Leonardo Valenti

TV Man – Te L(e)o Comando is a 28‑minute slapstick comedy I shot way back in 1997. It follows a young man called Marco who’s getting ready for a date when a mysterious figure appears inside his television and starts talking to him. The story spirals into a surreal game between reality and hallucination, and it plays with the idea of how screens can take control of our lives. I was a film student inspired by the do‑it‑yourself ethic of filmmakers like Kevin Smith and Robert Rodriguez. With just an S‑VHS camera, two VCRs and a few friends, I wanted to see if I could tell a complete three‑act story without waiting for anyone’s permission. The title itself is a pun on the Italian word for remote control, ‘telecomando’, which hints at the theme of being commanded by the TV.

My vision was to make a zero‑budget film that felt like a snapshot of 1990s indie cinema – something raw, fearless and full of personality. I wanted to blend absurd humour with an undercurrent of melancholy about our relationship with media. To achieve that, I embraced the limitations: the grainy texture of S‑VHS, natural lighting and household lamps, and a small cast of friends. We shot in four locations and edited on two VCRs, which forced us to be precise with coverage and pacing. 

The beauty of TV Man is that the team was tiny. I wrote the script with my friends Fabio Fieri and Marco Marianucci, who also play the TV Man and Marco. There was no formal crew; we rotated roles on set, helped each other with camera and sound, and made decisions collectively. That camaraderie is what gives the film its spontaneity. In post‑production we spent nights in front of two VHS decks, experimenting with transitions and sound design until we felt the timing worked.

The biggest challenge was technical. With only an S‑VHS camera and no editing suite, every mistake could mean reshooting an entire sequence. We had to rehearse extensively and think like editors while shooting. Recording clean audio was another hurdle; we used a small mixer and did ADR with a tape recorder when necessary. Another obstacle was distribution – after finishing the film in 1997 it essentially vanished because we had no way to show it. That challenge wasn’t really overcome until 2025, when I digitised the tape and sent it to festivals. Seeing it resonate with audiences after 28 years was incredibly rewarding.

I’m proud of the opening sequence at the phone booth, which sets the tone with its nostalgic 90s look and jump‑cut rhythms. There’s also a scene where Marco debates with the TV Man while trying on different outfits. The timing landed perfectly, and it hints at deeper questions about identity. Finally, the climax – when reality collapses and Marco has to decide whether to follow the TV Man’s command – still makes me smile because it balances absurdity with genuine emotion.

If I could go back, I’d take better care of the original footage – storing a single VHS master for 28 years is asking for trouble! Creatively, though, I wouldn’t change much. The film’s imperfections are part of its charm. The experience taught me that limitations can be a catalyst for creativity and that a strong story and committed collaborators matter far more than gear or budget. It also taught me patience; sometimes projects take decades to find their audience.

As a television writer and producer, I’m proud of series like Distretto di Polizia and Romanzo Criminale that have become touchstones in Italian TV. They allowed me to explore complex characters over long arcs and collaborate with talented directors. But TV Man holds a special place because it represents the pure joy of filmmaking – friends coming together to make something with no expectations. Its rediscovery and subsequent festival run, with more than 60 selections and eight awards, reminded me why I fell in love with cinema in the first place.

Tell the stories that only you can tell, and don’t wait for permission. Start with what you have; technology is more accessible today than it was in 1997, and great ideas don’t require big budgets. Study the masters but also look to unexpected influences – I grew up on Spielberg and later found inspiration in Eastern filmmakers who value meditative pacing. Most importantly, surround yourself with people you trust and be open to collaboration. The relationships you build early in your career will sustain you.

Because the actors were my co‑writers and friends, rehearsals were informal and playful. We discussed each scene’s intention but encouraged improvisation to capture natural reactions. For Marco’s character, we focused on physical comedy and timing; for the TV Man, we aimed for a balance of mystery and empathy. The relaxed environment allowed the cast to take risks, which is reflected in the film’s spontaneous energy.

We didn’t have a composer, so we assembled the soundtrack ourselves using music available to us in the 90s that matched the film’s absurd tone. The sound design was built on layering VHS audio and adding effects with an audio mixer. While rudimentary, it gave the film a retro authenticity that reviewers later praised. If I were to revisit the project today, I’d love to work with a sound designer to explore more nuanced soundscapes.

In 1997 our audience was essentially ourselves and a few friends, so feedback was immediate and honest. Everybody loved it, everyone was amazed by how professional, while amateurish, it was. When the film resurfaced in 2025 and started screening at festivals, I embraced both praise and criticism. The most valuable feedback came from the Audience Choice vote at the Indy Film Library Experimental Showcase, where viewers responded to the nostalgia and authenticity. That encouraged me to share more of my early work and to trust that audiences appreciate sincerity over perfection.