The Accidental Gatekeeper

What if the people fighting to 'save cinema' are also the ones deciding which cultures are worth saving? Whose narrative are we really trying to save and who gets to tell them?

Author’s Note: Since writing and scheduling this piece, I’ve had a thoughtful and productive conversation with the colleague referenced. With her full awareness and blessing, I’ve chosen to publish the article as originally intended. I’m grateful we could engage openly and honestly.

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A few days ago, I noticed a familiar name pop up in my Instagram notifications.

A screenwriter colleague, someone with impressive guild credentials, a long résumé, and a loud online presence about “saving cinema” had liked my recent Substack piece on my brief film bro identity crisis and the toxic edges of cinephile culture.

At first, I smiled. But then, like a triggered memory, I was yanked right back to working with her at Cinequest Film Festival several years back.

As a filmmaker, like any creative who’s embedded in the process, I think a lot about intention. When I’m directing a commercial, I know the goal: sell the product. Sure, I’ll get artistic. I’ll add flair where I can. But let’s be real, it’s a commercial. I know what lane it lives in.

Same goes for my narrative work. When I’m developing a film or crafting a story from scratch, I’m tuned into every beat. I’m thinking about meaning, rhythm, mood, tone, hoping the attention I’m giving it resonates with the audience. That’s where the work is. That’s where the intention lives.

Maybe that’s why I can enjoy a loud, messy summer blockbuster and get excited about the next masterpiece from an auteur director. Because I know that all of it, the popcorn flicks and the prestige pieces, are part of the spectrum of filmmaking.

The work comes first. Discourse is optional.

Which is probably why gatekeeping frustrates me so much. Gatekeeping often isn’t about the work. It’s not about intention, craft, or resonance. It’s about hierarchy. It’s about deciding what’s worthy and who gets to decide.

And that brings me back to Cinequest.

Cinequest throwback of me working the red carpet. Silicon Valley’s spring film gem — and one of the few festivals where the stories and the storytellers both get a spotlight.

Let me say this upfront: Cinequest is a fantastic festival. I’ve been lucky to volunteer there over the years, and it’s one of the rare spaces that truly champions independent voices. A few years back, they asked me to moderate one of their festival-wide panels featuring some luminaries of the industry, purely as a volunteer, No special access. No behind-the-scenes sway. My only job was to help shape a meaningful conversation.

And that’s where things got, well, eye-opening.

As we were strengthening the panel lineup, I made what I thought was a no-brainer suggestion:

“Why don’t we feature some of the directors and screenwriters whose films are actually playing at the festival this year at the mainstage panel? Let’s spotlight the new talent, give them a mic, let them share their process.”

My colleague, the same one who constantly posts about championing indie film, amplifying underrepresented voices, shaking up the old systems, shut it down.

“No, let’s keep the mainstage panel just to established filmmakers. That’s what the audience really wants. Besides, they have their little Q&As after their little movies. That’s enough.”

I was stunned. “Little movies?” This wasn’t coming from a studio exec or a jaded distributor. This was coming from someone who should know how much it means to be included, someone who’s built a public career around championing new voices. The reason I wanted to bring up emerging filmmakers in the first place was simple: some of them were clearly inspired by the very luminaries we’d invited. Why not create space for a real dialogue between them? Why not share that conversation with the festival audience? It wasn’t about replacing anyone. It was about expanding the room.

The coveted mainstage panel at Cinequest. When I was volunteering, this was one of the key events everyone looked forward to.

And looking back, I realized it wasn’t just that panel moment. Throughout the mixers, after-parties, and festival soirées, I noticed how she always gravitated toward the big wigs, the luminaries, the familiar names, the people who could elevate her status or strengthen her network. Meanwhile, the independent filmmakers, the ones actually premiering work at the festival, got little more than an obligatory nod as she breezed by.

And it left me wondering: what’s really going on here?

Here’s the uncomfortable truth I’ve been sitting with: sometimes, gatekeeping isn’t about ego or malice. Sometimes, it’s about relevance.

My colleague, a woman of color, has fought her way through an industry that sidelines people like us. She’s had to prove herself in rooms that weren’t built for her. She’s worked hard to carve out her place.

And when you’ve struggled that hard to survive, you can fall into a heartbreaking loop: You become the very gatekeeper you once fought against, not because you want to but because you’re afraid that opening the door too wide will cost you the space you’ve fought to claim.

That’s the catch-22 no one likes to talk about. We want to save cinema, but only if we can stay at the top of the “saved” version.

As a filmmaker of color, I’ve seen this pattern everywhere. Even when I get the rare chance to pitch, the questions come laced with quiet assumptions:

“Would love to read a Manny Pacquiao biopic treatment from you! Now that would be fascinating, paired with your vision and voice.”

“It’s time to un-cancel Jo Koy. He did a shitty job as a Golden Globes host but let’s cut him some slack. You agree, right?”

It’s not just about whether I get to tell stories, it’s about whether the stories I tell fit the version of me the industry expects.

So when I saw someone who should understand this struggle firsthand actively shutting out emerging voices at Cinequest, it hit even harder. Because for many of us, these opportunities aren’t just about exposure. They’re about being seen.

And the irony runs deeper.

Even as we fight to tell stories, we’re erased from the very audiences being “saved.”

When people talk about “saving cinema,” it’s usually a swirl of nostalgic think pieces and hand-wringing over empty theaters. But here’s the thing. Brace yourselves:

BIPOC communities? We never left.

For us, moviegoing has always been a ritual. It’s communal, generational, and sometimes sacred. It’s something we pass down, gather around, and celebrate. Not just opening weekend. Always.

We show up, time and again, whether or not the industry acknowledges it.

And maybe the reason that support gets overlooked is because of the kinds of movies we love. Is it our fault we see ourselves in Lilo & Stitch, Sinners, or the Fast and Furious franchise? That we connect with stories about found family, survival, chaos, resilience, and yes, a well-timed explosion?

But heaven forbid we don’t get misty-eyed over a Wes Anderson film the way we do a Disney one. Suddenly our taste is “lowbrow,” our presence doesn’t count, and our loyalty doesn’t make it into the narrative about who really loves movies. It’s not just about gatekeeping access, it’s gatekeeping taste. And taste is often coded, classed, and gate-kept in ways that leave entire communities out of the canon.

We’ve been in those seats. We are the audience. And while moviegoing might be in decline here in the U.S., it’s still alive and thriving across the world, in places where cinema is treated with reverence, not just nostalgia. Gatekeepers didn’t like what we were watching, and they certainly didn’t expect we’d be the ones telling the story next.¹

The box office report from May 25, 2025 from the Hollywood Reporter by Pamela McClintock. Check the footnotes for the full article.

If we’re serious about saving cinema (at least in U.S., and in theory, Hollywood) then we have to start by asking the hard questions:

• Are we making space for voices that don’t fit our personal taste?

• When we talk about saving cinema, are we including the movies that BIPOC communities actually show up for? Or is “cinema” only worth saving when it panders to coastal critics, online cinephiles and Cannes juries?

• Are we really honoring cultural specificity, the films that fill seats, spark joy, and reflect lived experiences, or just the ones that fit a festival circuit narrative, FYC campaigns and look good on a Letterboxd list?

• Are we lifting up the people who aren’t yet “established”?

• Are we building an industry where staying in the room doesn’t require becoming a gatekeeper yourself?

Because here’s what’s crazy: the same gatekeeping colleague I’m writing about? She loved my Film Bro article, the one about breaking down barriers. She shared it, praised it, nodded along.

But when I shared something more vulnerable like my recent take on Stitch and what the character means to immigrant families and neurodivergent kids, she scoffed. Politely, of course. The kind of polite that drips with quiet superiority. Meanwhile, my friends with neurodivergent children were forwarding that same article to their kids’ teachers and therapists.

And I have to ask: when did she get like this? When did the passionate supporter of indie voices start curating what “deserves” discourse and what’s beneath her?

Maybe it happens slowly. When you’ve fought so hard to earn a place in the conversation that you start treating it like a prize to protect instead of a platform to share.

And honestly, if I’m being real, I’ve done it too. In my Film Bro post, I joked that I don’t hire film bro types and I meant it. I’m not exactly chasing down crew members who want to talk Oppenheimer for 45 minutes. It’s not about hating their taste. It’s really about time management. I don’t need a dissertation on Nolan when I’m trying to get the damn shot.

But even that, my impatience, my bias, my “not right for this project” instinct is a reminder that gatekeeping isn’t always top-down or institutional. Because if we’re not thoughtful, we all become the gatekeepers.

And sometimes the people holding the keys are us.

1. McClintock, Pamela, “‘Lilo & Stitch’ Blows Up Memorial Day Box Office With $183M Bow, ‘Mission: Impossible’ Nabs Series-Best $77.5M” Hollywood Reporter, May 25th, 2025. https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-news/lilo-stitch-mission-impossible-reckoning-record-box-office-1236228391/