From September 28-October 4, I attended the 54th Nashville Film Festival as a member of the press, representing Screen Cares, a podcast that highlights the connective power of film. It was my first time attending a film festival in this capacity, though I’ve attended dozens as a film-obsessed guest. Recently, I attended the 2023 Sundance Film Festival, and couldn’t have been more excited to share my experience with those in my circle. It was a bucket list experience, and didn’t disappoint. An acquaintance, who has attended many red-carpet events and awards shows, was less than enthused. She scoffed, “Film festivals are just excuses for people to have parties and pat themselves on the back.” It was exactly then that I realized that the importance (and joy) found in attending film festivals might be lost on those who haven’t yet had an opportunity to attend.
My acquaintance’s words lingered and turned in my mind. In our new role of “Media,” I briefly wondered if the Screen Cares team was about to become complicit in furthering an atmosphere of empty accolades more than one that celebrates the ideas of process, collaboration and value. But, we had screenings to see, red carpets to visit, audience members to talk to and filmmakers to interview. After we left the last screening, I reflected upon my experiences both the Nashville Film Festival and those I’ve attended around the country. And it is clear that what I’ve always suspected to be true is abundantly so: film festivals matter.
And it is clear that what I’ve always suspected to be true is abundantly so: film festivals matter.
As a teen, I waited to see the films that had my version of a seal of approval, those banners of “Palme d’Or Winner,” and “Official Sundance Film Festival Selection,” because interesting films, independent films, outsider films, scrapper films were my favorite. Yet, even then, I didn’t truly understand the value of the film festival itself, other than to indicate to viewers like me that a particular film might offer something special and different. My first film festival experience was working at the Sarasota Film Festival in the late 1990’s. The festival offered screenings at the large movie theater where I was a teenaged employee, self-important with my uniform and smug love of movies.
The theater manager put me in charge of supervising and placing the usher team, and gave me a basic coordination plan that detailed the specific requirements and expectations of the film festival. We readied the theaters accordingly, put up stanchions and barriers, blocking off seats for VIPs, placing the most experienced staff at the festival theaters while we waited for the guests. The typical theater guest cadence included quick concession visits, hurried bathroom stops and as this was before the age of online ticket purchases with pre-selected seats, rushed steps to get to a favorite seat in the theater, then after the movie concluded, an efficient exit to the parking lot.
This wasn’t the pace of the Sarasota Film Festival. The festival guests didn’t race to grab their snacks and seats but instead, lingered in the hallways, networking and laughing. They didn’t huddle with the group they came with, but sparked interesting conversations with the strangers around them. I loved how the normally dim atmosphere of the theater became alight with social energy. My fellow coworkers and I couldn’t believe it when we saw actors, directors, screenwriters and producers talking with festival attendees who were just as non-celebrity as we were. An A-list actress even chatted with me about how we both felt that asking people what their favorite movie is represented an impossible and unfair question. (Her favorite at the time was Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting, and mine was Lars von Trier’s Breaking the Waves.)
I was hooked on the democratizing nature of film festivals, where titles aren’t barriers to conversations.
I was hooked on the democratizing nature of film festivals, where titles aren’t barriers to conversations. After that experience and through my adulthood, I started attending film festivals as a paid guest, and when I couldn’t afford to attend, as a volunteer. While each festival offers a difference in focus, quality, attendance, organization, and culture, the general purpose is the same: to share, screen, celebrate and market films and their makers, provide opportunities for networking and education, and in some cases, to make the case for purchase and distribution. My very favorite side effect of film festivals is that the general format creates an environment in which everyone in attendance is welcome to talk to each other about movies. Most attendees are either involved in the filmmaking industry, or are fellow film nerds/fans/buffs like me. This always lends itself to conversations where I almost always learn new things about the world of film.
Generally, everyone wears badges that announces their relationship to the film with words like “Writer,” “Industry,” “Filmmaker,” “Guest,” etc. Instead of serving as hierarchical labels, they provide starting places for conversations between attendees. While waiting for screenings or panels, you’ll notice strangers eyeing each other’s badges. Then, they’ll introduce themselves by saying something like, “What are you writing about?” or “I loved your short film. Why did you choose to shoot in black and white?” or “That last screening was so intense! What did you think about it?” These aren’t the shallow questions of cocktail parties but the type of inquiries that start conversations, and in some cases, collaborations.
Film is meant to be seen, listened to, the vibrations felt, and emotions unlocked.
The 54th Nashville Film Festival was no exception to the fun film festival rule: it was well-programmed and highlighted diverse stories, encouraged a dialogue between the filmmakers and audience members, and channeled the power of an already creative-leaning community in service of the love of film. Hearing the conversations about the joys of music in film, the power and influence of the documentary and more reinforced my idea that film festivals are not just fun, but they are vital. As with art in any medium, the product isn’t all that matters. The accolades, while important, aren’t the sole focus. Film is meant to be seen, listened to, the vibrations felt, and emotions unlocked. It’s meant to be discussed, analyzed and considered.
It feels a bit like that old tree falling in the forest adage. Without the audience bearing witness to the artform, does an unseen film exist? Film festivals, like the Nashville Film Festival, gave audiences the gift of getting to see the work of filmmakers whose work may not ever become available on a wider release. In some ways, they capitalize on the perception of the lighting rod luck that allows some filmmakers’ work to become purchased and distributed widely, but prevents others works from being seen by audiences outside of the festival circuit. Any true movie buff can be afflicted by FOMO; it’s tragic to imagine missing the next Guillermo del Toro, Ryan Coogler, Wes Anderson, Ava DuVernay, or Alejandro Gonzalez Iñárritu, or Joel and Ethan Coen. And conversely, it’s exciting to see a special film at festival screenings months or even years before the general public becomes aware of its existence.
One attendee told me, “I like film festivals because I remember that directors and writers and actors aren’t just little bots, but that they are human.”
Getting to experience a film in a community setting is like seeing a live concert; the audience is present in both body and intention. It’s an experience that can’t be replicated in a home theater, no matter how big your screen, because it’s the audience that propels the emotional highs and lows. And it’s not over when the credits roll. My Screen Cares co-host and I talked with audience members both before and after screenings, and every single person we approached was eager to chat with us about their movie-related experiences. The opinions were strong and the conversations were so fun. Strangers easily shared personal experiences and stories with us. One attendee told me, “I like film festivals because I remember that directors and writers and actors aren’t just little bots, but that they are human.”
I thought about their comment when I got to speak with Henry Nelson, the writer-director of Asleep in My Palm on the red carpet. Getting to talk with a writer and director is exciting, but talking with Henry as a person allowed a sneak peek into the value of understanding the creative process, and also how incredibly vulnerable it must be to unveil your work to a public audience. He shared about the ways in which composing music and writing and directing a film is both similar and dissimilar, and then offered his candid thoughts about how it feels to finally see his creation on screen. Instead of filing Henry Nelson away in the singular and towered category of “Writer and Director,” the film festival experience allowed me to see him in an authentic moment of humanity and complexity.
Films, reduced to their base ingredients, are simply stories. And stories come from people, and are best when shared among people.
This felt like another integral part of the film festival experience. Films, reduced to their base ingredients, are simply stories. And stories come from people, and are best when shared among people. Film festivals remind us that creators are human, no matter the number of credits or awards, and the way they craft and present stories for an audience both matters and impacts the result. Removing the artifice of celebrity culture and titles allows the stories in film to shine with searing impact. Henry Nelson’s Asleep in My Palm is a moving, and interesting film on its own, one that sits with you and blisters, long after the credits roll. But seeing the result of a person’s work, machinations, and creativity is special. Talking about the work with the person or people who created it is a gifted experience of its own. And then, talking about that film with the special few who’ve also attended the festival screening is the cherry on the cinematic top.
So, there you have it. Film festivals just simply aren’t snobby parties filled with fancy people. There are fancy people who attend, and probably some snobby parties I didn’t get an invite to. But the celebration also won't be in attendance at those parties. It’s in the shared human experience of screening a new movie with a crowd of other excited audience members, of brainstorming in a hallway about camera angles, a teenage kid getting to talk to a famous actress, and mostly, being open to stories you might never have been told before. My low-budget advice? Buy one screening ticket for the next film festival that you can get to. You don’t need to travel to Park City, or Toronto. There are wonderful film festivals all over the country, in all sizes and varieties. As you wait in line, pocket your phone and notice the stories around you. Then, engage in the story by asking questions, listening to the answers and imagine the kind of community-building that could be accomplished if we approached more situations with respect, interest, curiosity and openness.
