52 WINTER 2019 MOVIEMAKER.COMbecause only queer people would watch it.
Still, in today’s world—when a black woman
can finally be at the forefront of her own tele-
vision show and a cast of all Asian leads can
make the highest-grossing romantic comedy
of the decade—telling diverse stories is a risk
to take until someone breaks the barrier.
In the case of my 2017 feature, M. F. A .,
writer Leah McKendrick had spent years
trying to get the story off the ground before
I joined her. The film is about a college
student who gets raped by her classmate
and decides to seek revenge, hunting down
the rapist on campus. We made the film in
2016, more than a year before the #MeToo
movement began. At the time, many people
didn’t get why we wanted to tell this story.
It seemed unrelatable, and again, too niche.
Then, coincidentally, the film was released
the same month that the Harvey Weinstein
accusations came out. Those same execu-
tives were biting their tongues. Suddenly our
movie was mainstream and relevant.
Sometimes you have to shut out the noise
and listen to your gut. Of course, you should
listen to people’s comments and consider
them, and if what they’re saying comes with
a lot of experience, then pay attention. You
want to be aware of how your film is landing
for people, and more often than not, you
are just too close to the material to see the
big picture. Having someone whose opinion
you trust is super helpful. As Sophia Takal,
director of Always Shine (2016), explains, “I
trust my husband. He’s sometimes annoyingly
honest, but when he likes something, I know
he’s telling the truth.” Moviemakers need that
person who is going to give us the hard truth.
Meera Menon, who directs episodes of
GLOW and Fear the Walking Dead, adds,
“Don’t jump on the first concept that sounds
enticing. Let things marinate. I rushed myself
a lot in the beginning of my career, and now
am embracing the process of marination.
That process—of giving it time to breathe and
evolve—is actually what will allow your story
to become the best thing it can become.” You
can’t delete something off of your IMDb page
(at least I haven’t figured out how to do it!),“AT A CERTAIN POINT, IF YOU WANT TO BE A DIRECTOR, YOU HAVE TO
LET GO OF WORKING FOR OTHER PEOPLE & GO DIRECT. ULTIMATELY
YOU NEED TO PUT YOUR OWN WORK ABOVE EVERYTHING ELSE.”
and people will always associate you with the
thing you just completed. Deciding on which
story to tell or project to take on is worth seri-
ous consideration. Be patient. It’s one of the
hardest things to do in an industry that can
move very slowly and have a lot of unknowns.
You’re going to be spending a lot of time with
whatever story you choose, so it’s important
that it be endlessly fascinating to you.SURVIVING THE HUSTLE
OK, so now you know what movie you
want to make and you’re ready to raise mon-
ey to go out and make it. Back it up: How
are you going to pay the rent while trying
to make your first film? No one likes to talk
about this when addressing their own career
paths. I don’t know if it’s out of shame or
pride or competition or what, but every time
this question gets asked in a panel, people
divert it. Unless you have an endless trust
fund, making a living while trying to create
your first projects is a big piece of the puzzle.
Everyone needs to start somewhere and you
can’t call yourself a moviemaker if you are
not making movies. It’s a catch-22.
I didn’t go to film school. When I was
starting off, this felt like a huge disadvan-tage. Now I’m grateful that I learned to make
movies my own way. In order to get my first
short films made, I pulled all the favors I
could get and offered up my free time and
services in return. But still, it was costly. I
could convince friends to work for free, but
I still had to pay for food, equipment, travel,
and other things. I asked family for money.
I put every dollar I could get into the film,
and I had terrible stomachaches because of
it. But to me, that was my investment. It’s
where and how I started learning to be a
director.
When I was just starting to make movies,
I joined a writing group. We shared our
scripts and helped one another make shorts,
all with a similar goal in mind—to be work-
ing directors. Some of us, including myself,
worked full-time at a production company,
as a producer’s assistant or another entry-
level position. We took these temporary jobs,
which served as a way to get a foot in the
door and keep a roof over our heads. But
having a full-time job made it nearly impos-
sible to create our own work. I’d try to find
time to write on the weekends, amongst all
the other basic life stuff and the fun distrac-
tions in New York. It was exhausting. I’m not
the kind of person who can write 10 minutes
every morning. I need a big chunk of time to
get into it. And even with the support of this
group, I felt like I was spinning my wheels.
One day I got fired from my assistant job.
Looking back on it now, I laugh. But at the
time it was a total blow to my ego. I thought,
If I can’t be good at managing someone’s
office, filing papers, ordering lunches, how on
Earth am I going to be good at running a film
set? This was my first lesson in perseverance.
I desperately started seeking another job.
I was raised in Brazil and my working visa
in the U.S. was expiring, so that put a tighter
wrench on things. I ended up taking random
part-time work with people who agreed to
pay me under the table. At the time, I felt
like everything was a mess and I was going
nowhere. I didn’t know how or when I was
going to become a moviemaker, if ever.
Meanwhile, some of my colleagues from{ }
FOOLS RUSH IN: FAILING TO GIVE YOUR CONCEPTS
ENOUGH TIME TO BREATHE EARLY IN YOUR CAREER CAN
TANK A PROJECT, WARNS MOVIEMAKER MEERA MENON