My definition of good art has changed throughout the years. What I’ve found is that if something is truly good, it stays with me over long periods of time.

There are certain films and books I have this relationship with. Works that I didn’t necessarily love upon first encounter, or didn’t fully understand.

When I first read Septology by Jon Fosse, I found it difficult and tedious. There were moments I enjoyed deeply, but overall I became frustrated reading his experimental work, a novel spanning hundreds of pages written as a single sentence.

But something happened after I finished. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Months, years later.

I thought about the rhythm of the language, how long it must have taken him to write a book that stretched across 700 pages without ever truly ending. His meditations on life, art, religion, and death.

The book kept resurfacing in my mind. I read it two years ago, and it still seeps into random moments of my day. And it was only then that I realized: this is a great work.

Last week, I attended the Tribeca premiere of Retrieval, a documentary produced by my friend Rebecca Stern and directed by first-time filmmaker Tracy Jarrett. I had seen a rough cut of the film in early December—no more than 20 minutes—and I remember feeling that it was powerful, with a compelling subject at its center. And because of that, I thought I knew what I was walking into when I watched the finished film. But I quickly realized I had miscalculated its emotional layers.

Retrieval explores the ethics, logistics, and morality surrounding postmortem sperm retrieval (PSMR), a little-known procedure first developed in the 1970s. The film follows Christina Neeley after her fiancé, Wesley, dies suddenly in a car accident. As she navigates a complex medical and legal system, Christina grapples with the possibility of retrieving viable sperm from her late fiancé.

The documentary presents a range of perspectives from physicians who perform the procedure to families and support groups confronting difficult decisions in the wake of loss.

There is probably much to say around the ethics and morality of PSMR, but that’s not what I was left questioning when the film finished. The narrative slowly unfolds as a deep meditation on grief documented in real time–the vast emotional landscape one enters when left alone with fragmented memories.

As I listened to Christina talk in detail about her late fiancé, I kept thinking, long after the film was over, that we don’t know the fullness of someone. We don’t know everything about who they are, their struggles, their joys. Jarrett’s ability to make you think about your own mortality and fleetingness in life is remarkable.

I was also left thinking about the artistic process and the herculean commitment documentary filmmakers make when they attach themselves to a subject. At the Q&A, Jarrett shared that she left her job to focus on the film, a project that ultimately took nearly six years to complete.

That kind of commitment is not uncommon in documentary filmmaking, but hearing it spoken aloud reminded me that some people encounter a story and immediately recognize that it will become part of their life for years. Not because it is practical, financially sound, or guaranteed to succeed, but because they cannot look away from it.

Maybe that’s another way of recognizing great work. Not only in how it stays with the audience, but in how long it stays with the artist who chooses to make it.

As the days passed after watching Retrieval, I realized it was never only about PSMR. It was about the impossible decisions people are forced to make while grieving. It’s probably too soon to tell if it will stay with me over a long period of time, but so far it’s been almost a week, and I’ve thought about Christina Neeley’s steely determination every day since.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to make films in community. There are many brilliant articles on this, especially around how to build community with integrity, reciprocity, and transparency. But I’ve also been thinking about what community means from the artist’s perspective while you’re in the midst of creating.

Is your work informing other filmmakers’ work? Are there overarching themes that all of our films are speaking to, even when they appear to be entirely different stories, set in different worlds, with different characters?

And if so, what is it that we’re collectively trying to say?

I can’t remember where I first heard this story. Maybe it was in Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act, or maybe it was in Stephen King’s On Writing. But a well-known author spoke about having an idea for a novel that she had been sitting on for years. She loved the concept, but never got around to writing it.

One day, she met up with a friend who was also a well-known author. During their conversation, her friend mentioned that she had an idea for a new book she was excited about. As she described the premise, the other author sat there in mild shock.

It was the exact same idea.

I think about this story often because it reminds me that ideas can arrive in more than one place at once. They exist in the collective unconscious, waiting for someone to act on them. And if you don’t, someone else eventually will.

Filmstack has become a catalyst for many of us to actually execute ideas we might have otherwise kept in isolation. It pushed us to be the second author in that story.

There’s also nothing wrong with creating alone. By “alone,” I mean within your own production team, without being in constant dialogue with others who are in a similar process.

But I find myself wondering: if the industry didn’t shift, if the old gatekeeping structures were still fully intact, would many of us have found our way to platforms like this at all?

I probably wouldn’t have started a Substack if I didn’t feel compelled to try something different. The industry waves, in its own way, redirected me here, and ultimately led all of us to create new ways of working.

I still marvel at the fact that Substack actually listened when we petitioned for a Film and TV category. It felt like a meaningful pivot, one that signaled Filmstack was serious about change.

My thought process is a bit of a winding road, but I keep coming back to the same question: why hasn’t there been a film-specific platform for the filmmaking community? Every few years, I return to this idea, and I have a feeling it’s one that other people are turning over too. And when I say platform, I don’t mean viewing platform, but something that encompasses everyone from varying facets of the film industry.

Recently, I came across Dark Forest OS, a new platform created by Yancey Strickler that combines community, publishing, project sharing, and opportunities within a private space. I’m still early in exploring Dark Forest OS, but it’s been genuinely interesting to see what Yancey is building. The deeper I go, the more it feels like a breath of fresh air for creatives working across different disciplines.

What struck me is that it seems designed to hold ideas while they’re still unfinished. The platform feels cool and down-to-earth, but sophisticated enough to support work in progress, not just polished outcomes.

And it made me think about how much I wish something like this existed specifically for the film community.

Back in 2020, I made a serious attempt to create a self-generated networking platform for filmmakers and producers. It was essentially a vetted industry rolodex. At the time, I was working as a line producer, and I was constantly being asked by other producers and colleagues if I knew a good sound mixer, gaffer, production coordinator, or editor.

I had accumulated countless Excel spreadsheets and contact lists over the years, all filled with talented crew. Eventually, I became frustrated by how fragmented everything was. I kept wishing there was a single place where we could find trusted production professionals in varying cities, rather than relying on personal referrals and scattered documents.

I might write an entire post about this idea because, honestly, I thought I had moved on from it. The platform became too complicated for me to run on my own, too expensive to maintain, and difficult to balance alongside a full-time job.

But after seeing what Yancey has built with Dark Forest OS, I’m realizing that my original idea was missing a few important layers. I was focused on solving a production problem, creating a better way for film industry professionals to find and hire one another. What I hadn’t considered was the value of shared ideas, creative process, and the role the community can play in helping unfinished work take shape.

I’ve been on Substack for less than a year, and I’m continually impressed by what the Filmstack community are sharing and building. Ironically, some of that success has made me wonder whether we’re beginning to need something more. Not because Substack isn’t working, but because the community has grown into something larger than a newsletter platform alone. I’ve also been in the production weeds on my project for a while now, so if something like this exists, I would love to know.

There’s a part of me that’s relieved big tech hasn’t fully capitalized on something like this idea. At the same time, it’s interesting that film remains one of the few creative industries without a central platform for its full creative ecosystem.

Filmstack has started to approximate that space, but it raises a larger question for me: what does a platform designed specifically for filmmakers actually need to look like? I genuinely want to know what the community would like to see reflected in something built solely with filmmakers in mind.

Maybe that’s why I keep returning to this idea. Not because I have an answer, but because the question feels more relevant now than it did five years ago.

And judging by what people are building here, I have a feeling I’m not the only one thinking about it.

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Production has always been my least favorite part of filmmaking. For years, I would silently lament going into production on a project, because when working on client jobs, everything can feel like a performance. Like you’re being watched. Every company move studied, every storyboard questioned, overages, creative solves, notes from video village. I honestly hate it.

But working on my proof of concept without a watchful eye felt intrinsically different. It felt free. And for the first time, I really understood the difference between producing art and producing commerce.

Of course, when you have investors on a feature, or you’re working on a television series, there are always going to be complexities. Notes from executives, investors thinking about the bottom line, and competing interests. But I had never been in a situation where none of that existed. And it made me love production in a way I didn’t think I could.

Now that I have a few weeks before post-production starts, I’m slowly getting the feeling that I’m coming down from a production high. I didn’t realize how much time and mental space this shoot occupied in my life.

And now that it’s over, that means I have time to think, which is not a good thing. My analytical brain has a tendency to work against me, and so I’m doing something I never would have done in the past unless it was client work: I’m focusing on a completely different project.

I’m pushing forward on a new project that is more complete than Invisible Moves. It’s a project that received a fair amount of industry feedback, something I tweaked and edited endlessly, but like many projects during the strikes, it ultimately went nowhere.

But now, it feels like the right time to revisit it, and in an effort to keep doing instead of thinking, I’m moving forward with it.

As a producer, I was always forced to multitask across multiple short-form projects because it was how I made my living. But I never understood how working directors, especially those mostly working on features, could operate that way.

Now I’m slowly starting to understand that if things go well on one project, you want to keep building momentum into the next. If anything, it’s made me realize how much of filmmaking is about creating a feeling, and how watching films is about experiencing the feeling that was created on set. Here are a few things that no one tells you after you finish filming:

Emails

I’ll wake up thinking there’s someone I haven’t answered, or something logistical I still need to work through. It happens for a moment, and then it dawns on me that production has wrapped. It’s a combination of relief and almost disbelief that you were able to pull this off.

Coverage

I’ve found myself replaying tiny moments in my head. How I directed an actor, whether it made sense to do it that way, whether I have enough coverage. I hate coverage. It feels like a tricky math equation.

We had a very finite amount of time to film all of our setups, and because of that, the shot list was meticulous. I didn’t feel the need to get a master shot for every scene. But now that I’m heading into post, I wonder if that was the right move. There’s this lingering feeling of: is it enough?

Wrapping Production

Finishing production comes with a certain sense of accomplishment, but once you head into post, you realize how much work still remains. It’s also the part of the process where you begin to understand that what you envisioned in your mind will more than likely look very different in the edit.

Not better or worse. Just different.

The Comedown

No one really talks about the emotional comedown after production. You spend months operating at a heightened level, constantly solving problems, making decisions, and moving toward something. Then suddenly, everything becomes quiet again. Your body stops moving before your brain does.

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I finished wrapping production a few days ago, and I’ve been reflecting on the most essential thing I’ve learned as a director: a strong mind. And what I mean by “strong mind” is the ability to be disciplined and push past your internal limitations.

In many ways, filmmaking, or the making of any kind of art, is inherently vulnerable. It says something about who you are as a person, whether directly or indirectly. And at some point, you are going to share that art, and you will be seen. Seen in a different way than you have ever been used to. Some people are ok with that, but many are not. And for those who aren’t (like myself), you have to make peace with the fact that your work might be misunderstood, or that you might be misunderstood.

At the beginning of last year, there were times I knew I could have moved faster on something. I could have sent an email sooner, reworked a scene, but I didn’t. I procrastinated, ruminated, and thought about things endlessly. I could feel the fear looping and the stuckness in my body. I knew that my mind wasn’t in the right place to tackle making my own work. Other people’s work, sure. Mine, absolutely not. And I had to retrain it.

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that discipline and work ethic outweigh any kind of talent. It’s not enough to be talented. You must put in the work, and I’m not just talking about execution. Yes, that’s extremely important, but I’m also talking about the internal work. They go hand in hand as a filmmaker.

You have to be relentless about this, because there are going to be outside voices that make you question your vision. They will be harmless comments and questions, or sometimes even worse, saying nothing at all, but they can stay with you. And unless your mind is sound, rested, and steady, they will slowly build up until they pierce your ability to get anything done.

Immersing yourself in the internal work is there to help build a strong sense of self. As a filmmaker and artist, you must unequivocally and unshakably know who you are. And what I mean by that is understanding your strengths, weaknesses, wounds, and triggers.

Amanda Sweikow writes brilliantly about how important it is for film schools to help cultivate students’ sense of self, and I couldn’t agree more. Knowing who you are further clarifies your vision. It helps you articulate and see the world in a way that only you know how to see it.

Here are some of the things I do to strengthen my mind leading up to production. This is just what works for me, and I would love to hear yours:

Running

I’ve found that running and ballet are the two things that make me feel truly grounded. And when I’m physically in my body, it means that I’m not living in my mind. When you can make decisions based on how something feels versus overthinking it, it comes from a more truthful place. In many cases, your body will tell you what is true before your mind does. This means that you can lead your work with intuition instead of the monkey mind.

Journal Speak

This is a writing method created by Nicole Sachs, LCSW, and influenced by Dr. John Sarno. The methodology was designed to help people heal from chronic pain. Dr. Sarno’s research suggested that unexpressed emotions can build up over time and contribute to ailments like migraines and anxiety.

Unlike regular journaling, Journal Speak is much more raw. You set a timer and write for 20 minutes straight. Rage write things you would never want anyone to read. Things that upset you about your day, or things that you’re happy about. But it has to be about the current state of your emotions. I always start with the question: “What does it feel like to be me today?”

Once the 20 minutes are up, I rip up the paper and throw it away. I’ve been doing it every day for almost two years now, and it’s honestly changed my life. It’s helped me name emotions, come up with ideas, improve my sleep, and significantly lessen anxiety. The key is consistency.

Say Little

This one is a little more controversial, but leading up to production, especially if it’s your project, don’t tell that many people about it except your collaborators, or other filmmakers who are also working on their projects. Ironically, my whole Substack is about process and producing, but some of my friends and family don’t even know I have a Substack.

Talking too much about something when it’s still in gestation can shift the energy. Let your actions do the talking, and when it’s out in the world, then show them.

Watching Films

I’ve written about this before, but leading up to any production, it’s impossible for me to watch films. This is painful, because the days and months leading up to production can be long, which means that for stretches of time, I really don’t watch anything. The time I would spend watching films gets replaced by reading instead.

Now, this is not for everyone, but over time, I’ve come to like it because it helps me stay inward. Not watching films for long stretches has allowed me to access originality and generate ideas. You can sink deeper into your own voice.

All of these things helped me stay grounded, but most importantly, they helped me move through fear. That’s really what these routines are for: building a strong nervous system while you produce your vision, and step into the unknown.

I really do feel like the film gods were with us during production. And I couldn’t have done it without the incredible crew and collaborators who helped bring this project to life. When I was on set, I felt that my nervous system was finally strong enough to hold the weight of the project – that I had built myself to get to this point instead of running away.

And there is nothing more deeply gratifying than keeping your word to yourself.

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I’m a little less than two weeks away from filming, and something I keep coming back to is plain and simple: being a director is hard. I knew this already, but not in the way I thought I would understand it. I used to say that being a producer is hard, and it absolutely is, but being a director is hard in ways I didn’t anticipate.

I’ve actually found myself wondering if, after I make this project, not just the proof of concept but the feature, I’ll want to direct again. I’ve seen and heard established directors talk about never wanting to do this again, only to be drawn back into the fray, and I now understand the sentiment.

I keep quietly asking myself if I’ll have the mental and physical stamina, and the emotional wherewithal, to repeat this in the future. Even though this is a proof of concept, we’re treating it like a feature, which means a large crew, an intense schedule, and higher liability.

What I’ve found to be difficult hasn’t been articulating vision or anything creative (maybe a few small things), but honestly, random moments I think about later in the day that, for some reason, grate on me. Some of this comes from my own unsettled mind, because I have a tendency to ruminate, but most of it is mundane, or tied to interactions with people outside of the industry.

What I’ve found is that the things I’ve always wanted, when they finally come into my life, never feel quite like I thought they would. And sometimes that can be disorienting when you’ve placed so much emphasis on them. It makes me think about the Seneca quote, “we suffer more often in imagination than in reality.” And I’m realizing the inverse is true too, that even the good things we imagine rarely arrive in the way we expect.

Rehearsals

Rehearsals were relatively smooth. There was one major issue outside of our control, which I can’t disclose, but we were able to work around it and move forward. There’s minimal dialogue in this project, mainly because I’m focusing more on tonality, but I still had all of these elaborate plans to have the actors talk through the context of the scene and dissect their characters. There was very little of that.

They were able to get to where they needed to be relatively quickly, and I kept thinking, “Great, is that all?” How did they get to that emotion so seamlessly? Did I miss something? Shouldn’t it have been more of a process?

Well-Meaning Questions

About 60% of my friends and acquaintances are not in the film industry, which means I’m frequently peppered with questions about what a proof of concept is, why I have to do it, and more recently, someone asked what network this was going to be on.

Slowly, over time, it has become somewhat daunting to have these conversations. I’ve found myself second-guessing everything as I explain what this is for. And as I’m explaining, it’s as if I can hear their silent thoughts about what an insane risk this is, and that I should stick to commercials.

This is more about me than them (if you’re reading this, I love you guys), but I’ve found that having to explain the business of directing can, at times, be exhausting.

Patience

There is so much waiting as a director. As a producer, I’m usually the one solving problems, relaying timeframes, setting expectations. Now I’m more on the periphery of those things.

My line producer asked if I wanted to be involved in certain conversations. Usually I would have said yes, but I’m trying to relinquish control more, so as an exercise, I said no.

What I’ve found is that I’ve had to retrain my brain not to focus on schedule and logistics, but on story. I know there are directors who have their hands in everything, but I trust that I can rely on my producing background as an internal compass to stay aware of constraints without needing to control them.

And I keep wondering if I actually have the patience to direct. The runway leading up to directing can be long.

Even something like finding the perfect location and then waiting months for the weather to change, it’s wonderful, but also difficult for me. I’ll think I’ve found it, and then it’s just… waiting. For the right light, the right season, the right conditions to finally arrive.

This is probably a personality thing, but sometimes the waiting doesn’t feel like forward movement.

Caring

And lastly, I’ve been wondering, do they care as much as I care? There are moments where I’ll be sitting with something for days, a shot, a feeling, a small shift in tone — and then I’ll bring it into a room and realize it lives differently for everyone else.

It’s a combination of both yes and no, and I’m having to be ok with that.

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This past weekend, I traveled to the location where I’ll be filming with my director of photography and line producer. The last time I was there was in January, and even during the harshest month of the year, it still felt like the perfect location.

After visiting again, when everything was lush and green, I understood why I made the decision to wait until it became warmer. It made me feel confident that, visually, this is going to have the tonality I’m looking for.

Here’s a photo from January and one from April. We probably won’t film this part of the property, but by mid-May, the trees will have filled out even more:

Barry Lyndon

This entire project has been a serious exercise in articulating vision. From consolidating a paper edit into a trailer that outlines the story while still creating mystery, to figuring out the right visual references, it has been fun, but also exhausting at times, to get the balance right.

I talk about Stanley Kubrick a lot on this platform, and that’s because he, alongside Jean-Luc Godard, was one of the first filmmakers to teach me what cinema could be. I am also slightly obsessed with Barry Lyndon, and I think a lot of that comes from its formal nature and what the form is trying to say. Even in Kubrick’s biography The Odyssey, the writers argue that Barry Lyndon “is a version of 2001: A Space Odyssey set in the past.”

I’ve had to get really clear on how I want to shoot my project, especially in terms of camera placement. Why are we placing the camera in certain positions? What are we trying to say?

As I’ve been working through my shot list, I keep coming back to Barry Lyndon. There is a very distinct visual distance in it that you don’t often see in period films.

Jack Nicholson once quoted Kubrick as saying, “In movies, you don’t try to photograph reality, you try to photograph the photograph of reality.” For Barry Lyndon, he photographs the painting of reality (Kolder, Abrams, Kubrick: An Odyssey).

Films that depict the past are already a constructed fantasy.

This is where the sci-fi component comes in. In Barry Lyndon, Kubrick treats the past as a world we are looking into—something fundamentally unknowable to us, like an intergalactic planet. The past becomes less historical reality and more an alternate universe governed by its own physics.

Throughout much of the film, he uses reverse zoom shots that begin on the characters and slowly pull outward until they are absorbed into the landscape. The effect is not intimacy, but distance. We are not asked to emotionally identify with them, but to observe them, as if from outside their world entirely.

I’ve been thinking about this in relation to my own work, and what kind of distance I want to build into the project. My feature film Invisible Moves has a spiritual component, and my DP and I have discussed staging certain camera perspectives as if they are from the point of view of observing spirits.

It feels aligned with the tonal distance I’m interested in exploring in period work, and with what Stanley Kubrick achieves in Barry Lyndon, but translated into a visual language that belongs to this story, not his.

Artwork

Now that we’re close to filming, I’ve been looking through works by Charles White and Jacob Lawrence that we might be able to replicate in certain scenes. More than likely, we won’t have time to execute all of them, but I’d like to try at least one setup. It will probably be the Charles White drawing:

Synths

I’ve been listening to a lot of classical music for inspiration, but there is something slightly off-kilter about Invisible Moves, and using something purely classical doesn’t fully feel right. Blues doesn’t fully feel right either.

I came across this YouTuber, Rafael Dormido, who uses synths to reinterpret certain classical works. His cover of Mozart’s Lacrimosa is haunting, beautiful, and a little unsettling.

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These past two weeks, I’ve been getting a lot of questions about what my next steps are after I film this project, and whether I should direct a trailer for a proof of concept or keep the focus on one particular scene.

I didn’t realize how much discussion there was around this topic until I made the decision to go this route. I’ve spoken to some filmmakers who’ve expressed that it’s not necessary, and others who’ve said that a script and a pitch deck alone aren’t enough. Before I committed to this approach, I asked myself the same question and went back and forth on what made the most sense.

So much of my background is in the commercial space, and I wasn’t the director on those projects. There are things I’ve directed here and there, but nothing that would prove I can carry a 90+ minute story. Ultimately, this decision came from a place of wanting to showcase what I can do and to show investors that I can execute what I’ve written. I hate the word “prove,” but when I’m honest with myself, when money is involved, people want a sense that you know what you’re doing.

The thing is, this project has also become about proving something to myself. I know I can do this, and I will, but there’s still a part of me that holds some skepticism.

It’s a strange feeling to know you want to do something—especially in your career—but not be entirely sure you’re good at it. This used to happen to me a lot when I was younger. In college, I would say, “I want to be a screenwriter or a filmmaker,” even though I hadn’t really done those things yet. I had watched what I thought was a lot of films and taken some theory classes, but I wasn’t the person who was getting friends together to make short films. Still, there was something in me that just knew.

It wasn’t until graduate school that I told myself, maybe I should try writing a script to see if I can do it. I’ve been writing ever since. But even then, scripts are just the blueprint. I still didn’t know if I could direct.

The question I keep coming back to now is this: after building a career as a commercial producer, I know I can execute—and by that, I mean I can put all the pieces together. But just because someone can execute doesn’t necessarily mean they can convey the emotionality or tone of a story, or understand how to translate a shot list in a way that actually supports a character arc. To me, that feels like a second tier level of execution—and probably the most important one.

So it’s that gap—the part of me that doesn’t yet know if I can fully convey those things—that I’m working through. And I don’t think there are hard and fast answers. Most of this, like many things, will only be learned through doing:

Depression Era Photography

• I’ve been continuing my deep dive with researching depression era photographers:

• I’m probably the last person on earth to watch this, but Ava DuVernay’s 2013 speech at Film Independent is absolutely incredible. Thanks for sharing it !

• I don’t miss working in an office, but I’ve been wanting a space of my own for a while now (not there yet). Lately, I’ve found myself looking at other artists’ offices a lot.

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It’s almost the Spring Equinox, and it has me thinking about the passing of time. There’s a big part of me that knows I could have shot this project already, but it was important to me that we film when nature is blossoming, before it reaches its full peak.

It would honestly be less anxiety-inducing to just shoot it now instead of staying in this holding pattern, but I keep telling myself the payoff will be worth it visually.

I keep coming back to the idea that it’s better to move forward and act than to overthink things, because time is going to keep passing anyway.

Undertone, Self-Financing, and A24

I haven’t seen Undertone yet, but I read a refreshingly honest interview in The Hollywood Reporter with the director, Ian Tuason, who self-funded a third of the $500K film with his own savings, along with a small inheritance from his parents after they passed away.

He mentions that he fully intended to go it alone, but was ultimately able to secure a few additional financiers, which helped create a more comfortable shoot. He also made the decision to film in his childhood home to keep production costs down.

He goes on to discuss the subdued feeling he had when A24 acquired the project, and how his grief and his parents’ passing shaped his response to that moment.

This is one of the more honest takes I’ve read about an acquisition, especially with a company like A24. The fact that Tuason put so much of his own money into the film—something we don’t talk about enough with first-time filmmakers—is something I really needed to hear.

Seeing someone commit to pushing a project forward with or without financiers feels refreshing. I’ve always felt there was a kind of mystique around getting financing attached, but Tuason’s “build it and they will come” approach worked. I don’t think first-time filmmakers should always have to do this—this is a much larger conversation—and many are not in a position to, but his drive to get this project made outweighed the risk.

It also made me reflect on my own relationship to my project, and how much of it comes down to deciding to move forward with what you have, rather than waiting for ideal conditions to appear.

Rethinking Rehearsals

After writing last week about not knowing how to work with actors, so many of you graciously reached out with thoughtful recommendations—thank you. Also a big shoutout to Joshua Caldwell for chatting with me and offering such fantastic advice. I highly recommend his next office hours, and to Brooke Berman and Emily Shesh for the great reading recommendations.

The biggest takeaway is that having conversations with actors about who these characters are from a psychological perspective can, in itself, be the rehearsal. That process allows them to embody the character and begin to understand tone, emotion, and the choices they might make.

I came away realizing that I may not need a traditional rehearsal in a studio—which now feels like overkill—but instead something more fluid: ongoing conversations with the actors, and creating a safe environment to explore.

Wardrobe

I think I’m going to move forward with wardrobe for this project. I’ve gone back and forth on whether this is something I actually need or if I can handle it myself. The cast is small, and the wardrobe lift is light, but this is a Depression era film, I want to make sure we’re sourcing pieces that feel historically authentic.

We can probably find a lot of authentic-looking pieces in consignment shops—wishful thinking?

Trailers

I’ve found the process of distilling my feature-length script into a two-page paper edit for the trailer to be extremely difficult. I tend to love trailers that showcase tone rather than focusing on narrative. There needs to be a sense of intrigue and mystique, and I found that really difficult to convey while condensing everything into two pages.

But it was a good exercise in figuring out how to say a lot while still saying very little. I know I stan Terrence Malick a lot on here, but the trailer for The Tree of Life shows you so much, even without dialogue.

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I wasn’t sure what to write about this week. For the most part, I’ve been focused on contracts (mainly for the location) and restructuring the paper edit for the trailer. So instead, I decided to put together a small collection of notes. Most of them come from things I’ve been thinking about while preparing the proof of concept, along with some general reflections.

Sometimes it still surprises me that people actually read this rambly thing. So in the spirit of keeping the record going—even though there isn’t much to report this week—here are a few thoughts that have been on my mind:

Rehearsals

I really don’t know how to work with actors. I’ve written about this before, but now that it’s almost spring, I’ve been thinking that I need to have a game plan for what I want to accomplish during rehearsals. I had a moment the other day where I wondered if I had blocked off too much rehearsal time. Ultimately, this trailer is more about expressions and physicality than dialogue.

I want the main actors to get to know each other in an authentic way. I keep wondering if rehearsals should be more about getting to know each other versus traditional rehearsing. There’s a part of me that feels like when someone trusts you, they’re able to reveal more of themselves. By creating a safe space, they may feel freer to fully embody the character. So I’m leaning more toward the former.

Miranda Barnes Photography

I went to a book event for the photographer Miranda Barnes and was completely blown away by her work. I knew some of her photography in passing, but after listening to her speak about her new book Social Season, it felt really gratifying to hear someone talk in such detail about their craft—working on a project for over four years without really knowing what would come of it.

The intention was to keep documenting Black debutante balls in Detroit and let the work slowly reveal itself over time. A rarity in this day and age.

I also came across her boyfriend, Rahim Fortune’s work, which is equally immaculate. It felt like some of their work was in conversation with each other.

Olympus Stylus Epic vs. Contax T2

I always take photos on set with an Olympus Stylus Epic. I still think it’s one of the best durable point-and-shoot options. I’ve used this camera since high school, and I’m pretty sure I bought it for about forty bucks. I can’t believe how much these cameras cost now.

I’ve been contemplating whether I should upgrade. I’ve wanted the Leica Minilux Zoom for a while, but I’ve heard it’s not really worth it. I’m considering a Contax T2. I’ve always wanted one, but ever since Frank Ocean was photographed with it on the steps of the Met Gala, I’m convinced the price has gone way up. I also wonder if it’s really even worth it.

Getting what you want

I’ve had a few friends this week get exactly what they wished for—down to a T. And it’s bringing up a variety of emotions for them around finally getting what they wanted and reconciling what they thought it would feel like.

It’s made me think a lot about what I want for the future of my career, and whether what I want will align with how I imagine it will feel. In the past, when this has happened to me, it’s always felt completely different from what I expected. Not good or bad, just different.

References

I put together a very long-winded email to one of the actors with film, book, and historical references for the proof of concept. I still haven’t hit “send” because I’m realizing I’m having a hard time articulating why some of these references are actually references.

I can’t tell if they’re reference points because of the time and place when I was writing the screenplay—whatever was in my atmosphere at the time—or if they genuinely inform the work in some way.

Does it matter, though?

True Nature - Peter Matthiessen

I’m still having a hard time watching anything while I’m working on this project. But I’ve been reading a lot, and I’m halfway through Lance Richardson’s True Nature, about Peter Matthiessen, one of the three founding members of The Paris Review, among many other things.

I’m honestly astounded by the level of biographical detail that went into this tome. Matthiessen lived a very big, storied life and was an extremely complex character.

Post-Production

I have literally given this zero thought, and I know I need to. I’ve been operating under the philosophy of getting the footage done by any means necessary and then thinking about post later. I don’t recommend this.

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I watched The Hollywood Reporter Directors Roundtable last week and found my mind turning over what Yorgos Lanthimos said about his initiation into making feature films.

He recounts his time working on big commercials and says, “I just thought I would make commercials and earn a living, and at some point it kind of dawned on me — especially when I became more technically proficient through making all of these commercials — I go like, ‘why don’t we just grab a camera and just go? We don’t need lights, we don’t need makeup, we don’t need anything. Just get three actors, go somewhere with five people, and make a film.’ That’s how I made my first film. And it was more about form. It was a reaction to the polished world that I knew.”

That landed with me deeply.

Coming from the corporate and commercial world, there was a part of me that never understood why certain concepts needed to be so difficult, especially ones that didn’t involve sound stages, stunts, pyrotechnics, animals, or tons of props. Everything felt layered and overly complex. Most of that complexity came from ego, from trying to impress the client.

I’ve always found the commercial bidding process unnecessarily intense, and still do. Most of the stories being told to sell whatever product for whichever brand fell flat. Not all the time, but often. Over time, I realized I was more invested in the proximity to how I was perceived working on certain projects than in what I was actually making.

There was a time when I was deeply annoyed that I was still a “corporate producer” and hadn’t produced a commercial yet. There was shame around it, mainly because much of the work we created was internal. It was still difficult to make, but it wasn’t seen. And visibility was what my younger self was craving.

What I realize now, and what I’ve been thinking about alongside Yorgos’ story, is this: I learned the most when I had the least.

When I was grinding as a corporate producer, we always had the fewest resources to tell a story. We had to figure out how to build something compelling out of an interview and maybe one random b-roll clip.

When I started working on larger branded content and commercial projects, everything felt additive. We always needed more. There was always an overage, a difficult budget conversation with the client, a DP expanding their gear list, an agency wanting a five-star hotel. It rarely felt like we were working within the neat confines of what we had.

I stopped thinking about creative solutions and started thinking about how to navigate the politics of asking for more money and justifying it. The more bells and whistles, the more polish, the further away I felt from the heart of the story.

And that’s exactly what I want to avoid with this proof of concept.

I’m intentionally keeping this as minimal as possible. In some ways, that makes me feel closer to the story, closer to the characters, and closer to my purpose. There’s so much richness you can create with one camera, natural lighting and one or two actors. Sometimes that’s honestly all you need.

In the same roundtable, Ryan Coogler mentioned that he didn’t fully understand what 2nd unit does. I understood that sentiment immediately. Despite the larger budgets and crews his later films had, his first feature was made for under a million dollars. He was used to small crews, intimacy, and control. Once you bring in a 2nd unit, it can feel like you’re losing something, even though everyone is working in tandem. Coming off smaller sets, that shift can feel disorienting.

I’ve been thinking about how I want to carry this minimal ethos onto set. In the spirit of keeping a continuing running tally of what I’m intentionally not including, here’s where I’m currently at:

• No 1st AD (I love a good 1st AD, but for this project, I don’t think we’ll need one. Also, random fact: Chloé Zhao didn’t have one on Nomadland, which is wild to me for a feature film).

• No storyboards

• No hair and makeup

• No dedicated wardrobe (still debating this one)

• No DIT

With so much insanity and chaos happening in the world, sometimes this minimalist approach feels like a way to control what we can. A way not to buy into the capitalistic assumption that more means better. Or, as Donny Broussard writes in his excellent essay Make Movies While the World is Burning, “Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is tell a deeply human story in an era trying to flatten humanity.”

Sometimes less isn’t a constraint. It’s clarity, even if it means more responsibility, more presence, and more work.

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It’s not official yet, but we’ve identified the two leads, and talent agreements will go out to them this week. It feels like a sigh of relief to be able to focus on other creative concerns, because locking in casting has been something hanging over my head for a while.

Throughout casting, I kept thinking how cool and strange it is that this is happening right now. And then I kept thinking, wait, I should have done this years ago, because I have so many other projects in my head. How am I going to catch up? That’s all I could think about. That the rate I’m working at, which is a decently rhythmic pace, that I won’t be able to catch up with the other scripts I’ve written in the past, or the new projects I want to produce.

I’ve also been meditating on the distance I’ve had from this project, and what it means to carry something over a long period of time. I wrote Invisible Moves across so many different phases of my life. It’s an interesting emotional state to be in, still working on something you started years ago, and still feeling so strongly about it. I don’t think it’s my most perfect script, but it’s the one I feel the most confident moving forward with, given the time and resources I have. And I think that’s what matters most.

I’ve also been revisiting other projects I wrote in the past, just to see if I feel as strongly about them as I do about this one. And strangely, I do. I have this newfound desire to get even older scripts produced, which feels strange, because I had written a lot of them off. Mainly because one of them requires extensive international travel from a production standpoint, and felt way too unrealistic to make. But I’m trying to tell myself, one thing at a time.

It’s been really cool seeing everyone’s progress in real time. There’s so much forward momentum collectively, and I honestly don’t think I would have gotten this far with this project if I hadn’t been inspired by everyone on Filmstack who are actively working on their films.

Working in tandem with other filmmakers (shout out to Josh and Emily!) has been one of the biggest motivational pushes for me. It’s been expansive in terms of realizing what you can actually pull off, regardless of time or resources. I think it’s psychologically beneficial to have other creatives around you who are all working toward the same goal. It makes everything feel more possible. There’s no pretense, just a shared love of cinema and a genuine desire to see each other finish what we start.

I was speaking with a former colleague earlier, and we were laughing about all of the politics, drama, and friction we used to navigate just to get corporate content produced. It’s something I became immune to over time, because that was the environment. But it really doesn’t have to be that way. What’s being built at Filmstack, and the support everyone is giving each other, feels different. It feels rare. For the first time, the distance between the ideas and the execution doesn’t feel so far.

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We’re so close to finalizing the two lead actors. We have an amazing casting director who’s been able to find interesting talent I wouldn’t have discovered on my own. My ideal scenario was to cast a bunch of unknowns. I’ve worked in commercial and corporate production for a long time, and the last thing I wanted was to negotiate with an agent or manager. I wanted to go rogue.

I’ve always loved projects where the talent is either unknown or has little acting experience. There’s something about their approach that feels more stripped back and authentic. There are definitely actors who embody this, but in my opinion, they are extremely hard to find. I’ve written about this before, but there’s often a sense that some actors are “acting,” a kind of self-awareness that they’re playing a role. I can always tell when someone hasn’t fully embodied the character. This is especially true if they come from a commercial background rather than theater or film.

The potential leads I’ve come across really embody the ethos I’m looking for, and one of them surprised me so much because they played against the way I wrote the character. I’m not sure if it was intentional, but I could instantly tell they had thought deeply about the role. I could hear it in the intonation of their voice. I was immediately impressed. I could feel that they tapped into the aura of the character so completely that they played it in a way I’d never considered before.

It’s been equally amusing and frustrating to see how some managers and agents communicate, or fail to, with their clients. One actor I really wanted had a manager who got back to us only to say he hadn’t realized his client had become part of SAG. Sigh. Another manager submitted their client without mentioning they were based in the UK and expecting us to cover a work visa and travel.

This project is an ultra-low-budget, non-union shoot, and even though we could consider becoming a signatory to bring someone on, I knew going into it that I wanted a clean, straightforward process. It never is, but I want to mitigate what I can. I know we’re moving mountains to change things at Filmstack, but this experience has made me realize there really does need to be a designated Actingstack. There is still so much that needs to change in the talent world. One of my best friends is an actress, and she talks a lot about this in her Substack, The Actors’ Corner.

Something else I’ve been thinking about recently is routines. This is more of a random aside, but it’s something I’ve noticed in the Filmstack community that I want to actively incorporate into my own life.

I’m seriously impressed with everyone’s ability to watch material at a faster pace than I’ve experienced. I’m a pretty voracious reader, but what I’ve noticed is that when I’m working on a production, it becomes incredibly difficult for me to watch films. I become completely locked in on that project. I don’t know how this happened, but my brain has been trained over a long period of time to be attuned only to work. If I have time, I’ll watch a film, but it wasn’t always this way, and I want to change it.

I’m genuinely intrigued by everyone’s routines and how they structure their days. There are certain things I do in the morning that are non-negotiable, but I’m curious if anyone has non-negotiables when it comes to incorporating a film-watching rhythm throughout the week. The same goes for reading Substack articles and essays. How is everyone doing this and keeping abreast of everything?

I’m sure many people feel the same way, that they’re not. But it dawned on me the other day that I finally got to watch Lurker and One Battle After Another, and that’s because I was on a plane. In almost any other circumstance, I wouldn’t have made the time unless it was the weekend.

When I was in graduate school, I pushed myself to watch one film a day. I don’t think I have the capacity to do that now, but I want to find a watching rhythm that feels realistic.

So how are you guys doing this? I really want to know. Some of you are publishing incredible work, watching everything, commenting everywhere, and working full-time jobs.

Please give me the keys.

After a month of real momentum, I ran into the part of production that tests you most. The moment where things don’t quite line up, and you have to decide whether to force them or let them go.

After a lot of forward momentum in January, I’ve hit a few production challenges that have left me feeling like I’ve had to pivot quickly. The biggest one has been the location I scouted a few weeks ago. There’s a possibility it might not work out for various reasons.

This year, I’m really pushing my mindset in a way that I never have before. I’m trying not to get emotionally invested when it comes to locations, crew, or talent, to prove to myself that when the right thing comes along, it will fit. I’ve been able to give myself breathing room in pre-production, since we won’t be able to film until late spring or early summer.

In all honesty, what I have to shoot is relatively straightforward. It’s the decision-making around certain details that feels more pressure-filled. It’s actually very freeing not to feel tied to anything, and to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I guess this is forcing me to get out of my mind and more into my body when it comes to decision-making. In other words, act, don’t overthink.

The next location I’m scouting could potentially be a better fit. It has way more animals than the first location, so it feels like a true farm, and some of the architecture on the property has an interesting look, like the image below:

I’m still in the middle of casting. I feel like I may have found one of the leads, but it’s still too soon to say until everyone submits their online auditions. I’m really trying not to get attached to any of the actors too soon. What’s been equally amusing and frustrating is how many of them have a difficult time breaking out of the commercial space. The roles in this project call for a subtle Southern accent, and many have been delivering pristine, clearly read lines with a North American regional accent. After watching over two hundred auditions, I felt depleted, but I was also pleasantly surprised by some of the submissions from talent I didn’t initially think would be right based on their reels. I was taken aback once they read the lines.

A few weeks ago, I went to Mast Books in the East Village. I hadn’t been in a really long time. If you’ve never been, go. It’s such a great bookstore, with a combination of used and rare books.

While I was there, I came across Darren Aronofsky’s book Pi: The Guerrilla Diaries. It’s a diary from the time he was making his first film, Pi. A collection of emotions, pre-production plans, letters to his parents, and notes from friends.

It felt like Aronofsky’s Substack, but in book form. He writes about how he’s 27 and sees lines in his face, and that he’s not a kid anymore. This is hilarious to me given how young he was when he made Pi, but it really cemented that all filmmakers are struggling with the same things at any age, at any time, no matter the career level: the feeling that there’s a lack of resources, a lack of time. And it’s the latter one that has been especially motivating to me.

I’m realizing that time isn’t something you wait to have more of. Acting is how you respect time.

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Jac’leen Smith is a good friend and former colleague from my early days as a production assistant at Viacom, where I worked on VH1’s Behind the Music. We met while working on different episodes—hers on T-Pain, mine on Pitbull—and have stayed close ever since.

Since her time at Viacom, she has built a multifaceted career in documentary and archival production, working with Sharp Entertainment, Complex Media, and Big Beach Films. She also served as an Associate Producer on Taylor Swift: Miss Americana and contributed to documentary development concepts for A24.

More importantly, her own creative work sits at the forefront of her career. Jac’leen released a docuseries titled Dear Younger Self, which she wrote, directed, and executive produced, and she is currently raising funds for her next project. You can support Flex Venus, a short film about a former track athlete reflecting on her past while battling body image insecurities, HERE.

Having experienced both the highs and lows of the production world, Jac’leen brings grounded, hard-earned wisdom and a perspective shaped by real experience.

Jac’leen Smith’s Production Notes

• When you enter the film industry, you have to remind yourself of your ‘why.’ It can’t be financially driven. There will be many financial ebbs and flows, so what has to drive you is that thing inside you that says, ‘I have to do this no matter what. No matter who champions me, I have to make this film because I need to convey this message.’

• Growth is in the discomfort.

• In the TV space, I’ve learned that I will never work in live television again. Three words: ‘No thank you.’ I have so much respect for the professionals who have worked in live TV for 20+ years—it’s a lot, and it’s extremely demanding. It takes a toll mentally and physically; it can feel like your entire life revolves around your position. Once the excitement wore off, I stopped enjoying it. The experience taught me to listen to my gut when something stops being enjoyable and to be okay with walking away.

• I think you really have to find a way, in a world where things can be so difficult, to silence the outside voices. Those voices might be someone offering an unsolicited opinion, or even your own voice comparing yourself to others. You have to find a way to quiet them and come back to yourself—to ask, ‘What am I doing at this moment? What am I saying?’ If you can do that, it will help you endure the ebbs and flows much more effectively and equip you with the mental endurance to ride the waves.

• All filmmakers and creatives have a unique path when it comes to getting their projects off the ground. If you get caught up in comparison, it can paralyze you. We’ve got to keep moving—no matter how dusty the journey gets sometimes!

• Once you do one scary thing, it gets easier. I never want to be so paralyzed by fear that I don’t do the thing I desire—the thing that’s in my heart—and end up saying, ‘I could have done it. This person did it, and it was scary for them, but they did it anyway.’ I never want to be the person who didn’t try.

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I really wasn’t expecting to find what I was looking for during this first scout, and it absolutely exceeded my expectations. The property includes several different houses, as well as two barns, all in close proximity. Because everything is contained within the same area, filming would be an absolute breeze, and I think we could fit everything into one day instead of two.

The only minor obstacles are the windows and some of the landscaping, which aren’t historically accurate, but I think we can easily shoot around that. What really matters are the varied textures across the property, all of which have the old, lived-in quality I’m looking for. The other consideration is the lack of animals on the farm. It’s definitely not a deal breaker, but it would be nice to have.

Overall, it feels like the perfect property for this project. A television show just finished filming here, and I’m praying the owner doesn’t raise the price because of that. If it falls through, though, I’m confident something even better will take its place. I’m looking for backups just in case.

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This weekend I’m going on my first scout for Invisible Moves. After a few minor snags with a location that looked perfect on paper but ultimately fell through, we found another location to check out that’s actually closer to New York.

I’m also thinking of bringing my film camera, a simple point-and-shoot Olympus Stylus Epic, so I can have something tactile to put in a scrapbook. I’m even considering making the storyboards from the stills (that might be too ambitious, but I’ve done it once before on a personal project and really enjoyed it).

From what I’ve seen, there are many things about the property that I like, but in the back of my head I keep ruminating over the fact that there aren’t nearly enough farm animals like the original location, and that the farmhouse, even though it’s the right time period, doesn’t have the same lived-in look. I know instinctively that this location might be close, but that it might not fit the bill.

Already I’m scanning for new locations and anticipating having to go on another scout, which is tricky to schedule with other projects happening and the fact that my line producer works full-time at a production company.

My brain slowly began to spiral, as I also anticipate this location being more expensive after the owner mentioned that a large TV show had just finished filming there. I immediately went into control mode and explained that this is a self-funded proof of concept. It’s not a commercial, corporate, or feature film, in order to temper budget expectations, with the hope that he sticks to the exceptionally low Hipcamp rate.

And in the middle of my brain slowly spiraling about all of the negative possibilities that could happen with this location, I realized how this is the perfectionist side of me that served me well at one point, but not for this project, or even at this stage in my career.

Perfectionism has, without a doubt, been the biggest challenge of my lifetime. My ability to fully understand this didn’t come until a former boss called me a “perfectionist.” And in retrospect, I realize that wasn’t a compliment. It’s something I had never considered about myself. I thought I was always pretty balanced, but after years of introspective analysis, I’ve concluded that this was in fact, correct, and if I stayed on that train for too long, it would royally screw up my life.

I thought if I played by the rules, was exacting, and mastered my craft, I would get to where I was going. And to a certain extent, I did. But I also learned that you can do all of these things and not get there, too. And that’s the thing (please read this again and let it sink in deeply): you can do all of the “right” things and still not get to where you want to go. I wrote more about this a few weeks ago, but it’s this dogmatic thinking that doesn’t work for those of us spearheading projects in the middle of peak industry change.

For some, this is an obvious no-brainer. Of course you can’t play it safe. Part of being in this industry, or any industry, means there has to be some creative risk. But man, this is something I really had to teach myself to do, and more importantly, to understand.

Writing these Substack posts has been really helpful for getting out of this kind of thinking. The ability to write what I’m feeling in the moment and just post it—regardless of how good I think it is—has been a major revelation, almost healing. It’s this kind of growth mindset that I want to bring to this project.

When I was younger, through my late teens, I studied ballet very seriously. I can see the ways the foundation for my perfectionism stemmed from this practice, but also the ways it helped positively shape me as a producer. It’s not bad to be detail-oriented, but when those tendencies keep you in fear, fight-or-flight, or procrastination, it turns into a silent killer.

This is the first mental spiral I’ve had in 2026 over absolutely nothing. There is no production problem here. The location hasn’t even been scouted yet, and my magical thinking has already tried to lead me astray, back to the old version of myself that I’ve worked so hard to change.

So if you skew like me and have a tendency to overanalyze, overthink, and meditate on things that absolutely do not matter, please say this with me: “progress over perfectionism.” I’ll be the first to admit that as much as I’m a self-help junkie, I used to smirk at people who had mantras like this. And now I’m one of them. I’ve found myself inhaling deeply, fumbling in the dark on this project, quietly muttering to myself, “progress over perfectionism.”

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I wasn’t going to write anything because, with the holidays, there hasn’t been much going on with pre-production. So I’ll keep this short.

By the time I post this, it will be New Year’s. Everyone will be making year-end lists and recapping their highlights and lowlights. Best films and worst films. But something that’s been heavily on my mind is the theme of sacrifice.

If you’re a filmmaker, creative, producer, whatever hyphenate you want to give yourself, someone who has either actively made a living in this industry or had a dream of making a feature, I know how much you’ve sacrificed. I’m not even talking financially. I mean yes, there’s that, but also in terms of time, waiting, and maybe grieving the way you thought your project would get made.

Do not wait. 2026 is the year we have to do this. So please, let’s do it. I’m talking to myself as much as I’m speaking to you. Let’s make 2026 the year where we just do the thing, not only for ourselves, but for all the time we sacrificed waiting for things to change, before realizing that we are the change.

Happy New Year, FilmStack!

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Last week, a casting director I’ve worked with over the years offered to work on my proof of concept for free. I’m incredibly gratified and humbled by the extremely talented friends and colleagues who have generously donated their time to this project with nothing expected in return. Despite the fact that the film business is in a state of flux, moments like this affirm the strength of community and the power of third spaces, like FilmStack IRL.

Casting has been something I’ve been concerned about since we went into pre-production, particularly because one of the main characters is a twelve-year-old boy. The old adage is that you should avoid filming children for your first project (or ever). The first barrier to entry is access to young talent who are actually decent actors. The second is having to deal with child coordinators, tutors, guardians, agents, and managers. Also, many of these young actors are SAG, which can usually be a headache.

At first, I thought I could figure this out on my own by tediously going through Backstage, but that quickly led to burnout, and I knew I needed external help.

Throughout this process, I’ve consistently questioned why I felt the need to move forward with this particular script instead of something else. Am I really this stubborn that I need to work on a project with every cliché you’re warned not to include in your first feature? But for some reason, intuitively, I was called to this project and not the others. And because I’m someone who prioritizes intuition above everything else, I had to follow it.

Now that it’s the end of the year, I usually give myself a self-audit. Have I committed to really doing the things I said I would do at the beginning of 2025? For the first time, I can confidently say “yes,” but it has me thinking a lot about how I could have been much further along with this project if I had just pushed myself more and gotten out of my comfort zone.

I have a tendency to overanalyze, and I’ve realized how much this has held me back when it comes to making my own work. I think the most powerful thing filmmakers who are working outside of industry norms can collectively do for 2026 is push forward with our projects, even through industry volatility.

There’s so much space for new directorial talent, and with the impending Warner Brothers acquisition from Netflix, the over saturation of empty, corporatized films and franchises is amongst us. It’s time for a new guard of filmmakers to cut through the noise and show us new ways of seeing. And when I say this, it’s not just about the actual films themselves, but the business of making them, too.

While working on this project, what I’ve realized is that things don’t have to be so complicated. There isn’t a “right way” to do things. As a commercial producer, this has been incredibly difficult to unlearn, but it’s true.

It made me think about all of the various structures put in place to produce content in the “right” way, and it’s pretty ridiculous. Of course, there are crew protocols for safety, etc., which are necessary, but for the most part, everything else is either malleable or negotiable.

At this point, I’m less interested in permission structures and more interested in momentum. The project doesn’t need to be perfect or sanctioned to be real. It just needs to keep moving. For me, that means trusting my instincts, leaning on community when I need to, and letting the work evolve without over-engineering every step.

This list will likely continue to grow as we move deeper into pre-production, but here’s where things currently stand.

Notes from the project that go against the “right way” of doing things:

• If everything pans out, locations will cost $47/day via Hipcamp. That means no permits or expensive location fees.

• I don’t intend to storyboard this project. If I do anything, I’ll probably take stills, but no traditional boards.

• We’re casting for this project extra early, despite the late spring production date.

• I don’t intend to have a 1st AD

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Jenna Elizabeth Gonzalez is a director based in Los Angeles, known for her incredibly discerning eye in fashion and music. Jenna and I go way back to when we were baby study-abroad students in London. I was interning at the now-defunct production company Buena Onda, while she was at Momentum Pictures.

Since then, she’s worked with everyone from Julianne Moore to Rashida Jones and has directed projects for brands like YSL, Jason Markk, and Intel. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of cinema — truly encyclopedic — and impeccable taste in fashion and design. I told Jenna she really needs to have a Substack; with her sensibility and cinematic knowledge, it would be a huge addition to FilmStack. Here’s hoping that happens in 2026!

Jenna’s Production Notes:

• If you’re freelancing and someone says, “Give me an additional 60 days to pay you,” get out while you can. Don’t do any additional work. If you’re a young creative, you need to learn to protect yourself.

• Get everything in writing. I’ve had so many calls where everyone ends the conversation saying, “Great, we’re on the same page,” and then something weird happens later and suddenly it’s, “Well, you said XYZ on the call.” That kind of discrepancy can cost you thousands of dollars, either personally or for the company you’re working for. And it can make you look bad to your boss — like you weren’t clear — even if you were. You could’ve said everything perfectly, but it doesn’t matter if it wasn’t in writing.

• There’s some advice that the great RuPaul once said — and also the great Kobe Bryant: “If you stay ready, you ain’t got to get ready.” I love going in with a plan before a shoot. That level of preparation is so key. It gives you that extra bit of confidence that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing, and that energy becomes much more responsive to the people around you.

• The old adage is true, “you write what you know.” I’m not one of those people who can freestyle something that is so far removed from myself. Everything that I’m curious about is a dimension of my own self that I haven’t explored fully yet.

• As a woman (or if you’re a minority in any capacity), depending on the set, it can sometimes feel uncomfortable to fully express your opinion—even when nothing overtly negative is happening. You feel that limitation. That’s why it’s important to work with people who don’t talk over you, are truly collaborative, and amplify what you have to say. When you feel confident in yourself, it creates a domino effect on everyone around you and influences all your decisions for the day. If someone plants a moment of doubt, it can throw off your game in unexpected ways. I’ve worked with different DPs and noticed how my body language shifts around certain people, making me think, “Wow, I don’t want to work with that person again.” Conversely, when collaboration clicks, it’s an incredible feeling.

• When I was in high school, I worked for Lowry Digital and was fortunate enough to be part of the team that restored the James Bond collection. During that time, I really learned how to train my eye through the simple act of watching. This might not feel like an essential skill for filmmakers, but I think any chance you get to train your eye as an editor is incredibly valuable. Watch as much as possible.

• If you have a lot of clients on set for a commercial production, making sure someone on their team has real production experience is incredibly valuable. What usually happens is you get a group of junior executives who want to give notes right away, rather than letting the director get through the initial shots. This slows everything down and forces the crew to reset before we’ve even completed the setup. That’s where having a great AD comes in — someone who can distill the information to your producer, and then have the producer come in, get the note, and bring it to you at the right moment.

• I’m constantly archiving images. I think it’s important to have a library of visuals that speak to you—whether it’s a color, something abstract, an architectural space, anything that moves you—that you can archive and reference later.

• Have multiple mentors—the more insight you can gather, the better. Sometimes you just need someone who can pick up the phone and push something for you. As much as you might think your idea should be enough, often it isn’t, because this is an industry run by people with inflated egos. It’s okay to ask for help. It took me a long time to realize that, because I was so set on figuring everything out on my own. Having someone willing to make those calls for you, expecting nothing in return except to support you—if you can cultivate those relationships organically, they’re invaluable..

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After weeks of searching for a location, I think we finally found something that looks ideal. We still need to scout it in person, although that probably won’t happen for a few weeks since it’s more than 3 hours outside of New York.

Most of this project deals with exteriors, and I knew it would be tricky finding something that had the right look and feel for the time period, but this seems to hit the mark.

Also, an added bonus is that if this location works out, it would be $47 per day. Unheard of. If you’re in need of rural landscapes for your projects, I highly recommend checking out HipCamp. It’s essentially a camping site, but it’s worth asking the owners if you’re allowed to film on the grounds. From what I’ve found, most will say “yes” without increasing the charge due to filming. Some of the listings are as low as $25 per day.

Location line items can usually eat up a good portion of your budget depending on where you’re filming. Not having to worry about permit or location costs is a dream, and it frees up a lot of the budget to allocate toward other things.

Searching for a location has me thinking a lot about composition and landscape photography. What I’ve been finding is that much of my thinking around how to film landscapes is actually linked to photographic references.

I went through a huge phase when I was younger where I thought I wanted to be a still photographer. I always loved Stephen Shore and William Eggleston’s photography because their visual thesis was extremely clear to me. They also showed me that there is beauty in the mundane.

As I got older, I discovered Ryan McGinley’s photography. Even though McGinley isn’t necessarily known as a landscape photographer, I always think of him that way. The way he showcased his subjects was often in rural parts of America, with open expanses, and models, some of them his close friends, who conveyed youthful optimism.

You can literally see the movement in McGinley’s photography, the leaves and grass moving alongside his subjects. You are there with them. Across his body of work there is a distinct aura, particularly in the way landscapes are portrayed. They easily become the second, if not the first, subject in his work. This is something that I really want to instill when I’m filming, this sense that landscape is a second character:

Some of McGinley’s earlier photographs left an incredible impression on me during my early twenties. His photograph of Dash Snow tagging the side of a building is still one of my favorites of all time. It always felt like nostalgia in a finite moment, and it looks more like a painting:

I’ve found myself going through all of these images because I want to take what I’ve learned from these artists and reinterpret it in my own way.

As much as I love the great classical and formal photographers, especially when it comes to composition, I keep gravitating toward artists whose work feels more personable and slightly off-kilter.

I think it is because I’m big on auteurism, and I can clearly see the photographer’s personality in their work. These photographs taught me so much about seeing things differently, particularly that there is something interesting to say in the mundane, and that even fleeting moments can look majestic.

I want to find a way to carry forward the aura that these photographs give me while making it something original to my own vision. This has been on my mind a lot this past week, and part of the beauty of it is that, even though I can study all of these references, I won’t know exactly how they will visually express themselves until production begins. Some influences may emerge subtly, others more directly, but their presence will only reveal itself once filming starts.

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