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To generate some operating dollars, Denver's station has to charge users a bit more for membership than a better-supported channel like Access SF did ($75-$250 as opposed to $36), and studio rental (up to $15 an hour, compared to San Francisco's zero). The producers must be more self-sufficient in the studios, since there's no one to help them. (Deproductions hired only one extra staffer.) Yet Shawcross says Denver Open Media has been able to continue to serve low-income residents by providing private grant-funded scholarships for students. In fact, he says the number of producers in the first four years has skyrocketed from just 100 to 220.
Like BAVC's plan, producers in Denver schedule initial airings of shows on one channel. The Internet then plays a role in determining programming. Viewers can vote online for their favorite shows; those getting the most votes get airtime. (To make the voting system equitable across the digital divide, viewers can also vote via cellphones.)
Shawcross says the voting system has generated more community interest in the channel, since viewers feel more ownership over it. Online comments and phone texts also scroll across the bottom of the TV screen during live shows.
One benefit of a Web-based system is that producers can track the online viewing figures of their shows. Under the current system, Comcast won't share ratings data with Access SF, leaving it anyone's guess if the number of people watching is one or 1,001.
A perusal of Denver's Web site, still in the beta phase, shows the new format is still catching on. The most voted-on show has only 201 votes, a video on the concept of Creative Commons licensing that Denver Open Media itself found online. Other "popular" content includes many of the usual public-access channel suspects everywhere: gospel hours, music video compilations, and wonky self-help programs.
The fact that programming in Denver hasn't radically changed in the digital era should ease the fears of veteran producers in San Francisco worried about life under BAVC. But then again, sometimes it seems that nothing could ever mollify the likes of Julian Lagos and the GodFather of Skating.
The snacks and refreshments laid out for the first meet and greet between BAVC and the producers portended a civil affair. The producers had quickly filled the 60 reservations for a Q&A on BAVC's turf and spilled onto a waiting list. Making their way into a meeting room, they were greeted by the nonprofit's staffers doling out preprinted name tags. ("Oh, you're Zane?" one staffer asked as Blaney, sitting in a back row, identified himself to get his sticker. "You're the Zane Blaney?")
Most of the regulars showed, with notable exceptions for the two producers who had called for City Hall hearings at a meeting the week earlier. (Zeltzer had a conflict, and Lagos peeked in once from the hallway and was gone.) With no fewer than three producers videotaping them, Ikeda and Gilomen stood at the front of a meeting room and attempted to get off on the right foot.
"We're really excited to work with all of you," Gilomen said, outlining from a slide presentation indicating that a "smooth transition for the producers" was one of the main objectives during the first months of BAVC's reign. She and Ikeda went over the essentials: They would "certainly try" to keep the checkout equipment going, and the one-person studio on Market Street would be open until they moved it in-house. Without committing to too many details, they assured the producers that one channel would still be first come, first served, and not all shows would have to be voted onto the air in a popularity contest. Still, her reassurances didn't satisfy everyone. Half way through, one of the producers flashed a suspicious glare: "It seems you're trying to get rid of the people in this room."
No meeting about public access in San Francisco would be complete without a mention of the time-slot lottery, and Miles was happy to bring it up: "How many like the lottery?" Nine out of the 60 raised their hands. Gilomen responded: "I don't even know what the lottery is." Good answer.
Ace Washington stood to address the crowd in his sparkly Obama hoodie, attempting to recruit members for his "transition team": "Regardless of what you hear here and don't know, you can know if you're part of the transition team, because yours truly is on top of this transition team, and is going to be responsible to get the information back to you, the public, and on top of them," he said, motioning at the BAVC reps. "Now you hear they're going to tour the studios, the transition team is going to try to be part of that — document it. You gotta use your cameras. That's your only tool; that's been my tool."
"All I'll say is I'm open to anybody's comments," Ikeda said. "It needs to be organized, and I encourage it."
"I'm not talkin' about comments. I'm talkin about act-u-a-lity," Washington replied, and sat down.
At some points, a few producers mulled the idea that things might actually improve under BAVC, which is expected to formally take over public-access operations in September after it finalizes a deal with the city. One producer looked around the room where all but a couple of attendees were under 40 and admitted that bringing in the youth with which BAVC works could be beneficial: BAVC "will bring in new ideas, what I've been asking for a long time." Dee Dee demanded that people snap out of their funk: "I don't understand this fear. It can't be worse. I want some optimism."
After the meeting, producers huddled in the hallway, finishing the snacks and exchanging their still-unquelled concerns about the station. After all the others had left, three icons of the public-access old guard, David Miles, Dee Dee, and Queen Bee (making a surprise appearance after seven years off the air, leaving her bumblebee getup at home, alas), reminisced about the old station. Miles said BAVC seemed like the same old "corporate" strategy as Access SF, and concluded that he was done with his show: "The public access we knew is gone."
