This post was written by Wesley Wang.

For years, I could never explain why I wanted to be a filmmaker. There were times when my projects weren’t getting funding, friends were scoffing at my ambitions, and my family was hiding their disappointment in the path I’d chosen. At times when the equipment was failing, my crew was demanding better conditions, and the budget was spilling over again or when my lead would contract COVID-19 the day before the shoot, my script supervisor would crash his car on the way to the shoot, and I’d disappear on set to cry and compose myself in the bathroom—I’d ask myself, “Why? Why do you want to make this film so badly?”

Statistically, it makes no sense. Think of a number 1-100. Is it 61? Wrong, probably. For every wrong guess, another dreamer goes broke by twenty-six. You could be making hundreds of thousands of dollars your first year out of college and impressing people by just stating what company you’re working for, but, instead, you are spending thousands of dollars and fourteen-hour workdays just to make a six-minute video no one is ever going to see.

A headshot of Wesley Wang

Wesley Wang

With my failures culminating in a disastrous shoot in Manhattan a few weeks ago involving over fifty actors that cost our production thousands of dollars, I finally swore to quit filmmaking and never give in to the irresistible urge to create again.

Over this past summer, I’d taught chess and fundraised endlessly to self-finance the $25,000 film, but with uncanny timing, Hurricane Henri and a flat tire flushed that all down the drain. I ultimately convinced myself that my passion was a crime, a provocation against my rationality, and worst of all, the reason I’d let down the hundreds involved with whom I promised to do something amazing.

But that night, after I’d told the crew our production was over, they didn’t let me quit. Each of them somberly gathered around and assured me that we were going to get through whatever God threw at us, whether that be COVID-19 cases, failing equipment, car crashes, or hurricanes. They promised they’d work overtime till 4 a.m. for the remaining days, push through without eating lunch or dinner, and finish every single shot we needed in time. At first, their determination reminded me of my naivety when I first started filmmaking, but I eventually realized what I was missing the entire time—ignorance is why we make movies.

Orson Welles was once asked how he directed Citizen Kane, widely considered the most influential film of all time, to which he replied, “Ignorance. Sheer ignorance… I did it because I did not know it was impossible.”

For at times when we’d all scream in joy after a perfect take, race through the rain to catch a rainbow on the other side, cry watching the first screening, and when Oscar qualifying festivals would finally accept my films, I reminded of “why.” Because in truth, there is no such thing as a “rational decision," only the intensity of passion, and thereby ignorance.

It’s in over-analysis where my failures originate. As you immerse yourself deeper in the art, through all its beauty and chaos, you find that the paradox of filmmaking boils down to requiring both extraordinary wisdom and ignorance—wise enough to expect excruciating pain, but ignorant enough to expect unbridled success.

Today, when people ask me why I want to make films, now armed with the knowledge of ignorance, I give the same answer as I did when I was 11 years old: “Because I have to.”

This post was written by Wesley Wang.

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