ABSOLUTE CINEMA 3000
A. YOU WATCH A FILM
You exit your local independent cinema, your mind alight.
You have just watched a movie that changed the way you see the world and/or entertained you a lot.
You have seen many movies. You are familiar with the major releases in any given year and have often watched films that were made before you were born. But this time was different.
As you walk along the street you feel electric, alive. You are brimming with purpose. You are inspired. Everything that has happened to you before this moment is meaningless. You resolve to abandon your existing work, hobbies, relationships.
Because you, too, are going to change the way others see the world and/or entertain them.
You are going to make a film.
★ IF YOU START SHOOTING IMMEDIATELY, GO TO B
★ IF YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH, GO TO C
B. YOU START SHOOTING IMMEDIATELY
There will never be a better time to start shooting than right now.
You spot an alleyway covered in graffiti. This can’t be a coincidence. Is there anything more cinematic than an alleyway covered in graffiti?
You take out your phone, enter the alley and shoot. You compose interesting frames, test camera movements. You feel a rush you’ve never felt before.
After what feels like a few minutes, but is actually almost an hour, you pause. You can’t wait to see what you’ve captured—but when you watch it back it seems unremarkable, almost flat. It doesn’t at all make you feel the way you felt when you walked out of the cinema.
A feeling creeps in, one you had avoided until now. A feeling of doubt.
The film you watched changed the way you saw the world and/or entertained you a lot. Whoever made it did not just shoot things at random. They had a way of seeing things. They had something that made them different and special.
You begin to wonder: what makes you different and special?
★ IF YOU TAKE SOME TIME TO REFLECT ON YOUR UNIQUE ARTISTIC VOICE, GO TO D
★ IF YOU IGNORE THESE THOUGHTS AND DOUBLE DOWN ON YOUR DECISION TO JUST GO OUT AND SHOOT SOMETHING, GO TO E
C. YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH
You commence your research as soon as possible.
How is a screenplay formatted? What is a dolly zoom? What is a gaffer and what do they do? Each question seems as urgent as the last, the questions in your mind impossible to put in any kind of order. Which should you resolve first, which should you resolve last?
You watch a video essay about the hero’s journey. You read an online debate about how three-act structure has ruined contemporary cinema. You find a video where an enthusiastic American man you’ve never heard of teaches you how to make a successful short film.
Such videos are a valuable resource, though they become increasingly confusing. One video tells you that film school is a waste of time. Another tells you that there are good reasons to go to film school. One discusses successful directors who never went to film school. Another reminds you that some successful directors did go to film school.
Then, after hours of learning everything you can about the art and craft of cinema, you find a video of an Oscar-winning director who says: ‘You have a camera in your pocket. Just go out and shoot something.’
They’re right. You do have a camera in your pocket. It is inside your phone. It has been with you every day. You think of all the films you could have made and shudder. You had everything you needed all along.
But there’s also something about this idea that doesn’t feel quite right. You remember sitting through the credits of movies you have watched. Even at the end of the movie you’ve just watched, the one that changed the way you see the world and/or entertained you. There were so many names. Some of these names were the actors, sure, but you feel the other names must have done something. You wonder how many phones those people used, but there is no way to know.
Maybe there is more for you to learn, after all. Maybe you need someone to teach you, in a structured way, so that you can follow the optimal path to filmmaking success.
★ IF YOU JUST GO OUT AND SHOOT SOMETHING, GO TO E
★ IF YOU APPLY FOR FILM SCHOOL, GO TO F
D. YOU TAKE SOME TIME TO REFLECT ON YOUR UNIQUE ARTISTIC VOICE
You watch a video called ‘3 Tips to Find Your Unique Artistic Voice!’
Now you know.
You’re ready to make a film.
★ IF YOU JUST GO OUT AND SHOOT SOMETHING, GO TO E
★ IF YOU WRITE A SCRIPT, GO TO G
E. YOU JUST GO OUT AND SHOOT SOMETHING
Anything that is not making a film is just that: not making a film. And you’re going to make a film, not not make a film.
Besides, you’re armed with a phone only a few generations old. You can’t believe you’ve had this in your pocket the whole time. The world has opened up to you. You simply need subjects with which to fill the frame.
You call a friend and ask them if they would like to star in your film. They ask you what the film is about.
Annoyed, you call another friend. They ask the same question.
This is a problem. In your hurry to go out and shoot something, you forgot to come up with a concept, let alone a script.
You had hoped you could avoid this step, but it seems like a script is something you will need, in order for your friends to know what words they should say while you are filming them.
You tell your friends you’ll get back to them.
★ IF YOU WRITE A SCRIPT, GO TO G
★ IF YOU LOOK FOR A SCRIPT SOMEBODY ELSE HAS WRITTEN, GO TO H
F. YOU APPLY TO FILM SCHOOL
You make a list of film schools around the world, then delete the column where you have noted the cost of each one per calendar year.
You select the school that sounds most impressive and open the application form. After you fill in some personal details, the application asks for examples of your work. You aren’t sure what to include.
You search for advice. One website gives a sample answer:
I first started filmmaking from the age of 7. I have been involved in youth filmmaking classes for the last ten years. In that time, I’ve produced over 50 short films. My favourite films I have produced are… because of how they… You can find links to these films here…
This is confusing. You’re applying to film school so that you can learn to make a film and then make a film. The example you’ve found would be a great answer, if you were someone who had made a film, but you are not. If you were, you would not be applying to film school.
You move to the next question. They want to know about your unique artistic voice. Honestly, you thought they would assign you a unique artistic voice at film school.
These questions are more difficult than you’d anticipated.
★ IF YOU TAKE SOME TIME TO REFLECT ON YOUR UNIQUE ARTISTIC VOICE, GO TO D
★ IF YOU ABANDON YOUR APPLICATION AND JUST GO OUT AND SHOOT SOMETHING, GO TO E
G. YOU WRITE A SCRIPT
You work on a script that you will soon be able to produce.
Even with everything you’ve learned, it’s very hard. You had hoped to finish your script in about a day, or two days at the most, so that you could shoot it and release it by the end of the week.
But you aren’t sure which genre to write, or where the film should be set, or what the people in it should say or do, and these seem like important elements of a movie, or at least have been in most of the movies you’ve ever seen.
So it seems like writing a script may take more time than you’d expected, even if you were just to write a short film, which seems ridiculous, since short films take so little time to watch and barely anyone watches them anyway.
Unfortunately, since walking out of the cinema you’ve already quit your job to give yourself more time to make films. So you will need to make a film using a script somebody else has written, obtain a grant to pay you while you write a script, or get a new job and write this script using all your other time.
★ IF YOU LOOK FOR A SCRIPT SOMEBODY ELSE HAS WRITTEN, GO TO H
★ IF YOU APPLY FOR A DEVELOPMENT GRANT, GO TO I
★ IF YOU GET A NEW JOB AND WRITE IN YOUR SPARE TIME, GO TO J
H. YOU LOOK FOR A SCRIPT SOMEBODY ELSE HAS WRITTEN
You are just about to reach out to agents, screenwriters, and other creatives when you realise something.
Since 2011, no-one has won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for a film one of the writers did not also direct.
This proves something you had suspected, but can now confirm: screenwriters are useless. No, worse than useless: screenwriters are a joke.
You don’t know what you were thinking, anyway. You are not a director—you are a filmmaker, pure and true. Every artistic element should flow from within you onto the screen.
If screenwriters wanted their scripts to be made they should have become filmmakers, like you.
You will write your own script.
★ YOU WRITE A SCRIPT. GO TO G.
I. YOU APPLY FOR A DEVELOPMENT GRANT
You know that state and federal screen funding bodies offer support to writers while they work on their scripts, but you have no idea how to make sure your application is strong enough to make sure you are successful in receiving the grant.
The application form makes requests that seem ridiculous to you. Things like, ‘provide a summary of the plot of your project’. Things like, ‘who are the main characters in your project?’ Worst of all, things like, ‘attach any existing drafts of your project’.
If you had enough information to respond to any of these, you would not be applying for a grant, you would be making a film.
You take a break from your application and go for a walk to clear your mind.
As you pass a cafe, a customer steps out of the doorway. You bump into them. They drop a pile of papers they are carrying for some reason. You bend down to pick some of these up, and accidentally touch the customer’s hand. You lock eyes with the customer. They smile. You smile. You both stand back up, rising at the same speed so as to maintain eye contact, then each of you giggles a little.
They introduce themselves. They are a producer who specialises in helping filmmakers write grant applications so that they can write scripts to make films out of them. You tell them you are a filmmaker trying to complete a grant application so that you can write a script to make a film out of it.
They ask if you’d like to get a drink and work on a grant application together. They would then be attached to the project.
Part of you would prefer to keep your project all to yourself, as you know it will be strong and ultimately financially and/or artistically successful, but you also know continuing to work alone means you’d need to find other income to support yourself while you write, since this whole grant application thing is super confusing and seems to be designed to help people write more drafts of scripts they’ve already written. This is kind of silly, because if the scripts were any good then the first draft would be all they should need.
At the same time, this producer seems willing to work with you, and they have experience. They also make you feel lightheaded and kind of like anything might be possible in this world if you could just find the right person to share it with.
★ IF YOU GET A NEW JOB AND WRITE IN YOUR SPARE TIME, GO TO J
★ IF YOU WORK WITH THE PRODUCER ON A GRANT APPLICATION, GO TO L
J. YOU GET A NEW JOB AND WRITE IN YOUR SPARE TIME
It takes quite a while to find a new job, which is frustrating, because you don’t even want a job—you want to make a film. But once you have finally found one, you write whenever you can around work, family and social commitments.
It’s frustrating to have such a complex life, but you try to remind yourself that films are a reflection of life, and so surely it is important to live a reasonable amount of life so that life can find its way into your film.
You manage for a while, tinkering with blank pages and note cards in the early hours of the morning and late hours of the evening, but this becomes increasingly difficult. Your family members or colleagues become frustrated, as they can sense you are torn between your art and your life.
This comes to a head when you attend a family or work event you are simply not able to avoid. The event eats into critical writing time, and when your uncle or colleague points out that you seem anxious—despite the free food—you explain to him that you’re thinking about your script as you are going to make a film.
Your uncle or colleague lights up at this news. He tells you he has an idea he’s always thought would be a great movie. Before you can get away, he tells you his idea. As you listen, you’re not quite sure how it would work as a movie. Still, it is an idea, and you don’t actually have one of those.
But maybe what you really need is time. You’ve accrued a small amount of leave and/or have saved enough to turn down a few shifts, so you look into renting a cabin—a place where you could go on a self-imposed retreat with no distractions, no events. Surely without the world intruding, you’d have no problems writing a production-ready screenplay in a week. Two weeks, maximum.
★ IF YOU RENT OUT A CABIN TO WORK ON YOUR OWN SCRIPT, GO TO K
★ IF YOU USE YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE’S IDEA, GO TO M
K. YOU RENT OUT A CABIN TO WORK ON YOUR OWN SCRIPT
Without any distractions you’ll be able to generate ideas and finish a script in no time. You rent a cabin a few hours from home, buy a huge batch of groceries, travel there and lock yourself inside.
The first day goes well. You don’t write any pages or come up with any ideas necessarily, but you feel confident that you’re on the verge of something great.
On the second day, you sit at the desk in the cabin’s makeshift study and open your laptop. As you brainstorm, you are overcome by a feeling of great unease. You sense that something is right behind you—but when you turn, there is nothing there: only the rest of the cabin, and a window to the trees outside.
Over the course of your retreat, this sensation grows in frequency and intensity. On the fifth day, you are certain you glimpse something looking through the window—but when you try to look more closely, it’s gone.
On a particularly productive day, when you have come up with several title ideas for your script and chosen the best font for each, there is no question at all. You see a shadow, the outline of a figure, before it fades away.
This figure appears again. And again, and again, and again, and each time it appears, it grows clearer, shifting from shadow to something more real.
You can’t help but feel you are summoning this figure through the act of writing itself. It gains clarity at the same rate as your script, which you have gradually narrowed down to being one of five or six genres.
You want to keep progressing, but the figure is, frankly, terrifying. You don’t want to make it any more real than it already is.
The next time it makes itself known, you know you must choose: do you confront the figure, or do you flee?
★ IF YOU CONFRONT THE FIGURE, GO TO N
★ IF YOU RUN AWAY, GO TO O
L. YOU WORK WITH THE PRODUCER ON A GRANT APPLICATION
You agree to work with the producer, and they assure you their expertise means you will be able to use the grant to come up with an idea, rather than come up with an idea in order to get the grant.
At first, you bicker. You are two different people, with different backgrounds, values, minds, priorities, relationships. At one point you consider working with another producer, but change your mind at the last moment. For some reason, you can’t bear to lose the producer, and they admit they can’t bear to lose you.
In fact, each time you meet to work on the application, you get to know one another a little more. It turns out they also care a lot about movies and the ways they can change how people see the world and/or entertain them a lot.
You are struck by an exhilarating and dangerous realisation: you and the producer have fallen in love.
This is a rare love, a wonderful love, a brilliant, passionate love.
But this is not helpful for your filmmaking career. It is a distraction.
★ IF YOU BREAK UP WITH YOUR PRODUCER, GO TO O
★ IF YOU ABANDON YOUR DREAM TO PURSUE LOVE, GO TO R
M. YOU USE YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE’S IDEA
With your uncle or colleague’s concept in mind, the writing suddenly flows freely.
Though you’ve never completed a script, the idea is so clear, so crisp, so compelling, it almost seems to write itself.
Within an afternoon, you’ve written both a feature-length screenplay and a proof-of-concept short film that captures the tone and themes of the full-length version while being simple to shoot with a minimal budget and with parts that would appeal to notable actors willing to work for a lower rate purely due to the quality of the material.
You had not set out to generate such a streamlined path to production, with a series of steps along the way to impress producers and funders. In fact, until you had done so, you hadn’t even been aware of many of these factors. But now you can see it all before you—and it was only possible due to the fundamental strength of your uncle or colleague’s idea.
For a moment, you feel transcendent. You’re not only going to make a film, you’re going to make a hit. This project will connect with critics and audiences alike and, without question, change your life forever. You will be one of the rare filmmakers remembered by history. You are more certain of this than of anything you’ve ever known.
Then panic sets in.
Your uncle or colleague verbally agreed that you could ‘do something’ with their idea. But you have no contracts signed, no ability to prove that he has handed you his intellectual property.
You have to resolve this. Fast.
★ IF YOU ASK YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE TO SIGN A CONTRACT, GO TO N
★ IF YOU RUSH YOUR FILM INTO PRODUCTION, GO TO Q
N. YOU ASK YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE TO SIGN A CONTRACT
Your uncle or colleague is delighted to hear how much progress you’ve made using his idea. He is about to sign a contract, happy just to see his vision on screen, when he pauses and asks if he can read your script.
He does so immediately, sitting on a chair in front of you, tearing through the pages. He laughs, he weeps, he nods to signify a sense of deep connection and understanding. Once he has finished, he falls silent. He looks up at you.
Though he has no experience in the industry, and has never read a script before, it is clear to your uncle or colleague that this is one of the greatest screenplays of all time.
Like you, he recognises that the pages he holds in his hands are not just a ticket to wealth—they are a ticket to eternity.
He begins to make wild demands, far beyond anything you feel you are able to reasonably provide. He wants money, certain credits, sequel rights, final sign-off on casting and more.
His requests are too much, but you have to admit the truth: this was his idea. You need to work with him.
Then again, no-one knows about this except the two of you. There are more drastic measures you could take to make sure this film is yours, and yours alone.
★ IF YOU AND YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE TAKE THE PROJECT TO MARKET TOGETHER, GO TO T
★ IF YOU PLOT TO ASSASSINATE YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE, GO TO U
O. YOU BREAK UP WITH YOUR PRODUCER
You tell your producer—who you are wildly, madly, deeply in love with—that you don’t think you can make this work. A relationship would only be a distraction from your goal of making a film.
As someone who is almost as passionate about film as you are, your producer tells you they understand. Unfortunately, this means they won’t be able to help you with your grant application, as they feel the emotional strain would be too much.
This makes sense, but it’s difficult to hear.
Over the following days, everything reminds you of them: people being on time; lists of tasks; numbers. You can feel yourself being torn apart.
They send you a message to say they’ve decided to go away for a while, and they’re sorry things didn’t work out. This sparks something within you—you can’t let them get away. Not like this.
You find out their flight details, head to the airport, and run through the terminal, sprinting (except when you go through security) and grateful that your producer is leaving on a domestic flight.
You catch them in the boarding queue, and the two of you embrace one another, tears flowing freely. You apologise for being so short-sighted, and ask—can they forgive you? And—could they ever find it in their heart to be your producer again and help you with your grant application so you can write a script and eventually make a film?
They hesitate, as they’d thought you were there to restart your romantic relationship. When you clarify this is absolutely not why you are there, but that you are there for professional, film-related reasons, their face falls. They board their flight and leave.
You watch their plane take off, devastated that nothing has worked out for you so far. It seems like you’re going to need a different approach altogether.
Maybe a script was the wrong place to start. Maybe you need to emulate influencers who are now getting film deals. Maybe you need to start shooting self-facing videos for social media.
Or, hey, you’re already at the airport. Maybe it’s time to take a bigger step and go directly to the home of movies.
★ IF YOU BEGIN TO SHOOT CONTENT FOR SOCIAL MEDIA, GO TO Z
★ IF YOU GO TO LOS ANGELES, GO TO Y
P. YOU CONFRONT THE FIGURE
If you run from the figure, you might end up running forever. You need to face your fears, just like the protagonist in your screenplay probably will (once you’ve figured out who they are, what they want, and what fear is stopping them from getting that thing).
When the figure next appears, you don’t even hesitate. You rush straight towards it, take a deep breath, and confront it—demanding to know what they are, why they are here.
The figure seems surprised, and recoils for a moment, then tentatively approaches. Now that you have a closer view, you can see the figure is not so scary after all. In fact, they look a lot like you. Not exactly the same, but definitely a similar vibe.
They apologise for any concern they might have caused, and admit they have been a little shy. See, they’re an aspiring filmmaker, and they’ve just been trying to network.
They noticed you were working on a script, and were actually wondering if you’d like to join their writing group. It’s just a small group of peers who read one another’s work and meet once a week to provide encouragement and constructive feedback.
Though you’re trying to be a filmmaker, not provide encouragement and constructive feedback to other filmmakers, you have to admit: you’re tempted by this offer.
But this invitation also gives you another idea. Maybe being a filmmaker is more about who you know than about writing and making films. And if being a filmmaker is more about who you know than about writing and making films, shouldn’t you try to know the people who make the most films? Shouldn’t you be abandoning your life and moving to Hollywood?
★ IF YOU GO TO LOS ANGELES, GO TO Y
★ IF YOU JOIN THE FIGURE’S WRITING GROUP, GO TO AA
Q. YOU RUSH YOUR FILM INTO PRODUCTION
The only way to avoid a rights dispute is to make the film so fast your uncle or colleague couldn’t possibly claim the idea was theirs.
You encounter none of the issues you had faced when you didn’t have a script. Instead, cast and crew are clamouring to work with you.
You weren’t wrong: this script is incredible. In fact, after reading the short and feature-length versions, a producer fast-tracks the feature version.
It hits number one on the annual Black List, but you don’t even need the Black List. It’s only unproduced because it’s deep in pre-production. Still, it’s a nice confidence boost, and every forum discussion and blog says it’s the first time they’ve read a Black List script that was actually perfect and clearly destined for awards.
Five studios pause their ongoing mergers and acquisitions so they can each bid on the project, because executives at all of them are sure that whoever wins the rights will make so much money they will be able to buy out the other studios instead of the other way around. You’re not exactly sure how these corporate processes work, but the financial logic makes total sense to you.
Once a studio is locked in, the casting director secures several A-list actors from the special subset of A-list actors that actually make people go and see the film in the cinema instead of just making them vaguely aware that the film exists. Oscar-winning cinematographers, editors, production designers, costume designers, composers, sound designers all sign on.
It's everything you dreamed of, and it’s all ready to go—when your uncle or colleague calls you and tells you he has filed an injunction. The producers explain they have to respect it, but your uncle or colleague is asking for all kinds of absurd things you either can’t give him or don’t want to, like a ‘Story By’ credit.
Everyone with a copy of the script duly deletes and shreds it—one of your uncle or colleague’s most extreme demands, to ensure he retains the only version until these contract issues are resolved.
You didn’t do any of this just to end up handing over rights to your uncle or colleague. The whole point was to avoid this situation.
★ IF YOU AGREE TO YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE’S TERMS, GO TO X
★ IF YOU PLOT TO ASSASSINATE YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE, GO TO U
R. YOU ABANDON YOUR DREAM TO PURSUE LOVE
You’re right. This relationship is a distraction. But as you’ve learned from the various screenwriting manuals you’ve been reading, sometimes the protagonist doesn’t get what they want—they get what they need.
And a life with your producer, the only person you’ve ever really loved, is exactly that.
You abandon your filmmaking ambitions and throw yourself headfirst into a dazzling love affair. You meet your producer’s family, they meet yours. You get to know one another deeply, you share wonderful moments and difficult experiences.
There’s no question that this is the person you’re meant to be with. You move in together, you build a home. You have two kids, wonderful kids, and after a few years you figure, hey, why not make it official? Why not allow people to celebrate what we have, and be brought together by love? You’ve never prioritised it—neither of you have ever felt you needed to prove it—but there’s actually something nice about the idea of getting married.
Your families are delighted to hear the news. You lock in dates, send out invites, book locations, select playlists. And when the day arrives, you have a nice breakfast with some friends, then separate so you can get ready and meet at the venue.
You decide to walk home, so you can see the sky, take everything in, remember this day. A few blocks from the cafe, you pass a cinema, and you pause to look at the posters on the side of the building. It’s nice, an independent theatre, and the titles of movies are displayed in block letters over the entrance.
Something about it reminds you of a dream you’d almost forgotten you ever had.
You smile. What was it about these places, anyway? You check the time. You have at least four or five hours before you need to be anywhere, and no-one’s expecting anything from you.
You shrug, and head into the lobby.
★ YOU WATCH A FILM. GO TO A.
S. YOU RUN AWAY
The figure is terrifying. You run from the cabin, and you don’t stop running. You’ll do anything to avoid its gaze.
But as days pass, then weeks, the figure continues to appear no matter where you go. It is no longer bound to the cabin—it is bound to you.
Whenever you write, or even think about writing, the figure makes itself known. It looms, and watches, and waits, and fills you with dread.
You can’t help but feel you are cursed. You’ll never be able to write a script while this figure is tormenting you, this most horrific and foul being. No-one could work under these conditions.
No, you must either confront the figure yourself, or seek help to break its mystical hold over you.
★ IF YOU CONFRONT THE FIGURE, GO TO P
★ IF YOU SEEK A WAY TO BREAK THE CURSE, GO TO W
T. YOU AND YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE TAKE THE PROJECT TO MARKET TOGETHER
His requests are frustrating, but you have to admit, the idea was your uncle or colleague’s in the first place. Contract signed, your uncle or colleague is ready to join you on the journey to turn your script into a film—and you’re excited to work with him.
He wants some script changes, which you don’t love, but you make them anyway. Then, together, you put together a logline, synopsis, pitch deck and rough budget. Filled with hope, you send this pack out to every producer you can find.
You wait a few weeks, but no-one returns your emails. Your uncle or colleague suggests that this is because neither of you have ever made a feature film, or even really know what would be involved in making one, and you have to admit that he’s right.
Even so, you argue that it’s not what you know, it’s who you know—and maybe the best approach is to try to connect with people who do know what would be involved in making a film. People who know Hollywood, because they live there. In LA.
Your uncle or colleague says this could work, but suggest you could also try to make the short version yourselves to learn how this whole filmmaking thing works from the ground up. This sounds like a lot of work, but you hear him out.
★ IF YOU GO TO LOS ANGELES, GO TO Y
★ IF YOU MAKE THE SHORT VERSION WITH A TINY BUDGET, GO TO V
U. YOU PLOT TO ASSASSINATE YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE
Your uncle or colleague’s terms are completely unacceptable. You cannot let such a contract stand—and you can see in your uncle or colleague’s eyes that there is only one way you can prevent them holding you to it.
In order to retain the exclusive rights to your film, you must assassinate your uncle or colleague.
Over the next few weeks, out of necessity, you set filmmaking to the side. Instead, you begin to track your uncle or colleague’s habits and movements. You get to know where he lives, where he spends time, even some secrets you’re sure he wouldn’t want others to know. But blackmail isn’t enough. You need to stick to the plan.
At an opportune moment you manage to steal a key to his house. You then bide your time, and sneak in late one night while he’s asleep. Your plan is perfect—you’ll make it look like an accident, and all your problems will be over.
You light a candle, then knock it over beneath a curtain. The curtain begins to burn, the fire spreading just like you’d imagined. You wait a few moments to make sure other parts of the home are set alight, then exit through the front door, locking it behind you.
You watch from the street as the structure seems to ripple, the air itself ablaze. Nothing can stop this, and nothing can stop you.
Then you remember—the only remaining copy of the script is inside that house. How can you have been so stupid? You know from your observations that your uncle or colleague had kept it in the top drawer of their desk.
You steel yourself, then rush back inside, braving the wild, bucking heat. It’s a furnace, like nothing you’ve ever experienced, but you have a pure, single-minded goal: to be a filmmaker. You race upstairs to the study, find your uncle or colleague’s desk, already crackling—the flames burn higher—a heavy beam collapses—knocking you unconscious…
…You wake a few weeks later, in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines. A passing nurse seems surprised to see you looking at them. The doctors hadn’t been sure you would make it.
The nurse explains that your uncle or colleague has died in a tragic fire, and that you only made it out alive thanks to a heroic neighbour who pulled you from the wreckage. You’re a hero too, of course, for trying to save your uncle or colleague, but you did fail, so your neighbour is the bigger hero, because they succeeded in saving you.
You ask if any items survived the fire, for example, a 97-page screenplay, or even a shorter eight-page script with similar tone and themes, but the nurse tells you nothing was left.
This is frustrating, though you remain calm. You are sure you can simply write these again, like you did the first time.
But over the following week, whenever you try to do so, you can’t even remember the basic concept. It slips away every time you feel close, constantly evading your attempts to grasp it. Your memory is foggy, your mind clouded.
Eventually you accept the truth: your uncle or colleague is gone, but so is your project.
Once you’re discharged, you go for a long walk to process this dual loss. It’s raining, and the lights gleam through the droplets, adding to the sense that you are going through something meaningful and special.
Through the fog, you can make out the name of a cinema. You head towards it, filled with hope.
Because inside that building is the only thing that makes any sense in this unrelenting, chaotic world.
★ YOU WATCH A FILM. GO TO A.
V. YOU MAKE THE SHORT VERSION WITH A TINY BUDGET
Your uncle or colleague agrees to fund the short version of the project, but can only manage a much lower budget than what you think you need.
With his help, you rope in friends and family members or other colleagues to play some of the parts. A few people agree to look into locations, and one family member or other colleague happens to know a cameraperson who works on commercials.
The shoot is hard, a steep learning curve, but you get through it. You decide to edit it yourself, then get some help with colour grading and sound design and other things you didn’t even know existed.
The final short doesn’t get into any festivals, but your uncle or colleague is so excited to see it premiere at a cinema you rent out to host a screening for the cast and crew. You sit in the crowd and watch along with everyone who helped you make it, who believed in you even just a little.
It’s not exactly the version in your head, but it’s okay. It’s a start. You went out there and shot something. You made a film.
W. YOU SEEK A WAY TO BREAK THE CURSE
You search online for someone with expertise in breaking curses, particularly those related to mysterious figures following people, and are overwhelmed by results. You choose one service with a high Google review rating and book an appointment for the following day.
When you explain your situation to the curse specialist, they nod and make a sound that indicates they’re very familiar with what you’re going through. They explain that if you don’t make any changes, this figure will always be there, looming, even when you cannot see it.
This is incredibly alarming, but their mention of making changes gives you some hope. You ask what it is you have to do, what action it is that should you take to rid yourself of this horrific figure.
Your specialist looks into your eyes, and tells you, very simply: the only way to break this curse is to make an extremely successful feature film.
The only way out is through.
You close your eyes, try to forget everything that led you down the wrong path, and vow not to make the same mistakes this time.
★ IF YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH, GO TO C
★ IF YOU JUST GO OUT THERE AND SHOOT SOMETHING, GO TO E
X. YOU AGREE TO YOUR UNCLE OR COLLEAGUE’S TERMS
Your uncle or colleague’s terms are ridiculous, but you’re sure that if you just get this film made and he can see it he’ll understand how wrong his opinions were—and how can he argue with the money?
You agree to his terms, which turn out to mostly be the ‘Story By’ credit, sign a contract, and move swiftly from pre-production into principal photography.
This is a baptism by fire: you’ve never directed anything before, and now you’re directing a feature with a budget close to $200 million. It’s only when you’re on set that you realise you don’t know what any of your Oscar-winning department heads actually do.
You get into several screaming matches a day with your first assistant director, mostly involving you screaming that you don’t understand what their job is with relation to yours, or what a second assistant director does, or why there is a boy everyone is saying is the best.
Deadline, The Hollywood Reporter and Vanity Fair report on these ongoing production woes. Runners on set share videos of you flailing and shouting, which go viral on a regular basis. Your A-list actors all insist on going full method—a tactic you eventually discover they’ve devised as a way to avoid having to talk to you, as they personally dislike you.
Still, with all this money on the line, the studio and producers make sure the shoot is completed and post-production is managed without your involvement. They set up a premiere at Cannes, where the film receives a standing ovation that lasts for three and a half minutes. You’re incredibly proud of this, until someone tells you a three-and-a-half minute standing ovation at Cannes is actually terrible and an extremely bad sign.
When it comes to theatres, the film flops hard. It receives a 2% on Rotten Tomatoes, which is somehow worse than zero, and the box office receipts are so bad that the studio that bought the rights to the project goes bankrupt, which doesn’t even make sense but still somehow happens as a result of your atrocious movie.
As you were in too much of a rush to consult a lawyer before signing your own contract with the studio, you somehow end up tens of millions of dollars in personal debt. Your uncle or colleague posts on social media that he’s not even sure why you gave him a credit. He had nothing to do with it. None of the actors involved ever work again.
But even after all this, you hold your head up high. Because you have made a film—and they say your first project is always the hardest one to get up.
Y. YOU GO TO LOS ANGELES
You go heavily into debt to purchase a ticket to LA. During the flight you watch a number of films, all of which make you feel you’ve made the correct decision, because they are either artistically inspiring, or so mediocre or bad that you’re confident you could do a better job.
Unfortunately, upon your arrival you realise that your tourist visa does not allow you to work. You should have known this based on the name, but you had been in such a hurry to get here and start making films that you hadn’t paid much attention. It doesn’t make sense—why would anyone in LA not be allowed to make a film? It’s literally the point of being there.
This frustration is short-lived, however, as you have some larger concerns. LA is not what you had imagined. It is a strange and mysterious city, filled with shiny smiles and off-putting eye contact. People here do not act like people, and the streets make no sense, and you can walk for hours without getting anywhere.
And then there are the portals—the vast, bizarre portals opening all across the city, from Downtown to Hollywood Boulevard to Beverley Hills and beyond. No-one likes to talk about them, but you can sense that people are disturbed. The portals are new, and no-one knows where they came from, and no-one knows if they should be trying to network with any people or beings that may exist on the other side.
Something about the portals beckons you. You are drawn to them, to their shimmering nature, to the way you can’t quite identify where the portal ends or begins. You begin to approach them, and you’re so tempted, because on the other side of these portals could be a filmmaking deal, and there is only one way to know—by entering one.
But this is also your first time in LA, and you’ve heard great things about some of the studio backlot tours.
★ IF YOU GO ON A STUDIO BACKLOT TOUR, GO TO BB
★ IF YOU ENTER THE PORTAL, GO TO CC
Z. YOU BEGIN TO SHOOT CONTENT FOR SOCIAL MEDIA
You gave up love. Maybe your only chance at it.
And for what?
You know exactly what.
For a dream.
Before you even leave the airport, you start shooting a selfie video where you pretend to be a specific type of annoying person who is vaguely familiar but isn’t a kind of person you’re actually all that likely to encounter in real life.
You add a caption and upload it to social media. Within moments several people have liked the video. This is excellent, as more videos will mean more likes and more likes will mean more of a chance to land a movie deal via the increasingly trodden influencer route.
You rapidly forget why you were at the airport in the first place.
You film more videos. You upload and share them. You’re creating content, you’re carving out a path, you’re a creative marvel. Nothing can stop you now. After all—you’re going out there and shooting something.
AA. YOU JOIN THE FIGURE’S WRITING GROUP
The figure’s writing group meets on Tuesday nights in the back room of a nice bar. As you become a regular, you get to know the other writers and filmmakers. They’re all doing interesting work, and have different ideas and passions and reasons for wanting to make films.
Having a weekly deadline also means you finally start to write. You don’t immediately finish a feature length script, but you can feel yourself starting to get the hang of it. A few of the group really like some of your ideas, and you use their feedback to start making decisions about which one is worth pursuing.
At one meeting, one of the other writers announces that they’ve had a script optioned by a production company. It’s early days, but is the first step in getting it made. You expected to feel bad about this, even angry—but you feel happy. You like their writing. You want to see their movie made. You’re not even sure what to do with a feeling like this.
But the figure knows. They hang back, and ask if you want to start helping run some of the meetings. Maybe you could even invite professional writers, directors or producers to come and talk to the group, so you can all learn how things work.
You hadn’t realised this was an option, but learning how things work sounds great. You agree to help out, and as the months go on, you gradually get to know what the process of making a film actually involves. You even start to help out on sets when some of the group make short films of their own.
It’s much clearer, now. You can see it all before you.
You haven’t made a film—not yet. But you have found a community.
BB. YOU GO ON A STUDIO BACKLOT TOUR
On a famous studio backlot tour, you sit on a small little tram along with other tourists as you see the sets from many films the studio has made in the past. You’ve seen some of these, but there are many you’re actually not familiar with.
You even get to see the set from Psycho, which you haven’t seen but are aware of and know is important, and has probably influenced you indirectly because of the way it’s influenced the people who influence you. And then a guy runs after the tram with a knife or something and you wonder whether a guy runs after a tram in Psycho.
After you escape the guy with the knife, you ask the driver if they know who you should talk to about setting up meetings, because you’re in LA to become a filmmaker.
Someone behind you yells at you, because they’re also here to become a filmmaker, and there aren’t enough opportunities for two filmmakers to start networking with the driver on this tram. Then another person yells, and another, until almost everyone on the tram is shrieking at one another about their individual filmmaking goals.
You don’t know when the first punch is thrown, but you certainly feel one of the first few. The tram descends into an all-out brawl, aspiring filmmaker versus aspiring filmmaker versus aspiring filmmaker.
The driver ignores all this like they’ve seen it a thousand times, which you realise—as an aspiring filmmaker puts you in a chokehold—they probably have.
As your opponent squeezes, cutting off your oxygen supply, you glimpse a fake street filled with fake signs. As you pass out, hopefully to be revived and treated free of charge in one of the city’s most affordable hospitals, you view the street with wonder. Even though it’s fake, it’s also so real. Before you dip into black, you have a dark thought, one you try your best to push away.
This is as close as you’ll ever get.
CC. YOU ENTER THE PORTAL
You find yourself in a void. Echoes of the past and other timelines shimmer around you.
You feel as though you are in an editing timeline of your own life, though some images and sounds are unfamiliar—like they are other paths you may have taken.
You stumble towards the images, and feel yourself stretching out as you move closer. Each pulls at you, sounds drawing you in.
You understand that each offers another chance.
★ IF YOU APPROACH THE CHIRPING CRICKETS, GO TO K
★ IF YOU APPROACH THE CLASSICAL MUSIC, GO TO L
★ IF YOU APPROACH THE CRACKLING FLAMES, GO TO M
Scott Limbrick is a writer whose fiction has appeared in Electric Literature, Griffith Review, Going Down Swinging, Kill Your Darlings and elsewhere. He has previously been a Frank Moorhouse Fellow, won the Griffith Review Emerging Voices Competition and been shortlisted for the Richell Prize. He currently has multiple screenplays in development with funding from VicScreen and Screen Australia.