In Oakland, a ‘Worst Film Festival’ Redefines Filmmaking Failures

Just about every aspect of the event flips the traditional festival format on its head. Those whose submissions get selected receive a notice that reads “we happily regret to inform you” their work has been chosen.

Throughout the event there’s examination of the language of failure, as well as reimagining what a supportive creative community looks like for professional filmmakers.

On the night of the festival, attendees view short film clips, none of them longer than four minutes. Between the blocks of films, directors, producers and actors dissect aspects of moviemaking gone awry.

The audience also gets insight from recognized storytellers. Last year’s guest of honor was Boots Riley, director of the film Sorry To Bother You and the series I’m A Virgo.

Three awards are given out during the event, including one voted on by audience members that includes a portion of the event’s proceeds for filmmakers who have a convincing work in progress. It’s called the “Has Potential Award.”

“This is filmmaker-forward,” says Isaacson, noting that the goal of the event isn’t to make anyone’s work the butt of a joke. It’s also far from a parody show like the Golden Raspberry Awards. Isaacson, a film director herself, makes it clear: “This is by filmmakers, and for filmmakers.”

Once people hear the story of how it started, she says, they understand that it’s about community and vulnerability.

Isaacson refers back to a 2024 meeting between the founding trio, where one of them asked the others, “Want to see the worst thing I’ve ever done?”

The three started sharing film clips they’d promised would never see the light of day. “Turns out the three of us have some pretty embarrassing stuff,” Isaacson says, adding that “we just couldn’t stop laughing.”

As they gave feedback to each other and reflected on their experiences, a miniature rendition of the festival began taking place. “We kind of looked at each other jokingly,” says Isaacson, “and said: ‘Oh, this actually is the festival we need.'”

Southall, an actor and producer, wondered if it was possible to create “this little vulnerable pocket” for other filmmakers in a short period of time. Collectively working as volunteers, they started planning in April of 2024 and held a successful event four months later.

“Filmmakers actually showed us their worst work,” Southall remarks, still slightly surprised. “There was really truly something magical that happened that first time around,” she says. “Filmmakers totally understood the process.”

In a world where artists are usually buttoned-up and primed to put their best foot forward, Cheifetz says doing the inverse oddly makes sense.

“My worst project is one of the projects that I had the most fun working on,” she says, reflecting on the longstanding connections she’s made over the course of failed productions. “Just because it’s your worst and isn’t something you initially might want to show other professionals, it’s still something that, as filmmakers, brings out our passions,” she says. “And we still love to do it even when it is our worst.”

At the festival, the term “worst” is a self-determined status. Some filmmakers have completely botched scenes, while others have struggled to land distribution deals. There’s levels to “failure.”

With that in mind, Southall notes the importance of establishing a tone of respect during the event. Last year, the team did that by boldly displaying their own movie mistakes.

“We actually had an LED wall, which we will have again at this year’s fest, showcasing our first three projects,” says Southall. “When filmmakers come in, they can see a display of our worst work on the side,” she says. “That way we can be just as vulnerable as they are.”

Last year’s event welcomed indie filmmakers and representatives from collectives like #MakeItBay, Cinemama and other organizations. Cheifetz noticed that by reframing the idea of “failure,” it aided the process of not only filmmaking, but community building.

“It takes a little bit of the networking and socialization pressure off when you don’t have that fear just hanging over you,” she says. “And when all of that weight is lifted, then it’s just a breath of fresh air and a chance to just be real.”

Now with support from Mama Dog Studios, as well as The Little Giant Lighting & Grip Co., Oakland United Beerworks and the longstanding Northern Californian production services supply company Ranahan, this year the team is looking for more of the magic they experienced last year.

A safe classroom, where students get critical yet careful feedback, and “failure” is used as a teaching tool; a place where highlighting an individual’s “worst” is a part of making the larger collective better. Imagine if all schools were like that?