Do You Ever Switch off?
Lawrie Brewster loves his job as a film producer with the British Horror Studio, not to mention my exciting roles with Amicus Productions, Hex Studios, and checking whether Colin has left the building before I lock it up at night. All those things (and more) make life as a filmmaker bearable, aided somewhat by the local pub, the handgun in my office drawer, and the bottle of bourbon that accompanies it.
But what if those things are just unnecessary salves for a self-inflicted wound, one that could actually be healed by taking time off? Some of you reading this, who aren’t filmmakers, might think the answer is obvious. Just watch a movie, eat sweets, grab a bottle of bourbon, a gun, and a car with no working brakes. But no. I tell you, the answer is not so simple.
Most folks, when they finish work, clock off and eat nachos. This, in fact, comprises 83% of all activity undertaken by males in the UK between the ages of 23 and 35. The other 17% is too naughty to describe here (just be careful to hide any erotic-looking plushies you keep in the bedroom). Those are particularly vulnerable to British males aged between 18 and 23, according to government statistics. Well… probably. Possibly. According to government statistics.
Add to that the fact that just about every filmmaker I’ve ever met seems to be somewhere on the spectrum, or has ADHD (which is rife. Rife, I tell you, in the creative industries), and you’ll realise the usual ‘switch-off’ solutions simply don’t work. Instead, folks generally just work until they collapse with exhaustion, only to find themselves oddly awake at 2am thinking about the first thing they must do tomorrow, or worse still, coming up with new ideas.
What is the Solution?
Most of the time, we’re not really looking for one. We’re chasing new projects and creative highs, trying to stay solvent while doing it. That’s the plight of every artist. But inevitably, a time comes when creative folks, horror filmmakers included, must try to take a moment to relax. Not a five-minute moment while grappling a crumpled page from the lingerie section of an ’80s Sears catalogue. No. A more substantial, holistic kind of relaxation.
Megan Tremethick, who can best be described as one of the fastest-rising stars of indie horror (you’ll know her from The Reign of Queen Ginnarra and In the Grip of Terror), was especially expressive when, at the pub, we learned that a local village would be holding a fair. Or more precisely, a gala at the harbour organised by the Sailing Club.
If that sounds a little Hot Fuzz to you, I won’t deny it. But as someone who once lived in that village, one of many dotting the beautiful Fife coast, it brought a genuine smile.
After all, this was where I grew up. And it had actually been quite a while since I’d last visited. Working constantly makes for a shocking realisation of how quickly time has passed. I can still close my eyes and remember when Sarah Daly and I first lived there, starting Hex Studios from the dirt. Or rather, from the sands of Dysart beach.
It was where I made my first short films, the very first being Purgatory, made with college friends and shot in a bin-store under my mother’s flat. And I remember the galas too, one of which gave me my first paid filming gig. It was an astonishment to actually get paid to play with a camera. The fee was enough to get two Indian takeaways, one for me, one for my flatmate at the time, Gavin Robertson. A chap who’s served with us on many early films.
So yes. With some enthusiasm this morning, I suggested we go to the gala at Dysart Harbour. Megan Tremethick and I would be joined by Paul William Kelly, producer with the British Horror Studio project, and a dear friend.
As a hapless trio, we traversed the terraces and tenements of Kirkcaldy, through the beautiful woodland of Ravenscraig Park, which eventually opens onto a stunning stone quarry. At the base of that quarry sits a 400-year-old harbour.
Scotland is in the grip of a heatwave, and nobody is complaining. The sun, long considered mythological in this country, has now been proven real. I was dressed appropriately for a middle-aged businessman. Slacks and a white shirt that glistened under the sky like an overheated estate agent.
As we emerged at the park’s edge, we passed through a tunnel dug into the cliffside, the remnants of a quarry forming a natural amphitheatre around the harbour. It’s a lovely old tunnel. I’ve walked through it countless times. I even got smooched in it once by a high school crush. Or rather, she smooched me because I was taking too long.
And every time I pass under that tunnel’s low ceiling, I still duck. Instinctively. As though it might shear off the top of my head. Which it won’t. But still.
On the other side was a bustling spread of vendors. John was there with his antiques. A lovely lass named Caitlin had a stall of handmade ornaments. Cheerful music rang from the speakers. Colourful bunting danced overhead. And the scent of barbecued hot dogs and cheeseburgers was irresistible. Well, almost. I’m on week three of my keto diet, so I ate my noms bunless. The price of vanity.
Creativity Without Burnout
Paul is a producer with an up-and-coming horror studio called the B-Team, and we were chatting about ideas for potential future projects. Megan Tremethick was keen to discuss some horror films she’d watched recently, including the new release Bring Her Back by the YouTubers RackaRacka, who broke out with their debut Talk to Me.
We also talked about concepts for future films, who their audiences might be, and whether there’d be genuine interest in them. Could they be good contenders to shoot next year? It was casual and light-hearted. But by being outside the office and away from the computer, it felt so much more relaxing. Fresh air. The answers can seem so obvious, yet we so often ignore them in favour of more ‘satisfying’ accomplishments. Relief or relaxation are rewards our brains tend to ration, doled out only when the to-do list is finished. The problem is… it never is.
This picture shows a lovely view of the gala, which had started to quieten down. I honestly feel it’s almost a miracle these days for community events in the UK to get people outdoors. We’re all so insular at the moment. The world often feels threatening and belligerent, so it’s no wonder we retreat into our phones or computers.
It was genuinely heartening to see so many people outside having fun. The joy they experienced warmed my own heart too, in a way that went far beyond the ticking of boxes or the satisfaction of finishing a task. It was a different sort of emotional accomplishment, one I’d ignored for so long that I’d almost forgotten how or why it even mattered. But it does.
After delicious noms, including a glass of peach iced tea, we joked about the constable from Hot Fuzz with the Spider-Man face paint. And perhaps predictably, this led to Megan Tremethick insisting that I, the imperious Lawrie Brewster, should have my face painted too.
At first, I thought I was safe. They were only accepting cash. But Megan Tremethick, ever resourceful, somehow gathered the necessary funds, and there I was, sitting down to be transformed. The talented woman painting faces asked what I wanted to be. I said: an orange cat with tiger aspects.
I was thinking of Jaffa, a long-haired ginger tom I grew up with. A beloved family pet and one of my earliest companions. So, with fond memories of ginger cats, how could I refuse to become one? Even if it meant going to the pub looking like one.
The walk back was much longer. The journey there had been downhill, but uphill felt far more familiar. It was the kind of uphill that reminded you your legs haven’t seen a treadmill since 2019, and the heat was starting to feel properly Scottish in its passive-aggressive relentlessness. Stumbling along looking like a cat, or some Tim Burton-esque version of a Wind in the Willows character, I thoroughly bemused more than one child and mother along the way.
Still, the tiredness I felt at the end of that day was no worse than the kind I feel after a long night of film-producing. And I’m not talking about the fun stuff. I mean the accounts, the contracts, the sheer graft. But this kind of exhaustion felt good, while the other often does not.
Its total absence feels even worse. That’s why taking breaks, allowing myself to be silly, and stepping away from the film world even briefly made everything feel lighter. It didn’t just improve my mood. It gave me a sense of emotional and even spiritual restoration.
Being a filmmaker, unfortunately, means you’ll often cross paths with toxic personalities, manipulative people, and a whole lot of grief. Most of us only share the good parts on social media, just like everyone else. But the truth is, there’s no downside to a sunny day, good friends, iced tea and a silly-looking face.
Some experiences in life carry no win-or-lose stakes. As filmmakers, we often forget that the absence of risk doesn’t make something meaningless. In fact, it makes it even more meaningful.
About Lawrie Brewster
Lawrie Brewster is a veteran horror film producer with over 15 years of experience. He leads Hex Studios, serves as president of Amicus Productions, and runs the British Horror Studio project in collaboration with filmmakers from around the world.
You can follow Lawrie Brewster on his official website: www.lawriebrewster.com
Lawrie has recently published a series of fascinating articles, including his five top tips for indie filmmakers, his thoughts on the current state of film distribution, the creation of the British Horror Studio project, his journey from outsider to filmmaker, and his staunch defence of 1980s-style Sword and Sorcery.
He also recently interviewed Tony Mardon and Andy Edwards on the challenges, stresses, and psychological battles involved in producing films and remaining (somewhat) sane. Do give them a read!