IFH 682: How to Make Your Own Damn Indie Movie with Lloyd Kaufman

The world is far more peculiar than most of us dare to admit. Somewhere between a demolition derby and a wrestling ring, between the crackle of VHS tapes and the shriek of late-night public access, lies a man who has turned mayhem into meaning. On today’s episode, we welcome the unparalleled and unfiltered Mad Man Pondo, a professional wrestler and author whose life has been a whirlwind of body slams, topless TV hosts, and late-night green room oddities. With a voice still rough from last night's match, he guides us into a tale of chaos, tenacity, and triumph.Mad Man Pondo—real name Kevin Canady—is not merely a character in the ring. He is a living mosaic of outrageous stories and unshakable spirit.Raised in a reserved household, he found himself drawn to the fever-pitched passion of pro wrestling his grandparents once yelled at on their living room TV. That early spark lit a fire, and he never let it go out. As he says in this episode, “My mom still has the paper I filled out in grade school that said I wanted to be a professional wrestler.” That dream, written in crayon, would become a 30-year odyssey through blood, barbed wire, and blinding spotlights.The journey to the ring was not paved with ease. Pondo describes the brutal, often humiliating, early days of wrestling school—the beatings, the busted lips, the sheer will required to prove he belonged. He tells of how many walked away, unwilling to endure it, while he pressed on. That kind of devotion would become his defining trait. When the legendary Abdullah the Butcher told him he had the talent to wrestle in Japan, Pondo drove through the night, edited his best matches on two old VCRs, and mailed the tape by sunrise. The result? Forty-three trips to the Land of the Rising Sun.But Pondo’s life wasn’t confined to the ring. Ever curious, ever mischievous, he created “Skull Talk,” a public access show featuring wrestling commentary and, yes, topless women sitting on his lap.Equal parts performance art and rebellion, the show sandwiched between two church broadcasts caused outrage and fandom in equal measure. “One preacher would send me scripture every week,” he laughs. “But I knew he watched every episode.” This was Pondo in his purest form—pushing boundaries, dancing at the edge of decency, and always keeping his audience on their toes.What’s perhaps most impressive is his ability to weave these escapades into something strangely noble. Whether talking about riding shotgun in a demolition derby car painted with horror icons or booking outrageous guests for the Jerry Springer Show, there’s a heart beneath the madness. His creation of “Girl Fight,” an all-women’s wrestling promotion, is a testament to his desire to give others a platform, to share the stage, to pass the torch. He’s not just fighting for himself anymore—he’s built a ring where others can rise too.And then there’s the book, Memoirs of a Mad Man, a wild ride through his memories, filled with stories that make you laugh, cringe, and occasionally tear up. One story he held secret for decades—a deeply personal moment with wrestling legend Junkyard Dog—was finally shared in its pages. “I thought, you know what, let’s put this in there,” he says. “It was time.” In telling that story, and many others, he transformed scars into stories and chaos into legacy.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/indie-film-hustle-a-filmmaking-podcast--2664729/support.

20 Touko 56min

When the lights of the cinema dim and the hum of anticipation fills the air, something magical happens—stories come alive. And sometimes, the stories behind the storytellers are the most fascinating of all. On today's episode, we welcome Patrick Lee, a man whose quiet curiosity and geeky love for film statistics helped shape the very lens through which millions of people now view cinema. Patrick Lee is the co-founder of Rotten Tomatoes, a website that has become both a cultural barometer and a battleground for filmmakers and fans alike.Before Rotten Tomatoes became a household name, Patrick and his co-founders were merely tinkering with design and entertainment tech, creating websites for giants like Disney Channel and MTV. But like many innovative ideas, Rotten Tomatoes was born from a simple question: "What if people could see all the movie reviews—good and bad—in one place?" It was their creative director, Sen Duong, who initiated the project, running it as a side hustle until it became clear they were onto something far bigger than banner ads and online games.The journey wasn’t smooth sailing. As Patrick explained, the film industry often has a conflicted relationship with Rotten Tomatoes. Studios love it when their movies are Certified Fresh but curse its very existence when the Tomato Meter goes south. “We’ve had studios threaten to pull ad campaigns or never advertise with us again,” Patrick revealed. It's a fine balance between journalistic integrity and business pragmatism, and it’s one that Rotten Tomatoes walked with surprising grace—largely thanks to the team’s belief in transparency and fairness.What’s remarkable is how this digital compass evolved into a kind of cinematic moral authority. “The Tomato Meter is basically the percent chance that you’ll like seeing a movie,” Patrick said. And therein lies its charm—it doesn’t claim objectivity. It’s not about whether a film is “good” in a vacuum. It’s about consensus. It’s about probability. It’s about knowing whether you, dear viewer, are likely to leave the theater with a full heart or an empty wallet.Patrick also took us down a rabbit hole of changing critic landscapes. When Rotten Tomatoes began, the idea of a “professional critic” was easy to define: newspaper columnists, magazine reviewers, or syndicated television film buffs. Today, in an age of TikTok reviews and substack essays, that boundary has blurred. “Anybody can start a podcast or a YouTube channel,” he observed, echoing the democratization of media that defines our era. But for Rotten Tomatoes, quality still trumps quantity, and validation still requires rigorous standards.Perhaps one of the most unexpected parts of the conversation veered toward China, where Patrick spent nearly a decade after selling Rotten Tomatoes. There, he witnessed first-hand the explosive rise of filmgoing culture. “Even for some random movie, theaters were sold out for hours,” he noted. With state-of-the-art theaters rising from dusty streets and censorship shaping storylines, China has become both a new frontier and a mirror reflecting global shifts in entertainment priorities.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/indie-film-hustle-a-filmmaking-podcast--2664729/support.

13 Touko 44min

Sometimes, the fire of creativity is struck not by lightning but by the slow, smoldering ache of dissatisfaction. And in today's soul-stirring conversation, we welcome Shawn Whitney, a filmmaker who found cinema not in the corridors of academia, but in the quiet rebellion of self-taught screenwriting and micro-budget filmmaking. Shawn Whitney is a screenwriter, director, and founder of Micro Budget Film Lab who empowers indie creators to tell powerful stories on shoestring budgets.Our journey with Shawn begins not in childhood fantasies of movie stardom, but in the dense woods of Brechtian theater and the quiet study of old black-and-white films. His path wandered, as many worthwhile ones do, through rejection, basement solitude, and heartbreak—until something within him demanded not just expression but transmutation. Shawn didn’t study film in college. Instead, he emerged from the theater world and fell into filmmaking after a failed workshop production left him broke and dispirited. Yet that fall became his rise. As he said, “I just started writing screenplays and learning the craft in the quiet shadows.”There’s something beautiful in learning the art of story not from glamorous sets or high-priced workshops but from the bones of failed experiments and the echoes of dialogue bouncing around your own mind.Shawn described his education not with fanfare but humility—referencing Sid Field, Blake Snyder, and the ever-controversial Save the Cat—tools that became his spiritual guides, not rigid masters. And with every script, he refined a method. Not the method, mind you. A method. “You just need a method. You can’t just be anarchy,” he mused.But perhaps what struck me most was Shawn’s philosophy that screenwriting is not just structure—it’s an argument about what makes life meaningful. Films, he insists, must be animated not by market trends, but by inner turmoil, by the strange flickering passions of the human heart. “It can’t just be about chopping up zombies. Your characters must go through an inner transformation.” That idea—that a film is a living question—sets Shawn apart in a world often obsessed with following the formula instead of feeling the pulse.Shawn’s micro-budget films—“A Brand New You” and “F*cking My Way Back Home”—aren’t just titles that stick. They are rebellious acts of filmmaking born from limited means and limitless creativity.His stories unfold not in sprawling CGI landscapes, but in human longing, funny sadness, and philosophical absurdity. One film follows a man trying to clone his dead wife in the living room. Another explores redemption from the passenger seat of a towed Cutlass Supreme. With a budget of $7,000 and a borrowed tow truck, Shawn pulled off scenes that feel bigger than most tentpole blockbusters.But filmmaking, for Shawn, isn’t just about his own expression. Through Micro Budget Film Lab, he’s become a teacher, a mentor, and a kind of mad scientist in the alchemical lab of storytelling. His passion is not merely to direct, but to help others break free from the gatekeeping systems that keep fresh stories from being told. “We need a micro budget movement,” he declared, envisioning a cinematic rebellion where filmmakers use what they have to tell stories no one else dares to.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/indie-film-hustle-a-filmmaking-podcast--2664729/support.

6 Touko 52min

The mind is a curious trickster, delighting in dreams where logic pirouettes in absurdity. In today's extraordinary episode, we welcome Andrew Shaffer, a humorist and New York Times bestselling author whose wit slices through the storms of reality with a twinkle in his eye and a chainsaw in hand. From the earliest pages of his life, Andrew Shaffer was destined to dance with the ridiculous and sublime. As a child, he devoured horror and science fiction with a ravenous appetite, only to find himself drawn back to these imaginative playgrounds after a detour through the hallowed halls of literary fiction. His journey led him, almost inevitably, to the playful chaos of "How to Survive a Sharknado," a manual for the absurd that demands both laughter and preparation.In the dance of ideas, Andrew revealed how the birth of the Sharknado survival guide was as spontaneous as a tornado filled with teeth. Inspired by the original cult film, he offered his humorous talents when Random House and SyFy decided to create a companion book. Imagine being tasked with making flying sharks scientifically plausible; as he put it, "I had to talk to a marine biologist and ask, not could this happen, but how it might happen." It is in such delightfully impossible questions that the spirit of creativity is set loose.Throughout the conversation, there was a beautiful lightness, the kind one finds when nonsense is taken seriously. Andrew's research involved binge-watching over 30 sci-fi films—some genuine, some fabricated solely for the book—to weave an interconnected universe of mayhem. When asked how one might survive a Sharknado, he smiled into the void and said, “The answer in the book is simple: Stand and fight. Grab a chainsaw.” It is a lesson not just for storms of sharks, but for all the monstrous whirlwinds that life throws at us. Yet beneath the chuckles and chainsaws, Andrew's words echoed a deeper wisdom. Too much meta-awareness, he warned, robs a story of its soul. "If everybody's in on the joke," he said, "then the joke itself isn’t that funny anymore." Ah, but isn’t that true of life itself? When we cling too tightly to cleverness, we risk missing the raw wonder that makes each absurdity luminous. Perhaps the most chilling revelation of the day was the invincibility of the ghost shark, a creature birthed from sci-fi chaos. Manifesting from toilets, swimming pools, and even water bottles, it served as a reminder: some forces cannot be outrun; they must be met with courage, humor, and an open heart.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/indie-film-hustle-a-filmmaking-podcast--2664729/support.

29 Huhti 27min

A spark of madness is often the first step toward creation. On today’s episode, we welcome Bojan Dulabic, a passionate Vancouver-based filmmaker who pulled off a small miracle—he made a full-length zombie movie for just $5,000. But this isn't just a story of budgeting brilliance; it's a tale of relentless passion, artistic vision, and the kind of self-taught wisdom you can't get in film school.Born in Bosnia, raised in Germany and Croatia, and finally settled in Canada, Bojan Dulabic’s journey into filmmaking is stitched together by war, displacement, and a child’s fascination with VHS tapes in his mother’s shop. His early life sounds like something out of a global coming-of-age novel. And perhaps that nomadic upbringing seeded in him a gift for observation—a key trait in any great storyteller. When he finally turned his teenage creativity into a film project in high school, something clicked. Not just the shutter on a camera, but the internal compass of a man who knew he had to follow the path of cinema, even if it meant doing it on his own terms.This wasn’t a journey paved in gold. His first feature, shot for $4,000, was a comedy that taught him the ropes. His follow-up? A feature-length zombie film titled Project Eugenics.What could have been a cliché genre dive instead becomes a thoughtful narrative on misinformation, the chaos of modern life, and yes—zombies as metaphors. “To me, a zombie flick... it's not about the zombies. It's always about something else,” Bojan reflects. In his hands, the walking dead become symbols of mass confusion, manipulation, and the blurred lines of truth in our hyper-connected world.There is a playful seriousness to Bojan’s philosophy. He reveres Romero and admires Rodriguez, but he walks his own road. Like Alan Watts would muse about the dancer and the dance, Bojan seems less concerned with final outcomes and more with being in the creative flow—tripping over obstacles and finding meaning in the madness. He shares stories of juggling a wedding, a tight shooting schedule, and DIY visual effects like a magician with duct tape. His secret? A mindset that embraces “safe confusion”—a term borrowed from Tarantino—that invites the audience into mystery without losing them.What’s more, Bojan brings a rare humility to the table. He speaks about his cast and crew with deep respect, understanding that low-budget filmmaking doesn’t give you the license to burn out others for your dream. His actors often worked just a few days, each scene scheduled with precision. His respect for time, energy, and goodwill may be the real reason his film came together. For him, filmmaking is not just a creative act but a spiritual contract—with himself, with his collaborators, and with the audience.This podcast isn’t just a technical breakdown of low-budget indie cinema. It’s a spiritual blueprint for artists who feel the fire but lack the funds. Bojan’s approach is radical because it’s so simple: take stock of what you have, and build from there. Whether it’s stock footage, free VFX plugins, or your friend’s living room—use it. More importantly, finish it. Don’t wait for permission. Make your movie now.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/indie-film-hustle-a-filmmaking-podcast--2664729/support.

22 Huhti 1h 27min

Cynthia Hill, a filmmaker from North Carolina, discussed her journey from pharmacy school to filmmaking, highlighting her documentaries "Tobacco Money," "Private Violence," and the upcoming eight-part series "Road to Race Day" on NASCAR. She emphasized the importance of storytelling and character development, sharing her experiences with funding through foundations and the challenges of balancing art and business. Cynthia's work often bridges gaps between different communities, such as her documentaries on tobacco farming and farm workers. She also discussed the unique access she had to NASCAR teams, particularly Hendrick Motorsports, and the impact of her films on audience understanding.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/indie-film-hustle-a-filmmaking-podcast--2664729/support.

15 Huhti 56min

When the winds of curiosity rustle the mind and stir the soul, they often bring with them storytellers—those rare beings who don’t just recount events but breathe life into them. On today's episode, we welcome Joe Kowalski, a young filmmaker from Cleveland whose creative spirit dances between shadows and light, weaving stories through film, mystery, and innovation.Joe Kowalski is a filmmaker, game designer, and storyteller whose projects explore new ways to experience narrative across media.In this profound conversation, we journey through Joe's unique endeavor—a Stephen King “Dollar Baby” short film adaptation titled I Am the Doorway. What begins as a seemingly simple homage to the horror maestro evolves into a lesson in humility, time management, and artistic vision. Joe’s choice of story, influenced by a girlfriend and the limitations of a shoestring budget, was no accident. It was a study in resourcefulness—making the most of what one has while honoring a source of immense creative power. “You have to know what you can realistically accomplish,” Joe said. And that, my friends, is wisdom beyond years.Joe didn’t stop at simply retelling a tale. He reframed the horror classic into a new cinematic experience, wrapping Stephen King’s suspense within a short film festival format. This wasn’t about profit or prestige—it was about community, experimentation, and delivering value to the audience. His respect for the time and effort of collaborators is unwavering: “That’s the biggest thing they can give you,” he mused. And in a world obsessed with the bottom line, such reverence is sacred.But his imagination doesn’t remain tethered to the screen. Joe designed an interactive Instagram murder mystery game—an elegant rebellion against linear storytelling. Through a labyrinth of tags and grids, players navigate a digital whodunit, one clue at a time. Each piece of the game reveals not just a path to the culprit, but a deeper truth about human curiosity and our hunger for connection. It’s a digital scavenger hunt of intention, ingenuity, and play. A new mythology told in swipes and likes.Lest one believe that his path has been frictionless, Joe admits to the chaos of low-budget production, the stress of festivals, and the heartbreak of seeing good work shelved for lack of fit. Still, he views each project as a sculptor views stone—not yet perfect, but perfecting. His year-long film PRISM is another feather in this vibrant cap—a color-coded exploration of identity and emotional entanglement told through color-isolated cinematography. Here is a man who does not merely shoot films; he paints them.Throughout the conversation, what resounds most is Joe’s blend of youthful energy and ancient patience. He reveres the creative process, yet he’s unafraid to let go when the time calls for it. Whether planning podcasts with friends or studying the rise of VR storytelling, Joe doesn’t merely chase the next trend—he studies its rhythm, its heartbeat, and asks how it might elevate human experience. “You have to care about the story even when you don’t feel like caring about it,” he says—and that is the quiet devotion of an artist in bloom.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/indie-film-hustle-a-filmmaking-podcast--2664729/support.

8 Huhti 1h 10min

Gary King is a filmmaker who transitioned from a career in psychology and human resources to independent cinema, building a body of work that balances heart, hustle, and deeply human storytelling.In the spirit of Taoist unpredictability, Gary’s story unfolds not as a straight line, but as a rich weave of intuition, risk, and creative alignment. He didn’t attend film school—not out of rebellion, but because he didn’t know it existed as a real path. Yet, what he lacked in formal education, he made up for in lived experience, teaching himself the craft by actually making films. From his first feature "New York Lately" to a haunting indie gem titled "Among Us," his journey is a testament to following that subtle inner pull, even when it defies logic or convention.What stood out most was Gary's devotion to character.He didn’t chase Hollywood formulas or pre-packaged three-act structures. Instead, he sculpted stories that breathe. Stories that fail and rise again. He spoke of actors, not as tools to carry his vision, but as living beings whose rhythms dictate the energy of a scene. “The first take might be gold for one actor, but the sixth take is where another actor finds their truth,” he said. That kind of awareness doesn’t come from reading screenwriting manuals. It comes from presence.It’s no surprise that Gary gravitated toward stories with strong female leads. His commitment to representation isn't a gimmick—it’s a reflection of his own lived dynamics. He and his wife uprooted their lives together, and it was her faith in him that seeded the beginning of his filmmaking path. When he pitched the idea of becoming a director, her response wasn’t fear—it was, “Okay, how do we make this happen?”Every film Gary makes becomes his personal film school. No gatekeeping. No pedigree. Just the camera, the actor, the breath of a moment, and the sacred chaos of the edit room.One of the most beautiful sentiments he shared was how universal pain is the bridge to empathy. “You can tell a story about a Broadway dancer who never makes it, and someone who’s never danced a day in their life will see themselves in that struggle.”And while his films may not be backed by million-dollar budgets or high-concept gimmicks, they pulse with something far rarer: authenticity. A humility that says, “I’m still learning.” A clarity that says, “This is who I am.” And perhaps most importantly, a humor that says, “Yes, I returned a porno tape to Blockbuster by accident, and no, I don’t regret it.”Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/indie-film-hustle-a-filmmaking-podcast--2664729/support.

1 Huhti 1h 13min