The list of filmmakers by now is quite long: Joe Swanberg, Kris Williams, Ry Russo-Young, Todd Rohal, Andrew Bujalski, the Duplass brothers, Aaron Katz, Kent Osborne, Kevin Bewersdorf, Susan Buice and Arin Crumley just to name a few. Perhaps it’s all just been the detailed workings of an overly imaginative collective unconscious, this weaving of filmmakers who all independent of one another have in the last three years of South By Southwest conferences struck on similar yet acutely distinct narrative themes, ideologies about and passions for filmmaking.

Now touted by SXSW as a movement, “mumblecore” to be exact, a term derived from an unwitting comment by sound mixer Eric Masunaga (Funny Ha Ha, Mutual Appreciation), the work of these filmmakers speaks directly to the humor and pathos of a generation, a technologically-savvy wave of individuals who nonetheless often note primary disconnections in communication.

Ironically and fortunately, however, the ties of communication between these filmmakers themselves have only strengthened as their narratives have convened in territories of bittersweet but often humorous angst. While the cumulative effect stands out prominently in the production of Swanberg’s Hannah Takes the Stairs, a film for which Russo-Young, Rohal, Bewersdorf, Bujalski, Mark Duplass and Greta Gerwig came on as actors, the collaborations have struck much deeper chords of influence as the filmmakers set off on their own projects again and wonder, if as SXSW has said and indieWIRE has written, they are in fact part of a greater trend in contemporary cinema.

“I’m kind of hesitant to tout the flag and say, ‘We’re doing this thing,’ but it’s interesting because we obviously evolved separately, completely,” says Jay Duplass, director of the Sundance hit The Puffy Chair. “I hadn’t seen any of Andrew’s movies until we were on the festival circuit together—The Puffy Chair and Mutual Appreciation…We all like similar films, similar things in life and have similar desires for expression. I guess that’s what a movement is.”

Yet, it’s not to be surmised that by embracing each other’s work that the filmmakers are in any way endorsing one particular cinematic style, or actively promoting a movement of sorts, a point made by director Ry Russo-Young, whose debut feature Orphans garnered a Special Jury Award at SXSW this year.

“We’re not all doing the same thing, and that needs to be clear. There are things that we’re bouncing off each other with, but we’re not making the same kind of movie by any means. Our processes are different, our results are different and the way we work with actors or don’t work with actors or work with different people or different kinds of people is certainly different,” she says, adding a bit later, “That being said I don’t want to question the idea that there’s some kind of connection between us all. We are all speaking to each other in some way shape or form, whether it be literally or through our films.”

Although it’s tempting to note aesthetic similarities in the films solely based on the constraints of lo-fi, low-budget digital technology and the external influence of cinematic mediums such as documentary and experimental filmmaking, the likenesses are borrowed superficialities in the scope of what this group of filmmakers are at heart speaking out about. Ultimately, the similarities have as much—if not more—to do with ideas about compelling storytelling.

“In terms of narrative content, I see plot being there, but it’s very minimalist, and I see subplot in relationships coming to play and filling out 80 to 90 percent of the story. That’s a common thread. Not only that but I think the narrative concerns are the problems of real people,” Duplass says. “Mark and I are starting to call it in our pitches--so that we can explain it to studios—epically small drama; the epic smallness of things in that the greatest conflict and climatic events that occur in these movies are typical things that any of us would normally encounter in a given year or two of our lives.”

As such, in working with film collaborator and fiancé Swanberg on their debut feature Kissing on the Mouth, filmmaker Kris Williams pulled experience directly from her early twenties concerns and ideals, consequently helping to render on screen an honest glimpse into four lives, all of which communicated necessary messages about human relationships. In doing this, however, the film also disrupted the quiet complacence of the audience’s perception of daily life, particularly with regards to the perceptions of sexual interaction and human vulnerability.

“There was a critic in Austin who gave us a really terrible review of Kissing on the Mouth. He thought we were doing (the film) for shock value, and I remember he called it ‘masturbatory in more ways than one,’ referring to Joe’s masturbation scene,” Williams recalls. “I saw him at a party at South by (Southwest), and I went to talk to him about it. Turned out that what he was most upset about was that we showed a girl trimming her pubic hair…He was saying, “Why would you put this in a movie? Why would anyone want to see this?” And, I was feeling brave at the time—I think I had a few drinks in me---and there was the girl standing next to him that he was with, and I asked her, “Do you trim your pubic hair?” She said, “Yeah.” And, I said, “Have you ever seen it in a movie?” And, she said, “No.” And, I turned to him, and I said, ‘That’s why.’”

The naturalism of storyline that springs from chronicling splices of life works as one critical staple of Swanberg and Williams’ collaborative work from Kissing on the Mouth to the web episodes Young American Bodies. Combined with a love for anthropology, the cinematic naturalism also serves as the driving force of Williams’ need to make films. “I’m growing more and more uninterested in films that aren’t incredibly personal and aren’t incredibly natural. Films that seem scripted or fantastical, I’ve almost no interest in seeing. I’m only happy when I watch a movie that seems like a documentary,” she says.

For Ry-Russo Young, the process of digging out themes and characters runs a somewhat internally subterranean course. “Let’s say there are all these threads inside my body and they are all different colors, a blue, a black and a red thread,” she explains, “And, it’s taking maybe the purple thread and pulling it out—sorry for the long analogy—and then taking the purple thread, and having all the wax from the outside coat the thread, deal with the thread and having the thread interact with the rest of the world. Then putting the thread back through some sort of spindle and having that be sort of how the movie’s made. I have to have some kind of personal investment and want to communicate something inside in order to care about the movie and want to spend that much time on it. What’s exciting for me is when that personal thing, that thread—and it’s only a thread—begins to interact with the whole world.”

As these interactions increase, as exchanges and connections with audiences multiply via the often rough roads of festival circuits, independent and online distribution, the desire to create film, despite the knowledge of its difficulty, against all odds remains, notes Todd Rohal, director of The Guatemalan Handshake.

“For me, you just get these pictures in your head, these ideas, and you want to see them happen, and once you are able to see that that actually works and you can do that—you can see something in your head one day and you work for two years and it actually becomes 90 minutes of this reality that’s then projected all over the world in all different places—that’s kind of a thrill, and you keep having that drive to see that again and again,” he says. “Like any art that should work or works for people, for the artist and the audience, it’s making new discoveries, new pictures and new images. To me that’s what (film’s) about, and that’s why I want to do it.”

Discovery is one large part of the underlying importance of this group’s films, and it’s the hope of connection with an audience that makes up the other part. All the while pulling on specifics to communicate universal messages, the films often craft poignant dialogue with nuance, subtext and at times silence.

“I like to communicate those things about humanity that aren’t easily communicated, these things that we all share that are really difficult to see in everyday life,” Russo-Young says. “I’m always amazed at how much of any unspoken language there is between people. We all interact and talk to each other and do the same things and have codes of behavior, but there’s so much behind those codes, and there’s so much deep, personal need and love and hope and fighting within each person. We’re all going through it, but it’s really hard to talk about and open up with each other…Even with your close friends, it’s hard to get to that alternate level of human vulnerability and consciousness. In a way, in movies, I’m trying to crack that and share that with the audience—like I’m trying to open a big nut, and take a bite of the pecan. It’s somewhere they all want to go, and they want to discuss it, or look at it in themselves or with each other, and that’s something you can’t always do in life. I have a hard time doing in life, but when you’re talking about a film, you make this other life that expresses those things that people can relate to, and hopefully benefit from.”

As with all the positive connection, however, there’s still a catch, some inkling trouble in the mind’s back room that indicates that success in human or commercial connection—however strong in its bonds—is not always enough. It’s self-development too as both a filmmaker and an adult that allows for the environment of creativity and ultimately contentment.

“When The Puffy Chair got into Sundance, I honestly thought that everything in life was going to be better. I was really happy for about month or two, and then it was on to the next thing,” Duplass says. “I realized that, and I know everyone says it…achieving success doesn’t make you happy. I actually got really depressed afterwards because I realized that no amount of success was going to “make me happy.” I used to sublimate all of my desires and all of my needs to keep making movies, and just to keep this thing going forward because I wanted it so bad. Basically I realized that no matter where you are in life, everyday you need to wake up and figure out how to be happy, to be inspired, to laugh and have fun. That doesn’t get fixed at any point in time…So, now I have to be responsible for my own happiness, which is the primary achievement of adulthood.”

As the group of filmmakers progress in their individual styles while still maintaining their collaborative ambitions, the work too is bound to evolve, to intermix the studio with the seamlessly independent, to take a note from the John Sayles school of filmmaking and permit for both financial stability and creative independence.

“I have two desires right now: one is to have health insurance and make a living, and the other is to keep making movies that I really care about,” Duplass adds, half-laughing.

Yet, just as reality settles in, so does that nascent excitement, the laughter under the intellectualism, the inherent order beneath the improvisation, the sense of pieces falling into place, of ties binding to form a cohesive and supportive whole.

“What’s really great and unique about this generation, or this supposed movement, is how cool everyone is. Everyone is so friendly and we’re so laid back. Everyone is just about making the films, and I don’t know anyone in this group of filmmakers who’s unwelcoming or unfriendly or uninterested in people and having fun,” Williams says. “No one’s selfishly trying to make anything out of themselves or trying to step on top of the other guy. It’s such a great group and I think everyone’s going to continue to work together. Joe and I are getting married this summer, and Aaron’s coming to the wedding and so is Ry, and Kent is one of Joe’s groomsmen. It’s not always focused on filmmaking, and it’s a really great community to be a part of.”

With growth too evolves the ability to push boundaries and develop aesthetic without falling prey to cliché and codependence. “Everybody’s moving forward and has a good sense of not repeating too much. I’d start to lose interest if I was watching the same film done a bunch of times,” Rohal says. “ As long as the creativity continues, there are still a lot of doors to be opened and looked at, a lot of new places to try things.”

As Orphans tours the film festival circuit from the Sarasota to Nashville film festivals, Ry Russo-Young works on pre-production for her second as yet untitled feature film. She's promised to keep SM updated on her progress.

Working as a high school teacher during the day, Kris Williams recently completed a documentary short series for Nerve.com entitled Boys and Girls.

Currently pouring through several different projects, Todd Rohal plans to settle on his next film within the coming month.

Out in the Los Angeles studio system, Jay Duplass juggles his small films with his studio films. Keep an eye out for the brothers' next feature Baghead.