut king. Continuity was optional.
Think:
“Hungry Like the Wolf” – Duran Duran’s frantic, sweaty jungle chase
“Beat It” – Michael Jackson’s switchblade dance battles with rapid action cuts
“Take On Me” – Rotoscope fantasy with time and space folding in on itself
“Like a Virgin” – Madonna snapping between Venice alleyways, gondolas, and close-ups in a blink
These weren’t textbook jump cuts, but the influence was undeniable—cutting became about leading, not just following.
[JUMP CUT: THE INTERNET ARRIVES]
YouTube. 2006. A guy in his bedroom:
“Hey guys—today I—”
cut
“—went to Target and—”
cut
“—bought cereal.”
In the early days of YouTube, no one had fancy editing suites or crews—just a webcam and a personality. But attention spans were already shrinking. Every pause, every “um,” every second you didn’t get to the point? That was a risk.
So creators started trimming the fat. They cut mid-sentence. They cut on breath. They cut anywhere the energy dropped for even a second.
Jump cuts gave solo creators a way to keep the momentum up, to feel sharp, snappy, confident—even if the raw footage was full of stumbles and awkward pauses.
By the 2010s, it was everywhere:
Vlogs
Tutorials
Storytimes
Unboxings
Every sentence is trimmed. Every moment shaved down. The jump cut became the voice of the internet—casual, direct, a little chaotic.
It would be impossible to talk about YouTube editing without talking about the King of the Vlog Cut, Casey Neistat.
His classic vlogs weren’t just talking-head updates—they were mini-films. He’d stitch together jump cuts of him biking through New York, setting up camera gear, making coffee, flying drones, boarding planes.
Rhythmic. Every jump cut had energy behind it. You’d see him start to say something in one location, —cut—he’s finishing the same sentence somewhere completely different. A subway. A coffee shop. His studio.
Casey used jump cuts to collapse time, move through space, and maintain momentum. The edit was part of the story.
In a way, he was doing what Godard did decades earlier: breaking continuity to pull you closer.
Just with a Boosted Board instead of a cigarette.
TikTok: A French New Wave Fever Dream
Scroll TikTok for five minutes and you’ll probably see more jump cuts than in all of cinema before the year 2000.
Outfit changes. Reaction cuts. Instant location swaps. Punchlines landing mid-thought. People literally snapping into different versions of themselves.
There’s no setup. No transitions. No breathing room. Just pure energy-per-second.
That’s by design. TikTok’s algorithm rewards speed, clarity, and constant novelty. If the video doesn’t grab you in the first nanosecond, you swipe.
So creators do what Godard did in Breathless: cutting out everything that doesn’t move the moment forward.
TL;DR: The Cut That Freed Us
What started as a cinematic crime is now a storytelling superpower. Godard broke the rules so future generations could skip the boring parts.
Freedom from smoothness. Permission to disrupt. Pacing as punchline.
So next time you’re watching someone vanish mid-spin on TikTok, or teleport through an outfit change, tip your hat to the guy with the cigarette behind the camera in 1960s Paris.
He didn’t just edit time. He redefined it.
And if this ending feels abrupt—
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Extras
Some of the Substacks we’re digging this week. Stephen Follows is chock full of fascinating film industry data . Before the AI Yells Cut by Gary Yong is a great look at the intersection of film and AI. Tools for Reporters by Samantha Sunne isn’t just limited to video, but extremely useful for tool discovery!
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Loved reading this one!
Great write-up! 👏