The Filmmaker Behind the Code

Right now, it's a guerrilla operation of one.

I chased frames all my life, since I shot "Cannibal Hotel" at the age of 8, with my parent's Super8 camera, and then the freelance wilderness that pays bills but starves dreams, letting me creatively hemorrhaging, burnt out and desperate for something real. That desperation became fuel.

My influences run deep and kinetic. Raimi's manic camera choreography. Jackson's gleeful practical carnage before he disappeared into digital Middle-earth. Fincher's obsessive precision and psychological excavation. Tsui Hark's kinetic Hong Kong poetry. Guillermo Del Toro's gothic romanticism. Tsukamoto's cyberpunk body horror nightmares...(here for the famous ones). These aren't just filmmakers—they're architects of movement and madness, creators who understood that genre cinema can dance between visceral thrills and profound truth.

When I'm not coding Skrean or drowning in corporate deadlines, I'm writing. The Edge emerged from sleepless nights and anxiety—a post-collapse nightmare about survival when civilization's mask slips. It's the film I need to make, funded or not, Skrean as its, my lifeboat, industry approval be damned.

Building from Scratch

I code Skrean myself because I understand its DNA. Every line serves the vision: clean interface, curator-driven discovery over algorithmic noise. The platform reflects my belief that cinema deserves respectful presentation—not buried under engagement metrics or strangled by corporate overlords.

My aesthetic leans toward the kinetic and visceral. Practical effects that bleed real latex. Camera moves that dance with the action rather than observing from safety. Stories that carve themselves into memory through chaos. I believe in cinema that trusts its audience's intelligence while never forgetting emotion.

The Long Game

Skrean isn't just a platform—it's infrastructure for the films I want to see exist. Through Aegir Studio, I'm building toward original productions. The funding struggle for The Edge taught me that waiting for permission is creative death.

This is about community and movement. About ensuring the films that shaped my kinetic vocabulary don't disappear into digital purgatory. About creating space for new voices who understand that horror, sci-fi, and thrillers aren't lesser forms—they're the most honest forms, because they deal directly with fear through motion and madness.