Let me start by saying that I’m very proud of my film. It’s called Rematch. It took a lot of time and elbow grease to finish, but it’s done and it’s out there. And that counts for something. That being said, I don’t have any delusions about what I made. The short film landscape is incredibly competitive. I don’t know how accurate it is, but I read that as many as 12,000 short films are produced each year. I assume the source of this number is festival submissions, which means the true number is likely even higher. Regardless, that’s a lot of shorts. The movers and shakers of the film industry simply aren’t as likely to be impressed by a well-made short film as they would have been 20 years ago, or even 10 years ago. If you want to be propelled into the stratosphere, you have to make something truly special — something people can’t ignore.

So, what did we make? Well, as I’ve said, I have no delusions: It’s being ignored. And that’s OK! Our short film still serves a purpose. It helped my actors strengthen their reels, it was an incredible experience and learning tool, and the final result is enough of a calling card to rally support behind my next project. At the end of the day, we made art, and that’s valid.

But… my short could have been better. Much better. And, after mulling around for a few weeks on what aspect of my story would be most useful to the community, that’s what I kept coming back to: All the ways I screwed up. We’re all our own toughest critics, right? Since I obsess over these mistakes, it only made sense to share them with you. In the end, I hope these tips will help you be more prepared than I was. I suspect some mistakes you have to learn the hard way, but at least after reading this, you’ll know they’re coming. As a bonus, at the end of this article, I’ll also share some of the things I think we excelled in. Buckle up.

1) I Didn’t Do Nearly Enough Prep.

I believe something like 90% of the director’s job happens in pre-production. Everything from choosing the right project to storyboarding and rehearsals falls under this category. I think the general public has a misconception about directors, even directors themselves who are just starting out. My sense is people think the director’s work happens primarily on set. They tell the crew where to put the camera. They tell the actors how to say their lines. They yell at everyone through a megaphone. And if not for their unwavering vision, the whole production would fall apart. Now, anyone with any sense knows that description is ludicrous, over-simplified, and mostly wrong.

You’d think with all the knowledge we have today at our fingertips, people would have a better understanding. Yet, the ‘myth’ of the director persists. With every publicity stunt hire at Marvel Studios (where directors famously have little control), or every trade story of a studio hiring a different director to salvage a film with reshoots, you’ll find online comments illustrating just how naive people are about what a filmmaker can do so late in the process.

The auteur filmmakers you love stand out because of the decisions they make before the cameras roll. It’s the stories they choose to tell. The cast and crew they assemble. The vision they’ve outlined with their collaborators. When a director’s been hired by a studio for reshoots on someone else’s film, or hired by Marvel and handed pre-vis showing them what “their” action scenes will look like, all those decisions have been made for them. As a result, there’s only a narrow window of things they can actually change.

You might be wondering what high-profile reshoots and superhero movies have to do with indie filmmaking. My point is the director isn’t some magician who can wave a magic wand on set to manifest his or her vision. You have to set yourself up for success. Think about pre-production like you’re building a cruise ship you’ll eventually captain. The decisions you make in the shipyard are the most important. Once that massive ship sets sail, you can make minor adjustments along the way, but good luck doing anything drastic. It takes too much energy to stop. And it doesn’t turn for shit. You can’t rebuild in the middle of the ocean, either.

I knew this going in, and I still didn’t take it enough to heart. I ignored small script problems. I didn’t push hard enough in rehearsals. I didn’t prepare enough notes. In the end, I went into production not 100% sure of all the elements. We shot Rematch at the height of Covid in early 2021. I was too agreeable, too eager to make something. I’m sure these circumstances also influenced the story I chose to tell and the people I decided to cast. Adding to all that, I was feeling personal pressure. I was going to be a father, and I wanted to shoot something before my first child was born. I let too many decisions get made for me. I should have known better.

Maybe it’s the ego of a director, I don’t know. You want to think you innately have everything you need to guide the production to success. That’s a fallacy.

If something’s not working on the page, then it’s not working.

If something’s not working in rehearsal, then it’s not working.

Don’t fall prey to the idea that you’ll “figure it out on the day.” You’re not going to figure it out on the day when the pressure’s on and the meter’s running. You figure it out now before it’s too late. Maybe that means recasting. Maybe it means a rewrite. Whatever it is, now is the time to do it.

2) I Didn’t Know How to Direct Actors.

This one is particularly embarrassing. I realized on Rematch that I was piss-poor at directing actors. This was disappointing to learn, as, you know… that’s kind of the job. In my defense, it had been a long time since I had directed something with real actors giving actual performances. Over the last ten years at my production company, I have been working exclusively in corporate video. Generally speaking, you’re working with non-actors when you’re staging scenes around the office. Getting even the most basic performances out of non-actors can be challenging. I did a lot of puppeteering, and I got really good at it.

Unfortunately, puppeteering is a completely useless (and insulting) tool to wield with an actor. As a result, Nick (my Co-Director) and I unwittingly barked out a lot of useless direction. It was result-oriented direction, like “slow it down” or “give me more energy!” I think there were even a few times I resorted to line readings (yikes, I know). This kind of direction might describe what you want to see, but it gives the actor no insight into how to get there. Instead, you want to provide your actors with action-oriented direction, or ’playable’ direction. Your actors are trying to find the truth of the scene, and your job is to help them navigate that journey. I’ve heard very seasoned actors can translate bad direction. But when you’re first starting out, it’s unlikely you’ll have the luxury of seasoned actors picking up your slack.

I knew something was wrong the first day. We were getting coverage of Actor A. He was in a scene opposite Actor B. The idea was for the characters to reach a stalemate in their conversation. Neither is willing to budge. Actor A’s instinct was to end the conversation by walking away. This felt like the most natural thing for his character to do. But we wanted a standoff of sorts, a beat of rising tension. So, we kept telling him to “stand there, don’t move after you say your last line.” This, of course, tells him nothing of his character’s intention. After a few takes of us telling him the same thing over and over again, Actor B finally chimed in: “I think they mean ‘hold your ground.’ This direction, of course, worked. It provided Actor A the proper motivation to play the scene with intent. As a director, a moment like that is a kick in the gut. I still feel it. Some things you have to learn the hard way.

If you’re cringing at our ignorance, I’m right there with you. We should have known this. Many books have been written on the subject. Directing Actors by Judith Weston and On Directing by John Badham are incredible resources and I encourage you to read them, as I have. Just don’t make my mistake, and read them before you shoot your film.

3) I Should Have Prioritized Time on Set Above Every Other Resource.

I’ve come to understand that filmmaking (like many other ventures) is really about managing resources. I often find this kind of reductive thinking helpful. You have a finite number of resources available to you, and your goal is to create a work that’s multitudes more valuable than the sum of its parts. You might think, “well, duh.” But while this may be obvious on the macro level, I think it’s difficult for many filmmakers to keep this in mind for every decision they make, day-to-day, on a micro level. As a result, mismanaged resources can quickly become the source of your downfall.

I see filmmakers often trap themselves into corners because of costly hangups, like insisting on using expensive gear, or locking down a specific location. The problem is, every resource comes at the expense of something else. In the case of my argument, that something else is time on set. Every actor, every costume, every crew member, every piece of gear — it all adds up. How many things can you cut, simplify, or consolidate to get an extra few days on set? What if forgoing a drone means you get two more hours on a crucial scene? Maybe cutting a character that doesn’t contribute all that much to one scene gives you an extra half-day on another? Always have these questions in the back of your mind.

I don't think I spent enough time thinking about this. I should have doubled or even tripled the amount of time I allotted for every scene, and then reshuffled resources in accordance with that goal. As I suggested earlier, I had already made the crucial mistake of pushing things off, saying “we’ll figure it out on the day.” Mistakes like that aside, even with perfect planning, you can’t account for everything you don’t know. Every problem that rears its ugly head is magnified tenfold on set. The pressure is on. The meter is running. You want to “make the day.” And everybody is looking to you for validation: Did we get it? Can we move on? There were times Nick and I knew in our hearts we didn’t get it, but we had to move on. There’s only so much time. And when that happens, “we’ll figure it out on the day” becomes “we’ll fix it in post.” When you’re kicking the can down the road from pre-production all the way down to post, something is wrong.

That’s why I think prioritizing time on set is crucial. If it’s not working, you want the flexibility to figure it out, to shape the scene, to chip away at it until you have it. If we’re not doing that, then what exactly are we doing as filmmakers? I don’t think audiences care about the things we get hung up on. They don’t give a shit about the camera. I don’t think they even care about lighting as much as we think they do. Filmmakers from Terrence Malick to Steven Soderbergh have shot beautiful films with only natural light. At the end of the day, what’s most important? Does the scene work? Did you find the truth of the moment? If the scene feels mechanical, what does it matter if your lead actress has a beautiful hair light and a glint in her eye. It’s all for naught.

You might argue this advice is aimed at the amateur, less-seasoned filmmaker. You might say that a great filmmaker with a clear vision, in collaboration with a well-oiled crew, will be able to work efficiently, being precise in their execution. I have no doubt that’s true in most circumstances. And, certainly, the core of my argument is that more time on set would have helped to mitigate some of the deficiencies I outlined in the previous two sections. Yet, even some of the most talented filmmakers have adopted this approach. Take David Fincher, famous for doing 20-40+ takes to find the right beats for the scene:

"Well, $3,000 dollars is a meal penalty. So, if you don’t have [a Technocrane], you can go another 15 or 20 minutes right before lunch in order to allow for that person to do something better. So I look at it as, I’ll always trade helicopter shots, steadicams, and that stuff in order to have the time to let somebody fail upward.” — David Fincher

4) I Should Have Remembered On Set That Every Stage of Production is a Rewrite.

Too often in the past I’ve had blinders on during production, and then another set of blinders on in post. I’ve made the mistake of shooting the script, and then editing the script, and then sitting in front of a rough cut scratching my head. Why isn’t it working? Why does it feel stilted and awkward? In those early days, it’s mostly that I just plain sucked. But I also didn’t understand the process. Going from words-on-the-page to capturing live-action performance is an act of adaptation. Then going from an eclectic pool of raw footage to a cohesive, edited narrative is another act of adaptation. The process from script to footage to final cut is not a simple 1:1 direct translation. You must have your eyes and ears open to the organic changes that are happening in front of you, and adapt to them.

Nick and I knew this going into production, but we were still kicking ourselves in post. Yes, in many cases we didn’t allot ourselves enough time [see: previous section], but, if we’re auditing ourselves honestly, there were plenty of times we put too much faith in the script. We fell prey to the idea that if it worked on the page, it’ll probably work in the edit — despite what we could clearly see before our eyes.

This is not me throwing shade at the script. Quite the contrary! We had a great script by a fantastic writer. But you can’t escape the many variables that reshape the material in the translation from page to performance (especially when you’re green, and that translational gap is wider). Casting, blocking, staging, pacing, direction (or, lack thereof) — it all has an impact. At some point, you just have to toss the script aside and be present in the moment. Sure, the material communicated on the pages works, that’s why we’re here making this film. But that doesn’t matter right now. What matters right now is what’s being communicated in front of you! If it’s not working, figure out why, and adjust. The script is a guidebook, not a rulebook.

The same process applies in the edit bay. In fact, from an editing perspective, this section is actually more about how we saved the movie. Our editor, Cassie, did throw together a rough assembly, translated 1:1 from script to screen. And we could all see it wasn’t working. Forcing each scene to match the script was like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. After that, we never looked at the script again. What would be the point? Clearly, we hadn’t made that movie. We had made something else, we just didn’t know what it was yet. So, the process became figuring out what movie we actually made. With each scene, we did an exhaustive audit of everything we had, even outtakes — anything the camera caught. We had to watch the footage with our eyes and minds wide open. Forget the script. What is the footage telling you? The footage will reveal to you how to cut it. Thankfully, Nick and I had enough foresight on set to shoot additional coverage when things felt off, so with some scenes we had additional flexibility. Bit by bit, the film started to reveal itself, like a relief.

As a result, the finished film feels far more competent than it has any right to be, and that’s because we weren’t afraid to rewrite the film in the edit.

5) I Should Have Decided What I Wanted Out of My Film Before I Made It.

I went into this project foolishly optimistic and eager. I just wanted to make something. It’s not that I didn’t have goals in mind. Obviously, I knew the short would be a notch on my belt, something to prove my serious ambitions and considerable skill. That was the hope, anyway. But I didn’t really think too much about distribution strategy. I didn’t think about how I’d get eyes on it or even who it was for. My primary concerns with choosing this project were utilitarian. What can I shoot on an ultra-low budget, using my home as a single location? What actors in my network are as eager as I am to make something? What’s something that will come together quickly (or, so I thought), and won’t require any visual effects work?

These are considerations many other amateur filmmakers likely have. Most people can’t afford to do much more, and that’s understandable. However, I should have had additional questions in mind: How am I going to distribute this film when it’s done? Is it for YouTube, or do I have another strategy? Am I submitting to film festivals? What film festivals make sense? What films are they looking for? At the end of the day, what do I really want out of this?

As I mentioned at the top of this article, something like 12,000 short films are produced each year. You have to be smart to stand out from the noise. I submitted to nearly 30 film festivals, and Rematch was pretty much rejected across the board, though we did receive some praise. We were selected to screen at one festival, which I attended. When I was there, one of the organizers let slip that they were hungry for submissions, and accepted pretty much everything that came through. Yikes.

Despite this setback, I don’t think these rejections necessarily speak to the quality of the film. What it definitely speaks to is how poorly Rematch fit festival programming goals. I learned this only after rejections started pouring in and I finally did my own research. To give one example, our film has a runtime of 20 minutes. It turns out this is on the longer side for shorts. The longer the short, the more pressure it has on it to be great. If a programmer can fit two great ten-minute shorts in our twenty-minute slot, they’ll likely opt for that. The more I read, the more it became obvious how poorly suited we were for most of the festivals we submitted to.

Asking myself the right questions might’ve changed things. I might’ve forgone festivals and tried a different approach to getting exposure. Or, I might’ve chosen a different project entirely, I don't know. You could easily retitle this section to “know your audience” or something to that effect. I think it’s the same idea. If that rubs you the wrong way, if your goal is to make art in its purest expression, and you find this mode of thinking oppressive, that’s perfectly valid. Go make your film. I champion you. Just don’t complain if nobody sees it.

So… What Did We Do Right?

I said at the top of the article that I’m proud of the film, and I meant it. I don’t want to linger on the mistakes. I think we saved the film in the edit. Our cast & crew were excellent. We have a fantastic original score and a great sound mix. There’s a lot to love.

However, if there’s one thing we did right that stands above the rest, it’s that we finished the film. And we didn’t just slap it together. We took the film as far as it could go. By the time it left our hands, we felt we explored every possible avenue and polished every detail. There’s a point in post-production when you’re coming to terms with what you made when all the realities of your mistakes are made bare. You may not know exactly what you have, but you know what you don’t have…. What you don’t have is the perfect vision you set out to execute.

It’s easy in those moments to accept defeat, to want to haphazardly throw it together and get it over with. Or maybe just walk away entirely. Cut your losses and move on to the next thing. You’ve already learned everything you needed to learn, right? You know where you messed up, and next time you’ll do better. But I don’t think that’s the right move. You have to follow through. You owe it to yourself, and everyone else involved to give it everything you have.

So, that's what we did. We brought it home with all the effort we could muster. And I’m happy about it, because, in the end, the finished film surprised us.

If you’re going to fail, fail upward.

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