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The shine of a big break doesn’t always light the path ahead. We sit down with character actor Robert LaSardo to explore what success really feels like when the cheers fade and the measuring starts—how to wear your colors after a loss, why loyalty outlasts gossip, and what it takes to keep your spirit intact inside a machine that rewards visibility while testing your soul.

Robert brings us into the surreal joy of working on The Mule with Clint Eastwood—from a simple self-tape to notes, a greenlight, and then the quiet shock of meeting a legend who leads without ego. He shares how Eastwood “plays jazz” on set, trusts improvisation, and eats with his crew like family. That humility becomes a masterclass in creative leadership: protect the work, respect people, and let honesty breathe. We also touch on a tender moment with Andy Garcia that affirms how old-school respect still matters and how being seen can reset your day.

From there, the conversation tackles film literacy, lowered standards, and the seduction of spectacle. Robert contrasts meaningful storytelling with the numbing effect of relentless visual stimulation and weightless violence. He champions writing what you know, building teams around authenticity, and using craft to entertain without dumbing down. We thread Scorsese’s evolving style, Woody Allen’s neurotic wit, and the enduring power of films like The Poseidon Adventure, American Graffiti, and The Exorcist—stories that last because they carry consequence, atmosphere, and soul.

Robert closes with American Trash, his new film in post-production: a raw, compassionate portrait of PTSD, apathy, and environmental care set in Los Angeles. It’s a 1960s spirit reimagined for right now, asking us to look at the ground under our feet and the people beside us, then choose community over indifference. If you care about acting, directing, or simply watching better movies, this conversation is a compass—equal parts grit, gratitude, and guidance.

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The best horror stories aren’t just on screen—they’re the ones told in the glow of dead‑of‑night lights, long after the credits. We sit down with cast and crew from Dawn of the Dead to relive the midnight Monroeville shoots, the improvised zombie gigs, and the wild on‑set mishaps that became legend. From a neck‑bite effect gone hilariously wrong to a crew member who asked George Romero for a shot and walked away as the machete zombie, these are unscripted, human moments that turned a cult classic into a lifelong bond.

What makes these memories stick is how ordinary they started. One panelist only came because a friend insisted. Another was just an 11‑year‑old who could stay awake while other kid zombies crashed, perfectly embodying Romero’s idea of “residual memory” as he bumped a toy bike down a fluorescent hallway. A teacher brought a Super 8 camera to show students what a set looked like and accidentally created a DVD extra that now anchors the movie’s archive. The mall itself remains a character—still a place some of them shop, still a trigger for recall—with every corridor doubling as a portal back to 3 a.m.

We trace the film’s unlikely afterlife through media history: from three broadcast channels and strict censorship to the arrival of pay TV, Betamax, and VHS that kept the undead alive at home. The panelists talk about walking into their first conventions in Strongsville and beyond, astonished to find passionate fans from Nova Scotia, England, Germany, even Hawaii. Autographs, photos, and t‑shirts came later; the connection came first. Decades on, the reunions feel warmer than high school anniversaries because the memories were forged under pressure, creativity, and the practical magic of Tom Savini’s effects.

If Dawn of the Dead lives on, it’s because people keep telling these stories—small, funny, honest—and inviting new fans into the crowd. Join us, subscribe for more behind‑the‑scenes lore, and share your first Dawn of the Dead memory in a review or with a friend who loves horror history.

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