Are you worried about making a dark comedy that deals with the aftermath of a school shooting? Me too.

But I’m more worried about not making this film. About there not being a film that cuts through the thoughts and prayers.

I clearly remember the day my kid came back home from school in his first month of kindergarten and reported that they’d had a lockdown drill.  Oh, I asked, What’s that? Well, he said, We hid in the bathroom and had to be quiet so that dangerous animals wouldn’t get us.

I still think about this when I send him to school.

And when I go into a grocery store. Or a movie theater. I look for exits, make a plan of escape.  This is not normal. But maybe it is. RUN AMOK is, tragically, a story that is perennially relevant.

I recently received a text alert that my 7th grader’s middle school was in a Level 1 Lockdown.

In 1987, my 7th grade self would have equated that with an epic Mario Brothers fail. This uncomfortable irony is the sort of engine propelling RUN AMOK.

RUN AMOK tells the story of school gun violence through a lens we’ve never seen before.

Dry wit, music, and a fantastically original protagonist pull the audience into a journey chronicling the tragedy of losing a parent, the complexities of being a teenager today, and the power of storytelling as a means for healing.

No telling of a school shooting is a comfortable one. But much of my current work is driven by the intersection of sociopolitical commentary and art of storytelling, and I believe this film can further a critical conversation.