Skip to main content
Close

Kickstart the Future

By Brock Wilbur · June 21, 2011

Brought to you by:


How to make the studio system obsolete… with love.

I want you to invest in my movie.

More specifically, I want you to invest in the future of movies.

I'm making a feature film (Your Friends Close) about video games and the people behind the scenes who are busy shaping not only the development of future generations, but changing the landscape of human interaction. It's a small, indie comedy/drama/thriller, aspiring to the filmic likes of Hitchcock's Rope, the tone of Philip K. Dick's subtlest sci-fi, the off-beat humor of Tim Schafer, and a dash of Jane McGonigal's critical theory.

It asks big questions about how far you're willing to go to win, and at what point you'll turn on the people who trust you. Also: murder, sex, racketeering, conspiracies, recreational drug use, rock and roll, and tasteful nudity ("We'll see about the nudity," says my director).

I get to work with the most talented people I know in Los Angeles, both in front of and behind the camera, and at the same time, I'm making something life-changing with my closest friends.

But more importantly to you, it's going to be a damn good movie, action-packed and full of ideas and characters you won't soon forget. Seriously. Nudge, nudge.

Rather than take the standard approach to film fundraising (lemonade stands, selling kidneys, bank heists), we've hopped on the bandwagon for a service called Kickstarter.

Kickstarter allows you to crowdsource funding for a creative endeavour — anything from movies to music, video games to new inventions. You post your idea and the minimum amount of money it would take to make it a reality, then people pledge donations. The money is only collected if the project meets its goal. Otherwise, the fundraiser gets nothing. But there's also no upper-limit. If you've got a great idea, people are often willing to pledge even double the original amount to make sure you get it made, and to help you do it right.

Since Kickstarter doesn't allow any of these donations to become a "business investment" in the project, the fundraisers have to get innovative with rewards systems. Based on the level of donation you're willing to pledge, you might get offered anything from a "Thank You" on their website to personal phone calls, up to flying to your home city and cooking you breakfast in bed. With everything in between.

And that's the genius of the process: if there's something we've learned from games, it's that money is never the grand prize you think it is. What's more fulfilling? An emotional investment. Micro-transactions in human form. And love.

But it takes off from there. Because since joining, I've started funding a dozen other projects. And it's not just donating $15 here and $10 there, then letting it be; I become instantly invested in what they're doing, and I can't stop checking back in. I can't wait for my free ticket to see Honest Abe on tour. Or play the ADORABLE looking iPhone game Catbalt Eats It All. Or see my name in the credits for Colin Hanks' (yes, from ROSWELL!) documentary on The Rise and Fall of Capital Records.

Or play the old-school RPG-inspired Aleph, where, based on my donation, some lucky players will be able to recruit Brock Wilbur (a 10th level Pessimist, with a Pen instead of a sword) into their hero party.

The thing is: I've felt this way before, this sense of shared investment in someone else's creative endeavor. It was something I experienced in film school, while working on other people's short films and music videos. On set, there is always a chance — no matter how small — to contribute to something greater. And even if those films turn out badly, there's still a sense of pride with helping bring something new into the world, even if you're just the guy who held the boom mic, or pointed a light, or brought bagels to craft services that morning.

It's like my old summer job of working road construction. I may experience the usual emotional dread while returning home for the holidays, but there's still a two-mile stretch just off the main drag where, I assure you, the gutters are mathematically perfect and will remain that way for decades to come. And I'm damn proud of that.

Let's bring that feeling to movies. For everyone, not just the people who get to be on set.  I want to have a stake in the final Harry Potter film! I want Joss Whedon to know I helped him make The Avengers! If I got to see my name at the end of The Dark Knight Rises, I would literally die.

What better marketing could there be for a film? Studios sometimes spend double the cost of making a film just to make sure you hear about it. What if films came with a built-in, rabid fanbase of semi-producers? Who had a vested interest in forcing their friends to see the movie they helped make? Not just their friend's crappy short film, but the new Will Ferrel comedy?

This, in turn, would pressure directors to make better films. Personally, I feel just as responsible to the anonymous user who donated $40 to my film as I would to John P. Moneybags if he wrote me a blank check. Imagine if studios made their films in the same way.

Some of them have. As fellow blogger Jeffrey Sconce pointed out to me, this sort of crowdfunding approach was actually the business model that was used, in pre–Roger Corman days, to make exploitation films. Producers would travel to different parts of the country, exploiting states' rights loopholes, then return to Hollywood with the funds for production. While he finds it amusing that we needed advanced technology in order to return to those business practices, at least we're lucky that the quality of the product has greatly improved.

And we aren't the snake-oil salesmen of the exploitation era. This model has become a viable option for many high-quality independent filmmakers. In addition to the aforementioned Colin Hanks, the Duplass brothers (who heavily influenced my film) recently funded both a thriller and a music documentary through Kickstarter. Justin Agnew, whose documentary on the video game Starcraft II, has generated 150% his original goal level and still has more than twenty days to go. This outpouring of help from the Starcraft community has allowed Agnew to move the project from part-time hobby to his full-time job.

Kevin Smith took flak for using a crowdfunding approach to make his film Red State; people didn't like that a guy who had made so much money in the past, not some upstart filmmaker, was asking them for more money. I don't think it was Smith that was the problem, but rather flaws in the rewards system he put in place: there wasn't really a donation option that allowed you to see the finished film for free in theatres or on DVD. Smith's "Red State Tour" charged fans $65 more to see the screening and hear him speak in a Q&A. Some were outraged, but for a hardcore Kevin Smith fan, that's still kind of a great deal.

 

At the very least, there's an approach here that every movie with a fanbase could profit from. For the upcoming Captain America, if they tried this approach on a limited scale, they might secure the support of some of their most volatile critics: The Superfans. They're going to be Superfans either way, but imagine the fervor they could create with 500 ticket pre-sales around a major event, giving Superfans an exclusive prize and official recognition for being early backers of the projects. With something like that, ComicCon becomes the new upfronts.

Frankly, the kickstarter crowdfunding model is a better use of your money than rolling the dice at the box office. I mean, you're smart. You're attractive. You're tempted to donate to an awesome film. But honestly, you probably know from a one-sentence summary whether you'll be seeing a movie or not. Why not put your entertainment budget into things you'd genuinely enjoy seeing? It helps us all avoid wasting time, because movies with zero interest would attract zero backers. No one would fund a movie like Cats & Dogs: The Revenge of Kitty Galore, except maybe ironic hipsters/stoners. On the other hand, movies that people believe in could get made faster; maybe we wouldn't have waited EIGHT YEARS for Blue Valentine if the producers had passed around a hat.

And I'm serious that this approach makes sense for studios, not just the art-house/indie crowd. Even with my extreme disdain for the lack of originality displayed in Hangover II, I believe in the people involved in that project more than they believe in us, so I'd be first in line to put down $15 bucks tomorrow for a movie ticket to Hangover III next year. $50 if Zach Galifinakis signed something for me. $300 for my name in the credits and a ticket to the premiere. $1,000 for a one-of-a-kind prop from the film and a chance to stare deep into Bradley Cooper's eyes IN PERSON! (What? They're like a painting of a landscape of an ocean of pure sex. Fred Phelps himself wouldn't look away.)

Seriously. Two minutes with an actor you love? What's that worth to you?

It's always been said that if you want Hollywood to stop making crappy movies, stop paying to see them. Well, that doesn't always work. Sometimes you're at the movie theater and all they have is Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer. But imagine a bright and glorious future, a wonderous cultural uptopia, where there is no Summer Not Bummered. Or Penguins Poppered. Or Saws… Sevened? Eight? What are we on?

It's a solution. It's an option. It's not perfect, but neither is the current system. It doesn't have to make the existing system obsolete, but some genius could start a studio that functions alongside it. Let Warner and Universal continue on their path, but what if Lionsgate or Fox Searchlight experimented with this approach? Lay out a list of films you're toying with, toss in a few intriguing donation rewards, and see what people want. If you're making what people want to see, your work selling the film is done for you. If you aren't generating any buzz, you know you're working with a flop and you can step it back to re-evaluate.

It's an exciting idea, and it touches on some of the biggest problems in the film world today. You get people back in theaters. You create a fanbase without pop-ups and social media noise. Most importantly, you create an emotional investment.

I was in a theater the other day, waiting to see Green Lantern, and I'd been uneasy about seeing it all week. The trailers seemed… off. And there was an obvious lack of enthusiasm on my behalf that made the whole process of going to the theater, getting the ticket, and seeing the film feel like a chore.

If I'd Kickstarted my Green Lantern ticket last year, I probably would've been counting down the days until I could finally see it. I'd treat it with the same fervor I bring to my own projects. And I probably would've liked it better. It would've felt like a reflection of me, of my process, my generosity. Of a choice, not a chore.  If I had that kind of investment, how many small problems and weaknesses would I have overlooked as a viewer? How much would I have recommended the film to others, as a reflection of me? And when the Green Lantern people did their next film, how much more would I be willing to micro-fund their next project?

Looking at you, Green Lantern 2. For $10k, can you rename one of the weird alien characters in my honor?

Until then, I'M MAKING A MOVIE AND I NEED YOUR HELP.

There. Dignity intact.