“Get a real job!”

It was the first day of filming on the University project the five of us would call our 3rd year final submissions.

It was a car of gentlemen on their way to work, no less. Gentlemen much older, and apparently wiser.

Not: Get a job. Get a real job.

It struck home silently to us all. We moved on in a flash - moved on to film bare backsides and men dressed as fairytale matchmakers - but it struck us all. Where it hurt. Our passion.

It’s never easy harbouring a passion many view as immature and it’s certainly never easy going all for nothing and studying it with money that’s been striven for. Battled for. By your family. Money you were going to payback with the passion that was burning at your heart and tickling your brain whenever you saw it. Whenever you paid to see it. Whenever you start making it.

Moving pictures.

Movies.

So there it was – hopes dashed by a throwaway comment. A careless dismissal of enthusiasm for something we all had no right to be enthused for. The reasonable man had spoken.

We made the film anyway.

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