When I was a kid, anytime I was proud of a skill, I would demand that my parents watch me. Riding a bike, cannonballing into a pool, getting a few inches of air on the ski slope—they were all way more fun if I had Mom and Dad’s full attention. And as I watched Perfect Storm, the latest tricking documentary from tricker and multimedia artist Sean Sevestre, I couldn’t stop thinking about seeing and being seen, and the power of bearing witness.
Perfect Storm is many things. It’s an endearing glimpse into the childhood of Tiki Wu, one that reveals a youthful obsession with becoming a ballerina—tutu and all. It’s a tour through Europe with a charming band of hooligans, complete with playful animations and stunning drone footage. It’s also a portrait of trickers’ unique relationship to space and the outdoors, as Tiki avoids exposed tree roots and triple corks between two flowerbeds.
But to me, what stands out most about this film is something else entirely. Perfect Storm is very much about its own creation, about the act of capturing tricks on film. Sean himself sets the tone less than three minutes in. When the gang runs into trouble with renting a van, he looks into the camera and nervously insists, “The movie is going fantastic. Don’t worry, it’s going to be great!” By addressing the audience directly, he transforms us into a creative collaborator, standing right there with the group and wondering if the documentary is already doomed.
For the following 80 minutes, the audience feels included in every step of the filming process. We see Tiki and Omid discussing where and how to get the next shot. We hear the guys lament the bad weather, and how difficult it will be to get quality footage. We see them take out additional cameras to capture Tiki’s sensational skills from new angles. Overall it’s an intimate and revelatory approach to storytelling, one that spotlights not just tricking, but also the act of watching and recording tricks.
This focus on observation appears elsewhere, too. The boys put on a street performance in Cannes, with over a hundred passersby gaping at their superhuman abilities. At a Kojo’s Trick Lab bootcamp, we see attendees grin and clap, stupefied, when Tiki smashes an easy gumbi to triple cork. In this way, the film highlights a dichotomy that lies at the heart of our sport: the observer and the observed. In other words, tricking is about more than the tricks themselves—it’s about having other people watch them.
Sure, you can trick by yourself, stay off social media, and make tricking a purely personal journey. If that’s your jam, do your thing. But for many of us, what makes tricking so engaging, so beautiful even, is the act of observation by someone else. How often have you complimented a homie upon seeing him hit a sick combo? How often have you shared a clip on Instagram, and smiled when the fire emojis started rolling in? How often have you sat down to watch an old-school sampler, and finished it with a renewed sense of purpose and motivation? As a cultural and communal experience, tricking is all about watching and being watched, appreciating and being appreciated.
In their new book This Is What It Sounds Like, neuroscientists Susan Rogers and Ogi Ogas write, “Practically speaking, without a listener, music does not exist. By perceiving, feeling, and reacting to the many dimensions of a song, a listener closes the creative circle and completes the musical experience” (8–9). Maybe tricking works the same way; maybe it needs an audience to exist in its fullest form. For me, part of my desire to trick comes from that impulse I had as a kid, the one that had me shouting, “Look Mom, no hands!” The thrill of riding a bike or jumping into a pool or throwing a dub comes from not just the action itself, but in seeing that action reflected in the gaze of another. An observer makes an action more real somehow, bringing it into a shared space that we can all enjoy together.
Perfect Storm is special because of how skillfully it portrays this elemental dynamic, this dance between action and observation. We don’t just see the tricks—we see the cameras, the personalities, and the trials that went into capturing them. Tricking and filming collapse into a single artistic process, one that you, yourself, are likely familiar with. If you’ve ever tried to find the right angle from which to record a combo, you know what it’s like. If you’ve ever struggled to decide between a regular and a slo-mo shot, you know what it’s like. If you’ve ever shared your footage with the world on Instagram or YouTube, you know what it’s like. These little decisions we make so that others may witness and marvel at our skills—those, too, are a part of tricking. And they should be celebrated as the creative, expressive acts they are.
If I could take this idea just one step further, I’d like to quote skateboarder Kyle Beachy. In a collection of essays called The Most Fun Thing, he writes, “When I watch a skateboarding film, can it be said that I am skateboarding? Anyone who identifies as a skateboarder can describe the strange, poltergeist-like phenomenon of feeling one’s own body move along with the figure on screen, a kind of somatic empathy or mutualized motion . . . Something more than just watching is taking place. And what is that something if not skateboarding?” (167–168)
I think Beachy may be onto something here. I’ve experienced a version of this phenomenon when I watch my favorite samplers—straightening up in my chair when Anis Cheurfa lifts for a big swing, or pushing my toes into the carpet when Vellu punches into a power move. So yes, in an abstract way, maybe tricking needs an audience the way music needs a listener. But more to the point, in a very physical, embodied sort of way, maybe watching tricking is tricking.
What happens if we expand our definition of tricking to include not just executing tricks, but also recording and even watching them? We learn to better appreciate the many ways of engaging with and identifying with our sport. Even if you don’t train as much as you used to, if you still show up and film, you’re a tricker. If you mentor the next generation and watch them grow, you’re a tricker. If you host an event or judge at a gathering or start a tricking podcast, you’re a tricker. Our community doesn’t just need athletes—it needs active observers, too. In fact, it would fall apart without them. The pillars of our culture, from iconic samplers to landmark documentaries like Perfect Storm, are built by them. And that’s kind of a beautiful thing.
So if you’re still reading this, I hope you’ll go watch Perfect Storm. After all, the future of tricking depends on it.
Jeremy Price is a longtime martial artist and tricker repping the Muggle Slayers and Team TrickStrong. He has also written about tricking, stunts, and heavy music for VICE, Alternative Press, and more. Follow him on Instagram at @jpricetricks.