The cheaper it is to create something, the easier it is to profit.

That’s common sense.  That’s business basics.  That’s logic.

So why, at a time when anyone can start a business or create and distribute media from scratch, do we still pursue venture capital and beg advertisers for sponsorships?

Because all of our business fantasies still resemble the sprawling romantic empires of the past, rather than the streamlined and self-sustaining models of the future.  We don’t just dream of succeeding; we dream of winning big.

And that means our dreams are hopelessly out of reach unless we know The Right People.

So let’s change that.

First, Let’s Pretend You’ll Never Be Worth Anything

Let’s start with your prized business idea.  You know, the one you’ve been nurturing for years… sharing in hushed tones, and only with the people you hope you can trust… paranoid that someone else might steal your genius out from under you and run off with it, making millions.

Now, pretend your idea is worthless.

Pretend no one would ever invest a dollar to help you get that company off the ground.

Pretend your entire business plan boils down to “I told you so.”

No investors.  No angels.  No grants.

Would you still do it?

Could you still do it?

(Would you want to?)

Artists: You Too.

Forget ads.

You don’t lay awake at night inventing stories in your head just so someone else can use them to sell laundry detergent.  You create stories because that’s what you do.

But you also have to eat.

Traditionally, that means sacrificing “objectionable” aspects of your creation (aka, “I don’t get it…”) so that a complete stranger will consider sponsoring it.  (“You have an amazing idea?  Great.  But can it sell cat food?”)

Fortunately, you now have choices.  You just have to be willing to work for yourself.

So if you’d rather spend your time creating instead of begging, here are five ways to fix (and fund) your own projects.

1. You Want to Fund an Iceberg? Monetize the Tip.

An iceberg is massive, but ships only see (and react to) the tiny portion that breaks the surface.  Instead of trying to mobilize the whole thing, just focus on the leading edge.

What single portion of your epic idea can you produce, promote and distribute right now?  Which element could force people to sit up and take notice, whether it was connected to a larger system or not?

Find a way to isolate and profitably market the leading edge of your idea and the vast mechanism behind it will eventually come into view.  But if you try to create it all at once, you’ll be overwhelmed, and you’ll never build up enough momentum to break the surface.

2. Think Small(er).

Sure, you can see yourself running a thousand person company.  But how many people do you need to get your idea off the ground?

Yes, you could direct an amazing film with a cast of hundreds.  But how few characters does your story need to still be told clearly?

Too many pieces and the picture falls apart;  too few and the idea can’t support itself.

Find the absolute bare minimum of resources you need to make something compelling.  Once you’ve done that, you can build out, which feels like success.  But starting big and scaling back feels like failure.  Better to cast yourself as the underdog than the target.

3. Crowdfund It.

Investors can provide you with significant funds and resources, but investors also expect to earn their money back, plus a profit.  When you take their money, the clock is ticking.  You’re judged at every step.

So why not get judged once, in advance, and earn small wagers with no strings attached?

That’s where crowdfunding services like Kickstarter and IndieGogo come in.  They let your audience donate to your project in advance. This not only provides you with starting capital, but also a clearer idea of how interested the public is in your work.  (Did you expect to raise $10,000 for a project, but you only raised $2,000?  There’s a lesson there.)

4. Let Your Audience Be Your Accountants.

You make products to benefit the customer.  You create art to entertain the audience.

So trust them with your ledger.

To crowdfund wisely, make your financial goals crystal clear: “I need X dollars to complete Project Z.”  Sympathetic audiences will respond, not just because they’re interested in the project, but because they can see just how close (or far) you are to your budgetary goals.

When your audience understands the direct impact their contribution will have on your bottom line, they’ll be more likely to invest in your plan — partially because you have a plan, and you aren’t afraid to share it.

And if you run into trouble, maybe they can help.  Because you’re all in it together.

5. Make Your Own Merchandise.

If you’re an artist, you probably dream of seeing your work taken seriously.  But you may also dream of seeing your work on TV screens and billboards, or on someone’s t-shirt, backpack or refrigerator magnet.  (There’s no shame in ancillaries.)

If one of your goals is to create work that becomes so iconic in the minds of its audience that they’ll voluntarily pay to wear / share / promote it, do them (and you) a favor: make it easy for them.

Characters.  Quotes.  Games.  Jokes.  Puzzles.  Apparel.  Toys.  Replicas.  The list goes on.  And no matter how obscure your project may seem, there’s a hook in there somewhere that fans could use as a visual calling card to identify themselves.

For example, you’ve probably seen a Hatchet Man car decal and never known what it meant.  Or a Homestar Runner laptop skin, a Diesel Sweeties in-joke t-shirt or an Achewood shotglass, which are some of the creative ways the Brothers Chaps, Richard Stevens and Chris Onstad have been self-funding their respective web media for years.

So instead of trying to shoehorn your ideas into someone else’s ad spend, focus on selling your work your way.  License your creations.  Produce your own merchandise.  Provide tangible goods that your audience can choose to purchase, thereby helping you continue to create the work they already enjoy.

One Last Kick in the Ass

In the history of humanity, we’ve never had this kind of universal access to knowledge, resources, communication, distribution and technology.

If you have an idea, you can start a company.

If you have a story, you can change the world.

Go ahead.  Dream big.

But it all has to start somewhere.

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Screenwriter John August recently blogged about the Bechdel test, a (somewhat) tongue-in-cheek way to determine a film’s level of feminism.  It consists of three questions you can ask about any film:

1. Are there two or more female characters with names?
2. Do they talk to each other?
3. If they talk to each other, do they talk about something other than a man?

Obviously, the test itself isn’t the point.  It’s intended to start a conversation about our media, our culture and, ultimately, why certain POVs (namely, that of straight white males) are so dominant compared to everyone else’s.

Nonetheless, as this video illustrates, you’d be surprised how many hit films fail the test.

As one of August’s commenters noted, it’s not just films that fail the Bechdel test, but novels and plays as well:

The same oversight exists in our nation’s public and independent high school English classes. Last year the most taught books in America were: Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Huckleberry Finn, Julius Caeser, To Kill a Mockingbird, Hamlet, The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies, Of Mice and Men, and The Odyssey… All of these texts fail the Bechdel test, too. Except for The Odyssey. Go figure.

So, it seems male-focused media has dominated our culture for centuries, and film is just the latest example of a classical bias reasserting itself.

(Un)fair enough.

What’s interesting to me is that film might also be the hardest medium to equalize.

Dudes in Motion

In Robert McKee’s screenwriting guide Story, he explains the differences in our popular media formats:

• Novels are tales of internal conflict, expressed through monologues
• Plays are tales of interpersonal conflict, expressed through dialogue
• Films are tales of external conflict, expressed through action

Again, as with the Bechdel test, there are exclusions, exceptions and overlaps.  But generally (and financially) speaking, McKee’s right: history’s most profitable films have been blockbusters built on spectacle.

Film is motion.  Film is action.  Films must be dynamic in order to justify paying $12 to sit in a dark room filled with strangers, all sharing the same communal experience of being driven to emotion by a series moving images.

Which is why I’m not so sure the Bechdel test, which hinges on two female characters talking, is an appropriate litmus test for film.

For a film to “work,” the action must solve the problem.  Thus, a better question might be whether a film’s female characters are able to solve their own problems without relying on the aid of the male characters.

(Of course, that still doesn’t excuse the Bechdelian failures of Shakespeare, but it’s worth mentioning that his plays were written in an era when all female roles would have been played by male actors anyway, so it’s something of a moot point.)

All of which also leads me to think, inevitably about the Internet.

Blog a Mile in My Shoes

If novels are the story of “s/he,” plays are the story of “them,” and film is the story of “it” (aka “the event”), then blogs, podcasts and videoblogs are the story of “I.”  And since the world is basically divided down the middle between males and females, that should mean that the web would be the most diverse pool of stories on the planet, right?

So why can I personally name so many more straight white male bloggers than I can any other social media demographic?

Simple: I’m a straight white male.  As such, I seek out the stories I can most easily identify with.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t also read blogs written by writers of different genders, ethnicities, ages and sexual orientations.  In fact, that’s why I believe the Internet can equalize the arguments created by the Bechdel test.

It’s Easier to Feel You When You’re Cheap

Films are expensive to make, which means they must appeal to the widest possible demographic in order to earn their money back.  And because they’re primarily made by white males, they’re primarily made for white males by default.  That’s the residual self-identification of the film industry, which was founded by white males and is only now evolving into a truly multicultural talent pool.

And yet, when’s the last time you watched a film about a culture other than your own, or a character you couldn’t immediately identify with?  (I know, I know: Slumdog Millionaire, the “Hey, we elected a black guy so we can stop talking about racism now” equivalent of the Academy Awards.)

Meanwhile, when’s the last time you read a blog (or a tweet) by someone who didn’t resemble you in a lineup?  Probably five minutes ago.

Now that it’s so easy for individuals to express themselves online, the inner thoughts of “others” are more accessible today than they’ve ever been before.  We don’t need bloated Hollywood productions, marketing armadas and bankable stars to convince us that someone else’s POV is worth our time and money to explore; we just need two minutes and YouTube.

Will this proximity to (and seeming acceptance of) “the other” online eventually lead us to be more tolerant of “other” POVs in more traditional media?  I think that’s inevitable, though it won’t happen completely until diversity is proven to be reliably profitable.

Until then, we’ll be stuck with more recreations of the same stories we’ve all seen for decades:

The ones that sell.

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I just finished the first book I’ve devoured in more than a decade.

Mark Harris’s Pictures at a Revolution details the making of the 5 Best Picture nominees at the 1968 Academy Awards, from their initial concepts through their critical and public reception.  Two of those films, In the Heat of the Night and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?, centered on race relations during the year when Sidney Poitier became the country’s most bankable star and Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated.  Another of those films, Doctor Dolittle, was a money pit that bought its Oscar nominations through old-fashioned studio graft and bribery.  And then there were Bonnie and Clyde and The Graduate, the two films no one in Hollywood wanted to make and the ones that wound up redefining Hollywood, filmmaking and America itself.

Not since Peter Biskind’s Easy Riders, Raging Bulls in 1999 have I inhaled a book so quickly.  Not coincidentally, both books detail the seismic shift between the vintage Hollywood studio system and the “new Hollywood” influenced by New York, television and theater.

The films made during this era — Chinatown, Shampoo, The French Connection, The Exorcist, The Last Picture Show, Taxi Driver, etc. — relied on unconventional actors, complex narratives, location shoots, sexual freedom and moral ambiguity.  They reshaped the way films are made, judged, consumed and remembered.  And perhaps more than anything else, they expanded the world’s expectations of what an American film could be.

In short, an entire generation got excited about movies.

All of which makes me wonder…

What Could Web Content Be?

Whenever I think about our evolving media forms, I’m reminded of something John Herman told me (and everyone else in the room) in 2006.

At the very first PodCamp in 2006, John — who is a many of many titles, including “video instructor” and “Pac-Man” — intended to lead a session about the do’s and don’ts of web video.  But after sitting through numerous sessions prior to his own, and hearing how everyone else does what they do, John scrapped his original idea and spoke instead about something even more useful:

Not following the rules.

John had recently bought a DVD set of vintage films made during the early days of cinema, and he’d been amazed at how many of the “rules” we take for granted in modern cinema — shooting establishing shots, filming two people in conversation at opposing angles, etc. — were completely absent from these films.

John realized he’d stumbled across media that had been created before we all agreed on how that media should be created, and he was worried that web media was about to enter a period of “rule-making” that might rob us of our creativity.

That Was Four Years Ago.

Since then, we’ve had precious few “breakout” web creations, and what does succeed online remains mostly confined to the web itself.  Those of us who can’t understand why web content hasn’t been embraced by the mainstream should first admit a harsh truth:

In our rush to monetize social media, we forgot to create experiences people want.

If you want to see a movie or a stage play, you buy a ticket.  If you want to read a story, you buy a book.  And if you want to listen to the radio or watch TV, you need to buy the device in question.

But the Internet just comes with your computer.

Yes, you have to subscribe to the web.  And yes, the web costs money to access.  But you’d do that whether people were creating original web content or not.  You’d do it just for email, news, peer communication and streaming media.

You pay for the Internet because you need it, not because you want what’s on it.

Blogs? Podcasts? YouTube?

Those Are Supposed to Be Free, Right?

People don’t pay for what they don’t need or want.  And no one needs or wants web media that’s a cheap approximation of the same stories and experiences they can obtain better elsewhere.

The reason The Graduate and Bonnie and Clyde shocked Hollywood is because they spoke to America’s youth.  Sure, these films were groundbreaking on a technical and narrative basis, but that’s film buff talk; what these films did was connect with, represent and empower an entire generation’s point of view.

And people are always willing to pay (repeatedly) for the opportunity to see, share and absorb an experience that excites them.  (Fun fact: By the end of 1968, The Graduate was the third-highest grossing film ever.)

Unless we start creating web-based content that electrifies audiences — content, I should note, that’s specifically designed for the experience of the web, rather than shoehorning old media forms into new media tubes — we’re squandering a golden opportunity to define ourselves through the stories we tell.  It means we’re really just waiting around for someone else to make the rules, because we don’t think we have anything to say.

And maybe we don’t.  Which could explain the whole conundrum.

But there is a bright side.

See, the studio collapse of the 1960s led to the Hollywood upheaval of the 1970s, which in turn spawned the era of blockbusters like The Godfather and Jaws.

So, by that rationale, we’ll all be swimming in money any day now.

We just have to change the world first.

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Last year, Barrett Garese wrote a thought-provoking essay about the future of film, TV and the web.  When I realized my response to his post was longer than a single comment ever should be, I blogged my response on my old blog.  One week later, I relocated from Blogger to WordPress and most of my old thoughts were left behind.

Now, this week, I’ve been thinking a lot about media forms.  And as I started to write today’s post, I realized Barrett’s essay and my response are still as relevant as they were a year ago.  So I’ve republished my old post below, with a new afterword.

********

As a former agent at UTA, Barrett Garese has better insight into the future of media than most of us do, and he’s blogged a fascinating essay about where he thinks film, TV and web content is headed. (In a nutshell, he believes the key is to capitalize on the inherent differences of each platform, rather than insisting on convergence.)

While reading his essay, I realized my own response would be longer than appropriate for his comment column, so I’ve posted it here. My thoughts will make more sense if you’ve read Barrett’s essay as a primer, but I think these points stand on their own as well.

I’ll Stop the World and Converge With You…

The convergence of film, TV and web is happening, but that doesn’t dilute the power of each individual experience.  Film is still film, TV is still TV, web is still web, etc.  But what this does create is a NEW possibility: the convergent format, in which content is specifically designed to either:

A) feel different across all platforms (i.e., the viewing experience is engineered to suit each specific screen size or format.  For example, producers could edit different versions of the same show by using different shots or angles — such as including more motion on TV or film, but more closeups and static shots for web and mobile.)

… or:

B) be different across all platforms (i.e., the web version of a show is completely different, while still complementary in theme, to the film or TV version.  For example, a TV series could unfold in real time, but the show’s website could post weekly 3-minute flashbacks that add context to last week’s conflicts).

Your Home Theater Is Not Actually a Theater.

Audiences anticipate different experiences based on the distribution method.

We expect to immerse ourselves in a film experience (minus the live distractions), while we expect to be distracted from the TV experience (because we’re at home). Thus, we’re already anticipating a different kind of content to be shared across those varied platforms — and when the end result doesn’t match our expectations, our engagement with that content may suffer. (Or, it may surprise us.)

We also expect a difference in on-screen quality relative to the effort it takes to obtain the image.  For example, driving to a theater at 7 PM should reward me with a higher quality experience than watching something on my phone at 3 AM.

And, we expect the content to connect with us on levels that equal our applied (and uninterrupted) attention.  Mindblowing films can’t be processed in 5 minute increments via stolen wi-fi during your lunch break, yet 3 hours in a theater had better provide you with a deeper and more profound experience than 30 consecutive episodes of Tiki Bar TV (which, it should be said, I love).

LOOK AT ME.

The biggest expense for online content should be promotions. You can create an amazing show for $5, but you’re still releasing it into a medium that A) not enough people are paying attention to, yet which is B) paradoxically flooded with crap (which may explain A).

If I were to produce a new web series (after concluding Something to Be Desired), I’d be sure that the promotional plan was in place before the first episode ever hit the web.  The days of “throwing it out there and seeing what happens” are best left to people experimenting in their own free time, not people who expect to gain the traction that validates (both artistically AND financially) their investment of time, money and effort.

Whither the Studios?

Eventually, existing corporate studio behemoths will become distribution companies that happen to have (exclusive?) contracts with production houses. Instead of producing AND distributing their own in-house content, they’ll profit from their primary assets (reach and volume) and leave the creative aspects to contracted producers — who will in turn be grateful to not have to worry about being both creative and ubiquitous at the same time.

That said, there will always be exceptions. In the long run, it’s still cheaper for Verizon to produce its own web shows than it is for them to subcontract with a production company, and it’s still more profitable for an indie prodco to bootstrap their way into self-distribution than it is for them to produce their own content but only keep a percentage of eventual revenues.

A Soap Opera Without the Soap Had Better Be a Damn Good Opera

Content producers need to rely less on advertising and more on the inherent value of the content itself. Gone are the days when content is produced as a lure to hook viewers into sitting through commercials — nor can content *be* produced under a presumed business model that eyeballs = advertising opportunities = profit.

If you cut out the middleman of advertising, what are you left with?

You’re left with an audience who’ll pay you directly for what you create — or for the experience it creates in them — rather than a vessel with holes waiting to be plugged by commercials.

This also impacts media that’s produced for traditional, large-scale distribution. Just because a show isn’t pulling in the millions of eyeballs it needs to validate its TV time slot, it doesn’t mean that show couldn’t be profitable at a lower operating cost with web-based distribution.

If I were the producers of a canceled darling like Pushing Daisies (and if I still owned the rights to that property), I would shrink the budget, post 15-20 minute episodes (or segments) online, and invite the fans to pre-pay for next season’s DVD in advance.  That initial influx of cash could be used to fund part of the upcoming season, which means the prodco isn’t scrambling to line up sponsors now and then waiting for a year-end DVD windfall to break even.

Afterword

Since Barrett and I forecast the future of web media one year ago, services like Kickstarter and Indiegogo have come to my attention.

As “crowdfunding” sources, these sites enable aspiring artists, authors, filmmakers and designers to obtain the funds necessary to launch their ideas without begging for traditional sponsorship, investors or distribution deals.  For example, filmmaker Gregory Bayne raised more than $25,000 to fuel one documentary, while author Robin Sloan nearly quadrupled his initial funding request of $3,500.

So… if we can free ourselves from the need for advertising, and if crowdfunding now makes it easier to get more complicated projects off the ground… what might the future of easily-funded, “owe-nothing” media-driven business models look like?

And, how will the media created by these new artrepreneurs change our future predictions?

Image by perreira.

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Sure, I’ve lamented the depressing-down of pop culture over the past 30 years.  And yes, we in the social media field often debate whether or not what we’re doing has “become mainstream.”

But what (or where?) is the mainstream?  And when does a creation of the culture become popular enough to qualify as “pop culture” — and to whom?

If we start with Wikipedia (because we must), we learn the following:

“Mainstream is, generally, the common current of thought of the majority….  It is a term most often applied in the arts (i.e., music, literature, and performance). This includes:

• something that is available to the general public;
• something that has ties to corporate or commercial entities.

As such, the mainstream includes all popular culture, typically disseminated by mass media. The opposite of the mainstream are subcultures, countercultures, cult followings, underground cultures and (in fiction) genre.”

Given this definition, let’s deconstruct it further.  For example, the opening sentence: “Mainstream is, generally, the common current of thought of the majority.”  Thus, in order to be considered “mainstream,” a thing must be thought of:

• commonly
• currently
• by the majority

For example, swing music was “current” 60 years ago, but it’s not “commonly” enjoyed “by the majority” today, so we can conclude that swing music is no longer mainstream — although it once was.  This means that mainstream has a shelf life dependent upon the immediate popular tastes of “the majority,” as epitomized by fashion.  (“When does something become retroactively cool?” is a discussion for another time.)

But there’s another spot of vagueness in the whole debate: how do we define “the majority”?  Are we talking about the entirety of the world’s population?  If so, then only the most basic concepts like food, water and shelter can be considered mainstream, since I doubt most of sub-Saharan Africa has ever seen Star Wars or an NFL game.  Or maybe we mean the majority of Western (or Eastern) culture, AKA the majority of geographically separate citizens who still share a common lifestyle?  Or do we mean the majority of a certain country, a specific gender or an age-defined demographic?

NASCAR is mainstream among the red half of America.  Richard Dawkins is an international expert and best-selling author whom the majority of NASCAR fans have probably never read.  Have either of them reached a critical mass of popularity across enough demographic segments to be considered “mainstream”?  (Can something ever be mainstream if it polarizes the population, or must it be universally embraced?)

Iron Man, a film based on a semi-popular comic book (which is a literary subculture, according to the above definition), is the 53rd largest-grossing film of all-time, out-earning all of the X-Men films, which are based on a better-known property.  Since film is mass media, whereas comic books are not, does that mean the character of Iron Man has finally escaped the alternative media ghetto and can now be considered mainstream?  Or would he have to reach the heights of Spider-Man 3 at #13 all-time, or The Dark Knight at #4?  What’s the Mendoza line for the mainstream?

CNN and Nightline regularly quote tweets from their Twitter followers.  Facebook helped power the “Super Duper Tuesday” election extravaganza in February 2008.  Does mass media’s use of a social media tool mean that specific tool can now be considered mainstream?  Or does one tool’s reach raise awareness of social media itself to mainstream heights?

Perhaps none of these questions have clearly-defined answers, and this is all an exercise in semantics.  But if we’re interested in how the world around us perceives what we’re doing — and how we’re influenced by what the world around us is doing — it helps to understand our own presumptions and expectations.  Otherwise, you’ll never know when those UGGs you insist on wearing have gone out of style.

Yesterday, someone started a Twitter game called #uncertainmovies, in which people alter the titles of films to make them sound more vague or less definitive.  (Examples: “Some Like It Lukewarm” or “Split Decision at Nuremberg“.)  Since I’m both a film buff and a compulsive personality, this is the kind of meme that can simultaneously eat up my whole afternoon while alienating most of my followers, who become alarmed when I get too prolific.

Considering I came up with nearly 30 of these yesterday, followed by another 20 while I was out running errands, I figure it’s better to spare my followers the hassle and just post the ones I still find personally amusing here:

• The Mediocre Life Coach of Oz
• The Bourne Ultimatum… Unless You Want to Talk About It
• The Good, the Bad and the Ones With Great Personalities
• The Last of the Mohicans Who Bothered to Fill Out a Census
• Disinterestedly Seeking Susan While This File Uploads
• Any Given Sunday That We Aren’t Having Dinner at Your Mother’s
• Not In the Hallway, Lola, Not In the Hallway
• That Thing You Occasionally Do
• A River Runs Through It on Some Maps That Have Yet to Be Cached by Google
• It’s Not a Bad Life, Although “Wonderful” Might Be Pushing It
• Star Trek 2: The Heretofore Unseen Peevishness of Khan
• The Lion, the Witch & the Family Heirloom Most Likely to Be Undervalued on Antiques Roadshow
• The Greatest Story Ever Told, If You’re Into That Sort of Thing
• She’d Like to Have It But, Honestly, She’ll Take What She Can Get
• Yeller, Who’s Getting Up in Years But Still Has an Occasional Burst of Speed
• A Clockwork Fruit Genetically Engineered by Monsanto
• Gone with the Slight Breeze That’s Unavoidable Because the Fucking Yankees Burned the Whole Goddamn House Down
• Moderately Attractive Woman (If You Like Horses)
• Hang ‘Em High, But Not So High That Joe Can’t See ‘Em Because He Forgot His Glaucoma Medication
• Boyz N That Section of Town We Usually Try to Drive Around
• Willy Wonka and the Gluten-Free Carob Factory That Meets LEED Standards
• The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas That Doesn’t Involve Toll Roads
• Arthritic Tiger, Hidden Gecko

Ahem.

Now, here’s hoping I’m not gripped by another spurt of arbitrary inspiration until my real-life deadlines have passed.