Toward the end of Evil Puddle, protagonist William Van Rhyn—played by Matt Farley—gives out Farley’s phone number. It's his actual digits, replete with area code. This isn't the first time he's done this either. Contrary to the predilections of most people who star in movies, Farley actually wants to talk to his audience. Call it up, and you'll find you have a direct line to one of the film’s creators.

The other creator, director Charlie Roxburgh, has been helming micro-budget movies with Farley (also Evil Puddle's writer) for more than a quarter century. Gathering friends, family, local personalities, and loyal fans to populate their lovingly crafted comedies—filming in Farley’s northeastern coastal Massachusetts home whenever everyone has time—each feature they’ve exercised has been a delightful homage to B-movie staples, in genres like sci-fi, horror, or, in the case of their latest, the disaster film.

Slowly and equally surely, they’ve amassed a healthy following under the Motern Media label, their catch-all banner for their creative endeavors, enough to hold a Motern Extravaganza on Farley’s birthday every year, which has grown into a long weekend of events and concerts. To love Farley and Roxburgh’s films is to love the many faces that regularly show up in each feature, Motern’s own playhouse of non-professional actors.

Of course, the attention could be due to Farley’s escalating profile as a working musician who’s somehow gamed streaming service algorithms enough to support his family. Last year, Farley earned a New York Times profile, wherein the author, Brett Martin, describes first catching wind of the songwriter/filmmaker/book writer/personal brand manager via a song called “Brett Martin, You a Nice Man, Yes.” Farley composed the song under the guise of Papa Razzi and the Photogs, one of countless band pseudonyms he’d used to rack up, according to Martin’s article, as much as $200,000 in 2023.

[Please enjoy this song Farley wrote about Dom Sinacola. -eds]

This is all from streaming revenue; Farley trusts that sheer glut and relentless creative output, however lacking in quality or depth, can be a successful numbers game for a resolutely independent polymath like him. After all, Billie Eilish discovered him this way, and in 2013, Farley performed on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, two accomplishments he reminds people of often.

Farley posts about himself and his work frequently on social media, speaking with a kind of admirable pride and straight-faced hyperbole about absolutely everything he does. So it makes sense he gives out his phone number: promoting oneself directly to viewers, opening up that conduit between consumers and consumed. Farley has, with Roxburgh and his family (including his wife Elizabeth Peterson and immediate loved ones), and his bloating coterie of Motern faces, built a community around the shared ecstasy of creation.

This may be how they’ve been so prolific in the past five years. Since 2021, Roxburgh and Farley have tried to make two films per year, leaning toward the handheld, black-and-white vein of American independent cinema that harkens back to the work of Jim Jarmusch or Kevin Smith’s debut. They’ve found a warm, affable pocket between the broadcast TV sheen of digital media and the tactile compositions of their forebears.

They’ve released seven titles in this time, including a buddy detective lark (Metal Detector Maniac), an off-kilter thriller (Heard She Got Married), its even more off-kilter sequel (Heard She Got Murdered), and one where Farley does a weird baby-guy voice like Adam Sandler (Boston Johnny) that is sort of like Tár but for the world of hyper-local brand spokespeople.

Magic Spot, the duo’s 2023 dose of soft-hearted sci-fi wonk, is ostensibly the story of a dead uncle who communicates to his nephews via the spirit realm, revealing to them the existence of a fantastical time-traveling rock in the woods near their homes. But it’s actually more about the people of the small town where Magic Spot takes place, a cadre of artists and performers who ply their skills on a cable access talent show (which is never recorded: “If you don’t catch it live, you don’t catch it all”) and who never dream of leaving for bigger pastures.

As Magic Spot’s rules around time travel become increasingly esoteric, the drama of townsfolk spreads outward, and the cable access show emerges as a thriving hub for a community built around being creative for creativity’s sake.

Evil Puddle, then, is a demonstration of that community in action, as Farley and Charlie mount their own parochial epic of catastrophe cinema. Threading a huge ensemble throughout multiple storylines, they’ve assembled something in the vein of The Poseidon Adventure or The Towering Inferno, early '70s features (or TV movies) where at least one easily recognizable celebrity joins a seeming cast of hundreds to survive whatever calamities fall under so-called acts of God.

Aforementioned main character William Van Rhyn maintains an unrequited crush on Paloma V (Elizabeth Peterson, always the love interest), who works for the fouth quadrant water district, which includes the town of Medialight, where this all takes place. William’s so smitten with Paloma V that he can’t bear the thought she’s ignoring the varied bouquets of flowers (bought from the local florist, played by Roxburgh) he sends her, but Paloma V has a boyfriend who went to the big city of Branson to play music.

Meanwhile, Reggie (Chris Peterson, a dependable and legitimately sympathetic Motern player) tells William about the ordinary-looking new rock he’s found, which is infused with Ancient Pilgrim Magic, allowing the holder to, at the utterance of the special Ancient Pilgrim phrase (“arsey varsey”), essentially stop time, entering an alternate dimension where inhabitants can communicate telepathically. Like in Magic Spot, all of these unbelievable happenings are accepted by townsfolk with quiet, unfazed understanding, and any disasters or apocalyptic results remain isolated to Medialight only, which exists as a universe unto itself.

Of course, when using the Pilgrim rock to cheat at a game of chess, Reggie accidentally knocks over a bottle of water, realizing that water made to flow from within the alternate stopped-time dimension will make the water fatal in the normal-paced real world, freezing whoever touches it in a catatonic state comparable to death. Unfortunately, William unwittingly, upon attempting to use the rock to discover why Paloma V’s never responded to his bouquets, floods the town’s water system with the evil water, unleashing a wave of menace throughout Medialight.

One unremitting pleasure of Evil Puddle is how effortlessly Roxburgh and Farley can bring in character after character, each with unique wants and personalities, and these non-professional actors meet the director and star’s wavelength perfectly each time.

There’s local naturalist Prackett (Tom Scalzo, long-time Motern head and Farley bandmate), whose attempts to design a community garden are thwarted. We meet Gladys (Brianna Zigler, film critic and Motern fan), Paloma V’s receptionist and William’s deadpan antagonist.

We also dip into the town pizza parlor, owned by Seth (Motern fan and critic Seth Vargas), where Medialight residents typically score a hot slice, which quickly devolves into medieval mayhem, upon the introduction of the evil water through the kitchen’s faucet. One customer, Phil (Phil Cote, burgeoning Motern star), declares himself Sultan Johnny, Overlord of the Pizza House.

And then there is Kevin McGee, a muscular, eternally youthful paterfamilias for Motern who’s been the highlight of their films since their arguable breakout, 2012’s Don’t Let the Riverbeast Get You! In Evil Puddle, McGee inhabits Dr. Jeff Tessin—expert in Ancient Pilgrim Magic—brandishing an appreciably believable British accent and captivating zeal. A character consistently addressed by his full name, Dr. Jeff Tessin may be the town’s only hope from the plague of wicked, wet puddles.

McGee’s presence is a beacon for Motern films, an ideal of what a regular person can do when given the time, freedom, and trust to let their natural charisma take over. This sentiment courses through Matt Farley and Roxburgh's works: the idea that making art with people can bring out the best in them.

The first time Farley gave out his phone number on film was in his 2013 self-directed, mostly-autobiographical Local Legends, wherein he lays out his philosophies beautifully, explaining both why he’s written thousands of songs for streaming services and why he continues to fervently create art despite very un-lucrative achievements. It’s a markedly honest film, exploring how selfish Farley and his incessant self-promotion can get, even if he sings songs about poop.

Marvelously lovely and more hilarious than not, Evil Puddle is meant to be seen with a crowd, and now that it’s coming to Portland—the first time we’ve ever gotten to check out a Motern Media film in theaters—you’ll regret not going. Though if you can’t make it, you can always call up Farley to apologize.

Evil Puddle premieres at Clinton Street Theater, 2522 SE Clinton, Sun Oct 19, 1 pm, $10, tickets and more info, all ages