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Far Out Magazine, 2024
Independent filmmaking was once celebrated as an art form in itself, harking back to a golden era when the feat of making a film on a shoestring budget was worn as a badge of honour. There was a reverence for the misfits who, armed with little more than a vision, a limited budget, and boundless resilience, forged a path that symbolised cautiously optimistic dreams and inventive ways of bringing them to life.
These films made our own child-like fantasies feel attainable—if the Duplass brothers, Sean Baker, or Kelly Reichardt could do it, maybe there was hope. Perhaps those far-fetched dreams, the ones scoffed at by grandparents and primary school teachers, could still slot into our adult lives, offering a beacon of possibility when the grown-up world feels unbearably sharp and unkind.
When I think of the wide-eyed, eager beginnings of filmmakers like Greta Gerwig and Christopher Nolan—now synonymous with the enormity of their recent projects and their near-mythical status within the industry—I can’t help but feel a small, childish stab of betrayal. I think of the endearing charm of Baghead, the glorious peculiarity of Frances Ha, and the earnest heart of Memento, and it makes me sad. I mourn the days when independent cinema was enough to satiate the appetites of both audiences and filmmakers; when the creative fire was stoked by nothing more than the pure, unfiltered desire to share a new idea with the world.
It didn’t even have to be on the big screen—just a screen, any screen, as long as it reached an audience. Even if that audience was just one person, the sheer privilege of making something was enough. Those were the days when art could exist for its own sake, without the need for blockbuster budgets or the weight of expectation. I can’t help but long for that simpler, more earnest time.
But when the likes of Nolan and Gerwig work with increasingly lucrative budgets that only distance them from their humble origins and fierce advocacy of independent filmmaking, it makes me wonder… were their earlier films only ever seen as a means to an end? Why champion an art form only to abandon it for something that threatens its very existence and is the antithesis of what it represents?
There seems to be a contradiction at the heart of the 21st-century director: a desire to be a creative anarchist, breaking the rules and flipping a finger to the system, while simultaneously working comfortably within that system, rarely challenging its boundaries. Perhaps they see independent filmmaking as a rite of passage, a struggle to be endured and overcome in exchange for the “reward” of a studio-level budget. Because, surely, more money means better art, right? Creativity thrives under limitless freedom and the absence of friction, doesn’t it?
But therein lies the paradox. The raw ingenuity and resourcefulness that define great independent films often come from constraints, from the necessity to innovate within tight boundaries. When that friction is removed, something fundamental is often lost—what was once a fire of creative urgency risks being extinguished by the weight of expectation and excess.
While they are both completely different films, what strikes me when comparing Oppenheimer and Barbie is how each project has been harmed by seemingly limitless creative freedom and no one to put their foot down. While the idea of a downward-moving foot may sound alarming or perhaps restrictive, I am a firm believer in its power within the creative process.
Artists and makers have always thrived and found their voices being most potent when faced with challenges – because if it’s easy, then why do it? Our work only improves and becomes the best it can be when mixed with the voices of other collaborators, a continuous clash of ideas that slowly carves away at the unnecessary layers, exposing the glittery core hidden beneath. Creativity is born from conflict, with people discovering an unwavering need to express a thought, idea or story because it was the only thing left, acting as an anchor to life and humanity itself.
But with a limitless budget and a team of people who will only nod politely and approve your every decision, the process of creation becomes slightly too easy and dictatorial. Sure, it’s challenging, but the risk of it doesn’t exist in the same way, and without risk, can we truly be creative?
In today’s world, the ability to create something free from the interference of others is often hailed as the ultimate artistic achievement. If an artist can truly express themselves without limitations or boundaries, it’s seen as proof of a voice so powerful that no one dares to impose restrictions. Yet, too much control and power can be stifling, and when I think of my favourite films, I see that their magic was born from struggle and perseverance.
The beauty of The Florida Project lies in its creation—a group of people so united in the untapped power of the story that they defied every expectation of failure to produce something truly exquisite. With Wendy and Lucy, the hope and pain of one woman are mirrored in the constraints of its production, reinforcing the very themes at the heart of the film. And in Good Time, you can feel the unbridled love for cinema radiating from the Safdie Brothers, a raw, infectious energy that defines every frame. These films remind us that art shaped by obstacles and collaboration often has a soul that perfection under limitless freedom cannot replicate.
The supposed creative freedom and power bestowed upon filmmakers like Gerwig and Nolan can be a dagger in disguise. While collaboration still exists on projects of such monumental scale, the heart of the story often becomes lost in a sea of endless possibilities and options. Without the limitations that force focus and clarity, the process risks becoming bloated, losing the distilled purity of the narrative’s core.
Films like Barbie and Oppenheimer can feel diluted by the very scale of their productions, as if trapped within the infinite walls of their own ambition. They forget that bigger isn’t always better, and that true creativity often thrives on risk-taking, not on erasing risk with a wave of financial power. The most groundbreaking ideas come from the pressure of constraints—when creators feel trapped inside a box and are forced to push against its walls, forging new paths forward. It’s this friction, this tension, that births innovation, not the absence of boundaries.