#2440 - Matt Damon & Ben Affleck

I’m in a dentist’s office on a Sunday and hear a stream of cursing from the other room, then Stan pops out and says Hunter’s in the chair; minutes later I’m face to face with Hunter S. Thompson, he calls me an assassin, hands me a jug of clear booze, and I get seven wild minutes I’ll never forget.

I’ve made pilgrimages like that to Woody Creek Tavern just to feel his ghost in the walls, and even there you can sense the legend.

His books hit like a brick—Hells Angels, Fear and Loathing, even the Ram Diary—punchy, bizarre, and lived-in, like you’re riding shotgun.

Fear and Loathing rewired me; the way he evolved from the restraint of Hells Angels to the gonzo voice he found while supposed to cover a race blew my mind.

By the way, your new movie is killer—original, tight, and not a copy of anything I’ve seen.

Is it strange watching films migrate to streaming so fast?

Audiences moved to the couch, then COVID hit and turbocharged it, and now great televisions, YouTube, and TikTok make it harder to pull people into theaters, even as streamers fund ambitious shows.

We were knocked out by a limited series that staged entire hour-long episodes as single takes, rehearsed for a week, shot twice a day, and it worked because the writing and performances held it together, not the trick.

Back then TV was chopped up by commercials and rules while films could go darker, but now series often match or beat features, and theatrical has leaned safer with sequels and branded IP because marketing costs make risk terrifying.

The shared ritual of theaters is like church—you arrive, surrender your phone, and lock in—yet streamers push us to front-load action and repeat the plot because people watch on phones; the best work proves you don’t need to do that.

It’s not an extinction event; it’s supply and demand shifting, with theaters still vital for certain experiences and home viewing enabling riskier, more intimate work.

Algorithms now steer notes, like where audiences drop off, and that data pressure can reshape how you tell a story.

In a theater you’ll ride out a disturbing film like Taxi Driver because you’ve invested in being there; at home the threshold to bail is a click, which is why the 70s could breathe with long first acts and long silent openings like Le Mans, and why someone like Cameron still breaks the rules with confidence.

I read you set up a performance bonus so the whole crew shares in upside; how’d that come together?

We did it because it’s fair and because buy-in makes the work better; everyone got their full rates, and then real bonuses kick in if the film performs, so the people who make the movie actually participate in success.

Below-the-line folks—grips, electrics, camera teams, drivers—are the engine, so we pegged bonuses to hours-viewed tiers, built a template with Netflix, and proved it can be done without anyone taking a pay cut.

Streaming muddies value compared to box office residuals, library drives a ton of watch time, and we used our own polling and data to shape deals so we can lower upfronts, take creative swings, and still share back-end if it connects.

What worries you most about AI in the business—synthetic extras or machine-written films?

Right now it’s a tool, not a storyteller; models regress to the mean and are unreliable, likeness and labor protections already exist, adoption will be incremental, and hype often chases valuations while the real art still relies on human choices and taste.

The more synthetic stuff we see, the more we’ll crave human craft; when a great actor lands a scene you feel it in your bones.

Dwayne in The Smashing Machine fused two real memories—his father’s defenses and his mom pulling a sheet over herself after a diagnosis—then married them in a hospital scene, and that lived experience is why it floors you in a way no model can fake.

Emily Blunt’s terrific too, and Dwayne finally got a vehicle to show range beyond the superhero box; he’s even slimmed down to chase different roles.

Bringing an audience with you is hard, like a band wanting to play new songs, but when famous faces make you forget who they are, that’s the spell.

Great actors pull you into a trance where you’re not performing lines but living them; that’s why our big argument in the film feels raw, including an ad-libbed line that surfaced because the moment demanded it.

I like sets where you can throw the script away and chase the truth, the way Greengrass works with objectives and real veterans, or how we leaned on Miami’s tactical narcotics team and a technical advisor to keep everything specific.

Miami’s cocaine era was pure madness—cops, cartels, and cigarette boats—and crews even ditched planes off Bimini and scattered so at least one load made it through.

That backdrop lets you explore temptation without preaching; put twenty million in front of working people and see how they wrestle with loyalty, need, and conscience.

The win isn’t always grabbing the bag; sometimes it’s being able to sleep at night, and writing characters with real pressure and mixed motives makes that ethical tightrope feel honest.

It all plays like it could really happen, which is rare in big action, and your research shows—like that Town moment where armed guys lock eyes with a cop on detail and he looks away.

Real people never match our caricatures—the quiet guy can be the killer, Delta operators are calm problem solvers, and champions like Henry Cejudo look like accountants and couldn’t be kinder—which is why film should keep complicating our assumptions and leave room for humility.

That humility’s missing when we pretend one mistake defines a person forever; some folks would rather do time and be done than live with an endless scarlet letter.

When the internet swarms someone, empathy disappears and it’s easy to forget there’s a human behind the screen; a culture without room for redemption makes no sense to me.

There’s that schoolyard thrill of pointing at the kid in trouble, but if there’s no forgiveness, people can’t own their mistakes or grow, and we reduce them to their worst day.

We’re all mid‑journey; attacking others is a weird victory lap for people who haven’t passed the test themselves.

The folks I trust most are the ones who’ve done wrong, admitted it, made amends, and stayed accountable.

That new mystery film hit me as a non‑religious guy because it’s really about grace, dignity, and reaching for something bigger than yourself.

I loved it too—best of the three for me—and Daniel Craig crushes that role; how much time do you two still spend watching movies?

It comes in waves; cuts and edit rooms eat days, but we chase what’s new and good.

Year‑end dumps all the interesting releases at once, but the joy right now is my 13‑year‑old asking for a list and discovering Scorsese with me—those nights are the best thing in my life.

It’s great that it still feels like love, not just work.

It never started as a job; we were high‑school theater kids chasing a dream.

We just hoped to eat doing this, even if that meant dinner theater, and somehow we got lucky.

I’m obsessed with people who love their craft—watchmakers, woodworkers—passion is contagious.

Seeing someone lost in their purpose makes you want to find yours.

I asked Hanks about that Joe Versus the Volcano luggage scene—he said the guest actor came in for a day and made devotion to luggage feel like a life’s calling, and it’s magic.

Saving Private Ryan’s opening felt like the most real depiction of war I’ve ever seen.

Spielberg cut the boat dialogue and slammed us into 27 minutes of pure experience, which told me the movie would be unreal.

They pushed the look—open shutter, bleach bypass—to change motion and make chaos feel tactile, and that ties to greatness; Air was our love letter to how true excellence electrifies culture.

But to be the best, obsession tax hits relationships and anything not on that altar.

You know you’re hurting people while you chase it, and the world rewards you for it; still, watching greatness lights a fire in the rest of us.

Fighters live that more than most—the window is tiny.

Quarterbacks can stretch a career, but most positions and combat athletes can’t outrun the clock.

John Jones is an alien talent—fight IQ, obsessive study, freak genes—and even his warmups were mauling top guys.

I’ve heard of pros prepping perfectly and still getting run through by him after he’d been out all night, and that liver‑shocking kick he drilled from tape study was unreal.

At heavyweight he leaned on the most violent tool—the spinning back kick—and he won’t take short‑notice fights because his game planning is surgical.

That’s genius mixed with the torment of “what’s next” the second the high fades.

I once interviewed Matt Hughes right after he lost his belt and he admitted it felt like relief—the chase and pressure can crush you.

Camps expose everything; you live at your limit to peak for one night, and overtraining can ruin it before the walkout.

I’d never stand fighters up—if you can’t get off your back, that’s the sport—but you also have to balance realism with what fans will watch.

Tyson was the purest example of terror—opponents were beaten by the walk, and families knew it.

The dark side is CTE; I’ve seen guys still fighting while slurring, and brain damage piles up years later, though tools like magnetic therapy and psilocybin seem to help.

Ibogaine’s wild—it’s a 24‑hour reckoning with an astonishing quit rate for addiction—and Texas is backing it for veterans and maybe cops who live with daily trauma.

I grew up on the idea that gloves softened damage, but it’s the constant sub‑concussive hits and camp wars that can be just as brutal.

Athletes chase a high that disappears fast; filmmakers can do this for decades, but pros in sports hit a wall.

Talking to Sampras at 32 was sobering—he felt done while we were just getting better with time.

TRT Vitor was terrifying—veteran mind with a 25‑year‑old’s engine—and those years showed why performance loopholes blow up fairness.

Even peptides got banned despite being more about healing than juicing, and detection games get insane.

Labs can spot yam‑derived testosterone, teams used IVs to dilute tests, and eventually it went to food plus verified supplements only.

For injuries, the Wolverine stack—BPC‑157 with TB‑500—can be shockingly effective compared to cortisone, which can weaken tendons.

I’ve heard pros shoot it locally into a tear and return in weeks instead of months.

There’s even an “enhanced games” coming, which is basically the drug Olympics; fans loved the steroid‑era home run race whether they admitted it or not.

If you told John Jones to juice in a league built for spectacle, he’d rag‑doll people into his fifties.

He fought through a full armbar from TRT Vitor with a wrecked arm and still finished him, which tells you what we’re dealing with.

I loved when the Dream Team finally let pros in, and I’m glad NIL fixed the worst of college hypocrisy.

It’s fair—those athletes fill stadiums and should share the upside in a risky career.

How do you choose what to make when you can do anything?

Director and script are everything; if it hits you twice on the page, you say yes knowing you’re married to it, for better or worse.

The worst feeling is realizing a month in that it won’t work and you still have months of long days and a brutal press run.

Honestly, this conversation probably moves the needle more than a week of five‑minute hits because listeners feel the difference.

Short‑form promos feel like a skit; people follow trusted voices and friends, and long, messy talks cut through the sales job.

The crowd decides now—real word of mouth can launch a film faster than any junket.

I started listening to podcasts to hear adults disagree without melting down, which felt like oxygen in a hysterical news cycle.

Legacy media chased ratings and outrage; incentives warped the truth, while long conversations give context people crave.

Let someone talk for hours and the mask slips—you can feel ego or honesty without a producer steering it.

Talking points die in long form, and living online makes folks so approval‑hungry they forget to form their own views.

With age you realize no one’s thinking about you as much as you think, which is freeing.

If they are, that’s their problem.

Your movie rules, and you two being down‑to‑earth on top of the work is why people root for you.