Mission Possible

By Nicole Gluckstern

It’s a buzzy October evening at ATA (Artists’ Television Access in the Mission District of San Francisco. The venue’s mismatched pews and folding chairs are filled to capacity, and an eager crowd of cinephiles mingle in the cramped aisle. We’ve all come out to see a screening of works by the legendary Mike Kuchar and his equally accomplished friend and one-time protege, Marie Losier. Co-produced by the Villa Albertine, a stateside project of the French Ministry of Culture where Losier is in residency, working on a documentary of local performance collective, The Residents. The major draw is the opportunity to see a filmic and personal conversation between the two makers. Also, free pizza.

While ATA has been an established home for a broad spectrum of emerging and experimental filmmakers since 1984, the Mission District as a neighborhood contains such artistic multitudes that many neighborhood filmmakers have never presented there. Even though, like myself, they may be living and working just blocks away.

The arts are a visible and everyday occurrence in the Mission District.

Live music spills out almost daily from Radio Havana Social Club (a surrealist art installation doubling as a neighborhood sangria spot), the backyard of Queer community bar El Rio, and the basement of volunteer-run punk rock mainstay Thrillhouse Records. The artist-led MAPP (Mission Arts Performance Project)—offers a bimonthly choose-your-own adventure of free performances in non-traditional spaces such as the open-air El Jardín Secreto, private homes, and the back room of poet-owned bookstore Medicine for Nightmares. Former candidate for mayor, artist-activist Krissy Keefer, runs her radical dance studio above the storied “living room of the Mission,” Café La Boheme. Performing arts festivals frequently enliven the stages of the Brava Theater on 24^th Street and Project Artaud off of Mariposa. Unlike more insular neighborhoods with their single-family dwellings and dearth of late-night activities, processions, protests, and parades regularly fill the streets. 

Because no single artistic “scene,” style, or standard defines the Mission, an inclusive, multidisciplinary, multicultural fusion has developed over several generations. The uniting factors: a commitment to fostering genuine, personal connections among artists and audiences; generating hyperlocal artist-led opportunities supporting Mission District voices and visions, and a proud retention of artistic independence in the face of homogenizing forces. 

This independence is a driving force behind the work of several Mission District-based filmmakers. One is Kuchar, whose deep-underground experimental works span an astounding 70 years. Another is Maria Judice, whose films are reflective of her long Mission District roots and grounded in social justice and community-building. And a third is Naomi Garcia Pasmanick, a self-taught videographer and filmmaker who works to uplift her creative collaborators such as musical luminary La Doña, and her youth mentees at BAYCAT (Bayview Hunters Point Center for Arts & Technology).

Representing three generations of filmmaking, these three artists have carved out their own creative niches; each one embodying a neighborhood that embraces its original thinkers and gives them the space to manifest their own liberation.

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The Legend: Mike Kuchar

In a rent-controlled apartment complex with bay windows, in the geographic “heart” of the Mission, underground filmmaker and comic book artist Mike Kuchar lives alone in the apartment he once shared with his twin brother George (d. 2011). Although the exterior of the 100+ year-old whitewashed building is unassuming, a little rundown, typical of its immediate neighbors, the interior of Kuchar’s living space on the top floor is a glorious assemblage of sculptures, models, fossils, and prints. In one corner stands a human-sized statue of Egyptian deity Anubis; in another, a five-foot long triceratops model menacing a scattering of small animal skulls.

“I painted that one myself,” he mentions in passing. On the wall hangs a framed movie poster of Forbidden Planet next to a blown-up print from Gay Heart Throbs no. 3. illustrated by Kuchar. In juicy technicolor, it depicts a leather-clad macho holding a bouquet of daisies behind his back greeting a muscled blond leaning up against a tree, wearing the skimpiest possible interpretation of cutoffs. Despite their provocative gear their faces are tender, sweet, completely unguarded. Open to the possibilities of the moment.

This juxtaposition between erotic tension and guilessness is a recurring theme in much of Kuchar’s work. Known especially for cult film classic Sins of the Fleshapoids (1965) which explored the sexual escapades of an android-dominated future, Kuchar continues to wrestle today with the intricacies of desire in impressionistic short films featuring a rotating roster of regulars. 

In interviews about the Kuchar brothers, interviewees often default to offering up more anecdotes about George, the admittedly more outgoing and extroverted of the two. Even Mike steers our interview George-wards multiple times. It’s understandable considering their literal lifelong connection as twins, family, and filmmakers, but indicative of how George continues to dominate the discourse when it comes to their shared history.

“I’m shy,” Mike offers as an explanation, occasionally twisting himself pretzel-like in his chair, as if to escape scrutiny. His signature long white beard and tufts of dandelion hair fail to offer protection, but despite his discomfort with being in the spotlight himself, Kuchar’s dedication to putting others there spans seven decades. 

One person who does not immediately default to talking about George Kuchar when asked about Mike Kuchar is Losier, who has an intensely personal bond with the latter. After receiving a 16mm Bolex camera, as a gift, sought to learn how to use it at the Millennium Film Workshop in New York. Here, she first encountered Kuchar, “eating a gallon of ice cream” streaking his shaggy beard. 

“He looked like Moses,” she laughs delightedly, remembering the day. They immediately bonded and he showed her how to use the camera. Now known for her shimmering, artful documentaries of cult figures such as Throbbing Gristle front-person Genesis P-Orridge and lucha libre luminary Cassandro, Losier’s first film, Bird, Bath, & Beyond is a rare portrait of Mike Kuchar. In the playful 13-minute film, Kuchar flies through the air in what appears to be a Tyvek onesie with stegosaurus spikes protruding from his back. In another scene he sits facing the camera with puppet birds flying from his fingers. He narrates some of his favorite life moments including an oft-repeated memory of being born—and watching the arrival of his twin moments later. Not only does this film capture Kuchar’s essential sense of open wonder, but it affords him a rare moment in front of the camera. 

Beyond the mere mechanics of the Bolex camera, Kuchar also taught Losier an essential part of his filmmaking ethos which was simply to do it: To make movies with the resources at hand, rather than to expend precious creative energy on acquiring more. To cast, as J. Hoberman noted in a 2013 piece in Artforum, “exhibitionist friends and their friends in an atmosphere of friendly fooling around,” rather than B-list actors striving to move up a professional ladder. To upcycle common household furnishings such as “leopard-skin throws, bowls of wax fruit, fat candles, plaster busts, plastic goblets, giant urn-shaped planters,” into set pieces that invoke a mechanized future while embracing a mythically heroic past. To not bother overmuch with workshopped scripting but to direct the action while the camera was rolling.

“We wouldn’t have parties,” Kuchar reminisces to me in his living room. “When we’d get together (as friends) the idea was to make a movie.”

Among his acquaintances he mentions movie-makers such as Andy Warhol, and comic book artists such as R. Crumb. But his cinematic subjects tended to be drawn from a wider pool of students, neighbors, and fellow film obsessives. 

An apt pupil, Losier too concentrates her painstaking artistic process of shooting and editing together hours’ worth of 30-second segments on people she knows, calling them “love letters for people I meet…a friendship that became a film.”

In order to fund his artistic endeavors, Kuchar has worked variously as a projectionist, commercial artist, photo retoucher, film instructor, and cinematographer for other people’s projects, memorably for German documentarian Rosa Von Praunheim, but also for a mostly forgotten Lydia Lunch/Henry Rollins vehicle titled Kiss Napoleon Goodbye. Affordability runs throughout our conversation. Born to working-class parents who moved from Manhattan to the Bronx in the 1940s, the Kuchar brothers honed their drafting skills at a commercial art high school, and continued to share equipment and eventually apartments even after their filmmaking careers diverged. 

While they famously cut their teeth as teenagers on 8mm film, “graduating” to 16mm by the mid-sixties, the Kuchar Brothers are best known for using inexpensive home video equipment as tools for serious – and seriously unserious – filmmaking. Now in his eighties, Mike Kuchar still uses a camcorder and shoots on digital tape . 

“The equipment still works and I know how to use it,” he explains. “Film became too expensive to fund…for me you get the same effect (with digital video)…just technically it’s different handling, you put your hands on film physically, and video is pressing buttons…(but) once you get the camera, it’s very affordable.” 

For many years Mike split his time between East and West coasts, eventually becoming the primary caretaker of his elderly mother in the Bronx. When she passed, he moved permanently into the Mission District apartment his brother George had been living in since the ‘70s. Now home to Mike alone, traces of George’s extroverted personality remain in the form of a large, blown-up still of him that dominates one wall, and a portrait of his beloved dog Bocko that George painted in 1970 on another. In the portrait Bocko is belly up, splayed and sleeping, his large purple balls on prominent display: A study in unconstrained sensuality. 

While he shares his do-it-yourself/by-any-means-possible filmmaking ethos with his fellow Mission District artists, Kuchar says his internal landscape motivates him more than his immediate physical surroundings.

“To be honest I don’t pay attention to what’s outside,” he admits. “In my house I try to make my own environment, a kind of a sanctuary for me from the teeming crumbling metropolis. Where I can shut out the outside world and concentrate on my imagination and on my future projects, making pictures.”

While the 22-year-old mastermind of the chaotic and bawdy Sins of the Fleshapoids has been mostly relegated to film history, the Mike Kuchar of today injects his new works with long pauses, beautiful faces agonizing over internal monologues of unrequited love, swirls of psychedelic colors pulsing to instrumental music, and an overall mood that is part the melancholy of denouement and part the serenity of acceptance. Although such scenes have populated works as early as his fraught, closet-adjacent narrative The Secret Of Wendel Samson (1966), his age-related physical limitations have curtailed his abilities to work on more large-scale shoots. Rather than give up his craft, which sustains him, he makes do, shooting intimate one-on-one scenes in quiet alleyways, balconies, and inside his home. Remixing older clips into new releases. Adding in flourishes of color, light, music, and voiceover in post—all of which he does on his own, independent to the end. 

“I do pictures now that are different than what I did,” he reflects. “It was always in me and eventually would come out…These are self-made movies so they reflect the natural state, but the thing is to be truthful to those states.”

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The Visionary: Maria “M” Judice

For Maria “M” Judice, the Mission District is far more than the place her current apartment is located – it’s been a catalyst for her entire artistic oeuvre. Raised in the 1980s on 23^rd and Chattanooga by artistically inclined teenaged parents, Judice grew up feeling held by her multicultural, mostly poor and working-class community. She remembers a place where she could play outside on the streets all day every day and know that she would be safe, because her neighbors were watching out for her even if her parents were at work. She pays some homage to that place in her debut short film, Palm Trees Down 3rd St. (2008); a film that views encroaching gentrification and the displacement of Black families in San Francisco through the eyes of a youthful protagonist just trying to get through the day. 

After obtaining her M.F.A. in Film/Video at CalArts and spending time in LA’s ruthless film and television industry (including, for a brief time, as an Associate Producer for the Real World San Francisco Ex-plosion in 2013) Judice returned to San Francisco to concentrate on making films according to her own artistic point-of-view. Deeply rooted in the Mission District, she celebrates it as both an essential part of her personal history, and a nexus of creative inspiration and energy that continues to fuel her ambitions.

When we meet in December in front of her childhood home for a photo shoot, Judice overflows with anecdotes about her neighborhood, her extended family (“a shit-ton of cousins”), and her early access to books, music, and the best education Catholic School could provide. The street is quiet, one of those secret Mission oases that remain in a state of almost perpetual repose. It wasn’t always that way, Judice remembers, citing times of drive-bys and dead bodies, but she’s grateful for the relative calm of it now. Its incongruous tranquility, just a block away from the commercial corridor of 24^th Street. 

Judice herself is short in stature, but large in confidence. Her dreadlocked hair glimmers with metallic accent beads that subtly complement her stacked necklaces and retro-print jacket. She’s just wrapped up a huge holiday event at Chase Center with her day job, Code Tenderloin, and her satisfaction in its success is palpable. Ever the filmmaker, she helpfully suggests the most interesting angles for our shoot, the best lighting. She knows this Mission light well, as it infuses every frame of her self-produced feature Elephant (2022), a film she created within the walls of her old apartment on Folsom Street, with a shoestring budget and, she emphasizes, the grace of a “beloved community.”

In certain contexts the word community can feel like a buzzword stripped of substance–the default grant-speak descriptor of any loose affiliation of creatives. But Elephant is a testament to the generative power of an artistic circle of exceptional talents. In one scene, San Francisco Poet Laureate Tongo Eisen-Martin appears as an old flame offering impromptu guitar solos and a quietly introspective reading of his poem the course of meal. Code Tenderloin founder and comrade, Del Seymour, delivers a memorable cameo (and some plumbing advice) as the loquacious “Popop.” Tonya Amos—founder of Grown Women Dance Collective—delivers a stunning monologue as a no-nonsense mother figure, whose generationally-shaped beliefs in tough love, straight backs, and lipstick as armor struggle to reconcile with her daughter’s “woo woo” search for emotional healing. Each participant feels organic to the project, each cultivated to serve a specific purpose within a thriving ecosystem.

Inspired by and in some ways reenacting a period of Judice’s own struggles with depression, the film’s protagonist (played by and named after Judice) finds herself unable to leave her home after bearing witness to a police shooting in which a Black male victim died in her arms. Deeply devastated, she works through the trauma over the course of an entire year, assisted at times by her younger sister (portrayed by Judice’s real-life sister Reyce), a cohort of empathetic friends, and her mother, who crisply commands her to “keep it moving” before also reminding her that “finding joy is the biggest act for a revolution.”

Stylistically Elephant unfurls slowly, like a new leaf, shifting between silence to the everyday hum of human activity and meandering, transformative conversations about the multiverse, vegetarianism, destiny, and fear. Blank white walls become slowly obscured by a growing assortment of verdant plants in pots, marking both a passage of time and a period of growth. Hand-written recipes for herbal teas, line drawings of endangered elephants, meditation prompts, and a hundred horrifying headlines pulled from the internet take turns pulsing across the screen.

Despite never straying further than the apartment’s back deck, the film feels very much one that could only have been made in the Mission. Perhaps it’s the unique weight of the rain that falls on the deck as character-Maria struggles to cross her threshold to touch it. Perhaps it’s Judice herself, as actor and director both, and her obvious connection to the place she most feels at home. 

“If it weren’t for the Mission, I don’t think I would be able to do art in San Francisco,” she attests.

“I have a hard time with feeling support when it comes to the writers in San Francisco and San Francisco arts. But in the Mission as soon as I mention ‘I want to do something,’ it gets done and I find opportunities and I find people willing to help me. And I think there is that sense of the narrative of San Francisco, the radical spirit. That radical spirit…still lives in the Mission. And so people do things by hook or crook. You want to put something up? Let me talk to somebody and figure it out.”

One example of Judice’s Mission-inspired ethos of making things happen involves her concurrent role as an educator. Sometime around 2016, after a lackluster experience of teaching a couple of University classes, Judice decided to create an alternative instructional opportunity for herself. At the time she had a friend working at Adobe Books—a cooperatively-run bookstore on 24^th Street—who offered her space to conduct a masters-level cinema studies course she developed on her own. Now, eight years later, she estimates she’s taught variations on the course at least 15 times, including this past winter as a 6-week online intensive called “Screenwriting Rooted in Decolonization & Abstract Thinking.”

“I taught it all the way in North Carolina (at the School of the Alternative). I have taught it in university without their funky curriculum…Like, that’s a dream…I feel like the Mission really understands that because of those radical roots that that they lift up in the cultural practice, in the community practice, and in the art practice. We’re not just revering artists who are doing art, we’re revering artists that radically are looking at social, class, economics, gender, race, borders—and that’s being constantly part of the conversation.” 

Judice also draws from her work as an impact producer (or social-justice motivated film promoter) and producer for other people’s projects—including producing the daring Neptune Frost (2021), a queer, Afrofuturist-hacker-romance set in Burundi and filmed in Rwanda—to teach a periodic workshop she calls “fundraising your movement.” Not, she points out, because she believes that a movement only grows with money, but as long as money is a part of the equation, folks might as well learn how to optimize their strategies for acquiring it. But within that equation lies the component of knowing when to move forward anyway with what you have available to you, something she’s personally all too aware of as someone who must raise funds for her own filmmaking—and often go without.

She remarks freely on the irony of it: not securing most of the grant funding she’d originally envisioned for both Palm Trees and Elephant despite the fact that she helped raise millions for Neptune Frost. But at a certain point, Judice reflects, she let go of whatever expectations she’d had about how Elephant would “look,” and commit to finishing it on her own with the resources at hand. In all, it took five years to bring the film to completion, but Judice herself has had full agency over every frame.

Now touring her work on the film festival circuit, Judice feels especially pleased by the ways that the film has manifested as a mechanism of deeper engagement. Not only for her cast and crew, some of whom have accompanied her on tour, but also for her audiences—some of whom have never before attended a film festival.

“People were like ‘I don’t know what this film is…It’s so feeling, like you’re asking so much of your viewer to feel and participate in this film…And since we don’t have much of a film culture anymore in San Francisco there’s very little context for that…But I made the film and when they watched it they developed their context, (and) were able to really sit with that.”

This opportunity to invite an extended community in to the potential of film is a piece of the creation process that she’s particularly proud of. But above all, she’s grateful for the lessons she’s learned on her artistic path.

“I really tell my students (this),” she offers: ‘if you’re not transformed by your work, don’t expect anybody else to be transformed by it.’

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The New Generation: Naomi Garcia Pasmanick

Some of Naomi Garcia Pasmanick’s early memories involved being driven to Buena Vista Elementary School (now Bryant Elementary) at the edge of Potrero del Sol aka La Raza Park where she went to school and her parents both taught. A stronghold of bilingual education, Buena Vista attracted teachers with a radical bent, and a strong cohort of majority-Latinx students. Although Pasmanick’s childhood home was officially located in Glen Park, she grew up attending Buena Vista and forming foundational relationships in the Mission District that continue to sustain her today.

One of these was with childhood chum, Cecilia Cassandra Peña-Govea, known professionally as La Doña, with whom Pasmanick embarked on a musical journey that carries on to this day. While Peña-Govea played in her family’s music group La Familia Peña-Govea from a young age, she and Pasmanick also rehearsed every week in a youth Salsa ensemble—Futuro Picante—at the Mission Cultural Center. These rehearsals, Pasmanick recalls, were the “highlight” of her week, and she continued playing at the Mission Cultural Center even into her college years. While the group had plenty of official performances, what Pasmanick remembers most fondly was busking with her friends at the 24^th Street BART station. Now the saxophonist for La Doña’s rotating supergroup of local talent, Pasmanick relishes her ability to maintain two distinct artistic practices while connecting the two whenever possible.

In addition to her lifelong friendship and musical relationship with Peña-Govea, Pasmanick has also been La Doña’s primary video director. One of their earliest videos—the title track from Peña-Govea’s 2020 EP Algo Nuevo—unfolds like a love letter to a distinctive Mission swagger—partly flirtatious and partly ferocious. Combining traditional horns with a beguiling electronic beat and Spanish-English hip-hop, the song and video combined reveal a vibrant Mission District aesthetic that cannot be ignored. In one scene, La Doña toys coquettishly with her lush dark waves of hair, peeking over her shoulder like a vintage pinup. In another she poses with a machete in front of a classic lowrider car, as her companions flank her playfully with nun-chucks, a crowbar, a blunt. Pasmanick herself makes a brief cameo in the video, twerking cheerfully in front of a chain-link fence. A pair of large sunglasses partly obscure her face  but cannot mask her signature short bangs and wide smile.

A self-taught filmmaker who creates as La Veleta Productions, Pasmanick leverages music video-making as a way to develop her own skills as a director and narrative shaper, in addition to elevating the voices of her extended community.

“A lot of my music video work started out as guerrilla film making, just using the resources we had available to us,” she recalls. “Kind of leaning into what we know, and what we have access to.” 

One of her most immediate resources is simply the Mission District itself; naturally, she knows all of the quiet corners and iconic spots, and can leave little Easter Eggs in her films for the loyal to find. A wide front stoop crowded with young women enjoying the moment, the cheerful yellow awning adorning the Casa Maria produce market, a motorcade of lowriders. But more than just providing flourishes of local character, the Mission District as subject allows Pasmanick to explore a deeper narrative of gentrification and the forces of resistance that continue to shape the neighborhood. One video Pasmanick points to especially is the video for the song Cuando Se Van. 

“The narrative of that song and of the video came from a lot of deep conversations that we were having at the time,” she describes.

“Conversations around gentrification and what it means to be able to think of a future here in San Francisco…Grappling with this kind of dark idea, that feeling of tech moving so quickly, and gentrification happening so fast, and so many people getting kicked out…This kind of dark concept that maybe it’s only through destroying what this new San Francisco is, that we could get to kind of the roots of the more radical and creative and diverse and loving and communal type of environment that we want San Francisco to be, or that we remember it being.” 

In the video a pair of children in Mariachi garb walk down the same streets that Pasmanick and Peña-Govea and all of their friends used to play on: “a kind of representation,” Pasmanick says. These locations include the site of the former Graywood Hotel on Mission and 29^th: an old, single-room-occupancy hotel which burned down in 2016, displacing 58 tenants and the long-running ground floor businesses. Another scene takes place in front of Lucca’s, a 94 year-old Italian deli and pasta shop that closed in 2019. Pasmanick reminisces wistfully about visiting as a child, standing in line to get the ravioli for which Lucca’s was justifiably famous. In her video, her youthful proxies defiantly play their music in front of the still vibrant vintage-style signage painted on the wall of the building. 

Eventually her filmmaking took on new dimensions, as she entered a program for emerging filmmakers at BAVC (Bay Area Video Coalition), worked as a production assistant, and began teaching youth at local organizations such as the Latino Film Institute. Currently a youth mentor at BAYCAT, she recently led a group of aspiring filmmakers in creating Swap Film Co: Behind the Shutter, a documentary about Swap Film, a subscription-based photo processing establishment specializing in 35mm black-and-white film. Founded by Mission District born-and-raised Emmanuel David Blackwell III, Swap Film has developed into a community of hyperlocal photographers at all stages of creative practice. Blackwell’s own love of photography is deeply generational and familial. He inherited his grandfather’s manual camera from an uncle who also taught him how to develop his own film—and a lifelong obsession was born.

Blackwell’s stated goal with Swap Film is to “empower people, and encourage them to just keep going.” For a flat fee his clients get six months worth of unlimited 35mm black-and-white film and processing/scanning “one roll at a time” which keeps Blackwell in almost constant contact with his expanding community. He makes personal deliveries, offers basic camera trouble-shooting and repair, as well as photography consultation to a cohort of over one hundred, majority BIPOC manual camera enthusiasts, dedicated to documenting their lives in intimate, often moving ways. Swap Film’s website (https://www.swapfilm.co/) doubles as a living photo gallery, displaying an array of striking images—barbershops, scraper bikes, the afternoon fog—and linking directly to their creators’ instagrams.

Almost every person interviewed in the BAYCAT documentary speaks directly to Blackwell’s role in their development as photographers and artists in conversation with each other. In one scene, Swap Film member Kim Requesto explains: “what Swap Film does is really bridge a community of other creatives to connect and to be able to bond over our love of photography.” 

Of choosing to spotlight Swap Film with her BAYCAT mentees, Pasmanick explains “I thought that Emmanuel would be such a perfect candidate to to make a film about because not only is he an amazing person, but I was already also getting the sense that there is this very strong and tight-knit community of artists…who are people of color…documenting San Francisco and spaces that are often excluded from the narrative of what San Francisco is…Because there is this kind of narrative that SF has been fully gentrified and that…“no one’s out here anymore”, but actually people are out here…still getting together and showing out in different ways.”

By featuring several Swap Film members in the documentary, Pasmanick’s students gained both narrative-shaping experience, and a deeper insight into the ways an organic collective of creatives can emerge from shared interests and backgrounds. Pasmanick proudly notes that the film has done well on the Festival circuit, and that additionally some of her students were so inspired by the community cultivated by Swap Film that they later joined it themselves. 

“A lot of resistance (to gentrification) that I see is coming from artists and from people that continue to make art and share it,” Pasmanick muses.

“I feel like the arts are still so alive in the Mission and…continue to work and to hold space for the community.

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At ATA the assembled crowd is seated and expectant as Kuchar in a Hawaiian shirt looms over the delicate-boned Losier, as they introduce each other and their works. Their fondness for each other is palpable, tangible, as they describe their friendship, their filmmaking processes, and their shared dedication to the underground that has nurtured them along their artistic path. It’s a happy reminder that even in an era of hyper-capitalism, gentrification, and dwindling opportunities for career artists, the creative imperative can and will find a way to sustain itself. 

In San Francisco, this creative drive is very much alive in the Mission District, where filmmakers continue to inspire their audiences, build their connections, and uplift their communities across the neighborhood and beyond. You won’t find Hollywood’s biggest names here in the 415. But you will absolutely find a reason to go to the movies. Or (just maybe) make one yourself.

This piece was made possible in part thanks to our Film beat sponser, Cameo Wood. Want to sponser a beat or an author? Contact us here to find out more.