Lessons From Failure Of Burning Barn Productions Unlock Success Rules That Drive You Forward (Part I)

The sun shone brightly in this opening still from 1973’s surprise hit Operation Sandtrap

Admit it. You’ve never heard of Burning Barn Productions—and frankly, why would you? It never made the Oscars. Heck, it never even made VHS. But its epic failure holds the keys to your next big win—because sometimes the lessons hidden in our disasters burn brighter than our successes ever could.

More likely, you looked at the title and instantly thought, “What is Burning Barn Productions?” You couldn’t care less about it failing—companies fail all the time—you just wanted to know if it produced movies or television shows. You were curious if you’d ever seen one of their productions.

Chances are, and I can almost guarantee this, you never saw either of the two movies that made it out of the production room. Yes, they were shown to live audiences, but if you’re reading this, you likely weren’t among them.

So, if you never heard of it, how could you learn anything from it?

Well, the answer to that question lies in the third movie. That’s the one that never made it to film, let alone audiences. It was a catastrophic failure, but not in a Hollywood sense. And that’s why the lessons unlock success rules that can propel you to the next level.

It’s not that Burning Barn Productions didn’t accomplish any of its goals. It did. Those positive experiences carry their own set of rules, and you can learn from those, too. Moreso, if you apply those rules correctly, you will increase your own chances for success.

These lessons from success represent things you should encourage yourself to do. Maybe they’re not quite common sense, but they’re not that uncommon. When many of you read them, you’ll say to yourself, “That’s obvious.”

OK, maybe only a few of you will say that. The point is the impact of those rules pales in comparison with the rules spawned from the lessons learned as a result of the failure of Burning Barn Productions.

Are you ready? Have I piqued your curiosity enough to want to learn these universal rules for success? Or would you like to see examples that demonstrate the validity of these rules in other real-life situations? (Let’s see if I have enough room to include those as well.)

Let’s begin by answering your first question. The answer to “What is Burning Barn Productions?” is, “It doesn’t matter.” Although Burning Barn Productions was an actual entity, its purpose here serves more as a metaphor for any business, organization, or activity you engage in. That’s why the rules are universal. They can be applied anywhere.

Burning Barn Productions started as a kid’s club filmmaking experiment, but it quickly became a metaphor for any grand idea you might have. Like us, your best lessons probably came not from winning—but from going down in flames.

Here’s the odd thing. The folks behind “Burning Barn Productions” didn’t even come up with the name until just after their second movie was filmed. They chose that name because both movies featured a burning barn.

Remember, they were riding high on success. Coming up with a name behind these independent films made those movies seem more credible. Funny how a name can trick you into thinking you’re invincible—until the barn’s ashes say otherwise. It’s that confidence, though initially justifiable, that led them into the disaster that became the third movie.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s start at the very beginning. This is the part of the story where less serious readers will bail. Congratulations to those stalwart enough to make it to the end for the sweet surprise. (A word to those who skip ahead, you won’t see the surprise if you don’t read the set-up that begins here.)

Burning Barn Productions stands as a subset of a much larger story. Although the larger story has its own merits, I’ll get right to the part where Burning Barn Productions begins (even though that name wasn’t used until a year later).

(You got me. I lied. I’ll meander a bit first. But if you’ve read me before, you knew that was coming.)

Dortmund Circle, a quiet cul-de-sac off Chili Avenue where childhood dreams could be had with ease, sported newly built homes for suburban families in the early 1970s. The neighborhood kids created a club they called “The Treehouse Club.” The father of one of the boys wanted his only child to benefit from having friends his age. Fortunately, the subdivision had plenty of prospects. To help his son make friends, the father built a treehouse in the backyard. Only it wasn’t built in a tree (apparently, trees were optional when it came to treehouses). Instead, he built a whitewashed plywood shack on solid stilts. He covered it with a tin roof that echoed with the crash of each heavy raindrop that torpedoed down from the dark summer skies.

To get to the “treehouse,” he added a ladder that could be pulled up and down via a rope and pulley. That made the airborne retreat more exclusive. If you weren’t in the club, the ladder wouldn’t be lowered. All the neighborhood boys were in the Treehouse Club. The ladder was raised to keep kids from other neighborhoods out.

It was in this unlikely plywood fortress that we stumbled into our first lessons on persuasion, planning, and (yes) pyrotechnics.

Time, that generous host, gave us endless afternoons—until it didn’t. We spent a lot of time playing in the treehouse. That made the father (and mother) very happy. The dad would come out and talk to us. He was a World War Two veteran. He served in a tank. His stories about surviving a missile strike fascinated us. His real lesson—though none of us, including himself, saw it at the time—was how quiet strength endures, even after the storyteller leaves the stage. In the meantime, he got a kick out of showing us his missing fingers. A missile once hit his tank. Fortunately, it didn’t explode. It came in one end and went out the other, taking the two fingers with it.

The Treehouse Club hosted carnivals for the neighborhood kids. There would be games, food, and a live “cowboy” show patterned after the kind they used to have at Fantasy Island, an amusement park located just outside Buffalo. You can guess who came up with that idea.

We also showed movies. We’d borrow them from the library. It was a time when libraries were treasure troves of clattering reels. Before the streaming world turned them into hollow ghosts. We charged carnival-goers a whole nickel to enter the walk-out basement, where we set up a makeshift movie theater. We thought it was a great idea. Until the dad told us to read the fine print on the movie reel. It said, “Not for commercial use.”

We thought nothing of it. After all, we didn’t show any commercials with the movies. “No commercial, no problem,” I boasted confidently to him. “Son,” he sighed back like only a father could, “that’s not what it means.”

Uh-oh. Visions of FBI agents raiding our nickel empire flashed before my eyes. Even without the feds, losing the movies would take away perhaps our most popular—and lucrative—attraction. I had to think fast.

“What if we made our own movie?” I immediately asked.

And so began Burning Barn Productions.

The other boys—we were tweens and early teens at the time—thought the idea too ambitious. Luckily, I had my brother as a wingman. He was always there to support my ideas, even into adulthood. We were the only brothers in the Treehouse Club. That proved convenient during any brainstorming sessions, as it gave us two voices instead of only one.

Although we didn’t always agree, we usually did. After all, what’s the most important lesson from The Godfather: “Never let someone outside the family know what you’re thinking.” We aired most of our disagreements in the privacy of our home.

And that was the first rule from our success years.

Success Rule 1: The Wingman Principle—To convince a group, you first need to convince one other person.

That rule got us started. The next ones—well, they took us places we never imagined. Some led to victory. One led straight to disaster. But every one of them taught us something that still applies today.

Alas, we’re out of space. We’ll have to save those for next week when the barn burns—and with it, a lesson Hollywood never taught us.

Next Week: “Lessons From Failure Of Burning Barn Productions Unlock Success Rules That Drive You Forward (Part II)”