I’ve always considered myself an independent. An independent actor, writer and director. Most importantly, I consider myself an independent thinker. John Cassavetes, the patron saint of independents, always has a devotional candle of inspiration burning in my home.

I’m also a doer. i have two scripts I’ve written that I’m in love with and trying to get through the starting gates. Script number one, The Good Life, is about the last days of a 1973-era roller derby team (essentially Nashville on wheels). Script number two, Dirty, is Goodfellas meets the Los Angeles Police Department. Both scripts have been entrants in the various major screenplay competitions—Sundance, the Nicholl Fellowship, Austin and the like—and have finished as finalists in all of the above. While that’s all very exciting and encouraging, I still haven’t had anyone threaten suicide if they’re not able to turn my scripts into movies.

These scripts now occupy that horrible netherworld between my imagination and the big screen. Most people (your mother, for instance) would tell you what a great accomplishment it is to have successfully written a feature-length screenplay in the first place. My reply? Bullshit. The bottom of my desk drawer is a cauldron of molten metal because my scripts are on fire and burning a hole. This creates a nasty dilemma: How do I get these things made into motion pictures and then seen by actual audiences?

Problem number one: an unknown actor-writer-director is not going to get the screenplay out of the drawer and onto the screen. No amount of candle burning or wishful thinking is gonna help. That’s what producers do. Problem number two: by my callous estimation, most producers are at best well-fed sharks with attention deficit disorders; at worst, they’re bottom-feeding, bottom-line company men with nothing, save a blinding creative void, dangling between their hairless legs. They’re guys with no ethical dilemmas, forever trying to make Ben Affleck vehicles as long as it pays the Barneys bills. Nothing against Barneys, but I’m not in this just to make money; I want to make movies. I want to be De Niro, Chayefsky and Kurosawa all rolled into one dramatically hissing hand grenade. I want to change the world.

To mount such an assault on the collective numbness that is our culture, one needs a small army of support personnel to make it happen. And it all boils down to money. You’re gonna need lots and lots of money to back the attack. How do you get your hands on it? You can sit around all day waiting for providence to come knocking, or you can go out and get some. But where do you start?

In these situations, I find it helpful to invoke the divine and ask the question: “What would John do?” That, friend, was my liberation—my moment of clarity: Cassavetes would tell me to get off my dead ass and quit waiting for the financing fairy to stick a fat check under my pillow. He would pour us each a vodka straight, anoint me producer and command me to go forth and make my movies. So I wrote a check and went to the Sundance Independent Producer’s Conference to get myself a little of that producer’s stuff.

By the price tag, you’d think that producer’s stuff was plated in gold. A trip to the conference will set you back about $1,200, not including airfare. Yet for your investment, you’ll be nestled in the bosom of a glorious mountain, gasping for breath at several thousand feet above sea level. There’s even a murmuring trout stream that runs smack through the grounds, making for a relaxed, Zen-like setting. The rustic, somewhat funky accommodations are first-class and the food is great and plentiful. There’s even an Old West-style saloon, The Owl Bar, on the grounds, ready to host your end of the day boozing and schmoozing.

Director Brian O’Hare (center) on set of his film Mistreated, with some of his cast and crew, Summer 2003.

Evenings usually start off with a bang, courtesy of one of the many open bars sponsored by the good folks at the Sundance Institute. At the very least it would be possible to have a great four-day escape here, hiding out in some of the world’s most prime real estate with a lot of interesting people. And while it’s easy enough to be seduced by the appeal of free beer and ravishing vistas, the real dividend on your investment is earned by meeting motivated doers like yourself and access to some of the biggest players in the indie film world.

Generally, the caliber of conference participants is exceptionally high. Admission to the conference is competitive, and the Institute does a pretty impressive job of sifting through the applicants. Only about 30 percent of applicants are selected. This helps reduce the number of people more interested in getting the “I was there” souvenir T-shirts and tote bags to carry around their overdue library books. The majority of participants seemed very focused on getting at the nuts and bolts gospel of making independent film happen.

Of course, the forging of producer brotherhood wasn’t limited to the conference itself. Bonds were effortlessly created through the shared housing. The bonding inevitably led to war stories of defeat and hard won victories while trading punches in the bare-knuckled world of independent moviemaking. My housemates, Tim Breitbach and Eric Koivisto, had the Alfred P. Sloan Award-winning feature, Dopamine, at the 2003 Sundance Festival, which they developed through the Institute’s Filmmaker’s Lab. These were guys who had done the hard work and been through the maze, and were anticipating a November theatrical release as a result. Being surrounded by this level of experience was inspiring and often made for dynamic panels and small group discussions.

The schedule of events was tight, with most days beginning at eight and ending sometimes near midnight. According to Geoffrey Gilmore, Sundance Festival Director, the Institute’s number one desire is to maximize the bang for your big buck. And you do get a lot for your buck. Three screenings were held. The first was Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation with producer Ross Katz and ICM’s Bart Walker doing a question and answer session. The second was François Ozon’s Swimming Pool, the subject of a seminar with Focus Films’ Jack Foley. Foley, president of theatrical distribution for Focus, did a marketing and distribution case study for the film. The Focus team presented an in-depth breakdown that illuminated the difficulties in controlling and predicting the theatrical success, and the general strategies and standards they use as films get released into the commercial marketplace. The third film, shown on the final night, was Wayne Kramer’s The Cooler, with producer Sean Furst and distributor Tom Ortenberg in attendance.

Seminars ranged from financing the independent film, which focused on alternative financing strategies, to the challenge and commerce of documentaries and music coordination. The inclusion of a documentary session was really helpful, because the documentary remains an area of universal appeal to almost all independent moviemakers, yet is one of the least understood, in terms of commerce. A session on casting would have been valuable—especially given the importance of foreign pre-sales to getting a film made, but that was missing from the program.

In the “Art of the Pitch,” you stood naked at a microphone before a firing squad of industry vets. Comments included: “Is this a comedy? Nobody’s laughing. You pitch a comedy, somebody better be laughing!” It wasn’t personal, of course, just business. The indie film world’s not the church fun fair; everyone doesn’t win a prize.”

The mother of all sessions had to be the “Art of the Pitch” seminar. The session ended up being a “Scared Straight” episode for young producers, as you stood naked at a microphone for three minutes before a virtual firing squad of industry veterans. Of the 30 or so pitches made, only about three well-prepared souls made it through without visible wounds. Bullets flew indiscriminately, with such sobering advice as: “Is this a comedy? Nobody’s laughing. You pitch a comedy, somebody better be laughing!” It wasn’t personal, just business. Afterward, there was much grumbling and bleeding vanity to be assuaged. But the independent film world’s not the church fun fair; everyone doesn’t win a prize.

Despite much evidence to the contrary, most of the panelists seemed very personable and approachable. Being stuck on the side of a mountain for four days with nowhere to go can be a great strategic advantage for the motivated indie producer. You could corner Killer Films’ Katie Roumel or The Sundance Channel’s Paola Freccero after a session and arrange to sit down with them next to the stream and discuss your project. Away from the office, freeways, family, etc., these people had no excuses and nowhere to go. They were trapped. You just can’t put a price tag on that kind of access. In Los Angeles or New York, you might be just another annoying nuisance with an agenda. But here? You owned the place—at least for the four days. The smart ones came prepared and took advantage.

Overall, the Producer’s Conference was a very inspiring, worthwhile experience. It’s almost unbelievable that the Institute should be so interested in helping indie moviemakers get their projects made. They could have easily worked a lot less; had a few seminars, collected a few checks and called it a day—but they didn’t. It’s obvious the Sundance Institute is passionate about independent film, acting as a facilitator between artistic vision and raw business muscle. It also removed much of the intimidation inherent to diving into the shark tank, revealing that these hardened gatekeepers were indeed human beings eager to join forces for a good project.

William Morris’ Cassian Elwes said he’d been involved with 15 or so films ranging in budget from the low hundred thousands to $25 million. That’s quite a statement of commitment. Some, like HBO Films’ Maud Nadler, said she accepted and read all scripts sent to her. Gary Winick, director of 2002 Sundance Best Director Award-winning Tadpole, has committed to producing ten $300,000 digital films a year through his InDigEnt Films. It’s pretty inspiring that all these people are committed to making good films—and that so many of your peers will be added to the ranks of co-conspirators.

The Conference demystified much of the black magic surrounding the process of producing a film, and put some power into the hands of the independent producer. The conference also empowered you to seize and embrace the role of producer. It proved that “artist” and “producer” can be said in the same breath without choking. It awakened the belief that you can take charge of your creative destiny; it made you realize that the power ultimately lies within yourself. I’m not gonna sit around and wait ‘til I grow up to make my movies. I don’t have to. I have the power. Saint John would drink to that. MM