inside the wild plan to turn movie theaters into fitness centers for your brain (+ a filmstack challenge)
A radical blueprint on transforming our dying theaters into cultural fitness centers. And a Filmstack Challenge!
My 3-part series “the death of cinema (and how to bring it back)” went viral in a way I wasn't expecting. Not internet viral (I wouldn’t wish that to my worse enemy in 2025) but industry-viral—the kind where film executives forward Substack links around and Sean Baker, king of let’s-bring-cinemas-back, follows you on Instagram after stumbling across your manifesto. So here we are!
A short note:
I've gotten some thoughtful comments on my "cultural gym" idea—fair points like "I don't want community at movies," "gyms suck," “I just want cheaper tickets”, and "stop making everything social."
All valid! There's no single framework that works for everyone across different ages, budgets, and preferences. What I'm offering is a menu of solutions for the industry to cherry-pick from based on their communities and priorities. Maybe the membership stuff speaks to you but the community elements don't. Maybe you love the programming ideas but couldn't care less about pricing.
Take what works, ignore what doesn't. If one idea made you think "that could actually work," I'm happy.
Now, let's talk about transforming these spaces...
The first layer of our cultural gym revolution starts with space itself. While I'd love to burn it all down and rebuild from scratch (architectural Marxism is my kink), we've got to work with what we have.
But most importantly:
Skip to the end of this article where I share this month’s ✨ FilmStack Challenge ✨
(I’ve been graciously nominated by
).the cultural gym facility
the workout zones
The post-viewing experience needs urgent intervention. Just like stretching after a workout or leaving therapy with some reflection time, I envision something similar for cinemas.
We could call these graduated transition spaces—moving from the intense focus of the screening room to semi-private discussion nooks to more social gathering areas. Not just places with overpriced wine, but thoughtfully designed spaces that facilitate the critical "meaning-making" phase of cultural fitness. Some might feature digital interfaces displaying question prompts related to the film just viewed, while others could offer comfortable seating arranged to encourage strangers to share perspectives. What's the point of watching a film that challenges you if there's nowhere to process that challenge?
South Coast Plaza, a mall that should logically be rotting in the e-commerce apocalypse, has survived by filling empty department stores by maximizing “hang time”. They understood that physical spaces now need to be social condensers, not commercial containers. Places where people actually want to linger, not just transact and flee. So why the hell are we still treating movie theaters like 1950s lecture halls?
Alamo Drafthouse built its entire brand on a zero-tolerance policy for phones and talking, which works beautifully for us uptight cinephiles who quietly rage when someone unwraps candy too loudly. But cultural gyms need different workout zones for different kinds of engagement. One size fits none.
Some screens could maintain monastery-level silence for intense focus, where even breathing too aggressively gets you dirty looks. Others might feature intermissions specifically designed for discussion breathers during challenging films, similar to how France's traditional entracte transforms movie-watching into a social ritual rather than a mute endurance test. Still others could experiment with "second-screen positive" screenings where looking up information or sharing reactions isn't villainized but incorporated into the experience. Training wheels for those of us whose attention spans have been murdered by TikTok.
The mindfulness movement has already colonized corporate America with meditation apps and breathing exercises for stressed executives who caused their own problems. What if theaters borrowed from yoga studios and offered brief pre-film rituals? Thirty seconds of darkness and silence before the movie starts, with a gentle reminder to silence devices and settle into a receptive state. SoulCycle instructors dim lights and set intentions; cinema could reclaim similar territory as one of the last refuges for uninterrupted thought at a fraction of the price.
Some theaters might go even further with actual loyalty rewards for deep engagement, verified through voluntary phone lock pouches like those Yondr provides for comedy shows and concerts. Imagine earning points or unlocks for completing a film festival series without checking your phone once. Gamification that rewards cultural endurance rather than distraction. "Congrats! You've gone 30 days without looking at Instagram during a screening! You've unlocked: the ability to actually follow a complex plot."
class inclusive design
Cultural funding across Western democracies continues to shrink at alarming rates. France, once leading the way with its famous Culture Pass (which gave every 15-18-year-old €300 each month for arts events) was just sliced in half. English Councils also announced they’re slashing all culture spending by 50%. Germany and the Netherlands as well. The pattern is clear: public investment in shared cultural experiences is being systematically dismantled when we need it most.
If we're serious about reimagining cinemas as "cultural gyms" – spaces where we exercise our capacities for empathy, critical thinking, and imagination – we need solutions that prioritize inclusion over exclusivity. The most promising accessibility model may be municipal cinema ownership. Rather than treating theaters as purely commercial enterprises, cities like can operate cinema networks as public services—similar to libraries or parks. For example:
Romania: The Victoria Film Association partnered with a municipality to manage the Cinema Victoria.
Germany: Municipal theaters, like those in Germany and Austria, are financed by the town or city in which they are situated.
Other European countries: Many smaller, single-screen cinemas in various European countries are owned and operated by local municipalities.
The key to their success is that locations are deliberately distributed throughout the city, including working-class districts typically bypassed by commercial chains.
On the other hand, while subscription services like AMC A-List (ranging from $25.99/month to $27.99/month) have gained traction, they still primarily serve middle-class audiences. More radical approaches include:
Income-verified pricing: Municipal theaters offer monthly cinema passes at three price points (€15/€25/€35) based on household income verification
"Pay what you can" nights: Film societies allow patrons to self-determine ticket prices one evening per week
Subsidized pass sharing: Cinemas offer "plus-one" subscriptions where each visit includes a free companion ticket, encouraging patrons to introduce cinema to friends who might not attend otherwise
But pricing means nothing if theaters aren't physically accessible. The concentration of cinemas in affluent urban areas has created literal "cinema deserts" in lower-income neighborhoods and rural communities. Mobile cinema initiatives offer one proven solution. France's Cinémobile program operates converted buses that travel to 46 small towns monthly, bringing first-run films to communities without permanent theaters. The program serves several thousands of viewers annually at standard ticket prices, proving viability without price gouging.
We need to get serious about cinema cooperatives, where community members literally co-own their local theater through crowdfunding or membership. This isn't some utopian fantasy, it's already happening. The Brattle Film Foundation in Cambridge, the Tampa Theatre, and Michigan's Vogue Theater all transitioned to nonprofit community ownership models that prioritize cultural mission over quarterly earnings. Yes, people actually care about keeping their historic theaters from becoming yet another luxury condo development with names like "The Marquee at Madison Heights" that cost $4000 a month for 600 square feet.
Physical design and policy choices often create invisible barriers that might as well be velvet ropes. Restrictive outside food policies particularly screw over lower-income patrons who can't afford to drop $27 on a small popcorn and a Coke. Let's normalize "relaxed screenings" with actually human policies: lights kept dimly on, outside food explicitly welcomed (bring your whole damn picnic, I don't care), and casual conversation permitted. These sessions will certainly attract more diverse audiences than standard screenings of the exact same films. Almost like people enjoy not being treated like misbehaving kindergarteners.
Similarly, programming choices that acknowledge working schedules actually matter. Expanded early morning and late evening screenings accommodate shift workers who don't have the luxury of 7pm weeknight availability. Free childcare during select screenings removes barriers for parents who shouldn't have to choose between cultural engagement and basic parenting.
the membership models
status through cultural fitness
Cinema memberships still think they're rewarding loyalty when they should be building identity. People pay $45/month for workout apps that track their fitness journeys. They obsess over their Strava stats. Why? Because what we consume has become who we are.
Imagine cinema memberships with tiered, visually distinct physical cards that evolve as members deepen their engagement. Entry-level members might receive a basic card, while those who complete curated film journeys or participate in discussions receive distinctive upgrades—perhaps with director signatures, special edition artwork, or materials that signal insider status. Flash it at the theater and everyone instantly recognizes your status as the person who completed the Cassavetes retrospective or the Japanese horror marathon. Fintech apps like Revolut do this well with their shiny card designs.
"Have you joined Film Forum's Hong Kong Action pathway yet? I'm halfway through and my brain is completely rewired" becomes a flex, not unlike telling someone you've been crushing Barry Bootcamp's Hell Week (or whatever they’re calling it). The membership isn't just getting you in the door. It's positioning you as someone with particular cultural coordinates.
The aspirational ladder matters too. Theater loyalty programs currently all offer variations on the same sad theme: spend enough money and eventually we'll give you... checks notes... a free medium soda. Incredible. I can literally feel my social standing rising. Revolut’s membership tiers range from Plus (you get some basic benefits such as free ATM withdrawals internationally) to Ultra (this gives you access to a variety of subscriptions that appeal to a certain lifestyle e.g. Financial Times, Headspace and Masterclass). Real cultural fitness requires transformation pathways organized around taste and knowledge.
Theaters could organize fast-track advancement programs – "Complete our Horror Evolution series this October and unlock permanent early access to midnight premieres" – turning sporadic visits into pathway commitments. Your first month might expose you to foundational films across traditions. By month three, you're exploring specific movements in depth. Year two, you're contributing to programming decisions or leading post-film discussions.
The membership becomes bigger than single films. When someone completes the New Hollywood retrospective, they instantly want to tackle 70s paranoia thrillers next. The dopamine hit of progress keeps people coming back – the same psychological hook that makes video games addictive. Except here, the skill tree advancement is developing actual cultural literacy (while having fun!).
This approach would be especially powerful if it circumvents economic gatekeeping. Scholarships and nomination systems can ensure that premium tiers include knowledge-rich cinephiles alongside wealth-rich patrons. Or for every premium spot available through payment, one should open to members who've demonstrated exceptional insight and passion regardless of spending level.
status through shared emotionality
Every December, millions of people post their Spotify Wrapped summaries not because they care about their listening stats, but because they're dropping identity breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel with better music taste. "My top genre was 'Nordic folk electronic' and my most played artist was someone you've definitely never heard of" isn't data sharing, it's social signaling.
Cinema membership needs this same social currency. Let's think beyond generic "Film Club" meetups and replace them with specific emotional entry points. "First-Reaction Screenings" where no one has seen the film before and immediate reactions are encouraged (gasps allowed, no shushing). "Deep Watch" sessions for films that reward obsessive frame-by-frame analysis. "Capitalism Dread" nights that build communities around, you know, the monster slowly consuming our souls.
Each group needs its rituals and signifiers, too. First-Reaction members might post hot takes on a members-only board in the lobby before leaving. Capitalism Dread crews could trade podcast recommendations during intermission. These rituals might sound ridiculous to outsiders, just like CrossFit people naming workouts after fallen soldiers or climbers debating whether something is "V4 or V5, bro," but that's exactly the point. In-group signaling creates belonging.
Year-end summaries would track connection points, not just viewing history: which screenings sparked actual conversations, which strangers became friends, which emotional journeys you shared with others. This transforms your attendance record from consumption tracking to relationship mapping. Less "you watched 42 movies" and more "you cried with 17 strangers during that one scene in December."
status through exclusivity
The third pathway to status embraces exclusivity, not as a velvet rope to keep people out, but as a tool for pulling them deeper in. I want us to acknowledge that certain forms of status do come from scarcity, without recreating the class barriers we're trying to tear down.
I’ve noticed the following in luxury marketing: consumers increasingly reject "empty" luxury that offers only material exclusivity. Instead, they want experiences that give them narrative privilege, unique stories and knowledge they can drop at dinner parties. Applied to cinema, this means the most desirable exclusivity isn't about leather recliners or free popcorn, but access to film culture that others don't have.
Reimagine premium membership around participation, not passive comfort. "Film Lab" members get quarterly workshops where directors dissect their craft like a cinematic anatomy class. "Programming Circle" members help select films for certain slots, gaining curatorial agency. "Creator Sessions" connect members with filmmakers for intimate Q&As after watching works still bleeding from the editing room.
Theater owners will inevitably protest: "We don't have the budget to become cultural fitness centers!" But that completely misunderstands the intervention. Most theaters already have the essential infrastructure, screens, spaces, programming capabilities. This isn't about installing gold-plated cupholders.
In a world where practically any film is available at home, theaters that stick with purely transactional relationships are basically filming their own death scene. Theaters that transform into cultural fitness centers, places where people build expertise, join tribes, and gain status through participation, those might actually be worth putting on pants for.
the training programs
curated programming
Last month I found myself at a bougie gym in Athens, the kind where water costs €6 and everyone looks inexplicably dry despite exercising, watching a trainer guide a pack of middle-aged executives through something she called "Transformation Tuesday." The name made me roll my eyes hard enough to pull a muscle, but I couldn't look away. She'd crafted this bizarrely effective progression where each station built on the previous one, muscles they'd activated early in the circuit suddenly becoming crucial for more complex movements later, like a Christopher Nolan plot but with more grunting. By the end, these corporate warriors, the same men who probably use LinkedIn as a dating app, were pulling off combinations they'd have absolutely collapsed attempting an hour earlier.
On my walk home, past the closed arthouse theater with peeling Tarantino posters, I kept thinking: when was the last time cinema made me feel that sensation? Not just entertained, but transformed. When was the last time a theater actually curated my experience instead of just selling me a ticket and pointing vaguely toward auditorium 7? When did watching movies become less intentional than learning how to properly squat?
Curation in theaters has devolved into the most predictable pattern recognition: "we'll show Casablanca on Valentine's Day" or "horror movies in October" or "something with explosions in summer." Most of them are not designing proper training programs for our imaginations.
So what if, and I'm about to get radical here, prepare yourself, what if programmers actually thought like film festival curators? Not just showing random movies but creating escalating cultural workouts designed to build specific emotional and intellectual muscles over time? Imagine "Narrative Cross-Training," monthly programs structured like fitness progressions, where each screening deliberately prepares you for the next, like a cultural Couch-to-5K. January's series begins with relatively straightforward stories (your narrative jumping jacks) before incrementally introducing more challenging structures each week (your narrative burpees), training audiences to process complexity just as your core strengthens through consistent, progressive overload. You wouldn't go from never exercising to deadlifting 300 pounds, so why do we expect people to jump from Marvel movies to 4-hour Béla Tarr films with nothing in between?
We could also steal from how live sports like boxing and F1 have transformed into global cultural phenomena by understanding the power of episodic narrative. They craft season-long stories with consistent characters and evolving tensions that build to climactic moments, all while selling you energy drinks that taste like battery acid.
Cinema could swipe this playbook through year-round programming tentpoles, not just isolated screenings but interconnected cultural events that build anticipation and community. Imagine monthly signature events that become load-bearing structures in our cultural calendars, reference points around which we organize our lives, the way sports fans structure their years around seasons or the way I structure mine around Taylor Swift album releases. Picture a flagship documentary series following fresh filmmakers like Ryan Coogler showing the messy reality of financing, producing, and releasing their films in real-time. Basically Drive to Survive but with fewer crashes and more emotional breakdowns in editing rooms.
Another exhibition model almost never discussed is the power of mystery and discovery as curatorial strategies. The most electric movie experience I had last year wasn't a $200 million blockbuster, it was the Surprise Film screening at London Film Festival where nobody knew what we were watching until the title appeared, like a blind date with cinema where you've actually been set up by someone with taste. The curation team has built such trust that audiences surrender to their sold-out selections each year like they're getting cinematic baptized. When the lights dimmed, the room hummed with anticipation so thick you could spread it on toast. The film itself (Saturday Night) wasn't even that extraordinary, but the experience was transformative precisely because I hadn't selected it myself. It challenged me in ways self-selection wouldn't.
This experience mimics what actually happens in effective fitness programs. Trainers push you past self-imposed limitations, making you attempt movements you'd absolutely skip if creating your own workout because who voluntarily does Bulgarian split squats? Cinema could create similar guided discovery journeys through curatorial subscription programs, maybe even "blind trust" memberships where audiences commit to experiencing a curator's selections sight unseen throughout a season. In the UK, Odeon have dipped their toe in these waters with surprise “Screen Unseen” screenings, discovering audiences will actually pay to be expertly guided outside their comfort zones, which makes sense since we already pay therapists to tell us things we don't want to hear.
If proper curators aren't available, theaters could also completely abandon traditional programming schedules in favor of what I call "narrative weather," responding to cultural moments in real-time instead of planning months ahead like a corporate content calendar. When a major political scandal breaks (and unthankfully, we've got many of those these days), quickly assemble a program examining corruption through fiction and documentary, creating an immediate space for cultural processing. When a local musician dies, organize an overnight musical film marathon around their genre. The programming becomes responsive personal training, addressing the specific cultural fitness needs of the moment rather than generic schedules designed by executives who think "diverse programming" means showing both Marvel AND DC.
content diversification
Back in January, I caught a Tuesday night screening of Black Bag in a theater so empty it felt like a private viewing – just me, two elderly couples, and about fifty vacant seats collecting dust. The same theater would be packed like a Tokyo subway for Minecraft that Thursday, but tonight we were cinema wilderness explorers. The emptiness felt almost spiritual, and the movie slapped – exactly the kind of mid-budget adult thriller where actual humans do complicated things instead of punching air. While Soderbergh's camera slithered through those neon-lit hotel hallways like a voyeuristic snake, I couldn't stop thinking: Why the actual hell are theaters just sitting around waiting for studios to maybe, possibly, if-they're-feeling-generous, send them something worth showing?
That's when I thought (and apologies in advance if this is already happening): What if major theater chains collectively told studios to eat glass and created their own content cooperative? Imagine AMC, Regal, and Cinemark in the US joining forces with Pathé in France and Cinepolis in Mexico. Together, they could pool $50-100 million annually to finance 8-10 mid-budget films that remember humans exist. Real movies with magnetic stars and visionary directors telling stories about actual people with actual problems, not just IP exploitation machines churning out Sequel #7 of Childhood Nostalgic Property You Vaguely Remember.
When theaters invest in the films they screen, they guarantee these movies proper runs instead of treating them like unwanted houseguests. A thoughtful drama directed by Noah Baumbach or Chloe Zhao gets time to grow an audience through word-of-mouth instead of being shoved out the door after seven days because the theater needs another screen for Fast & Furious 23: Even Faster, Even More Furious (Now With Space Motorcycles). Controlling both production and exhibition means films can breathe and find their people organically, not just pray for opening weekend salvation.
This model creates a buffet of wins. Theaters get exclusive content that isn't scrollable on seventeen different streaming services. Filmmakers score a new avenue to make movies for audiences starving for anything that doesn't involve a cape or talking animal. Most crucially, communities get films that actually mirror their lives and experiences. Wild concept, I know!
The groundwork is already there, waiting like an eager understudy. MUBI has successfully straddled streaming and theatrical by shocking everyone and actually believing in specific films and specific audiences rather than just feeding an algorithm until it bursts. When Amazon dropped $8.45 billion on MGM, they signaled they understand the lasting value of theatrical even while building their streaming fortress. The infrastructure sits there, ready to be seized by exhibitors willing to actually reshape the landscape instead of just installing marginally comfier seats and calling it revolutionary innovation.
A cooperative could transform representation in cinema from performative press release to actual reality. Theaters could greenlight films specifically for communities Hollywood pretends don't exist, knowing they have guaranteed distribution in places hungry for authentic storytelling. They could build pipelines with film schools and emerging filmmakers that don't require selling your creative soul to the highest bidder. Regional theater groups could even produce content tailored to their local audiences, bringing cinema back to its community roots instead of force-feeding identical content to Boise and Brooklyn.
The cooperative model would blow up how we think about international programming too. Rather than relegating foreign films to precious art house corners where people whisper reverently, theaters could dedicate entire seasons to global storytelling with actual marketing behind them. Picture a spring quarter where each week showcases a major release from a different country, backed by the same promotional muscle usually reserved for domestic explosions. Korean thriller one week, Indian romance the next, Mexican drama after that. We've watched the appetite for international content explode on streaming like a cultural supernova. People want these stories, they just need consistent access without having to hunt for them like cinematic truffles.
I'm tired watching theaters function as passive recipients of whatever studios decide to send down the content pipeline. Cinema was born in theaters, breathed its first breath there. It's time we stopped accepting a role as glorified warehouses with overpriced Milk Duds and started shaping the future we want to see on screen.
To be continued…
this month’s filmstack challenge
recently launched the monthly FilmStack Challenge as a way for film writers and enthusiasts across Substack to collaborate on solutions for cinema's future. You can see
Challenge #1 and Challenge #2 here.The concept is simple: writers, like you, respond to the monthly prompt on their own newsletters, creating a decentralized brainstorming session. You can participate by posting on your own Substack, in the comments here, or anywhere else (just link back so others can find all the responses).
This month's challenge: What 5 movies would make an amazing "progressive workout" sequence for film newbies?
Or other ways to think about this:
What 5 movies would you use to turn someone into a film lover?
Design your perfect 5-movie introduction to cinema.
Here’s my 5-film cinema bootcamp:
1. Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Start here because this film does something most live-action movies have forgotten how to do: it trusts you to read pure visual language. Every frame bursts with information—comic book panels bleeding into reality, different animation styles for each Spider-person, colors that shift with emotional states. Miles learning to control his powers mirrors you learning to process multiple visual streams simultaneously. By the time you're tracking six different animation techniques in one sequence, you've developed the visual literacy muscles that most people never build. Plus, it's genuinely thrilling, which matters when you're asking someone to rewire their brain.
2. A Separation (2011)
Now we slow everything down. Farhadi's domestic thriller operates on completely different rhythms than Hollywood. Long takes, conversations that breathe, drama built through accumulated small moments rather than manufactured crisis. You'll spend the first twenty minutes wondering when something will "happen," then realize everything has been happening, you just needed to adjust your attention span. This is your cardio training for international cinema. The Iranian family dynamics, the moral complexity where no one is purely right or wrong, the way truth shifts depending on perspective. It's preparing you to engage with films that don't spoon-feed meaning.
3. 8½ (1963)
Fellini throws you into the deep end of narrative sophistication, but you're ready now. Dreams bleed into reality, memories interrupt the present, and the story becomes about the impossibility of telling a coherent story. After mastering visual language and patient observation, you can handle a film that questions the nature of filmmaking itself. The meta-narrative structure that Christopher Nolan borrowed decades later, the stream-of-consciousness editing that influenced everyone from David Lynch to Charlie Kaufman—this is where cinema learned to fold in on itself.
4. Do the Right Thing (1989)
Everything you've learned gets stress-tested in Spike Lee's pressure cooker. The visual sophistication of Spider-Verse, the cultural specificity of A Separation, the narrative complexity of 8½—now applied to one sweltering Brooklyn day where every frame carries racial, economic, and social weight. Lee's camera moves like a restless observer, his color palette burns with symbolic meaning, and every character represents different responses to systemic oppression. There's no easy resolution, no clear villain, just the messy reality of people trying to survive in a system designed to pit them against each other. If you can handle this film's moral complexity without needing someone to tell you who to root for, you've developed critical thinking muscles.
5. Cleo from 5 to 7 (1962)
The final test: 90 minutes of real-time anxiety as a singer awaits potentially fatal medical results. Varda's camera follows Cleo through Paris streets, café encounters, and internal monologue with the kind of observational patience that demands everything you've built. The visual poetry, the feminist perspective decades ahead of its time, the way mundane moments become profound through precise observation—this is cinema as meditation. If you can appreciate Cleo's transformation from vain performer to genuine human being, if you can find beauty in her quiet epiphanies, you've graduated. You're ready for any film that trusts audiences to think and feel simultaneously.
Now I’m soooo excited to see what you guys come up with 🫶
A final note for people with taste 🫦
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Now go forth and raise those standards, darling.
- Sophie x
Municipal ownership is brilliant.
Love all of this!
Are we supposed to comment our filmstack challenge here? If so here's mine:
https://amandasweikow.substack.com/p/filmstack-challenge-3