IFH 802: Studios, Scores & Secrets: The Untold Story of Rotten Tomatoes with Patrick Lee

05/13/25 • 44 min

Indie Film Hustle® - A Filmmaking Podcast

When the lights of the cinema dim and the hum of anticipation fills the air, something magical happens—stories come alive. And sometimes, the stories behind the storytellers are the most fascinating of all. On today's episode, we welcome Patrick Lee, a man whose quiet curiosity and geeky love for film statistics helped shape the very lens through which millions of people now view cinema. Patrick Lee is the co-founder of Rotten Tomatoes, a website that has become both a cultural barometer and a battleground for filmmakers and fans alike.Before Rotten Tomatoes became a household name, Patrick and his co-founders were merely tinkering with design and entertainment tech, creating websites for giants like Disney Channel and MTV. But like many innovative ideas, Rotten Tomatoes was born from a simple question: "What if people could see all the movie reviews—good and bad—in one place?" It was their creative director, Sen Duong, who initiated the project, running it as a side hustle until it became clear they were onto something far bigger than banner ads and online games.The journey wasn’t smooth sailing. As Patrick explained, the film industry often has a conflicted relationship with Rotten Tomatoes. Studios love it when their movies are Certified Fresh but curse its very existence when the Tomato Meter goes south. “We’ve had studios threaten to pull ad campaigns or never advertise with us again,” Patrick revealed. It's a fine balance between journalistic integrity and business pragmatism, and it’s one that Rotten Tomatoes walked with surprising grace—largely thanks to the team’s belief in transparency and fairness.
What’s remarkable is how this digital compass evolved into a kind of cinematic moral authority. “The Tomato Meter is basically the percent chance that you’ll like seeing a movie,” Patrick said. And therein lies its charm—it doesn’t claim objectivity. It’s not about whether a film is “good” in a vacuum. It’s about consensus. It’s about probability. It’s about knowing whether you, dear viewer, are likely to leave the theater with a full heart or an empty wallet.Patrick also took us down a rabbit hole of changing critic landscapes. When Rotten Tomatoes began, the idea of a “professional critic” was easy to define: newspaper columnists, magazine reviewers, or syndicated television film buffs. Today, in an age of TikTok reviews and substack essays, that boundary has blurred. “Anybody can start a podcast or a YouTube channel,” he observed, echoing the democratization of media that defines our era. But for Rotten Tomatoes, quality still trumps quantity, and validation still requires rigorous standards.Perhaps one of the most unexpected parts of the conversation veered toward China, where Patrick spent nearly a decade after selling Rotten Tomatoes. There, he witnessed first-hand the explosive rise of filmgoing culture. “Even for some random movie, theaters were sold out for hours,” he noted. With state-of-the-art theaters rising from dusty streets and censorship shaping storylines, China has become both a new frontier and a mirror reflecting global shifts in entertainment priorities.
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IFH 801: Breaking the Rules: Crafting Powerful Films Without Hollywood Money with Shawn Whitney

Sometimes, the fire of creativity is struck not by lightning but by the slow, smoldering ache of dissatisfaction. And in today's soul-stirring conversation, we welcome Shawn Whitney, a filmmaker who found cinema not in the corridors of academia, but in the quiet rebellion of self-taught screenwriting and micro-budget filmmaking. Shawn Whitney is a screenwriter, director, and founder of Micro Budget Film Lab who empowers indie creators to tell powerful stories on shoestring budgets.
Our journey with Shawn begins not in childhood fantasies of movie stardom, but in the dense woods of Brechtian theater and the quiet study of old black-and-white films. His path wandered, as many worthwhile ones do, through rejection, basement solitude, and heartbreak—until something within him demanded not just expression but transmutation. Shawn didn’t study film in college. Instead, he emerged from the theater world and fell into filmmaking after a failed workshop production left him broke and dispirited. Yet that fall became his rise. As he said, “I just started writing screenplays and learning the craft in the quiet shadows.”There’s something beautiful in learning the art of story not from glamorous sets or high-priced workshops but from the bones of failed experiments and the echoes of dialogue bouncing around your own mind.
Shawn described his education not with fanfare but humility—referencing Sid Field, Blake Snyder, and the ever-controversial Save the Cat—tools that became his spiritual guides, not rigid masters. And with every script, he refined a method. Not the method, mind you. A method. “You just need a method. You can’t just be anarchy,” he mused.But perhaps what struck me most was Shawn’s philosophy that screenwriting is not just structure—it’s an argument about what makes life meaningful. Films, he insists, must be animated not by market trends, but by inner turmoil, by the strange flickering passions of the human heart. “It can’t just be about chopping up zombies. Your characters must go through an inner transformation.” That idea—that a film is a living question—sets Shawn apart in a world often obsessed with following the formula instead of feeling the pulse.Shawn’s micro-budget films—“A Brand New You” and “F*cking My Way Back Home”—aren’t just titles that stick. They are rebellious acts of filmmaking born from limited means and limitless creativity.
His stories unfold not in sprawling CGI landscapes, but in human longing, funny sadness, and philosophical absurdity. One film follows a man trying to clone his dead wife in the living room. Another explores redemption from the passenger seat of a towed Cutlass Supreme. With a budget of $7,000 and a borrowed tow truck, Shawn pulled off scenes that feel bigger than most tentpole blockbusters.But filmmaking, for Shawn, isn’t just about his own expression. Through Micro Budget Film Lab, he’s become a teacher, a mentor, and a kind of mad scientist in the alchemical lab of storytelling. His passion is not merely to direct, but to help others break free from the gatekeeping systems that keep fresh stories from being told. “We need a micro budget movement,” he declared, envisioning a cinematic rebellion where filmmakers use what they have to tell stories no one else dares to.
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IFH 803: From Wrestling Rings to Public Access Mayhem: The Wild Ride of Mad Man Pondo

The world is far more peculiar than most of us dare to admit. Somewhere between a demolition derby and a wrestling ring, between the crackle of VHS tapes and the shriek of late-night public access, lies a man who has turned mayhem into meaning. On today’s episode, we welcome the unparalleled and unfiltered Mad Man Pondo, a professional wrestler and author whose life has been a whirlwind of body slams, topless TV hosts, and late-night green room oddities. With a voice still rough from last night's match, he guides us into a tale of chaos, tenacity, and triumph.Mad Man Pondo—real name Kevin Canady—is not merely a character in the ring. He is a living mosaic of outrageous stories and unshakable spirit.
Raised in a reserved household, he found himself drawn to the fever-pitched passion of pro wrestling his grandparents once yelled at on their living room TV. That early spark lit a fire, and he never let it go out. As he says in this episode, “My mom still has the paper I filled out in grade school that said I wanted to be a professional wrestler.” That dream, written in crayon, would become a 30-year odyssey through blood, barbed wire, and blinding spotlights.The journey to the ring was not paved with ease. Pondo describes the brutal, often humiliating, early days of wrestling school—the beatings, the busted lips, the sheer will required to prove he belonged. He tells of how many walked away, unwilling to endure it, while he pressed on. That kind of devotion would become his defining trait. When the legendary Abdullah the Butcher told him he had the talent to wrestle in Japan, Pondo drove through the night, edited his best matches on two old VCRs, and mailed the tape by sunrise. The result? Forty-three trips to the Land of the Rising Sun.But Pondo’s life wasn’t confined to the ring. Ever curious, ever mischievous, he created “Skull Talk,” a public access show featuring wrestling commentary and, yes, topless women sitting on his lap.
Equal parts performance art and rebellion, the show sandwiched between two church broadcasts caused outrage and fandom in equal measure. “One preacher would send me scripture every week,” he laughs. “But I knew he watched every episode.” This was Pondo in his purest form—pushing boundaries, dancing at the edge of decency, and always keeping his audience on their toes.What’s perhaps most impressive is his ability to weave these escapades into something strangely noble. Whether talking about riding shotgun in a demolition derby car painted with horror icons or booking outrageous guests for the Jerry Springer Show, there’s a heart beneath the madness. His creation of “Girl Fight,” an all-women’s wrestling promotion, is a testament to his desire to give others a platform, to share the stage, to pass the torch. He’s not just fighting for himself anymore—he’s built a ring where others can rise too.
And then there’s the book, Memoirs of a Mad Man, a wild ride through his memories, filled with stories that make you laugh, cringe, and occasionally tear up. One story he held secret for decades—a deeply personal moment with wrestling legend Junkyard Dog—was finally shared in its pages. “I thought, you know what, let’s put this in there,” he says. “It was time.” In telling that story, and many others, he transformed scars into stories and chaos into legacy.
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