It was sleeting, thundering and gusty in Chicago Friday night. The venue, the American Indian Center, is a former Masonic Temple built sometime early in the last century located in a working class Asian neighborhood.  Flags representing Native Nations are draped near the ceiling with a faded mural on the back cinderblock wall.  

Britney, Paris, Brad and Angelina and Chicago’s favorite daughter, Oprah, were nowhere to be found. But those who love films, who love Native films, braved the bone-drenching squall to see a dramatic feature and documentary and enjoy listening to the filmmaker who pulled his chair in and chatted familiarly with the audience like we were sitting in a pub over drinks. The self-deprecating Festival director, himself a filmmaker, handed out programs and took pictures, ran the video equipment and introduced each feature.  

It was sleeting, thundering and gusty in Chicago, but it was a beautiful night.  

Even the most cynical would doubt no more the passion and perseverence of those who create films. Real dyed-in-the-wool film artists who write, direct, act, and edit what we popcorn eaters so often dismiss if it doesn’t include digitized war scenes and six-figure cosmetic surgery. People who make movies cause they love making movies and are damn damn damn good at it, even without money, entourages and Oprah. 

The filmmaker who attended the screening has a full-time job, not in Hollywood, but a 9-5 day job in a no-cachet Midwestern city which he proudly features in both of his two dramas. He jokes that he makes movies to give himself acting jobs; and says, ever more seriously, that he doesn’t covet the fame that devours so many in this blood-lusting industry. 

With no background or schooling, he has taken only one film course, and calls on his friends, family and colleagues to make his dream a reality. None of them are actors; none of them even WANT to be actors. But they love their friend, who is an actor and wants to act and direct, so they practice their lines, offer their apartments as sets—they do what they do because they believe in his vision.  

So too the Festival director. Walking around in his Elvis shirt—yes, he even looks like Elvis and he knows it—he insists that as much as he loves writing screenplays, filming movies and directing the Festival, it really isn’t all that “important.”  It is not, he says, important like “climbing into a burning building or conducting open-heart surgery.” 

But the director, an Arapaho who was reservation raised and now suburban planted, sells himself short. He devotes boundless energy and lots and lots of hours into this festival dedicated to promoting films and videos by Native filmmakers (no Dances With Wolves  need apply) defining Native images. Changing perceptions; or as his Festival says, “Targeting Old Stereotypes—Targeting New Stereotypes.” 

He works the phones, tasks his volunteers, he writes all the news releases, made a promotional video, and coordinates the website. For no pay. He even cajoles his buddy, Christian Cuba, to schlep the guest filmmaker around in the infamously goddawful Chicago traffic. And believe me, it is goddawful, as we over-caffeinate while waiting in a local coffee shop nearly two hours for the two to make a nine mile car trip.  

It was sleeting, thundering and gusty in Chicago, but it was a beautiful night.  

And Ernest Whiteman III and Rod Pocowatchit, at the First Nations Film and Video Festival, shared their passion with all of us; their talents which are changing perceptions of contemporary Native America.

Without Paris, Britney, Brad and Angelina, or Chicago’s favorite daughter, Oprah. 

To me, at least, that is plenty important.     Plenty.