SPOTLIGHT: ELLIOT GROVE

FOUNDER

RAINDANCE

FILM FESTIVAL

AND BIFA

BIO:

Elliot Grove is the founder of the Raindance Film Festival (1993), a beacon for indie storytellers, followed by the British Independent Film Awards (BIFA) in 1998 and the Raindance Film School in 2017, each a sanctuary for the daring, the different, and the bold. A champion of the outsider and the dreamer, he's built sanctuaries for voices to rise and resonate.

Ellliot Grove Personal Video Intro

With over 700 short films and several feature films to his name, including the hauntingly acclaimed The Living and the Dead (2006). Elliot’s fingerprints are etched into modern indie cinema. A global mentor, he teaches screenwriting and producing across the UK, Europe, Asia, and America, igniting creative fires wherever he goes.

SUMMARY:

Elliot Grove is a torchbearer for independent filmmaking and creative freedom, outside of the mainstream. Proving that vision, passion, and tenacity can triumph over budget constraints. His work empowers marginalised voices through film, education, charitable initiatives.

Elliot has built an empire from grit and passion at a time when independent filmmaking desperatley needed a voice. He became that voice for the raw talent, the unheard, and the bold who dared to step outside of the mainstream pathway and go it alone. His legacy isn’t just in festivals or awards, but in the fire he lit in countless creators. Elliot built a stage from scratch. He didn’t just open doors, he kicked them wide open for independent filmmakers all over the world!

Q&A

DG Q:

Raindance Film Festival stands as a bastion of independent film, a sanctuary where original storytelling finds its voice beyond the margins of mainstream. What pivotal moment or visionary impulse first ignited the spark that became the Raindance Festival, and the catalysing creation that shaped its enduring ethos?

 EG:

I wish I could say Raindance was born out of some grand epiphany, but the truth is it came out of hard times. In the 1980s, I was working as a property developer in London. Then the recession hit, interest rates soared, and I went bust. I found myself living in a National Trust property outside of London, surrounded by sheep but also by self-pity.

One day, the local farmer, Fred Ward, saw me moping around and told me: “No doctor in the world can cure self-pity. Do what you love.” His words stuck. And it took me back to the very first film I ever saw.

I grew up in a strict Mennonite farming community outside Toronto.

Cinema was considered the devil's playground. One hot summer’s day, running an errand, I found myself with three hours to kill and a few coins in my pocket. Just down the street from the church stood the movie theatre — the so-called “House of the Devil.” I paced back and forth, working up the courage, and finally bought a ticket for 99 cents.

I walked down a red-painted tunnel, into the darkness, and the first “face of the devil” I saw was Lassie Come Home [1943]. The lights dimmed, the curtains opened, and within minutes I was crying like a baby. I even rushed to touch the screen. In that moment, I was utterly hooked, overwhelmed by the power of story and image to move the soul.

That memory became the seed of Raindance: a festival built as a sanctuary for the kinds of films that first enchanted me, films that move you, surprise you, and stay with you. That impulse, to create a space for original, independent storytelling — is what shaped the ethos of Raindance and still drives it today.

DG Q:

Easy Rider” (1969) wasn’t just a film for you, it was a revelation, life-changing, a cinematic enveloping of your soul. Word is, you rode with it for 22 Fridays straight, a ritual of rebellion and reflection. What was it about that cinematic journey that gripped you so fiercely? What did it awaken, shift, or set ablaze within you?

EG: Easy Rider [1969] was absolutely seismic for me. It’s true, I went with my mates 22 Fridays in a row. It became a ritual. We’d pile into the cinema, week after week, knowing full well what was coming, but somehow each time it hit us differently. On the surface, the ending seemed ambiguous, but it wasn’t: they all died. The real question — the one that haunted me — was what the filmmakers were saying about America, about freedom, about the fragile dreams of the counterculture.

Remember, this was a turbulent time. The Vietnam War was raging. At Kent State, four students were gunned down by the National Guard. The so-called sexual revolution was promising liberation, but also exposing deep social fractures. My own mum was quietly housing American draft dodgers at our family home in Canada. It felt like the world was splitting open, but no one knew what shape it would take when the dust settled.

Easy Rider captured that uncertainty in a way no politician, no news broadcast ever could.

Seeing it again and again, I began to understand just how potent cinema could be. It wasn’t just entertainment — it was a mirror, a megaphone, and sometimes a warning. It showed me that film had the power to embody the restless spirit of an era, to make you feel its tensions in your gut. More than that, it taught me that the establishment — the system we were told to rely on — was not only untrustworthy, but often outright hostile to anyone who dared to live differently or question authority.

That realisation was life-changing. It set me on a path of distrust toward the so-called gatekeepers, and a lifelong commitment to spaces where outsiders and rebels could tell their stories. In many ways, Easy Rider planted the seed for Raindance itself: a sanctuary for the misfits and the visionaries, for films that challenge, provoke, and capture the restless spirit of their own time. And honestly, sitting here today, it still feels as urgent and relevant as it did back then.

DG Q:

As the world-renowned Raindance Film Festival celebrates its 34th orbit around the sun, the 2025 festival welcomed audiences with powerful films like, Heavy Weight and ROW, to name a few. What was it about these particular works that first drew your eye and what resonance or revelation made them stand out among the hundreds you initially received?

EG: I’ve grown up with independent film, or maybe I should say, I’ve grown through independent film. The first one that truly shook me was Diva [1981], which I stumbled into at an early edition of TIFF. At the time, I didn’t have a clue what an independent film even was, and I certainly didn’t know that something like a film festival could exist. But sitting in that theatre, I was swept away — not just by the story, but by the realisation that cinema could be daring, different, and deeply personal. It changed me.

Over the years, I came to understand that the stories that really matter are the ones that make you feel something. That’s become my guiding principle at Raindance. Whenever a programmer tells me they’ve seen a film they like, my first question is always: How did it make you feel? If the answer doesn’t involve an emotional response: joy, rage, heartbreak, awe, then it’s not a film we’re going to fight for.

I remember being in Japan in the early 2000s, teaching a week-long story seminar in Tokyo. At the end, I asked the group what they thought made a story great. One man, an elderly fisherman turned screenwriter who had written over fifty produced Yakuza films (one of which was later sold to Quentin Tarantino and became Kill Bill [2003]) — gave me an answer I’ll never forget. Through a translator he said: “Your body is 75% fluid. A great story forces your body fluid out of an appropriate pore.” In other words, a great story makes you laugh, makes you cry, makes you sweat — but it has to move you physically.

That’s exactly why films like Heavy Weight and ROW stood out to us this year. Out of hundreds of submissions, they weren’t just technically impressive or thematically clever. They had an emotional punch that made us feel something in our bones. And that’s the bar we’ve always set at Raindance: films that pierce through the noise and leave a mark on your body, your spirit, your memory.

So as Raindance celebrates its 34th orbit around the sun, these films remind us why the festival exists in the first place: to champion raw, unfiltered storytelling that dares to stir audiences in ways they don’t expect. That resonance is what keeps the heart of Raindance beating year after year.

DG Q: Let’s take you back to your childhood for a moment. You were brought up in a Mennonite household, and was unable to watch TV or films. By the age of 16, you watched your first film, Lassie Comes Home,

(a favourite of mine) and was hooked on cinema forever.  What was your childhood like and how did you spend your free time?  

EG: Other than the usual schooling, my childhood had two distinctive features: play and story. But play, in my case, didn’t involve television or fancy shop-bought toys, we weren’t allowed those. My favourite toy at the age of six was a stack of off-cuts from the lumber yard, a hammer, and a box of nails. I’d spend hours building, imagining, tearing things down and starting again. And when I wasn’t hammering away, I was drawing with paints, paper, and crayons. Looking back, it was all about creating worlds out of whatever I had to hand.

The other constant in my childhood was story. Every Sunday, while the adults were upstairs in church, the man with the beard would take us children into the basement and tell us Bible stories. These weren’t just tales to me — they were terrifying, vivid, alive. I remember coming home one Sunday in floods of tears, convinced Daniel was going to be eaten alive in the lions’ den if someone didn’t rescue him. I couldn’t sleep for three nights. Another week, I came home sobbing again, demanding to know why they crucified “that really nice man.” Another three sleepless nights.

But those stories imprinted themselves on me. They made me feel, in my bones, what was at stake for these characters. They were more than lessons, they were experiences. And the storytelling didn’t stop at church. Around the supper table, my father or grandfather would recount stories from the fields or the barn. My mother and grandmother would tell stories of the garden, the quilting bees, or the jam-making sessions with my aunts and cousins. My life was constantly surrounded by stories — spoken, acted out, imagined, or built with scraps of wood.

So when I finally saw my first film, Lassie Come Home [1943], at the age of sixteen, it felt like stepping into a larger version of the world I already knew: a world built of stories that could make you laugh, cry, and lose sleep. In many ways, my Mennonite childhood — stripped of screens but rich with imagination and oral tradition — prepared me perfectly for a life in cinema. And that’s why Raindance has always championed stories that feel raw, urgent, and lived-in because those were the kinds of stories that first moved me as a child.

DG Q: You once said that ‘Independent filmmakers are the prophets of today’ (a quote I absolutely love). Could you delve deeper into what you meant by that?

EG: We live in terribly troubled times. But this isn’t new at all. Thousands of years ago people faced the same kinds of upheaval we do now: refugee crises, the Israelites driven from Egypt, pandemics — the sufferings in Job; social collapse and renewal — the story of Noah and the ark. Back then, storytellers didn’t just entertain. They wove wisdom into fable and myth to help their communities understand what was happening and how to survive it emotionally and morally. The best of those stories endured. We now call them parables, and the people who first told them we call prophets.

So when I say "independent filmmakers are the prophets of today," I mean that in the same ancient sense. These are the people willing to look honestly at our troubles and translate them into stories that illuminate, warn, console, and sometimes foretell. A great film doesn’t hand you answers. It forces you to sit with a problem, to feel its edges, to see it from an unexpected angle, and in doing so, it can change the way a community thinks, behaves, or remembers.

Who among us today has the courage and imagination to craft a story that helps a generation understand the trials we face: climate collapse, displacement, political fracture, technological alienation? If your film survives beyond the moment and becomes the kind of parable people turn to in hard times, then yes: you have acted like a prophet. Not in the supernatural sense, but in the cultural, social sense — a seer who shapes how people feel and therefore how they act.

That’s exactly why Raindance exists. We don’t chase celebrity or safe commerce; we hunt for the films that act like parables — urgent, uncomfortable, humane pieces that might, in time, become the stories a generation leans on. Raindance is a place where those prophetic voices are heard, amplified, and given the chance to be seen by the people who need them most.

DG Q:

Independent cinema has long been a crucible for stories that stir the soul. Raw, unvarnished, and deeply human. Through the lens of passionate filmmakers working with little more than grit and vision, these films have changed lives. Out of this spirit emerged BIFA, the British Independent Film Awards. Can you take us back to its genesis, what was it that sparked the idea to create an awards platform for the outsiders, the dreamers, the storytellers who dared to go their own way?

EG:

Five years after I started Raindance, in 1998, I was genuinely upset that the British industry was basically giving Raindance the cold shoulder. Sure, a few heavyweights like Ken Loach, Mike Leigh, and Terry Gilliam gave me the occasional pat on the back. But for the most part, we were dismissed as outsiders, as if independent cinema didn’t count.

So I thought, fine, let’s change the conversation. I decided to create an event to celebrate the very best of British independent film. In truth, it was my way of sticking two fingers up to the establishment, while also spotlighting the new wave of talent pouring into the scene: filmmakers like Edgar Wright — who, incidentally, was one of my very first volunteers — and Christopher Nolan, who was just beginning to find his voice.

To put it in perspective: back in 1993, the very first year of Raindance, there were only six British films screened. One of them was My Beautiful Laundrette [1985], Stephen Frears’ first cinema feature. Contrast that with the decades before, when the British industry was making 100–150 films a year, everything from the gothic Hammer horror cycle to the cheeky Carry On films. I dug into the research and discovered what had happened: the arrival of television. For indie filmmakers of the time, television offered steady paychecks compared to the old feast-or-famine freelance grind. It made sense, and it also explains why this damp little island has produced such exceptional TV. But in the process, the theatrical indie spirit had nearly vanished.

So, back to your question: who doesn’t like a party with a theme? Add awards into the mix, and suddenly you have a platform to gather, to celebrate, and to validate a whole generation of filmmakers who had been overlooked. That’s how the first edition of BIFA came about — equal parts provocation and celebration.

Of course, a few weeks after that inaugural event I received a stern registered letter from the Houses of Parliament, essentially saying: “You can’t just slap the word ‘British’ on something and call it official.” Perhaps they thought the public would be too gullible? In any case, we fought back. After eighteen months of hard campaigning — backed by letters from the great and the good, including Loach and Leigh — we finally secured the right to call it what it was: the British Independent Film Awards.

BIFA was born out of the same spirit as Raindance: a refusal to wait for permission, and a belief that independent voices deserved their own spotlight. It became a way to honour the outsiders, the dreamers, the storytellers daring to go their own way. And in many ways, it gave British indies the recognition they’d been denied — and a community that continues to thrive alongside Raindance today.

DG Q: What’s a film you championed that surprised everyone?

EG: Thats like asking a parent who their favourite child is. I'm afraid I want answers this one - I love them all.

DG Q: The path of the independent creative is paved with grit and uncertainty. Financially, it can be a feast-or-famine existence, each project a make it or break it situation. When the seasons were lean, how did you navigate that wilderness in the early

days?

EG: The truth is, the path of the independent creative has always been tough, feast one year, famine the next. I learned early on that if you want to survive in this business, you have to reposition yourself not just as a filmmaker, but as a multi-format content creator. Storytelling isn’t confined to a single medium — it might be a film, a short, a script, a podcast, a branded piece, or even a social media reel. The more agile you are, the more likely you are to weather the lean times.

And I’ve never believed there’s any blemish on your career if you take on the so-called dull and boring “day job.” In fact, those jobs often give you access to experiences, people, and struggles that later find their way into your stories. The key is to keep your creative muscles warm, no matter how you pay the bills.

For me, persistence has always been the magic ingredient. Be persistent. Be patient. Be brilliant. The brilliant part doesn’t mean perfect, it means approaching everything you do, even the smallest project, with as much craft and honesty as you can muster. Audiences can forgive rough edges, but they won’t forgive mediocrity of spirit.

And that philosophy is really at the core of Raindance. When we showcase films, we’re not looking for polished budgets or glossy surfaces, we’re looking for that persistence, that bravery, that spark of brilliance that survives in spite of the wilderness. Because independent filmmakers aren’t just making films, they’re building resilience, and that resilience is what keeps the indie spirit alive.

 DG Q: In 2009 you was awarded a well-deserved PhD for your contributions to film education of which you have done so much that included: The Independent Film Trust, a charitable organisation that empowers children facing disabilities or disadvantaged circumstances to express themselves through the art of filmmaking. This was a formal recognition. When that honour found its way to you, what did you feel in that moment?

EG:

Receiving the PhD in 2009 was, in many ways, a gigantic slap on the back. It meant a great deal to me because it felt like a recognition not just of my own work, but of the thousands of filmmakers, students, and collaborators who had made Raindance and the Independent Film Trust possible. To my disappointment, the title “Dr.” doesn’t allow me to write prescriptions for drugs — but it does serve as a wonderful reminder that film education, which often exists outside the limelight, really does matter.

For decades I’d been working on the fringes, building spaces where outsiders and dreamers could tell their stories. The PhD was formal recognition that this work had value, that teaching people how to make films with whatever tools they had — sometimes just a phone and an idea — could transform lives. Especially with the Independent Film Trust, where I saw young people facing disabilities or disadvantages discover their own voices through film, it was humbling to know that others believed this work was worth honouring.

So yes, I took it with humour, but also with deep gratitude. And for me, it wasn’t an ending, it was a spur to keep going. Raindance has always been about breaking down barriers and making filmmaking accessible, and the PhD was a reminder that even the most “unofficial” work can one day be recognised as essential.

DG Q:

The Raindance Film Festival is moving to Ogden, Utah for the UK-based event. What was behind your decision-making for this move?

EG: I wish I could claim it was my idea, but the truth is, this opportunity came to Raindance rather than the other way around. Back in 2016, I met a filmmaker and educator named Greg Hauptner, who was running a film school for grades 6–12 in Orlando. We stayed in touch over the years, sharing ideas about film education and how to nurture the next generation of storytellers.

In February 2025, Greg reached out again, this time with his partner Dawn. They had been building an extraordinary wave of energy in Utah, particularly in Ogden — the sister city to Salt Lake City. They asked if Raindance might be interested in planting a flag there. From the very first conversation, it felt right.

Since then, I’ve had a series of meetings with civic leaders, educators, and cultural organisations in Utah, and I’ve been struck by the appetite for independent film — not just as entertainment, but as community, education, and creative expression. Ogden has a strong pioneer spirit and a thriving grassroots arts scene. It feels like the natural place for Raindance to expand its mission, offering American filmmakers the same kind of platform and community that we’ve built in London over the past three decades.

So the decision wasn’t about leaving London — that remains our beating heart — but about widening the circle. Raindance has always been about creating sanctuaries for indie storytellers wherever they’re found. Ogden gives us a new frontier, a chance to connect British and American talent, and to amplify the global indie spirit in a city that’s hungry for it.

DG Q:

You navigated an unconventional pathway into film and have produced hundreds of short films as well as several feature films. This in itself is inspiring to many and gives hope to those starting out on a similar path. Your passion for film is unchallengeable and shines through all that you do. What would you say is at the core of your incredible success?

EG: OMG — I honestly don’t view myself as “successful.” Just ask my bank manager! What I do have, though, is a huge bank account of satisfaction from people like you who see value in what I’ve tried to do over the years.

If I had to pinpoint the core of it, it comes down to what I call the three B’s of Raindance: beg, borrow, barter. I’ve never had the luxury of unlimited resources, so I had to rely on resourcefulness — persuading people to join in, finding ways to stretch tiny budgets, and trading skills and goodwill to make projects happen. That spirit of improvisation became not just a method, but a mindset.

And maybe that’s been my real compass: persistence, curiosity, and an unshakeable belief in the power of story. I’ve produced hundreds of shorts and a handful of features, but what matters most to me is the community of filmmakers who’ve come through Raindance — many of whom started with nothing but an idea, and went on to create something extraordinary.

So if there’s a “secret,” it isn’t success in the conventional sense. It’s surrounding yourself with passionate people, never losing the DIY spirit, and finding joy in helping others get their stories told. That, to me, has been more rewarding than any balance sheet — and it’s what keeps Raindance alive year after year.

DG Q: You’ve said farmers are the best entrepreneurs? Can you expand on that?

EG: A kid on the farm, I remember walking down our long lane in mid-March, the snow just starting to melt. My grandfather would stop, lick his finger, and hold it to the wind. He wasn’t just checking the weather for fun — he was deciding our future. If it looked like a dry summer, he’d plant oats. If it looked like a wet one, he’d plant corn. And if he got it wrong, we might not have enough to eat come winter. That’s how high the stakes were.

Farmers are the best entrepreneurs because they live with uncertainty every single season. They have to weigh risk against instinct, plan with the long game in mind, and adapt quickly when the world doesn’t deliver what they expected. And when harvest time comes, they’re accountable — if the crops don’t come in, there’s no hiding from it.

Filmmakers face the same reality. Every project is a gamble. You have to read the cultural weather, sense the shifts in audience appetite, and decide what film is going to “bring home the bacon” so you can pay back your investors and earn the chance to do it all over again. Like farmers, indie filmmakers survive not by chasing certainty, but by cultivating resilience, adaptability, and persistence.

That’s also why Raindance has always embraced the farmer’s spirit — sowing seeds of talent, nurturing them in unpredictable conditions, and celebrating the harvest when a filmmaker finally brings their vision to screen. In both farming and filmmaking, it’s not about one season. It’s about the courage to keep planting, year after year.

DG Q:

In addition to your work in film, you've authored three books: Beginning Filmmaking, Lab Lo-To-No Budget Filmmaking, and Writer’s Lab. Each offering valuable insights into the craft. Could you share what inspired these works and what readers can expect from them? And might there be another book on the horizon?

EG: My books really are the result of three decades of trial and error. Everything in them comes from the trenches, advice that I tested, that I saw actually work. And yes, I’ve left out the bad advice I sometimes gave along the way, the stuff that fell flat or caused more headaches than solutions. Writing the books was my way of distilling the lessons that could genuinely help filmmakers avoid the mistakes I made.

Beginning Filmmaking was written for those just starting out — people with more passion than resources. It’s a guide to demystify the basics, to give you enough confidence to pick up whatever camera you have and just start telling stories.

Lab Lo-to-No Budget Filmmaking came from watching so many filmmakers freeze up because they thought filmmaking was about waiting until they had money. It isn’t. It’s about creativity, resourcefulness, and the three B’s I always preach at Raindance: beg, borrow, barter. That book is about liberating filmmakers from the myth that you need permission or piles of cash to create something meaningful.

And Writer’s Lab was born out of my deep belief that story is the heart of everything. You can shoot on an iPhone, but without a good story, it won’t matter. That book is about giving writers and filmmakers the tools to craft narratives that resonate — stories that might even, in time, feel prophetic.

As for another book — yes, the idea is always simmering. I think the next one might be about the survival skills of indie filmmakers in today’s rapidly shifting landscape: how to navigate AI, vertical storytelling, and brand partnerships without losing your voice. If my earlier books were about starting a journey, this one might be about sustaining it.

At the end of the day, the books — like Raindance itself — are about empowerment. They’re meant to remind filmmakers that no matter where you are, or how little you have, you can start today.

DG Q:  Looking back over the arc of your career, what moment stands out as your boldest act of rebellion, the risk that defied convention and defined your path?

EG:

Looking back, I’d say starting Raindance itself was probably my boldest act of rebellion. At the time it wasn’t calculated strategy — it was pure naïveté and blind ambition. I had no money, no industry backing, and no clue how things were “supposed” to be done. But maybe that was the point. Because without knowing the rules, I wasn’t afraid to break them.

Then came the BIFAs in 1998. That really rattled cages. In the early days, plenty of people in the industry dismissed it — some even openly mocked the idea that independent filmmakers deserved their own awards platform. I won’t name names, because interestingly many of those same people now happily attend, present, or even campaign for BIFA recognition. That turnaround is, to me, the highest accolade anyone could want.

So yes, those were acts of rebellion, but they weren’t born from anger. They were born from the conviction that indie filmmakers mattered, that they deserved a stage and a voice.

And what once looked like foolish risk-taking has, over time, become part of the fabric of the British film industry. Raindance and BIFA are proof that sometimes defying convention is the only way to create something lasting.

DG Q: Considering all that you have achieved in your lifetime, is there an unfulfilled dream you have yet to realise?

EG: I went to art school and have always considered myself, at heart, a visual artist. Painting, drawing, colour — those are my first languages. But the truth is, I’ve never had the time to fully develop that side of myself. Running Raindance, writing books, producing films — it’s been a life full of projects and people, but it has meant I haven’t given myself the space to refine my eye–hand coordination or truly explore my own unique colour palette.

That remains an unfulfilled dream: to dedicate a stretch of time purely to visual art, without deadlines, without distractions. To see what emerges when I let myself paint in the same way I’ve encouraged filmmakers to make their films — freely, instinctively, without waiting for permission.

In a way, though, Raindance has been my canvas. Every festival programme, every BIFA ceremony, every filmmaker I’ve helped champion — those are brushstrokes too. Perhaps one day I’ll return to painting with oils and watercolours. Until then, my unfulfilled dream continues to live inside the colours and stories we bring to the screen.

DG Q: Of all the films you've seen, is there one that stands out as your all-time favourite? What makes it so meaningful to you?

EG: Look - It was Lassie come Home. If I hadn’t seen that film, I wouldn’t be here right now. And most likely would be miserable teaching high school somewhere in a remote Canadian town.

DG Q: How do you think storytelling in the film industry is evolving?

EG: Storytelling in film has always been evolving, but right now we’re living through one of the most seismic shifts since the invention of sound or the arrival of television. At its heart, the change is being driven by attention spans — and the need to counter the endless churn of doom-scrolling. We live in a world where people carry an infinite library of content in their pockets. If your story doesn’t grip within the first few seconds, it’s gone. That pressure is reshaping not only how films are distributed but how stories are told.

Take what’s happening in China, for example. There are stories in micro shorts:  600 one minute episodic soap operas thriving there, each one designed to be consumed vertically on a phone. These micro-shorts are wildly outperforming traditional theatrical releases, especially among younger audiences. They aren’t replacing feature films entirely, but they are creating an entirely new grammar of storytelling. And make no mistake — this trend is coming here.

Vertical, not horizontal. Bite-sized, not sprawling. Fast hooks, not slow burns. That doesn’t mean that long-form storytelling is over — far from it. But it does mean that filmmakers need to be fluent in multiple storytelling modes. Just as the arrival of television didn’t kill cinema, this shift won’t either. What it does demand is flexibility and imagination.

At the same time, new technologies like AI are becoming part of the storytelling toolkit. AI is already being used to generate scripts, edit footage, even conjure actors and locations out of thin air. For some, this feels threatening. For others, it’s liberating. I believe that AI, like every tool before it, won’t replace the human voice but will amplify it — provided filmmakers learn to use it with intention and integrity.

Another major evolution is the collapse of boundaries between formats. A filmmaker today might direct a feature one year, a branded short the next, and then create a TikTok mini-series or an immersive VR project. The old idea that “real filmmakers make features” no longer holds water. Storytelling has become fluid, and success is no longer tied to a single format or platform.

For independent filmmakers, this is actually an opportunity. The gatekeepers who once dictated what could and couldn’t be seen are losing their grip. A filmmaker with nothing more than a phone, an idea, and some persistence can reach millions. But the challenge is sharper too: with so much noise, your story has to be authentic, urgent, and emotionally resonant. Otherwise, it vanishes into the scroll.

At Raindance, we’ve always believed that the heart of filmmaking isn’t about budget or scale, but about connection. Whether it’s a 90-minute feature on the big screen or a 30-second vertical story on a mobile app, the question is the same: does it move you? That, I think, is the through-line in this era of rapid change. Storytelling is evolving in form, speed, and technology — but its core purpose remains unchanged. It must cut through the noise, touch the heart, and remind us what it means to be human.

DG Q: What positive and negative impact do you see AI having on filmmaking in the future?

EG: AI is not new. It’s been with us for decades. Every time you’ve used a spell-checker, a satnav, or even a recommendation engine on Netflix, you’ve used a form of AI. What’s changed is the speed and scale of its development. The breakthroughs of the last few years mean that AI is now touching almost every industry, and film is no exception. Like every technology before it, from the printing press to the internet, it comes with both enormous promise and serious risks.

On the positive front, AI is already proving itself to be a powerful productivity tool.

Scientists are using AI to find cures for diseases at a fraction of the time it used to take. In filmmaking, that same acceleration can empower creatives. A screenwriter can use AI to generate ideas, outline plot structures, or test dialogue variations in minutes rather than days. Editors can lean on AI to automate the boring, repetitive cuts, freeing up more time for creative decision-making. Visual effects teams can use AI to produce previsualisations, concept art, or even entire sequences that would have been prohibitively expensive a decade ago.

The great leveller here is cost. Independent filmmakers, who’ve always had to do more with less, can now access tools that rival the capabilities of major studios. Need to storyboard your film but can’t afford an artist? AI can help. Want to clean up your sound or colour grade your footage without a post house? AI makes it possible. In theory, this could democratise filmmaking even further — empowering a kid with a phone and a laptop to produce work that looks and sounds professional enough to compete on a global stage.

But on the negative side, every technology brings its shadows. AI is no different. Like any tool, it can be misused by bad actors. Deepfakes can be used to manipulate public opinion, sow disinformation, or exploit performers’ likenesses without consent. Copyright questions around AI-generated scripts, images, and music remain murky, and legal frameworks are lagging behind the speed of the technology. For working creatives, there’s also the looming fear of replacement: that studios might use AI to churn out formulaic content on the cheap, cutting humans out of the process altogether.

Beyond economics, there’s a deeper cultural risk. Great films don’t come from data sets; they come from lived experience, from vulnerability, from the messy contradictions of being human. If we let AI dictate too much of the creative process, we risk ending up with films that are technically perfect but emotionally hollow — stories optimised for engagement rather than resonance.

That’s why I believe the conversation we should be having isn’t “AI versus humans,” but “AI with humans.” AI is a tool, not a substitute. It can accelerate the grunt work, spark ideas, or lower barriers — but the real artistry, the voice, the vision, must still come from people. The challenge for filmmakers is to learn how to harness these tools without surrendering their individuality.

At Raindance, we’ve always championed resourcefulness — the three B’s: beg, borrow, barter. AI may well become the next B. The question every indie filmmaker has to ask is: how do I use this tool to amplify my voice, rather than erase it?

In the end, I see AI as both an accelerant and a test. It can level the playing field and open up extraordinary creative possibilities. But it also forces us to double down on what makes human storytelling irreplaceable: empathy, emotion, and the courage to speak truth. If we keep that at the centre, AI won’t diminish filmmaking. It will expand it.

DG Q: What's a little-known fact about you that you'd be willing to share?

EG:

A little-known fact about me? I have an irrational fear of snakes. Not just the slithery reptiles — though those give me the shivers — but also the other kind: the snakes that stab you in the back. The film industry has both varieties, and over the years I’ve learned that while the reptiles are unpleasant, it’s the human ones you really need to watch out for.

DG Q: If you could offer one brutally, raw and unfiltered, honest piece of advice to emerging artists walking a similar path, what would it be? 

EG: If I had to offer one brutally honest piece of advice, it would be this: find your story, find your style. Everything else is noise. Don’t waste your life chasing trends, copying what you think the industry wants, or waiting for permission. The only thing you have that no one else does is your voice — your lived experience, your scars, your obsessions. That’s your story.

And once you’ve found it, tell it in your own way. Not how film school says, not how Hollywood says, not how the algorithm says — but in the style that feels true to you. It might not please everyone. In fact, if it does, you’re probably doing it wrong. But if you stay with it, that story and that style will carve out a place for you.

Everything I’ve built with Raindance has come from that belief. The filmmakers who last — the ones who change cinema — aren’t the ones who play it safe. They’re the ones who dig deep, find their story, and dare to tell it in a voice no one else could.

DG Q: Let’s finish strong: what’s one quote that hits you right in the soul and says, “This is me”? 

EG: “Stories are the only currency that outlasts us — and I’ve spent my life trading in them."

LINKS: Raindance - the home of independent film