LAKE TAHOE, Calif. (Oct 28, 2024) — When it comes to capturing the thrill of winter, Warren Miller isn’t just a name; he’s the face of the skiing world’s soul. For over seven decades, Miller told stories of mountains, snow, and adventure with a camera in hand, taking audiences from the chairlifts of Aspen to the untracked powder of Alaska, all while finding humor in the high stakes of the slopes. Miller’s films have a special knack for turning snowy vistas into personal invitations. They showcase ordinary folks alongside legendary athletes, turning every run, every leap, every tumble, into something that feels possible — something personal.
Starting in 1949, Miller’s first film, Deep and Light, was born out of modest means. He filmed it with a borrowed camera and a ski-bum’s budget, screening it for friends on the side of his old station wagon. But he saw something in skiing that few had before — a universal sense of joy, camaraderie, and, frankly, a little mischief. His films became a mirror for every skier and snowboarder: they weren’t just about athletes; they were about the possibility of adventure in every snowfall.
Miller’s distinct sense of humor made him more than a documentarian; he was a storyteller. He narrated many of his films himself, sprinkling in jokes that became as much a trademark as the thrilling jumps and powder-filled glades. He built a rapport with viewers that few filmmakers could match, making each viewer feel like they, too, could tackle that double black diamond.
Perhaps Miller’s greatest legacy is that he sparked a tradition. His annual film releases became the unofficial start of winter, a ritual that marked the season’s first powder with cinematic thrill. Every year, viewers filled theaters to get “stoked,” a term Miller himself helped make mainstream, watching others conquer mountains, break records, and make mistakes with the kind of joy only a skier understands.
With the upcoming release of 75, Warren Miller Entertainment is celebrating not just Miller’s films but the spirit of winter itself, as he would have wanted. If Warren Miller was the greatest “ski guy,” it’s because he believed that skiing wasn’t just a sport; it was a story worth telling, one epic run at a time.
As winter approaches, the 75th anniversary of the Warren Miller film legacy marks a historic milestone in snowsports filmmaking. First debuting in 1949, Warren Miller’s films ignited a visual celebration of skiing and snowboarding, elevating the cultural spirit of winter sports. Each year, the release of a new film has grown into a seasonal tradition, drawing snowsports enthusiasts together to revel in the thrill of the season. This fall, “75” — the latest addition to this legacy — promises an innovative twist on the stories and faces that define the next era of winter.
Building on last year’s retrospective film ALL TIME, 75 aims to push the boundary of what winter sports filmmaking can deliver, blending new perspectives and highlighting emerging athletes. The production features footage from renowned contributors, including the iconic X Games host Selema Masekela, Finland’s Real SkiFi team, Sherpas Cinema, and others. As producer Josh Haskins shared, 75 showcases “a diverse mix of snowsports icons, Olympic hopefuls, and emerging talents,” highlighting the next generation of riders and storytellers who are shaping the future of the sport.
The 75 film tour kicks off with a world premiere at Boulder Theater on October 15, coinciding with what would have been Warren Miller’s 100th birthday. The celebration promises a unique street festival and screening, setting the tone for the nearly 100-city North American tour that will extend through the winter season.
Audiences can expect a 90-minute film packed with action from pristine powder spots and unexpected snow havens, including locations in Canada, Japan, Finland, Austria, and even New Jersey. This year’s talent lineup boasts Olympic stars and breakout names like snowboarders Shaun White and Zeb Powell, and rising stars like 15-year-old LJ Henriquez, alongside accomplished skiers Lexi duPont and Max Hitzig.
Warren Miller’s 75 offers a blend of storytelling and high-intensity action that’s evolved with the times while staying true to the filmmaker’s original vision of inspiring winter sports fans worldwide. As the tour prepares to make its way to audiences, the El Dorado County community can anticipate an exhilarating reminder of why the season’s first snowfall always holds a certain magic.
Local tour dates include:
Palisades Tahoe, Olympic Village Event Center, November 1
South Lake Tahoe, Bailey’s Lake Tahoe, November 3
For more information about the tour, including the tour schedule, visit warrenmiller.com
How I Got (Painfully) Filmed by Warren Miller
Let me tell you about the day I almost became a Warren Miller legend. It all started back in the ‘80s when I was cutting my teeth—quite literally, as it turns out—on my big sister’s hand-me-down skis and boots. I was your classic college ski bum, living out my California dreams at Cal Poly Pomona, where I joined the ski club, affectionately named the “Powder Blasters.” Now, this was peak ‘80s, so the vibe was neon, the music was loud, and the ski trips were epic. We packed a charter bus each year and hit the slopes of Utah and Colorado, blissfully unaware of the minor detail that a Utah Black Diamond could make a California Black Diamond look like a bunny slope.
After a few “learning experiences” (read: wipeouts) on those treacherous Utah slopes, I relocated to Lake Arrowhead, which I figured was close enough to feel like home in Tahoe. I landed a gig as a Lifty at Snow Valley, getting assigned to the top of the mountain—“Backside.” My job was to keep things running smoothly, but let’s be honest, it was mostly an excuse to show off a bit on the way down for my lunch breaks.
Then came the day. Word buzzed up the lift lines that Warren Miller himself was on the mountain, filming not far from where I was stationed. This was it—my shot at stardom. I radioed down, took an early break, and grabbed my skis, ready to hit the snow and catch Warren’s eye.
For my grand debut, I scoped out a sweet little bowl with berms that I figured would look incredible on film. I launched off a berm, full speed, feeling like a hero—until my ski caught an edge. I came down with the grace of a bag of bricks, slammed my face into my knee, and felt a snap. I had hit so hard that my teeth sliced right through my prized ski pants, I cracked a tooth, and I broke my nose. Let’s just say I gave the crew a show, but not the kind I’d planned on.
After a quick visit to the medical hut, I limped back to my station and concocted a heroic story about a kid cutting me off, forcing me to swerve to avoid a disaster. The truth, though? I caught an edge, plain and simple. And as I quickly learned, Workers’ Comp didn’t cover “freestyle disasters” on lunch breaks.
So there I was—minus a tooth, a pair of ski pants, and a little dignity—but I’d wiped out in front of Warren Miller’s crew, and that, my friends, was priceless.
