Crowdsourcing for Filmmakers

Indie Film and the Power of the Crowd

Richard Botto

• Editorial: Routledge
• Año: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781317533030
• Edición: 1
• Categoría: Media & Performing Arts
• Categoría: Film & Video

Whether you're a producer, screenwriter, filmmaker, or other creative, you probably have a project that needs constant exposure, or a product to promote. But how do you rise above the noise?

In Crowdsourcing for Filmmakers: Indie Film and the Power of the Crowd, Richard Botto explains how to put crowdsourcing to use for your creative project, using social media, networking, branding, crowdfunding, and an understanding of your audience to build effective crowdsourcing campaigns, sourcing everything from film equipment to shooting locations.

Botto covers all aspects of crowdsourcing: how to create the message of your brand, project, or initiative; how to mold, shape, and adjust it based on mass response; how to broadcast a message to a targeted group and engage those with similar likes, beliefs, or interests; and finally, how to cultivate those relationships to the point where the message is no longer put forth solely by you, but carried and broadcasted by those who have responded to it. Using a wealth of case studies and practical know-how based on his years of experience in the industry and as founder of Stage 32—the largest crowdsourced platform for film creatives—Richard Botto presents a comprehensive and hands-on guide to crowdsourcing creatively and expertly putting your audience to work on your behalf.

1
Allow Myself to Introduce … Myself

As it states on the cover, my name is Richard Botto. My friends, however, call me RB, and since you’ve spent your hard earned money to buy this book and will now invest your invaluable time reading it, and seeing how we’re going to be spending the next 300 pages together, I consider you a friend. So … I’m RB, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.

I am a screenwriter, producer, actor and voice actor. I’m also an entrepreneur. The combination of these pursuits led me to create Stage 32 (www.stage32.com), the world’s largest online networking and educational platform for creatives working in film, television and theater. More on that down the road.

My interest in film started at a very young age. No one in my family is exactly sure where this passion originated. Though my parents and grandparents enjoyed movies as a source of entertainment, none of them would qualify as avid students of the medium. For them, like most filmgoers, movies represented entertainment and escapism. And in my earliest years, that’s what they represented to me as well. I remember all too well rushing down the stairs on a cold, East Coast winter morning, opening our front door and braving the blast of frigid Staten Island wind, anxiously retrieving our copy of the Daily News and fervently flipping pages until I landed in the section with the movie advertisements. What films were opening this weekend? Were they playing near us? Where? What time?

As I approached my teenage years, I found myself not only compiling a list of favorite films, but favorite actors and directors as well. Eventually those lists included cinematographers and producers. I was a passionate baseball card collector at the time and trust me when I tell you, if they would have printed cards for film directors, I would have had 2,000 Scorseses and Spielbergs (I might have unloaded a few of those Spielbergs for some Coens and P.T. Andersons today, but I digress).

Early on, I could find merit in just about any film—“I have to tell ya, I think the narrative arc in Revenge of the Nerds III certainly surpasses that of Nerds II”—but over time, my tastes sharpened and my senses honed. I became aware of the classics. But more importantly, I awakened to the art and the craft of filmmaking. While people formed lines around the corner at my local video shop, anxiously awaiting to shell out three bucks or more for the latest hit movie release, I was slipping in and paying one slim dollar to rent the VHS tapes gathering dust in the corner: genius works by Welles, Kurosawa, Fellini, Hitchcock, Chaplin and Hawks. Slowly, my passion for all things cinema morphed into an obsession. I craved backstories, histories, on-set tales—anything that would add color to what formed the creative process of a particular artist or how a particular film came together. This was pre-internet, of course, so information was at a premium. There were no director’s commentaries or bonus content on VHS tapes. Instead I used my allowance to head to my local Borders, where I would buy every book and biography related to film I could get my hands on. If I happened to find myself in Manhattan, I would beg to be taken to the nearest newsstand so I could grab a copy of Variety or The Hollywood Reporter.

I can remember sitting at a Mets game with a friend of mine and during a lull in the action offering, “You know … I’m a little concerned that Francis Ford Coppola is losing his passion for cinema.”

I was 13.

My overarching desire was to be a director. I studied the greats of the past and those who had captured the imaginations of millions during my childhood. In photos they always looked so reflective, learned and creative. They commanded respect. They had the ear of all involved. On a semi-related note, I also swore that if I became a director, I would revolutionize director’s sartorial sensibilities by wearing something besides khaki pants, safari jackets and bad hats. But, that’s a story for another book or perhaps over a cocktail or ten.

Directors, to me, seemed to have it all. I loved that the best of the best were called “auteurs.” So regal. So perfectly pompous. I was obsessed with framing, lighting, camera angles and editing choices. Even then, it wasn’t beyond me to watch a film twice in a row, once as a fan and once as a student.

Since I didn’t have a camera (camcorders were ridiculously expensive and weighed roughly the same amount as a’74 Buick Skylark back in those days), I began writing short scripts, with no idea of format, I should add, and visualizing the scenes in my head. And then a funny thing happened—I discovered I not only enjoyed the writing process, but I had a knack for it. It came fairly easy. The tales flowed, the suspense built, the characters arced. In no time, I was pumping out short stories, novellas, plays and more short (still brutally formatted) screenplays.

I would gather some open minded kids (no small task) from the neighborhood to act out my scenes. Having attended an acting camp one summer, sometimes I would insert myself as the lead, defending my choice with a mighty “Hell, Welles did it!”, which, of course, endeared me to just about everyone (he said with a healthy dose of sarcasm). I came to realize that I enjoyed acting almost as much as I enjoyed creating the characters. Soon, I started putting on plays for the neighborhood, serving as actor, writer and director (move over, Orson!). I was a true triple threat. Occasionally, I would even put my ego aside and magnanimously act in someone else’s play or student film. I was gaining confidence. Each effort garnered more attention and accolades. My star, as they say, was rising. And then I did what any aspiring and thriving actor, screenwriter and filmmaker would do …

I went to pharmacy school.

Yep.

My preference, as you might imagine, was to go to film school. I applied to a few and was accepted by a couple. But my dad made some compelling arguments why pharmacy school would be a more logical choice. For starters, he and my brother were pharmacists, so I was around pills my entire life.

Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Let me try again.

I had exposure to pharmaceuticals, since I was a kid.

Hold on.

Let’s just say by virtue of being a son and brother to two pharmacists, I knew my stuff. Plus, I was already working in a pharmacy, filling prescriptions as a tech three years before I was legally of age to do so. Don’t worry, everyone lived. Then there was the fact that, while a senior in high school, I sat in on my brother’s 5th year pharmacology final and scored an 86.

The logic became this: Pharmacy school would be a walk for me. The five years would fly by. I would all but be guaranteed a job when I graduated, and a high paying job at that. The world needed more pharmacists. Plus, and finally, if I went to film school, I would most likely party my ever-loving ass off.

I couldn’t argue any of these points, especially the last one.

So, it came to pass that a few short months later at 7am on a bright and sunny fall morning, I found myself in a lab at the Fulton Street Campus of Long Island University Pharmacy School in downtown Brooklyn with half a buttered poppy seed bagel clenched between my teeth while I surgically extracted the kidneys of a fetal pig. Was my mind still on film? I’ll let the fact that I had created an elaborate backstory for the mother of this fetal pig (damn you, creators of Babe) serve as an answer. At the midpoint of semester one, I had a 4.0 average. None of it had been earned with a lick of passion.

Clarity, rescue and salvation came in the form of a diminutive English Composition teacher whose visage was a cross of Mr. Magoo and George Carlin. This was a man for whom being called cantankerous would serve as the highest of compliments to him and an understatement to anyone who had ever served time in his class. This was a man who introduced himself on the first day of class not by mentioning his name and welcoming us, but by sitting down and staring at us for seven solid minutes before stating, “Let’s get one thing clear. You’re pharmacy students. This is an English class. I know you chose this as an elective because you think you’re gonna coast. Well, let me tell you geniuses something, I’ve been teaching here for 25 years and I’ve given 3 As. Chew on that. I’ll give you some time to digest.” He then proceeded to kick his feet up on his desk and eat an egg salad sandwich while thumbing through The Sun Also Rises.

Sixty percent of the class did not return for day two.

But I did. There was something about the guy. He had a mad creative genius sort of vibe. When it came to dissecting great literature and a passion for inspired writing, he suffered no fools. He didn’t pity them either. In fact, I would say the word pity only existed in his vocabulary as a vehicle to spray spittle on the ignorant. His insults were so creative— “I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you, Mr. Johnson. I didn’t realize until this moment that English is clearly your second language. I have no idea what your first is, but clearly English is your second.” “Miss Clark, I was wondering if I could take you out for a drink this weekend and introduce you to my dear friend, The Comma.”—I imagined he spent time working the material in his bathroom vanity mirror the night before. Slowly, I had to come to terms with the fact that I might just have a masochistic side, or at the very least should seek professional help, as I found myself actually looking forward to his class.

There were even fleeting moments where I thought I was winning him over or, at the very least, had crossed a pinkie toe over to his good side. But, even when you did something right, he left room for doubt.

Me: I believe the explanation of the rich man passing the poor man on the stairs in the bar is Joyce’s way of saying that as quickly as one can rise in stature or standing in a job or within a community, that’s as quickly as one can fall. Today can bring fortune and friends, tomorrow destitution and loneliness.

Him: An interesting take that I’m compelled to agree with.

Me: (smiles)

Him: I suppose you want a cookie now?

Toward the mid-term break, we were tasked with writing a 30-page story on something that had a profound impact on our lives: An event that had rattled our cages, to be written in non-linear fashion. I had been an altar boy when I was younger (a fact that, to the people who know me well, elicits much gut-rolling laughter). During this time, there was a priest, Father Hicks, who became a very good friend of my family. Outwardly, he was a progressive, sometimes brash soul. Although he certainly took his vows seriously, much of his outward bravado was just an act. He loved the theatrics for which his position allowed. His Sunday sermons were not just fire and brimstone, but accompanied by booming acoustics and dramatic lighting.

Once, prior to a High Mass ceremony, he asked me to show him how much charcoal I had put in the thurible, a metal censer designed to burn incense. At a certain point during the ceremony, I would present the thurible to him and he would add the incense, take the thurible from me and swing it to and from, blessing the altar and the parishioners.

Minutes before Mass was to begin, he did some quality control—bass, lights, thurible. His nod the cue, I opened the thurible, revealing three small round pieces of charcoal. It should be noted, most priests required only one. But I knew Father Hicks liked a lot of smoke. Three was more than enough to do the job.

He glanced at the three pieces of charcoal with disdain and began to slowly, menacingly fold at the waist, tilting his head until he was inches from my face. He then gazed down his nose at me, and in a voice that would have made Darth Vader shiver said, “More fire.”

I added three more charcoals.

When the time came to present the thurible to him, the metal chain attached to it was scalding to the touch. I had to use rubber padding to handle the vessel. I opened the top and Father Hicks and he proceeded to drop a heaping spoon of incense inside, resulting in a “whoosh” sound so loud, it reverberated through the church. Although I couldn’t make out anything an inch in front of me, I’m pretty sure I saw my eyelashes tumble through the instant and enveloping mushroom cloud.

He took the thurible from me and began swinging it. At the altar, around the altar and toward the congregation. Then he proceeded down the steps of the altar and walked around the entire church until the smoke was so thick, I expected to hear a foghorn.

I just stood in place. Eventually, he emerged from the thick cloud like a magician who just nailed his signature trick. He handed me back the thurible, smiled the most devious smile and whispered, “Big fire.” Then he gave me a wink.

That was him. Serious with a wink and a smile. Underneath it all, and the people who knew him best were well aware of it, he had a heart of pure gold. When tragedy struck the family of my best friend, he was there. When I struggled in school, he was there. In fact, when anyone suffered difficult times, he was always there. In short, he was a great man, cut from a cloth you don’t see much of any longer.

Days before I was to begin writing the paper, I learned that he had passed. Although I hadn’t seen him in well over a decade, his death had a profound impact on me. Whether it was the sudden removal of a significant part of my life that was so profoundly formative, the soft amber glow of nostalgia or something else entirely, I don’t know. But I knew one thing. I had to write about him. And so I did. And I kept writing, the words flowing so naturally and effortlessly. Forty-two pages later, I was done. I had no idea if it was any good, I just knew it had poured out of me and contained everything I needed to say. I submitted it without any edits.

About a week later, I was summoned to my professor’s office. As I sat in the outside lobby, awaiting my fate and making note of the emergency exits, one of my fellow classmates emerged, the blood flushed from his face.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He asked if I thought it might be possible for me to suck less.”

I noticed him clutching his paper in his hand.

“What did you get?”

“A four.”

“What do you mean, a four? He only gives out letter grades.”

“He said there was no appropriate letter.”

At that point, the receptionist informed me that “the hangman” would see me now. My classmate gave me a nice-knowing-you pat on the shoulder and a soulful nod. I trudged on.

I entered my professor’s office, a cramped space with thousands of books, papers, magazines and other paper materials stacked perilously on top of one another. I found him at his desk, clutching a thick tipped red marker, furiously swiping and scribbling through some poor sap’s work. Without looking up, he waved for me to sit down. Without picking up his head, he said, “Why the fuck are you in pharmacy school?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

Now he stopped. He craned his neck, nudged his thick framed eyeglasses down to the tip of his nose and said, “Oh God, don’t tell me you’ve been deaf this entire time.” He began pantomiming sign language to me with his hands while saying with measure, “Why. The. Fuck. Are. You. In. Pharmacy. School?”

“Well, sir, you see, my father was a pharmacist and my brother was a …”

He began to violently shuffle through papers on his desk. Finally, he found what he was looking for and tossed it at me. It was my story. There was a big black “A” on top. He had used something beside the red marker!

“That’s the best paper I’ve read in 25 years,” he said. “I’ll take it one step further. You’re the best writer I’ve had in 25 years.”

I don’t think it would surprise you to learn I was stunned. I managed to stammer, “Thank you, sir.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get too big a head....