NEW YORK (AP) â The microbudget movie "Hundreds of Beaversâ has Mike Cheslikâs film, made for just $150,000 and self-distributed in theaters, has managed to gnaw its way into a movie culture largely dominated by big-budget sequels.
âHundreds of Beaversâ is a wordless black-and-white bonanza of slapstick antics about a stranded 19th century applejack salesman, played by his friend Ryland Tews, at war with a bevy of beavers, all of whom are played by actors in mascot costumes. It's played in at least one theater a week since opening in January. On Dec. 5, it will play in more theaters than any point before.
It's no overnight sensation. It's been two years since Cheslik first premiered
Here's how it happened:
Like all great ideas, âHundreds of Beaversâ started at a bar. In October 2018, Cheslik and Tews â friends since they were 15 growing up in Wisconsin â were talking over how they could expand from their last film, an antic, even lower budgeted B-movie about the hunt for a Great Lakes sea monster. It culminated in an elaborate animation sequence by Cheslik, a trial run for âHundreds of Beavers.â
For their next movie, Cheslik imagined something reminiscent of childhood, with snowball fights and sled chases. Oh, and mascot costumes. âBecause mascots falling down is a universal language,â Tews says. âEveryone thinks thatâs funny.â
âI love slapstick and I donât know why it was a dormant genre for so long,â adds Cheslik. âMy guess is that when a country shifts from having more physical jobs to more of a service economy then the sense of humor becomes more verbal. The alligator in a pit is an HR referral instead of getting hurt at your job.â
They made âHundreds of Beaversâ over two winters during the pandemic, with pick-up shoots in between. It wasnât particularly fun work â they were outside in negative degree weather schlepping gear through the snow. But they were making exactly the movie they wanted, without compromise. And it didnât resemble anything at the multiplex.
âRyland and I complained about movies a lot during the making of âHundreds of Beavers,ââ Cheslik says. âI think we just complained for six years straight.â
Cheslik and Tews are not proponents of high-priced gear. Making a movie, they say, doesnât have be an 8K camera and a rented location.
âWeâre not camera nerds,â says Cheslik. âWe just like images with strong shapes. We like to say: Shapes are free.â
In editing, Cheslik brought those shapes into greater relief. âHundreds of Beaversâ plays out as a surreal ballet of chiaroscuro pratfalls, with cartoonish figures set against a white winter expanse. The beavers, themselves, never totaled more than six, with Tews, Cheslik or friends variously acting inside the costumes. Almost every shot in the movie required at least some effects work.
âWhat you can do is go on your computer and take those six and duplicate them. Iâm talkinâ 12 beavers. Iâm talkinâ, imagine a number, 18,â deadpans Cheslik. âItâs technical stuff.â
Once it was finally done, they excitedly hit the festival circuit. After debuting âHundreds of Beaversâ at the Fantastic Fest, they played more festivals. And then some more. The crowd reaction was great and they won an audience award at the Fantasia Film Festival in 2023. But a decent offer never came. The old way of shopping a movie at a festival, they found, didnât really exist anymore.
âItâs not enough just to make a movie,â says Tews. âThatâs just the very beginning.â
Producer Kurt Ravenwood decided to explore a self release. They sold streaming rights to Cineverse, the company that recently distributed But they kept theatrical, merchandising and Blu-ray rights.
âIt was a calculated risk to keep theatrical rights to ourselves,â Ravenwood says. âWe had never, ever in our lives put on a theatrical run. But we knew that if we were able to get it booked, it would do well.â
They hired a distribution veteran to help book theaters and a publicist to spread the word. And they crossed their fingers.
âWe believe that indie movies that go into the digital nothingness of streaming donât get into the culture,â says Ravenwood. âSo we kicked it off with this roadshow. At first, we needed to prove to theaters that people would show up. Besides just the movie, weâd bring the circus to town.â
Calling it the âGreat Lakes Roadshow,â they rented out theaters and played âHundreds of Beaversâ to mostly sold-out screenings in the Midwest. They didnât just play the movie, but created a vaudeville act to go along with it. The beaver mascot costumes came out of the closet.
âIf anything, this is what Instagram creators and TikTok creators are used to every day,â says Ravenwood. âThey both make the content and distribute the content via platform. If filmmakers want to reach an audience, they have to treat it like online creators treat it.â
Their quixotic gambit worked. People and media started taking notice. âBeaver fever,â as they say, took hold. None of it happened quickly, or easily. Ravenwood shipped a lot of posters and digital versions of the film. Cheslik and Tews spent two years just releasing their movie. Six years had passed since they had started. Making looked, comparatively, like a piece of cake. But they did it.
âIt was a life goal that was achieved,â Cheslik says. âWhich is just a horrible thing to have happen.â
They are already pondering their next movie; notecards hung on the wall behind Cheslik. For now, heâs only saying that it will, like âHundreds of Beavers,â feature precise physical comedy.
The beaver suits? Cheslik imagines they must now be filled with black mold that after being torn and repaired countless times, going through two Wisconsin winters, dozens of festivals and some 20 roadshows.
Next time, he and Tews hope is a little easier â a little easier to make a living from, and a little easier to find their way into theaters.
âI donât love when people say, âOur goal with this film just to get it out there. I donât care if I make money,ââ Cheslik says. âAre these films vanity projects for trust fund hobbyists, or is this an industry?â
Jake Coyle, The Associated Press
