Ask a Former Assistant: Clément Bauer, Jr. Partner, VP of Development & Production at Resonate Entertainment

By Lucy Stover, Manager at More/Medavoy Management

Clément Bauer’s journey into Hollywood didn’t start on a studio lot—it began in a small town in France, watching Disney Channel with English subtitles after his family won the green card lottery and a one-way ticket to Louisiana. For him, American television and film weren’t just entertainment; they were a crash course in culture, language, and belonging. Now a rising producer & jr. partner at Resonate Entertainment, Clém shares how he bridged the gap between assistant and producer—and why maybe that gap isn’t as wide as we think.

As the industry shifts, Clém is fighting to redefine what it means to be a career producer—advocating for healthcare access, fair minimums, and a more human-centered approach to storytelling. For him, producing is about building an ecosystem where bold, diverse stories can thrive & where the people who make them are seen, valued, and protected.

Okay, so we'll start at the beginning. Where did your journey into film begin, and was there a particular moment or influence that drew you into the industry?

I think I was a pretty restless kid with a really wild imagination. My parents really fostered independence in us—we were total free-range kids. We’d leave in the morning and come back at night. I always say they didn’t ask what we were doing during the day—they asked what we’d done once we got back. It was very Goonies-style. I know that’s rare now, but I always encourage parents to let their kids just be kids.

We moved to the States when I was seven. My parents applied for the green card lottery, got it, and just decided to start a new life. They’re kind of crazy in the most beautiful way. We landed in Shreveport, Louisiana, which was a huge culture shock. Watching TV—especially Disney Channel—became our window into American culture. We’d watch with subtitles on to learn English. Being an immigrant, especially one who didn’t speak the language, you really feel othered. You try to fit in, and for me, TV became a tool for that.

So you saw it as a way to connect?

Exactly. And the comedy was so different from what I grew up with. French humor is very dry and sarcastic; American comedy was more slapstick. I got obsessed. I’d just watch constantly, and my parents encouraged it. Even though we were dirt poor, my dad helped me buy this crappy little movie camera, and I just started filming stuff.

That shitty camera became my tool. When you sent me that question, I really thought about it. I think it came down to wanting to fit in. TV was how I observed and understood American culture. And then I wanted to create it—to prove that I belonged. That I do belong. That’s the best psychoanalysis I can give you.

And you’re from a small town in France, right?

Yeah. Back then it had maybe 70,000 people, and my grandparents lived in an even smaller town. We’d go get lost in the woods, do silly things. It was different back then.

Even in the States, it was different. My parents were running around the Chicago suburbs, and their parents would just ring a bell for dinner.

Yeah—if that. We just had to be home by sundown or we’d get our butts kicked. That was the rule.

How do you think your international background shaped your perspective on storytelling and film?

I love this question. And I think it’s kind of what we were just talking about. As an immigrant, you’re an outsider and an observer. You pick up on unique things that other people might take for granted because to them, it’s just normal—it’s how their community lives and operates. But when you come in as an outsider, you notice the differences—between how you grew up and how others do. You start to catalog what makes a group or community unique.

That translates directly into storytelling. When you’re trying to show how people are represented, that’s what you look for: what’s specific, what’s special. And at the same time, we all love the same, fear the same, dream the same. We all want safety, family, legacy. The human experience is shared. But the how—how different people and cultures pursue those things—that’s where it gets really interesting.

If that makes sense and it’s not too esoteric.

No, that does make sense—because it points out difference. And difference is what makes a story so interesting and unique in culture.

Absolutely. And special. That’s something we really connect to at Resonate—we love working with international filmmakers. The world is getting more global, and so is media.

It used to be that “American” stories dominated. One of my college professors used to say the United States’ number one export was culture—because of Hollywood. But now, that’s not so true anymore. The rest of the world is telling their stories too.

We love that at Resonate. Right now, we’re doing a Western. Our director is from Mumbai—she’s Indian—and she’s making an American Western. Why is that a great idea? Because she brings a totally fresh perspective. She’s always been obsessed with Westerns. She’s got the background. She’s a brilliant filmmaker. And she brings that outsider lens that, to all the points I’ve been making, creates beautiful storytelling.

That could be its own piece—how filmmakers can tell stories that don’t look like them, but still do it justice.

Yeah, exactly. And to be clear, I fully support DEI, even if our government doesn’t. I do struggle supporting a cis white man telling a queer story, you know, when there are so many talented queer storytellers out there that don’t get a chance to tell their stories.

Which happens all the time, of course.

Right? But like, on the other hand, Brokeback Mountain is one of the most beautiful films—and Ang Lee is straight. The actors were straight. So is it impossible? No. But it has to be done with care, not exploitation. I think we shouldn't limit, I think the issue is straight white men have had all the advantages and that's really what we're fighting about, giving opportunities to underrepresented voices. 

We appreciate you saying that immensely. We don’t add any questions about DEI into our interviews normally, although we truly want to talk about it, because we don’t want to pressure anyone to feel like they have to make a “statement.”

But I had a feeling that because of how politically poignant Audrey’s Children is, DEI would inevitably come up.

Well, that was coincidental because as you know, we started working on that several years ago, but the timing is—Things have changed.

Things have changed, unfortunately. We’ll get into Audrey’s Children in a bit. Going back, I saw that your first credited professional experience was an internship with Voltage and during Cannes, which makes sense because of your French background.

And hilariously, Voltage is still one of those very early stepping stones for a lot of assistants and film students. A lot of my friends interned there when I was at Syracuse. Do you remember anything from that experience that still sticks with you 15 years later?

I do. If I can pull anything out of that time, it’s the whole experience. I was a senior in high school when I did that. I had just been outed in a horrific way—which I won’t get into today—but I really just needed to get out of Dodge. So I signed up for this program called Creative Minds in Cannes. They brought people out, set you up with an internship, and had you do a short film—kind of like a Campus MovieFest deal where you get a week to create a team, come up with a story, and go shoot it.

So my parents, being their free-range selves, were like, “Sure, let’s send our 18-year-old to France. It’s our home country—he’ll be safe.” And I skipped the last month of my senior year of high school to go do this.

That’s iconic.

It was! And my teachers saw the hard time I was going through and saw the drive in me. They were beautiful—shoutout to Mayo High School. They helped me finish my coursework ahead of time, so I got to come back and graduate. And, I mean, the end of senior year is chill anyway.

But Cannes was wild for an 18-year-old. I stopped in Paris and stayed with a family friend, then took the train by myself down to Cannes. I got paired up and the whole experience was a rush. It was annoying as shit. It was hard. It was everything. You’re trying to get screening tickets—like 2am just to click and secure them. You’re out all night at parties, then up early for your internship, then watching as many movies as you can squeeze in. Oh, and still trying to shoot your short film.

I probably slept three hours a night for two weeks. But honestly? Great training for production work now.

That tracks.

Right? And, you know, Hollywood, being a relatively inclusive place, no one cared that I was gay. As long as I loved movies, I was welcomed. And after that, I knew—I knew—this is what I wanted to do. I’d made short films before, but this cemented it. I wanted in. I wanted to be part of this circus. These people were weird, intense, brilliant. And in all that chaos, there’s so much potential. Not to get too poetic, but that’s how it felt.

Voltage was really cool too. At 18 I was the youngest person in the Creative Minds program.. I was getting coffees and doing all the intern stuff, but also watching people make deals. Like, someone would walk in and walk out, and a multimillion-dollar purchase had just been made. It was the spark for me. It ignited everything I imagined Hollywood could be.

And then there was the setting—the South of France. Like, come on. It’s hard not to romanticize that time.

Totally. That sounds unbelievable.

It was. And while I was there, I met this woman named Alex—she was part of my short film crew—and we just clicked. She was going to the University of San Francisco. And San Francisco being that golden-gate safe haven for queer folks, I thought: “Okay. I’ve got to get out of Minnesota. That’s my next step.”

I visited her and I’ll never forget walking through that campus. If you’ve ever seen USF’s campus, it’s perched on top of a hill with a view of the bay—it’s gorgeous. I was like, “Stick a fork in me. I’m done.” Then we walked through the Castro with my parents, and I saw queerness not just tolerated, but celebrated. Two men holding hands. Two women making out. I thought, “This is my place. I need to come out here.”

That wasn’t the story I was expecting—but that was even better. 

That’s exactly how I felt when I went to Syracuse. I’m from a tiny town in New Hampshire and had a similar high school experience. And while the city of Syracuse isn’t super queer, the college weirdly is. I think it’s all the film kids, honestly. But I love that that kind of experience is still universal—even 15 years later. It hasn’t changed.

I know, I know.

Maybe it’ll change in 15 more years. We’ll see.

Hopefully.

Okay, so then how did you end up in LA? And what was your first full-time job in the industry?

As I mentioned, I’m a restless person. When I was in San Francisco, I devoured everything. I interned at the San Francisco Film Society, helped with the Film Festival, worked at a tech startup called Prescreen—which didn’t end up working out, but they were great. They distributed indie films kind of Groupon-style: one film a day, limited-time access.

And the best part? There were like five people on staff. So we all did everything. I was coding—I had no idea what I was doing, but I dove in. I also had full access to the film library. I had to do quality checks on them for the website, so my “job” was literally watching movies. It was unpaid, but it was heaven.

My friend Alex had graduated by then and was an editor in LA. She sent me everything she saw. I did casting calls for America’s Got Talent. I was a run-through contestant on The Great Escape on TNT during finals week. That one my professors weren’t thrilled about. (laughs) They staged a fake “Escape from Alcatraz” and had me chained to a cell, trying to escape, to make sure the game was actually doable.

That’s insane. So fun though.

It was! I also interned at Sundance with my friend Natalie. Total disaster—our housing fell through. I landed with 10% phone battery and no place to stay. Thankfully, I had an ex who was living there as a ski instructor, so I crashed with him. And funny enough, I also met this guy named Aaron while I was there. We’ve now been together for 12 years. Married!

No way!

Yup. Total meet-cute.  We hit it off and just kept hanging out. Twelve years later—here we are.

That’s the sweetest story. So after all that—how did LA happen?

I wasn’t quite ready to go straight to Hollywood. So I taught English in Thailand for a year, then worked on a commercial salmon fishing boat. Loved it. Never doing it again. Brutal.

Then I came back, bought a beat-up Ford Focus, and drove to LA. I didn’t want to do the agency mailroom route—purely because I didn’t want to wear a suit. That’s the truth.

So I chased PA gigs. Drove 13 hours for work, spent more on gas than I earned, but I needed credits. My first break was as an APOC on Deidra & Laney Rob a Train—an early Netflix original. We were in Salt Lake City, under-resourced, understaffed. I ended up doing everything—including union paperwork with a lawyer in LA I still work with today.

We had no real office space, and I ended up sharing a room with producer Susan Cartsonis—who’s been my mentor ever since.. She and producer Nick Moceri bumped me up to POC because they saw how much I was doing. The film got into Sundance, and they asked me to coordinate travel for the cast and crew.

At the premiere, I was handing out tickets. My husband Aaron was seated, and I went up to Susan and Nick and said, “Everyone’s in—I’m going to sit down now. Thank you.” And Susan goes, “Clem, I so wish you lived in LA. I’d hire you in a second.” And I said, “I do live in LA. So now you have to give me a job.”

Three months later, she called. They were forming Resonate Entertainment. She asked if I was in town and could interview the next morning. I lied and said yes—then got in my car and drove 10 hours to make it.

Oh my God.

I made it just in time. Got the job. I started as an assistant. It was a small company—just three partners and me. I did everything. Scheduling, prep, anticipating what they’d need. Despite being chaotic, I’m super Type A. Spreadsheets are my love language. I brought order to chaos—and it worked out. That was 2017.

So it’s been about eight years?

Yeah. And it’s funny, because from the get-go, I had my hands in a lot of things. As I said, it was a small company, and they saw my value. They're some of the most amazing human beings I’ve ever met in my life—really took the time to nurture my skills and always led with kindness. I know we’re getting to that question later, so I’ll save that. 

But to answer how I broke out of those early roles: I did anything and everything I could. I probably had no boundaries, in a bad way, but I was just so hungry. I knew this was a potential avenue to succeed in the industry, so I never said no—within reason, of course. Thankfully, they were the kind of people who would never cross into problematic territory.

Eventually, Susan was going off to do Feel the Beat, the Sofia Carson film for Netflix, and asked me to come with her. Netflix had this thing called Partner Managed, kind of like a negative pickup. We created the entire infrastructure for the film without using a production services company—I was essentially the production services company. Everything from legal paperwork to forming entities to navigating tax credits. It was Shannon Hensley, best lawyer in town, and me—just doing everything. That movie showed me I could do it. It was a lovely experience.

How many years did it take of being an assistant before they gave you the “title”?

I can go back and look, but I’m not sure—probably a couple of years? And I’ve had so many titles that I don’t even think are listed. It was like, “Okay, now we’re calling you a coordinator,” and then, “Now we want to give you…” They always wanted to recognize me, both in pay and in credit.

It was this cycle of “What do we need to get done?” rather than fixating on the title. But they were really good about promoting me when the time was right—especially when I started to feel that itch of, “Is this going somewhere?” You know that uncomfortable moment when you're wondering if you’ll have to leave to move up?

Yeah. That’s such an awkward position to be in. I’m really happy you made it through that before the strikes and COVID. It’s so much harder now to get past the coordinator level.

Totally. The whole industry is tough right now. Opportunities are scarce.

So now that we have a firmer understanding of your career path, were there any lessons you learned as an assistant that you still use today as a producer?

I love this question. When people say “assistants run Hollywood,” I really think that’s true. I realized that even as an assistant, I was producing. Sure, there’s the coffee runs, but even that is a nurturing act. As a producer, you’re making sure everyone stays together, that they’re cared for. It directly translates.

Right. It’s like there’s no clear line where one role ends and the next begins.

Exactly. You're producing your boss, the clients, the directors. All those assistant tasks—paperwork, reading the room, knowing how to speak to people, managing cast and crew grids—that’s producing. The difference is in the title and the authority. As an assistant, I had the ability to fail and learn without it costing money. Now, if I make a mistake, it does.

It’s like training wheels.

Exactly. When I messed up as an assistant, it was an embarrassment. Now, it’s a budget issue. Learning not to make those mistakes early is invaluable.

Do you think your experience as an assistant shaped your approach to leadership and mentorship?

Absolutely. Hollywood can feel like this exclusive club, and in many ways it is. But shoutout to Susan Cartsonis and Suzanne Farwell—they taught me you don’t have to be an asshole to be a leader. You can be strong without being aggressive. They were just as likely to get me a coffee as I was to get them one. They believed in “We all work for the movie”—not the studio, not the director, not the talent. The movie.

That’s such a grounding philosophy.

It really is. If you always do what’s best for the movie, even if someone disagrees, you’re doing it for the right reasons. They taught me that good ideas can come from anywhere. Whether it’s a PA on their first day or a seasoned producer—we’re all in this together. You can’t do it alone.

And so much of that came from your bosses, right? Those values?

Yes. I owe them everything. Of course, I also credit my family and personal experiences. But as far as my career? It’s Susan and Suzanne. And now, I try to share those values. We’re a female-focused production company, and our goal is to help women and underrepresented voices both in front of and behind the camera. Mentorship is a huge part of that. Honestly, I don’t think I would’ve thought to prioritize it early on—I was too focused on being mentored. But now I see how important it is for the ecosystem. It lifts everyone.

You mentioned earlier how important mentorship and leadership are—how rising tides raise all ships. That solidarity and not feeling alone in this industry is such a huge part of what we’re trying to support.

Yeah, exactly. And that’s why I love what you all are doing. I think it’s great. I could have really benefited from something like this when I was coming up. 

The solidarity aspect, the “I’m not alone in this,” is so powerful. Navigating this industry can be incredibly isolating—but it doesn’t have to be. So much of your experience depends on who your leaders are. Even at big companies—like agencies and studios—it all comes down to who your direct boss is and what they’re teaching you. You kind of become a product of them. No one really talks about that.

I love hearing that you're so aware of the impact those people had on you.

I owe them everything. They shaped who I am today, and I’m eternally grateful. I don’t know where I’d be without them—or who I’d be. I’m just so thankful to have had their mentorship and guidance.

Now that you’re officially VP of Development and Production—and a junior partner—do you feel like you’ve made it? Like you’ve accomplished or attained “the dream”?

It’s funny—I thought a lot about this one. The hustle doesn’t stop. 

It’s still about financing, getting something set up—it’s just as hard as it’s always been. I’m really proud of the work we’ve done and the films I’ve worked on. Having that foundation builds confidence, but the grind never really stops. Maybe my version of “making it” is coming to terms with the fact that this business is always a grind—from beginning to end. 

Every time we create a film, we’re building something bigger than ourselves. There’s no point where that becomes easy. You just get more confident.

I love that definition. So let’s talk about producing. As a producer, how do you decide which stories or scripts resonate with you—pun intended—and are worth bringing to life?

Yeah, that’s a good one. Susan and Suzanne taught me this early on: when you decide to take on a film as a producer, you’re going to be living with that project—if you’re lucky—for four to five years. Sometimes 10. Maybe 15. I mean, we’ve all heard of development hell, right?

Oh yeah.

So beyond story and craft—because there are so many brilliant writers—it becomes a gut check: Do I want to live in this world for 10 years? Do I want to pitch this story for a decade? Do I want to be on set with it? 

You can’t fake that kind of commitment. You have to care. Yes, you have to consider what will work in the market and what can be financially viable. But at its core, it’s about passion. If you’re not passionate, you’re likely going to make a bad movie. So, yeah—it’s a gut check.

I don’t think people realize that. You’re not just writing your script and hoping someone buys it—you’re asking someone to live in your story for a decade.

So what is a producer to you? And what kind of producer are you?

I really like the term career producer. It’s a phrase coined by a new org called Producers United—they’re advocating for sustainable producing in Hollywood. Because “producer” means a million different things now. 

For me, a career producer is someone who leads the production. They're boots-on-the-ground, paid solely for producing, from financing to legal to logistics through post and distribution. Whether you're with a studio or not.

Thank you for introducing us to such a clear definition. It’s going in our glossary! And it makes sense—because otherwise, we’re lumping in everyone from financiers to actors with producing credits.

Exactly. And those contributions should be recognized—I support that. That’s why there’s a place for executive producer titles and other distinctions. But every film still needs that one—or more—career producer(s) holding everything together. That’s who I am. 

And my favorite part? Watching incredibly skilled, passionate people come together to build something none of us could do alone. It’s like a pop-up circus—this beautiful thing that appears out of nowhere and disappears if you’ve done your job right. It's magic.

Let’s talk about your most recent film: Audrey’s Children. How did you and the company get involved?

So I met Julia Fisher Farbman—who is a fucking force of nature, and you can print that—at a CineStory retreat. I was mentoring, and we worked on the script together. Now, writers aren’t supposed to ask for mentors’ contact info, but I always offer mine at the end because I believe mentorship shouldn’t stop there. Plus, I’m usually curious to see what people do with the notes.

Julia took the notes and ran with them. A few months later, she called me—she had already raised a significant chunk of the budget herself. At the time, I was in Australia filming True Spirit for Netflix, so I wasn’t able to be on the ground with her. But we connected her with Amasia Entertainment—Bradley Gallo, Michael Helfant, Olivia Hurd—and they became the career producers on the project. Julia’s a total go-getter. And the story itself—Audrey Evans’ story—is just beautiful.

Audrey was the doctor behind the original Ronald McDonald House, right?

Exactly. She was a British woman, who came to the U.S. in the 50s to work at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, couldn’t even get a credit card on her own at the time. But she was a badass. She revolutionized pediatric cancer treatment. She was a woman of science and of faith—those don’t usually go hand in hand. But she believed in holistic care. And I just kept thinking—why don’t we know about her? Like how do we not know about her?

So being part of telling that story—it was a no-brainer. Julia’s leadership was inspiring. And quick plug—Audrey’s Children is now available on video-on-demand on Amazon and Apple. You can go watch it right now.

We love a plug. Oh, and I loved that mouse consultant credit in the credits—was that your dad?

Yes! My dad’s a pulmonary critical care doctor at the Mayo Clinic, and I brought him in as a consultant. He’d done research involving mice, and when I asked how he wanted to be credited, he said “mouse consultant.” Not medical consultant. Mouse consultant. He’s cheeky like that. And honestly, it was really beautiful to have that moment—bringing my family into this work.

That’s such a special connection. So—just out of curiosity—how did Julia originally come up with the idea for the film?

Julia’s grandfather was super close to Audrey. So Julia knew her. And she had this interview series called Modern Hero—she interviewed amazing people, including Michelle Obama, and she interviewed Audrey. Afterward, she said, “Your story is incredible. I want to tell it.” Audrey agreed. . I don’t think Julia had ever  written a script before. She became a screenwriter just to tell this story. Now she’s a producer, a total multi-hyphenate. Audrey and Julia—they’re both badasses. I'm just lucky to have been part of it.

And this woman was a class act. Just an amazing, amazing, amazing human being. And I’m so glad I got to meet her, even momentarily. I believe she—yeah, Natalie Dormer got to meet her before she passed too, so she knew who was portraying her. And the director got to meet her. It was just—that’s really special.

I knew she had passed away in 2022, right? But I didn’t know where that lined up with production.

Yeah, it was right before. But she was so happy. From what I’ve heard, she was—she was just a happy lady. She was proud of herself, proud of her life, proud of—proud of what was happening. Proud of Julia. It was—yeah. It’s sad that she didn’t get to see it, but honestly, she was just—she was just happy. I want to be that happy when I die.

Me too. And also, I mean—who knows how she would have felt about it. Might have been kind of weird to see a movie about you, you know? Like, I can’t even imagine watching a film about myself.

She would always bring it back to the kids. The movie—it wasn’t a vanity project for her. For her, it was a way to shine a light on the kids. The kids, the kids, the kids. That’s why it’s called Audrey’s Children, because it’s all about the kids.

And now moving into more of our reflective questions. A lot of this has been really useful advice for assistants, but do you have any specific advice for assistants aspiring to become producers—things they can be doing now to prepare?

There is no job too small. Truly—there’s no job too small. Get your hands in everything and check your pride at the door. I still take the trash out today.

My biggest piece of advice, especially for people on the ground: go to every single department and find out what they do. You don’t want to be a DP? That’s fine. Go talk to the camera department anyway and learn about their work. Learn how to recognize and respect what they do.

You may never know the nitty-gritty of every role unless you become a multi-hyphenate, but you can still understand and appreciate each piece of the puzzle. Talk to legal. Talk to accounting. Talk to everyone—because without any of those pieces, nothing happens. Having a well-rounded understanding of every aspect of the job is crucial. You need to know how it all works, how it all comes together. And when you show genuine interest in what people do, they’ll open up. People love talking about their passions.

It can feel intimidating—being a PA on set, trying not to step on any toes—but if you read the room and approach people with curiosity, they’ll share with you. They’re proud of their work. And that kind of insight is the most beneficial thing in the world.

How do you see the role of the producer evolving in the industry today?

To echo what I said earlier, I really feel that the career producer is under threat right now. And I hope the industry can recognize how critical we are to the process.

Producers are vital—not just for creative oversight, but for things like safety and budgeting. Big shout out to every line producer I've worked with; that is such a hard job. The skills producers bring to the table are essential, and I think we need to collectively protect this side of the industry.

Mentorship plays a big role in that. I know producers can be seen as “the boss,” or the one who reprimands people, which can create separation. But really, producers are just one part of the larger ecosystem. And as with any ecosystem, if you remove one piece, the whole thing collapses. That’s why I’m passionate about redefining what it means to be a career producer—especially those of us on the ground doing the day-to-day work.

Also, let’s not forget: producers and entry-level positions are often the only ones not covered by health insurance. I’ll keep fighting until every single producer has access to minimums and healthcare.

That leads into the next question—what legacy do you hope to leave in the film industry? And separately, what stories are you eager to tell next?

So, kind of what we just talked about—I really want to be part of the solution in making career producing a sustainable profession, so we can keep telling the stories we want to tell.

A big part of that is ensuring minimums for producers, especially since we often take cuts to bring other producers on board. Most people assume producers make a lot of money, but if you look at how long a project takes and divide earnings over that time, it’s often less than minimum wage.

The other piece of my legacy—I’ve worked hard on this—is pushing for guaranteed healthcare. We are the only group not automatically covered, and some studios and financiers are finally starting to understand the value in fixing that. Maybe it comes from my dad, or my French side—where universal healthcare is a given—but I truly believe healthcare is a human right.

I’m far from alone in this. There are so many brilliant producers fighting for the same cause. Producers United is doing great advocacy work. I just hope I can be a part of making sure people have access to the bare minimums we all deserve in life.

As for the stories I want to tell—I want Hollywood to take more risks. I don’t think we take risks anymore, at least not like we used to. We quantify success in ways that limit creativity.

I want to tell stories that are fresh and reflect the full spectrum of the human experience. There’s a gap there right now, and I see the independent film market taking big hits. I want that back.

Indie film is so vital—to culture, to underrepresented groups being seen, to advocacy, to language. Honestly, film and TV taught me how to be an American. They taught me how to be human—in all the beautiful, ugly, complicated ways. And I want that to continue. But to do that, we’re going to have to take some financial risks.

That better be in your Oscar speech one day. Wow. Thank you.

I was really proud of that one. Thank you.

You can now watch Clém’s most recent project Audrey’s Children on VOD on Amazon Prime Video & Apple TV+!