The Time I Broke into Scorsese’s Dressing Room

Yes, you’re reading that title correctly.

In early 2020, as the world began to be engulfed by a contagious disease, I was booted out of my job a day before the announcement of furlough. I suddenly and abruptly found myself living with my parents without a penny to my name. But what seemed like the end of the world was also the dawn of a creative crusade.

With time put into perspective, I knuckled down and wrote a feature-length script: Northern Paradise. Set in the North during the late 80s and early 90s, it’s a true crime story that follows a hardworking man who, by chance, encounters an opportunity that promises to liberate him from the daily grind. However, this propels him into a perilous journey that entangles him with a syndicate of gangsters, hustlers, and the relentless forces of the law. It’s a back-to-basics, gangster screenplay inspired by my dad and his unsavoury friends and dodgy brothers. But that’s a different story.

I had the script, but now I needed the money to make the damn thing. Like many creatives, finding funding to back your cause is a struggle, especially if you want to make an entire film. Film festivals, posters, social media, crowdfunding, letters to investors, producers, production companies – you name it, I was doing it. My guerrilla marketing campaign was well underway. But nothing was to prepare me for the bold marketing stunt I was about to pull off next.

It was October 2023, and the London BFI Film Festival was in full swing. Martin Scorsese was the headline guest, set to give a talk on his latest film, Killers of the Flower Moon, at the festival’s peak. Seeing the opportunity to promote my script even more with big wigs at the festival, I thought I’d attend – only to find the tickets were sold out. No worries, I thought. I’d go anyway and sneak into the talk. But then why stop there? Why not try to meet Marty himself and hand him my script? Maybe he’d like it and hand it over to one of his rich producer friends, invest in it, or even offer me some advice. Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen?

First, I needed to know the layout of the building. The festival was taking place at the Southbank Centre in London, and a worryingly quick internet search revealed the literal blueprints of the building on an architectural website. Great, I knew exactly how to get in and find the dressing rooms. Next, I needed to look the part. A glance at the festival’s website revealed pictures of the staff and security: yellow tie, white shirt, black pants, and a lanyard. A few online orders later, plus a crudely photoshopped “pass” and I was now a very official-looking Southbank Centre employee.

The day arrived. I didn’t sleep a wink the night before, and despite it being October, for some reason it was blistering heat. Along with my script, I brought along a giant 3ft by 15ft banner that read “HELP NORTHERN PARADISE FILM” on it. I hung the banner on railings outside the festival without a hitch.

The artists’ entrance was towards the rear of the building, and I figured that would be the best place to enter. I slipped inside, only to be met by a very stern security guard behind a desk. I blagged a story about being there to cover the festival for the BFI. He didn’t buy it and told me to wait in the foyer. After calling down several event organisers and festival officials, they decided that they had no record of me and wouldn’t let me in. I made an excuse and left before I was clocked and things escalated.

By this point, the event had started, so I knew Scorsese was already in the building. Determined not to be defeated, I resorted to plan B: walking straight through the front door. I did it with no questions asked. I found myself making small talk with a member of staff who was guarding the auditorium doors, unaware of anything unusual, he complained about how shit his job was. The final round of applause sounded and the doors burst open. People bailed out and amongst the bustle I went in and up onto the empty stage. I walked through the first stage door exit I could see. My vision tunnelled and my mind went blank.

I brushed aside a blackout curtain, revealing the backstage area. Empty. No one. Silence. I shuffled along the back of the stage and moved down an empty corridor, the murmur of voices grew louder as I turned the corner to find very official looking people with pretentious accents, congratulating each other on how well the talk had gone. I stood around them and blended in. Not one of them looked at me, it was like I was invisible. A giant of a man stood guarding a door. He must have been 7ft tall and built like a freight train. Make no mistake he was a private bodyguard. A lady tried to enter the door he was guarding. As she moved towards it, he stopped her. Seeing my opportunity, I darted past him like a scene from a slapstick comedy sketch. On the way in I noticed Scorsese’s name on a plaque next to the door – it was his dressing room.

My adrenaline was pumping. I half expected the bloke to be sat there! What would I even say to him? Would he lose his shit? He wasn’t there. Crisp white shirts were hanging up and flowers were laid on his dressing table. I placed my script next to the flowers and left like a bat out of hell. I knew he was coming back to the venue that evening for the premiere of Killers. So there is a good chance he picked it up. Maybe he even read it.

Clearly, getting your film funded through traditional channels or even with a guerrilla marketing campaign is incredibly difficult. I guess it’s financially safer for studios to make another Fast and Furious than to fund a guy willing to do a little trespassing. But as long as I’m prepared to break into A-listers’ dressing rooms and beyond, my film will get made. Northern Paradise will see the light of day and when it does maybe, like Marty, I’ll get my flowers.

Follow Jair’s progress and donate to the Northern Paradise fundraiser by visiting @Northern_Paradise_Film_ on Instagram.