Finise Avery is a New York-based filmmaker, writer, and producer whose work is defined by character-driven storytelling and a commitment to social equity in entertainment. A member of the Directors Guild of America (DGA), SAG-AFTRA, and IATSE Local 161, she brings experience from major studio productions and a deep passion for independent filmmaking. Her directorial debut, Living With Grandma, has been a hit on the global festival circuit, collecting more than 40 international awards. These include Best Female Director at the Cannes World Film Festival and Best First Time Director at both the Los Angeles Film Awards and the London Global Film Awards, plus top honours from festivals in New York, Rome, Athens, San Diego, Europe, Asia and South America. The film is now in development as a limited series.
Her latest project is the 2026 documentary short Icons Aren’t Born, which she directed and executive produced through Electric Dreams Productions. It is an intimate portrait of bassist and Music Director Anthony “Ant” Parrish and the unseen craft behind arena-scale performance. Ahead of its premiere at the 26th Annual FirstGlance Film Festival Los Angeles this November, we caught up with Finise to talk about her career and the film.
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Finise, thanks for taking the time to speak with us. What was the first time a film didn’t just entertain you but claimed you? Please walk us back to that moment and what it awakened in you.
For me, it wasn’t a film I watched. It was a set I stood on. I started as an actor, joined SAG-AFTRA in 2007, and did a lot of my early work as a stand-in and photo double. A stand-in spends hours in the middle of everything while the lights are set and the shot is built, and I realized I was paying more attention to what was happening behind the camera than in front of it. I wanted to know why the director moved the camera, why a scene worked on the fourth take and not the first. That’s when it stopped being a job and became the thing I wanted to do.
Before the guild memberships, the sets, the credits, who were you in your early years, and what did you have to survive, unlearn, or outgrow to become a filmmaker?
I was sixteen the first time I was on a film set, for 21, which was shooting in Boston. That’s the moment I would go back to.
I grew up in New York City and went to boarding school in Switzerland, where I had the opportunity to travel. I was still discovering the world and figuring out who I was. Then being on set opened up another possibility: film could be something I was part of, something I could help create.
Before that, I was just a kid watching movies. Being on set made me curious about everything that went into them. I wanted to understand how it all worked and where I could fit into that world.
What was your earliest hard lesson working professionally—something no film school, book, or mentor could’ve prepared you for, and how did it change the way you move on set?
One thing I learned is that being capable and being quiet aren’t the same thing. When you’re young on set, you want to prove you belong. It’s easy to think that means having every answer and never asking a question.
I also learned how crucial being on time is. Time is money on a production, and your preparation affects everyone around you. Being ready matters just as much as showing up.
Those lessons changed how I work. If something is unclear, I ask early rather than let an assumption become a problem when we’re ready to shoot. Now I’m more direct about what I need, what needs approval, and what’s still unresolved. I still listen, but I don’t wait until the last minute to speak up
You’ve worked across major studio ecosystems and independent filmmaking. Where have you seen “social equity” become real action—and where have you seen it become branding? What did you do in those moments?
I’ve seen it become real action when someone with hiring power changes who is in the room. A statement doesn’t do that. It shows up in a crew list, in who gets a first chance, and in who gets called back for the next job. I’ve seen it become branding when the language is all there, in the panels, the posts, and the pledges, and the same people keep getting hired.
What I did was get involved where I could make a difference. I ran for, and was elected, AD/UPM Category Representative on the Directors Guild of America’s Focus on Women Committee for the 2024–2026 term. The committee serves women members of the Guild in the Eastern Region, and I worked alongside a lot of people there who are pushing for the same thing: more women hired, and more women moving up.
On my own sets, I try to do it in practice. On Desperately Seeking Commitment, we hired college students as production assistants, so they left with real set experience and a professional credit. Someone gave me my first day on a set at sixteen, and I haven’t forgotten what that was worth.
I founded Reel Solidarity, a nonprofit focused on mentorship, community, and expanding access for underrepresented talent in film and television. On my own sets it is simpler. I hire the people I believe in and I give them real responsibility.
You’ve worked in production accounting, payroll, AD work, logistics, set operations—roles that demand precision and emotional control. What did that level of responsibility teach you about leadership, and what did it quietly take from you?
It taught me that leadership is mostly preparation and staying calm. As an assistant director, you are responsible for a hundred moving pieces and for the mood of the people moving them. During the strikes, I moved into production accounting on Only Murders in the Building, and later into payroll, and I learned what really drives a budget: fringes, union contracts, the true cost of every decision. That made me a better director and producer. I know where to spend and where to save, and I know that every line on a budget is a person’s paycheck.
What it quietly took from me was time on set. That pivot was one of the hardest moments of my career. I was good at the work, but I missed the energy of being on the floor, and it made me certain that I had to make my own films.
Who has been a true mentor to you, not just someone who opened a door, but someone who challenged your blind spots? Moreover, what’s the most uncomfortable truth a mentor ever told you that turned out to be necessary?
I never had one single mentor in the traditional sense. My path was less traditional, and I learned from the sets I worked on and the people I watched run them: directors, assistant directors, production accountants. I learned the most from how they treated people when things went wrong. How everyone fit in the puzzle.
The most uncomfortable truth came while I was making Living With Grandma, when I was directing, co-writing, casting, budgeting, and producing all at once: you can’t do it alone. I didn’t want to hear it. It’s hard to trust other people with something you care about that much, and doing everything myself felt like control. It turned out to be necessary. The film got better the moment I let other people in, and that is how I ended up with real collaboration and a fantastic team.
When you’re deciding what to direct or produce, what’s your non-negotiable? Is it story, character, politics, timing, budget, the team—or something more personal you don’t usually say out loud?
It has to come from something real. Every film I’ve made started with a true moment. Living With Grandma began with voice notes from a childhood friend about living with his grandmother. Desperately Seeking Commitment came from a Pilates class and a phone call with a friend who was sure she would meet her soulmate on a flight. Icons Aren’t Born is about a real person whose work most audiences never see. If I can’t point to the true thing at the center, I don’t trust the story, however good the budget or the timing looks.
The part I don’t usually say out loud is more personal: I have to like the people. I won’t build a set around people who don’t treat others well. I would rather make a smaller film with people I trust than a bigger one with people I don’t.
You’re known for character-driven work. What do you believe most filmmakers get wrong about “character”—and what do you think audiences are actually starving for when they say they want something “real”?
I think a lot of filmmakers treat character as a list of traits or a backstory. To me, character is contradiction. It is what a person does when what they want and what they should do pull in different directions. In Living With Grandma, Rose loves her grandson, and she is also blunt, stubborn, and hiding a habit of her own. Both are true at once. Sophie in Desperately Seeking Commitment is the same. She is a hopeless romantic, and she also crosses a line. You can root for her and wince at the same time.
When audiences say they want something “real,” I don’t think they mean gritty. I think they are starving to recognize themselves, to see people who are funny and flawed in the same breath. Comedy has always felt to me like one of the most honest ways to talk about difficult things, because life rarely separates the funny from the painful. I try not to preach. I would rather let you laugh and then catch you off guard a moment later.
Living With Grandma has won over 40 awards. What part of the accolades feels validating, and what part feels like a trap? Has success ever tried to rewrite your identity?
What feels validating is that a story this personal connected with people in so many places. Living With Grandma has won more than 40 awards, from Cannes to Los Angeles to Rome, and every one of them reflects the trust, creativity, and heart of the whole cast and crew. I’m especially proud of the recognition for Bonnie Rose, who brought so much warmth, vulnerability and humor to the role.
As for the trap, it hasn’t felt like one to me, mostly because none of it feels quite real. It’s surreal. I see the laurels and the number, and I know they belong to the film, but I don’t feel any different. I’m the same person I was before the first award. I don’t think success has rewritten my identity. I still think of myself as someone who is learning how to do this.
If you could sit with a younger Finise before the acclaim—before Cannes recognition, before the festival circuit—what warning would you give her, and what promise would you make to her?
I would sit down with the sixteen-year-old me. The warning: it’s not all glamorous. You’ll have to grab a few coffees, and some people will look down on you for it. Don’t let them dim your light. Don’t listen to the people who try to put you down. This is going to take time, much longer than you think.
What I’d tell her is simple. Treat everyone with the same respect, because you never know who is going to make it. The person you get coffee for today, or the person getting coffee right beside you, might be someone you work with for the next twenty years. Keep going and stick with it.
The promise: none of it will be wasted. Everything you learn along the way ends up in your films. And when the awards do come, you will still be you. So don’t give up.
Let’s turn our attention to Icons Aren’t Born. Why Anthony “Ant” Parrish? What did you recognize in him or in the unseen craft behind arena-scale performance?
I had the pleasure of working with Ant on the Fantasia tour, where I was a production coordinator, and he was the musical director. Later, I asked him to help me with “Love Today,” the original song in my short film Desperately Seeking Commitment.
What impressed me was how he handles a room. He is calm and collected when everything around him is moving. Twenty thousand people come for the artist at the front of the stage, but the preparation, the cues nobody hears, and the decisions made under pressure are his. The show doesn’t happen without him, and almost nobody in the audience knows his name.
I recognized something I know from my own years as an assistant director and in production: the people who hold everything together are usually standing just outside the light. I wanted to make a portrait of that.
Icons Aren’t Born explores what the public doesn’t see. What do you think society consistently refuses to acknowledge about labour, artistry, and the people behind the spectacle—and how did making this film challenge your own assumptions about value?
I think we refuse to acknowledge how much labour sits behind anything that looks effortless. We celebrate the name on the ticket and treat everyone else as support, when a show or a film is the work of dozens of people whose preparation and judgment the audience never sees. I have lived on that side of it for most of my career, as a stand-in, as an assistant director, and in production accounting and payroll, so I thought I already understood.
Making this film still challenged me. I had assumed that recognition was what people behind the scenes were missing. Spending time with Ant, I saw that what matters to him is being indispensable, being the person others trust when it counts. That changed how I think about value. Visibility and worth are two separate things, and the film is my way of giving the first to someone who has always had the second.
Where can our readers find out more about you?
- Website: finiseavery.com
- Production company: electricdreamsproductions.com
- Instagram: @finise
- Company Instagram: @electricdreamsproductions
- Film Instagram: @desperatelyseekingcommitment
- Icons Aren’t Born: iconsarentborn.com
- IMDb: Finise Avery
- LinkedIn: Finise Avery
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