There are questions about filmmaking that I get pretty regularly.
One of them is, “If you could do it all over again, would you make the movie differently?”
This particular question always feels like a tough one.
There’s no good answer for it because it’s a hypothetical situation. No one can change their past. You can’t unlearn something you picked up through experience, right? So what’s the point of indulging in such a theoretical situation?
It’s tough because I know people genuinely want an honest answer to the question. I’m still figuring out how to handle it.
I would love explore it in more detail with you here.
There are answers you’re supposed to give in public and in writing. Those answers are more polished and politically correct. They’re as respectful of the team and craft as possible. And I totally get why.
Talking to students at NCSU about the Montagnard people, who were the subject of my first feature-length film, Abandoned Allies.
When you’re standing in front of a crowd talking about your movie, it is borderline offensive to say anything but good stuff about what you created. You and your team did the absolute best you could, given the constraints you had at the time. You shouldn’t do anything that implies you’re less than 100% proud of it. It’s an unwritten rule that you should say only great things about the last project you worked on. (Seriously, google Katherine Heigl’s apology for talking about Knocked Up.)
You’re supposed to say, “No, I wouldn’t change a thing. I cherish the experience and wouldn’t do anything differently. I’m really proud of what we made together.”
And all of that is totally true, mind you.
But that answer doesn’t always feel totally right for me. It feels polished or canned. Not 100% genuine or accurate all the time.
That’s because each and every movie I make is an educational experience.
I’m constantly learning, growing, and honing my craft. As a result, it feels like I might always approach a project differently because I learned something new. I’m always looking for a lesson that I can learn, apply, and share with my fellow filmmakers.
So how could I not do something differently the next time?
It’s a messy question and makes for an even messier situation. I’m probably not supposed to confess any of this in writing, especially in black and white on the internet where everything gets logged and saved forever. It could easily cause trouble or unintentionally hurt someone’s feelings, which is obviously not what I want. (My producer brain has already come up with a thousand different situations where it would come back to haunt me.)
But I’ve always had a little trouble with feeling too polished.
Sharing my experience honestly, authentically, and transparently is what has helped me forget really great relationships. It’s what helps me connect with the people that want to see my movies. It has helped me force open the doors that have always felt closed. (Even if I have to take a chainsaw and cut out my own door, which is what it feels like I had to do.)
Maybe this makes me an outsider or heretic.
But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
The rules, after all, are merely suggestions. It’s OK to forge your own path.
Especially when you’re so far outside the system that you’re not exactly bucking the trends on purpose; you’re simply doing you’re own thing.
And doing your own thing feels really good.