Screenwriting

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

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please enjoy my conversation with Nicole Jones-Dion.

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

IFH 820: Screenwriting, The BAM Method, And How To Write A Screenplay That Stands Out with Mike Bierman

by

The lights of Hollywood may glitter, but behind them lies the quiet, disciplined work of the storyteller. On today’s episode, we welcome Mike Bierman, a 45-time award-winning screenwriter and the founder of the Facebook group Screenwriters Who Can Actually Write. His path is not a typical one, for he began not from film school corridors but from a father’s intuition, reading his daughter’s audition scripts and thinking, “I can do better.” That spark ignited a journey into screenwriting that has not only led to awards but also to a philosophy of writing that challenges the very conventions so many cling to.

Mike’s story begins with a simple observation: much of what passes for screenwriting is less than inspired. As he dove into the craft, he discovered both the rigid rules that bound beginners and the profound freedom of bending or breaking those rules once mastered. “Every writer is different,” Mike explained, “what works for me works for me. That’s a good place to start to look at. But it doesn’t mean it’s going to work for you.” His wisdom is clear: writing is less about formulas and more about discovering one’s unique method of bringing stories alive.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Mike’s process is what he calls the BAM method—the Bierman Asynchronous Method. Instead of marching forward from page one like a dutiful soldier, he starts with the ending. Knowing where a story resolves anchors the journey. He writes from the outside in, weaving scenes like a puzzle, placing them out of sequence until the picture emerges whole. This approach, he says, prevents the dreaded writer’s block and keeps the story tethered to a meaningful destination. To know where you are going, after all, is to never be truly lost.

And yet, Mike’s tough-love philosophy is equally important. He pulls no punches when it comes to the common mistakes of new writers. Formatting errors, bloated scripts, and the belief that software can replace skill are illusions that must be shattered. “You’re not a writer if you don’t write,” he says with conviction. Fear of failure, fear of the blank page—these are ghosts that vanish the moment one dares to type anything at all. A poor script can always be rewritten, but a script unwritten is nothing but dust in the imagination.

Beyond his personal method, Mike has also created a community. His Facebook group was born out of frustration with shallow discussions elsewhere, but it has grown into a gathering place for professionals and serious learners alike. Within that group, contracts have formed, films have been optioned, and wisdom is freely shared. It is, as he describes, a place where screenwriters commit to treating the craft not as a hobby but as a vocation worthy of study, rigor, and respect.

His upcoming book, Secrets of Screenwriting: Collected Essays, continues this mission. Unlike traditional manuals that promise formulas for success, Mike’s book is a raw compilation of essays, reflections, and, at times, rants that emerged from his years of guiding and challenging fellow writers. It is filled with cursing, passion, and honesty—meant not to coddle, but to awaken. Readers may feel scolded one page and inspired the next, but they will always feel challenged to rise higher in their craft.

In listening to Mike, one can sense the deeper undercurrent: screenwriting is not just about structure or technique—it is about truth. Flawed characters, difficult choices, and endings that reveal the essence of a story. Scripts are not machines to be engineered; they are living things to be breathed into existence. And like any living thing, they grow best in the soil of discipline, vision, and a willingness to face one’s own creative challenges.

In the end, Mike reminds us that the screenwriter’s path is both solitary and communal. Solitary in the hours spent with words that only we can birth, and communal in the shared wisdom, encouragement, and hard truths of those who walk beside us. Every page written is a step closer not only to a finished script but to a deeper understanding of the craft.

Please enjoy my conversation with Mike Bierman.

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

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

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

IFH 814: Why Your Script Still Isn’t Getting Read; And What to Do About It with Whitney Davis

by

In a world where stories are the heartbeat of cinema, it’s a rare gift to hear from someone who not only understands the creative pulse of screenwriting, but also the business savvy required to get scripts into the right hands. In this candid and energizing episode, we welcome Whitney Davis, a literary manager and script consultant who’s carved out a unique path helping screenwriters navigate the often bewildering landscape of Hollywood. Her journey began in the most unexpected of places—pitching a book idea at a party while balancing motherhood—only to be discovered by a top TV lit agent who instantly saw the project’s potential as a television series.

What makes Whitney’s story so compelling is that she didn’t come to Los Angeles to break into the industry. It found her. Through a string of bold choices, lucky timing, and her fearless willingness to step into the unknown, she found herself developing a TV show and entering the high-stakes world of studio pitching. But when the writers’ strike hit and priorities shifted, she pivoted into script consulting. From there, one natural step led to another—and she began managing writers. For those of us in the filmmaking space, her story is a reminder that sometimes the career finds you when you’re already busy creating.

Throughout the episode, Whitney shares priceless insights into what truly makes a screenwriter stand out in today’s hyper-competitive industry. She isn’t interested in flashy gimmicks or name-dropping references to Tarantino or Nolan. Instead, she wants to see writers who know how to communicate authentically—people who can hold a conversation, who’ve honed their voice, and who understand the rhythm of story. “You don’t need a perfect pitch,” she says, “you need a great story, told like you’re chatting with a friend.” It’s advice filmmakers and writers alike would do well to remember.

Whitney dives deep into the art of the pitch and demystifies the often confusing world of representation. She breaks down the differences between agents and managers, noting that managers, especially, are essential early in a filmmaker’s or writer’s career. Managers help shape ideas, coach development, and create momentum. “It’s like a marriage,” she says. “If I’m going to rep you, I have to believe in your voice and know how to position your work.” That’s not just smart—it’s strategy.

She also highlights what turns her off: poor grammar in query letters, sloppy communication, impatience, and a lack of professionalism. For filmmakers and writers seeking representation, she urges a meticulous approach. Do your homework on the people you’re querying. Be respectful of their time. And never, ever spam them with mass emails. Whitney emphasizes that great writing isn’t enough. Being a great collaborator is just as important. “You’re not just pitching your story,” she explains. “You’re pitching yourself as someone worth working with.”

Her approach is refreshingly grounded and actionable. If you’re not in Los Angeles, she recommends saving up for a trip to attend top-tier events like the Great American PitchFest or Austin Film Festival. Better yet, build relationships online—Twitter, she says, has become a powerful hub for connecting with reps, writers, and producers. She encourages filmmakers to take advantage of contests, consulting services, and peer feedback as a way to sharpen their craft and increase visibility.

Perhaps the most refreshing aspect of Whitney’s perspective is her deep passion for helping storytellers rise. Whether she’s managing a writer or consulting on a script, she brings an energy that feels rare in an industry often marked by cynicism. Her goal isn’t just to sell projects—it’s to help people grow into the kind of creatives who can sustain careers. “Write because you love it,” she says. “The money and opportunities will come if you stay focused and keep showing up.”

This episode is a must-listen for any filmmaker who’s ever wondered what it really takes to get to the next level—not through shortcuts or formulas, but through clarity, consistency, and a strong creative voice. Whether you’re a writer, director, or producer, the lessons shared by Whitney Davis are a blueprint for building a career rooted in purpose and professionalism.

Please enjoy my conversation with Whitney Davis.

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

IFH 812: How Tremors turned into a Masterclass in Storytelling with S.S Wilson

by

There is a moment in every filmmaker’s life when the unseen becomes the spark—when what lies beneath the surface, figuratively or literally, begins to whisper its potential. On today’s episode, we welcome S.S. Wilson, a masterful screenwriter, director, and creative mind whose work reminds us that cinematic magic can erupt even from the dustiest corners of low-budget constraint. Whether you’ve laughed with Short Circuit or felt the rumble of Tremors, Wilson’s journey is one that stirs the creative soul.

S.S. Wilson is best known for co-creating the Tremors franchise and co-writing Short Circuit, yet his deeper legacy lives in how he approaches story: with reverence, structure, and devotion to the craft. In this wide-ranging conversation, he invites filmmakers to witness what it truly means to build a story from the inside out. He and his longtime writing partner Brent Maddock don’t chase ideas—they architect them. Their gospel? Outline everything. “We’re not comfortable until we know where it’s going,” Wilson shares. In a landscape where many chase spontaneity, Wilson reminds us that clarity of vision is a kind of sacred pre-production.

The Tremors films weren’t simply genre flicks—they were blueprints in filmmaking ingenuity. When the budget says no, the imagination must say yes. That’s why the monsters are underground for most of the film—not just to build suspense, but to bypass costly visual effects. “We knew sound was going to be critical,” Wilson says. “That’s part of why we picked underground monsters. You don’t have to see them… you have to feel them.” For filmmakers working with tight budgets, this is gold: design limitations into the concept itself. Make the unseen the story.

There’s a brilliant moment in the original Tremors where the creature is revealed incrementally—first a worm-like tendril, later the entire beast. That’s not just good horror. That’s good storytelling. Wilson orchestrates expectation like a symphony, pulling the audience forward with curiosity. And the characters—real people in an unreal situation—ground the entire thing. “Even the monsters follow rules,” he says. “We never change the rules just for a scare.” For any director or writer, that’s a North Star: consistency builds trust with the viewer. Break that, and the spell collapses.

Wilson and his team learned early that writers are often shut out of the process once the script is delivered. They decided they’d had enough of that. By pushing to become producers, they ensured the vision remained intact all the way to the screen. This wasn’t ego. It was stewardship. They built not just a film but an ecosystem of logic and love. No lazy tropes. No studio-fueled chaos. Just character, creativity, and continuity—from the first Graboid to the final Ass Blaster.

Today, Wilson writes novels, but his advice for filmmakers remains elemental. Don’t fall in love with your first idea. Don’t polish the same project endlessly. Make things. Learn from what you admire. And let go. “Write something. Get it done. Say goodbye to it. Write something else,” he advises. This isn’t just writing advice—it’s directing advice. Editing advice. Producing advice. Finish the scene. Finish the film. Then move on. What’s next will only reveal itself when you’ve cleared the space for it to arrive.

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

IFH 801: Breaking the Rules: Crafting Powerful Films Without Hollywood Money with Shawn Whitney

by

Sometimes, the fire of creativity is struck not by lightning but by the slow, smoldering ache of dissatisfaction. And in today’s soul-stirring conversation, we welcome Shawn Whitney, a filmmaker who found cinema not in the corridors of academia, but in the quiet rebellion of self-taught screenwriting and micro-budget filmmaking. Shawn Whitney is a screenwriter, director, and founder of Micro Budget Film Lab who empowers indie creators to tell powerful stories on shoestring budgets.

Our journey with Shawn begins not in childhood fantasies of movie stardom, but in the dense woods of Brechtian theater and the quiet study of old black-and-white films. His path wandered, as many worthwhile ones do, through rejection, basement solitude, and heartbreak—until something within him demanded not just expression but transmutation. Shawn didn’t study film in college. Instead, he emerged from the theater world and fell into filmmaking after a failed workshop production left him broke and dispirited. Yet that fall became his rise. As he said, “I just started writing screenplays and learning the craft in the quiet shadows.”

There’s something beautiful in learning the art of story not from glamorous sets or high-priced workshops but from the bones of failed experiments and the echoes of dialogue bouncing around your own mind. Shawn described his education not with fanfare but humility—referencing Sid Field, Blake Snyder, and the ever-controversial Save the Cat—tools that became his spiritual guides, not rigid masters. And with every script, he refined a method. Not the method, mind you. A method. “You just need a method. You can’t just be anarchy,” he mused.

But perhaps what struck me most was Shawn’s philosophy that screenwriting is not just structure—it’s an argument about what makes life meaningful. Films, he insists, must be animated not by market trends, but by inner turmoil, by the strange flickering passions of the human heart. “It can’t just be about chopping up zombies. Your characters must go through an inner transformation.” That idea—that a film is a living question—sets Shawn apart in a world often obsessed with following the formula instead of feeling the pulse.

Shawn’s micro-budget films—“A Brand New You” and “F*cking My Way Back Home”—aren’t just titles that stick. They are rebellious acts of filmmaking born from limited means and limitless creativity. His stories unfold not in sprawling CGI landscapes, but in human longing, funny sadness, and philosophical absurdity. One film follows a man trying to clone his dead wife in the living room. Another explores redemption from the passenger seat of a towed Cutlass Supreme. With a budget of $7,000 and a borrowed tow truck, Shawn pulled off scenes that feel bigger than most tentpole blockbusters.

But filmmaking, for Shawn, isn’t just about his own expression. Through Micro Budget Film Lab, he’s become a teacher, a mentor, and a kind of mad scientist in the alchemical lab of storytelling. His passion is not merely to direct, but to help others break free from the gatekeeping systems that keep fresh stories from being told. “We need a micro budget movement,” he declared, envisioning a cinematic rebellion where filmmakers use what they have to tell stories no one else dares to.

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

IFH 800: Behind the Scenes of Sharknado: Turning Sci-Fi Madness into Storytelling Gold with Andrew Shaffer

by

The mind is a curious trickster, delighting in dreams where logic pirouettes in absurdity. In today’s extraordinary episode, we welcome Andrew Shaffer, a humorist and New York Times bestselling author whose wit slices through the storms of reality with a twinkle in his eye and a chainsaw in hand.

From the earliest pages of his life, Andrew Shaffer was destined to dance with the ridiculous and sublime. As a child, he devoured horror and science fiction with a ravenous appetite, only to find himself drawn back to these imaginative playgrounds after a detour through the hallowed halls of literary fiction. His journey led him, almost inevitably, to the playful chaos of “How to Survive a Sharknado,” a manual for the absurd that demands both laughter and preparation.

In the dance of ideas, Andrew revealed how the birth of the Sharknado survival guide was as spontaneous as a tornado filled with teeth. Inspired by the original cult film, he offered his humorous talents when Random House and SyFy decided to create a companion book. Imagine being tasked with making flying sharks scientifically plausible; as he put it, “I had to talk to a marine biologist and ask, not could this happen, but how it might happen.” It is in such delightfully impossible questions that the spirit of creativity is set loose.

Throughout the conversation, there was a beautiful lightness, the kind one finds when nonsense is taken seriously. Andrew’s research involved binge-watching over 30 sci-fi films—some genuine, some fabricated solely for the book—to weave an interconnected universe of mayhem. When asked how one might survive a Sharknado, he smiled into the void and said, “The answer in the book is simple: Stand and fight. Grab a chainsaw.” It is a lesson not just for storms of sharks, but for all the monstrous whirlwinds that life throws at us.

Yet beneath the chuckles and chainsaws, Andrew’s words echoed a deeper wisdom. Too much meta-awareness, he warned, robs a story of its soul. “If everybody’s in on the joke,” he said, “then the joke itself isn’t that funny anymore.” Ah, but isn’t that true of life itself? When we cling too tightly to cleverness, we risk missing the raw wonder that makes each absurdity luminous.

Perhaps the most chilling revelation of the day was the invincibility of the ghost shark, a creature birthed from sci-fi chaos. Manifesting from toilets, swimming pools, and even water bottles, it served as a reminder: some forces cannot be outrun; they must be met with courage, humor, and an open heart.

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

IFH 791: Beyond the Script: Gordy Hoffman’s Guide to Emotional Storytelling

by

Life, they say, is a story we tell ourselves—a script of experience, moments, and emotions woven into a narrative only we can claim as our own. On today’s episode, we welcome Gordy Hoffman, a screenwriter, director, and the mind behind the BlueCat Screenwriting Competition. His journey through the labyrinth of storytelling has been marked by profound lessons in creativity, resilience, and the delicate art of telling tales that move the human heart.

As he shares his insights, one thing becomes evident: the best stories are not formulas but living, breathing entities. Too often, writers are shackled by the idea that a script must be a well-oiled machine of plot points and three-act structures. But according to Gordy Hoffman, true storytelling is about emotional investment. “The only rule of storytelling is getting an audience to care,” he explains. Without that, no amount of structure or technique can save a lifeless script. Whether it’s an Oscar-winning screenplay or a child recounting their day at school, the heart of a story lies in its ability to make someone feel something real.

The conversation drifts into the art of critique—how some script consultants and teachers wield feedback like a sledgehammer rather than a guiding hand. Gordy Hoffman believes in nurturing creativity with kindness, rather than crushing it under the weight of harsh criticism. He’s seen firsthand how a poorly delivered note can stifle a writer, and he champions an approach where constructive guidance fosters growth rather than fear. After all, a writer’s vulnerability is embedded in their work, and the moment they detach from that, their stories lose their humanity.

But what about the battle every writer faces—the looming doubt that creeps in halfway through a script, whispering that it’s all meaningless, that every page is a failure? Gordy Hoffman reassures us that this despair is not a dead end but a marker of progress. “Every screenplay you work on, you’re going to hit that wall where you think, ‘This is awful, I’m bored, and I want to start over.’ That’s when you know you’re halfway there.” The magic, he insists, lies in persistence—pushing through the malaise, trusting the process, and understanding that the creative spirit is not meant to be shackled by self-doubt.

The conversation inevitably turns to Hollywood, that glittering beast that both nurtures and devours dreams. The industry’s appetite for franchise films and established intellectual property has made it harder than ever for original screenplays to find their place. But for those who believe in their stories, avenues still exist—film festivals like Sundance, independent productions, and even the evolving landscape of television. The key is not just writing a screenplay but crafting one so undeniable that it demands to be seen.

And what of inspiration? For Gordy Hoffman, it can come from anywhere—a fleeting moment, a stray observation, or even an index card scribbled with a single thought. Love Liza, one of his most well-known works, was born from a brief encounter at a gas station. “I saw someone near a pump, and I thought, ‘Are they sniffing gasoline?’ That small moment turned into a story about grief and addiction.” Such is the power of storytelling—it transforms the mundane into the extraordinary, giving meaning to even the smallest of moments.

The beauty of storytelling is that it is never truly finished. It grows, shifts, and takes on a life of its own, sometimes in ways we never intended. As Gordy Hoffman reminds us, the path of the writer is one of perseverance, of believing in the story even when the world seems indifferent. In the end, storytelling is less about perfecting structure and more about opening the heart—to others, to ourselves, and to the infinite possibility of what can be created.

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

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

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more

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

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right-click here to download the MP3

Read more