Film Production

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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IFH 848: Why Most Filmmakers NEVER Finish Their Movies with Rob Dimension

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There is a peculiar illusion that haunts the creative mind—the belief that someday, conditions will be perfect. That someday, the right gear will arrive, the right connections will appear, the right moment will unfold like a carefully written script. But what if that moment never comes? What if the only thing that ever truly exists… is now?

On today’s episode, we welcome Rob Dimension, a filmmaker, creator, and storyteller who has built his journey not on permission, but on action. His path is not polished or romanticized—it is grounded in trial, error, frustration, and relentless forward motion. And perhaps that is what makes it so valuable.

There’s a moment in every creative life where ideas begin to pile up. Scripts unwritten. Projects unstarted. Conversations about “what could be” that never quite cross into reality. Rob cuts through this with a kind of blunt clarity that feels almost uncomfortable. He reminds us that the barrier isn’t access—it’s execution. “If you’re not doing it,” he says, “you don’t want to.”

It’s a statement that strips away every excuse.

Because today, the tools are everywhere. Cameras in our pockets. Editing software at our fingertips. Distribution platforms open to anyone willing to press upload. The gatekeepers have changed, but the hesitation remains. And so the question becomes less about opportunity—and more about willingness.

What Rob illuminates so clearly is that creativity is not a grand event. It is not a lightning strike of genius followed by immediate success. It is repetition. It is showing up again and again, often without recognition, often without reward. It is three hours of work for seventy seconds of finished content. It is releasing something into the void… and hearing nothing back.

And yet, this is the work.

There is also a deeper lesson here about integrity. Not the kind we speak about in abstract terms, but the kind that reveals itself in small decisions. Do you settle for “good enough”? Or do you redo the shot? Do you rush the project? Or do you take the time to make it right?

Rob is unwavering on this point—“good enough” is a trap. It is the quiet compromise that slowly erodes the quality of the work and, more importantly, the standard you hold for yourself. And once that standard drops, everything else follows.

But perhaps the most sobering reality comes in his discussion of crowdfunding and audience-building. There is a romantic notion that if the idea is good enough, people will come. That support will appear, that funding will follow. But the truth is far more grounded. Trust must be built. Value must be demonstrated. Effort must be visible.

No one invests in potential alone.

This is where many creators falter. They want the outcome without the process. The recognition without the repetition. The success without the structure. And when it doesn’t come, they blame the system, the market, or the audience—anything but the work itself.

And yet, there is something profoundly liberating in Rob’s perspective. Because if the barrier is internal, then it is also within our control. You don’t need permission to begin. You don’t need a perfect plan. You don’t even need certainty.

You just need to start.

There is a quiet power in taking that first step. In making something small, imperfect, and real. Because from that, momentum begins. Skills develop. Confidence grows. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the gap between where you are and where you want to be begins to close.

And perhaps that is the deeper truth of creativity—not that it leads somewhere extraordinary, but that it transforms the one who commits to it.

So the question is not whether you have the resources, the time, or the connections.

The question is simple.

Will you begin?

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IFH 847: The Indie Filmmaker’s Survival Guide (No Hollywood Required) with Ethan Marten

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On today’s episode, we welcome Ethan Marten, an actor, producer, and filmmaker who has built his career by stepping outside the traditional Hollywood system and creating films on his own terms. His journey is not one of shortcuts or overnight success, but of persistence, adaptability, and a deep understanding of both the creative and business sides of filmmaking. It’s the kind of path many filmmakers talk about—but few truly commit to.

Ethan’s introduction to the industry came early, growing up around the entertainment world through his father, a prominent entertainment attorney who worked with legendary figures like Desi Arnaz and Mickey Rooney. Despite being surrounded by Hollywood, his father tried to shield him from the industry, understanding how unpredictable and difficult it could be. But as often happens, proximity turned into curiosity, and curiosity into passion. Acting wasn’t something Ethan stumbled into—it was something that slowly revealed itself as inevitable.

His early acting career, like most, was filled with auditions, long drives, and near-misses. But one of the most valuable lessons he learned came from something deceptively simple: how you show up. Instead of presenting himself and then “performing,” Ethan learned to walk into auditions already fully in character—and leave the same way. That shift changed everything. It wasn’t about showing casting directors what he could do. It was about making their decision easy. As he explains, actors succeed when they eliminate doubt, not when they add options.

That mindset extends beyond acting and into directing and producing. Ethan emphasizes that filmmaking is built on trust and communication. A director must understand how to communicate with actors in a way that brings out their best performance—not by dictating results, but by guiding process. Likewise, actors must trust that the director sees the bigger picture. When that relationship breaks down, the work suffers. But when it works, it creates something electric—something that feels effortless on screen but is anything but behind the scenes.

What makes Ethan’s journey particularly valuable is his transition into producing. Like many actors, he realized that waiting for opportunities wasn’t a strategy—it was a limitation. Instead, he began creating his own projects, not because he wanted control, but because he wanted momentum. Producing allowed him to build roles for himself, expand his range, and demonstrate capability to others in the industry. It’s a practical approach that many filmmakers overlook: if the system won’t give you the opportunity, build your own system.

His film Eyes of the Roshi is a perfect example of this philosophy in action. Shot outside of Hollywood, using local resources and relationships, the film proves that location is no longer the barrier it once was. With today’s technology, filmmakers can create high-quality work anywhere—as long as they understand how to leverage what they have. But making the film is only half the battle.

Distribution, as Ethan points out, is where the real challenge begins.

In today’s landscape, where digital filmmaking has democratized production, the market is flooded with content. The barrier to entry is lower than ever—but the competition is higher than ever. That means filmmakers must think beyond just making the film. They need to understand where it will go, who it’s for, and how it will reach its audience. Without that plan, even a great film can disappear.

Perhaps the most powerful insight Ethan shares is about passion. Not the vague, inspirational kind—but the practical, sustaining kind. Filmmaking is hard. It’s long hours, constant problem-solving, and often years of commitment to a single project. Without genuine belief in the story, the process becomes unbearable. As Ethan puts it, “Do it because you love it… you may be married to your project for more years than you can imagine.”

That idea cuts through everything else. Budgets, equipment, connections—none of it matters if the passion isn’t there. Because passion is what fuels persistence, and persistence is what ultimately builds a career.

In the end, Ethan Marten represents a filmmaker who understands that success isn’t about waiting for permission—it’s about creating opportunities, building relationships, and committing fully to the work. His journey is a reminder that filmmaking is not just an art form, but a long game—one that rewards those willing to stay in it.

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IFH 846: Why Breaking Into TV Is HARDER Than You Think with Sandra Leviton

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On today’s episode, we welcome Sandra Leviton, a television development executive turned producer and writer who has worked on shows like Sons of Anarchy and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and now runs her own production company while developing feature films. Her journey is one of evolution—moving through different corners of the industry while learning how the business really works behind the curtain.

From the very beginning, Sandra knew exactly where she was headed. There was never a backup plan, never a moment of doubt about her path. She started young, working in theater and cable access television, eventually landing in Los Angeles with a built-in network from her college community. That early support system became crucial, because as she makes clear, no one truly builds a career in this industry alone. Relationships, connections, and shared growth are part of the foundation of any long-term success.

Her early career is a reminder that the path into filmmaking is rarely linear. Sandra began in reality television, working on shows during a time when that side of the industry was exploding. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was opportunity. From there, she transitioned into agency work, balancing both reality and scripted television before fully stepping into the scripted world. That movement between formats—reality, scripted TV, and eventually film—highlights something many filmmakers overlook: the industry is fluid, and your path can shift as long as you stay in motion.

Her time at FX became a defining chapter. Working during what many consider a golden era of television, she witnessed firsthand how shows were developed, pitched, and brought to life. She was there as projects like Sons of Anarchy and Louie took shape, and she saw how the business evolved from more open pitching environments to a system increasingly driven by established talent and recognizable names. As she explains, what once allowed scrappy creators to break in more easily slowly transformed into a more competitive, gatekeeper-heavy process.

That shift is especially clear when discussing how television differs from film. Many filmmakers assume the two operate similarly, but Sandra makes it clear that television is still deeply rooted in a structured system. Unlike independent film, where you can create, distribute, and build momentum on your own, television typically requires navigating a funnel of agents, managers, networks, and executives. Even success stories like It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia had access to industry connections that helped them break through. The lesson is not to be discouraged, but to understand the system you’re trying to enter.

After years in development, Sandra made the conscious decision to pivot. She launched her own company, focusing on producing and writing feature films, where she could have more creative control and build projects from the ground up. Her short film Zone 2 became a stepping stone—proof of concept, creative expression, and a way to re-engage with the hands-on process of filmmaking after years behind the desk. It’s a move many filmmakers eventually consider: stepping away from the system to create something on their own terms.

One of the most practical insights she shares is about strategy. Too many filmmakers pour resources into projects without thinking about the end goal. Shooting a television pilot, for example, may feel like progress, but if the intention is to sell it into the traditional system, it will likely be redeveloped from scratch anyway. Instead, she emphasizes focusing on writing, building a strong portfolio, and understanding how the industry actually evaluates projects. It’s not just about creating—it’s about creating with purpose.

Sandra also speaks candidly about the realities of building a career. There is no such thing as overnight success. Behind every “breakthrough” is often a decade of work, relationships, and persistence. She stresses the importance of networking—not in a transactional way, but in a genuine, human way. People can sense when they’re being used, and the strongest connections come from authenticity. In an industry built on collaboration, those relationships often become the bridge to future opportunities.

Perhaps the most grounded advice she offers is also the simplest: keep creating. Whether it’s writing scripts, producing small projects, or experimenting with content online, the act of doing the work is what builds skill and visibility. Today’s technology has removed many barriers, giving filmmakers the ability to create and share their work instantly. The only real limitation is whether you choose to use it.

In the end, Sandra Leviton represents a filmmaker who understands both sides of the industry—the system and the independent path—and knows when to navigate each. Her journey is a reminder that success in filmmaking isn’t just about talent, but about strategy, relationships, and the willingness to adapt as the industry evolves.

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IFH 844: How to Turn a YouTube Idea Into a Feature Film with Patrick Epino

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On today’s episode, we sit down with Patrick Epino, an actor, producer, and filmmaker who proves that sometimes the best ideas start as a joke—and then turn into a feature film. Patrick’s journey from film school graduate to co-creator of Awesome Asian Bad Guys is a masterclass in community building, crowdfunding, and understanding your niche.

Patrick began his filmmaking path in the San Francisco Bay Area before earning his MFA in Cinema at San Francisco State University many filmmakers who obsess over massive thesis productions, Patrick embraced simplicity. He made projects cheaply, quickly, and creatively—sometimes for just a few hundred dollars. His philosophy was clear: get the bad films out of your system early, experiment often, and learn by doing.

After film school and a move to Los Angeles, Patrick partnered with Steven Dypiangco to launch the National Film Society, a YouTube channel dedicated to film culture. What started as online content creation evolved into something bigger. One of their early videos discussed a recurring Hollywood trope—the silent, hyper-lethal Asian villain who appears briefly, speaks little, and dies spectacularly. The video was titled Awesome Asian Bad Guys, and it resonated with audiences.

At the end of that short YouTube video, Patrick and Steven casually joked that someone should make an Expendables-style movie starring these iconic Asian villains. Then they paused—and realized they could be the ones to make it happen.

Instead of waiting for studio interest, they went directly to the audience. Their Kickstarter campaign raised over $50,000, but Patrick makes it clear: crowdfunding is not easy money. It requires relentless outreach, content creation, and constant engagement. They hosted live online events, created promotional graphics and updates, and leaned into the community they had built through YouTube. It wasn’t luck. It was preparation meeting opportunity.

The built-in audience was critical. Because they had already been producing videos consistently, they weren’t asking strangers for money—they were inviting supporters into the next chapter of a shared journey. That distinction matters. Crowdfunding works best when you’ve already invested in your audience long before you ask for support.

Casting the film followed a similar strategy. By leveraging relationships within the Asian American entertainment community, Patrick and his team created momentum. Each actor who joined added credibility, which attracted the next. It became a snowball effect fueled by trust and shared enthusiasm. The production moved quickly—shot in roughly eight days—with Patrick and Steven co-directing. Their prior collaboration made the dual-director dynamic work smoothly.

Of course, no indie production is without challenges. Scheduling conflicts required rewriting scenes overnight. Fight choreography demanded precision within limited time. Budget constraints forced creative problem-solving. But the team adapted, proving again that resourcefulness often outweighs resources.

Today, Awesome Asian Bad Guys lives on VOD platforms, and Patrick is already thinking ahead—to sequels, spin-offs, and expanding the universe to include “Awesome Asian Bad Girls.” The idea that started as a YouTube punchline has evolved into a proof of concept for niche-driven independent filmmaking.

Patrick Epino reminds us that you don’t need Hollywood’s permission to create. You need an audience, a team, and the courage to follow through on the idea everyone else laughs at.

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