The night I signed the first check for Nation’s Fire, I believed in magic.
Not the kind that waves wands — the kind that bleeds.
I had clawed my way through a decade of proving myself, balancing a career in aviation software
by day and acting under hot lights by night. Every dollar I saved went toward one dream — to make a film that would outlive me.
I didn’t come from money. I came from motion.
From hangars that smelled of jet fuel and film sets that smelled of smoke and ambition.
And somehow, men from my aviation circle — disciplined, brilliant, mathematical minds — looked at me and said,
“You’re the one, Krista. You’ve got this.”
They bet on me. I bet on all of us.
We raised $1.3 million. It wasn’t investor money — it was life savings, 401Ks, second mortgages, hope.
And I swore I would make every cent count.
THE DREAM
The cast was electric — Bruce Dern, Gil Bellows, Chuck Liddell, plus many incredible actors and me.
We had the story, the team, the grit.
That’s when he promised distribution through one of the big leagues — the Oscar-winning producer we hired for a large sum.
Charming. Assured. The kind of man who could sell sunshine to the desert.
He told us he had the connections. The studios. The “pathway to Lionsgate.”
And when an Oscar winner looks you in the eye and says he can change your life —
you believe him.
I did. I felt like Annie coming from the orphanage and being adopted by Daddy Warbucks...but I was providing the bucks...hmm.
I thought- Everything would finally be ok.... I never felt things would be ok before- but this time I did, and it was nice being blind for a bit.
I believed so strong, with the kind of blinding positivity that makes you float — until you realize you’re over a cliff. The fall was in complete slow motion- I couldn't even see the bottom.
THE UNRAVELING
Weeks turned to months.
Months turned to two years.
Two years of him dangling hope like a carrot in front of a starving horse.
Two years of almosts: “Almost closed,” “Almost done,” “Lionsgate’s circling.”
Every call ended with reassurance — and a new invoice.
Then one day, the “miracle” came.
He said the words every filmmaker aches to hear:
“Krista, hold on — Lionsgate is calling now!”
I remember the sound of his voice — slick, glowing with false excitement.
He hung up, laughed, and said, “How do you do that? You manifested it!”
I wanted to throw the phone through the wall.
Because behind that performative positivity, I saw it:
the fraud.
The exploitation.
The performance.
This same man — this manipulator — toured the stage with Bob Proctor, preaching The Power of Positivity while feeding off people’s faith.
He was a motivational predator — a monster smiling in a three-piece suit who sniffed out believers and called it business.
He refused to show me the Lionsgate contract until I signed his distribution agreement. His agreement that stated they will take my whole
150,000. That Lionsgate offered. We would have 0 and they would have our movie domestically for 25 years.
That was the moment the light in me dimmed.
That was the moment the spell broke.
The movie wrapped — and the real battle began.
Post-production: the purgatory where dreams are either refined into diamonds or drowned in red tape
THE SECOND BETRAYAL
I walked. I thought walking away meant freedom.
But it only led me into the arms of my next nightmare.
Vision Films.
We had a wonderful first conversation. She sent over the paperwork.
On paper, they looked legitimate — glossy projection sheets, territories spanning 60 countries,
seven-figure forecasts. The kind of documents that make you exhale and whisper, Finally.
I signed.
And from that moment forward, it was hell.
The woman at the top didn’t speak anymore — she screamed, high pitched screaming when you ask her a question.
It wasn’t passion; it was power play. Every phone call was a battle.
When I asked for transparency on my reports — my right as the filmmaker — she barked,
“Shut up, Krista.” Ummmm Yeah- that didn't go over well as I was in midair flying over my desk to get to L.A. to see her face to face.
My million-dollar film reduced to spreadsheets that looked like riddles.
No real reports from streaming platforms. Just made-up numbers.
It was psychological warfare.
And while I drowned in confusion, I watched something worse —
the faces of my investors, the men who believed in me, crumble.
Their eyes carried disappointment that pierced deeper than any insult.
They had trusted me with their lives.
And I had trusted thieves.
That pain broke something inside me.
I stopped doing things I loved. I stopped sleeping. I would sit on the floor surrounded by boxes of receipts and
contracts, tracing every number like I was decoding a crime.
Because it was a crime.
Financial, emotional, spiritual.
I began to question my own sanity. How could people who smile on red carpets and talk about “art” do something so heartless?
It was like waking up in a psychiatric ward built by the film industry — where every gaslight flickers in Dolby Vision.
THE RECKONING
But fire, once lit, doesn’t die — it evolves.
Somewhere between the heartbreak and the fury, I found something ancient stirring in my chest.
The part of me that refuses to bow.
I started traveling.
To festivals. To AFM. To meetings with distributors who thought I was just another naive actress.
They didn’t know I was taking notes on all of them.
I became a shadow in studio corridors, a ghost with a notepad.
I learned every clause, every loophole, every lie they use to steal your backend.
I didn’t just study the business.
I hunted it.
Every night, I sat on the floor surrounded by paperwork — checks, receipts, reports —
a forensic autopsy of my own movie.
Every dollar was a breadcrumb.
Every name, a clue.
And the deeper I went, the more I realized — the system wasn’t broken.
It was built this way.
That’s when I stopped trying to knock on the gates.
I kicked them in.
THE BIRTH OF A BERSERKER
From the ashes of Nation’s Fire came something no one saw coming —
Filmmaker Berserk.
Not a course. Not a brand.
A movement.
It’s the rebellion of filmmakers who refuse to be prey.
It’s the playbook the gatekeepers never wanted written.
It’s how I turned my million-dollar heartbreak into a weapon of truth.
Now, I teach filmmakers how to fight back — how to protect their IP, their revenue, their souls.
I expose the lies.
I automate the audits.
I replace guesswork with AI-precision and blood-earned knowledge.
Because they thought they broke me.
But they didn’t know who they were dealing with.
When they stole Nation’s Fire, they awakened the Berserker.
