The Freedom of Uselessness

I started working on my own business ventures when I was fifteen years old. On March 20, 2020, that mindset fully took hold, and there hasn’t been a single day since when I haven’t thought about building something, improving it, scaling it, or pushing it forward. It became more than a habit; it became an obsession. In many ways, it still is.

As a result, I began thinking about the opposite of productivity. What would it take for something to be considered useless? Not inefficient or unsuccessful, but genuinely useless, something that does nothing, produces nothing, and exists without justification. That idea unsettles me. I’m not sure if it scares me because it challenges everything I’ve trained myself to value, or because it exposes a kind of freedom I don’t know how to access.

From that question came this film.

Together with my friend Declan Mungovan, we set out to break a film record: the longest movie ever made. And we did. But the record itself was never the point—it was simply a frame that allowed the idea to exist at an extreme scale.

Before anything else, we had to define what a film actually is. If we wanted it to be recognized as a record, it had to meet real criteria. We could have taken the easy route, calling it an experimental documentary that observes something for 100 days, but that felt like a shortcut. Instead, we chose style, intention, and structure.

The film contains twelve characters. The two main characters are moss balls named Spoiled and Bubba. Alongside them are a rock, a chicken statue, a fishing statue, and several other inanimate figures. These are not metaphors disguised as people; they are exactly what they appear to be.

Once we had characters, we had to ask the most basic narrative question: What is the story?

The story is freedom through uselessness.

These characters are so free that they are allowed to do nothing. They exist without obligation, without productivity, without consequence. I don’t think many people can honestly say they are that free. Most of us are bound by responsibilities, school, work, expectations, and financial pressure. For many people, taking even a single day off comes with repercussions. True idleness is not permitted; it must be earned, explained, or optimized.

That is why we chose moss balls as our protagonists. Moss balls survive by soaking up sunlight and simply sitting where they are. They do not strive, accumulate, or perform. They exist, and that is enough.

This idea closely follows the principles of wu wei and Taoism. Wu wei is a concept often translated as “non-action,” but it does not mean laziness or passivity. It means effortless action, acting in alignment with nature rather than forcing outcomes. Taoism emphasizes flow, balance, and living in accordance with the Tao, or the natural way of things. In this framework, doing nothing is not failure; it is harmony.

The film attempts to embody that philosophy rather than explain it.

The final element was duration. If the film was about uselessness and freedom, it had to fully commit. We decided to shoot for 100 days. We reached that mark on December 4th, and the project will conclude on December 19th, when Declan and I return to our hometowns from university. For context, the second-longest film on record, Logistics, runs for 35 days and 17 hours.

This work exists far beyond what is practical, efficient, or reasonable. It does not ask for attention; it demands patience. It does not provide answers; it offers time.

So the question remains:

Is this a film?

If a film requires narrative, we have characters.
If it requires duration, we exceed it.
If it requires intention, this project is defined entirely by it.

Or is a film only valid when it produces meaning quickly, clearly, and usefully?

I don’t know the answer. But maybe the act of asking, over 100 days of doing almost nothing, is the point.