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That money—European surplus dollars, Japanese capital allergic to risk—cycled through the dollar system and, through no grand plan, ended up funding independent film. Not just the tasteful awards bait, but the personal, eccentric, totally unmarketable stuff. The kind of movies that wouldn’t survive five minutes in today’s pitch gauntlet. But back then, the world had too much money and not enough imagination on where to put it—so why not give it to filmmakers?
It wasn’t logical. But it worked. Often despite itself.
And now the alpha’s turned. The flows are reversing. That surplus capital is no longer content to underwrite American scaffolding and California paperwork. The whole ecosystem’s splintering. Whatever this was—this semi-coherent, occasionally brilliant, frequently wasteful mechanism that floated entire careers, mine included—it’s not coming back.
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