Directing

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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IFH 789: The Indie Filmmaker’s Journey: Curt Wiser on Creativity, Persistence, and Making Cam Girl

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On today’s episode, we welcome Curt Wiser, a writer and director whose journey proves that the path to making movies doesn’t require a New York or Los Angeles zip code. From the sunny shores of Florida, Curt has forged his own cinematic destiny, creating the suspenseful and thought-provoking film Cam Girl—a story of isolation, control, and survival. But as with any journey worth taking, his was not without its trials.

Filmmaking is often romanticized as an artistic dreamland, yet reality demands perseverance. Curt Wiser spent years writing scripts, refining his vision, and navigating the labyrinth of independent film production. He understood a fundamental truth—great stories come from deep within the storyteller. The seed of Cam Girl was planted not in a boardroom or a Hollywood studio, but in the quiet hours of personal discipline, writing at night after long workdays, shaping ideas into something tangible. He described his creative process as a structured yet fluid endeavor, saying, “I outline thoroughly, but when I start writing, it just pours out. I wrote the first draft of Cam Girl in 14 days.” Passion fuels discipline, and discipline, in turn, fuels success.

His film, Cam Girl, takes a simple yet gripping premise—a woman working as a webcam performer who finds herself taken hostage—and transforms it into an intense, psychological unraveling. With one primary location and a tight cast, it is proof that compelling storytelling doesn’t require a blockbuster budget. The industry often pressures filmmakers to define themselves within a niche, to follow trends rather than intuition. But Curt remains steadfast in his desire to explore diverse narratives, aware that Hollywood loves to box artists in, but true creators resist those constraints.

Challenges are inevitable in both life and filmmaking, and Curt has encountered his fair share. Whether it was dealing with malfunctioning equipment, shifting schedules, or the ever-present financial constraints of independent cinema, he never allowed these obstacles to derail his vision. He understands that setbacks are not roadblocks, but rather, unexpected plot twists in the grand narrative of creation. “Filmmaking is like solving a puzzle while the pieces keep changing,” he mused. The lesson? You don’t control the waves, but you learn how to ride them.

Independent filmmaking is a test of patience, resilience, and the ability to pivot when necessary. Distribution, marketing, and audience reception all present their own set of challenges, but Curt embraces the uncertainty, knowing that each project is a stepping stone to the next. Cam Girl has found its way to audiences through Amazon and other platforms, an accomplishment that many filmmakers never reach. His approach to networking, to putting work out into the world, proves a vital point: persistence, not perfection, is what leads to opportunity.

Filmmakers, writers, and creatives alike can take inspiration from Curt’s journey. The industry is a maze, but the way through it is to keep moving. Too many aspiring artists get caught in the paralysis of waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect budget, the perfect conditions. But perfection is an illusion. Start where you are. Use what you have. Tell your story anyway.

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IFH 788: The Unscripted Journey of Steven Bernstein: From Cinematographer to Storyteller

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What if the greatest stories of our lives are the ones we never meant to write? On today’s episode, we welcome Steven Bernstein, a man whose journey through the world of cinema has been anything but predictable. A writer at heart, a cinematographer by accident, and a director by destiny, his career is a living testament to the art of surrendering to the unknown. From his early days at the BBC to the sets of Hollywood blockbusters, his story unfolds like an unplanned masterpiece—one that ultimately brought him full circle, back to the thing he always loved: writing.

In this profound conversation, Steven Bernstein recounts his journey from philosophy student to award-winning cinematographer, where his love of storytelling found an unexpected home behind the lens. He speaks of the curious ways life moves us, sometimes against our best-laid plans. “You tend to go with those things that are providing you income,” he muses, reflecting on how a passion for writing gave way to cinematography, leading him to films like Monster, Like Water for Chocolate, and Scary Movie 2. Yet, even as he shaped light and shadow for some of cinema’s most striking images, the writer within him never faded.

There is an undeniable poetry in the way Bernstein describes his work. He doesn’t just shoot a film; he composes it, layering meaning through framing, movement, and light. Every choice—a dolly push, a backlight, an asymmetrical composition—whispers something to the audience. It’s a language beyond words, one that he speaks fluently. “Everything to do with film is a language,” he explains. “And like any language, it’s made up of two parts: that which we present and that which we mean.”

His journey back to writing was not an easy one. After years of crafting imagery for others, he took a leap into directing his own films, starting with Decoding Annie Parker. It was a lesson in risk and resilience. At one point, he spent five years in poverty, refusing to return to the safety of cinematography. “If you hold out for the dream, maybe you achieve it,” he says. It is a stark reminder that the artist’s path is often one of sacrifice, but those who persist find themselves richer in ways beyond money.

Yet, Bernstein also understands the tension between art and commerce. Filmmaking is an expensive endeavor, and investors want guarantees. He describes the struggle of balancing creative vision with financial expectations, a dance between inspiration and limitation. And yet, some of the greatest filmmakers—Terry Malick, the Coen Brothers, Charlie Kaufman—have defied convention, proving that the most resonant stories often break the rules.

The conversation moves to the nature of collaboration, the unspoken alchemy that happens on a film set when everyone is in sync. He recalls moments from Monster, where the crew, sensing the gravity of a scene, chose to remain completely silent, whispering only when necessary. It was an unspoken agreement, an offering to the art being created. “It was one of the most magical moments I remember in any film I’ve ever worked on,” he recalls. It is a glimpse into the rare, sacred spaces where true storytelling happens—not in the scripts, but in the spaces between them.

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IFH 787: From Ultraviolent Wrestling to Transformative Filmmaking: The Story of Matthew T. Burns

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On today’s episode, we welcome Matthew T. Burns, an individual who embodies resilience, creativity, and reinvention. Known to wrestling fans as “Sick Nick Mondo,” Matthew has transitioned from his legendary career in ultraviolent wrestling to become a filmmaker, storyteller, and advocate for the art of storytelling. His journey is nothing short of a profound odyssey, weaving together themes of passion, pain, and redemption.

The conversation begins with an exploration of Matthew’s early days in professional wrestling. Growing up in Pennsylvania, he was drawn to the raw, unfiltered world of ECW wrestling—a stage of audacity and grit that mirrored his burgeoning desire to push boundaries. This rebellious spirit carried him into the extreme realm of deathmatch wrestling, where stunts with glass, barbed wire, and even weed whackers became his calling card. Yet, this wasn’t just about shock value; as Matthew shared, “In the chaos of the ring, I found a strange, unrelenting clarity.”

Matthew’s career in wrestling, however, wasn’t without consequence. A pivotal moment came during a deathmatch tournament where a dangerous stunt left him severely injured. Despite his physical and emotional scars, he chose to leave wrestling on his own terms, marking the beginning of a profound personal transformation. Wrestling may have been his proving ground, but storytelling became his sanctuary.

This shift led Matthew to pursue filmmaking, where he channeled his experiences into his debut film, The Trade. A blend of documentary and scripted storytelling, the film delves into his wrestling career and the connection he shares with Rory, a younger wrestler who idolized him and even adopted his persona in the ring. Their shared journey—a mix of admiration, mentorship, and cautionary wisdom—forms the emotional core of the project. Reflecting on this, Matthew remarked, “I never wanted my story to become someone else’s pain.”

As the conversation unfolds, Matthew reflects on his time in Japan, where he immersed himself in the film industry. He shares the highs and lows of navigating a foreign culture while honing his craft, emphasizing the importance of adaptability and perseverance. From acting roles to operating cameras, Matthew’s journey in Japan became a crucible for refining his artistic vision.

Now back in the United States, Matthew’s focus is on bringing The Trade to broader audiences while exploring new creative ventures. He’s brimming with optimism and gratitude for the lessons learned along the way. “Every chapter,” he says, “teaches us something vital about the next.

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