let's help cinema with these 4 industry shifts

I've mapped out four more solutions that could transform how we experience movies forever. And none involve better popcorn.

Credit: Mo Eid

So in recent weeks, we've explored the physical spaces of cinemas as cultural gyms and designed membership models that build identity rather than just track transactions. But the most ingenious facility means nothing without the right trainers, programming, and management.

In this week’s issue, we're building out the operational blueprint—cultural personal trainers who guide our narrative workouts, identity marketing that positions films as belonging rather than mere entertainment, and reformed distribution models that sequence our cultural fitness like a proper training program. Think of it as shifting from "what does our gym look like?" to "how does our gym actually run?".

For the people in the film industry who've been flooding my inbox since the last instalment (hello!), consider this your actionable roadmap. For everyone else, it's further proof that saving theatrical cinema isn't about lamenting what's been lost, but revolutionizing what comes next.

member recruitment

we desperately need cultural personal trainers

Every time a new Marvel movie drops, I watch the same tired ritual unfold. Some poor actor gets shipped to 47 identical hotel rooms to answer the same question about what it was like to wear the superhero suit. Studios blast generic ads showing approximately three seconds of actual film footage mixed with critic quotes nobody remembers. TikTok fills with one-off creators posting contractually-obligated excitement about movies they clearly haven't seen or care about. The whole expensive circus collapses by Sunday night when the box office numbers come in, and we all move on to the next forgettable marketing blitz.

The beauty and food industries does the opposite (and quite successfully!). They don't just hire influencers for one-off product launches – they build year-round partnerships where creators genuinely integrate brands into their daily routines and personal narratives. Take the iconic Remi Cruz, who has 2.5 million YouTube subscribers and somehow got her engagement announced in People Magazine. She's built an empire by making her followers feel like they're getting beauty advice from a trusted friend, not a marketing machine. When she talks about a product, it's woven into her daily life - her morning routine, her food vlogs, her casual conversations. She's a trusted advisor, not a marketing vector.

Now look at your favorite film podcaster or that YouTube critic whose taste you actually trust. They've spent years building deep relationships with their audiences, sparking genuine conversations about cinema, creating real communities around film. When they recommend something, their audience shows up because there's actual trust there, not just paid promotion.

These people are our cultural personal trainers. They're already doing the work of keeping film culture alive while the rest of us doom-scroll through Netflix wondering why everything looks the same. They just don't have the infrastructure or incentives to scale beyond their passionate-but-limited audience. Sadly, and I know this first-hand, dedicated film channels with devoted audiences get treated like they're begging for scraps when they request review screeners.

So here's my idea: What if theaters treated these cultural voices like actual partners in rebuilding film culture instead of annoying parasites? That film essayist with 20,000 devoted followers gets a percentage when their audience buys tickets using their code. The horror podcast that's been championing international releases while you were still watching Paranormal Activity sequels earns bonuses when their recommendations drive attendance. The local critic who's built a following around underappreciated indies gets early access and resources to create deeper content that isn't just "5 Easter Eggs You Missed in Inception."

The approach could work beyond established creators, too. Why not give film students incentives for organizing campus screenings instead of watching pirated movies on their laptops? Help local film societies expand their programming beyond the same five Kubrick films? Connect small theaters with cultural voices in their communities who understand that people in Toledo might actually want something different than people in Brooklyn? Build enough micro-communities around theatrical viewing, and suddenly you've got something that feels genuine rather than manufactured by the same marketing agency that decided "girl dinner" should be a thing.

But theaters need their own in-house cultural trainers too. I'm picturing an entirely new role: part programmer, part community organizer, part film evangelist, part therapist for audience members who just watched Aftersun and have feelings about it. These people would connect with specific audience segments, designing viewing journeys tailored to their interests and barriers to entry.

Just love this picture of workers at Nitehawk Cinema Prospect Park unionizing.

The retired professor who misses discussing films gets a senior matinee club with post-screening conversations about the male gaze or whatever. Parents who can't justify a babysitter for a random movie get parent-child screenings that make moviegoing feel worth the effort of packing snacks and explaining why that character just died. Teenagers whose film education comes exclusively from TikTok edits get programs that meet them where they are (obsessed with Timothée Chalamet) and gradually expand their horizons (here's Call Me By Your Name, and by the way, have you heard of Italian cinema?).

These trainers would identify community-specific barriers to attendance and design targeted solutions. When they notice the Vietnamese community rarely attends foreign language screenings, they build connections with community leaders to understand why. When they see college students only showing up for Jason Statham films, they develop initiatives that turn action fans into international film enthusiasts.

Financially, it works like actual gym trainers. Some programming stays open to everyone, but members opt into specialized tracks with dedicated trainers who don't make you feel bad about your cinematic fitness level. That film buff membership we mentioned earlier could include monthly sessions to discuss what you've watched and plan future screenings that won't make you feel like you're doing homework. The family plan offers quarterly check-ins to identify films parents and kids might actually enjoy together without wanting to die of boredom.

The entire approach transforms how theaters measure success. Beyond basic box office numbers, they'd track retention rates, viewing diversity, and community growth. They'd see which trainers consistently expand members' cinematic horizons and which programs successfully convert casual viewers into regulars.

Regardless of what you think of this idea, one thing is clear. Old strategies aren't addressing the sticky problem: people need actual guidance through an overwhelming media landscape. We need trusted voices who understand our tastes, recognize our specific barriers, and help navigate toward experiences that might actually matter to us in between episodes of Love Is Blind.

stop selling movie tickets, start selling identity and belonging

I spent an hour last week watching a man in his thirties try on various shades of the famous Laneige lip mask on TikTok. Not because I needed THAT lip mask, I have at least 7 different lip balms lined up like soldiers on my bathroom counter—but because his whole aesthetic spoke to me. The tiny gold hoop earring. The way he called everything "juicy" or "dry" with absolute conviction. The soft lighting that made his apartment look like a Noguchi lamp come to life. I ended up buying the damn £21 mask, and now I'm part of whatever cool-person club he's silently curating.

Cinema's marketing problem isn't that people don't like movies anymore—it's that studios still think we're choosing films like we're picking cereal based on nutritional content rather than what the box says about us. Supreme sells $100 t-shirts with tiny box logos because they understand people buy identity markers first, cotton second. Rare Beauty sells belonging in a beauty community first, skincare products second.

Every seismic cinematic movement that actually mattered—French New Wave, New Hollywood, 90s American Indies—exploded exactly because they flipped off prevailing wisdom about what audiences supposedly wanted. These movements created desires rather than responding to them. When people claim they want the Snyder cut, what they're actually craving is something they haven't yet imagined. In other words, we're stuck in a "faster horses" problem: if you'd asked people what they wanted before cars existed, they'd have said faster horses, not combustion engines—yet the automobile revolution happened anyway.

A24 gets this. Their minimalist black-and-white logo functions exactly like Supreme's box—a cultural badge signaling membership in a specific taste tribe. People line up for "an A24 film" with zero knowledge of the actual content because watching signals belonging. The same twentysomethings who screenshot their Letterboxd diaries and post them as Instagram stories aren't tracking Rachel Sennott's character development in film reviews—they're broadcasting cultural alignment. The actual story matters less than the cultural position taken by supporting it. We're talking self-definition via consumption, the same way wearing Doc Martens in 1993 meant something about your relationship to authority.

Source: The Sociology of Business

Case Study: A24

Every element of how cinema markets itself needs overhaul. Critics' quotes should highlight cultural impact alongside technical merits. Release campaigns should emphasize transformation as much as plot. Marketing should directly address the question audiences secretly care about:

"Who will I become by watching this?".

The most successful identity brands share principles that film marketing desperately needs to steal:

• First, they build shared language systems that mark community membership. Streetwear brands develop insider terminology that separates the cool kids from the basic. Gaming communities cultivate elaborate vocabularies that function as membership cards. ("Touch grass" wasn't born in a marketing meeting.) Studios need "cultural glossaries" alongside their release strategies—terminology, references, and frameworks that become part of viewers' vocabulary. Remember when "That's so fetch" escaped Mean Girls and entered everyday teen lexicon? When phrases from your movie become shorthand for cultural positioning, you've transcended content to become identity.

• Second, they take clear stances. Patagonia's "Don't Buy This Jacket" campaign defined their community boundaries with breathtaking clarity. The Ordinary skincare positions against marketing fluff with clinical packaging and ingredient-focused naming.

Film marketing typically tries pleasing everyone by saying nothing at all. I even quit the industry because of this nonsense! Studios need proper playbooks that establish what they stand for and against. Imagine NEON releasing position statements alongside their films:

"This film stands against algorithmic culture."

"This film rejects digital distraction and embraces sustained attention."

"This film celebrates what mainstream cinema has abandoned."

Such manifestos give viewers language to explain their cultural positioning through film selection. Watching becomes an identity statement rather than passive entertainment consumption. This approach flips the fundamental question studios ask about audience relationships from "How do we reach the maximum viewers?" to "How do we create maximum identity value for our core audience?".

• Third, real cultural gravity comes through community formation, not passive consumption. It's weird that luggage brands (I see you, Away) have built stronger communities than major film studios that literally deal in human stories.

Cinema needs to reframe viewing as joining rather than watching. Peloton sells bikes, sure, but they're also really selling community access through their digital platform. Studios could create belonging systems where theatrical viewing unlocks exclusive conversation spaces on Discord, filmmaker commentary on Substack, and cultural signifiers on IRL local spaces. Make the three-hour post-movie diner debate about symbolism and character motivations an official, curated part of the experience rather than a happy accident.

• Fourth, the most powerful modern brands understand consumption is performance. When someone wears Acne Studios or streams Lorde’s Virgin album five minutes after release, they're performing identity for social audiences. Film marketing rarely acknowledges this performative aspect, focusing on private enjoyment rather than social signaling.

Which brings me to: trailers need complete reinvention. Stop releasing them from studio channels; have cultural curators livestream first viewings on their platforms instead. Rather than explaining plot, trailers should capture cultural energy surrounding films. Show people reacting, discussing, arguing. Make the trailer a preview of the conversation viewers could join rather than content they'll consume. The "I'm in this film and I love talking about it" promotional tour that actors despise could be replaced by the "I'm absolutely obsessed with discussing this film" tours by people whose taste already commands attention.

• Fifth, the most powerful identity brands recognize exclusivity creates desire. Fashion houses instinctively understand this—they create hunger for silhouettes consumers never knew they wanted.

What if Blumhouse released their next horror film exclusively through single-screening events in unexpected locations—abandoned psychiatric hospitals, historical landmarks, private homes—with attendance limited to 100 people per screening? These events would become cultural moments, generating desire through scarcity and specificity. Or picture Warner Bros. creating a subscription-only "season" of new films, released simultaneously on the big screen with viewing access determined by membership tier. The conversations around access would generate as much cultural energy as the films themselves.

gym management

studios could make more money with better release timing

When I was growing up, my family's DVD collection was organized with the precision of a small-town library. My sister, who approached movie night with the seriousness of a museum curator, would pull slim cases from their alphabetized rows and announce each selection as if unveiling a rare artifact. There was ritual in the waiting—between theatrical release and that moment when a film could finally join our physical archive. We'd spend months anticipating certain titles, discussing their merits in theoretical terms, our excitement building like a carefully structured crescendo. My sister called this "the proper cycle of appreciation." I called it torture.

But looking back, I see what we've lost in our streaming-dominated era where the "proper cycle" has collapsed into a flat line of instant accessibility. Like a fitness regimen that promises immediate results without proper progression, our current distribution model sacrifices long-term cultural health for instant gratification. Film distribution has become a rushed free-for-all with movies appearing on streaming platforms mere weeks after theatrical debuts—sometimes simultaneously—leaving no time for cultural absorption or communal discovery. The theatrical experience, once a specialized training zone for our cultural muscles, has been reduced to an optional warm-up before the main event of home viewing.

What the cinema industry needs is the equivalent of periodized training. A distribution approach that builds cultural strength through thoughtful progression rather than random, haphazard content dumps. Take France's media chronology laws as a case study in structured cultural fitness. Their system requires films to spend approximately four months exclusively in theaters before progressing to subsequent platforms, and streaming services must wait up to 15-17 months before accessing theatrical content (though Disney+ just negotiated that number to 9 months in return of investing 25% of its annual net turnover in France in French and European productions, which is a great deal imo!).

The results speak volumes: France’s cinema has, for the most part, rebounded post-pandemic, their theatrical ecosystem thriving even as neighboring countries struggled to regain attendance. The French model treats distribution as a progressive training program where each phase serves a distinct purpose in the cultural fitness journey.

Saint-Andre-des-Arts cinema in Paris // Elena Dijour, Shutterstock

A reshaped distribution model could mirror the principles that drive effective fitness programming: progression, specificity, variation, and recovery. First and foremost, studios need to commit to meaningful theatrical windows (not the stunted 17 or 30-day exclusivity periods we're seeing, but 60-90 day minimums that allow films to build word-of-mouth momentum and theaters to capture a film's full potential). Think of this as allowing proper muscle recovery between training sessions. When we rush a film from theaters to streaming, we're essentially overtraining our cultural attention, never allowing full adaptation to occur. The "no pain, no gain" mentality is as destructive in distribution as it is in fitness. Proper recovery (exclusivity periods) allows for growth.

Beyond window length, a sophisticated distribution program would incorporate tiered progressions. Just as a good trainer varies the stimulus—strength days, endurance days, flexibility work—each distribution platform should offer a distinct experience rather than delivering identical content through different portals.

Imagine a model where theatrical releases feature extended cuts or filmmaker commentaries unavailable elsewhere. Then, when the film transitions to premium VOD, it debuts with supplementary content specific to at-home viewing. By the time it reaches subscription streaming, perhaps it includes platform-exclusive making-of documentaries. Each phase would provide unique value instead of cannibalizing the previous one, a model that treats viewers not as content consumers but as cultural athletes building different aspects of their appreciation through varied exposures.

Dynamic windowing based on performance metrics represents another untapped opportunity—an approach that honors the biological principle that different bodies respond differently to training stimuli. Some theater chains have experimented with letting audiences vote on repertory programming. Scale that up: visualize a system where theaters could adjust their schedules based on real-time data and community interest. A surprise hit could expand to more screens without waiting for next week's predetermined shuffle. A beloved film could extend its run if the audience demands it. Like a gym adding classes when signup sheets fill up, theaters could become more nimble in meeting their communities' appetites.

Conversely, let’s absolutely allow earlier platform releases for underperformers to mitigate losses. At the end of the day, we want to incentivize all stakeholders to maximize theatrical performance while remaining responsive to audience behavior—essentially a personalized training program adjusted based on progress markers.

The film industry could learn from the nuance of athletic periodization by implementing collaborative scheduling between studios and exhibitors. The current release calendar resembles a gym where everyone shows up wanting the same equipment at the same time. Chaos ensues, and nobody gets an optimal workout. If a romantic comedy is tracking well with women 25-40, don't bury it against a Marvel movie chasing the same weekend crowd - pair it with that R-rated horror film drawing a completely different audience. Create an algorithm that identifies complementary audience segments and optimal release patterns. If Amazon can predict what I'll buy next Tuesday, surely we can build a system that spots the perfect weekend for a mid-budget drama to thrive between superhero tentpoles.

When every film is instantly available everywhere, we lose the progression that builds cultural muscles: the anticipation, the communal theatrical experience, the delayed gratification of home viewing with new perspective. We need to move from distribution as an exhausting content treadmill to distribution as a thoughtfully designed training program, building cultural strength through intelligent sequencing and specificity.

Maybe my sister's "proper cycle of appreciation" wasn't torture after all, but a form of cultural strength training that built deeper connection with each film.

we need to remind MPA what business it's in

The Motion Picture Association counts nipples in PG-13 movies with the skill of a forensic accountant, but mysteriously loses all regulatory energy when it comes to protecting theatrical windows. Their evolution from industry guardian to Prime Video's best friend calls for something beyond just solutions about release dates. The solution involves putting pressure on the organization from multiple angles until they actually start doing their job again.

Cinema United (the cooler, rebranded version of the old National Association of Theater Owners) needs to use the leverage they actually have – those physical screens where Top Gun: Maverick made a billion dollars – so let’s introduce "Exhibitor's Seal of Approval". When Netflix tried rushing The Irishman to streaming, theaters simply said "nope" and Netflix backed down. Formalizing this across all major chains creates real consequences for studios that disrespect exhibition. "Your movie gets prominent placement and marketing support if you commit to proper windows. Rush to streaming? Enjoy screen #14 next to the bathroom." Studios respond to power plays, not polite requests.

This exhibitor leverage gets exponentially stronger if Cinema United partners with the Independent Film & Television Alliance tomorrow morning. Both organizations need each other – IFTA's members need screens, and theaters need content that won't disappear after two weeks. This alliance creates a legitimate power center to counterbalance the MPA's streaming obsession.

Government pressure adds another layer of accountability because sometimes you need adults in the room. The Justice Department already broke up studio-theater monopolies once with the 1948 Paramount Decree. While direct regulation feels unlikely in today's political climate, congressional hearings on theatrical exhibition would force MPA executives to defend their practices under oath. Nothing motivates corporate behavior like public embarrassment on C-SPAN.

Congress did see theaters as cultural institutions worth preserving during COVID through the Save Our Stages act. A logical extension would be a Cinema Recovery Fund matching marketing dollars for theatrical-first releases. Studios love government money more than they love quarterly streaming metrics. Tax incentives work too – look at how quickly production companies relocate entire shoots to whatever state offers the best tax package. Apply this same principle to theatrical windows, with bigger credits for films that maintain proper exhibition periods. The MPA will suddenly rediscover their regulatory backbone when members' tax breaks depend on it.

In the golden age of Hollywood, studios and theaters negotiated standard contracts via the MPA’s predecessor. Time to bring this back with a voluntary code of conduct that has actual teeth. Studios commit to theatrical-first releases for films above certain budgets; theaters guarantee anti-piracy measures and flexibility for smaller films. This should be easy – it's essentially how the MPAA ratings system works. Studios submit films voluntarily because theaters won't play unrated content. The same principle applies here: formalize windowing standards through transparent agreements. Include other stakeholders too. Directors and actors increasingly demand theatrical releases in their contracts. Christopher Nolan and Tom Cruise didn't just politely request theater runs for Oppenheimer and Top Gun; they made it contractually mandatory. The talent has power here. Get them at the table with Cinema United, the MPA, and the guilds.

All these approaches work better together than separately. Exhibitor alliances create immediate leverage. Government incentives change financial calculations. Distribution alternatives offer escape from dependency. Formal agreements institutionalize the changes. The MPA faces a clear choice: start enforcing meaningful standards again or watch exhibitors, government, independent distributors, and talent rebuild the system without them.

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While we've been busy debating movie lengths, the real revolution waits in turning film-watching from passive consumption into active belonging. Give me cultural personal trainers curating my viewing journey, marketing that sells transformation instead of plot points, and distribution models that build anticipation rather than instant access. Cinema just needs to catch up and sell us who we could be rather than what we might watch.

Movies have always been about becoming and belonging – they just forgot to market it that way.

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A final note for people with taste 🫦

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Now go forth and raise those standards, darling.

- Sophie x