You Are a Filmmaker: An Interactive Novel

By Matt Harry and Juliane Crump

Ever wanted to work in Hollywood? Now you can!

YOU ARE A FILMMAKER is an illustrated, interactive novel about making it big in the movie business. With over 100 different outcomes, you may become an Oscar-winning director, marry a movie star, join a cult, or get killed by a paranoid producer. There are also sec

• Language: English
• Publisher: Codex Arcanum
• Release date: Jun 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736502631

Matt Harry

Matt Harry is the author of Sorcery for Beginners, Cryptozoology for Beginners, and Superkid. Matt learned to make movies at the University of Southern California, which was the closest he could get to attending Hogwarts in the real world. He has worked as a reality TV editor, film professor, screenwriter, director, book editor, playwright, novelist, and a chauffeur of young children. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, two sons, and a rotating coterie of cats.

Book preview

title

For Mom and Dad,

who always supported my dreams

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2021 Codex Arcanum

Cover design © Oli Price at bonobobookcovers.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Codex Arcanum, Inc., Los Angeles, California

www.codexarcanumpress.com

Edited by Kaitlin Severini

Illustrations by Juliane Crump, Pamela Gabiola, Manuel Haas, Matt Harry, Milo Harry, Iván Toledo, ZigMelon

Interior layout by Polgarus Studios

ISBN: 978-1-7365026-2-4

e-ISBN: 978-1-7365026-3-1

First edition

Printed in the United States of America

Everything in this book happened.

Probably.

1 - FADE IN:

It’s your first day of film school! Before you stands the arched stone entryway to Southern California University. Palm trees sway behind the columned buildings. Bright sun gleams off the windows. And on the concrete paver at your feet, someone has carved the words The real world ends here.

Your pulse quickens as you step over the letters. You’ve loved movies your whole life, but you never imagined filmmaking might be an actual career path. Not until a low-budget feature film shoot came to your small Ohio town last summer. Some of the actors stayed in your parents’ motel. Thanks to their not-so-gentle nudging, you were able to score a job on set as a production assistant. The hours were long, but seeing all the various crew positions made you realize how many opportunities there are in the film business. You even got to meet Kevin Bacon! On the last day of the shoot, you told the executive producer that you, too, wanted to be a filmmaker.

Thankfully, she didn’t laugh in your face. I know that look, she said fondly. If you want, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation to film school.

You hadn’t even considered studying cinema before then. With her glowing letter in hand, you applied to film programs all over the country. Incredibly, you were accepted to one of the best in the world. The tuition at SCU is steep, but you decided to take out some student loans and go for it.

Now here you are, surrounded by state-of-the-art facilities and giddy film students. You’re just about to head into the main building for orientation when a young man in his twenties storms out. His long dark hair hangs in strings and a triangular soul patch skulks beneath his lower lip. His T-shirt shows Malcom McDowell getting brainwashed in A Clockwork Orange.

No, YOU’RE out of line! he shouts back at the building. Charging what you do for tuition, when people could learn just as much watching Netflix. It’s highway ROBBERY.

He turns to you suddenly, his green eyes wild. You wanna learn to make movies? Do NOT go through those doors, okay? They’ll take every penny you have and leave you with NOTHING. He shouts the last word at the building, then turns back to face the small crowd that has gathered.

As of this moment, I am starting a production company. All of you can get in on the ground floor. Equal partners with me, Max Lubitsch. Instead of wasting our time in some overpriced classroom, learning how to imitate other films, we’ll make our own. New flicks for a new generation. Who’s with me?

His wild green eyes connect with yours.

---

If you leave with Max, turn to 101.

No way are you dropping out of school on your first day. Ignore Max and flip to 192.

2

You’re not sure how you ended up here. Your previous surroundings are gone. All around you is an infinite expanse of white nothingness. It might be snow, but it’s not cold. It’s more like the whiteness of a blank page. Or an overexposed frame of film.

It’s the void of the undecided, you realize. Which makes sense, because you certainly didn’t make any choices to get here. And by not choosing anything, you have phased out of existence. The only way to get back, you tell yourself, is to return to my last moment of agency. Pick a pathway.

Very well. What’s the last thing you can remember? You close your eyes, trying to picture the scene. Warmth on your skin. The sound of rustling palm trees. Now, visual details start to appear. Sunshine. A stone archway. The words The real world ends here.

That’s it! You were at your first day of film school. A young man with long, stringy hair was yelling about dropping out and making his own movies. He wanted you to come with him. It’s an intriguing proposal, but perhaps you should ignore him and continue to orientation.

You hold your breath. This time, you make a choice.

---

If you choose to go with Max, turn to 101.

If you ignore him and head in to film school, go to 192.

3

Sorry, you say to Brannon, but that doesn’t sound like it’s in my wheelhouse. If we can’t agree about something to work on, then I think we should go our separate ways.

Suit yourself, the manager says, but fair warning: You won’t get far in this biz if you’re not willing to collaborate. You wanna work alone, go self-publish a novel.

After he hangs up, you feel a renewed energy to write another script. Something that will capture the attention of a real collaborator. Someone who appreciates your writing and understands what you are trying to do. Not some wannabe producer who’s just looking for a pair of hands.

---

Turn to 286.

4

Maybe Max is right—maybe Scarecrow will turn out great and launch your filmmaking career. But right now, you need a way to pay your rent.

You take a job as a server at a local restaurant. Most of your co-workers are wannabe filmmakers or actors too. A few months pass, but there’s no word from the producers or Max. When you text him, he tells you they’re working away and applying to festivals.

By the fall, you’re still barely scraping by. It’s been a year since you came out to Los Angeles to be a filmmaker, and all you have to show for it are some casual hookups and fifty thousand dollars in student loan debt.

Finally, the producers send an email letting you know that Scarecrow didn’t get into the first round of festivals. They plan to apply to others, though, and want to do some more editing to improve the film. They even have the gall to ask you for more money. After walking around your apartment to calm down, you tell them that every penny you have is already invested in the film. They do not respond.

Knowing that it will be at least another year before they hear about the next round of festivals, you decide to pack up your things and move home.

---

Go to 180.

5

You spend the next two years as Donny’s assistant editor. You work on three low-budget movies and a couple of promotional trailers. Donny lets you cut scenes sometimes and you’re able to put together a nice editor’s reel from the footage. By now you know a few people in post-production, and you’re hearing about job opportunities fairly regularly. When an opening comes up for an assistant editor on the popular reality show The Cad, you jump at it. The pay is almost double what you’re making with Donny and the work is steady. The only downside is that, as with nearly every entry-level editing job, you’re working nights.

For three years, from six p.m. to three a.m., you work on The Cad and its various spin-offs, specials, and tell-all shows. You’re promoted to lead assistant editor, then additional editor, then full episodic editor. You’re making six figures a year at the age of thirty. Since you work nights and sleep during the day, you don’t even have time to spend all your newfound wealth. On the advice of some older editors, you purchase a two-bedroom condo in Culver City. LA real estate is the best investment, everyone agrees.

Your parents are pleased (and a bit surprised) by your success. You know you’re lucky to have such a good job, but you don’t love working in reality television. Sure, it’s steady, but you always envisioned yourself making more prestigious projects. You’re at a bar called Four Perf one evening, complaining about this issue to a friend of yours. She’s a post producer on Evergreen, a buzzy hour-long TV drama just finishing its first season.

You know, this is a very doable goal, she informs you, dunking an olive into her martini before popping it in her mouth. "You just have to be willing to take a pay cut. For whatever dumb reason, narrative producers won’t hire editors from reality shows. It’s a class thing, I guess. I could pull a few strings and get you onto Evergreen for next season, but you’d have to start as an AE and work your way back up. What do you think?"

It’s a generous offer. The show she’s on is one of the most talked-about new dramas of the year. Even as an assistant editor, it would look great on your résumé. But taking a pay cut means you won’t be able to afford your mortgage.

---

If you accept the offer to be an assistant editor on Evergreen, go to 118.

If you decide to stay a reality TV editor, turn to 259.

6

I’d like to work on a feature, you say, handing Tuck the index card. The name of the movie is Nest of Spiders. Probably a low-budget horror movie.

Phenomenal choice, Tuck says. My first gig was on a feature too. Let’s ring-a-ding the editor and get you hooked up.

The movie is being edited in a small warehouse in West Adams. It seems like an odd choice until you realize they’re also shooting a large part of the movie in the same location. The editor, Donny Maddox, is a former student of Tuck’s. He’s an outgoing guy with a lanky frame and long hair. He has a strong preference for Led Zeppelin shirts and flip-flops.

Don’t worry, this show’ll be a breeze, he tells you on your first day. Standard B-movie slasher stuff. You’ll be in charge of importing and organizing the footage, pulling in sound effects, and occasionally doing rough cuts. Sound close enough for jazz?

You nod. Thanks to Tuck’s teaching, nothing he mentions is a surprise. You spend the first few weeks bringing in footage and organizing the project. Sometimes the screams from the nearby set can be distracting, but for the most part, Donny’s right—it’s an easy job.

It gets less easy when the shoot wraps. The producer, Ben Reese, starts coming in to watch the footage. You often hear him before you see him, as he has a tendency to enter the warehouse and shout things like Let’s watch some CUTS!

Despite his powerful position, every time you see him, he’s wearing black board shorts and a black hoodie. He also wears a distinctive pair of orange sunglasses that he never takes off. Soon enough, you realize why.

Christ, this scene SUCKS, he says one afternoon in the edit bay. I need a little herbal refreshment to get through this. Donny, you down? The editor shrugs. Ben turns to you, his eyes impossible to read behind his orange lenses. What about you, kid? Do you partake?

You blush a little. Cannabis is legal in California, so you’ve tried it a few times during your years at school. But you’ve never been high while working. You’re not sure if it would be a help or a hindrance.

---

If you agree to smoke up with Ben and Donny, go to 250.

If you make up an excuse, turn to 18.

7

5K? you text back to Ryan.

Fine, he immediately replies. There’s 25K cash in my closet safe. The code is 1895. You take a dollar more, and I’ll sic the cops on your blackmailing ass. Now lose this number forever.

You can’t believe how easy that was. You head to Ryan’s bedroom—the place you were never allowed to sleep in all your time with him—and find his fire safe in the floor of the closet. The code works. Inside are three bank bundles of hundreds, a few hard drives, a revolver, some paperwork, and a black velvet bag. Out of curiosity, you open this last item. A dozen gemstones of various colors glitter within.

Holy shit, you breathe. You have no idea what they’re worth, but you’re betting it’s a lot more than five thousand dollars.

---

If you decide to take the gems, go to 265.

If you just leave with the five grand, turn to 271.

8

Hey, Jen, you say when the waitress shows up for her shift later that night. Sorry to bug you again, I was just wondering if, you know, you ever got time to read my motel script.

Oh my God! She smacks the heel of her hand into her forehead. I totally forgot. Send me a text and I will get to it tomorrow. Pinkie promise.

You do as she asks, fully prepared for her to forget again. But when she shows up at the bar the next night, something about her demeanor is off. You can tell she’s avoiding you. There’s a lull around ten and you’re finally able to corner her. When you ask what she thought of your writing, she blushes.

Oh. Um. Well, I’m not really the target audience for movies like this, she tells you, shuffling her feet. I’m more into, like, thrillers.

Still, you’ve been to film school, you tell her. I could really use some notes.

She sighs. Okay. But remember, this is just, like, my opinion. Other people might think differently.

Just tell me what you think.

Okay. She takes a deep breath, then fixes her eyes on yours. I think you need to do some polishing. The dialogue’s not realistic, the characters are flat, and the story is totally trite. You want to be Cameron Crowe, but it reads like Michael Bay. And you gotta get rid of that sex scene. Nobody loses their virginity like they’re starring in a porn film.

Wow. Now you’re the one who’s blushing. Those are . . . definitely notes.

Jen lays a hand on your arm. I respect you too much to blow smoke up your ass. But I can tell this story’s important to you, so you should keep working on it. Take a writing workshop. Maybe one of those improv courses at the Groundlings or Second City to help with your jokes. Keep revising. Just my two cents.

The inside of your brain is a hurricane of emotions as Jen walks off. Who is she to recommend that you take a writing class? You already have a film degree from one of the best schools in the world! But what if she’s right? another voice pipes up in your head. What if you really aren’t talented?

As you wipe down the bar, you decide there’s only one way to respond to this.

---

If you sign up for an improvisation class, turn to 270.

If you write another script, go to 297.

If you smash the windows of Jen’s car, turn to 249.

9

I want to be a director of photography, you tell Jean-Pierre.

"Ah, oui, he says. Zee most coveted job in camera. Not easy to achieve, but we shall start you on your way. Bon. You must, of course, begin as a camera production assistant. I know of a few upcoming productions we could place you on."

Jean-Pierre is as good as his word. Within a month of graduating, you’re working as the camera department PA on an indie feature. You’re basically a gopher for the camera department, grabbing any small pieces of gear the DP or ACs need. The hours are long, but it’s energizing to be on set. You befriend lots of film professionals. Soon, you’re hired on another film project as the second assistant camera person. After a couple years and over a dozen productions, you work your way up to first AC.

Then comes your big break. Your friend Aymae tells you she was asked to DP a low-budget thriller in a few months. She can’t do it, but offers to put in a good word for you. At the same time, you’re offered a first assistant camera job on a big-budget studio picture. If you get it, you’ll automatically be admitted to the Cinematographers Guild. Your dream is to be a DP, but if you join Local 600, you’ll get health insurance and a pension.

---

If you go for the cinematography gig, turn to 150.

If you play it safe and take the AC job, go to 33.

10

I’ll take the job, you tell the acquisitions exec.

On Monday, you start on your new career path. You don’t love wearing business attire, but the work is pretty easy. Your boss, Ava, is dedicated and smart, going out of her way to treat you like a collaborator. Within a few months, you’re an expert at spreadsheets, rolling phone calls, and managing your boss’s busy schedule. Ava shows her appreciation by giving you a raise.

Before you know it, three years have gone by. Thanks to you, Ava’s office is a well-oiled machine. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of upward mobility in your position. The money and benefits are solid, but you feel like you haven’t achieved your Hollywood dreams. Maybe you owe it to yourself to at least try to make your own movie.

---

If you decide to stay an assistant, turn to 38.

If you attempt to make your own movie, go to 167.

11

You win! You actually win the TV fellowship. You and six other writers are invited to participate in a six-month, all-expenses-paid, full-time training program, right on the studio lot. It’s like the doors to Hollywood, which have long been locked to you, are suddenly flung wide. You’re thrilled to drive through the big gates of the film studio every morning. You spend your days working on original TV pitches, meeting with executives, and attending workshops about every aspect of television production. It’s like a second film school, except you don’t have to pay for it and you’re constantly making real contacts in the business.

Three months into the fellowship, you interview with the network’s showrunners for a spot in one of their writers rooms. If they decide to hire you, the studio will pay your salary for the first three months. It’s a win-win situation.

A few days later, you get the news: One of the showrunners has picked you! In two weeks, you’ll be a staff writer on a network show. You immediately call your parents to tell them the good news.

That’s so incredible, honey, your mom says warmly. I know you’ve been working hard on your writing these last few years. What sort of show will you be on?

---

If you were hired on a half-hour sitcom, turn to 256.

If you were hired on an hour-long drama, go to 300.

12

Let’s just stick with what I know, you tell Jon. Let’s do another commercial.

But rumors about Crypt Runner prevent you from being hired anywhere. The gossip blames you for the film’s poor quality, citing all kinds of wild, crazy, and totally fabricated behavior on your part. You’re not sure whether Deacon or the studio are behind the lies, but denying them only makes you sound more guilty.

They’re scapegoating you, Jon reveals. "The studio knows they’re gonna shit the bed with Crypt Runner, so they’re trying to shift the blame to you. It’s total garbage, but everyone buys into it. Like Richard Gere and the gerbil back in the day. Only thing you can do is lie low for a few months until people forget about you and move on."

A few months? you moan in dismay.

Could be a year, I don’t know, Jon says. These things have their own schedule.

Since you’re unable to direct, you look around for other opportunities. After some consideration, you decide to apply for the Assistant Director’s Training Program, which is run by the Directors Guild. It’s very competitive, but luckily you are one of the candidates selected.

Your thought was to make some contacts until you could direct again, but you find that you really enjoy assistant directing. The director might be the creative captain of a project, but the AD is the true boss on set. Your job is to keep everyone on schedule, figure out how long each shot will take, and use your angry voice a lot. All of which you excel at.

When the DGA training program is over, you’re offered a second AD job on a $10 million studio feature. No one seems to care about or remember the Crypt Runner rumors.

For the next twenty-three years, you have a thriving career as an assistant director. You gain a reputation for being tough but calm. You collaborate with several excellent directors, but you never envy their position. You’ve seen how awful directing can be, and you’re glad to have found your own niche.

FADE TO BLACK.

13

Matt Harry’s writing has been recognized by the Austin Film Festival, the NYTVF Comedy Script Contest, Script Pipeline, the Launchpad Manuscript Contest, the Stowe Story Labs, the Screencraft Fellowships, and the Nicholl Fellowships. His first produced feature screenplay, Fugue, landed on several top ten lists, won Best Horror Film at the Mississippi Film Festival, and was picked up for distribution by GoDigital. Matt has also written screenplays for Primary Wave, Platform One Media, Co-op Entertainment, and Flynn Picture Co. The short film Super Kids, which he wrote and co-directed, has over 6.2 million views on YouTube. His TV pilot Monster Cops was awarded Grand Prize in the Second City Original Sitcom Contest, and is currently in development.

Matt also created the immersive romantic comedy Somebody to Love, which No Proscenium called endearing, playful, and a bold new take on a genre, while Haunting agreed it was a delightful romp.

---

If you’d still like to learn more about the author, turn to 198.

If you’d rather start the actual story, go to 1.

14

Rhuti may be inexperienced, but she’s just as passionate as you are. You know that’s what matters if you want to make Sorcery something special.

She demonstrates her savviness right away, casting a unique combination of former movie stars and fresh up-and-comers to act in the film. Several people warn you about the unpredictability of the actor she chooses for the villain, but you trust her instincts. Rhuti makes similar decisions with the crew, hiring several people she knew at film school, rather than work with experienced but unexcited department heads.

The shoot is tricky. The actor playing the villain likes to improvise, and the cinematographer chooses an unusual color palette for the movie. But somehow it all works. You’ve been around enough film sets to realize this one feels different. The crew seem to sense it too working harder to get every detail right. By the time the production wraps, you know you’ve made something special.

Sorcery opens in late April of the following year. It’s number one at the box office four weeks in a row, blowing well past Sony’s expectations. Regular audiences and fans alike love the villain, they love the look, they love the mythology. Everyone agrees it has the potential to be a new Marvel Cinematic Universe.

Sony immediately greenlights you to go into production on the sequel. Rhuti is on board to direct and Grey the writer has already finished two more scripts. The plan was to have three or four films introduce various characters, then bring them all together in a fifth team-up movie, but now Sony wants you to speed things up. We have to give audiences what they want as soon as possible, they insist. If you won’t do it, we’ll find someone who will.

---

If you insist on sticking to your plan, go to 266.

If you agree to speed up the story, turn to 255.

15

It’s impossible for a single human to finish everything August gave you in forty-eight hours. The only way to complete the audition packet is to go directly to the source. You spend the rest of the afternoon hanging out in your car, watching the entrance to August’s office. At around five p.m., a fashionable woman in her twenties exits with a schnauzer on a leash. She must be August’s current assistant. You get out of your car and jog over to her.

Hey there! you call warmly. Don’t I know you from film school? SCU, right? It’s a guess, but you have a feeling that August prefers to hire people from his alma mater.

That’s right, the woman says cautiously. And you are?

---

If you lie and threaten her, turn to 285.

If you come clean, turn to 57.

16

Matt Harry is the author of this book. He also wrote Sorcery for Beginners, Cryptozoology for Beginners, and Superkid. Matt learned to make movies at the University of Southern California, which was the closest he could get to attending Hogwarts in the real world. He has worked as a reality TV editor, film professor, screenwriter, director, book editor, playwright, novelist, and a chauffeur of young children. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, two sons, and a rotating coterie of cats.

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If you’d like a more scintillating peek into the author’s origins, turn to 198.

If awards and accolades are your thing, flip to 13.

If you’d rather just start the actual book already, go to 1.

17

Great idea, you tell Howard. But unfortunately, Sharbat’s been having visa issues. She can’t enter the country until after the shoot starts. Do you want to talk to her over Zoom?

This is a lie; Sharbat has been in the States for several days. But Howard doesn't know that. He frowns in disappointment. Nah, don't worry about it. Just make sure these issues don't hold up our schedule.

Absolutely, you say, relieved that he doesn’t press the matter further.

You tell Sharbat to keep a low profile until the shoot starts. Howard makes a couple more attempts to score a private meeting with her, but you always manage to find a way to avoid it. Soon enough, the shoot is finished. Sharbat and everyone else is incredible in the film.

Fatwa premieres at the Venice Film Festival eight months later. There’s a fifteen-minute standing ovation when the film is over. Max is hailed as a bright new voice in cinema, and Sharbat’s performance is praised as one of the best of the year. Every studio in town wants to work with you and Max.

Two weeks before Fatwa opens, Howard Gold is arrested on multiple counts of sexual assault. It turns out that the predatory behavior he exhibited with