“Sell Your House” is about the production and distribution journey of a successful indie film called “The Last Stop in Yuma County” that was funded when writer/director Francis Galluppi convinced his best friend, James Claeys, to sell his house to fund their movie. “Sell Your House” is a movie about a movie that follows not just their production and distribution journey, but also the pressures that puts on their friendship.

Being friends with Francis is the closest I’ve ever been to somebody successful. He just wrapped production on a new Evil Dead movie. He’s met with everyone in Hollywood. You will be hearing his name a lot in the next ten years. But before all the success, Francis was just my friend across town with his own bad filmmaking habit. I would come over and we would watch a movie together or we would help each other on set whenever one of us was in production. Then he wrote “Last Stop.”

When James sold his house to fund “The Last Stop in Yuma County” he and Francis were going to make movies independently together forever. The plan was to retain creative control by financing themselves, find a distributor, sell their film, and use the MG (minimum guarantee) to fund the next project. But after they sold their film, their distributor did what they all do they misrepresented the film in the marketing, and underdelivered on their promises.

So far, their distributor has made about $3,000,000 for “Last Stop.” By all accounts, that’s pretty good, but it was at the cost of the artistic integrity of the marketing and James was not ok with that. On the other hand, Francis was willing to compromise on the marketing as long as it didn’t affect the film. This created a rift between James and Francis. To make matters worse, Francis was offered a dream job to write and direct the afore mentioned “Evil Dead” film. You can’t fault Francis for taking that opportunity. He had worked on “Last Stop” for three years after quitting his job with a wife and two kids and was $150,000 in debt. I would have taken the dream job too. I mean, was he supposed to wait till James finally made his money back? He still hasn’t four years later.

In my opinion, the root of this conflict is the distribution system. As has been expressed on this Substack before, the indie film distribution model is broken for many different reasons. But while people smarter than me are attempting to fix it, those of us with finished films are still faced with distribution decisions. I’m going to provide three distribution case studies, one for traditional distribution, one for hybrid distribution, and one for self-distribution and I’m going to explain the positives and negatives of each. The hope is that this will help us see what needs to be fixed and help people choose the best of the worst model for their specific film.

Case Study 1: “The Last Stop in Yuma County” - Traditional Distribution Model

It’s midnight on February 23, 2025. I’m standing outside a bar getting yelled at by James, the guy who sold his house to finance “Last Stop.” We just had a test screening for “Sell Your House” which both James and Francis attended. I’ve been out here with James for an hour, trying to make things right.

“I invested in a career with you guys! You guys don’t fucking care what happens to me!”

James tends to lump me in with the “Last Stop” team because I’ve been friends with Francis for a long time and I’ve been filming their story since day 1 of production. I’ve never tried to convince him otherwise because my doc opens a wound every time he watches it, and honestly, I feel a little guilty about it.

“Dude, James,” I plead, “we care. We all love you. This is a situation created by the system you agreed to when you signed with your distributor.”

James turns away and fights back tears. “It just fucking hurts. You all got yours.”

I’m desperately trying to figure out how to reason with him. “All your money is tied up in your investment with “Last Stop.” People aren’t asking you to get involved in their projects because they know you haven’t made your money back, but that’s nobody’s fault. None of us are doing this to you.”

“Fuck you, man!”

“Dude, I’m not saying we don’t want you to be involved in future projects. I’m saying you’re limited by this system where the distributor gets paid first. You need money to make money but you currently have no money.”

James continued to yell at me for another half an hour and I didn’t blame him. I’d be upset too if I sold my house, the film I sold it for actually turned out to be successful, and I wasn’t able to share in the success that everyone else was enjoying. The other producers were taking meetings and booking other gigs. The cinematographer was shooting a new project with Kevin Bacon. And Francis’ career was being launched into the stratosphere. Meanwhile, James was left empty handed. For investors like James, no money equals no opportunities. It must be frustrating to have done everything right and not be allowed to continue doing the thing you succeeded at.

To my understanding, “Last Stop” has made about three million dollars gross. By my calculations, James should have seen about $500,000 (he invested about a million). He’s only seen a tenth of that. Francis got what he wanted: A career. Aside from “Evil Dead” he has sold three other projects that I can’t talk about that have A list actors attached. Francis didn’t make any money from “Last Stop,” but he got a career. I think James could have harnessed the success of “Last Stop” into something besides a death spiral, but he is very fixated on not being able to work with Francis in the immediate future. I think that’s what hurts him the most. He invested in a future with Francis, but the future took Francis away from James. Again, not Francis’ fault. That’s just how the system works.

Unfortunately, this is an all too common story. The distributor recoups their advance and marketing costs and if you don’t have a marketing cap, which I don’t think “Last Stop” did, those recoupments can last for years. I’m not totally sure what the financial details are, but I know that James has only made $50,000 back on his million dollar investment and Francis will likely never see a dime. They both took a huge risk making “Last Stop” and it did really well. But if something is successful shouldn’t you be able to get paid for it? Apparently, not. Apparently, the last person who comes in, the distributor, gets paid first and then has control over the creative accounting that screws the people who took the biggest risk.

Obviously, this model is flawed. If good filmmakers can’t make any money then they can’t keep making movies. Francis got lucky and is now making money on bigger films, but that almost never happens and many filmmakers suffer the same fate as James. So the distribution system is making it impossible for good filmmakers to continue providing them a product that sells because they’re too broke to make a second movie. This not only hurts the filmmakers and investors, but also the distributors. But it cannot be ignored that “Last Stop” launched Francis’ career and made more than the budget. Would Francis have been successful were it not for their distribution deal?

Case Study 2: “Stolen Kingdom” - Hybrid Distribution Model

I’m at another bar, this time in L.A. two months ago. I’m talking to Josh Bailey, the director of “Stolen Kingdom,” a documentary about the black market of Disney memorabilia that gets stolen from rides at theme parks around the world. They’re in the middle of a road show and just finished a screening at Brain Dead in L.A.

“I hate to say it, but you look tired, buddy!” I smile to soften the blow.

Josh slumps onto the table behind his beer, “no man, I’m so alive. Life on the road is awesome!” He closes his eyes pretending to fall asleep.

I chuckle. “How’s your distributor working out?”

Josh sits back up. “I mean, we wouldn’t have this without them. They’ve breathed new life into the project for sure. But we’re only a week in. Three more to go.”

Part of me feels bad for Josh, but another part of me is a little envious of their success. To me, they’ve made it! And this is just part of the job! At the same time, I’ve worked on the road and know how exhausting it can be, especially when things go wrong.

“Don’t worry though. This indie documentary nobody’s ever heard of about a subject matter that isn’t important is going to make us all filthy rich and it’ll be totally worth it and I don’t regret any of my life choices.”

I hold up my glass. “Here’s to financial irresponsibility.”

Clink.

“Stolen Kingdom” did a year and a half of film festivals and art house screenings before signing with a brand new distributor that just came on the scene. This particular distributor was open to taking a smaller percentage of the profits and not recouping marketing costs in return for help with an in person road show and social media marketing. On paper, the road show was a big success. They made about $75,000.00 over one month. Despite the numbers, the tour was a slog. The “Stolen Kingdom” crew was on the road for a month without a break, very little money, and questionable quality in hotels. After the tour, the “Stolen Kingdom” guys explained to me that they had a lot of trouble getting in touch with their distributor who was spread very thin.

There seems to be new distributors popping up every day, and some of them are doing some really great things! The fact that “Stolen Kingdom’s” distributor isn’t recouping marketing costs is unprecedented. They also raised money for the tour through a sponsor which is also an unconventional but smart approach. That said, new distributors often don’t have enough manpower to realize everything they envisioned. So the filmmakers are forced to fill in the gaps. This requires time and effort from the filmmakers and, in the case of “Stolen Kingdom,” caused some stressful situations on the road. Despite the stress, at the end of the day, “Stolen Kingdom” is on a very successful road to financial success and the producers have already been able to partially repay their investors.

Case Study 3: “Sell Your House” - Self Distribution Model

“Bill, I want to introduce you to Eric Foss. He made a great documentary called ‘Sell Your House.’”

It helps to know charismatic people with good looks at film festivals. Staley stands smiling as I shake Bill’s hand.

“Yeah, I remember you, Eric. We spoke briefly yesterday about your film. The one about the guy selling his house to finance a film, right?”

“Yessir! Super nice to meet you again. Yeah, I’m just trying to learn as much as I can about distribution because we are trying to decide what do to. I mean no disrespect, but we are considering self-distribution, but at the same time I’m starting to realize how much work it is.”

Bill is the head of a pretty big distributor. He probably doesn’t like hearing filmmakers talk about self-distribution. He’d rather me faun over him and tell him why we should work together.

Bill rolls his eyes “I think the narrative is getting really confusing for filmmakers right now with Markiplier and Curry Barker. They already had these huge audiences built in. That takes a lot of time and not everyone can pull that off.”

“Yeah, I’m learning that. Finding an audience isn’t easy.”

Bill goes on to explain how they work WITH filmmakers to create a custom marketing plan for every film. He started working in distribution because he loves indie film and he really cares about it. I then proceeded to backpedal and explain that I’m not anti-distributor by any means. I left out the fact that I cast the distributor as a villain in my documentary.

“I’m coming to your screening,” Bill says with a smile.

“Oh awesome!”

I’m not sure if he actually came, but I found myself putting myself in his shoes during our screening the next day and realizing he would probably be pretty insulted. Whoops.

Half of “Sell Your House” is about distribution, and because James got screwed by their distributor, we are not very nice to distributors in our film. Because of that, we are not expecting distributors to be very excited to distribute our documentary. Being aware of that, we are developing a full self-distribution model with our co-production company Rabbit Foot Entertainment. There are three steps to this process: Audience building, physical screenings, and a VOD release. Audience building starts at film festivals and is completely word of mouth. I have been messaging and meeting every filmmaker at every festival we have been to so far, meeting every festival representative I can, and trying to start conversations with industry professionals like Bill. I also have been trying to utilize social media. I try to post every day which is its own full time job.

For our physical screenings, we are going to start with an educational film school tour. We think every film student should know how distribution works and our film is a good way to provide a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. We will then use the buzz from those screenings to lead us into a road show, very similar to what “Stolen Kingdom” did. Finally, we will end with a TVOD release using an aggregator which costs about $3000.00 but that anybody can do.

The sacrifice I make for this model is that I have to work full time to market our project without getting paid for the rest of the year. I’ve turned down $50,000.00 of work so far and expect to turn down another $25,000.00. By the beginning of next year, my bank account is going to be empty, but I hope that 9 months of commitment (I started in March) will be enough to help us find a paying audience. Financially, it is going to hurt, but I’m willing to take the risk. Otherwise, I’d feel like I was fumbling at the ten yard line on something I’ve invested four years of my life into.

Another problem is that we don’t really have the experience or connections to do this easily. It takes us much longer to get things done than it would for a competent distributor. We are kind of building an airplane while trying to fly it. But, at the end of the day, we have complete control over our own fate and we don’t have to split the profits with anybody.

The Takeaway - TLDR

All of these models have benefits, problems and compromises.

With Traditional distribution, the benefit is that somebody who has done this before is doing the work for you which frees you up to keep making movies and leaves you in the hands of an expert. The problem is you might not see any money because of recoupments, and you may have to compromise on your creative freedom, especially in the marketing.

With the hybrid model, the benefit is creative freedom and extra help, but the problem is the amount of work required from the filmmakers. Furthermore, there is a compromise with trusting a smaller company because they likely have limited resources and experience.

With the self-distribution model, the benefit is complete creative freedom and control, but the problem is you have to do everything yourself. You are unlikely to have the experience, time and resources necessary to accomplish everything you envisioned. You will be forced to compromise by making choices on what to prioritize because there simply isn’t enough time in the day or financial resources to do everything yourself.

Conclusion

So what in the flying fuck do we do? Is there no good solution? Should we give up? Probably, but if we were going to quit we’d probably have done it a long time ago. Maybe the answer is this NonDē thing you guys won’t shut up about. But like most good things, the NonDē model is going to take a long time to develop into something actionable.

The NonDē movement isn’t going to build itself. We all have to show up and we all need to contribute ideas. What would happen if every nonde filmmaker posted about another nonde film every week? What would happen if we made free marketing content for our local indie theaters? What would happen if we started building systems and structure around these ideas that make them actionable (nonde 50 seems to be starting to do that).

Yes, we are all really busy making our movies. But what if every filmmaker who is talking shit about the distribution system devoted one hour a day to developing a solution? If we did that, maybe in 5 years there would be a path forward that didn’t require the above three bad options. But what do I know. I’m just a reality TV camera operator with an anxiety disorder.

Please feel free to talk shit in the comments or tell me how wrong I am via DM.

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Ted’s Note: Today we (again!) bring you an excerpt from the book Dressing the Story — a rare, inside-the-room account of how films are truly made—not just written and directed, but seen. In these vivid, candid conversations, celebrated costume designer Debra McGuire.

Buy the book!

By Debra MGuire (with Jim Stark asking the questions)

What is a costume?

A costume is something someone wears that can turn them into something other than who they are. It’s something that can disguise, enhance, or help create an illusion.

Why are costumes important?

In film, the job of a costume is to express who the character is visually. We have information in the script that tells us who the character is and their role in the story. But it’s a visual medium, so the costume is an important part of conveying the story. Like the dialogue and plot, it’s a storytelling mechanism.

Music, dialogue, and lighting help create the mood, but what do costumes contribute to the audience’s involvement in the story?

When I read a script, my goal isn’t to find a literal expression for what I am reading or even decide what the costumes should look like. I try to get inside the head of the person telling the story and understand what it is that they want to convey to the audience. My job is to design costumes that will support that storytelling. If a costume is wrong or if it doesn’t support the story, it can be extremely distracting. The biggest nightmare for a director is to include something in the film that distracts the audience and somehow severs them from the illusion.

When I watch a movie, TV show, or play, the costumes either help me believe what I’m seeing or pull me out of the story and movie experience entirely. Authenticity in clothing is crucial. If a rough, gritty character appears in an outfit that looks freshly purchased, for instance, the illusion breaks. If someone who’s been sleeping on the streets for three weeks shows up in a crisp, spotless shirt instead of one that’s been aged, dirtied, and sweat-stained, it undermines the reality of the story. It all sounds obvious, but costumes, when done truthfully, really do help audiences stay immersed in the world being created.

Can you give me some examples in your work where the wardrobe or a piece of costume really helped tell the story?

It was when I was working on Face of a Stranger that I began to understand how profoundly costume could shape character. Gena Rowlands and Tyne Daly played two extraordinary women whose lives in the story could not have appeared more different. Tyne was a homeless woman living on the streets; Gena was a refined widow whose world had recently come undone. At first glance, these two women shared nothing in common, but over the course of the film, as the two women’s relationship deepened, I gradually shifted their wardrobes to reflect that evolution. Gena’s refined look softened and became simpler, while Tyne’s rough, disheveled exterior grew more polished and composed. By the final scene—set in a graveyard, their silhouettes side by side—the contrast between them had all but disappeared. The vast social and economic gulf that once defined them was gone. That really was the heart of the story: transformation, connection, and the way clothing can express both. What began as mere fabric became a narrative of change, an artifice of costume that revealed something deeply human.

We did Tyne’s fitting at her home in Venice, California. I instinctively felt her wardrobe needed to be built from the inside out, starting with the most intimate layer. What would a woman sleeping on the streets put on first, closest to her body, before piling on layers of protection? I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by concentric circles of clothing, choosing what would be the first layer, the second, and the next. Through those choices, I was building her world from the inside—the unseen life beneath the surface. Each piece carried its own history: a shirt once bought new but long worn thin, a sweater salvaged from a thrift shop, everything aged and softened by time and circumstance. The layering became a visual backstory, a tactile record of her struggle and resilience. I did all of this with Tyne right there in the room. With her input as we layered her wardrobe piece by piece she was discovering the woman she was about to inhabit. For a costume designer, that’s the ultimate experience: not only helping to create a character through clothing, but witnessing the actor finding that character through what they wear. For Gena’s role, I designed eleven elegant, Chanel-inspired suits. She loved them so much that she bought them all once filming had ended. It was only years later that I realized how lucky I was to begin my career with actors of this caliber.

Another potent example is Bad Teacher. The first time we see Cameron Diaz, we immediately understand the essence of her character. She is standing in the doorway of a fairly drab teacher’s lounge in a high school, wearing a bright yellow vintage dress. That costume tells us exactly who this woman is and hints at how the story will unfold. The way the dress clings to her body and the bold yellow combine to communicate volumes—without a single line of dialogue. We feel it instinctively. That’s the power of costume: it makes us believe, it makes us feel, it defines character before the actor even speaks. What kind of schoolteacher dresses this way?

The main character of Anchorman is named Ron Burgundy. Director Adam McKay didn’t want him to wear the color burgundy, but I insisted. “He has to be in a burgundy suit—he’s Ron Burgundy!” There’s a scene where Ron bursts through a billboard with his own image on it. I told Adam, “He needs to be wearing burgundy in that shot.” Adam wasn’t convinced, but he respected me enough to film it both ways—once in a brown suit and another in burgundy. When he saw the two takes cut together, he immediately realized I was right. Production had to build two billboards, and with multiples for suit options, this became an expensive decision.

Certain costume choices don’t just support a story—they become the story. The burgundy suit did exactly that. Every fan of the movie remembers that moment. It captures who Ron Burgundy is: self-important, oblivious, and perfectly ridiculous. Over the years, that single image has come to symbolize the film itself. That’s the ultimate proof of what costume design can do.

What is the most common misconception about what costume designers do?”

The biggest misconception is that because everyone wears clothes, people think anyone can design costumes. Especially when a show is set in contemporary times—jeans, t-shirts, suits, dresses—people assume, “How hard can that be?” They think it’s just shopping. I can’t tell you how many times a producer has said something like, “I saw some blouses at Bloomingdale’s that might be perfect for our lead—I could pick them up after work.” That kind of comment leaves me speechless, because it reveals a total misunderstanding of what we actually do. Designing costumes—even for a so-called “simple” modern show—is about storytelling, continuity, psychology, and tone. Every choice, down to the texture of a t-shirt or the shade of a lipstick, has meaning.

I once worked with a very well-known director who said to me during a fitting, “Let me take these photos home so my wife can look at them. She has great taste.” Imagine the hours of work, research, and preparation that go into building a wardrobe for an entire cast, then being told it’ll be run by someone’s spouse for approval. It’s both funny and humiliating.

Another misconception is that costume design is a glamorous job. It’s not. It’s a wonderful job—it’s creative, collaborative, and endlessly interesting. But glamorous? Hardly. We spend our days managing huge teams, dealing with fittings, breakdowns, logistics, budgets, and endless problem-solving. There’s nothing glamorous about hauling racks of clothes through mud or sewing until three in the morning because an actor changed their mind about a costume the night before shooting.

And finally, there’s this idea that “real” costume design only happens in period films—the corsets, the crinolines, the big gowns. Those are stunning and historically important, but they’re also bound by strict rules of accuracy. You’re often designing within the parameters of the time, the fabrics, the silhouettes, the methods of construction. In a contemporary project, you have far more freedom—you can invent, juxtapose, and play, but always staying true to the character. You’re not necessarily confined by history, but by truth—the truth of the character and the world they inhabit. For me, that’s where the most exciting and nuanced design work often happens.

Read the prior excerpt here:

Bio:

Debra McGuire is an award-winning American costume designer best known for defining the look of the hit sitcom Friends over its ten-season run. Her work spans film, television, and theatre, with credits including Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, Superbad, Freaks and Geeks, and The Morning Show. Known for blending character psychology with contemporary fashion, McGuire has collaborated with filmmakers including David Mamet, Judd Apatow, and Jake Kasdan, and has become one of Hollywood’s most influential contemporary costume designers. Her website is here.

Order "Dressing The Story" here

In her book Dressing The Story, she reveals how clothing becomes character, how fabric carries emotion, and how the smallest visual detail can shape an audience’s experience without them ever realizing it. Drawing on decades of work across film and television, she takes us from first script reading to final fitting, from instinct to execution, showing how costume design is not decoration but storytelling in its most immediate, visual form.

Presented as a series of conversations with independent producer Jim Stark, and enriched by contributions from Gavin McGuire and longtime collaborator Joe Mastrolia, this book offers a uniquely intimate portrait of the collaborative spirit at the heart of costume design.

Whether you’re a filmmaker, designer, or simply someone who loves cinema, Dressing the Story opens your eyes to an essential, often invisible art—and leaves you watching every film differently.

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I am particularly excited to share this post because Cole shares one of the most requested documents that is hard to get your hands on. People frequently ask me for the “sales pitch” of a series. I have a few, but generally I have been forbidden to share them. Cole does us all a great service by sharing. But it gets even better, at least for me.

One of the films he cites is one by ’s grandfather, Walter Wanger. I love stories about that period and Walter has plenty.

Cole takes it even further than even that though. He gives you autopsy on why such a promising child died. Even the most perfect projects aren’t often able to be.

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Back in 2021, I wrote a feature spec that got a little attention around Hollywood. It turned out to be director bait, which didn’t exactly surprise me as I suspected it would be. I met several of my filmmaking heroes as a result of it, including two Aussie giants, John Hillcoat and the legendary Philip Noyce – who was as impressive as I hoped.

This spec I wrote also rekindled several producer relationships and kicked off a few others that led to some exciting creative opportunities. You can read about what happened with one of those here. Today, I’m going to tell you about the other that stands out in my memory — a prestige (as we like to call them) — eight-part TV mini-series. An international coproduction between the US and Sweden about one of the biggest movie stars in both American and Swedish history. And like everything else I touched in 2021, it somehow, miraculously attracted some giant names – in fact, it did more than that. Another legend, Lasse Hallström – director of such classics as My Life as a Dog, The Cider House Rules, and Chocolat – attached himself to direct the series.

But before I go on, I want to tell you what you should expect out of this piece, because I think it’s a mix of cinema history (at least in part), an infuriating cautionary tale for screenwriters in general, and a chance to study a sales document that attracted Lasse but also had a certain (shall remain unnamed) Swedish-English superstar circling the project before things went south.

THE DREAM PROJECT

The project in question was called “The Code”. This was in reference to the Hays Code, a strict, self-imposed set of moral guidelines that were enforced in American film from 1934 to 1968 – until its architect died or the American New Wave blew it up, depending on your point of view. Bit of a chicken and the egg scenario, I think.

In the next section, I’m going to get more into what the Hays Code meant for Hollywood and, more importantly, America. But first, you should know that, while “The Code” was ostensibly about the origin of the Hays Code, it was really about the rivalry between Swedish movie star Greta Garbo (nicknamed the Divine) and Joseph Breen (the moral crusader behind the Code).

This rivalry would lead Garbo to star in a romantic drama called Queen Christina (1933) about a Swedish queen who abdicates her thrown in order to live her life on her own terms rather than the dictates of her court. The film was an allegory for Garbo’s own struggles to live her best life in a town that wanted to control her to such a degree that she couldn’t be with the man she really loved.

Fun fact for those who don’t understand how adventurous pre-Code Hollywood was: Queen Christina features Garbo cross-dressing and sharing a same-sex kiss — in 1933!

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Before Shakespeare in Love and other similar stories that reimagined the origins of great works of art from the artist’s secret personal lives, there was Queen Christina.

The film was a smash hit, too, as you’ll learn, but it had disastrous consequences for Garbo, America, and, arguably, the world.

What else should know about “The Code”?

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Intro:

Hey hey! Grateful to take the reins at Hope For Film. I am Mo_Diggs and I write about media, culture, politics and tech here and here. As I have mentioned numerous times, this decade is unique because film, not music, is at the center of countercultural rage and countercultural cool. These are some of the best reports from the line of battle!

1

The End of Spectacle

Alex Rollins Berg typically writes great essays on film but he may have outdone himself here. AI has made spectacle besides the point now. People want stories now. The blockbuster success of The Odyssey this past weekend proves the point. It is one thing to retell a classic tale and another to try to revive He-Man again.

2

A Film For Our Times, Unfortunately

I have been excited about Backrooms and Obsession more as a business story; how both films outperformed a Star Wars sequel. But increasingly I have had to make the distinction between liking a film’s box office performance (and the implications for what that means for future films) and liking the films themselves. I liked that last year’s Sinners was a blockbuster based on an original idea, but I did not consider it Best Picture material.

Sam Jennings is a current film critic who hearkens back to the critics of yore that wrote reviews you couldn’t flatten into a RT score. His ambivalence for the film Backrooms beguiles me that much more than most critics cut-and-dry thumbs up/thumbs down. While criticizing the film’s emptiness, he also acknowledges how well the film reflects our current mood. Ironically I am even having difficulty encapsulating his opinion in this paragraph, all the more reason to give it a read for yourself. Like most great critics, agreeing with him is not a requirement for enjoying and appreciating him.

3

Small Cinemas in a Quiet Neighborhood

What most people don’t get about revolution: it is as much about moving with secrecy and stealth as it is about massive explosions. Filmmaker Magazine’s comprehensive overview of the microcinema movement in Ridgewood, a relatively quiet countercultural hub in Queens, is the type of article you revisit again and again. Not just to read about the great theaters and series; living close to Ridgewood like I do, in Bushwick, it lovingly captures its charms. But please share the link discreetly.

4

The Dumb Comedy Renaissance

Here’s what I wrote in my newsletter back in 2024:

Cult film Hundreds of Beavers (when’s the last time you heard “cult film” regarding a contemporary movie) was shot on a shoestring budget and self-distributed. Through word of mouth and online buzz, it more than made back its money. Hundreds of Beavers (which I haven’t seen yet) is the inverse of Snakes on a Plane. Snakes on a Plane was a Hollywood film that got mocked many months before its release. The title — and the revelation that foul-mouthed star Samuel Jackson was attached — led to memes and fan-made trailers (including the infamous line that was later added to the actual movie: “I’m tired of these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane”). The actual release fell short of studio expectations because, at that time, Internet culture was not synonymous with culture. Hundreds of Beavers, of course, had no pre-release hype. Unlike Snakes, Beavers was confidently stupid, from the page to the screen. It might not be a Clerks-level success, but its profit margins were good enough to to get it profiled in Variety.

A year later, I wrote this about Friendship:

If it surprises you how popular this film is with the youth, you are forgetting that comedy is the lingua franca of Gen Z. It is also mind-boggling that most studios had cold feet about Tim Robinson as a movie star, when most youths are laughing at his “I Think You Should Leave” sketches on TikTok and Reels while avoiding going to the multiplex to watch any of the “more bankable” stars. Friendship might just become this generation’s secret handshake, like Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited was for a different one. The roaring laughter of the theater audience (which hasn’t been heard after years of Hollywood avoiding comedies to better appeal to global markets and indie studios steering clear so as not to disturb their stuffy liberal patrons) is like the signal of a new age, like the opening arpeggio of The Byrd’s “Mr. Tambourine Man” that announced the arrival of the Sixties.

Right diagnosis, wrong patient. Turns out Nirvanna The Band The Show The Movie is the film that has inspired a cultish legion that no rock band this decade has inspired. AV Club’s Erik Adams explores how the anarchic spirit of dumb comedy is back in films like Gail Daughtry and Jackass: Best And Last. It’s only fair I give him a block quote:

But with the death of the theatrical studio comedy, and comedy itself turning into an increasingly irksome battleground in the Forever Culture Wars, it became more difficult to find the proudly silly and the inventively asinine. The art of the hard joke seemed to escape an entire generation of TV writers. Every new Adam Sandler Netflix movie felt cheaper and lazier than the last. David Zaslav did his best Judge Doom impression and tried to drop two whole Looney Tunes features into The Dip.

But in this wet, hot, American summer of 2026, the tide seems to be turning. A new Jackass opened a few weeks ago; the latest from David Wain, Gail Daughtry And The Celebrity Sex Pass, is out this weekend. Coyote Vs. Acme finally sees the light at the end of the tunnel painted onto a rock wall in August. A new age of stupid comedy is dawning. It’s about damn time.

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Jonathan Rosenbaum

I cannot tell you how many people I meet that don’t know who Jonathan Rosenbaum is. He is a legendary film critic who wrote for The Chicago Reader and helped define the midnight movie along with Village Voice legend J. Hoberman. He is on Substack now and the fact that I have more subscribers than he does is unacceptable. Much of his writing was from the frontline of New Hollywood as well as the ‘90s indie film revolution. He happily skewered the sacred cows of both movements (Robert Altman and Quentin Tarantino respectively). While reading his deep dive on Richard Pryor, I stopped with petulant impatience when he maligned Live on the Sunset Strip, but I came back weeks later and realized…he didn’t malign the special. He simply didn’t submit to it with unwavering fealty. Like a true critic, where most people see gods, he sees mortals who deserve less — or more — zeroes in their paychecks.

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— ESG to those that know him well — dives deep and answers the questions we all need to know. This is a classic one of his and I am thrilled to be able to share it with you today. It will always be relevant regardless of when it was written or when you are reading it.

Although we will have a few more ESG’s classic hits on our platter in the months ahead, do yourself a favor and subscribe to him today.

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Not every weekend in 2026 needs to match or exceed every weekend in 2025 (or any other year) if A) the films that are opening are performing well enough on their own terms, and B) there’s enough in the marketplace for theaters to not panic every time a tentpole underwhelms. However, last weekend’s estimated total of $126 million was down 1/3 from the $2…

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“We live in capitalism, its power seems inescapable —

but then, so did the divine right of kings.

Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings.

Resistance and change often begin in art.”

— Ursula LeGuin

TL;DR —

• A viable alternative to media consolidation exists

• deep pockets are not the only advantage in a complex, competitive process

• people power

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You might recall from the first excerpt I shared, I love this book. It is grim. In fact, it is grimmer than grim. But it is so funny. And so, so, so sad. It is simply the facts about this world of dim bulbs, greedy fo…

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I’m Tomas. My substack is Little Scraps of Filmmaking.

I write about all kinds of details of filmmaking. How to make a living from the films. How to play director dress up. Notebooks. Anger management. How much I hate sizzle reels for documentaries. And how to stay a decent human being along the way.

(There’s a limited offer to subsc…

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Ted’s Note: Today we bring you an excerpt from the book Dressing the Story — a rare, inside-the-room account of how films are truly made—not just written and directed, but seen. In these vivid, candid conversations, celebrated costume designer Debra McGuire, whose film and TV credits include Friends, Freaks and Geeks, The Morning Show, Anchorman, The 4…

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I make mainly feature documentaries, and just premiered my tenth film All Rivers Spill Their Stories to the Sea at CPH:…

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I was standing there covered in mud, soaked to the skin, two hours behind on the only day we had permission to film at this location. And all I could think was that somewhere out there, someone was posting an inspirational reel telling me this was the dream.

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I received a message last month from ARC, a founding member of this newsletter who, like many of you, has skin in the creative game. He makes films. Specifically, he made a 19-minute historical drama called One Sweet Night about Ossian Sweet, a Black doctor in 1920s Detroit who defended his home against a racist mob. Andrew spent $100,000 of his own money on this passion project, and per TFS’ founding membership perks, I got tasked with writing an essay on it.

In one of the links he sent me, I read his startlingly raw post-mortem where he systematically dismantled his own work. “I am going to be honest,” he wrote, “I hope you buy the film (it’s so cheap) and watch it and tell me what you liked and what you didn’t,” followed immediately by, “but this film disappointed me.”

I nearly spat out my coffee. Who admits that?

I’ve sat through countless filmmaker Q&As where directors defend their most glaring missteps with the conviction of someone explaining why they meant to set their kitchen on fire. I’ve read interviews where actors insist their box office bombs were just “misunderstood by audiences.” I’ve watched the entire industry develop an allergy to the phrase “I messed up” in real time.

Instead, Andrew offered an evisceration of his film’s shortcomings. “I should have done a better budget prior to deciding to make the film,” he confessed, a statement so forthright it feels almost transgressive in 2025.

Hollywood would rather you didn’t see how the sausage gets made

The film industry has a lying problem.

This is a meticulously engineered, multi-billion dollar industry designed to convince us that filmmaking unfolds as immaculate conception. Directors execute pristine visions (they don’t). Actors never hurl phones at assistants (they do). Nobody ever sits in a darkened editing bay, martini in hand, whispering “this is kinda shit, isn’t it?” (they absolutely do).

I miss DVD commentaries – those gloriously unhinged time capsules where directors would gleefully disembowel their own creative decisions while the cinematographer laughed about that time the lead actor threatened to quit if they had to do another take in the rain. The Evil Dead commentary tracks became sacred texts precisely because Sam Raimi treated his technical disasters like merit badges. He’d cackle through stories of accidentally getting fake blood in Bruce Campbell’s eye and just keeping the camera rolling. Nobody expected Raimi to weave some fiction about executing a flawless vision, they adored watching him narrate the chaos. The disasters weren’t footnotes but the main text.

Cut to now. Film promotion has morphed into a performance where the Electronic Press Kit reigns supreme. Directors sit in identical beige hotel rooms answering pre-vetted questions with the spontaneity of hostage videos. One industry guide blithely notes that “the effectiveness of an EPK hinges significantly on the clarity of the initial brief” which could also be interpreted as publicist-speak for “we predetermined the narrative months ago, so stick to it or you’ll never sit in the director’s chair again.” I’ve witnessed this firsthand with A-list directors’ teams. Even what masquerades as candor nowadays involves a battalion of strategists calculating the optimal dosage of self-deprecation.

Social media, naturally, transformed the ‘talent’ promotional circuit into an ecosystem where devouring spicy wings on “Hot Ones” or awkwardly flirting with Amelia Dimoldenberg across a sticky laminate table now commands more cultural currency than a six-page New Yorker profile. In the same universe, Timothée Chalamet is ditching Vanity Fair to hang with Theo Von and Saoirse Ronan finds herself in Brittany Broski’s “Royal Court”. The internet has elevated being game from a pleasant quality to mandatory currency. Even our most solemn auteurs must now demonstrate they’re “one of us” by enduring internet-coded formats designed less for discussing their work than for generating 45-second clips that read as “unscripted”.

And the choreography of it all grows more elaborate by the day: keeping your face neutral while Ziwe lobs deliberately uncomfortable questions, looking authentically surprised when Track Star plays your obscure second album B-sides. And while these formats claim to democratize celebrity access, they often fortify new boundaries around acceptable vulnerability. Go ahead and pretend to flirt, pretend to sweat, pretend to be shocked. Just don’t you dare deviate from your PR-approved lines.

Andrew’s essay illuminates what these formats methodically erase. His cinematographer and director squandered days “over-shooting the same beautiful shots, in love with the images but not the pace of the storytelling.” J.D. Williams, starring in the film, pointed out that the director “was nervous and tried to edit the film in camera and didn’t give us what we needed.” The actor playing Henry Sweet “did a terrible job, created tons of drama on set” and has had no additional credits since the film finished.

These specifics matter. They strip away the mythology that creative work succeeds or fails based on vision alone. Andrew praises his script, his costume designer, and his production design in the same breath he criticizes lighting that’s “too bright” and scenes that were “rushed because we were behind schedule.” The contemporary entertainment ecosystem demands these successes and failures occupy entirely separate narratives. One Sweet Night reminds us they inhabit the same project, often the same day, sometimes the same hour.

watching a film with its creator’s doubts in your head

I clicked “purchase” on One Sweet Night with the same mix of curiosity and dread I feel watching someone pull off a Band-Aid in slow motion. After Andrew’s surgical dissection of his own work, how could I not brace for disaster?

I was wrong.

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Daniel Parris is a data scientist, data journalist, and culture critic. He was one of DoorDash’s first data science hires and now writes Stat Significant, a weekly newsletter featuring data-centric essays about movies, music, and TV with over 26,000 readers.

He’s taken on some fun pop culture questions using data, including:

1. How Many Episodes Should You W…

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On Tuesdays, HFF provides its Premium (i.e. paid) subscribers with access to some of FilmStack’s top writers, sharing (with the author’s consent of course!) some of the great writing and analysis that you may have otherwise missed. Have a good read, and please consider subscribing directly to ESG!

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Filmmaker and Moonbeem founder Dan Sickles revives The Five for today’s Hope For Film TakeOver

Intro:

Hello, Hope For Film. I’m Dan Sickles, and Ted has handed me the keys for the day. I’m a filmmaker (MALA MALA, DINA, and the forthcoming NEW HERE), the founder of Moonbeem, and I write about the business and future of authored work on the dpop Studios Sub…

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I love this book. I think everyone in the FKATheFilmBiz should read it, and certainly all the HopeForFilm subscribers. I laughed consistently while reading it — because, yeah, otherwise you’d have to cry. If it all wasn’t 100% true, I’d never…

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For me, this journey was never envisioned as just another professional ladder to climb. It started as something far more personal with a deep, almost irrational love for film that felt like it was wired into my bones.

For 10 full years before the strikes ever hit, I devoted myself completely to this craft. I pursued the formal educatio…

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If you…

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