A Camera and a Dream

The cinema was pensive as the woman approached the hotel counter, checking in. 

My mate reached for my arm and we quickly glanced at each other, not wanting to miss it. This was it. Her film debut. This was the scene, the moment we’d been waiting for.

We held our breath, carefully listening. “We have rooms 3 and 5 available,” in her warm Aussie voice, as we glimpsed her reflection in the perspex counter screen - a hint of her hair and shadow, the subtle kindness of a stranger.

And that was it.

A tiny moment that the rest of the audience would barely acknowledge, yet to us, to us it was everything. 

My friend was elated because she was really there, on screen, and we knew it. It was artistic. It was clever. It was her in a reflection delivering a line. 

A line that had taken a day off work, hours on set, make-up, hair, costume, three years of production development and now a trip to Moore Park for the premiere.

It was all thrilling for us country girls who had never been to any kind of premiere let alone been in a film.

But the biggest thrill of all was how unexpectedly wholesome the whole experience was.

I’ve always been under the impression that the film industry is glamorous with flashy people who are slightly out of reach for us ‘normals.’ And maybe that’s the case for Hollywood blockbusters, but escorting my friend to the Sydney premiere of short film ‘House of Wolves’ really showed me a thing or two.

It showed me that filmmakers struggle, they are humble, they’re not in it for the money or fame, and maybe they’re really not that different from my local community theatre tribe.

Despite the fact that three years had passed and director Andrew Yeremeyev had warned my friend that a lot of her scene had been cut, she still received a beautiful warm welcome from him in the cinema foyer. His openness and kindness was authentic and he really took the time to make her feel known and comfortable. 

In fact, the crowd that gathered in the foyer were all smiles, all conversant. They spilled popcorn and sipped chardonnay, hugged hello and laughed together - much like a family at a reunion. 

It was clear there was no room for elitism here.

And my friend said it had been much the same on set.

At the heart of this little horror film was a bunch of kids who had grown up together in a small coastal town, dabbling with cameras and experimenting with horror tropes. Now in their 30s with filmmaking degrees and industry jobs behind them, they were still doing that.

In the Q&A, producer Anna Harlow recalled how her husband had made meals for 25 cast and crew as they “camped out” at Andrew’s parents house. Renowned cinematographer Daniel Holt couldn’t resist the chance to drive ‘home’ from Melbourne to create with his old mates. They all laughed about having no budget, no money, calling in lots of favours from their parents and the small town community. 

These filmmakers were successful in their own careers, yet they held onto the dream of creating together. 

That really struck me. 

It made me wonder about the relationship between trust, collaboration and art.

Founder of Raindance Film Festival Elliot Grove claims that “every production, from micro budget to global franchises, runs on one invisible resource: belief.”

I could see this with this bunch.

In creating together with those who had been like brothers, sisters and cousins for years, they were able to experiment, to question, to challenge and to take risks without judgement.

And maybe the tight budget had a lot to do with that. They had to take initiative, lean on each other and ‘make it work.’

For me, that was all too familiar.

Four times a year we ‘make it work’ on a shoestring budget of a couple of grand at my community theatre. We reuse and borrow and invent and, in doing so, we not only build a production, but we build up each other and we build trust.

Grove states that “filmmakers don’t need permission, they need connection” and that “trust is saying: I believe in you before you’re proven yourself.”

I think the same can be said for live theatre. In the end it’s all about having a go and having a good time while doing it. 

Experiencing the joy these young people had when watching their project on the big screen after so many years of labour, was both inspirational and humbling. And it made what we do as a community theatre group feel somehow bigger and more vital than ever, particularly for up and coming creators who need connection to feel they ‘can.’

As they all went for beers at the pub afterwards and my friend nodded goodbye to Andrew and his crew, still laughing and reminiscing, I thought about the film and its future at festivals.

I thought about werewolves and lonely country towns.

I thought about small hotels and the kindness of strangers.

I thought about how cool it was that my friend had been a part of this.

For a bunch of filmmakers who really were just a bunch of small town kindred kids with a camera.

And a dream.