Indie Film Hustle

IFH 806: Shooting Sharks in Your Living Room: The Art of DIY Filmmaking with Ron Bonk

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Somewhere in the back alleys of the American dream, between the flicker of VHS static and the roar of midnight creature features, there exists a filmmaker with a toothy vision. On today’s episode, we welcome Ron Bonk, a self-taught indie film warrior who carved his way out of the antiquing business and into the bleeding heart of low-budget cinema.

Ron Bonk is a filmmaker and founder of SRS Cinema, best known for his cult horror-comedy “House Shark,” a film that quite literally brings the predator home.

In this raw and unfiltered conversation, we dive through the celluloid splinters of Ron’s journey, from borrowing camcorders at community college to orchestrating gore-laced dreamscapes in his own home. With the candor of a man who’s fought a hundred cinematic battles and still wakes up smiling, Ron recounts the moment he knew filmmaking wasn’t just a hobby—it was his spiritual vocation. He speaks of camcorders as if they were holy relics, and each low-budget shoot like a shamanic rite of passage. “I had to wear all the hats,” he admits, recalling 18-hour days of lighting, directing, and sometimes even serving the food. There’s a beautiful madness to that kind of devotion.

But what separates Ron from the common herd of content creators is his monk-like surrender to the calling. This is a man who would rather tell the story in his bones than chase distribution deals. When others sold out to weekend wedding shoots and corporate gigs, Ron stayed the course, even launching his own distribution company just to make sure his movies—and others like them—had a place to live. His filmmaking compass always pointed toward the misfit, the grotesque, the beautiful weird. “The idea was: how can I make something that’s mine, and still feed my kids?” he says, with a smile you can almost hear.

And then came “House Shark.” Born not in a boardroom or a script lab, but from the sound of ice cracking on his roof during a harsh Syracuse winter. Where some might see inconvenience, Ron saw inspiration. “Shark in a house,” he thought. And just like that, the impossible was made possible. The film is more than just a hilarious genre-bending monster romp—it’s a testament to what happens when you embrace your constraints and alchemize them into pure creative gold. He shot most of it in his own home, because he could control the space, the light, the chaos. The film became a sandbox of invention, a love letter to every filmmaker who ever asked, “What if?”

Ron’s journey also offers a cautionary tale cloaked in encouragement. He warns of the seductive pull of “safe” creative paths—weddings, commercials, and gigs that pay the rent but starve the soul. Yet he understands the temptation. “It’s easier said than done,” he acknowledges, “but you’ll blink and ten years have passed, and that movie you wanted to make is still sitting in your drawer.”

Throughout it all, there’s a recurring motif: the indie filmmaker as a sacred trickster. Whether telling the cops he’s shooting a student film or designing perks for an Indiegogo campaign that just barely breaks even, Ron adapts, survives, evolves. He speaks not just for himself, but for a whole tribe of underdog storytellers chasing celluloid ghosts across their living room floors.

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IFH 805: Why Your Film Isn’t Getting Made (And What to Do About It) with Ron Newcomb

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When the moon is high and the muse is low, we often find ourselves in deep conversation with our own souls, asking, “Why do I do this?” And on today’s episode, we welcome the steadfast and visionary Ron Newcomb, a former Marine and police officer who has traded in his uniform for a camera, answering that very question not just with thought—but with action.

Many walk the tightrope between dreams and reality. But Ron doesn’t walk it; he builds it. With a full-time job, family responsibilities, and the unrelenting buzz of daily life, filmmaking becomes more than a pursuit—it becomes a pilgrimage. In our conversation, Ron unveils the raw truth behind being a modern-day storyteller, caught between the 9-to-5 grind and the eternal call of the creative. His journey is not just about making films; it’s about making space in a crowded world to remember who we really are when the credits roll.

You see, filmmaking, as Ron wisely puts it, “isn’t a want—it’s a calling.” It’s not about lighting up a screen; it’s about lighting a fire. There is a reverence in his approach, a kind of worship in the way he speaks of independent cinema. He isn’t interested in chasing fame or fortune but in answering that whispering voice within that says, “Tell this story. It matters.” In an age where distractions are currency, Ron is cashing in for clarity. He’s figured out that doing the work is the real prayer.

As a self-proclaimed “storyteller,” Ron lays out three sacred paths for the indie filmmaker: seeking a manager to break through studio gates, finding a producing partner to align energies with, or rallying investors to go it alone. “I’m going to bang the drum on all three,” he says. That’s not just a plan—it’s a mantra. And true to that vow, he’s organizing a bold, DC-based pitch event to connect filmmakers with gatekeepers. It’s a beautiful paradox—waiting for no one while creating opportunities for everyone.

We explored how the daily discipline—rising at six, family dinners, late-night writing—becomes the framework for resilience. This isn’t just about making movies; it’s about making meaning. Ron explains, “Contentment is found in the process, not the end result.” How very Zen. Each film, each failed Kickstarter, each late-night script rewrite is not a detour—it is the path. As he puts it, “You should feel filmmaking breathe within you.” And if it doesn’t? It may be time to let go.

Ron also speaks with reverence for collaboration, knowing that the alchemy of filmmaking lies not in the lone genius, but in the orchestra of souls rowing in rhythm. He is generous in spirit and grounded in grit, reminding us that the true power isn’t just in raising capital or climbing a ladder—it’s in raising each other. “If we all just left ego aside for a moment, I believe that all of us could get what we wanted.” There’s more than wisdom in that; there’s a way forward.

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IFH 804: How I Made a Cult Zombie Movie for $75 and Took On Hollywood with Marc V. Price

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When a zombie filmmaker makes you laugh so hard you forget you’re talking about death and destruction, you know you’re in for something special. On today’s episode, we welcome Marc V. Price, a fiercely independent British filmmaker whose claim to fame is making a cult zombie feature called Colin for just £45. That alone should make you lean in. But that’s just the prologue. This is a man whose journey into the heart of DIY cinema is paved not with glamour, but with grit, late-night edits, and an undying love for storytelling that’s as infectiously entertaining as the virus in his debut film.

Marc V. Price is a visionary guerrilla filmmaker who turns limited budgets into limitless creativity.

In this profound conversation, we dive deep into the chaos, comedy, and consciousness of being an indie director who not only survived the industry’s many booby traps, but did so while telling stories worth hearing. His reflections on Colin—a film made while overdrafted and eating whatever he could scrape up—are as humble as they are inspiring. What started as an experiment in shoestring storytelling exploded into a global festival darling, not because it was flashy, but because it was honest. And that’s where Marc’s strength lies—he doesn’t pander, he creates.

We drift into an epic conversation on the Star Wars universe. This isn’t fanboy babble; it’s an existential breakdown of myth, legacy, and the strange, often contradictory reactions that fandom provokes. Marc speaks with wit and clarity about his take on The Last Jedi, “I have a character, I have no idea where Kylo Ren is going in the next film, so I’m really interested now.” There’s no arrogance in his opinion, just a deep appreciation for complexity and imperfection, a theme that winds its way through all his art.

But Marc isn’t just waxing poetic about galaxies far, far away. He shares the alchemy behind his newer projects—Nightshooters and A Fistful of Lead. These aren’t just action flicks; they’re love letters to the film crews behind the scenes. Imagine a group of low-budget filmmakers caught in a building rigged for demolition while gangsters try to kill them—forced to use their behind-the-camera skills to survive. This isn’t satire, it’s celebration. It’s also the sort of beautiful madness only someone like Marc could conjure.

What stands out most is Marc’s radical respect for collaboration. He believes the true magic of filmmaking lies in giving young talent real responsibility. On his sets, interns aren’t coffee runners—they’re script supervisors and first ACs. This communal spirit translates into films that are textured, layered, and brimming with the energy of people who actually care. He’s not just making movies; he’s building a village.

Even in setbacks—like getting fired from a film he poured his soul into—Marc finds the lesson, finds the momentum. Instead of sulking, he pivots. He doubles down. He makes another movie. And another. By the end of the month, he’ll have two features under his belt. He’s not chasing Hollywood; he’s chasing the muse, armed with a battered camera, a mischievous grin, and a hell of a lot of heart.

And perhaps most beautifully, Marc wears his humanity like armor. He laughs at himself, calls out his own missteps, and embraces the contradictions of the creative life. From living broke with roommates in London, to pitching ridiculous Star Wars spin-offs, to dreaming of snow-covered Westerns in the UK, he embodies what it means to stay playful—even when things get dark.

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IFH 803: From Wrestling Rings to Public Access Mayhem: The Wild Ride of Mad Man Pondo

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The world is far more peculiar than most of us dare to admit. Somewhere between a demolition derby and a wrestling ring, between the crackle of VHS tapes and the shriek of late-night public access, lies a man who has turned mayhem into meaning. On today’s episode, we welcome the unparalleled and unfiltered Mad Man Pondo, a professional wrestler and author whose life has been a whirlwind of body slams, topless TV hosts, and late-night green room oddities. With a voice still rough from last night’s match, he guides us into a tale of chaos, tenacity, and triumph.

Mad Man Pondo—real name Kevin Canady—is not merely a character in the ring. He is a living mosaic of outrageous stories and unshakable spirit. Raised in a reserved household, he found himself drawn to the fever-pitched passion of pro wrestling his grandparents once yelled at on their living room TV. That early spark lit a fire, and he never let it go out. As he says in this episode, “My mom still has the paper I filled out in grade school that said I wanted to be a professional wrestler.” That dream, written in crayon, would become a 30-year odyssey through blood, barbed wire, and blinding spotlights.

The journey to the ring was not paved with ease. Pondo describes the brutal, often humiliating, early days of wrestling school—the beatings, the busted lips, the sheer will required to prove he belonged. He tells of how many walked away, unwilling to endure it, while he pressed on. That kind of devotion would become his defining trait. When the legendary Abdullah the Butcher told him he had the talent to wrestle in Japan, Pondo drove through the night, edited his best matches on two old VCRs, and mailed the tape by sunrise. The result? Forty-three trips to the Land of the Rising Sun.

But Pondo’s life wasn’t confined to the ring. Ever curious, ever mischievous, he created “Skull Talk,” a public access show featuring wrestling commentary and, yes, topless women sitting on his lap. Equal parts performance art and rebellion, the show sandwiched between two church broadcasts caused outrage and fandom in equal measure. “One preacher would send me scripture every week,” he laughs. “But I knew he watched every episode.” This was Pondo in his purest form—pushing boundaries, dancing at the edge of decency, and always keeping his audience on their toes.

What’s perhaps most impressive is his ability to weave these escapades into something strangely noble. Whether talking about riding shotgun in a demolition derby car painted with horror icons or booking outrageous guests for the Jerry Springer Show, there’s a heart beneath the madness. His creation of “Girl Fight,” an all-women’s wrestling promotion, is a testament to his desire to give others a platform, to share the stage, to pass the torch. He’s not just fighting for himself anymore—he’s built a ring where others can rise too.

And then there’s the book, Memoirs of a Mad Man, a wild ride through his memories, filled with stories that make you laugh, cringe, and occasionally tear up. One story he held secret for decades—a deeply personal moment with wrestling legend Junkyard Dog—was finally shared in its pages. “I thought, you know what, let’s put this in there,” he says. “It was time.” In telling that story, and many others, he transformed scars into stories and chaos into legacy.

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IFH 802: Studios, Scores & Secrets: The Untold Story of Rotten Tomatoes with Patrick Lee

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When the lights of the cinema dim and the hum of anticipation fills the air, something magical happens—stories come alive. And sometimes, the stories behind the storytellers are the most fascinating of all. On today’s episode, we welcome Patrick Lee, a man whose quiet curiosity and geeky love for film statistics helped shape the very lens through which millions of people now view cinema. Patrick Lee is the co-founder of Rotten Tomatoes, a website that has become both a cultural barometer and a battleground for filmmakers and fans alike.

Before Rotten Tomatoes became a household name, Patrick and his co-founders were merely tinkering with design and entertainment tech, creating websites for giants like Disney Channel and MTV. But like many innovative ideas, Rotten Tomatoes was born from a simple question: “What if people could see all the movie reviews—good and bad—in one place?” It was their creative director, Sen Duong, who initiated the project, running it as a side hustle until it became clear they were onto something far bigger than banner ads and online games.

The journey wasn’t smooth sailing. As Patrick explained, the film industry often has a conflicted relationship with Rotten Tomatoes. Studios love it when their movies are Certified Fresh but curse its very existence when the Tomato Meter goes south. “We’ve had studios threaten to pull ad campaigns or never advertise with us again,” Patrick revealed. It’s a fine balance between journalistic integrity and business pragmatism, and it’s one that Rotten Tomatoes walked with surprising grace—largely thanks to the team’s belief in transparency and fairness.

What’s remarkable is how this digital compass evolved into a kind of cinematic moral authority. “The Tomato Meter is basically the percent chance that you’ll like seeing a movie,” Patrick said. And therein lies its charm—it doesn’t claim objectivity. It’s not about whether a film is “good” in a vacuum. It’s about consensus. It’s about probability. It’s about knowing whether you, dear viewer, are likely to leave the theater with a full heart or an empty wallet.

Patrick also took us down a rabbit hole of changing critic landscapes. When Rotten Tomatoes began, the idea of a “professional critic” was easy to define: newspaper columnists, magazine reviewers, or syndicated television film buffs. Today, in an age of TikTok reviews and substack essays, that boundary has blurred. “Anybody can start a podcast or a YouTube channel,” he observed, echoing the democratization of media that defines our era. But for Rotten Tomatoes, quality still trumps quantity, and validation still requires rigorous standards.

Perhaps one of the most unexpected parts of the conversation veered toward China, where Patrick spent nearly a decade after selling Rotten Tomatoes. There, he witnessed first-hand the explosive rise of filmgoing culture. “Even for some random movie, theaters were sold out for hours,” he noted. With state-of-the-art theaters rising from dusty streets and censorship shaping storylines, China has become both a new frontier and a mirror reflecting global shifts in entertainment priorities.

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IFH 801: Breaking the Rules: Crafting Powerful Films Without Hollywood Money with Shawn Whitney

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Sometimes, the fire of creativity is struck not by lightning but by the slow, smoldering ache of dissatisfaction. And in today’s soul-stirring conversation, we welcome Shawn Whitney, a filmmaker who found cinema not in the corridors of academia, but in the quiet rebellion of self-taught screenwriting and micro-budget filmmaking. Shawn Whitney is a screenwriter, director, and founder of Micro Budget Film Lab who empowers indie creators to tell powerful stories on shoestring budgets.

Our journey with Shawn begins not in childhood fantasies of movie stardom, but in the dense woods of Brechtian theater and the quiet study of old black-and-white films. His path wandered, as many worthwhile ones do, through rejection, basement solitude, and heartbreak—until something within him demanded not just expression but transmutation. Shawn didn’t study film in college. Instead, he emerged from the theater world and fell into filmmaking after a failed workshop production left him broke and dispirited. Yet that fall became his rise. As he said, “I just started writing screenplays and learning the craft in the quiet shadows.”

There’s something beautiful in learning the art of story not from glamorous sets or high-priced workshops but from the bones of failed experiments and the echoes of dialogue bouncing around your own mind. Shawn described his education not with fanfare but humility—referencing Sid Field, Blake Snyder, and the ever-controversial Save the Cat—tools that became his spiritual guides, not rigid masters. And with every script, he refined a method. Not the method, mind you. A method. “You just need a method. You can’t just be anarchy,” he mused.

But perhaps what struck me most was Shawn’s philosophy that screenwriting is not just structure—it’s an argument about what makes life meaningful. Films, he insists, must be animated not by market trends, but by inner turmoil, by the strange flickering passions of the human heart. “It can’t just be about chopping up zombies. Your characters must go through an inner transformation.” That idea—that a film is a living question—sets Shawn apart in a world often obsessed with following the formula instead of feeling the pulse.

Shawn’s micro-budget films—“A Brand New You” and “F*cking My Way Back Home”—aren’t just titles that stick. They are rebellious acts of filmmaking born from limited means and limitless creativity. His stories unfold not in sprawling CGI landscapes, but in human longing, funny sadness, and philosophical absurdity. One film follows a man trying to clone his dead wife in the living room. Another explores redemption from the passenger seat of a towed Cutlass Supreme. With a budget of $7,000 and a borrowed tow truck, Shawn pulled off scenes that feel bigger than most tentpole blockbusters.

But filmmaking, for Shawn, isn’t just about his own expression. Through Micro Budget Film Lab, he’s become a teacher, a mentor, and a kind of mad scientist in the alchemical lab of storytelling. His passion is not merely to direct, but to help others break free from the gatekeeping systems that keep fresh stories from being told. “We need a micro budget movement,” he declared, envisioning a cinematic rebellion where filmmakers use what they have to tell stories no one else dares to.

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IFH 800: Behind the Scenes of Sharknado: Turning Sci-Fi Madness into Storytelling Gold with Andrew Shaffer

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The mind is a curious trickster, delighting in dreams where logic pirouettes in absurdity. In today’s extraordinary episode, we welcome Andrew Shaffer, a humorist and New York Times bestselling author whose wit slices through the storms of reality with a twinkle in his eye and a chainsaw in hand.

From the earliest pages of his life, Andrew Shaffer was destined to dance with the ridiculous and sublime. As a child, he devoured horror and science fiction with a ravenous appetite, only to find himself drawn back to these imaginative playgrounds after a detour through the hallowed halls of literary fiction. His journey led him, almost inevitably, to the playful chaos of “How to Survive a Sharknado,” a manual for the absurd that demands both laughter and preparation.

In the dance of ideas, Andrew revealed how the birth of the Sharknado survival guide was as spontaneous as a tornado filled with teeth. Inspired by the original cult film, he offered his humorous talents when Random House and SyFy decided to create a companion book. Imagine being tasked with making flying sharks scientifically plausible; as he put it, “I had to talk to a marine biologist and ask, not could this happen, but how it might happen.” It is in such delightfully impossible questions that the spirit of creativity is set loose.

Throughout the conversation, there was a beautiful lightness, the kind one finds when nonsense is taken seriously. Andrew’s research involved binge-watching over 30 sci-fi films—some genuine, some fabricated solely for the book—to weave an interconnected universe of mayhem. When asked how one might survive a Sharknado, he smiled into the void and said, “The answer in the book is simple: Stand and fight. Grab a chainsaw.” It is a lesson not just for storms of sharks, but for all the monstrous whirlwinds that life throws at us.

Yet beneath the chuckles and chainsaws, Andrew’s words echoed a deeper wisdom. Too much meta-awareness, he warned, robs a story of its soul. “If everybody’s in on the joke,” he said, “then the joke itself isn’t that funny anymore.” Ah, but isn’t that true of life itself? When we cling too tightly to cleverness, we risk missing the raw wonder that makes each absurdity luminous.

Perhaps the most chilling revelation of the day was the invincibility of the ghost shark, a creature birthed from sci-fi chaos. Manifesting from toilets, swimming pools, and even water bottles, it served as a reminder: some forces cannot be outrun; they must be met with courage, humor, and an open heart.

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IFH 799: What Every Indie Filmmaker Can Learn from a $5K Zombie Movie with Bojan Dulabic

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A spark of madness is often the first step toward creation. On today’s episode, we welcome Bojan Dulabic, a passionate Vancouver-based filmmaker who pulled off a small miracle—he made a full-length zombie movie for just $5,000. But this isn’t just a story of budgeting brilliance; it’s a tale of relentless passion, artistic vision, and the kind of self-taught wisdom you can’t get in film school.

Born in Bosnia, raised in Germany and Croatia, and finally settled in Canada, Bojan Dulabic’s journey into filmmaking is stitched together by war, displacement, and a child’s fascination with VHS tapes in his mother’s shop. His early life sounds like something out of a global coming-of-age novel. And perhaps that nomadic upbringing seeded in him a gift for observation—a key trait in any great storyteller. When he finally turned his teenage creativity into a film project in high school, something clicked. Not just the shutter on a camera, but the internal compass of a man who knew he had to follow the path of cinema, even if it meant doing it on his own terms.

This wasn’t a journey paved in gold. His first feature, shot for $4,000, was a comedy that taught him the ropes. His follow-up? A feature-length zombie film titled Project Eugenics. What could have been a cliché genre dive instead becomes a thoughtful narrative on misinformation, the chaos of modern life, and yes—zombies as metaphors. “To me, a zombie flick… it’s not about the zombies. It’s always about something else,” Bojan reflects. In his hands, the walking dead become symbols of mass confusion, manipulation, and the blurred lines of truth in our hyper-connected world.

There is a playful seriousness to Bojan’s philosophy. He reveres Romero and admires Rodriguez, but he walks his own road. Like Alan Watts would muse about the dancer and the dance, Bojan seems less concerned with final outcomes and more with being in the creative flow—tripping over obstacles and finding meaning in the madness. He shares stories of juggling a wedding, a tight shooting schedule, and DIY visual effects like a magician with duct tape. His secret? A mindset that embraces “safe confusion”—a term borrowed from Tarantino—that invites the audience into mystery without losing them.

What’s more, Bojan brings a rare humility to the table. He speaks about his cast and crew with deep respect, understanding that low-budget filmmaking doesn’t give you the license to burn out others for your dream. His actors often worked just a few days, each scene scheduled with precision. His respect for time, energy, and goodwill may be the real reason his film came together. For him, filmmaking is not just a creative act but a spiritual contract—with himself, with his collaborators, and with the audience.

This podcast isn’t just a technical breakdown of low-budget indie cinema. It’s a spiritual blueprint for artists who feel the fire but lack the funds. Bojan’s approach is radical because it’s so simple: take stock of what you have, and build from there. Whether it’s stock footage, free VFX plugins, or your friend’s living room—use it. More importantly, finish it. Don’t wait for permission. Make your movie now.

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IFH 798: From Pills to Pictures: Cynthia Hill’s Unlikely Path to Documentary Filmmaking

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The rain falls without apology. The wind carries no judgment. And yet, in the heart of a storyteller, there stirs a quiet question: Why am I here? On today’s episode, we welcome Cynthia Hill, a documentarian whose journey from pharmacy school to the pulse of Southern cinema is anything but ordinary.

Cynthia Hill is a North Carolina-born filmmaker who transitioned from a career in pharmacy to creating critically acclaimed documentaries, capturing the soul of the South through patient storytelling and intimate character studies.

In this profound conversation, we have Cynthia Hill, who gently ushers us through her unexpected voyage from pill bottles to production studios. Growing up in rural Eastern North Carolina, her world was one of fields, tradition, and quiet ambition. Pharmacy was her ticket out. Yet the calling of story—the soft tug of human curiosity—proved louder than the ka-ching of a pharmacy register. It wasn’t film school that lit the match; it was her own desire to understand and document the unnoticed poetry of everyday life.

Her storytelling roots were homegrown—nurtured around dinner tables, drawn from the drawl of uncles spinning long-winded tales that never quite knew where to end. “Being Southern,” she reflects, “you’re never short of characters.” And maybe that’s the alchemy of it all—turning these small, almost invisible, moments into a mosaic of the human experience. Her style doesn’t demand attention; it beckons softly, waiting until you forget the camera is even there.

Cynthia’s entry into filmmaking began with a burning need to tell one story—about tobacco, about land, about legacy. The irony of a crop that both sustained and destroyed wasn’t lost on her. “Yes, it kills people,” she says, “but it also put a lot of us through college.” That kind of contradiction is where her documentaries thrive. She peels back the layers—not with force, but with presence—and lets the humanity breathe. Her lens doesn’t preach. It bears witness.

As the seasons changed, so did her subjects. From Southern farmers to Mexican guest workers, from the quiet dramas of the kitchen to the roaring engines of NASCAR, Hill always centers the people behind the spectacle. What drives her, still, is the question: Who are they when the world isn’t watching? That question led her to embed with Hendrick Motorsports, creating a docuseries that focused not on victory laps but on the tire changers, the engineers, the human grind behind the wheel. “We’re not doing sports coverage,” she says. “We’re telling stories about people.”

Her approach is delicate. She waits. She listens. She captures what other filmmakers might discard—the pause, the glance, the exhale after a hard truth. As she puts it: “The moment after the moment is usually the moment I’m after.” That’s where her art lives. Not in spectacle, but in subtlety.

Yet, as with all creators, success invites new questions. Cynthia now finds herself in unfamiliar territory—leading a team, managing people, and wrestling with the friction between art and business. “Is this still a passion,” she wonders aloud, “or is it just content?” That tension—the pull between soul work and sustainability—is what makes her journey so relatable to any artist trying to remain true while staying afloat.

“Show me, don’t tell me,” she says. And so she does. Every film is a quiet sermon in empathy, a reminder that even the ordinary can be extraordinary if we look closely enough.

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IFH 797: From Instagram Mysteries to Indie Horror: The Bold Experiments of Joe Kowalski

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When the winds of curiosity rustle the mind and stir the soul, they often bring with them storytellers—those rare beings who don’t just recount events but breathe life into them. On today’s episode, we welcome Joe Kowalski, a young filmmaker from Cleveland whose creative spirit dances between shadows and light, weaving stories through film, mystery, and innovation.

Joe Kowalski is a filmmaker, game designer, and storyteller whose projects explore new ways to experience narrative across media.

In this profound conversation, we journey through Joe’s unique endeavor—a Stephen King “Dollar Baby” short film adaptation titled I Am the Doorway. What begins as a seemingly simple homage to the horror maestro evolves into a lesson in humility, time management, and artistic vision. Joe’s choice of story, influenced by a girlfriend and the limitations of a shoestring budget, was no accident. It was a study in resourcefulness—making the most of what one has while honoring a source of immense creative power. “You have to know what you can realistically accomplish,” Joe said. And that, my friends, is wisdom beyond years.

Joe didn’t stop at simply retelling a tale. He reframed the horror classic into a new cinematic experience, wrapping Stephen King’s suspense within a short film festival format. This wasn’t about profit or prestige—it was about community, experimentation, and delivering value to the audience. His respect for the time and effort of collaborators is unwavering: “That’s the biggest thing they can give you,” he mused. And in a world obsessed with the bottom line, such reverence is sacred.

But his imagination doesn’t remain tethered to the screen. Joe designed an interactive Instagram murder mystery game—an elegant rebellion against linear storytelling. Through a labyrinth of tags and grids, players navigate a digital whodunit, one clue at a time. Each piece of the game reveals not just a path to the culprit, but a deeper truth about human curiosity and our hunger for connection. It’s a digital scavenger hunt of intention, ingenuity, and play. A new mythology told in swipes and likes.

Lest one believe that his path has been frictionless, Joe admits to the chaos of low-budget production, the stress of festivals, and the heartbreak of seeing good work shelved for lack of fit. Still, he views each project as a sculptor views stone—not yet perfect, but perfecting. His year-long film PRISM is another feather in this vibrant cap—a color-coded exploration of identity and emotional entanglement told through color-isolated cinematography. Here is a man who does not merely shoot films; he paints them.

Throughout the conversation, what resounds most is Joe’s blend of youthful energy and ancient patience. He reveres the creative process, yet he’s unafraid to let go when the time calls for it. Whether planning podcasts with friends or studying the rise of VR storytelling, Joe doesn’t merely chase the next trend—he studies its rhythm, its heartbeat, and asks how it might elevate human experience. “You have to care about the story even when you don’t feel like caring about it,” he says—and that is the quiet devotion of an artist in bloom.

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