Mariama Diallo is a Brooklyn based writer-director. Her short film “Hair Wolf” premiered at the 2018 Sundance Film Festival, where it won The Short Film Jury Award: U.S. Fiction. “Hair Wolf” was later released on HBO and the Criterion Channel. Most recently, Diallo co-wrote, co-directed, and co-starred in the short film “White Devil,” which premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival. In 2018, she worked as writer and director on the Peabody Award-winning HBO series “Random Acts of Flyness,” and in 2020 returned for the Season 2 writers room. “Master” marks her debut film. It’s being released by Amazon Studios.

“Master” is screening at the 2022 Sundance Film Festival, which is running online from January 20-30. More information can be found on the fest’s website.

W&H: Describe the film for us in your own words.

MD: “Master” follows three women struggling to make a place for themselves at an elite New England university almost as old as the country.

Gail Bishop (Regina Hall) has just been promoted to “Master,” essentially a dean of students, which suddenly complicates her friendship with professor Liv Beckman (Amber Gray). After first-year Jasmine Moore (Zoe Renee) becomes the target of anonymous racist attacks – which Jasmine insists are actually hauntings from the school’s past – Gail must confront the true nature of the place she calls home.

W&H: What drew you to this story?

MD: The word “master” is so full and multifaceted – and so absolutely loaded. I spent a lot of time thinking about the word itself, and from there the story began to evolve.

I knew early on that I wanted to follow a black woman who had been given the academic title of “Master.” I wanted to watch how she responded to the expectation placed on her, and how her behavior and perspective changed as a result.

W&H: What do you want people to think about after they watch the film?

MD: Is it possible to live honestly in a fundamentally dishonest place? How can a physical space distort behavior? What does that mean for we the people?

W&H: What was the biggest challenge in making the film?

MD: COVID-19. We began shooting in February 2020, and our shoot was paused when the entire world came to a standstill with the lockdowns of March 2020. We were fortunate to be able to resume production nearly a year later, in January 2021, but it was of course in a different world with very different rules. I remember receiving a dense document of COVID protocol a few months before we went back up, and feeling completely overwhelmed by the strictures the film had to abide by.

My biggest creative concern was how the film would be affected by circumstances of the shoot. Getting around this was incredibly challenging, and meant re-conceiving some scenes: for example, an interior scene scripted to have many background characters was rewritten as an exterior.

As stressful as it was, a lot of great outcomes arose from the challenge because I was compelled to come up with creative solutions that were stronger than the original ideas.

W&H: How did you get your film funded? Share some insights into how you got the film made.

MD: I developed “Master” at Animal Kingdom with producers Andy Roa, Brad Becker Parton, and Joshua Astrachan. When I came to them, I had already written a draft of the script, but we spent the better part of a year working on the story. Once we felt like the screenplay was in a really strong place, we went out to several financiers and production companies. Ultimately we really connected with our team at Amazon Original Movies, who came on and financed the film.

W&H: What inspired you to become a filmmaker?

MD: When it comes to my inspiration to become a filmmaker, it’s a little weird. I just kind of decided I would become a director one day when I was about 14, 15 years old. It may have been a bit of a vanity thing: I had acted in middle school, forever at the mercy of what a drama teacher thought of me, and I had this idea that a director is in charge. So for years I would say I wanted to be a director, and all it really meant for me was that I wanted to be in charge — which makes some sense, since so much of being a teenager is being out of control.

When I got to college, I took a screenwriting course, and that’s when everything fell into place. I’ve always loved storytelling. When I was very little, I would write constantly, but I gradually stopped writing. Screenwriting brought me back into stories, and then suddenly directing had a real purpose for me: I wanted to start with the seed of an idea and then be there at every step of its creative evolution to protect it and to push it even further.

W&H: What’s the best and worst advice you’ve received?

MD: Best advice: Go running. This is funny, because this is my dad’s blanket advice for everything, so much so that we make fun of him for it. But he’s onto something. Obviously, running is not for everyone, but having a daily practice of deliberate physical engagement is critical for me. After graduating from college, I remember feeling like a floating brain. I only occupied my mind. It was only once I started running that my mind and body became integrated. So my advice is: go running. Push yourself, feel your body. Live in every part of yourself; live in your toes as much as your brain. Plant your feet. Take up space.

Worst advice: This wasn’t said to me, but to another woman I know. She was told that on the first day on set she should pick a fight with a crew member and loudly berate them in front of everybody. I think this is supposed to establish dominance? Insanity.

W&H: What advice do you have for other women directors?

MD: Don’t be intimidated by people who wield their technical knowledge like a weapon.

W&H: Name your favorite woman-directed film and why.

MD: “Eve’s Bayou” by Kasi Lemmons. A haunting, poetic film. I first saw this when I was nine, and last saw it a few years ago when they played a print at BAM. It will forever hold up. Jurnee Smollett gives one of the best child performances of all time. The ensemble is outstanding, the photography is gorgeous. Sam Jackson as the bon vivant doctor dad? That mirror shot? Come on. And the storytelling is personal, inventive, daring. I love it.

W&H: How are you adjusting to life during the COVID-19 pandemic? Are you keeping creative, and if so, how?

MD: I’m lucky to have kept incredibly busy during the pandemic. The biggest thing was completing the shoot for “Master,” editing the film, and getting it through post. That’s been the past year of my life.

In late 2020, I teamed up again with some dear friends and collaborators in the “Random Acts of Flyness” Season 2 (virtual) writers room. Working in the room challenged me creatively and emotionally to truly engage with the moment we’re living in. For weeks, the people in the virtual room were virtually my only contact with the outside world. The experience was incredibly meaningful to me.

And finally, early in the pandemic I co-wrote, co-starred, and co-acted in a short film called “White Devil” that I made with my husband, Benjamin Dickinson. We shot that on 16mm and made it with an incredibly tiny “crew.” It’s a pandemic story that follows a grotesquely distorted version of ourselves in a horror-satire. “White Devil” premiered at TIFF 2021, and I’m so grateful to not only have been able to find creative outlets during the pandemic, but also emerge with a document of the time.

W&H: The film industry has a long history of underrepresenting people of color onscreen and behind the scenes and reinforcing — and creating — negative stereotypes. What actions do you think need to be taken to make it more inclusive?

MD: To me, it’s fairly simple: we just need to finance more projects by creators of color. There’s a lack of trust. While well meaning, the labyrinthine system of incubators, mentorships, and shadowing programs put creators of color in a position of proving themselves and obedience that I don’t see happening too often with white male directors. A person of color can get tied up for years going from program to program before ever getting the chance to just roll without training wheels.