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Squeeze is the story of three teenage truants growing up in the Dorchester ’hood. There’s no glamour in pumping gas and washing car windows, so when a menacing carload of gun-waving gangbangers spits at and heckles them, they retaliate by ambushing one of the ’bangers and robbing him for cash and crack. This, of course, incites an argument that causes the kids to fear for their lives. Hoping for protection on the streets, they offer to be the middlemen for a pimped-out drug baron while also joining a community youth group run by a leader who’s respected on the streets. The movie realistically juxtaposes adolescence with the maturity needed to survive on the streets: the 14-year-olds awkwardly learn to sell drugs and barter with crackheads, yet they still haven’t figured out how to talk to girls.

"That movie was made as a response to Menace II Society," explains Patton-Spruill. "Back then, I was teaching acting to those kids at the youth center, and they all skipped school one day and watched [Menace II Society] four times in a row. And they were so cracked out on it that I was like, ‘That’s not what it’s like.’ Reality is, [kids like that] sit around and they don’t do shit. They sit around, they eat cereal. And then, every now and again, they do a drug deal. And the rest of the time, they’re hungry. And I wanted to make a movie, a movie that made human archetypes out of people who are typically animalized."

Squeeze’s strength is its rawness. The New York Times said it was "film-school moviemaking," but an "A+ project." In 1997, Miramax bought the movie. In 1998, its three lead actors were nominated for best debut performance at the Independent Spirit Awards. Patton-Spruill landed a contract with the William Morris Agency and signed with Miramax to direct another film.

But after paying off all his debts from Squeeze, he was broke. So his agent found him Body Count, a lucrative gig directing an A-list cast. For most young filmmakers, the job would’ve been orgiastic bliss, a professional apex. For Patton-Spruill, Body Count was a career nadir. Unabashedly derivative of Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs, Body Count is a clichéd crime drama about a botched $15 million art heist that relies on clumsy flashbacks and lots of swearing. One of the nicer reviews, from the Onion’s AV Club, called Body Count an "unmitigated disaster."

So does Patton-Spruill. "Body Count was one big disaster after another," he says, shaking his head. "I was completely unprepared for working within the Hollywood system. I was 25 years old. Youngest person on set. Wasn’t prepared for the intensity of what that really meant." And that’s about all he’ll say. "I don’t really want to get into it. It was a real disaster. Everyday was a disaster, and another disaster, until the disasters were over and we all went home."

But Robert Patton-Spruill doesn’t believe he’s a one-hit wonder. "Maybe I was lucky before," he says. But he doesn’t think so. "I knew exactly what I was doing [with Squeeze].... Squeeze is like a Truffaut movie, The 400 Blows. It’s the same thing. It’s just set in the ’hood with different-looking kids." Body Count, conversely, was not so inspired. "That was a job. That was a way to make a living."

After Body Count, when Patton-Spruill and Moreno returned from the West Coast ("I hate LA," he told the Boston Globe in 1997), they bought an abandoned ambulance building on the corner of King and Roxbury Streets and spent a year fixing it up. FilmShack opened in March 2000. Since then, the company has played a major role in four short films, three features, and a couple of music videos, including Public Enemy’s "Gotta Give the Peeps What They Need" — a Patton-Spruill-directed video that was banned from MTV because it included the phrase "Free Mumia."

"What he’s providing with equipment and facility is an option to the independent filmmaker to get equipment and crew," explains Timothy van Patten, of Central Booking, an agency that refers local film-crew workers to incoming productions. In Boston, there are only two motion-picture equipment-rental companies other than FilmShack: Boston Camera Rental for film equipment, and High Output for lighting. "I’ve heard [Boston Camera Rental and High Output] quote these incredibly low rates to students and to independent filmmakers, and they just can’t afford it," says van Patten. "So Rob is providing that alternative."

With a mission to "empower independents with the tools to create," FilmShack charges on a sliding scale and negotiates cheap deals with cash-strapped filmmakers. And since the facility stocks gear for all facets of the creative process, indie directors and students don’t have to rent what they need from multiple businesses and locations.

In a place like Boston, Patton-Spruill’s presence is a welcome one. The city’s film industry has steadily declined over the past decade, mostly due to rising costs, competition from Canada, and a reputation for iron-fisted local unions. Even Fever Pitch, the Farrelly brothers’ American remake of the best-selling Nick Hornby novel, in which lead Jimmy Fallon plays an obsessive Red Sox fan, will be shooting at Fenway Park for only one week, in September. Boston was too expensive, so the majority of the production went to Canada.

"We should all be grateful to [Patton-Spruill] for making movies that mean something to the community," says veteran Boston rapper Ed OG, who has a cameo in Turntable. "And keeping his work here ... as opposed to taking all that money and living in LA or New York or somewhere else."

And FilmShack provides opportunities for aspiring auteurs who otherwise wouldn’t have them. "Robert, being an African-American, brings in a lot of people of various races," says van Patten, "compared to the mainstream film community in Boston, which is dominated by white men. It’s nice to see that Rob opens the door to everybody."