Lloyd Kaufman has written, produced, and/or directed more than 25 films, including The Toxic Avenger, Sgt. Kabukiman NYPD, and Terror Firmer. He is president of Troma Entertainment. This is his second book.

Acknowledgments
Foreword
Introduction
Let's Make Some Art!	p. 1
The Man Is Insane, But in a Good Way	p. 11
Raising Money or Mastering the Ancient Art of Fellatio	p. 14
Getting Your Budget by Any Means Necessary or Why Kidneys Come in Pairs	p. 27
500 Useless Screenwriting Books Boiled Down to One Short Chapter	p. 29
I Was a Troma Screenwriter	p. 35
Meet Your Future Victims! - Hiring the Crew	p. 39
The Tom Sawyer Theory of Hiring Production Assistants	p. 43
Dumpster Diving for Fun and Profit	p. 66
Viddy Well, Little Brother	p. 74
Get Your Wimmen Nekkid and Other Invaluable Casting Tips	p. 77
I Was a Troma Actor or How I Flushed a Promising and Lucrative Computer Career Straight Down the Crapper	p. 82
Fire Truck Love	p. 87
Pre-production - The Key to Your Future Therapy	p. 98
Covering Your Ass (Both Metaphorically and Literally)	p. 112
Regarding Backup Plans - Wherein Lloyd Rejects a Perfectly Good Backup Plan Only to, in the End, Use It to Great Success or The Midget Story	p. 117
How to See the Inside of a Courtroom	p. 123
Locations - Shooting the Society Without Completely Pissing off the Locals	p. 135
The Troma Historical Recreation Society Proudly Presents Dachau in Poughkeepsie (Trent Haaga on Accomodations)	p. 149
There's No Such Thing as Bad Publicity ... Unless You're Filming an African-American Being Dragged to His Death Behind a Pickup Truck	p. 159
Welcome to Your Nightmare: The First 24 Hours of Production	p. 166
The Myth of Eating Properly	p. 174
Sound - The One Thing You Are Most Likely to Fuck Up	p. 182
All I Need to Know About Filmmaking I Learned from The Toxic Avenger, Quite Literally	p. 187
Stunts and Special Effects - How to Simulate a Violent Death and Stay Out of Jail	p. 192
Troma's E-Z Bake Special Effects Recipes for Boys and Girls	p. 210
Fix It in Post! Wherein Once-Solid Relationships of Trust, Respect, and Mutual Admiration Degenerate into Bickering and Pointless Name-Calling	p. 217
Razor Blades, Tape, and Suicide Attempts: Editing the Old-Fashioned Way	p. 221
The Dark, Mysterious Realm of the Associate Editor	p. 234
Marketing, Publicity and Distribution - Whoring Yourself Out for Your Art Yet Again	p. 257
Semi-Legal Ways to Get Noticed at Festivals	p. 270
Planet Cannes	p. 280
Doin' Time for Independent Cinema	p. 286
Epilogue - The Big Emotional Spielberg Ending	p. 303
Index	p. 323
Table of Contents provided by Blackwell. All Rights Reserved.

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Excerpts

Let's Make Some Art!

I was surrounded on every side by vermin, roaches, and rat shit. And I wasn't even meeting with executives at Blockbuster.

This was the basement of the Troma Building in New York City. For years, Troma has occupied this four-story building in the part of Manhattan formerly known as Hell's Kitchen. From this mighty temple, we had steered the mighty ship of Troma through such films as Tromeo & Juliet, Terror Firmer , and Citizen Toxie: The Toxic Avenger Part IV . The Troma Building occupied a proud, majestic place on the New York skyline. But now, disease and decay had entered the works. Rats threatened the very foundation of the Troma Building.

The Troma Building's basement is Troma's memory center, its archive, its remembrance of things past. In other words, it's where a lot of shit has been dumped and forgotten about over the years. And now, it had been invaded by rodents. No one knew quite where the rats had come from. The Troma Building had remained relatively pest-free for the better part of two decades. It seemed like no small coincidence that the arrival of the rats perfectly coincided with the opening of a brand new McDonald's directly next door to the office. Thanks to that devil-worshipping, burger-shilling corporate clown, Troma was lousy with humongous, voracious rodents that knew no fear. And now, everything in our basement was contaminated by rat shit and had either been partially eaten by the rats or was in imminent danger of being so.

Now ordinarily, ridding the basement of rats the size of baby coyotes would be a job for anybody but me. After all, I am president and cofounder of the fucking company. You don't see Harvey Weinstein in the flooded basement of Miramax trying to salvage old promotional T-shirts and baseball caps from Playing for Keeps . But, after years of doling out the most backbreaking, humiliating, odious tasks imaginable, I had finally stumbled across a job so disgusting and wretched that nobody would accept it. Even our interns (who are, by their very nature subjected to more humiliation than our regular employees simply by virtue of the fact that they are unpaid) refused to take it on.

The choice was simple. Either we seal the basement forever like some old, abandoned mine that's been tapped out or rendered unsafe and just write off thirty years of Troma history (an option that was seriously pursued by a small handful of Troma employees who were always looking for an excuse to blow something up) or I had to go down there and deal with the rats myself. The history of Troma was in that basement. A shit-stained, fucked-up history it may be, but it was a history that Michael Herz and I had built. I couldn't ask anyone to defend that history but me.

Armed with a shovel (which I cleverly figured would serve double duty as both shit scooper and rat bludgeon), I swung wide the steel doors that led to the cellar. I switched on the single 40-watt bulb that provided what milky light the basement offered. I could see four or five rats stop what they were doing, look me in the eyes, then lazily make their way deeper into the basement. Presumably these were mere sentries, going off to let the others know that some asshole was about to interrupt them.

I continued into the darkest recesses of the basement. I walked the rickety pallets to the far door, the door that led into the real heart of darkness. Rat Central. A filthy, damp, pitch black storage area that contained those weird items that tread the fine line between garbage and artifact. Too precious to throw away, but far too useless to ever hope of using again. All around me, I could see the physical reminders of my thirty years with Troma. There was a box containing production schedules and the shooting script from The Battle of Love's Return (1971). I thumbed through the papers, trying to decipher the notes I'd written to myself almost thirty years earlier. It just seemed like gibberish now and I wondered if I'd ever been able to read them. That would explain a lot about that movie. Stacked nearby were molding stacks of posters from Troma's War (1988). There were all kinds of posters from dozens of different movies but it seemed as if you couldn't turn around without seeing a War poster. There were decomposing boxes full of Squeeze Play T-shirts (circa 1980), the computer monitor with the smashed, bloody severed head of Capulet from Tromeo & Juliet (1996), and the costume for Tromie, the Nuclear Squirrel from Class of Nuke 'Em High parts 2 and 3 were precariously balanced like gargoyles atop unmarked boxes. I turned and nearly tripped over a pair of metal film cans, coming ominously close to landing face-first in a mound of petrified rat shit. I examined the can and was not in the least bit surprised to discover that I had almost fallen over the work print of Big Gus, What's the Fuss (1973). My worst movie, arguably the most heinous atrocity ever committed to celluloid, continued to find novel ways to injure and humiliate me. It was the only thing I'd found down here that I thought deserved to be locked away and left to collect dust and feces in this dank basement.

As I cast my eyes over the collected Tromabilia, all of a sudden I knew with the certainty usually reserved for either the very pious or the very insane that spread out before me was what my thirty plus years in movies boiled down to. All the hours spent on set, all the disappointment when something didn't go according to plan, all the elation when something turned out better than hoped, all the money-men I'd had to fellate ... and what had it got me? An extremely limber throat and tongue and a basement full of neglected crap that was slowly being transformed into a public toilet for every sewer rat in Manhattan.

I bent over with my shovel in one hand and an open garbage bag in the other. As I attacked the rat-crap with my shovel, the ancient turds exploded into thick, heavy clouds of dust. The dust immediately coated my ears, eyes, nose, and throat. I kept shoveling and, squinting through the putrid dust, saw a huge rat lazily walk past and, I swear to god, salute me with a Bronx cheer, just like the mouse in Tom & Jerry cartoons. Tom & Jerry had been a huge influence on the Troma style of violence. The debt I owed to this things animated counterpart didn't prevent me from taking a swing at it with my shovel. The rat seemed unconcerned by this attack and, after staring at me for a few uncomfortable seconds, disappeared between some boxes.

As I returned to my shoveling, I wondered, when all is said and done, why the luck was I even bothering to make movies? It's certainly no way to make money. Harvey Weinstein and I started in the business at around the same time. Now people flocked to him like flies to shit, while I was actually down in the shit. It was getting to be virtually impossible to even get our movies seen. The vast majority of movie theaters in the U.S. are now once again owned and operated by the major studios, who seem intent on forcing the same Tom Cruise blockbuster onto every screen and driving the theaters into bankruptcy (both moral and financial). Smaller mom-and-pop video stores were being pushed out of business by Blockbuster and one or two other giant chains that impose an economic blacklist on Troma and other independent studios. And every day seemed to bring news of another independent studio going out of business. The "lucky" ones merely lost their independence and were absorbed into a gigantic, devil-worshipping international megaconglomerate. More often than not it seemed the only way to make money at this was to sell out your ideals and give up your independence. But it's not always about money. The late, lamented, legendary Sam Arkoff, cofounder of American International Pictures, once told me that the biggest mistake of his life was selling AIP to Filmways (which was later bought by Orion which later went through a spectacular bankruptcy that has fucked up the distribution of hundreds, if not thousands, of movies).

If it's not money , I thought to myself as a rat the approximate size and color of a kielbasa ran across my feet, leaving a trail of fragrant droppings, maybe I'm doing it for the respect and admiration of others . Yeah, sure. I couldn't even command enough respect to get my own goddamn employees to do the scut work around the office. Maybe I'd vomited green Bromo Seltzer on camera once too often to be a truly effective leader.

Scraping the shit off my feet, I saw another large, immobile rat on the floor next to me. The rats knew they had control, so it wasn't at all unusual that it wasn't moving. But this one looked far too comfortable. It was either completely at home or dead. "Lucky fucker," I muttered and enviously kicked it to make sure it was dead. As my foot hit fur, the rat burst open. Hundreds of spiders erupted from their corpsenest, swarming every which way. Confronted with a plague of rat-born spiders, I did what any pillar of manly American fortitude would do. I squealed like a prison bitch and slammed my shovel down again and again, hitting the floor, my feet, the dead rat, the walls, and, I'm fairly sure, at least a couple of spiders.

Exhausted, I leaned against the wall. A particularly brave rat, unphased by my spectacular display of martial arts, peered at me from atop a box of SGT. KABUKIMAN FOR PRESIDENT pins from 1992. I recognized the contemptuous look in its eyes from dozens of surly production assistants over the years. Whatever my reasons may have been for starting to make movies, the cold reality was that this is what it boiled down to. There was no glamour when I made movies. There was nothing but hard work to be assigned and, more often than not, returned to my lap. This was the world of filmmaking that I knew. No limousines. No craft services. No imported bottled water to wash the starlet's hair. Just a neverending basement full of shitty, moldy rot that had to be cleaned out. Why the fuck was I doing all this?

DISSOLVE TO:

Thirty-six hours later in the magnificent town of Sitges on the Mediterranean coast of Spain and I have my answer. Every October, the city hosts the Sitges Film Festival, one of the most comprehensive and prestigious horror, science fiction, and fantasy film festivals in the world. I've been fortunate enough to have movies I've directed invited here several times. In 1996, Sitges showed Tromeo & Juliet and in 1999, we brought Terror Firmer here. This year, they were hosting the world premiere of Citizen Toxie . Not only had the festival flown me over for the occasion, they'd also brought along Heidi Sjursen, who plays Toxie's blind wife Sarah in the movie, and Gabe Friedman, the movie's editor. Now it's one thing for a film festival to fly in the director or the star of a movie. But if you think it's commonplace for a festival to fly in a movie's editor, guess again. Editors are notoriously pale, shaky guys who rarely see the light of day. The inhuman amount of hours they spend locked away watching the same footage over and over again causes them to have social graces that are rudimentary at best and a bizarre, unpleasant omnisexuality that makes it very difficult for them to see other people in the flesh without becoming visibly and embanrassingly aroused.

Citizen Toxie was playing in an amazing 3,000-seat cinema that ranks among the best I've ever seen. I took the stage to introduce the film and immediately remembered why the fuck I bothered making movies. Here was an auditorium full of enthusiastic men and Gynos who were genuinely excited to see a movie. Even more astonishingly, they were excited to see a Troma movie. Here were people applauding and chanting "Troma! Troma! Troma!" Here were fans dressed as Toxie, Kabukiman, and the Tromettes. Not because anyone asked them to, but because they wanted to. One group of fans had started their own website, Villacabras.com, and arrived at Sitges with their own Toxified bottles of champagne called Tromanpagne. Another Spanish fan club Fester, had made their own Troma T-shirts using images and lines from the script of Terror Firmer . I was gratified and amazed at all the effort the fans had put into showing us their appreciation. Heidi and Gabe were completely overwhelmed. They had no idea Troma had such a far reach.

I was inspired not only by my renewed connection with the audience but by the other films screening at the festival. Finally, audience were given the opportunity to see amazing, brilliant movies they'd never have a chance to see through ordinary channels. At Sitges, it was possible to go on a three-day movie binge, watching ten films a day with each one better than the last. Movies like Geoffrey Wright's uncut version of Cherry Falls , Santiago Segura's Torrente , Shinya Tsukamoto's Tokyo Fist , and Alex de la Iglesia's Common Wealth . Seeing these masterpieces in such incredible surroundings with audiences who appreciated them was as invigorating as seeing the movies in my youth that first inspired me to be a filmmaker.

Finally, I'd found the reason I continued to make movies despite the many, many reasons I could come up with for trading in the whole goddamn thing and trying to do something vaguely productive with my remaining years like becoming an air-conditioner repairman. Days earlier I'd been risking the plague in ankle-deep rat shit, now, here I was, surrounded by people who appreciated what I'd been doing, enjoying free drinks and pot. And I knew that as long as there were people with a passion for watching movies, I would retain my passion for making them.

Over the past three decades, I've directed, produced, written, shot and/or distributed hundreds of movies and, believe it or not, not all of them received standing ovations, glowing reviews, and orgasmic audiences at prestigious film festivals. In fact, more than a couple died painful, humiliating, protracted deaths. Some of them deserved it. Some of them, I think, deserved better. None of them, good or bad, were easy to make. If you're looking for a book that will help put you in touch with your inner genius and make only good movies while avoiding the bad, keep on a-lookin' (and if you find one drop me a line at lloyd@troma. com. I can use all the help I can get). What this book will help you do is avoid having two days worth of abandoned footage because, for whatever reason, everything fell apart on you at the last minute.

To make your own damn movie, you have to be equal parts dictator and diplomat. You must be both the visionary storyteller addressing the audience at the film festival and the dickhead shoveling rat shit out of the basement because nobody else would and everything would be lost if it didn't get done.

Continues...

Excerpted from Make Your Own Damn Movie! by Lloyd Kaufman with Adam Jahnke & Treny Haaga Copyright © 2003 by Lloyd Kaufman
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.