Union Rules and Micro-Budget Realities

When I work on small indie films, there is often a union crew member slumming it and letting everyone know how terrible it is to work on non-union movies. We’ve all heard the arguments before: if you don’t have the money, then don’t make a movie; on a real set, you’d get penalties for these hours. These are all valid opinions. However, if you’re a union crewmember and you don’t like working on micro-budget sets or super low-budget films, then don’t take the gig.

Micro-budget film sets have to stretch every dollar, every shot counts, and every crew member is often doing the work of three. These tiny films are held together by grit, passion, and a shared belief in the story being told, not by contracts and overtime forms. For all the chaos and caffeine-fueled compromise, there’s a kind of purity to it, a fragile magic that can fall apart fast when someone brings the wrong attitude to the set. That attitude, more often than not, comes from crew members used to the structure and comfort of union productions, where rules reign and hierarchy is sacred.

I’m not slamming union workers. The unions exist for good reason, offering livable wages, protections, and benefits that the industry desperately needs. However, when a union crew member steps onto a micro-budget set expecting the same standards and comforts, they’re used to on a $10 million commercial or a streaming series, problems arise fast. Suddenly, everything becomes a complaint. The hours, the gear, the snacks, the fact that the grip truck is a borrowed pickup with a milk crate full of C-47s in the bed. On tiny micro-budget movies, that kind of energy is toxic. It slows down momentum and demoralizes those who are busting their asses for the love of the process and the story they are telling. I can always spot a union crew member because they usually have no idea what the film they are working on is about. In contrast, non-union crews typically want to know everything about the project they are working on.

Punk rock producers live and die by their crew’s willingness to solve problems, not point them out. The best non-union crews on these tiny films are filled with generalists who might set a light in the morning, record room tone after lunch, and jump into the background of a shot by dinner. They’re not there to clock hours; they are there to make something. There’s an unspoken yet deeply felt code that everyone is in this together.

This is the world where many big names got their start. Kevin Smith maxed out credit cards to make Clerks with his friends. Spike Lee shot She’s Gotta Have It for next to nothing, and Robert Rodriguez sold his body to science, literally, to fund El Mariachi with a two-man crew. These films didn’t have union grips or teamsters or craft service spreads, they had hungry filmmakers with something to say.

There’s a mythology around those early days, but the reality is even more profound. The films I mentioned above succeeded because the weight of professional expectations didn’t burden them. They weren’t trying to be perfect. They were trying to tell their stories. That rawness, urgency, and DIY spirit is what made them powerful. When you introduce crew members who are used to doing only one job and being catered to, you lose that edge. You lose the sense of shared purpose. Worse, you risk losing momentum altogether, because nothing slows down a day like someone whining about how on a real set they’d be getting overtime pay. Hey, I’m sympathetic, if that’s how you feel, then don’t take the gig (I feel like this isn’t said enough).

Micro-budget filmmaking is a crash course in problem-solving. It teaches you how to work with what you’ve got, how to pivot (for you Friends fans), and how to collaborate. It will make you a better director, producer, or cinematographer because you have no choice but to learn by doing. The best crew members never forget where they came from.

Union crews have their place. When the budget allows, they’re invaluable. Hell, I am waiting for the day when my career is sustainable enough to work at the union level consistently. Until then, though, when every cent is spoken for and the entire crew is fueled more by dreams than dollars, I’ll take a non-union crew built on trust, flexibility, and mutual respect. Those are the crews that make miracles happen. They understand that no job is beneath them, that filmmaking is a team sport, and that a great attitude is worth more than all the gear in the world.

If you walk onto a micro-budget set expecting the amenities of a Marvel movie, you’re in the wrong place. But if you walk onto that same set ready to create, collaborate, and carry the load alongside your fellow misfits, then you might just become part of something unforgettable. Because it’s not the union card that makes the film, it’s the heart behind it.