Directing

IFH 822: From Video Games to the Big Screen: The Filmmaking Journey of Nicole Jones-Dion

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The lights of Los Angeles flicker differently when you’re chasing stories instead of stars. On today’s episode, we welcome Nicole Jones-Dion, a screenwriter, director, and producer whose journey took her from the world of video games and comics into the unpredictable realm of filmmaking. Her work spans from co-writing Tekken 2 to crafting the supernatural thriller They Found Hell for the SyFy Channel, to directing her first feature film, Stasis.

Nicole’s creative path began in the interactive worlds of games and graphic novels, where storytelling was often bold, visual, and larger than life. That same sensibility carried over into her screenplays, which naturally gravitated toward sci-fi, horror, and action. With a love for genre storytelling, she found herself writing for projects that demanded both imagination and grit — Dracula epics, video game adaptations, and stories designed to thrill audiences while tapping into familiar myths.

What makes Nicole’s story remarkable is not only her resilience but her ability to adapt. Before breaking into films like Dracula: The Dark Prince, she had already written over fifteen spec scripts, proving that persistence is as essential as talent. Many of her earliest opportunities weren’t born from original pitches, but from being brought in to rework or refine existing scripts — a reality she stresses is the bulk of Hollywood writing. “If you’re writing for someone else, your job is to give them the best possible version of their idea,” she explained.

She also experimented with crowdfunding to bring her short film Debris to life. Originally seeking just $5,000, she raised nearly $20,000 — 330% over her goal. The film, centered on a cursed samurai sword that washes ashore after the Fukushima tsunami, struck a chord with audiences and festival juries alike. For Nicole, the campaign revealed the power of a strong concept: if the hook is intriguing, audiences will rally to see it made.

Her passion for character-driven storytelling shines in her approach to screenwriting. Nicole Jones Dion works from detailed outlines and insists on strong titles and character names before diving into pages. She draws from methods like Save the Cat and the mini-movie structure, blending them into her own system. For her, clarity in the outline stage prevents wasted effort later. She builds stories where protagonists and antagonists clash as equals, each the hero of their own narrative. “The antagonist is the engine of the whole story,” she noted, underscoring how much weight villains carry in shaping drama.

Nicole also cautions against soapbox storytelling, advocating instead for themes that pose questions rather than dictate answers. Whether tackling sci-fi adventures or occult horror, she wants stories to leave room for audiences to think and engage with the material. Her love for speculative fiction — tales that echo the spirit of The Twilight Zone — continues to guide her work, from her award-winning samurai scripts to the YA sci-fi of Stasis.

Through all of it, Nicole embodies the philosophy of persistence. She writes daily, often at night, and embraces the idea that growth never stops. Even after multiple films, she continues to study, refine her craft, and chase new challenges. From feature films to shorts, from crowdfunding campaigns to international distribution, her career is proof that genre filmmaking thrives on both discipline and passion.

Please enjoy my conversation with Nicole Jones-Dion.

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IFH 821: Filmmaking Without Permission: The Independent Journey of Clarke Scott

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Sometimes the most unexpected turns lead us to our true calling. On today’s episode, we welcome Clarke Scott, an Australian writer, director, and commercial photographer who stepped away from academia and corporate life to pursue the art of filmmaking. His path wasn’t straightforward, but out of its twists and setbacks emerged a filmmaker determined to carve his own way.

Clarke first discovered filmmaking while burned out in the Himalayas, working on a PhD in philosophy. A chance encounter with a cinematographer shooting a documentary on the Dalai Lama introduced him to the DSLR revolution that was reshaping independent film. It was a moment of revelation. Filmmaking offered a space where creativity and technical craft could coexist — a marriage of his artistic roots in music and poetry with his love of technology and problem-solving.

That spark led Clarke to build a career from the ground up, beginning with corporate and industrial video before turning toward narrative film. Eventually, he wrote, directed, shot, and edited his first feature, 1000 Moments Later, a completely independent production. He described the film as both an artistic challenge and a practical choice — an opportunity to create a story that meant something to him while gaining the hands-on experience of every stage of production. “At some point, I decided I wasn’t going to rely on anyone. I will do everything,” he said.

Throughout our conversation, Clarke emphasized the realities of working outside Hollywood. He spoke openly about choosing not to move to Los Angeles, even when the chance was there, because he knew it would mean compromising his creative voice. Instead, he focused on what he could build in Australia, working with limited budgets but maintaining full control over his vision. For him, the long game mattered more than short-term industry approval.

He also shared the lessons learned on set. One story in particular stood out: a difficult scene that stretched over two days, with weather turning stormy and an actor struggling to hit the right emotional note. Frustration ran high, but in the end, the raw energy of the struggle — combined with the dramatic backdrop of the storm — elevated the performance. Clarke’s eye for adapting to circumstance became as important as his direction, a reminder that resourcefulness is often the hidden key to independent filmmaking.

Beyond the anecdotes, Clarke offered hard-earned advice for filmmakers navigating the realities of the industry today. He warned against chasing unrealistic dreams of festivals like Sundance as a financial plan, urging instead a focus on building a body of work, finding an audience, and learning every part of the process. In his view, the strongest path forward is to create work that proves both your creative vision and your ability to finish what you start.

His approach is clear: use the tools available, leverage your community, and never wait for permission. Whether that means borrowing locations, persuading actors to work for back-end deals, or using today’s digital platforms to self-release, Clarke believes filmmakers have more opportunities than ever to make their work seen — if they are willing to do the hard work themselves.

In the end, Clarke Scott leaves us with a portrait of a filmmaker committed to telling stories his way, on his terms. His journey is proof that determination, creativity, and adaptability can turn even the smallest production into something meaningful.

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IFH 818: From Setbacks to Festival Wins: The Filmmaking Path of Dawn Fields

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The magic of cinema often begins in the unlikeliest of places. For Dawn Fields, it all started when she signed up as an extra on the film Love Potion No. 9. What was supposed to be a day in front of the camera became a lifelong passion for the world behind it. Watching the crew work, she realized her true calling wasn’t to act, but to create. That spark ignited a journey that would carry her from the film sets of Atlanta to the heart of Los Angeles, where she would build a career as a producer, writer, and director—one forged not by ease, but by relentless perseverance.

Dawn cut her teeth in the early 1990s, working on big productions in Georgia as Hollywood expanded into the South. She worked her way up as a production assistant, grinding through long hours and tough assignments until she eventually landed opportunities with major companies like Lucasfilm, Fox, and NBC. But even with those early credits, she quickly learned that the film industry is as unforgiving as it is intoxicating. Seeking greater opportunity, she packed her life into a U-Haul and drove across the country to Los Angeles with nothing guaranteed. That leap of faith marked the beginning of a new chapter—one filled with both remarkable experiences and the kind of hard lessons every filmmaker eventually faces.

Her early years in Los Angeles brought valuable experience in acquisitions and distribution, where she scouted films at festivals and courted agents. But the allure of production kept pulling her back. Founding her company, Palm Street Films, she launched projects that taught her the intricacies of independent filmmaking, from raising money to navigating the demands of pre-production. Her first big crowdfunding effort, Zombie Elves, became a crash course in audience engagement and marketing. The idea—a zombie outbreak at the North Pole—generated excitement, but Dawn soon realized that a strong fan base is essential long before a campaign launches. The project may not have hit its funding goals, but it gave her the foundation to succeed later.

The pivotal turning point came with Shattered Love, a powerful short script she developed from a contest. What began with enthusiasm spiraled into a nightmare of budget overruns, director clashes, and ultimately a shutdown mid-shoot. The experience was crushing. As Dawn recalls, “I was heartbroken. It was the most devastating thing that’s ever happened to me, and for a moment, I thought about walking away from the industry.” But instead of leaving, she doubled down. Recognizing that she lacked directing experience to fully protect her vision, she made the bold decision to step into the director’s chair herself.

Her determination led to 209, a hotel-room drama that she later expanded into Found. That film not only premiered at festivals but won awards, including Best Director. Suddenly, Dawn had the redemption she was looking for. She had proven to herself—and to the industry—that she could take a project from concept to recognition. This confidence opened the door to even more ambitious work, including Fragile Storm, a short starring veteran actor Lance Henriksen. Securing a name talent was a challenge, but it elevated the project’s profile and showed her that persistence in negotiation and preparation can yield remarkable opportunities.

Through each project, Dawn has built a body of work that reflects both her resilience and her growing voice as a filmmaker. She openly shares the lessons she’s learned along the way—like how physical perks in crowdfunding can eat up budgets, or how vital it is to know exactly what kind of film you’re making before cameras roll. She’s also passed her knowledge on through seminars and script contests, helping other filmmakers navigate the same hurdles she once faced.

The picture that emerges from her journey is not one of overnight success, but of a career carved out by sheer tenacity. Independent filmmaking is filled with obstacles—funding shortfalls, casting challenges, crew missteps—but Dawn’s story reminds us that every setback can be fuel for the next project. As she continues developing features and guiding new voices through Palm Street Films, her career stands as a reminder that filmmaking is not just about vision, but about the will to keep creating when everything seems stacked against you.

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IFH 816: From Extras to Director’s Chair: The Filmmaking Journey of Rocky Costanzo

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The making of films is less about capturing perfection and more about living through the process—messy, unpredictable, and deeply human. On today’s episode, we welcome Rocky Costanzo, a filmmaker who carved his path from television extra to independent director, learning each lesson of cinema the hard but honest way.

Rocky Costanzo is a filmmaker who began as a young actor but found his true passion behind the camera, crafting independent features that reflect both his resilience and devotion to storytelling.

His first encounters with film sets were not in lecture halls or classrooms, but in the background of television shows like The Wonder Years. What should have been a fleeting job became his first apprenticeship. Rocky recalls sneaking back on set during breaks, just to watch the crew arrange lights, position cameras, and orchestrate the magic of filmmaking. “I was just so fascinated by watching them setting up the lights and the camera,” he said, a moment that would forever shift his desire from being seen on screen to shaping the vision behind it.

Without the traditional structure of film school, Rocky leaned into resourcefulness. Public access television became his first real training ground. Borrowing cameras, experimenting with horror shorts, and airing his projects on local stations, he treated every attempt as an opportunity to fail, learn, and grow. In those early days, lighting a scene with hardware store lamps or creating dolly shots with rollerblades wasn’t just necessity—it was the spirit of independent filmmaking. This was his film school: raw, improvised, and endlessly instructive.

As he moved into feature films, Rocky discovered that each project carried its own unique education. His first taught him the importance of lighting, his second drilled in the hard realities of sound, and later projects revealed the subtleties of directing actors. Having come from an acting background himself, he understood the need for trust. Rather than dictating every move, he encouraged his cast to breathe life into their characters naturally. In his words, “I don’t want to be the puppeteer… I like to see them play, because I think it brings out a natural performance.”

Yet, filmmaking is not only about working with actors; it is about shaping a vision in the face of constraint. Rocky spoke candidly about the evolution of independent film—how digital technology made production more accessible, while simultaneously making distribution more difficult. Once, the battle was to gather enough crew and resources to shoot a film; now, the greater challenge is ensuring it gets seen. Still, Rocky insists that the principle remains unchanged: “Story, story, story—that’s what lasts.” Technology may alter the tools, but never the essence.

This commitment to story over spectacle is evident in his more recent project, Ditch Party. Unlike his earlier films, this was not born from his pen but handed to him as a director’s challenge. Set largely in one room, the film demanded restraint and focus, forcing the story to thrive on dialogue, tension, and human vulnerability. Rocky described the camera itself as becoming “another character,” confined with the students during a harrowing school tragedy. The limitations of the single location did not hinder the film—it sharpened it, reminding both filmmaker and audience that true power lies not in special effects or sweeping visuals, but in the raw immediacy of human drama.

For Rocky, filmmaking has always been about persistence. Whether improvising with low-budget equipment, navigating unfinished projects, or adapting to new roles, his journey is a living testament to resilience. “You just got to have the love, you got to have the passion. Gotta just want to make movies,” he reflected. Those words distill the filmmaker’s path into its simplest truth: passion is the only fuel that lasts.

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IFH 815: Lessons in Filmmaking, Failure, and Persistence with Greg Travis

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The universe has a funny way of holding onto a film like a dusty reel in the attic, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal it. On today’s episode, we welcome the endlessly persistent Greg Travis, a filmmaker who proves that good movies never die—they just take their sweet time getting made.

Greg Travis is a veteran actor, director, and comedian who’s worked with cinematic giants like David Lynch, Paul Verhoeven, and Milos Forman, while carving out a gritty, self-made path in indie film.

Greg’s journey is one of creative endurance. In high school, he picked up a Super 8 camera, made his first feature, and thought, “This is easy.” That optimism, of course, would be tested across a decades-long career in stand-up comedy, television, and film. But his true passion always pointed in one direction: directing. And that passion finally culminated in the long-delayed release of his 1984 feature, “Dark Seduction”—a black-and-white, film noir throwback with a bite of ‘80s vampire sleaze, now reborn on digital platforms.

“There’s a lot you could go back and say, well, I could have done this, I could have done that… but for the most part, I got what I was trying to get,” Greg shares about the film. He dives deep into the post-production war stories: funding shortfalls, lost momentum, technical delays, and rediscovering the original film negative decades later. The transfer to 2K revealed details he never imagined possible back when he shot on 16mm. Ironically, the very delay that nearly buried the film made it better—thanks to the evolution of digital technology.

Throughout the episode, Greg opens up about working with some of the best directors in the business. He recalls how Lynch would dab fake blood on his face himself, with meticulous attention to the smallest physical detail, while Verhoeven came at a scene with bold, striking visual choices. The common thread between these directors? Vision. A clear sense of tone and visual continuity that carried from script to screen. “Tone is hard,” Greg admits, “but it’s everything. That’s what holds a film together.”

As an actor-turned-director, Greg has a rare dual perspective. He understands how to read performance, adjust energy, and speak the language of character. He encourages young directors to take acting classes—not to become actors, but to understand the process, rhythm, and mental prep behind a scene. “Some actors drop character the minute you call cut, some need to stay in it. You have to respect that,” he says.

He also champions the art of improvisation—though not the lazy kind. He believes in having a script, a tight plan, and then leaving just enough room to discover something better on set. This was especially true in his film Midlife, which began with improv-heavy scenes and ended up being trimmed from two and a half hours to a tight, lean feature through sharp editing.

Greg’s reflections on writing are equally practical. His advice? Start with a detailed three-act outline. Give each scene a purpose before you write a single line of dialogue. “You’ve got to know what your character is going through at every point,” he explains. “If you don’t map it out, you’re just wandering.” He learned this from working with major producers like Brian Grazer, and it remains his go-to strategy for getting scripts production-ready.

His latest film, Dark Seduction, isn’t just a genre mashup—it’s a love letter to noir, cult horror, and practical filmmaking. With a 1940s detective vibe and a modern-day wink, it straddles eras, styles, and sensibilities. It’s filled with grit, humor, and a whole lot of personality—everything you’d want from a filmmaker who’s seen both sides of the Hollywood coin.

Greg’s story is a masterclass in playing the long game. It’s about sticking with your vision, even when it takes years—or decades—to see it realized. He’s not selling a shortcut to success; he’s offering a blueprint for survival and longevity in a brutally competitive industry.

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IFH 813: Building Films from Scratch: Mastering Microbudget Movie-Making with Evan Kidd

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Sometimes, the stars align not because you begged them to, but because you stopped waiting and just started filming. On today’s episode, we welcome the ever-resourceful Evan Kidd, an indie filmmaker whose down-to-earth creativity and fearless storytelling light a fire under any aspiring artist. Evan is the embodiment of what happens when resourcefulness meets soul.

Evan Kidd is a passionate filmmaker and storyteller whose work celebrates creative independence, community-driven production, and the power of authentic narratives told with whatever tools are available.

We tend to think that making a film requires a king’s ransom, but Evan dances with the spirit of what he calls “resource-based filmmaking.” No castles, no Hollywood gates, just a camera, a tight crew of true believers, and a story worth telling. The idea isn’t new. In fact, Evan draws inspiration from the likes of Robert Rodriguez and Richard Linklater, turning his attention to what he can do, rather than what he can’t. He reminds us that “You are as made as your team is made,” and that filmmaking, at its core, is more jazz than symphony—fluid, improvised, and unshakably soulful.

In this profound conversation, we have Evan Kidd, breaking down his approach to his feature film Son of Clowns—a micro-budget, soul-driven project shot in just ten days across the vibrant but cooperative cities of North Carolina. His production wasn’t built on money; it was built on trust. Locations weren’t bought, they were earned. Crews didn’t show up for the paycheck; they showed up for the mission. Evan didn’t simply direct a film—he directed a movement of belief. “Your team is your backbone,” he says, “and if they care about the story, they’ll carry it with you.”

The Zen of Evan’s filmmaking lies not in perfection but in adaptability. He shares how the most cinematic moment in Son of Clowns—a thundercloud punctuating a tense character scene—was a complete accident. And yet, it worked beautifully. Like the late afternoon rain on a summer’s day, it arrived uninvited but brought its own kind of grace. Filmmaking in the wild, he says, gives your work an authenticity no soundstage can replicate.

But beneath his technical prowess and planning lies a deeper wisdom: ego has no place on an indie set. “Check that shit at the door,” Evan warns with the calm certainty of someone who’s seen both chaos and clarity. A great film is not made in isolation but in communion—with your crew, with your environment, and most importantly, with yourself. He believes in leadership through humility, and his sets are a masterclass in creating space for others to shine.

Much of Evan’s strength comes from his refusal to let fear define the boundaries of his creativity. He speaks candidly about the paralysis of perfectionism and the myth of needing approval before doing your work. In a world that often rewards noise over substance, Evan is quietly building a legacy from the ground up—one rooted in sincerity, resilience, and unshakable love for the craft. As he puts it, “At the very least, if you try, you can say you tried. But if you don’t, that thought will haunt you.”

The truth is, most artists don’t need permission to begin. They just need to start. And Evan’s journey reminds us that the tools for transformation are often already in our hands—be it a borrowed camera, a loyal friend with time to spare, or a stormcloud rolling in at just the right moment.

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IFH 810: The No-Excuses Filmmaking Philosophy of Len Kabasinski

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It began, as it often does, in the hushed corridors of childhood imagination—monsters lumbering across the television screen while the rest of the world slept. In the quiet glow of late-night horror flicks, a young soul discovered the strange alchemy of cinema. On today’s episode, we welcome Len Kabasinski, a martial artist turned indie filmmaker whose films blend blood, bone, and the spirit of doing-it-yourself with gritty determination. Len is a B-movie legend, crafting low-budget action-horror films with the vigor of a man who knows that creativity isn’t about permission—it’s about pursuit.

From his first plunge into filmmaking with Swamp Zombies, Len Kabasinski knew that making a film wasn’t just about pointing a camera. It was an act of becoming—writer, director, producer, marketer, even actor. And unlike the dreamers who never make it past the couch, he threw himself headlong into the flames. Armed with a Canon GL2 and the reckless enthusiasm of someone too committed to quit, he crafted his debut. “I’m not interested in just being called a filmmaker,” he said. “I am one. This is what I do.”

It wasn’t about waiting for a golden invitation. For Len, filmmaking came with duct tape, missed calls, and wrestlers-turned-actors like Dan Severn battling zombies in the woods of Pennsylvania. He’s not coy about the chaos: missed actors, last-minute rewrites, and reshoots in the backyards of MMA legends. But like any warrior worth his salt, Len learned to fight with what he had. His method became a rhythm—build the team, shoot in blocks, rely on the extras, trust the plan. Not a single project escaped without scars, but none were left unfinished.

Perhaps the most telling truth came when he spoke of being creatively alive. For some, making movies is a resume; for Len, it’s oxygen. “It’s like sharks,” he said. “They swim forward all the time, and if not, they die.” This hunger kept him moving through Curse of the Wolf, Fist of the Vampire, and the revenge-fueled biker saga Hellcat’s Revenge. Each film grew leaner, sharper, more deliberate. Locations condensed. Casts were refined. Extras became the lifeblood of the visual world. If it couldn’t be controlled, it was reimagined. That was the ethic.

And then came the recognition—not from red carpets, but from cult fans, late-night screenings, and the digital frontier. As he prepared for the martial arts epic Challenge of the Five Gauntlets, it was clear that Len was done chasing approval. People were watching now not for gimmicks, but for him. “I don’t have to worry about trying to draw them in with something else,” he said, echoing a quiet triumph only an artist forged in fire can know.

Len Kabasinski isn’t interested in nostalgia, though he pays homage to the B-movie gods that birthed him. What he offers is grit and grace at the intersection of martial arts, micro-budget cinema, and unwavering drive. Even now, as Swamp Zombies 2 looms with its blend of Running Man mayhem and undead madness, you can feel the energy of a man who never stopped moving. He’s not here to prove anything. He’s just here—still making, still dreaming, still Len.

“If you’re not 1,000,000% in, it’s a no.” – Len Kabasinski

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IFH 809: No Budget, All Hustle: The Filmmaking Grind of Staci Layne Wilson

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There’s a peculiar thrill in watching a life unfold like a vintage film reel, colored with grit, glamour, and the groan of old rock records spinning in a smoky LA loft. On today’s episode, we welcome the multifaceted Staci Layne Wilson, a writer, filmmaker, and daughter of two celebrity parents whose life reads like a gothic Hollywood novella.

Staci Layne Wilson is an award-winning filmmaker, entertainment journalist, and author of the bestselling memoir So L.A.: A Hollywood Memoir, whose life experiences swirl together like a psychedelic dream on celluloid.

Born in Los Angeles and still a proud inhabitant, Staci’s story is a rare alchemy of nature and nurture. Her father, Don Wilson of the legendary instrumental band The Ventures, and her mother, a former pin-up model, gave her both the genes and the stage for a life draped in creative expression. Yet, as she shares, it wasn’t a direct shot into filmmaking. In fact, it was horseback riding—not film reels—that captivated her childhood heart. “Horses were my best friends,” she recalls, describing the grounding experience of caring for animals in a city defined by illusion. It’s in this juxtaposition—hoofbeats against Hollywood glitz—that her authentic voice begins to emerge.

Her path into film was, as with many worthwhile things, a beautiful accident. A writer of horror novels, she was tapped by film publications to review movies, eventually shifting from reviewing to making them. Her first film—an Edgar Allan Poe-inspired short—emerged from this new cinematic hunger, and she was hooked. There’s an almost Taoist rhythm to how she describes this evolution, not as ambition but as an organic unfolding: “It wasn’t something I woke up and decided to do. It just seemed like a natural evolution.”

Working with a tight network of artists she knew from her journalism days, she crafted films with minimal budgets but maximum creativity. Shot in five days, her features are pulpy, energetic, and unapologetically raw. She calls it a “Roger Corman style” of filmmaking—a nod to the late-night, grindhouse roots of LA’s indie scene. But beneath the kitsch and blood-splatter lies a real artistry. “To me, style in cinema speaks volumes,” she says, and it’s clear that for her, visual storytelling is a sacred language.

Her latest short, Psychotherapy, co-created with actress Brooke Lewis, dives into the psychological thriller realm with all the visual flair of De Palma’s Dressed to Kill. It’s won awards and caught fire on the festival circuit. But filmmaking is just one of her many brushes. Her memoir, So L.A., is an irreverent, heartfelt recollection of growing up amidst rock stars, alcoholic monkeys (yes, really), and the occasional trip to the Playboy Mansion. Staci writes about her parents with compassion and candor, peeling back the layers of celebrity mythos to reveal flawed, fascinating humans. “They don’t care who your parents are,” she says, speaking of horses—but the same seems true of her worldview. Fame is incidental. Truth is what matters.

As we sip from the many cups Staci offers—journalism, directing, memoir-writing—we begin to see a life lived not for the applause, but for the art. Whether she’s reminiscing about fake IDs at the Rainbow Bar and Grill or planning her next big swing: a long-overdue documentary on The Ventures, her father’s iconic band—she’s driven by curiosity, creativity, and, above all, confidence.

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IFH 807: Making Your Own Damn Movies: Inside Dave Campfield’s Troma-Fueled Filmmaking Path

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When two Daves walk into a podcast, you don’t expect to stumble upon a meditation on art, failure, persistence, and horror-comedy. But that’s exactly what happened in this electric and delightfully unfiltered conversation with Dave Campfield, a filmmaker, actor, and host of the Troma Now Podcast, best known for his work in the cult Caesar and Otto comedy-horror film series.

Dave Campfield is a fiercely independent filmmaker whose journey from a now-defunct film college in New Mexico to directing his own cult horror satires has been a long and winding road paved with hustle, humor, and horror.

We start in the sand-colored surrealism of Santa Fe, where adobe buildings and the ghost of City Slickers set the stage for Dave’s early filmmaking dreams. In the land of tumbleweeds and tumble-down gym studios turned sound stages, Dave cut his teeth not just on film but on the art of adaptation. The college no longer exists, but the memories—like chalk lines under studio lights—remain vivid in his story. “It was like going to school on Tatooine,” he says, laughing, but behind that joke is a bittersweet nod to the ephemeral.

From there, Dave walks us through the illusion of success—early meetings with Universal and New Line Cinema where hopes were dangled like carrots in front of eager young dreamers. The industry, he quickly learned, speaks its own coded language: familiarity, marketability, and sometimes, plain deception. One mentor told him to “say you’re young, from the streets, and have a dark comedy,” regardless of truth. Dave gave it a shot but came away with the haunting realization that “they were intrigued enough to keep me on leash, but not enough to make it happen.”

That experience seeded his first real film, “Dark Chamber,” a mystery-horror project which deliberately bucked slasher formulas. It took five years to make—five years of blood, sweat, and overdrafts. And yet, when the studios responded with, “We wanted something more familiar,” Dave knew he was swimming upstream. Still, he sold the film to a small distributor, endured its repackaging as something it wasn’t, and got it onto Netflix. A win—just not the one he envisioned.

But here’s the heart of it all: Dave didn’t stop. He pivoted, not with bitterness, but with evolution. “I decided I wasn’t going to be one of those people waiting for opportunity. You had to make it happen on your own.” And so, he leaned into comedy horror—a genre he describes as “Abbott and Costello meet Frankenstein, but for the splatter generation.” Thus, Caesar and Otto were born: two absurdly lovable doofuses bumbling their way through massacres, monsters, and paranormal mayhem.

One of Dave’s secret weapons is loyalty to what’s real. Whether recounting how Lloyd Kaufman forgot him (then remembered) or editing commercials for the Philadelphia Pet Expo, he keeps a kind of grounded magic about his craft. He shares a deeply personal new project, “Awaken the Reaper,” born from a decade of introspection and struggle, calling it “the most personal thing I’ve ever written.” He says, “It’s about being stuck—feeling like every day you’re not moving forward—and finally getting out of your own way.”

All along, Dave’s been quietly building a reputation for casting future stars before they break—Trey Byers (Empire), Peter Scanavino (Law & Order)—and hosting a podcast that thrives not just because of brand synergy with Troma, but because he genuinely knows how to talk to people. “They’ve never rejected an episode,” he remarks. “I tease Troma a lot, and they’re always game. It’s a beautiful collaboration.”

The conversation wraps not with grandiosity, but a recognition that even the smallest cult followings can keep a creator going. “My fanbase is small, but intense,” Dave says with pride. “I can rattle them off on two hands.” Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything.

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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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