Mike J. Marin (Navajo, Laguna Pueblo, Washoe) is an award-winning Native American indie filmmaker from East Oakland, CA. He’s the creator of Urban Native Horror, a genre that blends traditional Native stories with modern urban settings. His love for horror started as a kid, when his older siblings let him stay up late to watch scary movies on local TV. That early exposure to horror grew into a lifelong passion for storytelling. After earning his BA in Film & Video from Columbia College Chicago, Mike began writing and directing films in 2015.
His first feature, The Smudging (2016), opened the door for what would become a bold career rooted in survival and imagination. Since then, he has built a body of work that includes award-winning documentaries and the breakout feature First Voice, which earned multiple Best Horror Film awards, along with Best Director and Best Actor. For Mike, filmmaking is more than a craft. It’s a way to work through trauma and mental health struggles, something he explored in a deeply personal way through his documentary Figure it Out: AFP and Depression. In that film, he shares his own journey of struggle, learning how to manage and overcome, and how creation itself becomes a tool for healing. Now based in Los Angeles, Mike continues to push Native cinema forward with new projects, including a supernatural TV pilot.
Q. How does your lived experience influence the way you choose stories and frame narratives in your films?
My horror stories are all based on some sort of trauma and how to face it. Not necessarily defeat it, but come to terms with its existence and how to find ways to confront it and overcome it. I am a trauma survivor, having faced sexual, emotional, and physical abuse when I was younger. So, in essence, I know horror on a visceral level. I know what scares me, and I’ve made friends with it. We’ve become the best of friends, actually. That’s where my stories are born from.
Q. What do you think makes Native filmmaking distinct from other approaches, and how do you bring that distinct and your own distinct voice to your projects?
We have relationships with these narratives. Many of them are derived from the filmmakers’ lived experiences, which they share. Take horror, right? Any one of us can make a slasher film or a possession film, but when it comes from a lived experience with, say, bad medicine or surviving violence, then it becomes relationship-based. It’s got an element of reality and terror that goes beyond anything put on film.
Growing up, I was afraid of the dark. In a lot of ways, I still am. And that comes from having been put in the basement periodically by my babysitter when I was 5. When you’re that young with an imagination like mine, the shadows have teeth, for god’s sake! But then, when I got older, I became the teeth in someone else’s dark. That made me realize that I control what lies in the shadows. And now, I tell its story.
Q. Are there filmmakers, Native or non-Native, who have shaped or inspired your approach to storytelling on screen?
I had the honor and privilege of meeting the legendary Master of Horror, John Carpenter, in 2019 here in Los Angeles. Ever since his iconic horror classic Halloween hit these eyes, it’s always been and will always be my favorite horror movie on every level. And as my favorite director, it was a landmark moment in my early filmmaking career. I’ve always loved his vision and approach to storytelling. His simplicity and creativity in the story structure are a remarkable launch pad that leads to a process that not many horror filmmakers can navigate. They believe more is needed to convey an idea, whereas John Carpenter believes enough in the audience to use their imagination to manifest the terror he creates. That’s the true mark of a master storyteller. And that is how I approach horror filmmaking.
Q. When you revisit The Smudging today, do you see things you would do differently as a filmmaker, or does it still feel true to the vision you had back then?
I would have taken more time with it. Man, when I attend screenings of that film, I walk out of the venue at the start of the third act. I can’t stand the final confrontation scene. It was rushed, muddled, and hard to follow. With what I know now, I would love an opportunity to remake it the way I want. The story is good, but the execution could have been much better. I am glad it has a small following. That makes me feel good. It was my first attempt at making a feature film with a Top Ramen budget and a crew of eager actors. I made a film, good or bad. I dared myself to do it, and it got done.
Q. How did the experience of making The Smudging and its reception shape your confidence and path as you continued to make films?
Look, if I had thin skin, the feedback would have ended my passion for filmmaking. Each production is a learning experience, which can encourage you to push it forward or put it away. I think of all the stories I have in my arsenal and all the documentaries that became teachable moments, and how my life would be one of regret if I did pack up my gear and kept silent. And now I have 12 film awards! I must be doing something right. So, I have so many more stories to tell, and I have miles to go before I sleep.
Q. Your latest film, First Voice has been recognized and won quite a few awards across the festival circuit. What was it like bringing that story to different audiences, both Native and non-Native?
It was a gamble in the sense that I was reintroducing the art of genuine storytelling back into filmmaking. I took the old school approach to telling a story in a way that had people blowing the dust off their imaginations and experiencing terror derived from what they were hearing in the film. It truly was a first voice narrative I was bringing back into the medium. And people love it! I mean, a majority of the awards I’ve received are from international non-Native film festivals that are not only experiencing horror, but Native American horror from a Native American filmmaker.
Q. Did you notice differences in how Indigenous vs. non-Indigenous audiences responded to First Voice, and what did you learn from that?
The biggest difference has been the reception. My films have been more successful in gaining an audience overseas than here in the States. Domestically, non-Native film festivals aren’t very receptive to Native themed horror because they don’t understand it. They still look to Native film as being the typical “beads and feathers” narrative, or what I refer to as “safe” or “comfortable” Native storytelling. And with Native film festivals, Native horror in itself is a gamble because so many tribes see those kinds of stories as taboo.
I mean, look at it this way – the history of Native people in the US is a horror franchise that doesn’t end.
Q. What’s next for First Voice?
Possibilities are endless. That’s all I can say about it right now.
Q. You’re currently working on a documentary about WithOut Rezervation, which gave rise to Native Hip Hop. What sparked the idea for the documentary?
After 33 years, it was time to tell the tale. We seem to be the forgotten pioneers of the Native American hip-hop movement. And that’s not being bitter. It’s just that we did something groundbreaking in the realm of telling the history of Native American people, urban and non-urban, in the United States. We utilized hip-hop, which was our generation’s form of storytelling.
So, when I felt that I had a little bit of knowledge and exposure to filmmaking and the process, what better way to use all that than to tell a story that not a lot of people have heard before, especially from someone who lived it?
Q. What role do you think Native hip hop plays in shaping conversations about sovereignty, identity, and survival for younger generations, especially in urban areas?
A lot of us urban Natives didn’t have a platform to express ourselves or someone in our generation who could represent us on a level that we believed they understood or were a participant in. I mean, a lot of Native hip-hop artists can Frankenstein a thought process hand-picked from elements that other hip-hop artists have placed in the urban pool, which leads to them telling and believing a false narrative.
We didn’t have anyone we saw as real. There’s a discipline that comes with being a group or an individual that Native people can relate to, and not just because they’re Native. The said group or individual has to know their shit. So, when younger generations look toward a source to teach them about tribal sovereignty, cultural identity, and long-term indigenous survival, they learn from individuals who walk that road and talk truth in ways that modern education tries to whitewash into a narrative that non-natives are comfortable with.
Q. What was the experience in going back and really looking at the impact of WithOut Rezervation after all these years and through the lens of who you are in this present time?
It’s pretty cool to reflect on that time. We still get people who saw us back in the day coming up and telling us how proud they were of us for being a positive influence on their kids across different communities. One of the best interactions I recently had was with legendary hip-hop artist and activist Chuck D., Public Enemy’s iconic frontman. He actually used to listen to us! That was quite a validation on how far we reached, to have a well-known rap artist remember us.
Personally, I take great pride in knowing I was part of a groundbreaking crew that ushered in a new chapter of hip-hop during a time when rap was in a transitional period rife with messages of police brutality, urban unrest, and cultural awareness and resurgence. It was a great time for our voices to project and our creativity to have a platform.
Q. What advice would you give to young filmmakers who want to tell their own stories but are navigating barriers, especially in terms of funding?
Take your time. Secure your ideas and be patient. And believe in your story. There’s nothing worse than a director who loses faith in their project. Work on your pitches. If you’re not excited about your project, why should anyone else be? And money? Apply, apply, apply for grants. There’s funding out there. You just gotta want it.
Q. As more filmmakers emerge from our communities, what do you hope to see more of in terms of the films being made and the stories being told?
More original and a lot less “Native versions of”. A lot of the films I’ve seen from Native filmmakers are too similar in their subject matter and execution. You get 20 reservation stories and maybe one left-laner that leaves a lasting impact. That’s the story I want to see make it into the mainstream—an original Native story written and directed by a Native filmmaker.
For instance, a Native filmmaker makes a movie about a young person having their coming out in the powwow arena and, in the process, they find love and confidence and healing. Roll credits, non-Natives eat it up, and it gets a wide release. Cool. Now, take that same scenario, and during their dance special, not only are they coming out in the arena, but they are coming out of their skin in front of the whole community because they are infected with alien parasites! That’s the story that leaves its mark. It’s still a Native American story, right?
Q. Beyond the WithOut Rezervation documentary, are there stories or genres you’re especially eager to explore in the future?
My wife is constantly trying to get me to write a rom-com, which is a hard NO. I’ve written a Native horror anthology TV pilot, which I’d like to see produced at some point. And I’m a huge Batman fan, so I’ve been working on a Batman story. Other than that, I keep my creativity limited to what I know. There is still so much horror to explore. And with Native American stories, the possibilities are endless.
Mike J. Marin has built his career on turning shadows into stories. His work challenges the boundaries of horror and proves that Native filmmaking can be as original, daring, and unsettling as anything else on the screen. From The Smudging to First Voice, and through personal projects like Figure it Out: AFP and Depression, Mike shows how storytelling can be both terrifying and healing. His films reveal that horror doesn’t just live in fiction; it also reflects the battles we fight in real life and how we learn to carry them.
By taking what once haunted him and shaping it into story, Mike has created a vision of Native horror and filmmaking that is original, unapologetic, and unforgettable. He continues to break new ground and remind us that Indigenous storytelling isn’t limited to what is safe or expected. It can be as bold, unsettling, and transformative as the people who tell it.
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