Film Production

IFH 874: Do You Really Need Film School to Become a Filmmaker? with Miranda Sajdak

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There is a question almost every aspiring filmmaker eventually encounters: Do I actually need film school? It sounds simple until you realize filmmaking careers rarely follow straight lines. Some people spend years studying cinema before entering the industry. Others begin carrying equipment, grabbing coffee, and learning everything through the beautiful chaos of a working set. Miranda Sajdak, a writer, producer, and director who has worked across studio productions, independent films, television, development, and her own creative projects, has experienced enough sides of the business to understand that there isn’t one correct answer.

Miranda knew she wanted to make movies from childhood. Her mother took her to see A League of Their Own, and something about watching women become the center of that story immediately connected with her. She walked out of the theater knowing she wanted filmmaking to become her life. That desire eventually took her to Columbia, where film school provided something beyond textbooks and lectures. It gave her access to other filmmakers, practical experience on graduate student productions, an understanding of set etiquette, and professors who helped narrow the overwhelming universe of cinema into material worth studying.

But Miranda is careful not to turn her experience into a universal prescription. Film school helped her, but that doesn’t mean everybody needs it. Plenty of filmmakers learn cameras, filmmaking history, theory, and set protocol independently. Others simply begin working. What matters is understanding where you want to go and determining which path gives you the skills, relationships, and experience necessary to get there. Miranda’s film-school experience ultimately helped prepare her to work as a PA on productions including The Bourne Ultimatum and Cloverfield.

Those jobs also reinforced another truth about the industry: relationships matter. Miranda recalls that one opportunity likely came through a production-office application while another came through a referral. As she puts it, many jobs in the film industry come down to networking and who you know. But networking isn’t simply collecting contacts at parties. The most valuable networking happens when people know how you work. Someone sees that you’re reliable, professional, and capable under pressure, and when another production needs somebody, your name enters the conversation.

Working on studio movies also gave Miranda an interesting comparison with independent filmmaking. Both environments are ultimately trying to accomplish the same thing—tell a story—but the scale changes everything. A union studio production has larger departments, specialized crews, more resources, and potentially far more time for individual shots. On an indie film, the director or producer might suddenly find themselves solving problems that would normally belong to an entire department. Miranda loves that hands-on quality because it allows filmmakers to understand practically every corner of production.

And sometimes those problems become completely absurd.

Miranda recalls producing a film in upstate New York during winter where the climactic scene required a teenage girl to help a horse give birth. The production was filming on a horse farm with pregnant horses, so everything initially seemed manageable—until they discovered that the horse wasn’t going to give birth during their shooting schedule. Suddenly Miranda had to locate another pregnant horse that looked similar enough, find a farm whose location could match, and somehow coordinate the production around an event that couldn’t be scheduled precisely.

There wasn’t modern mobile internet to rescue her. Miranda picked up a landline, opened the Yellow Pages, and started calling horse farms. Within roughly an hour, she had two possibilities. The production eventually found a horse about to give birth, moved the crew, captured the sequence on film, and got the movie made. It’s a wonderfully ridiculous example of what producing actually means. Nobody hands you a manual explaining what to do when the horse in your climax refuses to cooperate. You solve the problem in front of you.

Miranda’s television experience provided a different education. Working as an assistant on shows including Huge and China, IL taught her not only about writing but about the business surrounding writers. Writers often create alone, but television and filmmaking are collaborative industries. Networks give notes. Studios request changes. Characters disappear. Scenes get rewritten. A writer who treats every sentence as sacred is going to struggle. Miranda emphasizes the importance of humility: “There will be rewrites. There will be a lot of rewrites.”

That philosophy eventually extended into creating her own opportunities. Miranda and producer Sandra Leviton formed Script Chicks after leaving coordinator positions to pursue producing independently. The challenge was painfully familiar to indie filmmakers: passion projects don’t necessarily pay the rent. They needed flexible work that would allow them to continue writing, directing, and producing. Their years of development experience gave them something valuable they could sell—professional screenplay coverage. The business became a way of keeping the lights on while continuing to pursue their filmmaking goals.

That may be one of the most useful lessons in Miranda’s story. A filmmaking career isn’t always built by doing one job continuously until Hollywood finally notices. Sometimes you PA on studio movies. Sometimes you read scripts. Sometimes you assist writers. Sometimes you produce somebody else’s project so you can finance your own. Sometimes you start a business because the business gives you enough freedom to continue creating.

Eventually Miranda realized that although she had spent years writing, producing, and working throughout the industry, she had drifted away from the original dream that brought her there: directing. So she wrote another short, gathered trusted readers who weren’t afraid to criticize the screenplay, started assembling a cast, and began crowdfunding an action project. Rather than waiting for the perfect circumstances, she started moving toward the work she actually wanted to make.

The path into filmmaking may begin at film school, on a PA job, inside a writers’ room, or with a camera in your bedroom. Miranda’s journey suggests that the specific doorway matters less than what you do after walking through it. Learn how sets work. Build genuine relationships. Listen to notes. Lose the ego. Become resourceful. Find ways to financially survive while you’re developing your craft. And when you realize you’ve wandered away from the reason you wanted to make movies in the first place, find your way back to it.

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IFH 873: Film School Won’t Teach You This About Making Movies with Jason Kartalian

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There is a version of filmmaking that exists in textbooks, classrooms, diagrams, and carefully planned shot lists. Then there is the version where you’re racing against the clock, somebody can’t make the shot work, a hard drive suddenly dies, the location isn’t cooperating, and twelve pages still need to be photographed before the day ends. Jason Kartalian understands that second version very well. A producer, writer, and director known for films including Driller and Seahorses, Jason has spent his career navigating the beautiful chaos of independent filmmaking, where creativity isn’t simply an artistic advantage—it is often the thing that allows the movie to survive.

Jason’s relationship with filmmaking began unusually early. His father, Buck Kartalian, was a working character actor whose credits included the original Planet of the Apes, Cool Hand Luke, and The Outlaw Josey Wales. Jason remembers visiting sets as a kid, watching crews construct worlds and seeing how scenes were assembled piece by piece. His family encouraged that curiosity. He made ridiculous movies for family gatherings, experimented with VHS cameras and Super 8, and eventually discovered that he was more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it. Watching the unpredictable life of a working actor also influenced him. Filmmaking offered the possibility of becoming the person who could initiate the work instead of always waiting for someone else’s permission.

That upbringing also shaped how Jason approaches actors. On his first feature, originally called Pedestrian and later released as One False Step, he even directed his father alongside experienced character actors. The experience taught him humility. Rather than obsessing entirely over cameras, lenses, and technical perfection, Jason believes filmmakers have to remember what all those tools are supposed to accomplish: make the audience feel something. The writing, performance, camera, lighting, and production design are different pieces of the same emotional machine. A technically impressive image means very little if the human truth inside the scene has disappeared.

That philosophy becomes especially important on a low-budget set, where time is often the most precious resource. Jason warns against burning hours capturing endless coverage that may never appear in the finished movie. He remembers watching a production spend an extraordinary amount of time repeatedly filming an actor entering a doorway, only to discover that the entrance wasn’t even used in the final cut. His own philosophy is much more pragmatic: capture the scene. When the clock is working against him, Jason likes getting the entire sequence in a master shot first. “At least we got the scene,” is essentially the logic. Once the story exists on camera, additional coverage can improve it—but the movie can survive if circumstances suddenly change.

The ability to survive those changes may be one of the defining skills of independent filmmaking. Jason recalls making Driller at night on a Malibu ranch while dealing with cold temperatures, difficult conditions, snakes, tarantulas, bees, and actors running around in minimal clothing. His response was to dream about making his next movie almost entirely indoors. But controlled locations simply introduced different problems. That’s filmmaking. Solve one obstacle and another appears. What matters is the team surrounding you. Jason puts it simply: “Filmmaking is about dealing with adversity.” When actors, producers, camera crews, and other collaborators trust one another and remain committed to solving problems together, the production becomes much harder to stop.

Jason also believes indie directors benefit from knowing how the machinery around them works. He doesn’t necessarily want to serve as his own cinematographer, but he knows cameras, lighting, lenses, sound, and basic grip equipment well enough that he’s not helpless when something goes wrong. That knowledge isn’t about controlling everybody else’s department. It’s about understanding what is possible and preventing the entire movie from becoming dependent on one individual. The same philosophy extends beyond production. Jason stresses the importance of putting agreements in writing, collecting footage at the end of every shooting day, and keeping multiple backups throughout post-production. Those aren’t glamorous lessons, but losing your movie because one drive dies is considerably less glamorous.

His experience also left him with a complicated view of film school. Jason attended California State University, Northridge, and valued parts of the experience—particularly writing and connecting with interesting professors—but says much of what he learned about actually making movies came from being on sets. Cameras and shot terminology can be taught. The harder lessons involve diplomacy, leadership, collaboration, creative problem-solving, and developing a unique perspective. He believes filmmakers can increasingly create their own education by listening to experienced people, volunteering on productions, studying the craft, and then putting that knowledge into practice. The objective isn’t merely learning how everyone else makes movies. It’s discovering what makes your perspective different.

That individuality carries directly into Jason’s screenwriting process. He likes outlines and understands traditional structure, but he doesn’t want structure to overpower character. He develops the smaller details—what someone wears, what they drink, their habits and idiosyncrasies—and allows those discoveries to influence the screenplay. With Seahorses, the process became even more collaborative when he rehearsed with actors and incorporated elements of their backgrounds into rewrites. Even the film’s visual language reinforced its central concept: water imagery, lighting choices, production design, performance, and the screenplay all worked together around the metaphor of the seahorse.

Perhaps the purest expression of Jason’s philosophy is Seahorses itself. He largely self-funded the film with money earned from other work because it was deeply personal to him. He says he reached a point where he didn’t even care whether anybody saw it—he needed to make it for himself. The film went on to receive festival recognition and reach audiences internationally. Jason ultimately self-distributed rather than surrendering the film’s rights for a lengthy period, but that experience revealed another uncomfortable truth: putting a movie onto a platform isn’t the finish line. Availability isn’t awareness. The filmmaker still has to generate attention and convince people that the movie deserves their time.

That’s why Jason’s journey is such a useful reminder for independent filmmakers. Learn the tools, but don’t worship them. Protect your footage. Understand the jobs around you. Build a crew you trust. Develop characters before obsessing over plot mechanics. Put resources into what the audience will actually see. And above all, make something you genuinely care about. Nobody watching the finished movie will see the exhaustion, broken equipment, arguments, budget compromises, or sleepless nights that went into creating it. As Jason beautifully observes, “They don’t see the pain and suffering… They see what we show them.” That is both the cruelty and the magic of filmmaking.

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IFH 872: How One of the WORST Movies Ever Made Became a Cult Classic with Jackey Neyman

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There is something beautifully unpredictable about independent filmmaking. A movie can arrive with enormous expectations and disappear within months, while another film made with almost no money, questionable equipment, and a group of inexperienced filmmakers can somehow survive for generations. Few films demonstrate that better than Manos: The Hands of Fate. Jackey Neyman was only six years old when she appeared in the film, giving her a front-row seat to a production that would eventually become one of the most infamous cult movies ever made. Jackey is an actress, artist, and producer who not only witnessed the creation of Manos but decades later returned to its strange cinematic universe to help create Manos Returns.

The original Manos production represents independent filmmaking stripped down to its most basic ingredients: people, whatever equipment they could access, and an almost unreasonable determination to finish a movie. Jackey’s father was involved in community theater when filmmaker Hal Warren approached him about the project. The production needed a little girl, so six-year-old Jackey joined the cast. But her family contributed considerably more than performances. Her father was also responsible for sets, props, and costumes, while the production borrowed their furniture, car, and even their Doberman. There wasn’t an elaborate production infrastructure surrounding the movie. Jackey remembers the cast keeping their bag lunches in an old refrigerator because there was no craft service. Most of the filming happened at night or on weekends. For a young Jackey, however, that environment provided an early education in the difference between what happens in front of the camera and the enormous amount of activity audiences never see.

Then came the premiere—and perhaps the first indication that Manos wasn’t going to become the movie everyone hoped. Warren certainly knew how to manufacture excitement. There were searchlights outside the theater, a red carpet, a limousine, local officials, and even autograph seekers. Jackey and her father found seats roughly five rows from the screen. As the film began, however, the atmosphere changed. The audience started reacting to what they were seeing, first with whispers and then with laughter. Jackey was simply excited to see herself in a movie until her character appeared. Hearing herself on screen horrified her. She remembers her face becoming hot before she burst into tears and sat through the remainder of the premiere miserable.

Yet there is another side to the story that independent filmmakers should appreciate. According to Jackey, Warren understood that he wasn’t making a great movie—but he was still attempting to make the best movie he could. More importantly, Manos wasn’t supposed to be his final achievement. Warren imagined the film as the beginning of something larger. He believed the production might demonstrate that El Paso could support filmmaking and potentially help establish a local film industry. That ambition may have exceeded his resources and experience, but the instinct behind it remains familiar to indie filmmakers everywhere. Sometimes the first movie isn’t supposed to be the masterpiece. Sometimes its purpose is simply to prove that you can finish one.

After Manos disappeared, nearly everyone involved tried to move on. Jackey says nobody wanted to talk about the movie, and for years she believed she would never see it again. Then something happened that no filmmaker involved in the original production could possibly have planned: Mystery Science Theater 3000 aired the movie. Suddenly, Manos had an audience. The film’s technical shortcomings and bizarre creative choices became exactly what made people fascinated by it. What had once been an embarrassment slowly transformed into cult-film history. Fans started discussing it, creating artwork, staging productions, and building an entire culture around a movie that had essentially been forgotten.

Eventually that audience created an opportunity almost nobody could have predicted: making another Manos movie. But Jackey and the team behind Manos Returns faced an unusual creative problem. How do you follow a movie famous largely because of its mistakes? Their answer was not to deliberately make another bad film. Jackey explains that the original couldn’t simply be recreated because its strange qualities came from an earnest attempt by inexperienced filmmakers to make something ambitious. Instead, Manos Returns would acknowledge that history while becoming its own movie. Jackey returned, her father filmed scenes at age 80, and the filmmakers sought ways to reconnect the new production with surviving members and families from the original.

Getting the sequel made also demonstrates how dramatically independent filmmaking has changed. Instead of relying entirely on traditional investors, the filmmakers launched a Kickstarter campaign with a base goal of $24,000. Jackey quickly discovered that running a crowdfunding campaign could become a full-time job. Rachel Jackson managed the Kickstarter and press outreach alongside Jackey and director Tonjia Atomic. Director of photography Joe Sherlock contributed graphics, while editor and screenwriter Steve Foley worked on campaign videos. The team divided responsibilities rather than expecting one filmmaker to somehow manage production, publicity, crowdfunding, editing, graphics, and social media simultaneously. For filmmakers considering crowdfunding, that may be one of the most practical lessons in the conversation: the campaign itself is a production.

The filmmakers also understood exactly what additional funding could accomplish. Their experienced low-budget team believed they could make the movie at the base level, but additional money could improve costumes, expand the production, bring in more collaborators, and ultimately put greater production value on the screen. That’s the reality of indie filmmaking. A larger budget doesn’t automatically create a better movie, but additional resources in the hands of experienced filmmakers can buy time, flexibility, talent, and options. Jackey’s philosophy remained straightforward: whatever amount they raised, they were going to make the best film possible with it.

Perhaps that’s why the story of Jackey Neyman and Manos: The Hands of Fate remains so fascinating for filmmakers. The original movie failed by almost every conventional measurement, disappeared for decades, and then somehow returned to become more culturally recognizable than countless technically superior films from the same era. Its second life created books, artwork, stage productions, fan communities, and eventually another feature film. Filmmakers spend enormous amounts of energy trying to predict what audiences will want, but Manos is a reminder that once a movie enters the world, its journey can become completely unpredictable. You can’t guarantee that your film will succeed. You can’t guarantee critics will understand it. You can’t even guarantee that audiences will find it when you release it. The one thing you can control is whether you actually finish the damn movie and give it a chance to find an audience.

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IFH 870: He Waited 11 YEARS to Make His Movie—Then Jimmy Kimmel Changed Everything with Don Barris

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Hollywood has always sold aspiring filmmakers and performers the fantasy of being discovered. You write the perfect screenplay, perform at the right club, meet the right producer, and suddenly someone gives you permission to have a career. But Don Barris built his career around a completely different philosophy: if nobody is coming to discover you, create something they can’t ignore. Don is a comedian, filmmaker, producer, podcaster, longtime Comedy Store performer, and one of the creative forces behind the cult comedy Windy City Heat. His journey through Hollywood is a fascinating example of what can happen when creators stop waiting for traditional opportunities and start manufacturing their own.

Don’s path didn’t begin with a carefully designed filmmaking career. He was performing stand-up at the Comedy Store and gradually realized that nobody was going to magically walk into the room, recognize his talent, and put him in a movie. While hosting the Comedy Store’s potluck night, he noticed something interesting about audiences. Some of the biggest laughs weren’t coming from the polished comedians. They were coming from unusual personalities—the unpredictable characters who seemed completely unlike everyone else. Don began assembling some of those personalities into his own show, originally called Simply Don. Instead of waiting for Hollywood to create a vehicle for him, he started building one himself. The project developed for years before Jimmy Kimmel eventually noticed what Don and his collaborators were doing.

That opportunity took far longer than most aspiring filmmakers would expect. After leaving Michigan for California, Don made a commitment that he wasn’t going to quit. There were periods when his career was going nowhere. He was even kicked out of the Comedy Store and spent stretches of more than six months living in his car. But he continued performing and developing his material. Most importantly, he kept working on the strange comedic universe that would eventually become Windy City Heat. Don says it took 11 years from the beginning of that process until the movie was finally made. That’s the part of filmmaking careers audiences rarely see. They see the finished film, festival premiere, television appearance, or successful deal. They don’t see the decade of experimentation that came before it.

Jimmy Kimmel eventually recognized the potential in what Don had created and wanted to turn it into a movie. The result was Windy City Heat, one of the strangest experiments in comedy filmmaking. The premise essentially placed Perry Caravello inside a movie without fully understanding that the entire production was an elaborate prank built around him. Cameras could exist naturally because Perry believed he was making a legitimate film, while additional footage could be explained as behind-the-scenes coverage. Don describes the concept as the reverse of Andy Kaufman: instead of one performer playing a trick on the entire audience, practically the entire audience understands the joke while one person doesn’t. That concept turned Windy City Heat into something sitting somewhere between a feature comedy, mockumentary, hidden-camera experiment, and real-world performance.

From a filmmaking perspective, the production created an unusual challenge: many moments effectively had one take. When you’re shooting an elaborate prank involving someone who doesn’t know exactly what’s happening, you can’t simply reset the scene and ask everyone to perform it again. Don specifically remembers moments like the snack-table sequence because nobody knew precisely how Perry would react. If he suddenly realized something was wrong or refused to continue, the entire setup could collapse. That unpredictability became part of the movie’s energy. Instead of controlling every performance in the traditional filmmaking sense, the filmmakers created scenarios, positioned cameras, established the world, and then allowed reality to provide the reaction.

What happened after the movie was equally unexpected. Windy City Heat developed a passionate cult following, helped enormously by Jimmy Kimmel, who Don says would buy cases of the movie and give copies to people he thought would appreciate it. Eventually, filmmakers and performers began discovering it through word of mouth. Don recalls Quentin Tarantino enthusiastically discussing the movie and introducing Eli Roth to him backstage at Jimmy Kimmel Live. Jack Black also became a supporter of Don and the Big Three. For independent filmmakers, there’s an important lesson buried inside those stories. A movie doesn’t always find its audience during its initial release window. Some films slowly develop reputations because passionate viewers become their marketing department, repeatedly introducing the work to other people.

Don’s experience also demonstrates how much the filmmaking business has changed. He became increasingly interested in podcasting after watching creators such as Adam Carolla and Joe Rogan develop direct relationships with their audiences. To Don, the internet represented something filmmakers and performers previously didn’t have: their own distribution and promotional infrastructure. Instead of creating a pilot and hoping an executive chooses it, creators can make shows, podcasts, videos, and other projects themselves. Those projects can attract audiences, and those audiences can eventually support larger work. The principle is essentially the same one Don followed before Windy City Heat: don’t build your entire career around waiting for somebody else to say yes.

That mindset becomes especially relevant when Don talks about his plans to create his own entertainment network. He imagines an operation capable of producing podcasts, short-form videos, longer shows, pilots, and eventually movies. Because of his years working in comedy, he also has relationships with performers who might normally cost productions enormous amounts of money but are willing to participate because of those personal connections. That’s another practical filmmaking lesson that rarely receives enough attention. Independent production isn’t only about raising money. Relationships are production value. The people you’ve worked with, helped, entertained, and built trust with can sometimes give a small production access to talent and resources its budget could never otherwise afford.

The career of Don Barris isn’t a traditional roadmap into filmmaking, and that’s exactly why it’s useful. He didn’t follow the standard path from film school to assistant job to studio project. He created comedy, found unusual collaborators, developed a concept for years, connected with Jimmy Kimmel, helped turn that concept into a cult movie, and then continued experimenting with podcasts, pilots, live shows, and digital content. The larger filmmaking lesson is simple: make your own opportunities. Create the pilot. Shoot the short. Build the audience. Develop relationships. Keep producing work even when nobody appears interested. Sometimes the project that finally opens the door is the one you’ve been quietly building for eleven years.

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IFH 868: How The Asylum Makes Movies That Actually Make Money with David M. Latt

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Most independent filmmakers spend years trying to get one movie made. David M. Latt helped build a company designed to make movies continuously. As co-founder of The Asylum, the independent studio behind Sharknado, Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, Z Nation, and hundreds of other productions, David represents a very different side of filmmaking—one where creativity, production, distribution, marketing, and financial survival all have to operate together. His story is less about waiting for Hollywood to approve a project and more about constructing a system that allows filmmakers to keep working.

The Asylum didn’t begin with a sophisticated business plan. David and his partners had lost their jobs around the same time and simply knew they wanted to continue making movies. For years they worked out of an apartment, taking whatever opportunities came their way. The company initially released art-house films before creating relationships with major video retailers and eventually moving into genre filmmaking. One of the most important turning points came when they realized they couldn’t compete with larger distributors offering filmmakers substantial minimum guarantees. Instead of fighting for finished movies, they decided to make their own. An investor helped finance an initial group of low-budget horror projects, and the business gradually became a cash-flow operation where revenue from existing movies helped finance the next slate.

That production model explains one of the most interesting philosophies David shares: The Asylum doesn’t necessarily think of itself as making “small movies.” It thinks of itself as making large concepts under strict financial limitations. Rather than designing scripts around four characters trapped in a room because that’s cheap, the company embraces monsters, disasters, submarines, oceans, visual effects, massive action, and whatever else the story requires. “We’re not making a low budget film. We’re just making a big budget film on a budget,” he explains. The limitations are real, but instead of automatically shrinking the concept, the production team searches for creative ways to achieve it.

The other half of the equation is financial discipline. Because The Asylum operates as both producer and distributor, the company frequently knows what a movie is worth before production begins. If a film has already been pre-sold for a certain amount, David’s job as producer is brutally straightforward: make the movie for less than the guaranteed revenue while accounting for company overhead. That sounds obvious, yet it runs against a filmmaking culture where budgets frequently expand based on creative ambition rather than realistic revenue. The Asylum survives because the production budget follows the economics of the marketplace. As David puts it, they haven’t lost money because he simply refuses to spend more than they have.

That buyer-driven approach also changes how projects are developed. The Asylum usually doesn’t sit around brainstorming random movie concepts or waiting for writers to submit scripts. Networks, distributors, and buyers tell them what kind of content they need, and The Asylum develops projects specifically for those opportunities. If a network wants a movie involving sharks and a storm, the company manufactures the screenplay internally rather than hoping someone happens to submit exactly that idea. This is why David repeatedly explains that The Asylum rarely accepts unsolicited scripts. The creative process begins with understanding what the buyer needs, then finding filmmakers and writers who can turn that requirement into something entertaining.

No example demonstrates the unpredictability of filmmaking better than Sharknado. By the time the movie arrived, The Asylum had already produced around 150 films. Nobody inside the company believed this particular project would become a cultural phenomenon. David admits he initially didn’t fully understand the screenplay and worried that its comedic tone was too far outside the company’s usual approach. Casting was difficult because actors didn’t want their names associated with something called Sharknado. The production even used another working title while trying to secure talent. Yet Sci-Fi strongly believed in the concept, David trusted the buyer, and the movie went forward. What looked like another routine production became the project that transformed public awareness of The Asylum.

That unpredictability is also why the company keeps producing. David’s philosophy isn’t built around finding one perfect film that changes everything. It’s about repeatedly stepping to the plate. After approximately 150 movies, one happened to become Sharknado. The lesson isn’t that filmmakers should deliberately manufacture ridiculous viral concepts; it’s that nobody truly knows what audiences will embrace. The more sustainable strategy is to control costs, understand the marketplace, keep creating, and give yourself multiple opportunities for a project to connect.

The conversation becomes even more relevant when David discusses The Asylum’s expansion into television. As DVD, Blu-ray, and traditional VOD economics weakened, the company recognized that audience behavior was moving toward episodic content and binge viewing. Rather than stubbornly protecting the old model, The Asylum adapted, eventually producing Z Nation for Sci-Fi. That transition required operating at a larger scale, but it reflected the same philosophy that built the company in the first place: follow where the audience and the buyers are going, remain flexible, and don’t become emotionally attached to a distribution model simply because it worked yesterday.

Perhaps the most practical advice David offers has nothing to do with sharks, budgets, or visual effects. It’s about relationships. The film industry, he argues, is built through people. Go to festivals. Attend seminars. Go to parties. Shake hands. Meet filmmakers, producers, executives, writers, and crew members. Sending resumes only goes so far. Opportunities often emerge because someone remembers that you were reliable, enthusiastic, professional, and ready when the right project appeared. The Asylum itself grew through relationships, changing markets, unexpected deals, and the willingness to say yes when an opportunity made sense.

In the end, David M. Latt offers independent filmmakers something far more useful than a formula for creating another Sharknado. He provides a case study in sustainability. Know what your movie is worth. Control the budget. Build infrastructure. Understand your buyers. Adapt when markets change. Surround yourself with people who know how to execute. And above all, keep making movies. Because in independent filmmaking, the project that changes everything is often impossible to predict until after you’ve made it.

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IFH 860: Hollywood’s Book Whisperer Reveals Why Most Scripts Never Sell with Lane Shefter Bishop

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One of the biggest misconceptions about writing is that great stories sell themselves. Most writers assume that if the script is good enough, eventually someone will recognize its brilliance. The reality is much harsher. Before anyone reads page one, before they evaluate the dialogue, the characters, or the structure, they first need a reason to care. That reason often comes down to a single sentence. In this conversation with Lane Shefter Bishop, a producer and development executive known throughout Hollywood as “The Book Whisperer,” the discussion revolves around one deceptively simple concept: if you can’t clearly explain your story, you probably don’t fully understand it yet.

Lane’s journey through the entertainment industry is anything but conventional. She worked throughout Hollywood in a variety of roles, from studio assistant positions to directing and producing, eventually becoming a specialist in developing books for film and television adaptation. Along the way she discovered something surprising. The projects that moved fastest were rarely the ones with the longest manuscripts or most detailed pitches. They were the projects with the clearest concepts. Whether she was setting up a project with major producers or pitching unpublished material to executives, success often depended on reducing hundreds of pages into a single compelling idea.

What makes Lane’s perspective particularly valuable is that she often acquires material before the books are even completed. Instead of waiting for finished manuscripts, she evaluates proposals, outlines, and partial drafts. That means she frequently makes decisions based almost entirely on the strength of a concept. For filmmakers and screenwriters, this offers an important lesson. Industry professionals are constantly searching for ideas that can be communicated quickly and understood immediately. Complexity is not always an advantage. Clarity is.

The central theme of the conversation revolves around the logline. While many writers treat the logline as a marketing tool created after the screenplay is finished, Lane argues that it should exist before the writing process even begins. She describes the logline as the rudder of the story—the mechanism that keeps the narrative pointed in the right direction. Without it, writers often drift into what she calls “event-to-event storytelling,” where scenes happen one after another without a clear objective driving the narrative forward.

One of the most useful frameworks she shares is that every strong logline contains three essential elements: the protagonist, what the protagonist wants, and what is at stake. While this sounds simple, it immediately exposes weaknesses in many scripts. Writers frequently know who their protagonist is and what they are trying to accomplish, but they neglect the consequences of failure. Without meaningful stakes, audiences have no reason to become emotionally invested. If nothing significant happens when a character fails, the story loses its urgency.

This insight extends beyond pitching and into screenplay development itself. During the conversation, several examples emerge where the process of building a logline reveals structural problems in the script. If a writer cannot identify the central goal, perhaps the protagonist is passive. If the stakes feel weak, perhaps the conflict needs to be intensified. If the protagonist isn’t driving the story, perhaps the wrong character is at the center of the narrative. The logline becomes less of a sales tool and more of a diagnostic tool for storytelling.

Another fascinating point is Lane’s emphasis on specificity. Many writers believe broader concepts create broader appeal, but she argues the opposite. Specific details are often what make stories unique. Generic concepts blend together. Distinctive details create curiosity. Her job involves reading hundreds of projects every year, and she repeatedly returns to the importance of identifying what makes a story different from everything else competing for attention. That difference often becomes the heart of the logline itself.

The conversation also highlights the importance of industry access. Lane strongly encourages writers to attend conferences, workshops, and networking events where they can interact directly with agents, publishers, and executives. While many writers focus exclusively on improving their craft, successful careers often depend equally on learning how to communicate ideas and build relationships. A brilliant screenplay hidden in a drawer has little chance of changing anyone’s life. A strong concept presented to the right person at the right time can open doors unexpectedly.

Perhaps the most memorable advice comes near the end of the discussion. Writers are often told to “write what you know,” but Lane references a quote from bestselling author Anne Perry that offers a more useful perspective: “Write about what you care about.” Knowledge can be researched. Passion cannot. The stories that resonate most deeply usually emerge from subjects that genuinely matter to the writer. When combined with strong structure, meaningful stakes, and a clear concept, that passion becomes the foundation for storytelling that audiences actually remember.

For writers, filmmakers, and storytellers at every stage of their careers, the lesson is clear. Before worrying about agents, producers, budgets, or distribution, first answer a simpler question: can you explain your story in one unforgettable sentence? If you can, you may already be further ahead than most writers trying to break into the business.

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IFH 859: What James Gunn Taught Me About Success with Will Keenan

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There are careers that follow a straight line, and then there are careers like Will Keenan’s—the kind that seem to zigzag across every corner of the entertainment industry before revealing a larger pattern. What began with an unexpected audition for a Troma film eventually led him through independent cinema, Bollywood productions, digital media empires, and executive boardrooms. Along the way, he accumulated a rare perspective on what it actually takes not only to survive in entertainment, but to continually reinvent yourself as the industry evolves.

Will’s story begins shortly before graduating from NYU when he landed the lead role in Tromeo and Juliet, a cult production from Troma Entertainment that was written and heavily shepherded by a young James Gunn. At the time, Will wasn’t even familiar with Troma’s reputation. What he thought would be another creative opportunity quickly became the launchpad for a filmmaking education unlike any classroom could provide. Troma’s low-budget, guerrilla-style approach forced everyone involved to wear multiple hats, solve problems creatively, and learn every aspect of production from the ground up. As Will explains, “Troma was my film school.”

After Tromeo and Juliet, Will found himself immersed in the booming independent film scene of New York during the late 1990s. It was a fascinating period when indie filmmaking was thriving, festivals were gaining influence, and filmmakers believed they could break through without studio backing. Yet even during those years, Will began noticing the harsh economics of independent film. Projects required years of work, financing was difficult, and success stories were far less common than most aspiring filmmakers realized. Despite appearing glamorous from the outside, many productions struggled simply to recoup their budgets.

One of the most valuable lessons from the conversation revolves around budgeting and screenwriting. Will argues that many writers unknowingly sabotage their own projects by writing scripts that are far too expensive to produce. Instead of focusing on what they can realistically make, they create stories loaded with locations, characters, and logistical challenges that immediately push budgets into unrealistic territory. His advice is simple but powerful: write the version of the film you could actually produce. If the story resonates, larger production companies can always expand the scope later. Starting small dramatically increases the odds of getting the project made in the first place.

As traditional independent film became increasingly difficult to sustain, Will saw another revolution beginning to emerge. Long before many industry professionals took online video seriously, he recognized that YouTube and digital platforms were changing audience behavior. Rather than continuing to fight for shrinking opportunities in traditional indie filmmaking, he made a bold move into digital media. That decision ultimately led him to Maker Studios, where he joined during its early growth stage and helped oversee its explosive expansion before its eventual acquisition by Disney. Later, he would hold executive leadership roles at Endemol and Streamup, placing him at the center of the creator economy years before it became mainstream.

Perhaps the most provocative idea Will shares is that today’s filmmakers should stop obsessing over gatekeepers and start building audiences directly. Throughout the conversation, he repeatedly emphasizes that online platforms have become the new discovery system. “The new getting discovered at Schwab’s drugstore is the internet,” he explains. Rather than waiting for a festival, manager, studio, or distributor to validate their work, creators now have the ability to publish content immediately and prove audience demand themselves. This shift fundamentally changes how careers are built.

That philosophy extends to networking as well. Will admits that early in his career he underestimated the importance of relationship building. Over time, however, he learned that opportunities often emerge from long-term connections rather than isolated moments of brilliance. Some of the most important career advancements he experienced came from relationships cultivated over decades. Talent matters, but relationships frequently determine whether that talent ever gets the chance to be seen.

The final chapter of Will’s story may be the most unexpected. After achieving significant success in both traditional and digital entertainment, he chose to step away from Hollywood and create St. Babs, a nonprofit foundation named in honor of his mother. While it may seem like a dramatic departure from filmmaking, it actually reflects the same entrepreneurial spirit that guided every phase of his career. Once again, he identified a mission, assembled resources, and began building something from the ground up. The medium changed, but the creative process remained remarkably similar.

For filmmakers, writers, and creators, Will’s journey offers a powerful reminder that careers rarely unfold according to plan. The industry changes. Technology evolves. Opportunities emerge from unexpected places. The people who thrive are often the ones willing to evolve alongside those changes rather than fight against them.

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IFH 857: The Untold Story of ECW’s Rise & Fall with John Philapavage

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Some documentaries are made to entertain. Others are made because the filmmaker becomes obsessed with understanding a world that most people either misunderstand or completely ignore. That’s what makes this conversation with John Philapavage so compelling. What began as a teenager’s fascination with ECW wrestling culture slowly transformed into a 13-year filmmaking odyssey that became Barbed Wire City, an ambitious documentary about the rise, chaos, mythology, and emotional aftermath of Extreme Championship Wrestling.

John’s journey into filmmaking didn’t begin in film school or Hollywood. It began with childhood creativity, VHS cameras, comic books, and DIY storytelling experiments with his lifelong creative partner Kevin Kernan. Growing up in Pennsylvania, surrounded by wrestling culture and underground fandom, they became fascinated not just by wrestling itself, but by the people orbiting around it—the fans, performers, promoters, and strange emotional ecosystem that ECW created. That curiosity eventually evolved into something bigger than fandom. It became anthropology through filmmaking.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the conversation is how John reframes the purpose of the documentary itself. While many wrestling fans expected Barbed Wire City to simply celebrate ECW nostalgia, John approached the project differently. He wasn’t interested in creating propaganda or fan service. He wanted to document truth—even when that truth became uncomfortable. That meant examining violence, manipulation, obsession, cult-like fan loyalty, and the emotional cost that ECW left behind for many of the people involved.

That approach created enormous challenges during production. Interview subjects often contradicted each other. Some intentionally distorted facts. Others blended reality with wrestling mythology until even they no longer seemed fully certain what was true anymore. John explains how difficult it became to untangle truth from performance in a business built on illusion. “There’s your version, my version, and the truth,” becomes one of the underlying themes of the entire episode.

The interview also becomes an incredible lesson in documentary filmmaking psychology. John talks openly about learning how to interview subjects without appearing threatening, judgmental, or overly fan-driven. Early on, wrestlers viewed him as “just a fan,” which often limited access and credibility. But over time, he learned how to position himself more like a filmmaker and investigator rather than a superfan seeking validation. That subtle shift changed everything. Referrals began happening. More wrestlers agreed to interviews. Trust slowly built over years of persistence.

And then there are the unbelievable production stories.

At one point, John describes interviewing New Jack while the wrestler casually held a machete across his lap during the interview. The tension wasn’t performative—it felt genuinely dangerous. Yet John also reveals something deeper about documentary work: often the filmmaker’s job is to stay calm long enough for the truth to reveal itself naturally. Some of the documentary’s most memorable moments emerged not from controlled interviews, but from simply allowing unpredictable personalities to exist honestly on camera.

The crowdfunding section of the conversation is equally valuable for independent filmmakers. John offers brutally honest lessons about Kickstarter, budgeting, rewards fulfillment, and the hidden costs creators rarely anticipate. He explains how many crowdfunding campaigns fail not because the project lacks passion, but because creators underestimate logistics. Shipping costs, rewards, travel, licensing, and production expenses can quietly consume an entire campaign budget if not carefully planned.

Perhaps the most powerful takeaway from the episode is the sheer persistence required to finish independent films. Barbed Wire City was not made with studio financing, giant crews, or guaranteed distribution. It survived because two filmmakers refused to let the project die. Over thirteen years, the documentary repeatedly stalled, restarted, evolved, and nearly disappeared entirely. Yet John continued gathering footage, building relationships, researching wrestling history, and refining the story until the film finally became real.

And in many ways, that persistence becomes the true story behind the documentary.

Not wrestling.

Not ECW.

Not nostalgia.

But the simple reality that independent filmmaking often becomes an endurance test between the creator and time itself.

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IFH 854: Why Most Indie Films Fail Before Production Even Starts with Jenna Edwards

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There’s a dangerous illusion that lives inside independent filmmaking—the belief that passion alone is enough. That if you just love movies deeply enough, sacrifice enough sleep, survive enough rejection, and keep grinding long enough, eventually the industry opens its doors. But on today’s episode, Jenna Edwards dismantles that fantasy with the kind of honesty that only comes from experience. Not theory. Not social media inspiration. Real experience.

Before becoming a producer, Jenna was an actress navigating the chaos of Los Angeles. She landed roles on iconic shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Malcolm in the Middle, experiences that taught her something most actors eventually learn: you’re never auditioning for just one role. Every audition becomes an opportunity for someone to remember you later. Sometimes years later. That mindset—staying open instead of desperate—quietly becomes one of the central themes of the conversation. Because desperation, according to Jenna, destroys careers faster than lack of talent ever will.

It’s a brutal truth that many filmmakers and screenwriters avoid confronting. Too many people approach the industry wanting validation before they’ve built anything tangible. They wait to be discovered instead of creating momentum themselves. And in today’s world, that strategy no longer works. “Create your own career,” she explains, emphasizing that filmmakers can’t afford to sit around hoping agents, managers, or investors magically appear.

That idea becomes especially powerful when the conversation shifts into producing. Jenna’s perspective on independent filmmaking is refreshingly practical. Most films don’t fail because the idea is bad—they fail because there’s no roadmap. No distribution strategy. No business plan. No understanding of who the audience is or how the investors get their money back. And that’s the part many creatives resist hearing. Because filmmaking feels like art. But surviving in filmmaking requires thinking like a business.

Jenna repeatedly returns to this idea of intentionality. If your dream is to direct grounded emotional dramas, then every short film, every networking event, every collaboration should move you closer to that goal. Instead, many filmmakers scatter their energy everywhere—making horror films because they seem “easier to sell,” networking with people they don’t align with creatively, chasing trends they don’t even care about. It creates careers with no foundation.

Her analogy is simple but devastatingly accurate: building a filmmaking career is like building a house. You can’t work on the roof before laying the foundation. And you definitely can’t build three different houses at once and expect any of them to stand. That clarity extends into her philosophy about producing itself.

One of the most eye-opening sections of the conversation revolves around ego on set. Jenna points out that many inexperienced producers mistake visibility for usefulness. They create unnecessary problems simply so they can be seen “solving” them later. Meanwhile, truly effective producers are often invisible because they handled the chaos long before production even started. That insight cuts deep because it exposes how much independent filmmaking is driven by insecurity rather than leadership.

And insecurity creates friction. Bad communication. Passive aggression. Endless drama. Entire productions derailed because people need to feel important rather than effective. Jenna’s solution is deceptively simple: remove ego and ask one question constantly—What’s best for the project? Not what protects your pride. Not what gives you credit. Not what makes you feel powerful. What actually serves the film?

It’s the kind of mindset that transforms productions from emotional battlegrounds into collaborative systems. And in an industry filled with fragile egos, that shift becomes incredibly valuable. But perhaps the most powerful part of the episode has nothing to do with filmmaking at all.

After surviving a horrific tragedy that caused years of severe PTSD, Jenna rebuilt her life piece by piece. That experience fundamentally changed how she sees creativity, collaboration, and purpose. There’s a groundedness in her perspective that feels earned—not manufactured. She understands what it means to lose momentum, lose confidence, and slowly find your way back.

And maybe that’s why her filmmaking advice resonates so strongly. Because underneath all the strategy, networking, and business talk is something much more human: sustainability. Not just building projects. Building a life and career that can survive the emotional weight of the industry itself.

In the end, Jenna Edwards offers something many filmmakers desperately need—not motivation, but perspective. The understanding that talent is only one piece of the equation. Success comes from clarity, planning, collaboration, resilience, and the willingness to build intentionally instead of emotionally reacting to every opportunity that appears.

Because filmmaking isn’t just about making movies. It’s about learning how to sustain the person making them.

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IFH 849: Why 99% of Indie Films NEVER Get Distribution with Bill Ostroff

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On today’s episode, we welcome Bill Ostroff, a filmmaker, producer, and founder of the long-running FirstGlance Film Festival, who has spent decades on the front lines of independent film—watching thousands of projects rise, fall, and fight for attention in an increasingly crowded marketplace. His experience offers something most filmmakers don’t get until much later: a clear, unfiltered understanding of how the industry actually works.

Bill’s journey began like many filmmakers—passion first, clarity later. Coming out of film school, he had scripts, ambition, and the belief that breaking in was simply a matter of getting the work in front of the right people. But reality quickly set in. The traditional pathways—agents, producers, studios—are built on layers of protection and gatekeeping. Unsolicited scripts don’t get read. Cold submissions don’t get opened. And even when opportunities appear, they often vanish just as quickly. It’s a system that forces filmmakers to rethink their approach early on.

That frustration ultimately led Bill to create something for himself—and for others. The FirstGlance Film Festival wasn’t born from a grand business plan, but from a simple need: a place to show independent films that didn’t fit into the traditional festival ecosystem. At the time, many festivals were essentially preview platforms for studio films, not true showcases for indie creators. Bill built FirstGlance to fill that gap, starting small and growing it into a respected platform with a loyal filmmaker community.

Over time, one thing became clear—making a film is only part of the equation. Getting it seen is the real challenge.

Bill emphasizes that today’s filmmakers are not just creators—they are marketers. From the moment you have an idea, you should be thinking about branding, audience, and visibility. Secure the domain. Create social media accounts. Build anticipation early. Because in a world where thousands of films are made every year, the ones that succeed are not just the best—they are the most visible.

One of the most important realities he shares is that distribution has fundamentally changed. The traditional dream of theatrical release is no longer the standard outcome for independent films. In fact, the vast majority will never play in theaters. But that doesn’t mean they fail. As Bill explains, there are multiple legitimate distribution paths—VOD platforms, streaming services, licensing deals, and niche audiences online. The key is understanding where your film fits and how to position it accordingly.

“99% of the films that true independent filmmakers make will never see a theatrical screen,” he explains, not as a discouragement, but as a reality check.

Another major issue Bill highlights is the rise of questionable film festivals. With the explosion of digital platforms, many “festivals” now exist purely to hand out awards without offering real screenings or audiences. These events can look legitimate on the surface, but they provide little to no value for filmmakers. Bill stresses the importance of doing due diligence—researching festivals, understanding their track record, and ensuring they actually screen films in front of real audiences.

For filmmakers, this means shifting focus away from collecting laurels and toward building real momentum. A strong festival run is not about how many selections you get—it’s about where your film is seen and who is watching it. A single meaningful screening can often be more valuable than dozens of empty accolades.

He also dives into the importance of quality control—particularly in areas many indie filmmakers overlook. Sound, for example, is one of the most critical elements of a professional film, yet it’s often neglected due to budget constraints. Poor audio can ruin an otherwise strong project, especially in a theater environment. It’s a reminder that filmmaking is a technical craft as much as it is a creative one.

Beyond the technical, Bill’s biggest message is about strategy. Filmmakers need to think long-term. Each project should build toward something—whether it’s a portfolio, a network, or a reputation. The industry rewards consistency, not one-off success. Relationships matter. Community matters. And the ability to adapt matters most of all.

There is no single path into the industry anymore. The old system still exists, but it is no longer the only option. Today’s filmmakers have more tools, more platforms, and more control than ever before—but that also means more responsibility. You are not just making a film. You are building a brand, an audience, and a career.

In the end, Bill Ostroff represents a filmmaker who understands both sides of the industry—the creative and the business—and has built something that bridges the gap between them. His insights are not about chasing trends or shortcuts, but about understanding the fundamentals and playing the long game.

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