*Unit Stills Photography by Ioannis Donev, AR Studios 2025. All Rights Reserved, 30 July 2024 - Athens, Greece*

There are moments in life when inspiration strikes in the most unexpected ways, and for me, that moment happened in Athens. It wasn’t a mystical experience involving ancient gods or some kind of divine intervention—no, it was more like a slap across the face with the reality of what I had gotten myself into.

It all began in April 2024. What was meant to be a mix of holiday and research in Greece unravelled into rapid story development at speed. I’d spent the week doing what filmmakers do: location scouting, meeting locals, and pretending I knew what I was doing. Then, just before flying back to the UK, the gods of chaos intervened. Enter two Europeans, one of whom had been loitering around me like a well-meaning shadow. And before I knew it, I was in the heart of Athens, in a hidden bar called Apanemia, where I met someone who would become the very reason this film exists - Marianna Zachou.

*In picture: Marianna Zachou. Unit Stills Photography by Ioannis Donev, AR Studios 2025. All Rights Reserved, 30 July 2024 - Athens, Greece*

Apanemia wasn’t just any bar. It was once the meeting place for some of the most dangerous and secretive political gatherings during Greece’s military dictatorship in the 1960s-70s. As I sat there, watching local musician Marianna perform, something clicked. Her music wasn’t just good—it was electric. Watching Marianna perform, seeing the joy and energy of the people dancing, clapping, and stomping their feet, I made a decision in my ouzo-induced state: I needed this bar in my film. I needed Marianna. And I needed live music in the story.

Deciding this at midnight on the eve of my flight back to London, of course, nearly made my heart stop.

After her performance, I introduced myself in the green room. I was exhausted. To her credit, Marianna didn’t laugh me out of the room. She introduced me to her friend who shortly joined us—a Netflix editor, no less—and, just like that, I walked out with a few promising connections. It felt like a win.

Then, the universe decided to come after me. By the time I landed back in London, my previous Greek production partner had demanded more money than a small country's GDP. Negotiations collapsed, and I was left with nothing but a half-baked script and a whole lot of doubt and the feeling I wasted two weeks in Greece. But Marianna’s Netflix friend came through, we met in London and she became my first high-power associate producer, helping me find a crew that would eventually save this project and support the Greece/UK post-production teams.

So fast forward to May, I left the world of GCSE exams behind and flew back to Athens to kick off pre-production.

At Gatwick, I was rewriting scenes like a man possessed, because the script still wasn’t good. By the time I boarded the plane, I felt the crushing weight of knowing this film could fall apart if I don’t get the script under control. AR Studios would fail publicly in front of its fans, collaborators, family, friends and investors, and I’d probably have to fake my own death.

Upon landing, I checked into my hotel in Omonia, tossed my bag on the bed, and headed straight to Apanemia, laptop in hand, where my senior crew were waiting for me. By 9:30 p.m., I was shouting over live music about production logistics. Marianna then arrived for her set, to test out some music for the film.

But as the night wore on, I retreated downstairs to the basement. It was just me, my script, a lack of sleep, and a sense of dread. It got to about 2 a.m, and the ideas weren’t flowing; the script was still too hollow. Every time I fixed one issue, two more appeared. By 2:30 a.m., I was spiraling. It suddenly dawned on me that the film may fail. It was the moment I realised that AR Studios could fail badly in front of everyone. I could barely breathe. In that dark moment, I remembered how everyone around me was telling me to stop making this film - my worried investors, collaborators, mentors, friends and family, all fearing I had gone too far. I probably did.

I forced myself to stop, and scrolled through WhatsApp. A video from the family group chat earlier that day caught my eye: my mum, preparing a feast in the garden. My entire family was there, eating, laughing, and living. And where was I? Alone in a basement, 1,500 miles away, trying to salvage a film that felt doomed.

Homesickness hit me like a train. At 30 years old, I felt more out of place than I ever had. I was an imposter. I wanted to quit. I wanted to go home. There I was—alone, wondering if I was the world’s biggest idiot for thinking I could pull this off.

Then Marianna came downstairs.

She asked if I was OK. I couldn’t even look at her without risking tears. When she hugged me, she gave me a kiss on the cheek, and reminded me that she and the band are here because of me and what I’m trying to do. That moment was the fuel I needed - someone reminding me that I am on the right path, and that I’m not alone.

At around 4:30 a.m., I finished the script. And at some point in that sleepless haze, I found the film’s true name: Our Little Act of Rebellion. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The very act of making this film was my rebellion—against doubt, fear, my friends and family thinking I’d gone mad, and every voice telling me I didn’t belong.

The rest of that week passed in a blur. The cast and crew fell into place, and on my last night in Athens, Marianna and I had dinner. We then walked through the city until we were on the other side of Athens at about 3 a.m, on our stroll we talked about life, love, sacrifice, and the joy of creating something from nothing. We continued our philosophical chat at a morning bar we found, until 5 a.m. I was forcing my eyes not to close while we spoke, because I had never had a night-to-day experience like this before.

Marianna gave me more than music. She gave me support and I never felt alone because of her. She never asked for anything in return. In fact, she downplayed her role entirely. But without her, Our Little Act of Rebellion wouldn’t exist.

Sometimes, life is about the little things—a chance meeting, a kind word, a laugh, or even a kiss. Those moments, fleeting as they may seem, are anything but little. As my father says, you must act and be strong in the face of life’s challenges.

Thank you, Marianna. Without you, I’d probably be hiding on an island somewhere, pretending to be dead.

Ranw Aso-Rashid
Founder/CEO
AR Studios

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