Ode to the TikTok Edit
There’s so much stuff on the Internet that the average user is drowned in “content.” Between AI-generated slop clogging the pipes of Pinterest and Google Images, every site and service pushing their digital assistants, or a new 18-hour video essay threatening to waste my time, I get to asking myself if true “art” (whatever that means) stands a chance of being created in such a hostile environment. Something pure, something that taps the source of creativity and manifests as an outburst of raw, unadulterated expression. Given what I’ve just written, what I’m about to say might come as a shock, but I nominate the humble TikTok edit, otherwise known as the AMV, as my champion.
Before you call me a hypocrite, I’ll acknowledge that the reputation of the edit—which is typically found in the form of some kind of footage, usually derived from a TV show, movie, video game, etc., and accompanied by music—is that it’s delicious fandom trash. They’re viewed as angsty, amateur attempts at art that are, at best, nice to look at, and at worst, embarrassing in their ineptitude. While edits have become practically mainstream to any chronically online user, they’re still held back by their perception, and the undeniable truth that they are in fact, a little cringe. My aim here is to defend the edit as an art form by citing its long history and its place in current online, fandom, and pop culture…well, culture.
Interestingly, a culture of its own has grown around edits, and has been for a long time. The term “edit” (which I find to be rather clumsy and nondescript, I have to say) is a relatively modern invention, and what it’s describing began its life as the AMV, or Anime Music Video. The AMV dates back to the 80’s, where it was a cult activity enjoyed by those with anime on VHS and the money, know-how, and equipment necessary to cut their footage together with their song of choice. The Music Anime Douga, or MAD, originated in Japan slightly before the AMV in the West, but they are practically the same art form, with “douga” meaning “movie” in Japanese. The first Western AMV was made in 1985 by Jim Kapoztas, which saw footage of Star Blazer (or Space Battleship Yamato) (1974) combined with “All You Need Is Love” by The Beatles, cementing an association between “retro” anime and the AMV.
The AMV would evolve over the years, especially with the advent of YouTube, which made sharing them even easier. Before, the AMV exploded in popularity amongst anime convention attendess thanks to the AMV contests held there, which served as a wider means of sharing instead of literally handing out physical copies. From that point onward, one witnesses the progression of the AMV changing from a niche activity enjoyed by one specific fandom into an overall fandom practice performed by, as of 2025, nearly all fandoms across the Internet. If it exists, there’s an edit of it. Despite my bellyaching, the more concrete name of “AMV” must be shed to encompass edits made about literally anything else.
Comparing an edit from 2025 versus an AMV from 2005 is a trip. Today, visual storytelling is prioritized by pairing frenetic cuts and transitions with a propulsive, bassy track, which is a far cry from the longer, understated AMV, which tends to let the scene from its show do the talking. Neither is “better” than the other, more like an indicator of the behavior and access to technology that fandoms exhibit in their respective time periods. The art form in a fascinating window in that regard, as what many see as an indulgent, even cringeworthy, fandom activity actually leaves behind a cultural artifact. Like the square and the rectangle, every AMV is an edit, but not every edit is an AMV. While remarkably similar, they do have stylistic differences that ought to be respected. AMVs are still being made, and I consider them the father of the art form that the edit is a derivation of.
In the modern day, edits are predictable animals. There isn’t a unified system of classification, but there are a few common types. Many focus on characters, some on actors, typically using the form to appreciate or thirst after their subject. Some are sincere outpours of love regarding a specific aspect from their source material, some are for laughs, while others are ironic in nature. Isn’t it funny that I made a thirst trap edit of Goofy from the hit film A Goofy Movie (1995)? This contributes to their reputation of being spontaneous, disposable spasms of Internet fandom that are forgotten seconds after they’re seen.
In this way, they’re almost like the trading cards of this era. Yes, at first glance, they are a purely consumerist endeavor, but they also bring people together and benefit the spirit of their respective communities. Instead of trading one pocket monster or baseball player for another, we’re sending each other quirked-up edits via TikTok and Twitter. Put in those terms, that might make edits pale in comparison, but I’d argue that the edit, through the genealogy of the AMV, is made of the same stuff. To have reverence for the disposable media of the past but contempt for the same media of the present is mere nostalgia poisoning, if you ask me.
It can’t be denied that some edits are more artful than others, however. At its best, the medium can serve as a new mode of analysis and provide a body for new readings and interpretations of its mother text. Ultimately, edits are an exercise in juxtaposition. Just by intentionally putting two images next to each other, meaning is created. Pair that with music, and we’ve arrived in intertextuality city. New meaning can be added to whatever show, movie, or game, etc., the images derive from, but also the musical accompaniment. One’s first assumption might be that the music is used to make meaning out of the visual, but in reality, that force moves the opposite way, too, and so the viewer can come away with an understanding of the song through its interaction with the footage.
While AI bros will shout from the digital rooftops how generative AI “democratizes” art, we can actually see that in motion regarding edits. If you have a phone, you can make an edit, and not just a standard one, but one with all of the fancy techniques that the average viewer comes to expect. CapCut is a popular editing application, but TikTok built-in video editor is another avenue. All it takes is having a handful of apps on your device, and with a basic knowledge of cinematic language, you’re in business. Like anything that’s easy to make, it’s accompanied by a low floor and high ceiling of quality, but the quality of the edit isn’t really important, at least for this conversation. Its ease of its creation pipeline allows for any fan to begin engaging with the broader fandom ecosystem, which is its true purpose.
A delightful little side effect of the disease-like virality of edits is the popularity that the source material gains. In the case of music, plenty of songs have had their time in the sun, or even a second wind, because of their newfound popularity. Songs like “Little Dark Age” by MGMT and “Killshot” by Magdalena Bay are internet classics because of their use in edits, but songs from other eras are given new life, like Imogen Heap’s “Headlock” reaching the Billboard Hot 100 nearly 20 years after its release thanks to the equally spontaneous popularity of indie horror game Mouthwashing (2024). Put an edit in front of someone, and you might just make a new fan.
Just because the medium has a long history and potential for greatness doesn’t suddenly make it highbrow, and I acknowledge this. The strength of the edit is that it’s a scrappy, DIY mode of expression that now, anybody with a phone can indulge in. And it is an indulgence. Not only in the fact that it stimulates one’s inner fandom, but also because instead of making your own creative work, you’re making paratext for an already existing one. You’re contributing to that ever growing mound of stuff on the internet to satisfy your fandom. I’m not saying that the edit/AMV is an unsung force for good, only that it deserves a little more respect as a medium—but only a little more.
