IFH 819: How Quentin Tarantino Changed Independent Film: A Conversation with Dale Sherman

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The story of cinema is often the story of unlikely beginnings. On today’s episode, we welcome Dale Sherman, an author who began his career chronicling the world of rock music before turning his attention to one of the most distinctive filmmakers of our time—Quentin Tarantino. Best known for his books on Kiss and Alice Cooper, Dale’s latest work, The Quentin Tarantino FAQ, is a deep dive into the life, craft, and legacy of the director who reshaped independent film.

Dale’s own path mirrors the persistence required of any filmmaker. In the early ’80s, he was part of a fan magazine scene, writing and producing work at a time when exposure was rare and self-publishing meant Xerox machines and stapled pages. That grassroots hustle translated into authorship, and eventually, into a fascination with film. When deciding on his next subject, Dale saw Tarantino as a perfect study: “People know his films, but they don’t know the man.” For filmmakers, this book offers not only behind-the-scenes anecdotes but also a map of how vision, persistence, and timing can converge to launch a career.

Dale walks us through Tarantino’s early days—stories of odd jobs, unfinished projects, and his first attempt at a feature, My Best Friend’s Birthday. Though the film collapsed in execution, Dale emphasizes how even failure provided Tarantino with a kind of rehearsal for the industry. “You look at his early script and you think, this really works,” Dale notes, underscoring that the DNA of Tarantino’s later brilliance was already present. For filmmakers, it’s a reminder that abandoned projects and rough first drafts are not wasted—they’re training grounds.

The turning point came with screenplays like True Romance and Natural Born Killers, born from an earlier script titled The Open Road. These works not only earned him recognition but also the financial means to pursue Reservoir Dogs. Initially envisioned as a $50,000 black-and-white project starring his friends, the film exploded into something much larger after Harvey Keitel came onboard. Filmmakers will recognize this pivot: the moment when a small independent vision suddenly attracts momentum and becomes a cultural event.

Dale’s book also examines Tarantino’s evolution through films like Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, Kill Bill, and beyond. He explores how Tarantino developed signature techniques: weaving pop culture references into dialogue, using music as an almost narrative force, and structuring non-linear stories that challenged Hollywood norms. For directors and writers, these insights are valuable lessons in how a personal voice can both shape and disrupt an industry.

No discussion of Tarantino is complete without controversy. Dale doesn’t avoid debates around violence, language, or Tarantino’s own cameos. Filmmakers may find inspiration in how Tarantino navigates criticism. As Dale points out, Tarantino faces questions about violence or offensive dialogue with the same persistence he faced rejection in his early years. Rather than retreat, he continues to double down on authenticity, even when it divides audiences.

What makes Dale’s book stand out is the depth of research. Instead of relying solely on retrospective interviews, he digs into contemporary articles and early reactions, contrasting them with later reinterpretations. For filmmakers, this approach is a lesson in the importance of context—understanding how a work is received in its moment and how that reception changes over time. It also reflects the reality of any creative career: today’s controversy can become tomorrow’s milestone.

In the end, Dale Sherman’s exploration of Tarantino is more than biography—it’s a case study in independent filmmaking, artistic persistence, and the messy but vital process of creating work that endures. For filmmakers navigating their own uncertain paths, the story of a video store clerk who transformed cinema serves as both cautionary tale and inspiration.

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

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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.

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IFH 817: Crafting Stories Frame by Frame with Jason Love

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There’s a peculiar rhythm to life when storytelling becomes your compass, and few embody that dance quite like Jason Love. On today’s episode, we welcome a creator who has dipped his hands into nearly every corner of the craft—animator, magician, comic artist, educator, and even late-night TV performer. His journey is not one of following the rules but of bending them, shaping a path through sheer experimentation, and proving that filmmaking at its heart is about resourcefulness and play.

Jason’s first taste of animation came not through polished studios but through flip books and clunky VHS camcorders. In college, he began experimenting with Windows Movie Maker, breaking down drawings into tiny increments of movement. “It wasn’t scientific, but it was magical,” he recalled. That sense of magic carried him forward, showing him that filmmaking was less about having perfect tools and more about having the willingness to try. While film school often bound students to expensive stock and battered cameras, Jason found freedom in the growing accessibility of digital tools.

What followed was an unconventional route through the filmmaking world. When the weight of traditional film education slowed him down, Jason pivoted to teaching himself and later teaching others. Libraries became his classrooms, where kids and teens learned that movies could be born from simple experiments at home. His workshop, once humorously called “Cheap Animator,” was proof that compelling stories don’t require expensive cameras or Hollywood backlots. They require imagination and the courage to press record.

Jason also branched into making short films, often as learning experiments for new tools or formats. One early project, “Hillary’s Adventures in Politics,” became both a crash course in Flash animation and a test of his persistence. Though the project dragged far longer than planned, it taught him the rhythm of production, the weight of editing, and the satisfaction of seeing an idea evolve into a finished short. Later, while creating his comic “Madman of Magic,” he pushed further into motion comics, combining illustration with filmmaking technique. These hybrid experiments revealed how fluid the borders of film can be when curiosity takes the lead.

And then there were his performances. Jason once landed on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, performing a stunt where he laid on a bed of nails while a partner balanced on a unicycle above him. “I just figured—what’s the worst that could happen?” he laughed. The same daring spirit that led him to late-night television is what has fueled his filmmaking: a willingness to take a chance, submit a demo, or start a project without knowing where it might lead.

Perhaps most telling is Jason’s foray into crowdfunding. With his online animation course, he chose to open the door wide—offering the handbook for only a dollar on Kickstarter. His goal was never about profit; it was about reach. Hundreds of people responded, some diving deeper, others simply curious enough to try. In the process, Jason revealed one of the most important truths about filmmaking in the digital age: accessibility is everything. The fewer the barriers to entry, the more voices get to share their stories.

What Jason reminds us is that filmmaking doesn’t have to be monumental to matter. He tells his students to think in seconds—three or four seconds of animation can hold more value than chasing a perfect feature-length dream. It is in the short, simple acts of creation that filmmakers build their foundation. From motion comics to library workshops, from clunky camcorders to YouTube uploads, Jason’s journey is proof that the heart of filmmaking isn’t in the equipment or the budget. It’s in the play, the persistence, and the willingness to keep experimenting.

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IFH 816: From Extras to Director’s Chair: The Filmmaking Journey of Rocky Costanzo

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The making of films is less about capturing perfection and more about living through the process—messy, unpredictable, and deeply human. On today’s episode, we welcome Rocky Costanzo, a filmmaker who carved his path from television extra to independent director, learning each lesson of cinema the hard but honest way.

Rocky Costanzo is a filmmaker who began as a young actor but found his true passion behind the camera, crafting independent features that reflect both his resilience and devotion to storytelling.

His first encounters with film sets were not in lecture halls or classrooms, but in the background of television shows like The Wonder Years. What should have been a fleeting job became his first apprenticeship. Rocky recalls sneaking back on set during breaks, just to watch the crew arrange lights, position cameras, and orchestrate the magic of filmmaking. “I was just so fascinated by watching them setting up the lights and the camera,” he said, a moment that would forever shift his desire from being seen on screen to shaping the vision behind it.

Without the traditional structure of film school, Rocky leaned into resourcefulness. Public access television became his first real training ground. Borrowing cameras, experimenting with horror shorts, and airing his projects on local stations, he treated every attempt as an opportunity to fail, learn, and grow. In those early days, lighting a scene with hardware store lamps or creating dolly shots with rollerblades wasn’t just necessity—it was the spirit of independent filmmaking. This was his film school: raw, improvised, and endlessly instructive.

As he moved into feature films, Rocky discovered that each project carried its own unique education. His first taught him the importance of lighting, his second drilled in the hard realities of sound, and later projects revealed the subtleties of directing actors. Having come from an acting background himself, he understood the need for trust. Rather than dictating every move, he encouraged his cast to breathe life into their characters naturally. In his words, “I don’t want to be the puppeteer… I like to see them play, because I think it brings out a natural performance.”

Yet, filmmaking is not only about working with actors; it is about shaping a vision in the face of constraint. Rocky spoke candidly about the evolution of independent film—how digital technology made production more accessible, while simultaneously making distribution more difficult. Once, the battle was to gather enough crew and resources to shoot a film; now, the greater challenge is ensuring it gets seen. Still, Rocky insists that the principle remains unchanged: “Story, story, story—that’s what lasts.” Technology may alter the tools, but never the essence.

This commitment to story over spectacle is evident in his more recent project, Ditch Party. Unlike his earlier films, this was not born from his pen but handed to him as a director’s challenge. Set largely in one room, the film demanded restraint and focus, forcing the story to thrive on dialogue, tension, and human vulnerability. Rocky described the camera itself as becoming “another character,” confined with the students during a harrowing school tragedy. The limitations of the single location did not hinder the film—it sharpened it, reminding both filmmaker and audience that true power lies not in special effects or sweeping visuals, but in the raw immediacy of human drama.

For Rocky, filmmaking has always been about persistence. Whether improvising with low-budget equipment, navigating unfinished projects, or adapting to new roles, his journey is a living testament to resilience. “You just got to have the love, you got to have the passion. Gotta just want to make movies,” he reflected. Those words distill the filmmaker’s path into its simplest truth: passion is the only fuel that lasts.

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IFH 815: Lessons in Filmmaking, Failure, and Persistence with Greg Travis

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The universe has a funny way of holding onto a film like a dusty reel in the attic, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal it. On today’s episode, we welcome the endlessly persistent Greg Travis, a filmmaker who proves that good movies never die—they just take their sweet time getting made.

Greg Travis is a veteran actor, director, and comedian who’s worked with cinematic giants like David Lynch, Paul Verhoeven, and Milos Forman, while carving out a gritty, self-made path in indie film.

Greg’s journey is one of creative endurance. In high school, he picked up a Super 8 camera, made his first feature, and thought, “This is easy.” That optimism, of course, would be tested across a decades-long career in stand-up comedy, television, and film. But his true passion always pointed in one direction: directing. And that passion finally culminated in the long-delayed release of his 1984 feature, “Dark Seduction”—a black-and-white, film noir throwback with a bite of ‘80s vampire sleaze, now reborn on digital platforms.

“There’s a lot you could go back and say, well, I could have done this, I could have done that… but for the most part, I got what I was trying to get,” Greg shares about the film. He dives deep into the post-production war stories: funding shortfalls, lost momentum, technical delays, and rediscovering the original film negative decades later. The transfer to 2K revealed details he never imagined possible back when he shot on 16mm. Ironically, the very delay that nearly buried the film made it better—thanks to the evolution of digital technology.

Throughout the episode, Greg opens up about working with some of the best directors in the business. He recalls how Lynch would dab fake blood on his face himself, with meticulous attention to the smallest physical detail, while Verhoeven came at a scene with bold, striking visual choices. The common thread between these directors? Vision. A clear sense of tone and visual continuity that carried from script to screen. “Tone is hard,” Greg admits, “but it’s everything. That’s what holds a film together.”

As an actor-turned-director, Greg has a rare dual perspective. He understands how to read performance, adjust energy, and speak the language of character. He encourages young directors to take acting classes—not to become actors, but to understand the process, rhythm, and mental prep behind a scene. “Some actors drop character the minute you call cut, some need to stay in it. You have to respect that,” he says.

He also champions the art of improvisation—though not the lazy kind. He believes in having a script, a tight plan, and then leaving just enough room to discover something better on set. This was especially true in his film Midlife, which began with improv-heavy scenes and ended up being trimmed from two and a half hours to a tight, lean feature through sharp editing.

Greg’s reflections on writing are equally practical. His advice? Start with a detailed three-act outline. Give each scene a purpose before you write a single line of dialogue. “You’ve got to know what your character is going through at every point,” he explains. “If you don’t map it out, you’re just wandering.” He learned this from working with major producers like Brian Grazer, and it remains his go-to strategy for getting scripts production-ready.

His latest film, Dark Seduction, isn’t just a genre mashup—it’s a love letter to noir, cult horror, and practical filmmaking. With a 1940s detective vibe and a modern-day wink, it straddles eras, styles, and sensibilities. It’s filled with grit, humor, and a whole lot of personality—everything you’d want from a filmmaker who’s seen both sides of the Hollywood coin.

Greg’s story is a masterclass in playing the long game. It’s about sticking with your vision, even when it takes years—or decades—to see it realized. He’s not selling a shortcut to success; he’s offering a blueprint for survival and longevity in a brutally competitive industry.

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

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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.

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IFH 813: Building Films from Scratch: Mastering Microbudget Movie-Making with Evan Kidd

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Sometimes, the stars align not because you begged them to, but because you stopped waiting and just started filming. On today’s episode, we welcome the ever-resourceful Evan Kidd, an indie filmmaker whose down-to-earth creativity and fearless storytelling light a fire under any aspiring artist. Evan is the embodiment of what happens when resourcefulness meets soul.

Evan Kidd is a passionate filmmaker and storyteller whose work celebrates creative independence, community-driven production, and the power of authentic narratives told with whatever tools are available.

We tend to think that making a film requires a king’s ransom, but Evan dances with the spirit of what he calls “resource-based filmmaking.” No castles, no Hollywood gates, just a camera, a tight crew of true believers, and a story worth telling. The idea isn’t new. In fact, Evan draws inspiration from the likes of Robert Rodriguez and Richard Linklater, turning his attention to what he can do, rather than what he can’t. He reminds us that “You are as made as your team is made,” and that filmmaking, at its core, is more jazz than symphony—fluid, improvised, and unshakably soulful.

In this profound conversation, we have Evan Kidd, breaking down his approach to his feature film Son of Clowns—a micro-budget, soul-driven project shot in just ten days across the vibrant but cooperative cities of North Carolina. His production wasn’t built on money; it was built on trust. Locations weren’t bought, they were earned. Crews didn’t show up for the paycheck; they showed up for the mission. Evan didn’t simply direct a film—he directed a movement of belief. “Your team is your backbone,” he says, “and if they care about the story, they’ll carry it with you.”

The Zen of Evan’s filmmaking lies not in perfection but in adaptability. He shares how the most cinematic moment in Son of Clowns—a thundercloud punctuating a tense character scene—was a complete accident. And yet, it worked beautifully. Like the late afternoon rain on a summer’s day, it arrived uninvited but brought its own kind of grace. Filmmaking in the wild, he says, gives your work an authenticity no soundstage can replicate.

But beneath his technical prowess and planning lies a deeper wisdom: ego has no place on an indie set. “Check that shit at the door,” Evan warns with the calm certainty of someone who’s seen both chaos and clarity. A great film is not made in isolation but in communion—with your crew, with your environment, and most importantly, with yourself. He believes in leadership through humility, and his sets are a masterclass in creating space for others to shine.

Much of Evan’s strength comes from his refusal to let fear define the boundaries of his creativity. He speaks candidly about the paralysis of perfectionism and the myth of needing approval before doing your work. In a world that often rewards noise over substance, Evan is quietly building a legacy from the ground up—one rooted in sincerity, resilience, and unshakable love for the craft. As he puts it, “At the very least, if you try, you can say you tried. But if you don’t, that thought will haunt you.”

The truth is, most artists don’t need permission to begin. They just need to start. And Evan’s journey reminds us that the tools for transformation are often already in our hands—be it a borrowed camera, a loyal friend with time to spare, or a stormcloud rolling in at just the right moment.

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

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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.

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IFH 811: How Pixar’s Story Secrets Can Transform Your Filmmaking Process with Brit Cruise

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Every once in a while, a conversation comes along that doesn’t just fill your mind—it redirects your thinking. On today’s episode, we welcome Brit Cruise, who lives at the intersection of creativity, logic, and education. Imagine a man who once edited videos as a child using two VCRs and a mic cable snaked across the room, only to grow into the visionary behind some of the most innovative educational content on the internet. This is the same curious mind now crafting immersive storytelling lessons with Pixar’s brightest.

Brit’s journey is rooted not in traditional metrics of success but in a profound sense of wonder. As a child, he was captivated not just by film, but by explanation—the act of making sense. Bill Nye was an early influence, and from a young age, Brit began creating explanatory videos as school projects, blazing his own path in the educational wilderness. This early spark matured into something far more potent: a mission to fuse storytelling, science, and learning into a format that ignites curiosity.

In our conversation, Brit paints a picture of how he works not by the clock, but by the rhythm of deep focus. He avoids context switching—the modern-day thief of presence—and instead breaks his day into two sacred creative chunks. “Any tool will work if you’re motivated,” he says, offering the kind of clarity that silences excuses. He writes by riverside with pen and paper, not for the words, but to build memory through movement—doodling, drawing, letting the subconscious flow through ink.

What unfolds in “Pixar in a Box” is a revelation: math and science are not isolated disciplines but threads woven into the very art of storytelling. A lesson on water simulation becomes a gateway into Newton’s equations. Hair animation unfolds through Hooke’s Law. But most exciting of all is the upcoming curriculum on the art of storytelling. Its goal? To guide learners from a blank page to a fully storyboarded short. “You should be creating as you’re learning,” Brit says—a philosophy that embodies the entire spirit of his work.

But it hasn’t been easy. Producing these lessons demanded reconciling two very different worlds: Pixar’s demand for polished, high-production visuals, and Khan Academy’s ethos of clarity over gloss. The solution? Build interactive tools so good they can serve both as educational activities and video visuals. A single solution, elegantly layered. This, Brit calls creative problem solving: “the ability to deal with unknowns.”

Indeed, Brit redefines creativity as the willingness to traverse uncertainty. While others might cling to a fragile first idea, fearing the cascading edits that come with change, he sees iteration as joy, not loss. “It’s like solving a puzzle,” he muses. “Rearranging the pieces again and again, enjoying how they might fit together differently each time.” He embodies a sacred kind of playfulness—the kind where depth and discipline are not at odds with wonder.

When asked what he hopes people take away from Pixar in a Box, he reflects not on the information, but on the people. Each lesson is led by someone who actually works at Pixar. Their “Getting to Know” videos reveal humble beginnings, curious paths, and the real human stories behind the animation magic. It’s about building models—not just mental, but personal—of who we might become if we simply followed the thread of our fascination.

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IFH 810: The No-Excuses Filmmaking Philosophy of Len Kabasinski

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It began, as it often does, in the hushed corridors of childhood imagination—monsters lumbering across the television screen while the rest of the world slept. In the quiet glow of late-night horror flicks, a young soul discovered the strange alchemy of cinema. On today’s episode, we welcome Len Kabasinski, a martial artist turned indie filmmaker whose films blend blood, bone, and the spirit of doing-it-yourself with gritty determination. Len is a B-movie legend, crafting low-budget action-horror films with the vigor of a man who knows that creativity isn’t about permission—it’s about pursuit.

From his first plunge into filmmaking with Swamp Zombies, Len Kabasinski knew that making a film wasn’t just about pointing a camera. It was an act of becoming—writer, director, producer, marketer, even actor. And unlike the dreamers who never make it past the couch, he threw himself headlong into the flames. Armed with a Canon GL2 and the reckless enthusiasm of someone too committed to quit, he crafted his debut. “I’m not interested in just being called a filmmaker,” he said. “I am one. This is what I do.”

It wasn’t about waiting for a golden invitation. For Len, filmmaking came with duct tape, missed calls, and wrestlers-turned-actors like Dan Severn battling zombies in the woods of Pennsylvania. He’s not coy about the chaos: missed actors, last-minute rewrites, and reshoots in the backyards of MMA legends. But like any warrior worth his salt, Len learned to fight with what he had. His method became a rhythm—build the team, shoot in blocks, rely on the extras, trust the plan. Not a single project escaped without scars, but none were left unfinished.

Perhaps the most telling truth came when he spoke of being creatively alive. For some, making movies is a resume; for Len, it’s oxygen. “It’s like sharks,” he said. “They swim forward all the time, and if not, they die.” This hunger kept him moving through Curse of the Wolf, Fist of the Vampire, and the revenge-fueled biker saga Hellcat’s Revenge. Each film grew leaner, sharper, more deliberate. Locations condensed. Casts were refined. Extras became the lifeblood of the visual world. If it couldn’t be controlled, it was reimagined. That was the ethic.

And then came the recognition—not from red carpets, but from cult fans, late-night screenings, and the digital frontier. As he prepared for the martial arts epic Challenge of the Five Gauntlets, it was clear that Len was done chasing approval. People were watching now not for gimmicks, but for him. “I don’t have to worry about trying to draw them in with something else,” he said, echoing a quiet triumph only an artist forged in fire can know.

Len Kabasinski isn’t interested in nostalgia, though he pays homage to the B-movie gods that birthed him. What he offers is grit and grace at the intersection of martial arts, micro-budget cinema, and unwavering drive. Even now, as Swamp Zombies 2 looms with its blend of Running Man mayhem and undead madness, you can feel the energy of a man who never stopped moving. He’s not here to prove anything. He’s just here—still making, still dreaming, still Len.

“If you’re not 1,000,000% in, it’s a no.” – Len Kabasinski

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