Inherit The Earth: The Most Mediocre Movie You Never Saw

Not many people know this about me, but half a lifetime ago, I made a movie. At the ripe old age of twenty-one, I wrote, produced and directed a feature film called Inherit The Earth.  It was a coming-of-age drama about a seminary student who meets and falls in love with a free-spirited young woman who opens his eyes to the world. I shot it on digital video and made the whole thing for around $2,000 (yes, really). 

So, where is this film now? 

No idea. 

See, the funny thing is, I never one hundred percent finished the movie. I shot all of the scenes I wanted to shoot and edited the film how I wanted it edited, but the guy who was supposed to write the score never came through. (That’s what I get for trusting my brother.) The final sound mix was never finished because we never got the music. 

The film was screened three times: once at the church where we filmed a few scenes (Unitarians, nice people), once at an art house where cast and crew brought their friends and family and once at some old ladies house because I was looking for completion funds (all three women in attendance fell asleep). We used music that we had no legal right to, but thankfully, no one turned us in. 

Eventually, the film I had worked so hard on wound up in a box at the back of my closet, a VHS that gathered dust until the day it was finally thrown away. I threw it away because looking at it made me sad. Not because the film was compromised (low budgets force you to compromise), and not because my ex-wife was in it (and dare I say she was actually pretty good, too), but because I viewed it as yet another failure. Not only was this incomplete, shot on video and wholly unmarketable movie sitting there with my name on it, more importantly, it was a constant reminder that I didn’t try again. 

“So your first movie sucked. So what? Get over it and make another one!” you might say and logically, you would be right.  But I didn’t try again. I was defeated and I slunk back with my tail between my legs. Even know, writing about it for the first time ever, the sadness is almost overwhelming. 

Making a movie is work. It can be extremely stressful, difficult and exhausting. It can ruin friendships, can turn anyone into a raging lunatic on set (like when I attacked a water fountain for turning on mid-scene and ruining the take- not my best moment) and can make you wonder why you even fucking bother. But, there is something wonderful about seeing your name up on the screen, about hearing an audience react to what you created and knowing that if you do absolutely nothing else with your life, at least you made this. 

But now it’s all gone. Like tears in the rain, to borrow a line from Blade Runner. 

If, by some miracle, a copy of my film were to turn up, what would I do? Would I hold on to it, for old times sake, or would I once again dispose of it, letting it dissolve in the dustbin of history ? 

I honestly don’t know.