Despite what the hype and film schools and how-to books and big-time directors may say, being an indie filmmaker sucks.
You’re not an “artist,” you’re a beggar. You’re begging for time, you’re begging for money, hell, you’re even begging for food sometimes. It’s humiliating and pathetic.
There’s only one reason I still do it and that’s because of Cokely. Every filmmaker should have a guy like Cokely on their crew. He’s the glue, the secret sauce. Here’s the thing: Cokely can’t act. With his gimp leg and bad back, he can’t build sets or move props. He can’t run cable and he sure as hell doesn’t know what an f-stop is. I’m not sure he can even read.
So what can Cokely do? He can get things done. Location fall through? No sweat, Cokely finds me another one. Background actors fail to show up? Cokely’s got new ones in a snap.
Some people say he should be my producer, but trust me, that’s not happening. Cokely wouldn’t understand what a producer is, anyway. No, on set I have another title for Cokely.
He’s my Igor.
Here’s an example. A few months ago, I was shooting my short, “Tiffany’s Guts,” and my makeup guy had gotten busted at a massage parlor the night before. He was supposed to be on set at six a.m. with an Igloo cooler filled with “guts” that my actress playing Tiffany could writhe around in nude. This was the film’s big climax. If I didn’t have the guts, I didn’t have the climax. And if I didn’t have the climax, I didn’t have a film.
Basically, I was screwed.
I pulled Cokely aside and ranted at him.
“What are we gonna do?” I said. “I need guts and it’s already eight.”
Cokely gave me his dull-eyed stare. He never seemed to understand a damn word I said, but I knew he did.
After a minute, he lumbered off and I set to work shooting everything leading up to the big nude guts writhe-a-thon. (Did I mention I write my own scripts?)
Two hours later, my Igor’s back on set with a big plastic trash bin filled with guts. I don’t know what materials he used, but damn, they looked and felt realistic. All warm and slimy. They smelled realistic, too. I nearly lost my lunch when I lifted the lid to glance inside.
I could have kissed the guy.
Of course, the actress put up a fuss about touching the guts. She claimed they were real. That might have been a problem for a lesser filmmaker, but for me, getting the props was the life-or-death moment; bullying an actor into getting the performance you want was simple.
Did I say bullying? I meant, directing.
That wasn’t the only time my Igor saved me. On my next short, “Screams From Hell’s Dungeon,” we lost our location the night before we were going to shoot. House fire. Pretty sure it was an insurance collection job, but I digress. I called my Igor in a panic and told him we may not be able to shoot.
He grunted and hung up.
Three hours later, he led me to a mid-century modern home in some anonymous suburb that was perfect for my shooting needs. It was even fully furnished.
I asked Cokely, “Where are the owners?”
He grunted and shuffled away.
I never did get to meet the owners to thank them, but I guess my Igor took care of ‘em. Just as well. I had enough other things to worry about.
Funny story: Midway through the shoot, some of the crew started saying the house gave them “a bad feeling.” In the middle of the night, we lost our sound guy and a PA. They probably quit, which is sadly typical with low-budget crews like this.
The idiot sound guy even left his car in the driveway. I worried about having to pay to get it towed, but I complained to Cokely and he took care of it.
That guy is a lumbering prince.
I could go on and on. No matter how absurd the ask, my Igor delivers. On “Bloodwhores,” he found some truly authentic-looking vampire performers for background. Everyone thought they were great, except they took off with some of the actors at the end of the shoot. C’est la vie. There are always more actors.
I’ve tried to make small talk with my Igor, find out where he’s from, etc. It never goes anywhere. He’s all about the work. And I can’t say I blame him. I just wish I could clone him.
Speaking of clones, on my last project, “Clone Orgy,” he came up with three sets of identical twins. And when I decided at the last minute that I actually wanted one of them to be triplets, he somehow found a third look-alike sibling.
“How the hell did you do that, Cokely?” I said.
He just gave me his goofy crooked grin and lumbered away to the craft service table. We had chips and guac that day. I was so happy I splurged on the guac.
We’ve had a good run, but right now, I’m worried. I decided to get ambitious with my new project, “Tentacle Lust of the Old Gods.”
I complained to Cokely about the crew’s ridiculous-looking monster props – trash bags and foam insulation. Bullshit! I needed my old gods to be scary. Imposing. Something people would actually worship.
I called my Igor last night and ranted. He grunted and hung up.
Now I’m here with the cast and crew down at the beach, ready for our first shot and there’s no sign of Cokely.
He’s always here for the first shot. If something happened to him, I’m worried I won’t find a replacement.
And to make matters worse, the sky is a strange shade of purple I’ve never seen before. A storm may be coming in. If we’re gonna shoot this fucker, I hope my Igor hurries.
Patrick Kevin Day’s “My Igor” was the winner of the 2025 ScreamAge Horror Flash Fiction Contest.