Sarah Juma is an award-winning filmmaker and fiction writer who was selected to BAFTA North America’s prestigious Newcomer screenwriting cohort in 2022. Her film work has screened and received honorable mention at the Richmond International Film Festival, Africa International Film Festival (AFRIFF) and Toronto International Nollywood Film Festival among others. She writes short and flash fiction which is forthcoming or appears in SmokeLong Quarterly and Brittle Paper. After reviewing submissions to the BAFTA Student Awards from all over the globe this year, she recognized patterns that separated good films from the ones judges couldn’t stop thinking about—and how the principles of great flash fiction can help filmmakers break story.

Earlier this year, I had the privilege of judging two rounds of the BAFTA Student Awards, watching dozens of short films by emerging filmmakers from countries spanning the United States, Poland, Mexico, India and beyond. Back-to-back screenings left me emotionally haunted, scribbling notes about what worked, what didn’t, and why certain films remained with me long after the credits rolled. If you’re a filmmaker trying to crack the festival circuit or land on awards shortlists, I want to share what I learned. There are patterns to what makes a short film accolade-worthy, and most filmmakers never hear them spelled out clearly, because story often takes the backseat to filmmaking techniques and aesthetics.

What Prestigious Filmmaking Awards Look For

The films that consistently rose to the top shared a deceptively simple structure. Within the first minute, we met a strong protagonist—someone specific and three-dimensional, whose habits and background were resonant. By the three-minute mark, a crisis shifted their world (and even if it was just momentary, it felt colossal). The rest of the film tracked their quest to prevail over that crisis; we witnessed either their success or defeat. All of this unfolded in fifteen to twenty minutes, and was more compelling if shorter. In shorts, what transforms isn’t the protagonist’s entire character, as in features where three acts occupy 90-120 minutes; the protagonist in shorts typically discovers a different approach to the crisis at hand. Some personal favorite references of this are: Whiplash (2013), Stutterer (2015), Nefta Football Club (2018), Passarinho (2024, one of this year’s BAFTA podium finishers).

What struck me most was the emotional terrain these films covered. Familial relationships featured heavily: fraught, tender, complicated bonds that one might recognize in their own home. Romantic relationships threatened by a powerful third party. Characters grappling with identity and acceptance, often where the stakes were survival or belonging. The very top tier of these films made judges feel something we couldn’t shake off.

In the end, when judges are choosing between strong finalists, it’s a game of splitting hairs. The films that evoked the strongest emotions won. I’d finish watching a technically flawless short and think, “That was good,” but I couldn’t tell you how it made me feel an hour later. Good but not memorable misses the podium by just a little.

What Filmmakers Commonly Miss

A very common mistake I saw was filmmakers treating a short film like a feature condensed into twenty minutes or less. I’ve made these mistakes myself.

They’d cram in subplots, dialogue with supporting characters who didn’t advance the main plot, flashbacks, large setpieces (all the narrative machinery of a longer format) and the result felt overstuffed or incomplete. A short film is its own form, with a complete arc. You have time for one story, one protagonist, one clear emotional journey (with mastery, you can tackle more).

Another common pattern was films which were gorgeous to look at: stunning cinematography, meticulous production design, crisp sound, impeccable color grading, but nothing actually happened. No crisis, no pursuit, no stakes. Story is always about a character’s crisis and their journey toward resolution. Without stakes, all the visual poetry in the world falls flat.

If a character, a scene, a line of dialogue doesn’t serve this journey, cut it. Be ruthless. Your film will breathe easier, and your audience will thank you for respecting their time and attention.

How Flash Fiction Can Help With Form

I write flash fiction (stories under 1,000 words) and my work is forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, where you can find some of the most beautiful and instructional pieces from authors all over the globe. This dual practice has taught me something invaluable: constraint is power.

In flash fiction, every word must earn its place. There’s no room for meandering, and if backstory is told, it must be propulsive to the character’s current crisis and train of thought. The same is true for short films. Every frame, every cut, every line of dialogue has to pull its weight.

In the same vein, subtext is king here. You have to trust your audience’s inference, and trust implication over exposition. A lingering glance can do the work of a three-page monologue. A locked door, a half-packed suitcase, a mother’s trembling hand—these images carry worlds of meaning. As the screenwriter, you can focus a lens on these before the director even thinks to.

The best shorts I judged left room for me to feel, to interpret, to sit with ambiguity. They didn’t spell everything out. They trusted that the audience would meet them halfway.

Consider how flash fiction builds toward a single revelatory moment. Not a twist-for-twist’s sake ending, like the character realizing they were dreaming, a trope judges and festival programmers have often said they’re tired of, but a moment of realization or irreversible change that makes everything we’ve watched snap into focus. A daughter who finally stops reaching for her mother’s approval. The lover who walks away without looking back. The frightened athlete leaping to set a record in the coarse sand. These moments only land if you’ve laid the groundwork and if you’ve resisted the urge to over-explain or shalaye like Nigerians will say.

Master the Fundamentals

Standing at the intersection of short literary fiction and film has given me a unique lens; one through which I can correct my own past filmmaking oversight. Study flash fiction if you’re making short films. If story isn’t your forte as a director who otherwise excels in visuals, collaborate with screenwriters who understand compression and emotional precision. The filmmakers who grasp these principles early save themselves years of festival rejections and give judges reasons to advocate for them on panels.