So what’s your best anecdote that came out of this particular film experience?
The experience of raising the money was both the hardest and the “best.” We hadn’t raised a nickel by June 1st, although we had the pieces in place. And on August 1st, we committed to production and brought in the art department—even though we only had $40,000 in the bank, and couldn’t touch it until we had $400,000.
Bess and I mortgaged our house for the $35,000 we needed to get things going. And the fundraising momentum we continued to build over the next weeks let us break escrow in time and get through the shoot. We brought in some $750,000 during the weeks between August 1st and November 15th.
Fundraising for indies, of course, is always the most challenging aspect of this business because every film comes together differently and with a different set of backers and players. Plus there’s always a strong chance that it won’t come together. Beyond that, production is the most difficult and most exhilarating because of all of the unpredictable elements. The director’s job is to bring everyone’s best effort forward and to keep all of the disparate elements organized and unified in the same film. Even as new discoveries are unfolding, some will be good and others will be potentially detrimental to your vision.
Production flows on adrenaline—long days, cold nights, punishing schedules, and many unpredictable elements. I love it—and work to hang in with every second of it. But I’m always glad to have it over and to retire to the editing room—and the new discoveries that await me. Along with the realizations of what we did and did not fully achieve during those challenging days in production.
Beyond this and despite some difficulties on which I won’t elaborate, the best “luck” was to find the unique combination of cast, crew members, and Vermont producers Bess O’Brien, Lauren Moye, and Alan Davis who worked the impossible to make this happen. The stars seemed to align to make it happen—with an extraordinary gift of grace. Every film needs this—the lucky ones get it.
What was your worst nightmare and how it did it get resolved?
One nightmare involved our arrival at our last location for three days of final shooting. It was for our log drive scene, in frigid water. We faced 5 degree temperatures with 35 mile per hour winds—making it effectively 25 below zero. It was snowing and the water was freezing up, despite our need for a water surface. We had to dispatch six crew members at 3am each day to break up ice—to keep the water available for the log driving action. Then it started snowing, which was not supposed to occur until three scenes later in the script.
We changed the script and used the snow—but we had to extend for two extra days because of the harsh conditions, which slowed the shooting. The crew was ready to mutiny—for good reason. They thought they were headed home after a long hard shoot. We cut a deal with a local motel owner for a place with hot tubs and Jacuzzi. This cut us the slack we needed to finish the shoot—barely.
What do you know now that you wish you had known then?
How little we knew actually helped us. We took leaps of faith based on our vision for the film. If we had known how difficult it was, we might not have taken it on. We were raising money until the very last minutes of post-production. We had potential investors visiting the set. It never stopped.
Which view do you ascribe to as a filmmaker: Life imitates Art or Art imitates Life and how did that apply to this film ?
I think that both are true. And, as a filmmaker, you constantly work to discover unexpected moments during writing, production, and post-production—and to remain open to them. I have certainly felt akin to the Rip Torn character many times, as an indie filmmaker—fighting, in a hyper-commercialized environment, to stave off the extinction of a way of life and culture that’s very much a part of me.
Beyond that, my experiences making these films teach me so much—and open me to new and more complex understandings of myself and others, through my ability to re-invent and reside in character and story for years on end—and through the intense collaborations with others in the filmmaking process. In fact, the films yield new and unintended meanings after they’re finished, especially through interactions with audiences. Because, for better or worse, I’m present at so many screenings of my work, I get the chance to pick up these subtle and shifting dynamics, as the film comes to life on screen.
How did the film fare at the box office?
We played Vermont preview dates in late ’93 released it in January 1994, kicking it off at Sundance. We self-distributed the theatrical release, backed by $200,000 from our video distributor, A-Pix. We played 212 venues nationwide—got press on The Today Show, NPR’s All Things Considered, Fresh Air, Entertainment Weekly, The New York Times, Washington Post, and many others.
It was a terrific adventure and success, triggering some 92,000 in video sales and TV deals on Disney Channel, Sundance Channel, Encore, Starz, and elsewhere. Problem is our foreign company went bankrupt, leaving us some $400,000 short in anticipated revenue from that market.
What did you do after that?
My next feature film, A Stranger in the Kingdom (1998 release, w/Ernie Hudson, David Lansbury, Martin Sheen), was also self-financed through a limited partnership ($1,000 shares, $750k in foreign rights advances, and a bank loan) and self-distributed, theatrically, but it went into the market during a time when Blockbuster and the studios initiated their revenue sharing strategy, which drastically lowered the price stores would pay for rental video, from $65 a unit to as little as $5 a unit.
Most indie distributors, mine included, couldn’t handle the shock and went bankrupt. Stranger suffered from this radical market shift, which also drove under many thousands of indie-friendly mom and pop video stores. But the film has now been acquired by a new company and is starting to see a second life for itself, especially through the advent of DVD.
My third feature, The Year That Trembled (2003, w/Marin Hinkle, Jonathan Brandis, Fred Willard) ) was produced by Scott Lax and Tyler Davidson at Novel City Pictures in Ohio. They worked on a similar model, raising local money through an LLC ($25,000 units). My non-profit company, Kingdom County Productions, handled the theatrical release. Ardustry Entertainment handles domestic rights and Porchlight handles the international.
What skills, insights or vision do you feel you bring to the process of independent filmmaking?
My experience as a Vermont grass-roots arts activist is what enabled me to organize, finance, and make these films. Beyond that, my love of film and my deep roots in this region helped me dig into these stories, which are set here. My work with actors and performing artists helped me develop skills to work with actors. The impossibility of the arts organizing in rural northern Vermont prepared me for the difficulties I’d face.
My 60’s political activism helped me hone a vision for an alternative to the corporate status quo—and to favor stories that show outsiders who take a stand for what they live or believe—and face consequences which set the terms of their character struggle. My love of history makes me feel comfortable with period stories and the research they require.
My early history with my grandmother, going to westerns, enabled me to see my Vermont frontier films as north country westerns (or “Easterns”) where larger-than-life characters grapple with encroaching progress and an outlaw way of life that still endures here. I also love to work with actors and find that each one communicates in a unique language. Whether I’m talented in this area is for others to decide.
What are you working on now?
I’m planning, during June ’04, to produce Windy Acres, a comedy series for Vermont Public Television. In the fall of ’04, I’m working to complete my trilogy of Vermont feature films, with Disappearances, a whiskey running caper set during Prohibition. Kris Kristofferson plans to star, and we’re again raising Vermont money.
I’m also involved with several films with other producers, including 1) Tilson’s Point (a New England fisherman juggles impossible relationships and choices as he faces the end o
f fishing as he’s known it) with Ken Meyer and Jonathan Bernstein; 2) The Legacy (based on Guy de Maupassant’s 19th century novel, Pierre and Jean) with Maxine Flitman, Vinca Jarret and Michel Shane; and 3) a film based on French crime writer Georges Simenon’s novel, The Fugitive.
You are also the driving force behind a dynamic program that helps train the next generation of young screenwriters, actors and filmmakers. How did it get started and what kind of results do you see with your students?
We started Fledgling Films in 1997. For years, we’d seen teenagers contact us, wanting to find a way they could participate in our work. Fledgling Films is set up to support them in making their own films, as writers, actors, directors, and behind-the-scenes filmmakers. We stage an annual summer Institute where kids work collaboratively, in groups, to make a half-dozen films, based on scripts or short stories we find during a several month search each year.
The idea here is to demystify media and encourage kids to express original ideas rooted in their own imaginations and experience; to help them work with others in a demanding and cooperative environment; to let them experience the culture of a film shoot; and to provide the opportunity to succeed and the freedom to fail.
We also stage an annual Fledgling Film Festival each spring, for movies made by teens from anywhere across the country—or internationally. The idea is to simply recognize and encourage this work.
This process is exciting for us. We get to see young filmmakers discovering the joys and challenges of making films. We discover new talent, from among the teen writers and filmmakers and the college film students who work as mentor/interns. We also participate in an annual production cycle, which hones our own thinking, especially in ways we can streamline and economize in our won work.
Last but not least, what’s your advice to writers who want to break into the independent filmmaking market?
The best advice I can offer is to simply make movies. Get together with your friends and work to tell stories and create images using digital cameras. Show your films to anybody you can assemble to watch them. Make mistakes. Learn from them. Develop a vision. Try some self-distribution. Figure out if this is what you like to do—knowing that it will be extremely competitive and frustrating—and exhilarating.
Beyond that, I’d encourage aspiring filmmakers to help build film culture where they live. Help organize a local screening series; volunteer to work with a local art house, film festival, or arts organization, where you can encourage them to program films as part of their work. It’s a great way to support other filmmakers; to learn about many diverse kinds of film; and to immerse yourself in a vibrant film culture, which is essential to building an independent future for dynamic, diverse, and original media.
AUTHOR NOTE: Further information on Kingdom County Productions and Fledgling Films can be found at www.kingdomcounty.com or by calling 802-592-3190. Craven also teaches film studies at Marlboro College.
CHAPTER 20: THE COMPETITIVE EDGE
Everyone loves a winner. Especially production companies who look to screenwriting competitions as a resource for new material. Should you pay fees to enter a script contest? Who are the judges? Will you get feedback whether you win or lose? Such are the questions you’ll want to ask when you get ready to put your work up against total strangers in a competitive forum.
WHY YOU SHOULD ENTER
The obvious enticement for you to participate in such contests is the fact that new scripts are actually being asked for, as opposed to the customary pitching route of writing copious letters, making telephone calls, and knocking on doors to see if someone, anyone might like to read your story. With certain exceptions (i.e., regional/membership restrictions or a direct association with the sponsor), they are also open to everyone and are well publicized via the Internet and film industry trade magazines.
The prizes awarded are as varied as the type of material being sought and range in value and prestige from a nice chunk of change and/or an option agreement (Hurrah!) to a cheesy certificate and complimentary emory board (Oh). Somewhere in between are scriptwriting software packages, agency representation, expense-paid conferences, mantle-worthy awards, screenwriting books, and professional consultations.
And remember this: although your lack of experience, credits and representation could preclude you from getting a studio exec to even read an unsolicited letter, your participation in a studio-sponsored script contest will assure that your material is reviewed, judged, and maybe even selected!
WHAT IT WILL COST YOU
There is a lot of latitude in terms of entry fees, the bulk of which go toward administrative processing costs (i.e., PR, postage, photocopying), reimbursing the judges for readings/critiques, and paying for the actual prize packages.
There is also a recent trend whereby some competitions waive a fee in lieu of the entrants assuming the role of preliminary judges themselves. They are furthered structured so that (1) writers won’t be rendering opinions on scripts that are in the same competition category as their own and (2) “test” questions at the end of each reading ensure that the material was actually read.
While your wallet and wits will dictate how many contests you decide to enter, those that provide some kind of feedback on your work are generally worth the cost of admission. Be sure to keep a copy of your entry form, too; you can deduct the contest fees on your income taxes as writing expenditures, along with membership dues, subscriptions, and supplies.
ARE THESE GUYS FOR REAL?
Judges of screenwriting contests are usually listed generically (i.e., “an esteemed panel of agents, producers and writers”) rather than by their real names. This is done for two reasons: (1) to protect the judges’ privacy and (2) to cover those occasions when the judging team hasn’t been fully assembled prior to the press release announcing the contest. Even if actual names are used and he or she just happens to be someone with whom you have had prior communication, contest protocol forbids any outside contact or inquiries during the duration of the contest.
As far as whether specific contests and sponsors are legitimate, I always advise clients to gravitate toward those which have operated for at least three years. That’s not to say that brand new competitions don’t have merit or credibility but if their entry fees are on the high side, their submission address is a post office box outside of California or New York, and you’ve never heard of their work, you may want to exercise caution before pulling out your checkbook.
It’s also wise to ask around if in doubt on whether a contest is worth your time, for certainly among the widespread community of aspiring screenwriters someone out there will be able to offer you advice. In addition, MovieBytes (www.moviebytes.com) has a “report card” component of their contest link that allows you to post comments of your own as well as read what others have had to say about specific competitions.
HOW TO INCREASE YOUR CHANCES OF WINNING
Follow the instructions! Each time I’ve been called upon to judge a script competition, it never ceases to amaze me how many entrants assume that the rules apply to everyone except themselves. They will exceed the mandated page length, submit inappropriate material, include chatty testimonials from their friends and relatives, ignore all the standardized format requirements, and send periodic revision pages that they expect the judges to insert in the right place. If you’re going to go to the trouble of entering your work for competition, remember that the instructions have been laid out for two reasons: (1) To establish an even playing field for all participants. Dull a concept as conformity may seem, it enables judges to focus on the content that’s between the covers rather than get distracted by an economic and creative disparity in packaging. (2) To reduce the number of scripts they have to sit down and read. A person who can’t abide by a few basic rules isn’t going to be someone they want to work with for the long-term. Hence, those scripts that blatantly ignore the requested guidelines are eliminated right off the top.
Your script is your calling card. No
t so very long ago, I received in the mail a “personal” invitation from a fledging publishing house asking whether I’d like them to publish one of my novels. They even went so far as to identify it by its correct title and mention they had been enthusiastically referred to me by someone else. Knowing this much, of course, it shouldn’t have been that hard for them to figure out that the book was already published. Nor should it have been that difficult for them to put together a better come-on than a plain white postcard upon which the sender had Scotch-taped both the return and delivery addresses. The flip-side of the card—the introduction to the company itself—was typed on a manual typewriter (yes, such things still exist) which hadn’t seen a ribbon-change in eons. Okay, I thought, maybe their secretary had been hit by a bus, the latest order for letterhead was delayed at the printer’s, and the sender suddenly found himself in a rolling blackout with only a flashlight and a rusty Underwood by which to craft his plucky note to moi.
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