The San Francisco Black Film Festival: Third generation director Cree Ray is bringing more than movies 

by Leah Harmony 

There is a moment when a family legacy stops being a story and becomes a responsibility.

For Cree Ray, that moment arrived this year.

It wasn’t when she first volunteered or when she first joined the San Francisco Black Film Festival. It wasn’t even when she officially became its director.

“This year,” she told me plainly when I asked when she first felt the weight of inheriting it. “I feel it this year more than ever.”

The answer hit differently than I expected. Because the San Francisco Black Film Festival is not just another annual event. It is one of those rare Black institutions that has survived long enough to become intergenerational. 

As the third-generation director of the San Francisco Black Film Festival, Cree carries a legacy that reaches back from her father, Kali O’Ray, to her grandmother, Ave Maria Montague, the both of whom carried their presence in Bay Area Black arts and culture and helped lay the foundation for the community-centered spirit the festival still carries today. Since 2020, Cree Ray has committed the festival to the generational plan of healing the world, one film at a time, in the vision of Bay Area Black Culture, in a Bay Area that sometimes seems committed to disappearing that very aspect. 

And perhaps that’s why the interview felt less like a conversation about film and more like a conversation about preservation.

Preserving stories. Preserving institutions. Preserving community. Preserving Black San Francisco itself.

Cree’s earliest memories of the festival aren’t glamorous. They aren’t red carpets or celebrity appearances. She remembers shopping for festival clothes with Ave. She remembers following her through screenings. She remembers running through the Museum of the African Diaspora as a little girl, not fully understanding the scope of what was being built around her.

“At that age – I literally think I might have been 6 or 7,” she recalled. “I remember not fully understanding the scope of the film festival.” The understanding came later. It arrived when she was a teenager and her grandmother sent her into the Fillmore carrying stacks of festival tickets. Back when tickets were still printed on paper and you had to physically walk them into neighborhood businesses. This felt important because it was back when communities were built face-to-face. As she delivered tickets, she introduced herself as Ave Montague’s granddaughter. The response surprised her.

“Oh yeah, you’re SFBFF.” People immediately knew. Not just the festival. Her grandmother. That was the moment she realized what the festival meant to the community, and what the community meant to the festival.

Today, that community looks very different. “The number one challenge,” Cree told me, “is there’s not a lot of us there anymore.” Every Black person from the Bay knows exactly what she means. The Fillmore. Hayes Valley. West Oakland. Neighborhoods that once felt unquestionably Black now often feel like historical exhibits of themselves.

The story of the San Francisco Black Film Festival is becoming the story of Black San Francisco: trying to maintain cultural continuity while the physical community shrinks around it. That reality affects everything. Funding. Attendance. Partnerships. Staffing. Even something as simple as finding Black creatives who still live in the city.

“We truly try to keep everything within our community,” Cree explained. Black first. POC second. Not out of exclusion, but out of intention and the understanding that if Black institutions don’t intentionally invest in Black people, nobody else is going to do it for us. But maintaining that commitment gets harder every year. Especially now.

Like many arts organizations across the country, the festival has seen promised funding disappear. Grants awarded one month are rescinded the next. Resources are shrinking across the nonprofit world. Yet what stood out most wasn’t frustration. It was community.

When I asked what the community could do to support the festival, I expected a discussion about fundraising. Instead, Cree talked about showing up. Sharing posts. Attending events.

Connecting resources. Putting someone else’s event in your newsletter. Introducing one organization to another. Helping filmmakers find mentors. Helping creatives find jobs. Helping one another.

“We should all be supporting each other,” she said. Simple. Meaningful and necessary. Because the future she imagines for the festival is surprisingly uncomplicated.

“I want it to feel new and fresh and fun,” she said. Not intimidating. Not exclusive. Not burdensome. Just open, accessible and easy to participate in and easy to enjoy. At the same time, she remains fiercely protective of the festival’s mission. The integrity of the San Francisco Black Film Festival, she says, is non-negotiable.

That commitment comes directly from her grandmother’s vision. The evolution comes from her father’s influence. The future is her own. Part of that future includes reaching younger filmmakers and helping them navigate an industry that is changing faster than ever. 

Throughout our conversation, Cree repeatedly returned to a topic that often gets overlooked in creative spaces: ownership. Not simply creating films. Owning them. Understanding contracts. Protecting rights. Learning how to pitch projects. Learning how to build sustainable careers. Learning how not to sell away tomorrow for a check today.

“These are our stories,” she said. “This is part of our culture, and we don’t want that to keep getting lost throughout the years.”

That philosophy may ultimately be what separates the San Francisco Black Film Festival from countless online platforms competing for attention.The festival is not merely a screening venue. It is a gathering place, a teaching space and an important bridge between generations.

SFBFF is a place where filmmakers can learn from people who have already made the mistakes they’re about to make. That human connection became especially apparent when our conversation turned to artificial intelligence.

While Cree sees AI as a useful tool, she remains cautious about losing the human element.

“There is something missing,” she said of fully AI-generated work. The technology may become more sophisticated, but humanity and the human connection still matters. The human struggle matters; it’s part of the culture. The lesson felt larger than filmmaking. It felt like a lesson about community itself.

Today she’s excited about the submissions this year and welcoming her community on June 18th. It feels transformative, futuristic and grounded in legacy. Maybe even revolutionary. 

For the festivals in the future, she would love to see more animation and films created for Black children in general. She’s also reanimating the Pitch Fest, where young filmmakers find their film pitch voice. Once they get in the door, it’s up to them of course. She feels pride in preparing them for that moment. 

Toward the end of our conversation, Cree spoke excitedly about future plans to connect more deeply with Oakland, San Francisco and the broader Black Bay Area. Outdoor film events. Community partnerships. New collaborations.Not because Oakland and San Francisco are the same but because they need each other.

“Black Bay Area is still Black Bay Area,” she said. Facts. Now more than any other, the Black Bay Area is deeply valued and urgently important, even if it’s just to the Black Bay Area.

This year’s San Francisco Black Film Festival runs June 18-21 at the African American Art & Culture Complex alongside a week of Juneteenth celebrations, community programming and cultural events. And after speaking with Cree Ray, I’m convinced the festival is about something bigger than films.

It’s about what happens when one generation decides that the work of the last generation is worth carrying forward.

And what happens when a community decides to carry it together.

Learn more at https://www.sfbff.org/.

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