Sam Raimi, future director of the blockbuster Spider-man franchise, made a super 8mm short for zero dollars and shopped it around to local dentists and doctors to raise money for the original Evil Dead. Chad Ferrin, alumni of Troma studios, sold his house to fund his first feature. And Robert Rodriguez, of Spy Kids and Grindhouse: Planet Terror fame, subjected himself to paid medical experiments to finance El Mariachi.

If you haven’t already caught on to the recurring theme, it takes a lot of guts, integrity, and overall stupidity to embark upon the world of ultra low budget and independent (truly independent—and not some Hollywood film that cost only tem million dollars to produce and classified as independent). These guys risked a hell of a lot—their health, credit ratings, and livelihoods—to make their dreams of filmmaking a reality. And, fortunately for them, their risk paid off; but not after a whole lotta hurting in between.

I should know. I, too, embarked on the world of “backyard” filmmaking; though not to the extreme extent as the names that I have mentioned. Although I survived and lived to tell my tale of woe, I still suffered through a lot of stress, frustration, humiliation, and exasperation before all was said and done. But, despite all this, I would not have done it any other way—for at the end of the day I have a neat little short film to show off and can honestly consider myself a filmmaker!

If you are reading this article, you are probably more than interested in producing a film of your own, and I must congratulate you. Acceptance is the first step in admitting you have a serious problem. Filmmaking is a hideous goddess that will not let its razor sharp talons from out of you without a fight and many of us simply don’t make it. To survive, you must be able to come to grips with the grim realities and hardships that lay ahead—failure to keep a fair balance on reality can make or break your budding film career.

The first question you want to ask yourself is: why do I want to make films? This may seem like a simple question, but its seeming simplicity may be the root of all your evils. Simple logic would dictate that you are either a seriously disturbed individual or merely misguided. The top three common answers are usually: a) an insatiable desire to be a visual storyteller, b) an extreme social conscience that compels you to enlighten the world around, or c) you just want to get rich and famous. Word to the wise, if the answer is C alone you will have a rude awaking, because the odds of that actually happening are longer than being struck by lightning—twice.

Whatever your reason, and there are plenty of good reasons as long as you’re honest to yourself, to achieve this goal and bring it into fruition is very difficult.

From day one of pre-production, you are at a constant uphill battle with every possible obstacle that the fates can throw in your path. The image of old Sisyphus comes to mind, sentenced for an eternity to push a boulder up a steep hill; and just as he reaches the top to perch the massive stone upon the mountain peak, it topples over the other side only to rest at the bottom—his task having now to be resumed. By the end of your journey, you will most definitely feel as though you have been pushing a boulder when things are all said and done. Your mettle will be tested more than once. The second questions you will have to ask yourself are: How much does it mean to me? And, how far am I willing to go?

As a low budget filmmaker, one thing is almost always assured to happen: you will be wearing a lot of hats during pre-production, filming, and post-production of your little opus. Chances are, like me you will simply not be able to find a group of dedicated and passionate people to assist you in getting your vision on film. Reality dictates that you will not have enough money to pay them for their services—and thus own their mortal souls—and even you offer them some sort of deferred payment deal, the chance of them faithfully remaining by your side is very small. You must be prepared for many bailouts at the last minute, causing you instant delays in production and severe heartburn.

Welcome to your very own self-imposed crash course in the art of filmmaking. By the end of production, you will be well versed in many areas of film: director, writer, producer, cameraman and cinematographer, actor, editor, gaffer, lighting and sound engineer, props, catering, music composer, FX artist, and many, many more. To achieve just a mere ten minutes of viewable footage, I was engaged in all of the above at one point or another. This, however, was not a conscious decision on my part—I had no intention on inflicting pain on myself like some masochistic Orson Welles—but rather done out of necessity. In retrospect, it was worth the aggravation since I became well acquainted with each position and gained a greater respect for the responsibilities and talents of each.

If you haven’t caught on, making your film and seeing it to completion will consume your every waking thought and, most likely, enter your dreams as well. It will simply not let you go—rather, you must purge it from you like a hideous kandarian demon.

My own personal exorcism began in late 2004. My growing desire to produce a film had reached its zenith and I taken my first steps toward making my dreams a reality. As a child, my parents had given me their old camcorder to use and I produced several little videos for fun with my brother and friends, so I had a basic foreknowledge of what needed to be done to get a completed product—at least, I thought I knew.

My feature debut would be called Nothing in the Dark—an economically minded, yet aesthetically ambitious, psychological ghost story that would embrace the trappings of low budget productions by soaking the film with rich atmosphere and tension-filled characterizations. To paint a more accurate portrait, think the shadowy landscapes of a Lewton film mixed with the creepy visuals of J-horror, like Ringu or Ju-on: The Grudge which at that time had still not been bastardized beyond hope by Hollywood remakes. The story was simple: a young woman has an unbearable fear of the dark. This fear, however, is more a tangible force than any mere phobia as she is convinced that a long forgotten specter from her past has come to haunt her once more. Her unbelieving husband leaves for a weekend convention during an intense snowstorm, leaving his wife to face her fears alone in the “always convenient” isolated homestead. During the course of the night, the power goes out and our young heroine is plunged helplessly into darkness—cue the disturbing fun.

I purposely designed my story with a very low-budget in mind, knowing that any sort of technical wizardry would be not only out of the budget, but beyond my technical prowess as well. I purchased a fairly inexpensive, yet visually superior, mini-DV camcorder that possessed all the effects and accessories that I would need and managed to procure a copy of Adobe premiere as my editing tool. I purposely chose a PAL camcorder because of its frame per second ratio of 25fps was very close to film—which records at 24fps. This decision allowed my short to have a more film-like visual quality as opposed to filming with domestic NTSC formats that record at close to 30fps—which looks like video. Although this would present me with its own set of problems, namely playback conversion hiccups, the effort paid off successfully in the end, lending my short more production value in a visual sense.

Since I was working within a video medium, I knew that lighting would not be a difficult a procedure as with film—video being more sensitive than film exposure and requiring less light to produce maximum results. With this in mind, I stopped by the local Home Depot and purchased about fifty dollars worth of working lights and bulbs. Also, I was aware that any cinematic touches I wished to make could be easily performed in post-production with Adobe—I could darken scenes to accent the shadows or digitally erase colors to create a foreboding sense of doom. With these tools at my ready, I set out to enlist my cast and crew.

At this point my optimism was very high—I knew there was a lot of work ahead of me, but I thought that I had planned enough and had all the tools to get things done. But if you have taken nothing else away from my introduction, you have learned that you can never plan enough—something will happen to hinder your best efforts.

My next step was auditioning for my cast. I had already enlisted some friends and family for crucial parts, but felt the need to enlist more professional actors for some of the other supporting roles. I put an audition notice on Craigslist and got few resumes. Instead of promising pay, I made it clear that any services rendered would be compensated by deferred payment as well as by screen credit and copy. To enhance the illusion that this was a serious and professional production, I secured a room at my college to have the auditions in. All was set, and I was ready to take my first big plunge into film production.

This is where that little thing called fate stepped in.

After I announced where the auditions would be held, all of the actors that I had seriously considered dropped out. Undeterred, and with a handful of hopefuls still to consider, I decided to hold the audition anyway, thinking to hold a second at a later date. The week before the audition, not only did my car break down, but my live-in fiancée’s suffered a flat tire. Living more than thirty miles from the college and with no way to get up there, I postponed the auditions.

With this slight step back, I forged ahead. I secured my locations and filmed what I could in the interest of striking while the iron was still hot. I passed the finished script to my remaining cast to study.

Now, in the world of low-budget filmmaking, enlisting the help of one’s friends and family is almost a necessity—sometimes it is the only way a first-time filmmaker can get his film done. Other times, it can be more of a hindrance than it is assistance. My experience was with more of the former than the latter. I learned very quickly that my cast and crew did not share my passion to make the film.

I had a completed script and passed out copies to my actresses to read and learn their parts. However, I soon discovered that my actresses not only did not learn their lines, but neglected even to learn the plot. I spent too much of my time explaining what was happening in the individual shots—which was not only unproductive but stressful. In hindsight, I should have held rehearsals and spent time explaining the characters.

I was still without a full cast, and a full read-through would have to be postponed. Conflicts between my and my actresses’ schedules also prevented any significant one-on-one time. So, this lack of preparation defeated my efforts before they even began.

I also had difficulty getting crew members to make a serious commitment. More often than not, I performed all duties—lights, camera, sound, etc.—stretching myself very thin and causing me all sorts of anxiety.

After several days of filming, I discovered I really had nothing worth cutting together. On top of that, the growing fear of my tiny production falling apart at the seams was becoming more of a reality each passing moment. At the current rate, there was no way Nothing in the Dark would be a film. I would need more time and a hell of a lot of capital to secure talent and help.

With my feature-film dreams dying, but my desire to make a film still potent and alive, I decided to make a truncated version of my script. My plan in making a short film version was not only to prove that I was serious and could make cohesive story, but also to prove something to myself—that I could finish something. I also remembered how Sam Raimi secured funds for his feature debut by first making a short film version illustrating to potential investors and talent what the final product was going to be.

Licking my wounds, I set forward filming a ten minute short film that would encompass everything that my feature-length film would expand upon. I took the first few minutes of my initial script—which the feature-length film would represent in a flashback that would grab the audience’s attention—and expanded it slightly to be able to stand on its own.

I enlisted the aid of my two young daughters to play the lead characters: a six-year old girl forced to face her fear of the dark and armed only with her bed sheet and flashlight; and a pig-mask specter that would play a much larger role in the completed film. Over the course of a month, I filmed the short, piecing together several different locations to make one fictional setting. Amazingly, I found that my two children were much more willing to participate in filming and endure the long stretches of pausing for camera and lighting set-ups than their adult counterparts. With very little stress, I managed to get enough film to fill ten minutes—my next step would be editing.

To tell all the trials and tribulations attached to this chapter of production would fill an entire book with tell of starting and stopping and cursing and praying and pleading and starting again. To make a long story short, I found that the editing software posed its own set of time-consuming and stressful problems. Glitches in the system and out of date materials led to about four months of editing time for a ten-minute film. At one point, the computer crashed and entire day’s worth of work was lost and had to be started again from scratch.

Needless to say, with all these interruptions, I was beginning to wonder whether they were all omens trying to tell me that my best efforts were not worthy of filmmaking. But if there were one word I would give any new filmmaker that was key to success in this art form, it would be perseverance. Through it all, I persevered against the elements and managed to rise above it all to complete my film.

Despite all the aggravation, I found editing to be the most rewarding part. During pre-production and filming, you are working towards something completely unknown—your best effort could fail. However, in the editing stage, all that work starts to pay off. You put together all the little pieces and product begins to form very vividly. It was also at this stage that my real creative ingenuity began to make its presence known. A flow to the narrative was taking shape and I began to manipulate the image to create a sense of atmosphere and suspense—a frame or two, I quickly realized, could make all the difference.

Without a proper film composer to enlist, I had to create an entire music track from scratch to score the film. Without any sort of musical training or gift, I resorted to a more organic music track, recording different sounds—any thing from scraping a fork against metallic pots to plucking strings on a guitar—and then manipulating them through reverbs and echoes to create an unholy score. I soon learned that without a music track, the film’s power was greatly diminished. Through all of the work I performed, I think it was creating the music score that I was most proud of.

After several months, I finally had a completed film to shop around and I wasted no time trying to get it out there. Again, cruel reality does not end at the cutting room floor—that is only the first half of the battle. The second, and perhaps most difficult, half of the journey is getting your film recognized and available to the public. I used many different resources to accomplish this: uploading the film to websites that showcase amateur films, sent it out to magazines and websites to be reviewed, submitting it to festivals, and creating my own website to showcase it.

My success didn’t exactly meet my expectation, nor the time spent in accomplishing the feat. Although my film was accepted to several small festivals, it failed to catch the eye of any of the major festivals. Although it got many great reviews, it failed to secure a following. And although it could be readily viewed on the internet through youtube.com and brightcove.com, it failed to generate any interest and thus languished in obscurity.

If there is anything you should take away from my experience, it is to grasp the reality and sheer immensity that mounting a film production can be. I do not wish to discourage—only to enlighten and inspire. But in all likelihood you will fail the first time out. You will be overcome with tremendous stress and anxiety. Rejection will be a word you will become most familiar with. Should you choose to invest your hard-earned dollars in a production—expect no returns. In all, you will mostly likely receive no serious recognition for your efforts.

However, the completion of your first film will also be met with some rewards. There are thousands of festivals for aspiring and independent filmmakers to choose from—if you don’t get accepted by one, there are plenty of others to turn to. In total, my film was shown at over a dozen different festivals and shows. There is no better gratification for a filmmaker than to see the finished product of his labors reflected upon a big screen and to be cheered by an audience when the credits role. Many of these festivals also hand out awards—so if you are fortunate enough to be a recipient, you will feel like your hard work has paid off. My film was selected as Best Film of 2006 by the HorrorDance film festival in Houston, TX—the plaque is proudly displayed on my living room wall for all to see.

Having your film reviewed by critics is also a form of recognition that is available for you along with websites such as triggerstreet.com and youtube.com where you can post your film for all to view. Whether viewers’ comments are good or bad will make little difference to you—that people are watching your film and compelled to comment will be reward enough.

Nothing, however, can beat the satisfaction of completing your film and knowing that it is your best effort. Despite not meeting my unrealistic expectations, I do not feel that my film was a failure on any level. I now have a wonderfully quirky and spooky little flick to speak about and show to anyone who is interested. I have a feeling of accomplishment that few ever know. I am proud of the work and will always look back fondly on my experiences—the good, the bad, and the ugly. There is nothing worse for a person than to want something so badly yet never have the guts to seize the moment and make something out of it.

One thing that a college professor of mine said has always stuck with me, and no truer words could ever be spoken: “Until you make a film—no matter how small or successful—you are not a filmmaker. Once you have that film in the can—and whether or not it languishes forgotten by posterity—only then can you truly call yourself a filmmaker. You’ve made a film—now you are a filmmaker!” If you anything take out of my ramblings, it is not to be discouraged, but to persevere and overcome your obstacles—for there will be plenty in the way of your dreams. But should you choose the less traveled and rockier path, you will find the rewards at the end of the road worth more than could be imagined.

In the words of the immortal—or amoral, depending on how you look at it—Lloyd Kaufman, founder and president of Troma Studios: “Let’s go make some art!”