The creative process for writing a movie begins with the idea for a movie then developing your story, outlining the plot, creating compelling characters and dialogue, formatting into proper screenplay format, usually followed by many revisions.
Here’s a breakdown of the initial step–starting with your idea for a movie:

1. How to develop your story:
Brainstorming: Explore ideas, bounce them off friends, explore alternative.
Plot and Characters: Outline your plot to include central conflict, and genre. Create your protagonist and antagonist.
Write the Logline: This is essentially and elevator pitch where you describe your movie idea in a concise one-sentence summary, including the protagonist, goal, and antagonist (the cliched tell me your idea in 25 words or less.)

Unless you’ve been contracted to write a screenplay by a director, producer, or movie studio, there are a few additional steps you can take before starting a screenplay in earnest. Essentially, once you have your a short explanation of your idea (loglines), you can continue developing your idea by adding more detail in subsequent works (synopsis, treatments).

These efforts will help you expand that idea into a feature film. It will help organize your thoughts, give you opportunities to make small edits or wholesale changes, and can even help secure financing for your movie before you’ve written one page of a script.

How to Write a Movie: Loglines

Assuming you already have an idea for a movie, your next step should be to carefully craft a logline. The logline is a very brief (25 words or less as made famous in The Player) summary that describes the central conflict of your story, introduces the characters, and hooks the reader. Here are a couple of logline examples—can you tell which movies they describe?

Logline One: The lives of two mob hit men, a boxer, a gangster’s wife, and a pair of diner bandits intertwine in four tales of violence and redemption.

Logline Two: The aging patriarch of an organized crime dynasty transfers control of his clandestine empire to his reluctant son.

A logline is a valuable tool in selling your idea. It’s essentially an elevator pitch for your movie. In the two examples used above, the first is for Pulp Fiction and the second is for The Godfather. You want your logline to excite a producer enough to ask for a synopsis or a treatment of your idea.

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How to Write a Movie Synopsis

A synopsis is a one to three-page document that summarizes your plot, highlights your main characters, and describes what happens to them during your story. It’s best when it emphasizes the conflicts and resolutions as it unveils the plot. A synopsis can also help organize your movie idea, although it can be written after you’ve already completed your screenplay.

A synopsis is also a way to get some copyright protection for your story idea before you’ve actually written your screenplay (you can’t copyright an idea.) Make sure to include your movie title and your contact information on your synopsis. Most of all, make sure your synopsis does not deviate from your logline.

Writing a Treatment of Your Movie

Your next step in writing a movie is to create a treatment for your idea. A treatment can be thought of like a screenplay for a silent movie—in other words, it is a step-by-step, scene-by-scene breakdown that describes the action that takes place on the screen but contains no dialogue. Treatments for feature films usually run between 10 and 40 pages.

Not only does a treatment tell the story, but it also states how the story unfolds by going into the nuts and bolts of how your narrative is to be presented on screen. This is where the writer’s vision is unveiled—the structure, the tone, the pacing, the characters, and their roles all need to be fleshed out in the treatment. A treatment offers far more copyright protection of your original idea than a synopsis.

As an aspiring screenwriter, the treatment can be an effective bridge between the idea/synopsis and the final screenplay. Since the treatment breaks down your story into a scene-by-scene format, it gives you, the screenwriter, an opportunity to tinker with the structure before it gets locked in with dialogue. There are a few things to consider when creating your treatment:

1. Write in the present tense. It should come across as if it were narrating your story in real-time.
2. Each scene should have a slug—INT or EXT, location and time of day.
3. Only write about that which can be shown on screen. In other words, don’t write about a character’s thoughts.
4. Do include emotions as these can be shown on the screen.
5. Be detailed when it comes to describing physical actions.
6. Include a description of the information the dialogue will convey in each scene.
7. Make sure you haven’t strayed from your logline.

Begin Writing Your Movie

Your penultimate step is to write your screenplay. Depending on how thorough you made your treatment this could be as simple as adding dialogue to the treatment or as complex as adding slugs and additional details to every scene. You’ll want to make sure you have everything in proper screenplay format, that spelling and punctuation are spot on, and that you copyright it as soon as you are finished.

When you write a movie script, there is a very specific format you must follow if you want to be taken seriously. Just like the essay you had to write in 11th grade English class, margins, scene headings, page numbers, and even font size must be followed. Fortunately for you, there are several screenwriting software options online for you to follow.

Scriptwriting is both art and craft. Create a plan or schedule that you adhere to. You should use self-imposed deadlines in all phases of the process from logline to final screenplay. You should plan on doing multiple rewrites if necessary, to ensure that your final screenplay matches your initial logline and eliminate things that do not move the story along or are extraneous to the logline.

The goal is to write the best screenplay you are capable of, not the best screenplay you can write in 100 hours. If it takes two years, it takes two years. The final step is selling your screenplay and having it made into a film. This should always be your goal. While all of this can sound straightforward and easy to do, it’s not. It’s something that repetition will help you improve and expert guidance can be invaluable.

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Not only will the workshop help you as you write your own screenplay, but it will also open your eyes to the practices and principles that professional screenwriters use. Why move to Los Angeles to attend a “name” school for four years when you can have a finished screenplay in less than a year?

Additionally, the Film Connection can help you prepare for, and set up, a pitch meeting to sell your finished screenplay. If you’re looking to master the art of writing a screenplay, the best thing you can do is write as much as possible. But we’ll give you the tools to take that great idea and start writing a screenplay that gets read.

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How did each of you originally get interested in film?

Daniel: I was looking for a way of expressing myself as an artist and wasn’t sure what that would be. I took a film class at Art Center College of Design after taking many different types of classes. It just really really felt like the right thing for me and my life. It was an incredible experience.

Bayou: I got my Masters of Fine Arts in college. During that time, I experimented with filmmaking. I realized, after pursuing painting and performance art, that my passion was in filmmaking. This medium has the potential to reach millions and make a real difference on our planet.

Your collaborative relationship is so unique! How did it begin and progress?

Daniel: We met at a vegetarian cafe in the Lower East Side of New York. Bayou was coming out of her yoga class and I was sitting there eating my veggie dog and there was only one seat available, which was next to me.

Bayou: When we first met I was doing a feature documentary and I needed an editor. So I saved his number as ‘Editor.’ I went off to Jordan Aman to teach a class on filmmaking–

Daniel: Wait, I think I saved you as, ‘Girlfriend.’ I guess we had a different point of view… 

Bayou: I didn’t think too much about it except that I had met this talented editor. We stayed in touch and ended up working together on a film that got into the Hot Springs Film Festival. After about six months I realized we were more than just coworkers.

Is it ever difficult to work with your spouse?

Bayou: Not at all! We’ve figured it out. It has not. We wear different hats at different times. We keep them separate; coworkers, parents, husband and wife.

You guys should write a book! I’m sure a lot of collaborative partnerships could benefit from learning your relationship tips n’ tricks.

Bayou: Yes! Maybe we should! We get asked this question so much.

You have a premiere coming up! Can you tell us about it?

Bayou: Our film is called Connection and will premiere at the Blue Water Film festival. We are going to be going to beautiful La Jolla, California, this weekend. We will speak on a panel and then present our film on the ‘Blue Carpet.’ We are excited!

Amazing! Can you tell us more about the film itself?

Bayou: It’s about how we are all connected on this planet. About how what we do here in America affects people in different countries. We were lucky to be able to film it in four different countries. We filmed in India, Pakestan, Africa, and Los Angeles. It was a huge pleasure.

Is it in the mode of… you know the film, Samsara?

Bayou: Exactly! You are very perceptive! Every time we do a film, we always figure out the gold standard reference point, and for this film it was Samsara. We had to reshoot Africa, actually, because it didn’t meet the Samsara standard.

You mentioned that what draws you to film is its ability to make a difference. How does this project touch on a larger social issue?

Bayou: Connection is about environmentalism, but it’s made in a hip way that can reach a younger audience. The protagonist is an influencer. In the beginning she has no attention for anything besides herself. As the film goes on, she becomes more aware of her use of fast fashion and plastics and how it affects animals and other cultures and how other cultures affect our culture. The character progresses to be more aware of others and the environment.

Were you in Africa focusing on textile waste?

Bayou: Again, very perceptive. There is a lot of textile waste discussion, but that was focused on in India. We got into a sweat shop and shot–  

Daniel: It was not easy to pull off!

Bayou: It was not! We had to fly our crew in from a big city to a small city. That’s where we make the comment on fast fashion. What’s behind the fast fashion rack? In Africa we were more focused on plastic pollution.

It sounds like you were doing a lot of this guerrilla-style! What were the hardest parts of the filming process?

Daniel: A lot of negotiation.

Bayou: Also figuring out what the current truth of each situation is. For example, when we started location scouting in Africa we couldn’t find as much plastic pollution as we feared. A lot of places have been cleaned up. There is hope.

Daniel: In India, we were thinking about spending some time on child labor and harmful chemical dyes, but when we got on the ground, both had been recently outlawed. There’s definitely hope for our planet.

Bayou: It was somewhat guerrilla-style, but it was very planned.

How did you two originally discover Film Connection?

Bayou: We’ve been in the program for almost 10 years. We are probably some of the longest-running mentors!

Daniel: We walked into the school when it was in Downtown LA. I don’t know how I found my way there. I think we had originally reached out wanting to host a contest for young filmmakers.

We’ve been in the program for almost 10 years. We are probably some of the longest-running mentors!

How many students have you had so far?

Bayou: We do 10 every 6 months. So around 200. Maybe a little over. Before that I was a professor of film at Parsons New School where I was the first woman to teach in the media department. Before that I taught at the New York Institute of Technology. I also wrote classes for the San Francisco Academy of Art.  

Daniel:  I had no teaching experience before Bayou, I learned it all from her. She gave me an opportunity to speak to her class at the Institute of Technology and I loved it. She said I did good–

Bayou: He didn’t do ‘good,’ he did excellent. He has a crazy natural ability.

What do you both think are the main benefits of the program?

Daniel: I think that without this program, a new filmmaker has a very difficult journey ahead of them. There is a massive cannon between school and the working world. We are trying to bridge that gap. I went to NYU and it was literally an ivory tower; an imaginary world that has nothing to do with the real world. Some of my professors had never done filmmaking, they just talked about it– which is really weird.  We try to instill in students imagination and a love for film, but also the tools to turn this into a career. Learning by doing, learning from someone actually in the industry, is extremely valuable.

Bayou: In traditional film school you learn about filmmaking but you don’t learn how to get a job or promote yourself or be on set. The program allows students to learn, not just from a book, but from actual experience. 

What do you think is your greatest asset as mentors?

Bayou: We’ve been in over 100 film festivals, we’ve won over 75 film festivals. We can show a student how to navigate that world. We know what we’re talking about!

Finally, do you have any advice for a student entering the program?

Bayou: Take advantage of everything the mentor is offering. We, as mentors, go above and beyond. We give our students events to attend, if they are in LA. They get to meet producers and directors. Get your feet wet. Watch your mentor. Keep your eyes open. Every second you’re with your mentor is an opportunity to learn. On the set and in the office.

Get your feet wet. Watch your mentor. Keep your eyes open. Every second you’re with your mentor is an opportunity to learn.

Daniel: Your success depends on you, as a self-motivated individual. Being a filmmaker is like being an entrepreneur. You have to wake up every day and put in the work. We have worked with so many big names and done so many successful projects, but none of that has an effect if we don’t wake up everyday and build our career. Set goals and go after them.

Inland from the postcard-ready views of Ipanema beach, the city of Rio de Janeiro holds a diverse and less traditionally picturesque series of landscapes. But in the postcolonial decay of Centro, or the sprawling handmade houses of Morro dos Prazeres, or the minimalist graffiti covered architecture of Zona Norte, a careful observer can find a type of beauty that is wilder and richer than any glittering blue coastline. It is in these overlooked and underappreciated corners of the city that filmmaker Leonardo Martinelli finds inspiration for his work. In solidarity, he pans his camera towards the parts of the city that the Travel Channel forgot, and turns them inside out, revealing hardship, complexity, and the fantastic.

After recently seeing his two films, Neon Phantom and A Bird Called Memory, I knew I had to track him down and see the city through his eyes.

Leonardo is confident and speaks quickly, with a self-assured deep voice that sounds like it would belong to a person almost twice his age. He spills forth with an undeniable love for Rio. I had hoped we’d get to stroll through one of his favorite areas of the city and soak it up; however, he was far too busy to take me on any sort of made-for-gringo tour. I’m trying my best to forgive him.

Like many would-be filmmakers, Leo’s interest in film began in childhood. “My mother would take me to the cinema,” he recalled. “I don’t think she really wanted me to be a filmmaker, but it was [inevitable]. She showed me Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and many classic films.”

Unlike most other people who dream of a career in film, however, he had access to formally study the medium from a young age. “My high school was a technical school and offered scriptwriting as a concentration,” he explained. “It immersed me in the universe of film at a very young age. At the same time, I was very interested in cameras and making images. I started experimenting by making my own short projects. I got a scholarship to study cinema at UNESA, a private university here in Rio. That’s where I started to make films I took more seriously. In 2021, I got my first grant to make a film, which was around $10,000. I ended up making Neon Phantom, so it was very little for this film that had original music, a large cast and crew, and dancing. It was very complicated to make such a big film with such a small budget.”

“Your cinematography has such a photographic quality,” I said. “Did you ever study traditional photography?”

“I worked with photography a lot in my early 20s,” he said. “I did weddings, birthdays, but I also studied painting. A lot of the principles are the same in both mediums. I try to apply these same principles of composition and light into moving images.”

“Most films you see that are shot in Rio rely on a preset series of locations,” I said. “What made you want to not only not focus on the beaches and mountains, but almost totally omit them from your work?”

“It’s interesting to think about the different landscapes that are present in Rio de Janeiro,” he said. “It’s a city that’s so diverse in so many ways. Even for someone like me, who lives here and is from here, I still don’t know all of the landscapes. There’s so much to be discovered. It interests me to try and explore the new horizons of the city. I try to bring in the landscapes that have been present in my life. I’m from Tijuca, which is the beginning of the suburbs of Zona Norte. It’s still a very privileged area in a way, but it’s far away from Zona Sul and the famous landscapes of the city. I like showing landscapes that aren’t shown so often: Zona Norte, Centro, and also the post colonial heritage of architecture. These spaces allow us to explore the material consequences of colonization and see how it’s still present. It’s impossible not to acknowledge when you see these modern characters inhabiting these spaces.”

“It is impossible!” I said, waving my hand in the air. “I really appreciated the light touch you used in both films when it comes to social commentary. Brazil’s history of colonization and slavery is barely mentioned, but it’s also so clearly a focal point.”

“While it’s not always in the literal dialog of the characters, colonization is deeply present,” he said, in agreement.

“You take this concept of featuring the overlooked and go beyond landscapes,” I said. “Your characters, too, are people that are generally overlooked. Not just because they are poor or trans or black, but because they hold positions of service within an economy that doesn’t value them.”

“I’m interested in exploring the concept of inhabiting the city,” he said. “The city itself is an organism. Who are the characters who are most affected by the city and structures? The delivery people for instance, how are they affected by the larger economy? By the gig economy? They are a new force within contemporary labor. They symbolize a non-attachment labor style. Seeing them, in the city, amongst the statues and falling apart royal buildings– you can see the consequences of colonialism. How the city, in its architecture, can still exclude people as they move through it.”

“I’m interested in exploring the concept of inhabiting the city.”

“As I knew very little going in, when seeing your films, I was surprised to find that they are both in the quasi-musical genre,” I said. “What draws you to this genre?”

“Brazil is a very musical country,” he said, laughing. “People always talk about the musical genre being unrealistic, because, ‘People don’t naturally just start dancing and singing.’ But I think that the people who say that must have never come to Brazil.” We both started laughing.

“We are a very musical people,” he continued. “Even though I’m a filmmaker, I would say that the strongest Brazilian art so far has been music. We have a very transgressive music tradition from bossa nova to funk carioca. We have reinvented the wheel when it comes to music so many times, from so many beautiful perspectives. Unfortunately, because they are so expensive and hard to make, we don’t have a lot of Brazilian musical films. I’m inspired to create this genre. I don’t think all of my films will be musicals, but they will all contain an element of musicality.”

While I loved both films, as someone who worked in service for a long time, I had a stronger emotional connection to Neon Phantom. The film portrays the kafkaesque existence of food delivery drivers in the city, caught between difficult, dangerous work and starvation. With subtlety, and the majestic milieu of a musical, the film explores concepts ranging from labor issues to sexual violence.

“There’s an image in Neon Phantom, where the delivery drivers are holding instruments like they are machine guns,” I said. “Is this a statement about music being a weapon of revolution?”

“I don’t exactly like the concept of ‘weaponizing’ music,” he said with a chuckle. “But I do think music can be a tool in fomenting a message of revolution. This scene, though, is more about eliciting an immediate response from the audience in seeing these people holding these objects. If it were different people with the same objects, would the response be the same? The goal was to provoke a response that reflects the viewer’s expectations.”

“There’s also a sequence in Neon Phantom where the delivery drivers are discussing incidents that they’ve faced on the job,” I said. “Were these taken from interviews you conducted?”

“Those were taken from research,” he explained. “I didn’t conduct the interviews myself. They were from interviews I found and from looking at people’s stories on Facebook groups. It was a compilation of stories that I read about delivery drivers during the pandemic.”

“It gave the introduction the feeling of a documentary, and then the next thing I knew everyone was dancing,” I said. “What do you think a fantastical fictitious film can do that a traditional documentary can’t in highlighting a social issue?”

“When you use fantasy in fiction to expose real issues, it makes it harder for the viewer to look away,” he said. “When you show the raw reality, it’s easier for the spectator to ignore it. Documentaries have a lot of complexity and depth, but I’m interested in using the fantastical to reconstruct and give a new perspective to reality.”

“When you use fantasy in fiction to expose real issues, it makes it harder for the viewer to look away.”

The feature film Leonardo is working on takes place in the same universe as Phantom, but with greater ambitions. “It’s a more complex expansion of the contemporary labor discussion and the gig economy,” he explained. If the short I saw was made with 10k and a dream, I can only imagine what the final product will be with a hearty budget and the support of multiple institutions.

Can you give us a short teaser for your film?

This story is about a person who’s convinced that their house is haunted with a spirit. A psychiatrist investigates to find out what’s going on. As the story goes on, it’s revealed that it’s not as it seems.

Last time we talked, we discussed the obstacles you overcame to make this film. For those who missed that interview, can you speak a bit about what you were up against?

I started writing this particular script in 2021 and I sent it to Blacklist. They gave me a great review about it. I thought, ‘Okay, I should be making this into a film.’ I approached a lot of people to invest in this movie, but it didn’t work out. In the end, I used my own money. Once I decided to make this movie, there were some money hurdles I had to overcome. There were a lot of problems. Building a crew, getting a cast, getting great locations, and putting everybody together in one movie. Those were the biggest tasks.

“I approached a lot of people to invest in this movie, but it didn’t work out. In the end, I used my own money.”

Can you talk to us about submitting to film festivals?

Of course, for a filmmaker to submit to a film festival, that’s a great opportunity. It’s kind of a tricky game deciding which film festival you should be submitting to. First of all, all the film festivals are not good for independent filmmakers. You can submit for bigger ones and greater ones in the world, but it’s not guaranteed you’ll get in. It’s frustrating because it’s not totally based on whether your movie is good or bad. There are very few good film festivals that are focused on independent filmmakers. You should think to yourself, ‘My film is good, but which film festival is best for me?’ It’s important to understand that many festivals are looking for studio movies and celebrities. It’s important to find a film festival that is looking for new filmmakers with great voice and potential. You should submit to those festivals.

You’ve been having some crazy success already! What film festivals have you already swept?

I got two selections, and at both film festivals, I got awards as well. So it clearly says that my product is good. The first one which I got was the Global Film Festival, LA. I won Best Feature Film, Best Actor, and an honorable mention for Best First Time Director. The second one was the Cannes World Film Festival. There I won Best Psychological Feature Film. I’m waiting for the notifications to come from others I’ve submitted to and anticipating attending premieres, as well.

How does it feel to be getting so much positive attention?

Whenever something positive is happening– a film festival, or a press, or an interview, or an article, anything– it’s all positive vibes. You put in all your hard work for like two, three years, and you’re getting positive things happening from that. You share all these things with your crew and cast, they are also getting recognition. We are all like, ‘Oh, we did the hard work, and we are getting something positive from that.’ That’s very important, because that gives the idea to everyone that what we did was worth it. It doesn’t matter who is getting what recognition, everything is for the entire crew and cast. It’s for the movie. It’s for everybody.

We talked a lot last time about your wife’s support and how much it helped you in this process. How has she reacted?

She’s really happy, and her name is Bincy. It’s been surreal and she’s a producer as well. When a first time filmmaker or first time screenwriter says, ‘I’m going to make a movie,’ it’s easy to doubt that they can pull it off. But she believed in me and she gave me support. That’s the thing, you know, it’s not easy to get great support from your family. Something unknown is in front of you all. You have no idea what the end result will be. But she gave me great support. That motivated me to move forward and make good things happen. Of course, once we get all these kinds of positive reactions, she’s very happy. It’s kind of a great success for the family. We’ve struggled. I put myself and my family in a very difficult situation. After finishing the movie and getting great results, it feels like it paid off.

“[S]he gave me great support. That motivated me to move forward and make good things happen.”

Where has your mentor been in this process?

Again, we got connected when I started the course in 2019, and to this day, he’s always with me. Whenever I have any doubts, I’ll text him, he will respond to me. ‘What should I do? What should I not be doing?’ The best thing about Richard is, even though my dreams are really big, he never discourages me. Even though he knew that there were so many problems, so many hurdles, I needed to overcome, he never discouraged me. He was never like, ‘You know, this is going to be very hard.’ He never said that. He said, ‘You go for it! Once you try, you will come to know. Once you try, you will come to know.’ If you want to learn driving, you have to sit in the driver’s seat.

Now that everything has come together, do you feel like you’ve smeared some egg on your doubters’ faces?

I don’t worry about what anybody thought. It was kind of shocking for me, of course, when people said, ‘It’s not going to work out, I’m not going to work with you.’ Of course, it was offensive. But everything happened. You don’t need to worry about others, because it’s your vision. You are going to make your film. You are inviting people to work with you. You have a vision. You have a story to tell. You aren’t asking for help, you’re asking for collaboration.

“You aren’t asking for help, you’re asking for collaboration.”

Do you think you’ll be treated differently from now on?

Once this movie is successful, it’s going to be released. It’s meant to get to the public. Once the movie is released to the public, I’ll have a more impressive resume. Of course, more people are going to want to collaborate.

Finally, last time we talked I asked you if you had any advice for someone wanting to make their own film. I wonder if that’s changed at all…

To become a filmmaker, what you need is patience. That’s the most important thing. You should have a great vision about what you’re going to make. You should be confident enough. You should be a leader. You should be ready to take all the blame. If something goes wrong, you can’t blame someone else. Are you ready to take everything on your shoulders? Because in creativity, that all comes on you, it is not going to anyone else’s shoulders. Are you ready to put yourself in a difficult, desperate situation? Are you ready to tackle problems every day? You have a mission, you need to have everything ready to go even though everything isn’t ready to go. You should expect everything to go wrong. Are you ready to solve that issue? You need to think like, ‘Okay, today I had a problem. Tomorrow I am going to be met with another problem that might be bigger than today’s problem. And are you ready to solve it? Are you ready to break your comfort zone? You need to be focused and be persistent. It’s easy to say that I’m ready to put myself in a difficult situation, but when you go through those things, it’s not easy. It’s not easy.

For a filmmaker or for an artist, you must imagine that you have fallen into the middle of the sea. The sea is very cold. You can see a lighthouse very far from it, but it’s miles away. So you’ve got only two choices. Either you can swim as much as you can, even though it’s very cold and you’re very far from the lighthouse. Or you can be afraid to swim because it’s very cold, and you can lose all your hope and drown and die. You need a lot of mental strength to go through all this. Whenever any problem comes, you will get disappointed, you will get shocked, that’s human nature. You must turn problems into opportunities. If you choose to fight, you can succeed.

]]> http://filmconnection.com/blog/2024/04/12/against-all-odds/ Fri, 12 Apr 2024 18:07:46 +0000 http://filmconnection.com/?p=22169 Rinoj Varghese is a recent Film Connection grad who has just pulled off the seemingly impossible; single-handedly writing, directing, and producing a feature length film, Beyond Your Consciousness: The Beginning. This passion project has already won 4 awards at the GFFAs, including Best Feature Film! I sat down with this miracle worker to discuss the trials, tribulations, and the obstacles he faced in accomplishing this incredible feat.

How did you originally get interested in film?

I was born and raised in India. From the time I was young I was fascinated with movies. I used to watch a lot of movies produced in India. There’s a lot of great content produced in my mother tongue, Malayalam. In India we have a different central language in every state, and each state has its own film industry producing films in that language. Even though I don’t understand all the languages, from every state, I could easily understand the stories. I concluded that language is not the thing connecting the audience to the movie, but rather an emotional core. Watching films, from across India, in so many different linguistic and cultural traditions was my first film school. I wanted to consume as much as possible. Around this time, I watched my first Hollywood movie: The Ten Commandments. This film really dragged me towards the Hollywood movies. I’d always look at the bottom of the posters to see who’s the director, the writer, and I knew these are the people who create movies. I wanted to become one of them, but I wasn’t sure where or how.

One day, when I was a teenager, I was walking the streets of my native-place and I saw a poster for The Sixth Sense. As usual, I read the names, and this time I saw “M. Night Shyamalan.” I thought, “That sounds like an Indian name.” I did some research and found out, like, “wow, he’s an Indian, he’s living in America, and he’s making Hollywood movies.” I realized, “If he can make movies in Hollywood, I can make movies in Hollywood.”

“If he can make movies in Hollywood, I can make movies in Hollywood.”

It strikes me that Bollywood is one of the only markets in the world that rivals Hollywood. Did you ever try to break in there instead?

I never tried because my family’s financial situation was not good enough for me to think like that. When I was a teenager that seemed impossible. Bollywood is in the north and I am from the south. I never knew what kind of movies I would be making, but I knew that I could make movies. Discovering myself took years, and now I’m in America. So that teenage dream to become like M. Night Shyamalan hit my brain again. Whenever I get a chance to make movies in Bollywood or in Malayalam, I would love to do that, because that’s where my roots are.

How have you adapted to writing in a language that isn’t your first language?

It’s been tough. It’s a big challenge. Sometimes when I write, it’s not conveying exactly what I want it to. I’ll play with a translator, and look at the text, and work with it until it finally says what I want it to. In the time it might take a native speaker to write 5 pages, I might only get through 1 or 2 pages. Once I finish with my script, I’ll send it to my friend Nicholas Durante, who’s a screenwriter, and he will correct the language wherever it’s needed. It’s the biggest hurdle I’ve had, but I’m not going to stop.

How did you become interested in screenwriting, specifically?

I always knew I could write. I didn’t quite understand proper formatting for script writing, but I knew I could do it. When I started my school, I started reading a lot of scripts and learned the basics. My first script, which I wrote with my mentor, became a Scriptapalooza semifinalist. That gave me confidence to write more. I’ve now written five complete scripts.

How did you end up deciding to make your own film?

I wanted to be a filmmaker. I thought to myself, “What is the next step? If nobody is buying my script, if nobody is producing my script, then I’m going to make my own movie.” And for that you need a lot of courage and confidence.

Can you tell us a bit about the writing process of Beyond Your Consciousness: The Beginning?

After I wrote about 40 pages, I passed it over to my wife who always gives me amazing critical feedback. She read it and said, “It’s going really well, it’s developing well, but what’s unique about this movie?” Soon after that I got writer’s block. It felt like the script itself was keeping me from writing the script I had thought I was writing. I created the story, I created the characters, but the story and characters themselves started to whisper that I was heading down the wrong track. Then I got a great spark, and I went in a totally different direction I hadn’t thought of.

How did you fund this project?

I live just outside of Washington DC, there aren’t a lot of eager film investors here. Most People don’t understand the industry and I faced a lot of doubt. There was a lot of, “Will he do it?” Some of my friends helped me, but I used a lot of my own savings. I just decided I was going to make this movie, and I did. I originally sat down to write a limited budget script, based around the premise that I would spend 30-40 thousand dollars, but it ended up being $100,000.

Being so new to the industry, how on earth did you source your cast and crew?

That was another huge obstacle. I’m just starting, I’m not known, and I don’t know that many people. Again, I was up against doubt. I connected with different organizations and emailed people again and again until I put together my first crew. The day before I was to start casting my crew fell apart. It was totally broken. I asked my wife for advice, and she said, “Just get it together and go for it, go do what you love to do. Your strength is confidence, don’t lose your confidence.” I completed casting and found a brand-new crew a month before I had to start shooting. Then that crew fell apart too! I sat with my wife, and she put an ad online. A close friend of mine, Nicholas Prainito, like a saint, brought a whole team to me. In two weeks, I put together my third crew! It was miraculous. That’s how it goes, you fight you fight you fight. Keep fighting.

That’s how it goes, you fight you fight you fight. Keep fighting.

Mostly, so far, you’ve discussed your love of writing. Was taking on the role of director particularly challenging?

As I write, I visualize the movie in full widescreen. I know what the shots should be, what it should look like, what the ambience should be like. I’m not a technical guy, I’m not a good cinematographer, I’m not good at a lot of things. But, I’m good at writing and directing. My vision was strong, and I was confident that I could execute it. If you have all the answers for your cast and crew, they will believe in you. Your confidence creates confidence in your crew and cast.

What’s next for your film?

I’ve already submitted to 8 film festivals and am waiting to get the notifications back. From there I need to start thinking about distribution. If I can get proper distribution, then I can get my film watched by people all over the world.

How did you discover Film Connection?

I found it online. I’m a family man, I have two kids, my wife, and I’m living in DC/ Maryland. It would have been extremely hard for me to go to New York, LA or Chicago to go to film school physically. It was perfect because it was looking for remote education and focusing on screenwriting and directing.

I understand you and your mentor, Richard Brandes, had a great relationship.

Richard is a great guy and a teacher, he was very supportive and always answered all of my questions. He’s continued to support me and give me good guidance to this day. When I came to him, I was writing scripts in the past tense, like they were short stories. He really taught me how to format for the medium and gave me confidence.

[My mentor, Richard, has] continued to support me and give me good guidance to this day. When I came to him, I was writing scripts in the past tense, like they were short stories. He really taught me how to format for the medium and gave me confidence.

Do you have any advice for someone starting the program?

I should say that you need to ask yourself: “Am I really passionate about movies?” It’s not a professional job, if you are looking for a “job” you aren’t fit for this. This is about doing what you love. Of course, this is a great program and comparatively quite reasonable. If you are self-motivated, it can really work for you. In school, nobody can teach you how to imagine, they can only teach you the technical aspects. You must show up with the passion.

Finally, do you have any advice for someone thinking about making their own film?

I believe in the 5 “Ds.” You should have a Dream. You need to turn that dream into Desire. All consuming desire. In order to achieve your desire, you need to make the Decision that this is what you are going to do. This decision will create the Determination you need to overcome the barriers and obstacles to achieving your dream. This dream, at the end of the 4 Ds, is your Destination. If you want to be a filmmaker, here is the thing, anyone can dream to be a filmmaker, but bringing this dream into reality is really hard. You need action. You can’t be afraid to take action.

How did you first get interested in film?

 As a little kid I loved movies! When I was old enough to understand what they are, I found out my uncle was an editor. When I found out it was possible to work on movies, it’s all I ever wanted to do ever since.

Did you originally want to follow in your uncle’s footsteps and be an editor?

 I was never interested in the post-production side of things. It was always writing, eventually it shifted a bit towards directing, but writing is definitely the primary focus.

What kinds of stories do you like to write? 

I’m a horror writer. Strictly horror with some sci-fi.

Who are your favorite screenwriters?

Roger Avary, John Carpenter, Debra Hill. I love old spaghetti westerns, Sergio Leone, and stuff like that. It’s varied, though, I love Martin Scorsese, Taxi Driver, stuff like that too.

There are so many different approaches one can take to horror– social commentary, personal trauma, decadent gore. What is your personal strategy in constructing a horror narrative?

I love and appreciate a lot of the older, grimier, less sophisticated horror that focuses on gore– but my focus, with writing, is definitely more character driven, less jump-scare, and more psychological. I still utilize a good dose of gore, but I definitely lean towards character, which I get from being a student of non-horror writing as well.

“I love and appreciate a lot of the older, grimier, less sophisticated horror that focuses on gore– but my focus, with writing, is definitely more character driven, less jump-scare, and more psychological.”

Sounds like you prefer to strike a sort of Ari Aster-esque balance between shock and substance.

Oh man, I love all that A24 stuff, I think it’s all amazing.

What are you working on currently?

I’m currently working on a feature that I’ll shop around once it’s done. The first person I always reach out to is Richard Brandes, who was my mentor through Film Connection. I know him really well, it’s been almost eight years. We have a good rapport. I really value his opinion. He’s a great source of feedback and advice. Since graduating, I’ve been working in film, so I’ve also built my own network of people to shop to after Richard.

How did you find Film Connection?

I was about to graduate high school, and I knew 100% that I wasn’t going to a 4-year college. But I also knew I had to get my foot in the film door somehow, and my dad found it online. He told me about it, and I was immediately drawn to the premise of getting hands-on practical experience. Then he sent my uncle [the editor] the link, who had gone to a four-year college, and he thought it was a great idea. He was like, “Dude, you go and spend all this money on a four-year college and then blah blah blah, who knows when you are going to actually get work. What you really want is hands-on experience.”

How was jumping into the industry out of the program?

After graduating, I was always the youngest person on set. I immediately started working in film full time. At first it was weird to be the baby, but I ended up being so grateful. By the time I was 23 I had so much work under my belt.

Can you tell us about your mentor, Richard Brandes?

I had two mentors, actually! I was based in St. Louis. Richard was my writing mentor and was based in Los Angeles. I had another mentor, Bill Streeter who was also based in St. Louis. Bill’s a great documentary film maker and also has made a bunch of music videos. Shout out to Bill! He’s a great guy, and from him I was able to learn the more nitty-gritty hands on set stuff that prepared me to be a PA, grip, and electrician. With Richard I learned how to write a script. Richard and I still have a relationship. He made it very easy to understand writing from both a practical and theoretical perspective. He gave me insight into the politics and social decorum of the industry.

Why do you think you two have been able to maintain a relationship for so long?

I can only speak for myself, but I think we have really similar values. He’s from the south and I’m from the midwest. We also have similar taste in film. It also helped that right after I completed the program, I went and worked on two films he produced. We got to have a professional interaction, where he saw my willingness to work hard and do jobs that aren’t always fun. As long as he’ll keep opening my emails, I’ll keep sending him scripts.

Do you have any advice for someone considering the program?

I’m telling you, it’s the best decision I ever made. Do it! When I was an uncomfortable kid on set, the youngest person, I was learning so much. By the time I started working with people who had just graduated film school, they were floundering next to me. Obviously I’m not dissing film school, a lot of great people come from that path– but there’s nothing like practical experience; learning from people who have really done it. It’s a short program, but it was more than enough to launch my career.

I’m telling you, it’s the best decision I ever made. Do it! When I was an uncomfortable kid on set, the youngest person, I was learning so much. By the time I started working with people who had just graduated film school, they were floundering next to me.

How did you originally get interested in screenwriting?

During the pandemic I lost my job, but I’d been planning on attending the Toronto Film School anyway. I did two terms there. Because of the timing I was really only able to attend online classes and they weren’t sure when they were going to fully reopen. A few of the classes I took were writing centered. I’m a theater actor, I don’t have a writing background. I’ve always wanted to transfer into film. I was nervous about taking a writing class, but it turned out way better than I had thought. We had to just write short two-page long assignments, and I got great feedback. I thought, “Maybe this is what I should do!” 

How was transitioning from acting into writing? 

I’d been doing theater, as an actor, for about seventeen years. It wasn’t exactly an easy transition, but I have lots of stories in my mind. I just didn’t quite have the tools on how to put them down on paper. You need to know how to do that. 

Acting inherently does provide some insight into the process, though. From character development to understanding the ins-and-outs of the script medium. 

Most definitely. As an actor I can tell good writing from bad writing when reciting lines. You can feel it. It needs to feel genuine. When I’m writing, I always act it out loud, and I can sense when it isn’t right. I can detect when it isn’t coming from a truthful place. 

I love when people say that they act out their scripts in real time! I guess Aaron Sorkin once broke his nose while acting out a scene from The Newsroom. 

I’ve heard about that! That’s some crazy commitment!

How much of this script is from your real life?

Quite a bit, it’s based on a true story! I worked at a place where a lot of terrible things went down. Harassment and stuff. I’m not a mother or widow but, I wanted to portray the relationship of a single mother and her child. She is kind of based on myself, but also single parents I know who are struggling to raise their kids on their own. It’s a tough thing. 

Besides the workplace harassment aspect of the script, what other facets of it are based on your own life? 

I lived in the south, in the area where it’s set, and I was a bit of a fish out of water there.  

The script is a mirror of my own experiences there. I grew up around a lot of diversity. I was born in America but was raised in Europe. I was lucky to have a great international upbringing. I’ve been exposed to a lot of different mindsets. When I moved to that part of the south, I had some culture shock, because of the homogeneity. One race, one view point, one religion– with everything else being considered “wrong.” It was a challenging time in my life, and I channeled that through my main character. The story is fundamentally about navigating through the challenges life throws at you. 

But, I understand you worked hard to not make this script a right vs. left or north vs. south trope? 

I made a point not to stereotype people from the south. There are characters throughout the story that show Abby [the protagonist] kindness and help her. Some are Trump supporters and might have their prejudices, but they are not the bad guys in my script. The real bad guy is poverty. How poverty affects you in every way and changes you and how hard it is to get out of it.

How’d you decide to base your first script on such a personal experience? 

When I first started the course I had to come up with three different ideas for films. I handed them in and discussed them with my mentor, Richard Brandes. He asked, “Is one of these more urgent than the others?” I was really nervous about writing my first full script. I thought to myself, “It’s best to write the one that is the most relevant with my life.” Write what you know, as they say. 

What’s next for this project?

I’ve written three drafts, and I am starting to shop it around. I’m just trying to get it out there. Submitting it to different film festivals. I am also starting a new project.  

How’d you discover Film Connection? 

I couldn’t continue on at the Toronto Film School, because they didn’t know when they were going to reopen and the other courses I needed to take had to be in person. I left and was at a bit of standstill. I really wanted to get into film somehow. I started researching other schools with good writing programs. I found Film Connection online, reached out, spoke to someone, and it took off from there. 

Can you tell us a bit more about your mentor?

Richard was fantastic! I’m so so happy I was paired with him. He’s a great mentor and really guided me and helped me. I didn’t have the background and the knowledge, but he passed on everything he knew. Every week I was excited when we would talk on the phone to review my latest pages. It was a thrilling experience. I couldn’t have done it without him, he’s truly amazing. 

Do you have any advice for someone thinking about joining the program? 

I’d say absolutely do it! It’s an amazing program. Like I said, I’m trained as an actor, I went to drama school, which was great, but Film Connection was so helpful. This is the program to do. If you’re committed and put in the work, your mentor is definitely going to help you get where you want to go. The internship is such an important part of the program. It really helps you get your foot in the door, which we are all so desperate to do. 

“Goddamn it,” I said, gazing enviously at the view of the passengers on the other side of our ferry. “We picked the wrong side.” The opposing landscape featured Lisbon’s shimmering ancient buildings and steep cobblestone hills, while ours showcased nothing but the glittering deep blue sea. I gave Fernanda a half-mocking eye-roll.

“Don’t be greedy, Julian,” she said laughing, her loose fitting silk button-down fluttering in the wind pouring in from our window. Fernanda has a shy but effervescent smile and an intelligent calming aura. The words “hot nerd,” jump to mind, but she would probably prefer “statuesque intellectual” or something a little less crass.

We were on our way to Arialva, a less traveled-to bank just across the Tagus from Lisbon propper, to explore a series of abandoned structures from which Fernanda draws inspiration and reverence. “Why do you think you’re so drawn to these types of spaces?” I asked her.

“I’m always searching for places that tell stories,” she explained. “There’s a mystery to an abandoned building. What was its original purpose, what is its purpose now? How do we choose to inhabit and explore these spaces? There’s something tragic about something that was once beautiful but has lost its purpose.” Her voice is soft, slow, and measured, with bouts of emotion when she gets excited about something, and a signature Carioca accent.

“There’s something tragic about something that was once beautiful but has lost its purpose.”

We exited the ferry and Fernanada made a b-line towards a thin path down the shore that led to a long series of dilapidated structures covered in graffiti. As we ducked under a sign warning of danger and crawled through an opening in the wall, it became clear that this building was not totally abandoned. The smells of meals cooking wafted out of the inner chasms of the place, with distant laughter and music reaching us, as well.

“Do people use these as sorts of art squats?” I asked.

“I don’t know if they’re ‘artists,’” she said. “But people live here, for sure.” She paused to take in the view and stroked the wall. “God, I love graffiti…. The first narrative art pieces in human history were cave paintings. The marks humans make on physical structures tell a story just as much as songs or poetry.”

“Did you move from Rio to Lisbon for the architecture and physical history of the city?” I asked.

“Yes, I think so,” she said. “There are just so many stories here! There are a lot of stories in Rio, of course, but it’s so much newer. Europe is so much older. I was in Prague recently, and I drank a beer that was older than my country.”

“Of course a lot of the stories of Brazil were erased by Portuguese settlers,” I said. “Lisbon is younger than the civilizations that existed in Brazil that we just don’t know as much about.”

“Claro,” she said. “There’s world history then there’s recorded history. You can think about it in the micro or macro.”

Portugal has recently seen its population increase dramatically, with an influx of Brazilians and Angolans. Like many European countries with dwindling birth rates, Portugal sees hope for its future through expanded immigration– choosing the citizens of countries it once colonized to be the main beneficiaries of this policy. These diasporas have given new life to Lisbon’s art and nightlife scenes, by means of young, energetic, and creative immigrants.

“Was the move from Rio to Lisbon difficult?” I asked.

“Sure, it was difficult,” she said. “It’s hard to change, but I’m attracted to travel. It’s good for writers to get out of our comfort zones and experience new points of view. It’s particularly interesting to look at Brazil from a distance, with nostalgia.”

“It’s hard to change, but I’m attracted to travel. It’s good for writers to get out of our comfort zones and experience new points of view.”

“Brazil is such a big film market with such a big economy,” I said. “Do you ultimately think there are more opportunities for you as a screenwriter here or there?”

“The film industry in Brazil is really strong,” she said, as we cautiously climbed a staircase to check out the view from a busted-out window. “Under Bolsonaro, there was more artistic repression, but the market is huge, regardless. In Lisbon, there’s less of a market, but there’s a bit less competition. Getting educated in Europe, whether or not it’s deserved, has a bit more clout than getting educated in Brazil.”

After a stern-looking man yelled at us in a language neither of us could decipher, we headed back to the ferry, on to our next location; Miguel Bombarda, an abandoned mental asylum in Arroios, Fernanda had heard of but never been to.

“How’d you first get interested in film,” I asked, as the ferry pulled out, and I realized we had again chosen the side with the subpar view. I tried my best not to be greedy.

“As a child I always liked narratives and stories. My father would read me Greek mythology as bedtime stories, and these memories are a huge part of myself. I wanted to write literature, but then I saw the movie Little Miss Sunshine. It really showed me the power of visual storytelling.”

Fernanda went on to get her bachelors in Cinematographic Studies, while also working as a subtitle translator. “I worked in subtitle translation for 10 years,” she said. “It gave me so much daily contact with script writing. I read every Brazilian film, before they even started filming. It helped me understand script writing, as a craft, as well as the film market in Brazil.”

Architecture aside, Fernanda’s main motivation for moving to Lisbon was to get her masters in Cinematographic Studies. “I worried that it would be repetitive from my bachelors,” she admitted. “But, it wasn’t. I made six short movies in two years.” One short film, O Rei Na Gaiola (The King in the Cage), that centers on a father/daughter relationship where the father has Alzheimer’s, went on to tour film festivals and receive critical acclaim.

We exited the ferry and began hiking our way up the steep streets and alleys of Lisbon, towards Arroios.

“The director I was working with, Paula Loffler, and I crafted the script together,” Fernanda explained. “It was very personal to her, as her mother had Alzheimer’s. We wanted to encapsulate the emotional core of their relationship through an honest and subtle depiction of the disease. We started the story when the father was already quite progressed and moving into assisted living. Through flashbacks, we focused on their individual characters and relationship…I relied on Paula a lot to draw from her life and feelings, but also drew from my relationship with my own father, and experiences with mental health.”

“I see ‘memory’ as a throughline with a lot of your interests,” I said. “Why do you think that is?”

“Memory is character,” she said. “Memory can change your personality. Your memories make you, you. Paola’s mother had a life-long fear of flying, and when she reached a certain point in her disease she stopped having a problem with it. Our experiences, our trauma, our quirks, and talents, the meat of our brains can erase it all… Beyond that, memory is a huge part of cinema theory. The experience of the viewer is dependent on their individual life experiences.”

“It’s interesting that you’re also so attracted to the memories of objects and buildings,” I said. “In a way, the evidence of these inanimate objects is more reliable than ours. The rust, the graffiti, the artifacts, they all tell a story that can’t be distorted or lied about.”

“Human memories aren’t linear,” she said. “They aren’t reliable. They are just us trying to make meaning, and turn our lives into a story.”

Almost on cue, we stumbled upon a memorial for the long dead soldiers of a war neither of us had ever heard of.

We kept hiking up and down and back up. My legs ached, but I didn’t want to look pathetic in front of Fernanda, who was cheerily scaling the cobblestones with ease.

“And what about the subject of mental health,” I asked. “What draws you to that?”

“Mental health is a part of all of our stories,” she said. “I struggle with intense anxiety, I have a brother who struggles with schizophrenia. Alcoholism, drugs, they’re all around us. Character building is ultimately rooted in psychology.”

“Do you have an ethos or social agenda in the exploration of this subject?” I asked.

“Mental health is a human issue that should be examined without prejudice,” she said. “Cinema has played a role in increased stigma, through negative representation. We don’t need to vilify the neurodivergent, they can serve a purpose in society and provide wisdom and unexpected perspectives. Our societies have not always looked down on these people. Shamans, artists, people who used to hold spiritual significance. These characters don’t need to be tied to violence, that connection isn’t even accurate. These are human beings trying to live their life. As a writer, I can place the narrative perspective closer to them, in order to shed light on their experiential reality. There’s a word in Portuguese, ‘loucura,’ that basically means, ‘madness,’ but it can have way less stigma attached to it, and maintains a lot of the same literary and historic connotations. I like to think of this word when looking at mental health through an artistic lens.”

“We don’t need to vilify the neurodivergent, they can serve a purpose in society and provide wisdom and unexpected perspectives.”

“You alluded to a personal connection to mental health,” I said. “How does that inform this process?”

“A personal connection to art is important, in general,” she said. “Paula was really able to work with the actor playing the father figure to nail the mannerisms of a person with Alzheimer’s. Also, the way I wrote the father character, I relied on my relationship with my father. It’s an artist’s duty to be vulnerable…I tied the story together with a nod to my father; we used to recite poetry to each other. I found this poem that encapsulated my relationship with him, and also acted as a mirror to the relationship between the father and daughter.”

Finally, we arrived at the shell of the Miguel Bombarda hospital. We searched for an opening, and weren’t able to find one.

“I heard about this from a blog post that was a few years old,” she said. “Maybe they’ve secured it.” We searched the periphery of the building, eventually finding one door, which we tried opening without luck. On its front we saw the words, “The Hospital: Inject Culture,” in hip backwards font. We looked at each other, puzzled for a second, until I spotted a torn-off wristband cast onto the ground bearing the same insignia.

“It’s been renovated into a nightclub!” I said, laughing. “That’s too perfect!”

“Oh,” Fernanda said, verging on devastated. “Why perfect?”

“It’s just what you’ve been talking about! The changed meaning of spaces, like the squatters in the buildings on the pier, new, ever-complicating stories!”

“Eh,” she said. “But I really wanted to see inside.”

“F#@k it,” I said. “Let’s go get drunk.”

We ventured back down the hill, towards a wine bar Fernanda knew about. Once her wine glass was full, she was back to her normal cheery spirits. We joked and laughed, and looked through the photos we had taken throughout the day.

“Oh,” I said. “I forgot to ask. What was the poem?” She looked at me a bit confused. “The poem from your film, the one that reminds you of your dad.”

“Ohhh,” she said. “It came from a collection of old Japanese poems called Kokin Wakashu, that dealt with seasons and change. I think it went like, ‘O rouxinol…”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you happen to know it in English? If not, it’s totally ok, obviously.”

“Oh, sure, I think so. Just give me a second,” she said, pulling out her phone and fiddling with it for a minute before continuing:

The nightingale that comes and perches on the plum branch
sings as if it were summoning spring,
but the snowflakes continue to fall.

Everything around is dark,
and the snow continues to fall incessantly.
However, in my garden,
the nightingale has already begun to sing.

The first thing you’ve got to know about Marie Bedross is that she is a Harlem-raised, New York City hustler.

She picked me up from my apartment in her rumbling boat of a van with an all red interior and tiger stripe decor. Because of the writers’ strike, she’s been on her first break from production in 3 years, and has been dedicating her time towards her side hustle; reselling antiques and production waste as a means of saving usable items from both landfills and oblivion. She’d been dropping off furniture and trinkets to clients all day, and assured me she was exhausted, but still overflowed with a playful and welcoming energy.

“Beep-beep, b!@%h!” she said to me, careening her head out of the driver’s side window; her salon-approved long curly brown hair spilling out of the sides of her dirty black work hoodie. Marie is tough, but still stunning in a classically feminine way. The kind of girl who all the boys on the block wanted to kiss, despite the fact that she could have beaten them all up.

“So you live in East New York?” I asked, climbing in. “How do you like it?”

“I love it,” she said. “I couldn’t live over here. I don’t want to walk out my door and see a bunch of baristas with stick n’ pokes, I wanna walk out my door and see a bunch of grandmas and dudes selling Gatorades outta shopping carts.”

“I only ever come out this way to go to Jacob Riis,” I admitted as we entered the neighborhood, referring to the iconic bohemian beach in Rockaway, famous for drawing a diverse set of artists, queers, and eccentrics in the summer months.

“Aw, I haven’t been there in a minute,” she said. “Have you been to Dead Horse Bay? It’s amazing, a whole beach filled with shimmering broken glass of every color. Maybe we should go?” She paused, slowing the car slightly, “Nah, it’s getting dark, not tryna get jumped.”

Marie’s apartment is an expertly constructed shrine to her loves of trash-picking, dumpster-diving, thrifting, and hoarding. The walls are lined with paintings and vintage posters, patterns leap from the carpets and upholstered furniture, and carefully composed altars adorn every surface. The way in which she’s curated the space, however, feels somehow clean and spacious, nothing out of place, not even a coffee mug left in the sink.

“You want a little snack?” she asked. She set to work making us hummus from scratch, slicing up cucumbers and tomato parsley to make a fattoush salad, and rubbing pita with olive oil and za’atar before roasting it over the fire on her stove.

This is how you host, I thought, as we sat down at her dining room table with the feast plated and presented as if at a restaurant.

“How’d you start working as a prop master?” I asked, scooping some hummus onto my plate.

“I was working this random ArtCube gig one day, patching & painting walls for a ‘weed museum’ installation, and this dude I was working with got a call asking for an assistant prop master. I had no idea what that was, but like a doofus, in an Australian accent, I just blurted out ‘I’ll do it mate…..’ So, the prop master of this Netflix movie ended up calling me and was like, ‘Can you come to Connecticut tomorrow morning for a tier one?’ I had no idea what he was talking about, but I said yes, and the next day I was at the Hilton in Connecticut and stayed for 2 months. It came naturally to me. I love stuff and I came from working in Michelin restaurants, so I’m hyper-vigilant, hyper-organized, and hyper-prepared. From that job on I kept meeting people who offered me prop work and I just said yes every time.”

“Honestly,” I said, adding some fattoush to my plate. “I’m not even totally sure what a prop master does?”

“The prop master runs the entire property department,” she explained. “We handle every tangible object the actors interact with, like food, phones, money and all that, plus the director’s chairs they sit on between takes, apple boxes, yada yada.”

“Even things that require special handling, like firearms?” I asked.

“Yup. We handle guns unless there’s a bigger budget and you can bring in an armorer/weapons master. I did a heist scene with Julia Louis Dreyfus and it was my first time holding a gun so I had to have an on-set police officer demonstrate to the crew how the gun would be used. Which, of course, she loved and really hammed up.”

“It’s wild that you’ve become so successful so quickly,” I said. “Why do you think that is?”

“I was made for this s&!t.” she said. “I didn’t know you could get paid to be a hoarder!”

“When did this obsession with things begin?” I asked.

“It’s always been a thing,” she said, laughing. “My bedroom growing up was an emporium of s#!t. Anything I found. Anything that seemed like it had a story, I’d bring home in my mom’s shopping cart. I grew up in Harlem and would just go around my neighborhood when my mom was in a mood and I had to leave the house. Eviction days at the projects’ dumpsters, stuff I found on the street. My mom said my room was like Fat Albert’s junkyard.”

“My mom said my room was like Fat Albert’s junkyard.”

I looked around her apartment, at the multitude of trinkets, souvenirs, and assorted kitsch, but couldn’t find anything that seemed like it would be featured on an episode of Hoarders. “I mean,” I said. “Everything here seems either useful or beautiful. Is your hoarding, ultimately, more utilitarian or sentimental?”

“It’s utilitarian…. it breaks my heart to see useful things end up in a landfill,” she said. “But there’s also something sentimental. You know, at 15, I came home from school one day and my mom had thrown my stuff out and painted the walls white and said she was going to start charging me rent or I could find a new place to live. I’ve been on my own since, and keeping stuff is precious to me. Stuff makes me feel human. I used to be scared that if I gave up my possessions I’d die. I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts my whole life after an abusive childhood but I’d feel so guilty leaving my friends a big hoarder mess to clean up, so my stuff kept me alive, and it’s good to sort stuff and keep the brain busy when she starts to wander. But anyway, now that I live in a rent stabilized apartment and I work in props where I sort through warehouses of junk for hours on end, I’ve gotten way better about not keeping things for the sake of keeping them versus keeping just the truly special stuff.”

“I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts my whole life after an abusive childhood but I’d feel so guilty leaving my friends a big hoarder mess to clean up, so my stuff kept me alive…”

“It sounds like, in a way, you carried stuff with you to create a home wherever you went,” I said. “Were you able to save anything from your mom’s place that you still have?”

“Oh yeah definitely,” she said, standing up. She took me on a mini tour of the things she’d moved from couch to couch, from squat to squat, and from co-op to co-op, for 15 years. There were photographs and paintings and little match books and pocket sized sculptures. Perched atop her refrigerator was a small Precious Moments ceramic bunny rabbit.

“Picturing you carrying this ceramic bunny around from the time you were 15 is hilarious,” I said.

“You know me,” she said, laughing. “I guess there’s another element to it too. When I find free stuff, when I find treasure, it feels like I’m f*$king the system– like I can subvert class by finding free luxury items. My mom was always working when I was growing up and I barely would see her, and when I did see her, we did not get along. The few good times we’d share were when we’d pull up to Dean and Deluca after they closed and steal their trash… There would be gorgeous pastries, bagels, unopened jams and spreads.. All free! Felt like the only time she was proud of me was when I’d score us free stuff. I think as an Arab woman from a working class family in Brooklyn, my mom always felt less than. But in Arab culture you never admit you need help, you put on a facade of classiness so others can be jealous of you. She surrounded herself with wealthier friends and presented herself as a completely different person than the woman I’d see at home drowning in piles of junk and passed out after working 16 hour shifts. I think she just didn’t know what to do with me growing up cuz I broke her perfect facade. I was a little freak. I didn’t shave my armpits, I wore crazy clothes and I said everything on my mind, so in public I was an embarrassment to her, but in private when I’d find the good free stuff, she was proud.”

“Do you worry your hoarder tendencies could become destructive?” I asked.

“Yeah, it used to be completely illogical. But now that I have these outlets– propping films and my antique business. It doesn’t have to be an obsession, it can be a job…. That’s why I’m a freak for organization. I know where literally every possession I own is, whether it’s in my prop kit, my antique storage or down to every labeled drawer in my house. Also working in kitchens taught me how to run a tight ship. I may accumulate a lot of stuff but it always has a place. That’s really all being a prop master is.”

“Also, I’m sure having a stable long term home helps a lot,” I said.

“Definitely” she said. “I certainly have less need now, but I think that might come more from working with so much stuff. Things are still special, but there’s more stability in my life so I don’t need to cling to every damn thing.”

“I’ve seen the stuff you’ve been selling on Ma’s Funiture Garden!” I said. “It’s all super nice and so cheap!”

“Thanks yeah .. I could charge way more,” she said. “But I just want to find these things a good home, I just want to free myself of it so I can keep treasure hunting. I gotta stay busy and stay picking, cuz beautiful things keep finding me.”

I turned off my recorder and Marie made us dirty martinis.

“I can give you a ride home,” she said. “I wanna go on a night drive anyway.” We finished our drinks and headed downstairs before climbing back into her van. “I like to end my day driving around and making music. Part of my therapy. I hope you don’t mind.” She pulled a set of pedals, a speaker, and a microphone out from under her seat and started the car. “Testing, testing,” she said into the mike, turning the speaker’s volume to max.

As we drove from East New York into Ridgewood, she layered her singing voice, over and over, on top of itself, making a harmony of eerie sirens. As we drove, the lights from the city blurred by and wind whipped through the open windows. Occasionally she’d stop the song to yell something at frat boys on the street, using either the demonic or squirrel sounding voice modulators that were built into the microphone. “This ain’t a NYU campus, get out the road!” “You running late for yogalates?”

Wow, I thought. What a goddess among men. The weirdo for our age. The true queen of trash.

The car slowed dramatically and I bucked forward in my seat. I looked over and Marie was pointing towards a nearby curb. In full squirrel-augmented excitement, she cried out, “Check out that end table!”

Why don’t you start by telling us about the premiere?!

I found out about the premiere just three days before; it was pretty sudden. I gave my close friends a heads-up and let my former host family in on it too. I pulled something together at home with my family. I happened to be visiting them in Texas at the time, so it worked out perfectly. It was a lovely night, messaging with my mentor, Richard Brandes, friends, and even face-timing my host family while watching. Now, my family in Texas doesn’t speak English, so during every single commercial break, I was their translator. But even though they didn’t catch all the details, they got the basics of what went down. Regardless, having them right there with me, witnessing my achievement, meant the world. And let’s not forget the “written by” credit – an absolutely incredible moment.

“Having [my family] right there with me, witnessing my achievement, meant the world.”

It was a television premier, correct? It wasn’t at a theater?

It was on TV, aired on the LifeTime Movie Network. The interesting part is that most of the team is from Canada, so they had to do some digging to figure out how to watch it. We were so excited to finally see it on TV!

Were you happy about the way it came together?

Absolutely! I didn’t set specific expectations, really. Writing the script was so fun, just imagining everything in my head. When I saw the director Chris Bragg’s take on it, I was smitten. Seeing those mental images come to life was so cool. A bunch of moments matched exactly how I’d pictured them. It was surreal! Special shoutout to Charles Hamilton as well, the talented DP.

The fact that a lot of the film was actualized the way you had envisioned probably speaks to your talent as a writer.

That’s very kind. I was open to seeing how the director interpreted things, as well. I loved seeing his personal spice and the things he added. It’s a collaborative art after all.

I noticed that the title changed since we spoke last, how’d that come about?

The original name was A Perfect Match, once we went into pre-production it was changed to Devious Deeds. We did all the pre-production work under that title. I believe the network ultimately chose Don’t Kill the Babysitter. It is fun and straight to the point…. I wish it was Au Pair instead of babysitter, but they use Au Pair in the description, so it’s still accurate.

What about Au Pairfect Match?

A little mouthful but I can roll with it, haha.

Just kill me now haha. Were there a lot of other changes to your original script?

There were about three rewrites before production started. Some changes happened during filming, but the essence of the script was there.

THE NEXT SECTION OF THE INTERVIEW CONTAINS SOME *SPOILERS,* AND YOU MAY WANT TO WATCH DON’T KILL THE BABYSITTER BEFORE CONTINUING.

I noticed that you handled Venezuela’s current political climate with a very light touch. It would have been easy to paint Mariela as a sort of refugee. Why did you decide not to focus on that aspect of her character?

My thing is exploring the young immigrant experience, giving it a new twist. I’m all about showing a different side. You know, there’s already a bunch of movies all about the political stuff, the downsides. I wanted to spotlight a young foreign girl coming to the US with dreams, and how fast those dreams can turn into nightmares. Often [in the media] Latinos are portrayed as the ones who come to do something wrong, and I wanted to flip that. The reality is not black and white; we are all capable of things, and there is danger everywhere.

There’s a line in the film, “Why do you deserve to live more than we do.” Do you want to talk about the underlying theme this line uncovers for the viewer?

It’s about equality. It shouldn’t matter if you come from another country or another disadvantaged social position, we all have the same [intrinsic] value. A better social position doesn’t mean your life is worth more.

“A better social position doesn’t mean your life is worth more.”

In a lot of ways, I thought the most interesting character was the mother [Lori Collins]. What were you thinking when crafting her?

The actress who played her, Dawn Nagazina, was amazing. She was able to go into that deeper level that I wanted that character to be. That character is conflicted the whole time. She’s caught up in this major dilemma – choosing between staying with her beloved daughter and husband or taking a morally questionable path. She’s losing hope and is desperate. She makes you question, “If I were in her position, would I do the same? Would I do this for myself? For my kid?”

Without giving too much away, I wanted to say that I thought the image of the elevator was particularly compelling. How did that image come to you?

That was a great surprise, actually. In the script, we had this secret door in Chase’s office. But when I was on set during the final weekend of shooting, the director was pumped to tell me that the location had an elevator. Sometimes, these fantastic details emerge during production. I love what Chris did with it!

The film is absent of a love interest, why did you decide not to include one?

The very first version actually had a love interest. I love romance. But the love aspect distracted from the horror. Eventually, I had to kill the love interest and keep her friend character only. That’s the process when getting feedback and collaborating with the production team.

Do you and the protagonist have much in common?

When I moved to the US as an Au Pair, I was definitely naive and innocent. Mariela kinda mirrors me in that way. I borrowed the start of my story, but she’s way stronger than I ever was. In her shoes, I would’ve been an easy target. Fortunately, my experience turned out differently, and I ended up with the absolute best host family, whom I still adore to this day.

Yea, she’s definitely a badass! Did you set out wanting to intentionally create a physically tough female character or was that just what happened naturally?

I wanted to use the belief that it’s very rough in Venezuela-which it can be. She’s a character that’s had to fight in her life. She knows how to protect herself. There’s also an irony that she was originally selected because she’s fit, strong, and healthy. She’s got a great heart… in every sense.

The actress who played her did a great job! Is there anything you’d like to say about her?

Valentina Andrade did an incredible job as Mariela. To begin with, I was thrilled to see a Latina taking on the role. And when I got to the set, you could instantly feel the love everyone had for her. She’s a powerhouse. Meeting her was a real highlight. We actually had a chance to sit down, and she shared that this was her first lead role, expressing how exhilarating it was for her to read the script. That’s exactly what it’s all about – paving the way for folks like me and seeing our faces on the screen. Representation truly makes a difference.

There are moments in the beginning of the film where the host family portrays a kind of over-cultural-sensitivity that could be considered microaggressive. When you were writing these moments of dialog, did you see them that way or as genuine?

I didn’t really think of those as microaggressions. I wanted Lori to be extra accommodating, probably out of guilt. They’re genuine folks, desperate in their own ways. Chase, the dad character, just operates with a different mindset than Lori, so he’s more straightforward and determined.

So now that you have this first film under your belt, what are you working on currently?

I have a couple meetings coming up with managers. Obviously, with the WGA strike things are slow, and I’m being careful about what I can do. I am writing a few scripts that are ready to pitch when the time is right. I’m exploring both myself as a writer and the genres I like to write. It’s my first credit, and I can use it as leverage. I’m excited for the next one. It was an amazing opportunity that I’ll forever be grateful to my Film Connection mentor, Richard Brandes.

Is there anything you’d like to leave our readers with?

I’m all for more diverse voices, new stories. Let’s get fresh perspectives out there, stuff we haven’t seen in the media. To anyone reading this, take chances and share your story. Everyone’s got a story worth telling. Don’t hold back – go for it. I’m rooting for more underrepresented voices on the big screen. We are the ones to tell our stories.

How did you become interested in film?

I love to write and to tell stories. I started writing music, but I’m from Chicago, and everybody you know makes music, and I wanted to stand out. I took a personality test, and was trying to figure out what I wanted to do as a career. The test told me I was best suited for a creative field. I looked into a few fields, but I was most comfortable with screenwriting. It’s the best decision I’ve made in my life.

Who are some of your favorite screenwriters and filmmakers?

I’m studying Ice Cube. John Singleton is a big one for me. Spike Lee. Jordan Peele. Ryan Cooglar.

You said you enjoy storytelling, what kinds of stories do you like to tell?

My first feature-length is entitled Lonely, and is a crime drama. But, I want to get to a point where I can write for a broad array of audiences. I’m currently writing a psychological drama that deals with mental health. I’d love to write comedy, that’s why I’ve been studying Ice Cube. I want to do it all.

Can you give us a brief synopsis of Lonely?

A young boy’s parents are killed in a car accident when he is a baby, and his grandmother is left to raise him. The grandmother passes away due to cancer while the boy is only a teenager and now he’s stuck trying to figure life out on his own.

That’s super brutal. What draws you to something this sad?

The way I approach this type of film is through the character. He’s relatable. He’s just going through life and life is hard. A lot of people end up in the streets. Sometimes they choose to, but a lot of the time they’re forced to through circumstance.

“The way I approach this type of film is through the character. He’s relatable. He’s just going through life and life is hard.”

When it comes to how this film would be made– obviously this is kind of a false dichotomy– but do you see it being executed more along the lines of Belly by Hype Williams or Moonlight?

I compare this film to Menace II Society, Fruitvale Station, and Boyz n the Hood.

Both those films are technically melodramas, though. Your film feels slower and more realistic in a lot of ways.

That was my whole idea for this film. We don’t have those types of films anymore and I want to bring them back and modernize them. The characters are products of their environment.

Do you have a personal connection to this type of story?

My connection is more creative, and comes from enjoying urban dramas. Those are the types of films I like the most. Bring back those classics. I know people who have been forced into that life, but not me. It’s just around.

You mentioned an interest in lighter cinematic fare, as well. When you are writing something this intense, is it emotionally helpful to switch and start writing a comedy to get away from it?

I don’t want to be only known for these types of films. A lot of filmmakers are only known for one genre. I don’t want to be placed into a box.

“I don’t want to be placed into a box.”

How did you discover Film Connection?

When I decided to get into screenwriting, I began looking up screenwriting schools online and I came across the school.

Who is your Mentor?

Richard Brandes! We have a close relationship, he’s a great guy, he’s very helpful. He’s given me a lot of knowledge. What stands out to me is that he’s real. If he’s reading your script and sees something the audience won’t like, he’ll let you know. He is a great mentor!

Are you a current student or a graduate?

I actually have my graduation call at five o’clock, in 30 minutes!

What happens after you graduate?

Once I get my screenwriting certificate, I will start applying for jobs. I want to get into my field. I’m getting ready to pitch Lonely in California in the next few weeks.

Oh awesome! Yea, I know that’s something they set up for students they think are particularly hard-working and talented. How have you been preparing?

I’ve been practicing my pitch. I’ve typed it out and been going over it, constantly, just to make sure it’s perfect. I’m very excited. I’m not nervous yet, I might have some butterflies in my stomach when I get in the room, but I’m confident when I start talking that it will start to subside.

Do you have any advice for someone entering Film Connection?

Be authentic, be original. It’s okay to look up to people and borrow things, but always put your own twist on it. I don’t want to be John Singleton or Ice Cube, I want to be me.

Getting to Garrett Nelson these days is no small feat. He lives in Cordoba, Argentina, in an idyllic, valley-facing house of his own design that requires navigating dirt roads and no less than three locked gates to find. He had me meet him at a nearby Shell gas station to avoid getting lost. Also, we had to run a few errands, as after our interview he was hosting a barbecue to celebrate Good Friday.

“I sent out invitations this morning and everyone is being so dramatic,” he said, eyes rolling back and wearing an old lady straw sun hat. “‘We can’t eat meat on Good Friday.’ I told them to make an exception.”

We stopped at a grocery store to stock up on raw meat and copious amounts of alcohol. He breezed around the market, placing things into his cart, and going over the guest list with me. “She’s amazing, 70 and stylish and her family used to own half of the province.” Garrett speaks with a soothing almost aloof affect that makes the outlandishness of some of his statements all the more entertaining.

I didn’t realize it at first, but he admitted he was a bit shaken up, as his dog Walter had been attacked by two rottweilers two nights prior and he had been back and forth to the veterinarian. “Narco assholes,” he said of the dog’s owners, who live nearby in an ornate compound with grecian statues and fountains that would make Liberace blush. “I’m getting those dogs kicked out of the neighborhood.”

“How long have you had Walter?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, placing a seventh bottle of champagne into his cart. “I think five years? I found him starving at a gas station outside Villa Maria. He was so sweet and emaciated. He followed me to my hotel and I said to him, ‘If you want me to take you with me, meet me out here tomorrow.’ The next morning he was waiting by my car.”

These sorts of stories, wrapped in drama and romance, pour out of Garrett nonstop. “I was kidnapped in Colombia,” he told me. “I was in an artist residency and the guy running it forced everyone to hike this extremely dangerous trail up in the mountains. Three men with guns, sabers, and machetes came out of the jungle and stripped us of everything we had and held us for a day and half. We escaped through the jungle. We ran for 14 hours-straight, no shoes, no water. I blame Swiss cultural funding!”

This last remark makes more sense when you find out that Swiss cultural endowments paid for the residency and also refused to evacuate him after – but all his stories finish in a simple assured end-statement, most commonly: “I’d never do it again.” For example: “Yes, I toured with a traveling circus for two years. I’d never do it again.” “Next thing I knew I was completely naked drinking absinthe with the mayor’s daughter. I’d never do it again.”

“I’d never do it again.”

Zurich, Mexico City, Berlin, New York, Palermo… he’d never do any of them again, either.

When we finally made it to his house, he lent me a large black cowboy hat to protect me from the intense Cordoba sun and set us up by his pool.

As Garrett describes it, his origins in performance were “unintentional.”

“It came from a zeitgeist,” he said. “Where performance was something people wanted to give space and time and [money] to in Europe. Especially in Switzerland, [where I was living]. I came into performance out of… it’s weird to call it a market driven decision, but [it’s just where my talents and demand intersected]. Every single opening, every single curator wanted a performance.”

His performances are subtle and poignant, in contrast to the shocking and body-centered performance art that was and is still very in vogue in fine art circles.

“In all of my performances,” he said, proudly. “I have a champagne break. There’s a generosity to it. The performance could be very serious, and then cut it in the middle and say, ‘Now, we’re all going to have a drink together and then we’ll start again.’ When you’re performing, you’re asking for so much attention from people and they [don’t necessarily know who you are]. It works well. It can change people’s mood and engagement level quickly. There’s a lot of [audience abuse] in performance art. And it’s like, can’t we be nice? Let’s treat ourselves.”

“In all of my performances, I have a champagne break. There’s a generosity to it.”

“There’s a generally regarded strong dichotomy between cabaret and fine performance art,” I said. “But you have done both, can you speak about your time in the circus?”

“I joined the cabaret simply out of research. I wanted to research dadaism. It’s not great work. But, it’s generous and deeply unpretentious, which is something to celebrate.”

He then paused, and his face winced in pain, as if recalling a vast and devastating trauma. “God,” he said. “I hate jugglers.”

“Are there any advantages to a cabaret style performance compared to a fine art context?” I asked.

“The white cube gallery is different from the traditional black box theater,” he said. “You don’t have the same amount of tricks and smoke and mirrors at your disposal.”

“I understand that collaboration is a big part of your work,” I said. “What draws you to it as a form of creation?”

“When I started,” he said, “I loved that when you collaborate with someone, you create a language with somebody and keep it at a high level. You don’t have to take sole responsibility for any of the ideas. You egg each other on. Now when I collaborate, it’s more about celebrating other people’s stories and giving space to those stories. It’s about me sharing context. When I worked with Richie Shazam on Blind Audition– obviously they have huge context as a model and Instagram star– but isn’t often asked about identity or [their lived experience].”

“You also did a written biographical piece with a Warhol star, right?” I asked.

“I worked with Viva, who was a Warhol superstar, and [she’s only ever been asked about that time]. I wanted to find her other stories, and I ended up centering the writings on her affair with William Eggleston. He was the most famous photographer in the world and the love of her life. She ended up getting an abortion in the 70s. It was all very traumatizing- she wanted to have the baby but was pressured not to. It wasn’t part of the popular narrative about Andy Warhol and The Factory and everything. It’s about finding the subversive and human core of performative people.”

Walter came up to Garrett, still distressed from the attack, and put his head in his lap. He had stitches above his right eye and on his lip, with the puncture above his eye having damaged the eyeball.

“If you go blind, Walter,” he said. “I’m going to get those narco assholes.” The image of Garrett, taking on a fleet of gangsters, Scarface-style, fluttered across my mind. It was at first comical, but soon I became a bit concerned, as I wouldn’t necessarily put it past him.

“There is a fine line,” I said. “Between ‘elevating’ and exploiting people. How do you manage that?”

“Real relationships with people,” he said. “These are one on ones. These are collaborations. It is a choice to be together. They are friends first of all. The relationship is built long before you ever work together. Also, basic economic fairness. Fairly being compensated, fairly being credited.

“Is there an aspect to collaboration where you can hide more?” I asked.

“Yea,” he said. “I think with Blind Audition, I was just fed up being the center of attention with performative work. I was a little bored with performative work. I wanted to be less visible. I made giant curtains and hid behind them.”

“You also use a lot of nudity in your work,” I said. “Why is that?”

“Nudity and performance are joined so often. Nudity just seems to me the most immediate way to be present in a space. It differentiates the performers from the public. It creates vulnerability and instant respect that you’ve overcome shame. It’s highly unsexual, just banal nudity.”

“Another consistent element to your work is poetry,” I said. “Was that a first love, or more a device for performance?”

“I consider myself primarily a poet,” he said. “But I write to read, I don’t write to publish. Voice is critical. It’s so temporary and fragile. Voice is full of clues to who is telling their story. Voice is far more vulnerable than the nude body. [It’s worked to my advantage]. In Switzerland my voice was given a lot of space. People loved hearing my voice, I don’t know why.”

“I write to read, I don’t write to publish. Voice is critical. It’s so temporary and fragile.”

“I’ve read that you don’t like recordings of your performances being made,” I said. “Is this to maintain that fragility and temporality?”

“It’s about experiencing things in a specific time and place,” he said. “There are recordings of the performances, [but they aren’t the art themselves].”

Hearing Garrett’s endless stories of big cities and lavish parties, I had to see a stark contrast to his beautiful and secluded home in the mountains. I wondered if he felt exhausted by the life he had led or if he had just moved on to a more meditative chapter. “Are you just focused on chasing beauty and calm right now?” I asked.

“The artists in history I admire the most are the ones who just lived their lives while making art at the same time. The wives of famous curators. Making work, but often their work was about their kids or their lives. There’s a word in German, ‘lebenskünstler,’ which means ‘life artist.’ It’s often given to rich housewives, but I love it. It’s the champagne break.”

“But also, you’re really out here in the middle of nowhere, and so particular about the shows you’ll participate in,” I said. “Are you a bit fed up with the art world?”

“When I go back to Europe to do shows, they’re great, but the context is so hard. Even though it sounds luxurious. Staying at these beautiful villas, gorgeous gardens, Rome, Zurich, assistants putting up your show. But it’s so impersonal. It feels like you’re eating in a school mess hall. There’s a darkness to it. All of Art Basel is just a stock market. Those works come out of the basement once a year to change hands. With that reality and posture-y art writing. It’s just devoid of humanity. It does make me a bit jaded. In some ways I have respect for corporate America, it’s direct and honest.”

“Do you think your experience getting kidnapped in Colombia has something to do with this?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “That was the final straw. But most residencies are alienating and exploitative. Who thinks these are good for artists? The government? Colombia wasn’t the only bad one. Once I was in Sri Lanka at a residency that was in a compound with armed guards and an electric fence. There was a huge drought happening and the elephants that lived in the jungle surrounding us would try and get into the compound at night to steal water from our pool. As soon as they’d touch the fence they’d get electrocuted and scream out in pain and then try again and again, their shrieks filling the night. I got a bottle of diazepam from the pharmacy and slept through the whole residency. I’d never do it again.”

“Wow,” I said, chuckling, but profoundly disturbed by the story. “Is another part of this retreat inward because you can’t think of anything new to do?”

“I don’t want to be jaded or bitter,” he said. “It’s a phase where I’m investing in the next half of my life. I want to have a beautiful home space. I just have to take the time to do that, and once that’s done I can do other things. I’ve taken the pressure off. I felt so much pressure as a young artist to be in the right shows and know the right people. I did it and it’s still there and the body of work is still there and my knowledge of what I accomplished is still there. I can do my work anywhere and I can show it or not. I don’t want to work when I’m dead. And I don’t give a shit about what happens to my work when I’m dead. That’s not why I’m doing it. A lot of artists think about their archive. It’s sad and dark.”

We had lost track of time, and guests began calling him with advice on traversing the gravel enigma and gates to find the house. As he answered their questions he led us inside and poured us two glasses of champagne. “A champagne break,” he said.

We sat on his back porch sipping the bubbly and building the fire for his grill. Guests began arriving and soon the house was filled with laughter and chatter in multiple languages. A 23-year-old model from New York bantered with the 70-year-old Cordoba ex-socialite. An American playwright swapped stories with a banker from Buenos Aires, visiting for the weekend. We toasted and drank and ate a lot of meat to celebrate Good Friday. And then, a massive rain cloud swept the mountain, sizzling the coals in the grill and pooling in the dirt roads.

“There’s probably a rainbow,” Garrett said casually, as the storm moved out and down into the valley.

We ran around to the front of the house that faced down into the valley. There, stretching out, through the gray storm and into the lush greenery, was the most vibrant rainbow I have ever seen. Trauma and existential dread and jugglers aside, who wouldn’t take this view over the sound of crying elephants?