Directing

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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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 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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IFH 796: No Film School, No Problem: Gary King’s Journey of Grit and Creativity

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Gary King is a filmmaker who transitioned from a career in psychology and human resources to independent cinema, building a body of work that balances heart, hustle, and deeply human storytelling.

Gary’s story unfolds not as a straight line, but as a rich weave of intuition, risk, and creative alignment. He didn’t attend film school—not out of rebellion, but because he didn’t know it existed as a real path. Yet, what he lacked in formal education, he made up for in lived experience, teaching himself the craft by actually making films. From his first feature “New York Lately” to a haunting indie gem titled “Among Us,” his journey is a testament to following that subtle inner pull, even when it defies logic or convention.

What stood out most was Gary’s devotion to character. He didn’t chase Hollywood formulas or pre-packaged three-act structures. Instead, he sculpted stories that breathe. Stories that fail and rise again. He spoke of actors, not as tools to carry his vision, but as living beings whose rhythms dictate the energy of a scene. “The first take might be gold for one actor, but the sixth take is where another actor finds their truth,” he said. That kind of awareness doesn’t come from reading screenwriting manuals. It comes from presence.

It’s no surprise that Gary gravitated toward stories with strong female leads. His commitment to representation isn’t a gimmick—it’s a reflection of his own lived dynamics. He and his wife uprooted their lives together, and it was her faith in him that seeded the beginning of his filmmaking path. When he pitched the idea of becoming a director, her response wasn’t fear—it was, “Okay, how do we make this happen?”

Every film Gary makes becomes his personal film school. No gatekeeping. No pedigree. Just the camera, the actor, the breath of a moment, and the sacred chaos of the edit room. One of the most beautiful sentiments he shared was how universal pain is the bridge to empathy. “You can tell a story about a Broadway dancer who never makes it, and someone who’s never danced a day in their life will see themselves in that struggle.”

And while his films may not be backed by million-dollar budgets or high-concept gimmicks, they pulse with something far rarer: authenticity. A humility that says, “I’m still learning.” A clarity that says, “This is who I am.” And perhaps most importantly, a humor that says, “Yes, I returned a porno tape to Blockbuster by accident, and no, I don’t regret it.”

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IFH 790: From Short to Feature: The Filmmaker’s Journey with Michael G. Kehoe

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On today’s episode, we welcome Michael G. Kehoe, a filmmaker who turned a whisper of an idea into the resounding voice of a feature film. From Brooklyn to Hollywood, from an eight-year-old boy watching his mother direct community theater to a director commanding his own set, Michael’s journey is one of persistence, heartbreak, and sheer creative will.

In this profound conversation, Michael G. Kehoe shares the winding road of his career, one marked by passion and loss. A pact among friends, the bright lights of New York, and the uncertainty of Los Angeles formed the backdrop to his early years. But it was a personal tragedy—the untimely passing of two close friends—that set the stage for his first short film, Second Dance. With no roadmap but a fierce determination, he crafted a story that not only resonated but landed him in the heart of Sundance, proving that even the smallest project can open the biggest doors.

The journey didn’t stop there. Years later, inspired by his twin boys’ innocent bedtime fears, he penned a horror story that would eventually become The Hatred. Rather than waiting for a green light from the industry, he carved his own path. He created Hush, a short film that distilled the very essence of fear—the anticipation of the unknown. The reaction was immediate. Audiences jumped, festivals awarded, and industry heavyweights, including the producers behind Halloween, took notice. The lesson? The industry rewards those who show, not just tell.

But success in Hollywood is rarely a straight road. Shooting The Hatred on a tight budget and an even tighter schedule meant adapting, improvising, and making every shot count. “Poverty breeds creativity,” Michael says, a testament to the resilience needed in independent filmmaking. Working with a largely female cast, he crafted a horror film that stood apart from the blood-soaked clichés, focusing instead on atmosphere, character, and tension. The result? A film that paid homage to the horror classics of the past while carving its own identity in the present.

Of course, filmmaking is a collaborative art. Michael speaks of the relationships that make the journey worthwhile—the actors who return to work with him time and again, the cinematographers who bring his visions to life, and the producers who take a chance on passion over pedigree. “Surround yourself with people smarter than you,” he advises. A lesson as true for life as it is for film.

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