Photos by Sam Muller.

This interview appears in the 20th-anniversary Issue (buy a copy here) and is apart of the Analog To Digital: 20 Years of Culture and Change Podcast Series (listen to it here).

Mike Mills is a graphic designer, a filmmaker, and one of our first features. 

I mean that. One of our first. Like, from issue #1. Yeah, he was in there. We thought of making a magazine and he was the first person that came to mind. That’s how good Mike is at what he does.  

Mike is also a thinker. I say, ‘also’, but after interviewing him at his house in Silverlake, I might argue that Mike is mostly a thinker, and that where many other artists follow a sort of vague direction based on responses from the periphery, Mike thinks his things through and is direct about his output. Where others go bowling and use those gutter barrier things - their eight pound ball bouncing from left to right very pathetically, Mike takes a moment longer to prepare and shoots a strike right down the center lane.

His design work is precise and intentional, with no frills or unnecessary abundance. Each dot is a dot observed and each word is a word understood. His films are the same way. They aren’t meticulous, but they are thoughtful, determined specifically to elicit something from within you, and with a gentleness reflective of his demeanor. 

He spent much of this interview with his eyes squinted and a smile on his face, searching his brain for the truest and most substantial answer he could provide me with, and his brain delivered. He is a no horseshit kind of guy and I appreciate it. As I was setting up the audio equipment for the interview, we began talking about therapy over the phone versus in person. It was a bit of a disagreement. When I said we can start the interview once this therapy talk is done, he said, ‘no, hit record.’ No horseshit. That disagreement is where we begin.
 

It’s really strange to me that people do therapy over the internet. 

Yeah, I do that. 

Isn’t that strange? 

I don’t love it but I also don’t love driving a half an hour each way.

But there’s such a barrier between you and the therapist- 

You say barrier like it’s a bad thing. Some obstructions create new things. I’ve been in therapy for a long time so it’s not a problem anymore, but it shapes a new thing. I had a therapist in New York, moved here to LA, but my therapist was a very dear person to me so I kept her and we talked on the phone for years, and not seeing her actually made me more vulnerable in a lot of ways. It was like being in the dark. 

Even a phone call sounds more reliable than zoom. I don’t want to be in the middle of explaining the worst thing that’s ever happened to me and then the internet cuts out and I have to go, ‘hello?’ and they go, ‘hello?’

Then you have bad internet. You need to upgrade. 

What were you doing in 2003?

Oh shit. I believe I was beginning to shoot Thumbsucker, my first feature film, and making the transition to feature directing after trying to make that movie for like six years. That was a very hard process.

In what way?

It was my first film, and god bless all you people who might be making your first film, it is so frickin’ hard. There are so many obstacles that you don’t know the face of yet and don’t know the dimension of yet so you’re coming in blind. All the stuff about getting financing and dealing with producers, the politics of it all. I had some particularly intense producers on that and didn’t know how to handle it. And then becoming a writer director, not just a visual director, all of the complexities of making a feature length thing- making short videos is like dating and then making a feature is like being married. Much more difficult and all your bullshit comes to the surface really fast. 

What would have been a helpful piece of advice for your 2003 self and what advice would you give to someone working on their first film?

The advice to me- it’d be paragraphs. 

Nope just one sentence.

Oh my goodness. I want to tell myself to chill out, but I also want to tell myself to watch out. The decisions that I make are lasting and impactful for a long time and you have no idea of the monsters that are lurking in the bushes all around you in 2003. Not fun advice to give yourself, so I’ll stick with chill out. 

I’ll let you say chill out but you have to expand on it.

Well one, chill out to yourself. You are your own worst enemy and critic and tearerdowner. It might look cool or like critical thinking but it's really just depression and lameness. And also, chill out on other people. I’m fifty seven now, still very much a director and a human, and I could have just been more expansive and loving and easier going. I’m not a dramatic nasty person, but you can still be dramatic and nasty as a relatively chill person. Just be a little kinder and more humor, and no offense to monkeys, but we are all monkeys, god bless us, everyone is trying, and everyone’s deeply flawed. Flawed isn't the best word because we all have these yings and yangs that come out in all sorts of different ways, and just accept that more and don't get on your disappointment horse so much. 

You are a filmmaker that is very personal. How do you deal with seeing actors do these sort of emotional reenactments, and having to inform those feelings?

It’s not like a reenactment, what is it? It’s weird. It’s its own thing. It’s no longer personal, no longer you. It’s whatever actors mind/soul/body/spirit’s and the crew’s. It’s a really weird self-emulation? Whatever the word is that  means burning yourself. People are like, ‘that's so personal writing about your dad coming out and dying,’ and it’s like, yes and no. You are making it so public, you’re giving it to these other people. 

You’re putting it over there, kind of. 

Kind of, weirdly.

It’s like doing therapy over Zoom.

It’s like doing therapy over Zoom on acid. With an audience and critics. That’s actually pretty accurate. You know how they say if you’re afraid of flying, you should be in the cockpit? It’s like that on ten. When you have a feeling that is like, ‘oh my god this is so my story,’ make a film out of it and you’ll discover that it is a lot of people’s story. Again, no offense to monkeys, but all of us monkeys aren’t as different as we think we are. I don’t know if I’m explaining this well, but by the end, you don’t feel so special, in a good way.

I’m going to ask you this question and then tell you what I think the answer is. The question is: what has been the biggest cultural change within your industry? And my answer is: accessibility, because when you started, you had to deal with producers and financiers, whereas today someone can bust out their iPhone and go shoot and win an award.

Sure, accessibility to equipment. The internet was around but not like it is now. I came up in a pre-internet vibe, and the internetification has done nothing but increase over the years. The way that films are talked about, critiqued, discussed, changed so much between my last two films. 

Those were only like five years apart?

Yeah, it’s insane. The dominance of critics is gone. There’s just this sort of chatter of different influencers online. You’ll have a press screening of your film and you’re walking out of it and someone says, ‘oh, it did good!’ but it’s only been five minutes since the film ended. So that’s one way accessibility and the internet has changed things, it's just so fast, but also the land of the hot take has become so dominant as opposed to a deeper processing. And everyone has to have one. If you don’t have an opinion, you’re not a citizen in the digital realm. 

Not just an opinion, but some extreme views.

An identifying, splashy comment is rewarded and has value and traffic. That air is much more present now than it was. That’s one of the bigger things, and also the overabundance of everything now. There are so many shows, so many movies streaming - so much stuff. When I started, there was a lot less stuff. There wasn’t streaming then. Netflix and that world has exploded in the last ten years. I sound like I was on a wagon with a horse when I started but it’s really not that long ago.

What do you consume? What kind of media things do you like?

I like music the best. I’m frustrated, I wish I were a musician. It’s so inspiring, I write to music, I wish my films were like music - music is my thing. I don’t watch a lot of TV at all. I like Atlanta and High Maintenance, and that’s it. I’m not a big movie watcher. I don’t like a lot of them because I’m slightly grumpy about movies; sometimes watching them feels like I’m at a party and I’m cornered in a conversation with a narcissist and I’m like, ‘please let me out.’

Is it like how people who work at Subway don’t come home and make a sandwich for dinner? Or is it just an oversaturation?

Making films is lovely, an amazing gift. It's so fun and rewarding. It’s also really stressful editing my films, so I have a little bit of PTSD about sitting and watching a screen. I’m getting over it though. Me and my kid watched a lot of movies this summer and I feel like I’m coming back to films. 

What has kept you in for so long?

The film game?

The independent film game.

It feels like the only thing I’m good at. If I were a good musician, I’d totally go there. I went to art school, my dad was a museum director, I was supposed to be a painter. That world is so rarified, the way that art interacts with people - most of my influences are artists, I love it - when you make a piece and people come and see it, it’s so dry. It’s not the funnest, most engaging, juicy interaction. When you make a film, it’s really amazing how people react. I didn’t think I was going to be here doing this, but it’s where my talents and opportunities sort of gelled together. I feel very lucky that I get to write things about people that I know and love. I get to meet actors of the level that I get to play with and interpret. I get to put it out in not the hugest way, but big enough for me. When you go to art school and release films on the level that I do - which isn’t huge at all, but it’s international - you’re like, ‘holy shit that’s a lot of people that’s a huge deal!’

Do you think that art is for the artist or the world?

Oh, for sure the world. Or maybe both of us. I definitely make it for people, it’s my best kind of way to be in the world with people, both in terms of making it and the reception. It’s really hard to describe to people that I make these personal films, but it doesn’t sit in me that way. It doesn’t feel that personal. Making a film is one of the least personal things you can ever do because there are so many other people involved. It is the most public streaking activity that I do. And I’m a shy Pisces person so this is all very weird. 

Have you heard of pits and peaks?

Rose and thorn?

Yeah, what has been your biggest mistake, biggest success? 

Filmmaking wise?

Creatively. I don’t mean what has made you the most money-

Sadly, that won’t be anything. Well, the first film… to say it’s a mistake is to not understand the gift, but I definitely feel very creatively unsatisfied and it didn't do my career any favors.

Thumbsucker?

Yeah.

I thought that was a pretty good movie…

I mean, thanks. I don’t love it, but there was so much that I learned so I have to be grateful for it. Calling it a mistake is a bad idea, but it’s not a happy place. Maybe one of the best things was just having the chutzpah to say I’m going to be a writer/director. ‘I’m going to be like Cassavetes and Filini and Agnes Varda… I’m going to be that person,’ which I had no right to do when I did it, but I feel very lucky and grateful that I had that ego and entitlement to do that. Beginners was really lucky, I’m so grateful that that worked out. Creatively, I did enough that I’m not ashamed, I didn’t bum out my dad’s ghost, and it helped me connect with people who might want to see more stuff that I’m doing and it set a path toward things that I had no idea I could do. Making things that are very personal and small, but also talking about history and very large swaths and the connections between them, and being emotionally real and French New Wavey. It was a weird gift of my dad’s passing away, grief can sometimes be kind of hallucinogenic and emboldening. You can feel the loss and it makes you feel the complexity and intensity of life very vividly, and makes you go, ‘fuck, I need to do what I want to do.’

What does Monster Children mean to you? What’s the value of print media today?

Well I love print media because I like holding things. Screens are a bummer. As a parent, trying to get my kid off of the screen and seeing first hand how addictive it is. My kid said, ‘Billion dollar companies with the smartest people on earth are making this addictive, how could I not be?’ and I was like, ‘poor sweetie, you’re right.’ With print media, often you find it serendipitously. You're going through a magazine rack and you didn’t know you wanted Monster Children, but you find it there. I find a lot of joy in that process. 

Every time I saw Monster Children, I thought, ‘how the hell did they pull that off?’ It’s a deep production level, but it is coming from this skating, subcultural vibe. How did skating and surfing get this aesthetically rarefied? Maybe because I’ve done interviews with them, but it always gave me a vibe of a little community of people making something that they’re super into. You get that sense. It isn't a corporate magazine at all. It’s a small group of people who make a magazine about an interconnected world of culture and art, and it gives them life, with a little too heteronormative photos of naked women, where I’m like, where’s the queer part of this? It needs more of that, I think. But that world that it’s based in is a world that’s super important to me. Being a suburban kid who fell into skating, learning about punk, and taking things at their biggest level which is a way of living in the world, in capitalism, in a broader emotional landscape than was offered to you by norm culture - all of these things are like my church. It’s kind of sacred ground, the stuff Monster Children is talking about. 

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