The Interview: Mischa Webley
The Interview: Mischa Webley
His new web series, "Hasaan Hates Portland", satirizes the Black and Brown experience in the PNW.
Mischa, a writer and filmmaker, recently released Hasaan Hates Portland, a short series that dives beneath the brand narrative of Portland as a tech hub, a gateway to nature, and a quirky, creative place. I’ve linked to the series below, and you can follow along on Instagram too. Here’s Mischa’s personal account. —Steph
Tell us about yourself.
My career hasn’t been a straight line, that's for sure. Filmmaking and writing have always been straight for me, though. I remember writing stories as early as third grade. At some point, my passion for writing dovetailed with having a dad who loved movies—he showed us films that were probably way inappropriate for our age, but it shaped me. I watched everything.
At some point, I realized people actually wrote movies, so in high school, I began figuring out how to do that, too, and I started reading every screenplay I could get my hands on. Then I had another realization: not only do people write movies, but they direct them, too.
For me, hands-on learning was always more valuable than theory. No film school. I heard horror stories about going to film school and not touching a camera for two years, and that’s just not how I’m wired. Instead, I moved to New York City, landing freelance gigs as a production assistant or lighting technician, getting on any set I could and figuring it out. Exposing myself to the work and industry.
From there, I’ve been making films in some form ever since, at different budget levels and scales, including shorts, features, music videos, and now a web series. My first feature film, The Kill Hole, was a great opportunity; I got to work with some amazing actors and people, including Chadwick Boseman, Tory Kitties, and Billy Zane. And in between projects, I’ve had every day job you can imagine.
You wrote in your bio that you were “fearless” to pick up a camera. Where did that fearlessness come from?
It never occurred to me to do it any other way. Making films is personal to me, and it didn’t make sense to wait for someone to tell me when I could do something. Movies cost a lot of money, and there’s a number of people involved, so it’s easy to get stuck waiting for permission. In fact I saw a lot of people in New York who would say, “I used to be young like you, I used to want to be a director, but here I am hanging lights,” and God bless them. That’s real work. But it scared me. I didn’t want only to work on other people’s projects, or not forever. I wanted to make my own films.
I grew up without a lot of money, so I learned you do what you have to do—if you want to create something, you figure out how to make it happen.
Many of your characters explore the vulnerability of the human experience: a drag performer with a cruel mother, a man grieving the death of his 20-year-old grandson, an unhoused man who rediscovers something in himself. How did you develop the capacity to write characters like that—to tap into that depth of emotion and experience?
There’s the idea that knowing yourself is the key to understanding others. I’ve always been a deep thinker; I’ve always been fascinated by people. I can remember being 6, 7, 8 years old, taking the city bus across town to go to school, and you’d just see things. I’ve always observed myself and others with intention, and that naturally comes out in my work. I’m not afraid to dive into the darker, heavier elements of the human experience. That’s probably my favorite part of directing too, working with actors on that level.
With that context, what drew you to satire for Hasaan Hates Portland?
The dynamics of being Black and Brown in a place like Portland—a city with a homogenous self-image, a story that only captures a small sliver of the whole—is an under-explored experience. Satire seemed to be the only way to deal with it.
It’s very different from anything I’ve done before. When people would say, “what kind of movies do you make?” I’d jokingly respond, “ones that aren’t funny.” But I’ve always loved satire like Hollywood Shuffle and Chappelle’s Show—they were big influences. However, this project drew from real experiences that my friends, siblings, and I observed or lived, and it took years to get it right; I wanted to do it properly because it’s nuanced. Once I met my friend Hasaan Thomas and built the project around him (and convinced him to get on screen), it all clicked. It stopped being abstract and became a real, human story. That brought it to life.
You worked as a taxi driver for three years while building your career. What did you learn about people from that experience?
It was the best, worst job I’ve ever had. This was before Uber and Lyft, so I drove traditional cabs. Because of the anonymity, because riders assumed they’d never see me again, they would act in ways they might not otherwise. There’s a power dynamic too—people assume they have power over the driver. So no one’s watching, and they’re in control. Then, they’d often let their guard down—they would be remarkably honest, sharing things they probably wouldn’t with anyone else, and I saw their vulnerability. It’s easy to be cynical about people, but they’re carrying a lot, even individuals who seem “simple” or “basic.” There’s so much more beneath the surface.
Sometimes, on the flip side, I’d see bad behavior, especially after midnight, after the bars closed. The biggest takeaway was how people assume their personal experience is the baseline of “normal”—that the way they see the world is how everyone does. Sometimes it led to people revealing experiences or opinions that were ... shocking. They’d talk about their personal lives or political views, assuming I’d agree with them, and it could get dark. People would confess to really bad behavior, like beating up their girlfriend for example, just casually, and assume that’s what everyone else is doing, not that it was horrific. There were a lot of racial dynamics too, being a Black man with dreadlocks at the time. People wouldn’t even assume I spoke English. But, you know, I have a sense of humor and would have fun with that, keeping myself entertained. I still think about my years driving a cab when I’m writing. I base a lot of characters on people I met, or composites of them.
What’s your creative process like?
It has evolved over time, and I’m a lot less romantic about creativity than I used to be. I used to wait for inspiration, but filmmaking isn’t only about inspiration—it’s about persistence. If I’m writing, I try to get through the first draft as fast as possible, front to back, even if it’s terrible. I’ve let go of the existential pain. I know the initial dialogue is going to be stale, the characters underdeveloped, and there will be plot holes. But once you have something on paper, you can mold it. Revision is where the magic happens.
I’ve also learned how to use small chunks of time. I have kids, other work. I don’t need a five-hour block to craft something because those blocks don’t exist, and an hour-a-day adds up over time. It points back to what I said before about not waiting—take a step forward, and the universe conspires in your favor. I’ve seen it over and over again.
Are there recurring themes in your work? Obsessions you return to?
If I look at it objectively, yeah. A lot of my work centers around alienation, and particularly men who feel alone. I don’t consciously set out to write about this, but it’s a theme that comes up again and again. Characters are often trying to find their place or are struggling with feeling that they don’t belong—even Hasaan Hates Portland touches on that, a person feeling like a stranger in their hometown.
What’s something you want?
I want to make bigger films. I want to keep pushing myself creatively, exploring new stories. I want to collaborate with talented people—working with others is one of the best parts of filmmaking. And I want to surprise myself in work and life. There are so many doors that I haven’t opened yet; I’m curious to see what’s behind all of them.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity. (SB)
