The Making of Mama Said on 35mm Film

What happens when people believe in a vision before there is proof it will succeed? Sometimes, they simply say yes.

A filmmaker begins with an idea, a blank page, and a sequence of images that exists only in the imagination. At that stage, the dream is fragile—it has no evidence, no audience, and no guarantee.

It is simply a quiet belief that something meaningful might exist if enough people are willing to help bring it into the world. That was Mama Said.

When I decided to make my first professional short film, I knew there was one thing I wanted more than anything: to shoot on 35mm film. I didn't have everything figured out, but I recognized the feeling immediately.

It wasn't the easiest choice, and it definitely wasn't the most practical one either. But I wanted to experience the craft in its most tangible form—the discipline, patience, and intention of creating images through a medium where every decision mattered. Every frame. Every movement. Every moment of light.

This story is as much about the creative process as it is about the story itself. Adapted from a short piece by my friend at the time Danielia Falcon, it traces back to a real-life news event that deeply resonated with her. When I first read it, I knew I had to bring it to the screen, drawn entirely to the young child's unbreakable spirit.

The dream became real because allies chose to believe.

Panavision said yes. They trusted an emerging filmmaker with cameras and lenses worth more than I could have imagined possessing, let alone accessing, shipping equipment that represented decades of cinematic history. A gift of that magnitude was not simply access to tools; it was an act of faith.

They were saying: “We believe this story deserves to be made.” I will never forget that.

Kodak said yes, too, donating the film stock that would become the physical images of Mama Said.

Film is more than a material. It is a commitment. A decision to slow down. To be intentional. To understand that every frame carries a cost and therefore carries meaning. Kodak’s generosity allowed us to create something that otherwise would have remained an idea.

Then came the people.

My cinematographer, Matthew J. Siegel. My crew. My production team. The artists and technicians who brought their knowledge, patience, and skill to the process.

The Columbia film students who joined us—not simply to fill positions, but to learn. I wanted them to experience something I had always wished for myself: the opportunity to stand alongside people who had spent their lives mastering the craft.

Finally, the cast arrived, ready to breathe a fragile, beating heart into the script.

I was so blessed to have the enormously gifted Sandra Marquez in my first film. She took a mere five lines of dialogue and infused them with subtle complexity, perfectly capturing the desperate, hidden inner conflict of her character.

Then there was Rigoberto Ortega, who played the workman in the pivotal discovery and rescue scene. That moment was unexpectedly cut short by our nine-year-old actress, Danielle Medina, making her unforgettable acting debut. Caught completely in the truth of the moment, Danielle felt genuinely shaken by the emotion of the scene and began to cry. I called cut, rushed to her, lifted her up, and carried her off the set. Sitting on the porch with her mother—who immediately understood the depth of what Danielle was experiencing—I recognized the rare, innate gift we had seen back in the auditions: an effortless ability to embody a character's emotional state.

Directing a child taught me a valuable lesson that day. Hoping to feed her natural curiosity, I had kept Danielle by my side throughout much of the shoot, letting her see how everything worked. In her wide-eyed wonder, I saw a reflection of my own inner child. I found a profound joy in sharing the magic of the moment with her. But that proximity initially felt like a misstep when it came time for her main dialogue scene; as a child new to acting, she struggled to tap back into the deep end of her character's heavy emotional state. Yet, just a few hours later, the opposite happened during her rescue scene with Rigoberto.

Faced with reality, I never got to film the final abandoned building interior scene—the bridge that was meant to transition us to the final gym sequence. There I was, sitting with a young actress, her mom, my co-producer, and a full crew waiting to see what would happen next. I called a wrap on Danielle’s participation, and the entire crew stepped forward, clapping for several minutes to honor her contribution and God-given gift.

As Danielle’s mom looked at me with deep concern, recognizing the massive hole now left in my story, I told her I would be fine. It was time to improvise. After a quick huddle with my script supervisor to review the cut scene, I rewrote Rigoberto’s dialogue on the spot and worked with Matt to position the camera down low from Danielle's point of view. With Danielle comfortably sleeping in her mom's car, Rigoberto delivered a brilliant performance playing to Matt's knee as his new focal point. We rise under pressure. Amen.

What I thought was a mistake turned out to be a blessing in disguise. By losing the opportunity to explicitly fill in that bridge, the film became much more poetic—sparing the audience too much exposition and allowing them space for their own meaning-making. In the editing room, I realized that approaching film like a parable means letting go of over-explanation, discovering how much deeper meaning can resonate when you leave room for the soul to fill in the blanks.

The professionals brought experience. The students brought curiosity. Everyone brought something essential.

In the end, there were fifty people standing together to make a film that none of us could have created alone.

I never planned for there to be fifty people. It simply became fifty.

That is the beautiful mystery of creative work. You begin with an idea that belongs to one person. Then, slowly, others begin carrying pieces of it. The story becomes shared.

Some of my most heavily annotated journal entries were about by a single piece of glass: The Frazier Lens.

I first learned about it during an advanced 35mm camera operator workshop I attended. It was an extraordinary creative tool—rare, specialized, and capable of creating perspectives unlike anything I had seen before.

I knew I wanted to use it.

When the lens finally arrived on set, Matt looked at me.

“That’s one of the reasons I like you,” he said. “I’ve been on million-dollar commercial shoots with experienced directors who were afraid to even take the Frazier Lens out of the case.”

I laughed.

“No way! ”

But Matt’s comment stayed with me. A lot of people think technical tools are separate from emotion. They are not.

A lens is a way of seeing. A camera movement is a way of feeling. A lighting choice is a psychological decision.

The tool itself is not the art. A tool only becomes art when someone is willing to ask: “What else can this become?”

That’s exactly why I found Matt’s comment so revealing. He wasn’t just complimenting me for knowing about a piece of gear. In a way, Matt was recognizing my relationship to possibility.

One of the most unforgettable moments from Mama Said never happened on set.

Kodak had already been extraordinarily generous, donating all of the 35mm film we needed for the production. Midway through our second day of shooting, however, my cinematographer became concerned that we might run out before the weekend was over. Without pulling me away from directing, he and my line producer made the decision to contact my Kodak representative and ask if additional rolls could be secured.

I knew none of this was happening.

It was a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon, and while I remained blissfully unaware behind the monitor, my Kodak representative quietly left her family, drove into Chicago to retrieve more film, and rushed to meet production. She double-parked outside the building for what was supposed to be a quick handoff, leaving her child in the running car to stay warm. As she returned with the film, the vestibule door locked behind her. Suddenly she was trapped inside while her child waited anxiously outside in a double-parked car. She had to call her boss, who drove into the city to unlock the building and rescue her.

Meanwhile, I was directing scenes, completely oblivious to the crisis unfolding on my behalf.

I didn't learn any of this until we had wrapped production. We were driving to get a meal when my cinematographer casually told me the story before adding, with impeccable deadpan timing, "Congratulations—you just bought thousands of dollars' worth of film."

Then came the punchline.

We hadn't needed the extra rolls after all.

My stomach dropped.

I didn't have thousands of dollars to spend on unused film. More than the financial panic, though, I couldn't stop thinking about what this woman had gone through because my production thought we might need help. While I had been chasing a dream behind the camera, she had spent her Saturday afternoon rescuing it.

The moment I realized what happened, I called her. I was so worried about her child. I apologized over and over, explaining that I had only just learned what had happened—that my producers had intentionally shielded me from the situation so I could stay focused on directing. I insisted on returning every unopened roll.

She wouldn't hear of it.

"Keep it," she said. "Don't worry."

Then, without the slightest hint that she had just spent hours solving my problem under stressful circumstances, she asked the simplest question:

"How did your shoot go?"
I never forgot that moment.

It wasn't because she gave me film I couldn't afford or because she spared me an enormous bill. But because, after everything she had gone through, her first concern wasn't the film.

It was me.

Behind every finished frame are people whose names rarely appear in the stories we tell. People who quietly solve impossible problems, absorb the stress, protect the work, and then ask only whether it all turned out okay.

That day, Kodak gave me more than film stock.

They reminded me what generosity looks like.

And then there was Tuna. The white cat.

Every production has a moment (or five) that reminds you that no matter how carefully you plan, there will always be something unexpected. In our case, that something had four paws and arrived with his agent, Samantha.

Unlike nearly everyone else involved in Mama Said, Tuna was not donating his services. Tuna had a rate.

By that point, every available dollar in the production budget had already been committed. But I needed Tuna. I needed a white cat who could do exactly what the scene required—hit the marks, respond to direction, and perform the action written in the script. The white cat symbolized hope.

Somehow, I found our little protector—in Chicago!

I borrowed the money and paid the rate.

The project moved forward. I was grateful.

I still laugh thinking about it. After all the extraordinary generosity from people who gave their time, talent, equipment, and resources to help bring the film to life, the one final negotiation came from a cat.

And honestly? I respect it.
Tuna knew his value.

When production ended, the next phase began. The endless refinement. The editing, the color correction, the sound, and the thousands of small decisions that continue revealing themselves.

I learned something important during that process: a creative work is never finished because there is nothing left to improve.

There will always be five more things. Five more adjustments. Five more possibilities.

The artist eventually finishes because they choose to share the work while still loving the possibility of what it could become.

When Mama Said was complete, I reached out to Patricia Barber to properly license “Romanesque,” the song that accompanies the hero of our story in her darkest hour.

The music that had lived inside my imagination for so many years had now become part of the film itself.

We met at her home. The visit was warm. It was a moment of respect between two artists—one acknowledging the profound impact another artist’s work had on her own creative journey.

The collaboration had come full circle.

I also partnered with two brilliant musicians to compose original pieces that captured the exact heartbeat and pacing the film required. When I met with pianist Tim Tobias, I spoke about a minimalist approach with pockets in time—poetically fragmented notes linked by hopeful tension. He nailed it.

After I locked the final edit, I met with guitarist Neal Alger to score the final scene and closing credits. Entering the recording studio, I shared my vision: I wanted him to improvise a melody within an approximate limit so the cue would begin over the final scene and end with the closing title sequence—letting the melody breathe naturally, no editing required, or as we like to say, a true oner. Neal was completely on board to create a soundscape that would invite audiences to contemplate their assumptions and search their hearts. He set the studio timer for the exact run time, watched the film, and brilliantly improvised the music you hear today—all in a single take. It was flawless. More than anything, it was a privilege to witness a gifted artist operating in his flow state.

And then came the screenings.

During festivals, I often found myself watching the audience instead of the screen. When 'Romanesque' entered the film, I saw the exact same response I had experienced years earlier when I witnessed Patricia Barber perform it live at the Gold Star Sardine Bar.

Quiet attention.
Softened faces.

People were moved by something they couldn't quite explain.

The filmmaker Q&A's were often intense. Two questions surfaced repeatedly: What happened to Mama? Why didn't she come back? When I revealed the hidden context behind the mother's disappearance—a reality only a handful of audience members ever pieced together—it laid bare a universal human flaw: our tendency to harshly judge others whose lived realities are entirely foreign to our own.

I hadn't fully awakened to my journey of becoming back then. I often wonder how my choices might have differed if I had, though I almost immediately remind myself: You were being guided, and you were faithfully listening with your whole heart.

There is an extraordinary thing about creating art. A song can leave one person’s hands and years later become part of another person’s story. A film can leave one person’s imagination and become part of a stranger’s memory.

If you're getting started on your filmmaking journey, pay attention to what moves you. It may be teaching you the language of work you haven't made yet.

And if that is true, then this story is still being written.