‘ ‘ So you want to be the next Quentin Tarantino, huh? You’ve got a Mini DV camera, a laptop… ‘ ‘ So you want to be the next Quentin Tarantino, huh? You’ve got a Mini DV camera, a laptop and a YouTube account ‘mdash; time to get famous. ‘ ‘ ‘ There’s only one problem: There are thousands of other young filmmakers out there, just like you, and to a Sundance Film Festival programmer like Roberta Munroe, you all look pretty much the same. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘The market is saturated right now,’ says Munroe, ‘and not with great films.’ She’s calling from Park City, Utah, home of the famous independent film festival, Sundance, that’s launched the careers of famous do-it-yourselfers like PT Anderson and Robert Rodriguez. But those were the days before digital cameras, before Final Cut Pro, before computers and phones came with built-in cameras. When making a movie meant shelling out thousands for bulky equipment and logging hours processing reel after reel of film before hand-splicing the frames, only the dedicated and daring survived. 15 years ago, Kevin Smith spent 27 thousand dollars to make ‘Clerks.’ Today he could do it for a few hundred bucks, but almost nobody would care if he did. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Any given year, about 5000 [movies] are submitted to Sundance,’ says Munroe. ‘Out of that, maybe 300 are good films, only 200 are programmable, and we actually select 80-some. The number of submissions has gone up, but the number of good ones hasn’t.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ When she isn’t breaking hearts in Park City, Munroe runs a film consultation business out of Los Angeles, putting years of expertise to work on other people’s scripts and short films (she’s also a filmmaker herself.) ‘ ‘ ‘ Her first book, ‘How Not to Make a Short Film: Secrets from a Sundance Programmer,’ is a sharply funny and bleak kick in the pants for every wannabe-filmmaker, its sound advice thickly coated in a good-freakin’-luck pragmatism. And to every one of you out there who thinks you can make it, well, good freakin’ luck.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ On a cold Saturday morning, Nate Withrow and Dangerfield Moore wait in an empty rehearsal room on the 16th floor of the Cathedral, the Department of Theater Arts. A tiny Mini DV camera rests on a tripod, pointing at the empty room. They’re holding auditions for their second movie together. ‘ ‘ ‘ It doesn’t look like a major operation. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘We had 12 auditions last night,’ says Withrow. ‘That’s more than the entirety of the last movie.’ His forearm is littered with tattoos, his pants embellished with a skull and crossbones. He wears silver rings, silver barbells in his ears, silver chains around his neck and wrists and a black skullcap with an embroidered silver skull. Moore, his clean-cut opposite with carefully combed hair and a perfect 5 o’clock shadow at 11 am, is arranging piles of scripts in neat stacks on a nearby table. ‘ ‘ ‘ Withrow, 28, is the self-appointed Assistant Director and Producer. Moore is his director. A barebones crew, maybe, but such is often the case when everyone ‘mdash; both crew and talent ‘mdash; works for free. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Our budget is pretty much whatever I can scrounge out of my pocket,’ says Withrow, between bites of late-breakfast bacon. ‘Of course, the goal is to be able to get paid to do this forever.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ Moore, 23, takes a seat next to his producer. ‘It’s surprising how many people you can get to one place when you’re doing a movie for free,’ he says, ‘but it’s difficult to get them to actually do work.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ Part of Moore’s strategy is tapping familiar resources. In addition to advertising their auditions on craigslist, Pitt alum Moore scavenges the theater department for wayward talent. ‘We get a lot of people in here who don’t get [Pitt Repertory] theater roles. They get denied there, and they come in here and do really well.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ Though no auditions arrived today, the guys are confident. It isn’t the actors they’re worried about. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘We tried to get producers,’ says Moore, ‘production managers’hellip;but it’s hard. It’s the hardest job in the whole thing and no one will do it. It’s a shame, but it’s the way it is.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ For now, the two are playing it by ear. They recently finished their first independently filmed, independently financed project, and though they don’t know what they’ll do with it or the next one, they’re still filming every chance they get outside of their regular jobs. It’s noon now, and no auditions arrived yet. One actor calls and says he may come around five o’clock. ‘ ‘ ‘ Moore taps the cast list and looks at Withrow. ‘We might have to use you,’ he says. They laugh, and it’s impossible to tell whether or not they’re joking. ‘ ‘ ‘ Roberta Munroe is no stranger to this kind of amateur filmmaking. ‘The number one reason that thousands of short films out there don’t get in [to Sundance],’ she says, ‘is that one person filmed, wrote, produced, edited, directed and scored their own movie. Filmmaking is collaborative storytelling.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ But to a plugged-in generation of would-be pirates and rebels, guerilla filmmaking is the new auteur theory. Though cheap, on-the-fly filmmaking is a romantic notion ‘mdash; and a brilliant get-rich-quick scheme ‘mdash; the path to success is either fortuitously short or never-ending. And for most, it’s the latter. ‘ ‘ ‘ This is a new age of accessibility when you can buy most of the tools you need to direct the next Indie circuit hit at Wal-Mart. But with accessibility comes popularity, and with popularity comes the inevitable glut ‘mdash; a glut that Munroe doesn’t want any young filmmaker to get stuck as a part of. ‘They’re one in a thousand,’ she says of Indie idols like Robert Rodriguez or Quentin Tarantino. ‘And unless you really are that one, you need a sound, opinionated group of people around you. Those roles are there for a reason.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ Sam Boese knows. A Carnegie Mellon alum with a degree in Business and Social Science, he didn’t join Pittsburgh’s film community until after graduation ‘mdash; and he knows what the industry looks like from the bottom. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Being a starting off filmmaker, you’re kind of the person who does everything,’ he says. ‘You end up shooting it, directing it, editing it. But as you do that more and more you run into other people doing the same thing, so you can get help on a lot of the process.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ After taking the occasional class at Pittsburgh Filmmakers ‘mdash; through which Pitt students can also take film production classes for University credit ‘mdash; Boese continued his film education after graduating from CMU. Business degree notwithstanding, artistic passion is his motivator now. ‘Once I got out into the post-college world, I realized I’d eventually like to be working on things I like to do,’ he says. ‘And that thing is filmmaking.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ The filmmaking resources in Pittsburgh are plenty, from the facilities at Pittsburgh Filmmakers to the major Hollywood productions like ‘Zack and Miri Make a Porno’ that flock to Pittsburgh for it’s renowned film crews and lucrative tax breaks. But pursuing your craft isn’t easy, and it certainly isn’t always fun. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘It’s not very rewarding,’ said Boese of his time as a Production Assistant. ‘It’s the bottom of the totem pole. Regardless of how much knowledge of film and video production you have, if they haven’t seen your face, there’s only so much responsibility they can give you.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ A budding filmmaker’s Pittsburgh career needn’t revolve around light maintenance and box moving, though. Festivals like the monthly Film Kitchen showcase local artists, as does the Three Rivers Film Festival ‘mdash; along with the opportunity that comes with the classes and production facilities at Pittsburgh Filmmakers, which help people like Boese develop their craft and meet like-minded students. ‘ ‘ ‘ Roberta Munroe never went to film school. She doesn’t do film theory, she doesn’t set up lighting kits. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘I don’t think it’s all that important,’ she says. ‘If school is your thing, you should definitely do it. But you can definitely make your own school, too.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ Maybe. You can teach someone to load a camera or process film, but if there’s one thing Munroe knows, it’s that you can’t teach creativity. ‘ ‘ ‘ Or the one other thing that every filmmaker needs these days ‘mdash; ‘It takes courage. And it’s not easy. It takes a lot of courage to not just run around and act like you’re the next Quentin Tarantino.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ And just like that, like every high school teacher who toughened you up and every coach who made you run laps for mouthing off, Munroe divulged the one thing every filmmaker-to-be needs most of all: Humility.