Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good

That’s the line I kept repeating after I decided—somewhat impulsively—to try to produce a festival dedicated to the art and craft of television production in my adopted home state of Connecticut.

I was exhausted by the news and tired of feeling useless, so I figured I’d try doing something constructive instead.

Let’s be clear: Connecticut is not New York or California. It’s not Georgia, New Mexico, Louisiana, or Illinois either. Around here, people would be thrilled if the local TV business had enough work and cultural relevance to be compared to New Jersey. Sit with that for a second.

This started at an industry mixer at Wheelhouse, a large production company in Stamford. There are actually quite a few production companies here now—mostly refugees from New York’s real estate market. Companies like ITV America, Lucky 8, and HotSnakes Media are churning out shows. A lot of reality TV, unfortunately. But it pays the bills.

For years, these companies struggled to get people to relocate or commute from New York. Then COVID happened. Now employees work from Brooklyn, LA, or Montana. Offices that used to be packed are quiet.

September 2025. I’m standing at this party, looking around at a room full of television people, thinking: Who are all these people? Why are they here? What am I doing here? Then Wheelhouse rolls a clip reel. I don’t recognize most of the shows. Everyone else does. They clap.

My first thought: These people should come to the Norwalk Film Festival.

My second thought: How do we get them to care?

Then I remembered being dismissed years ago as “a TV guy” by a director. That label stuck with me. TV guy? Fuck you, I thought. I still think that. Everything ends up on TV. TV is great—on a couch or on a phone.

That’s when it clicked: what if we built something just for them? Something that pulled people out of their cubicles, home offices, and silos?

I asked the Norwalk Film Festival board (I’m on it) if I could chase the idea. We’d just moved the festival from January to March, which left a window. Justin Matley from NFF jumped in. Abby Hartley -- a real producer stepped up. I called Jason Coombs at the Bridgeport Film Festival—instant yes. Next stop: Dorian Robinson, a young filmmaker and recent LaunchPad fellow in Stamford. Jon Winkel, who runs LaunchPad, was already planning a PA bootcamp in January. Perfect. Let’s collide these things.

L-R. Me, Justin Matley, Abby Hartley, Dorian Robinson , Jason Coombs

Then it was on. And immediately a sprint.

Norwalk has two great scrappy studios—Space 67 and Lot 48—tucked into a weird part of town. They didn’t hesitate.

Everything else was chaos.

Graphics. Website. Outreach. Programming. Labs. Zoom calls. Sponsors. Money. Crew. Food. Volunteers. Social media. Step-and-repeat. Host. DJ.

All of it pulled together by five volunteers with real jobs, families, strong opinions, and limited patience. There were arguments. Feelings were bruised. Eggs were broken.

The goal wasn’t a standard awards show. Instead, we asked people to nominate their peers for very inside-the-industry awards, like:

• The Lonely at the Top Award – Executive Producer Excellence

• The Favorite Shot Award – Director of Photography

• The Yarn Spinner Award – Producer / Storytelling

• The Field General Award – Producer Hero

• The Teardrop Award – Editorial Excellence

  
  

The nominations trickled in. Not flooded. Not even close. Only one came from a major production company.

Two weeks ago, I was convinced this thing would flop.

Then, at the last minute, people showed up. They stepped out of their silos. On the coldest day of the winter—right before a snowstorm—it actually worked.

Look at the photos.

People look happy. People look seen.

The point is simple: if you notice something missing, try building it. Don’t wait for permission. Don’t wait for perfect.

Good is often more than enough.