Visiting the First Film Festival at a Women’s Prison in California History

I was once told that one of the loneliest places in the world is the waiting room in a women’s prison. For a few hours on Saturday, March 28, the large crowd that filed into the Central California Women’s Facility (CCWF) in Chowchilla defied that notion.

A small handful of visitors weren’t there for the day’s big event, but for regular visiting hours. A mother holding a baby in a shirt that read “Just served nine months in the womb.” An older woman going through security and removing items from her coat pocket, who told the guard she wished her daughter were part of the day’s activities.

And a middle-aged man covered in tattoos, who while walking through the metal detector asked a security guard: why are all these other people in the waiting room?

“They’re here for the San Quentin Film Festival,” she responded.

Cinephiles, photographers, professors and podcasters had all arrived in Chowchilla for the first-ever film festival held inside of a women’s prison in California. The daytime event showcased stories that centered the criminal justice system and explored concepts of love, freedom, health and healing.

Processing, a short film by Antwan Banks Williams, combined audio interviews of incarcerated women with an intense scripted therapy session and opulent dance scenes, pairing uncomfortable truths with elegant body movements.

Oscar’s Return, an award-winning short documentary by Steven Raven Liang, chronicled the experience of Oscar Rodriguez, a man who returned home after spending 25 years behind bars. Despite finding his passion as a dog trainer, he still had to learn to deal with people in the outside world.

In So, Boom, a dramatic and hilarious narrative film by Tiffany “Tiny” Cruz and Abby Pierce, a character named Sweet Tea gives prison survival tips to her younger sister, who is soon set to turn herself in to the authorities. Sweet Tea shows her sister how to make a meal with the materials she’s issued, and advises her not to take favors from anyone, because they come with a price. In one scene, Sweet Tea demonstrates how makeup can be made from Kool-Aid and pencil shavings.

I instantly looked around the room. There were so many women in blue CDCR shirts who’d gotten dressed up for the occasion using the resources they had; along with makeup, they wore fly earrings and freshly laid hairdos with perfect parts.

Sitting in a prison watching films about prison is like being in a 4D theatre. You feel it. That’s why Louis Salé’s feature documentary The People in Blue brought me to tears.

The film chronicles the macro-level changes underway at San Quentin State Prison, which has recently been converted to the San Quentin Rehabilitation Center. It also explores micro-level changes, as a handful of men go through an eight-week rehabilitative course that culminates in a visit from their families and a daddy-daughter dance.

The People in Blue tugs the heartstrings, revealing all that comes with family separation. Lighthearted moments, like older men learning TikTok dances to impress their children, offset that weight.

At the film’s end, daughters and dads reunite while wearing dress attire. Again, I had to look around the room, and think: How many people in here, like me, grew up with fathers who were incarcerated?

Like Salé’s film, the event as a whole contained moments of gravity, gratitude and goofiness. Musicians from the Juilliard School and vocalists from the prison’s chorus, as well as poets and comedian W. Kamau Bell, all graced the stage. It was just like a regular film festival, except for the location and people in attendance.

Those attendees included creatives like filmmaker Maya Cameron-Gordon, visual artist Jacquelyn Serrano, actor Cousin Shy and film director D’Angelo “D’Lo” Louis. All of them spent their Saturday in a gym at CCWF, accompanied by over 100 women in light blue shirts — just a small percentage of the 2,200 people currently incarcerated at the prison.

“We’ve never had an event of this magnitude at all in this facility, let alone for something for cultural and educational purpose,” said Diana Lovejoy, winner of the festival’s Best Documentary Pitch Award.

Lovejoy also serves as Journalism Guild Chairperson for The Paper Trail. Founded in 2024, it’s the United States’ only independent newspaper created by people incarcerated in a women’s facility. The establishment of the publication has put a spotlight on the facility, and she hopes that eventually, the ability to produce films will allow its stories to be seen even more widely, adding that “we intend to get some of that film production in-house.”

While acquiring the needed facilities and the training is a lengthy process, Lovejoy is clear that it could foster a skill set the community will appreciate. “Several of us on the team would love to get into podcasting and more of digital production,” she said.

For others, like Miss Kelly, the festival is a window into what reentry might entail. Its films, she said, highlight “the things that I forgot that I forgot.”

That lapse in memory comes with being incarcerated for a long time. “Almost 40 years for me,” she said, pointing to herself, and describing how she’s prepared for the mental strain that may come after returning home.

Asali Richardson looked at the festival optimistically.

“The people that participated from here, they deserve to shine,” she told me. “Even if you didn’t win, you deserve something. You put thought to paper, and that action is what creates change.”

One person’s suffering, she said, may be answered by hearing somebody else’s story.

Cori Thomas, who worked with the Tribeca Film Festival for 17 years, co-founded the San Quentin Film Festival with Pulitzer prize–nominated podcast host and filmmaker Rahsaan Thomas (no relation).

The San Quentin Film Festival took five years to go from an idea to reality, debuting at San Quentin 2024. Now that she’s taken the show on the road, Cori couldn’t be happier.

“To be a part of something that is helping women express themselves means more than anything to me,” she told me, noting that as a woman of color, it’s hard to be heard and respected. “You’re always sort of a second-class citizen,” Cori said. “You’re always the one who’s called to clean up the mess.”

Now, she has big dreams for the festival: helping other prisons launch media centers, creating classes on filmmakers and maybe even livestreaming future festivals to prisons around the world.

Cori is right: taking in stories from a wide array of people and understanding their plight broadens one’s understanding of life. After working in and reporting about prisons on and off for over a decade, this was my first time in a women’s facility.

Just like the other facilities I’d visited, there were barbed wire fences and steel doors, armed guards with keys jingling and Walkie-Talkies buzzing. People with facial tattoos. Folks in wheelchairs with ventilators. A lot more smiles than the male prisons I’ve visited, and more women guards, as well.

But there were also people pursuing dreams and chasing of freedom. Humans dealing with remorse and being accountable for their actions. There were harsh realities, fantastical tales and hands held in prayer circles.

As the guards checked me out of the prison, I noticed they were the only ones in the waiting room, which had gone back to its natural empty state.

But for one day, at least, that women’s prison waiting room wasn’t one of the loneliest places in the world.