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<title>The Industry That Ate Itself - Samantha Vero Friis</title>
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<p class="tag">// opinion</p>
<h1>The Industry<br />That Ate<br /><span>Itself</span></h1>
<div class="byline">
<span>Samantha Vero Friis</span>
<span></span>
<span>Film &amp; Media</span>
</div>
</header>
<article>
<p class="lead">
Cinema is not dying because audiences stopped caring about
film. It is dying because the people running it stopped
making decisions that could produce anything worth caring
about. That is a business problem, not a cultural one - and
it has a clear and traceable cause.
</p>
<h2>How You Optimize a Creative Industry to Death</h2>
<p>
Every major studio is ultimately answerable to capital. That
is not unusual - most industries are. What is unusual about
film is that capital and creative quality are in unusually
direct tension. A film that takes a genuine risk might return
ten times its budget or nothing. A sequel to an established
property will almost certainly return two or three times its
budget, reliably, with predictable variance. For a public
company managing quarterly earnings, the choice is not
difficult. You make the sequel.
</p>
<p>
The problem is that this logic, applied consistently across
an entire industry over twenty years, does not produce a
stable business. It produces a slow erosion of the thing
that made the business worth having in the first place.
Audiences do not go to cinemas to see sequels to sequels.
They go because occasionally something extraordinary happens
on a screen and they want to be in the room when it does.
Strip out the extraordinary, and you have stripped out the
reason to show up.
</p>
<h2>The Franchise as a Business Model</h2>
<p>
The Matrix is a precise case study because the original
trilogy was, by design, a complete thing. Three films with
a beginning, a middle, and an ending. The story resolved.
The characters finished where they were going. Whatever
criticisms one might make of Reloaded or Revolutions, the
trilogy had the structural integrity of something that knew
it was going to end. That is increasingly rare, and it
matters - because an ending is what separates a story from
a content pipeline.
</p>
<p>
The correct response to owning the Matrix IP after the
trilogy was either to leave it alone or to build something
genuinely new inside the same universe. The world the
Wachowskis constructed is large enough. New characters, a
different era, a different corner of the machine war, a
different question about the nature of the simulation - any
of these could have been the basis for something that
respected the original while standing on its own. A current
audience does not need Neo. It needs a new conflict with
real stakes and a story it has not already seen.
</p>
<p>
What Warner Bros. produced instead was The Matrix
Resurrections in 2021 - eighteen years after the trilogy
ended - with the same lead actors, the same Agent Smith,
and a plot that literally resurrects the characters the
previous films had concluded. The decision to bring back
the same faces was not a creative one. It was a calculation
that name recognition and nostalgia would lower the
perceived risk of the investment. The studio did not believe
in the universe. It believed in the brand. The audience
noticed. The film failed - not because the Matrix concept
is exhausted, but because the film offered nothing except
proof that the people making it were not willing to find
out whether it could work without a safety net.
</p>
<p>
Star Wars industrialised this dynamic at a scale that was
previously unimaginable. The acquisition of Lucasfilm was
not a creative decision - it was a content library acquisition.
What followed was the systematic conversion of a mythology
that had genuine cultural weight into a production pipeline.
Films, series, spin-offs, prequels, sequels, all released
on a cadence driven by release windows and subscriber targets
rather than by whether anyone had something worth saying.
The audience eventually signalled, clearly, that it was
exhausted. The response was not to slow down - it was to
try different combinations of the same components.
</p>
<blockquote>
A franchise is not a creative decision.<br />
It is a <span>risk management strategy</span> dressed as one.
</blockquote>
<h2>Marvel and the Pipeline Fallacy</h2>
<p>
The Marvel Cinematic Universe is the most important case
study in modern film economics because it succeeded
spectacularly for long enough that the people running it
drew the wrong conclusion from their own success. From Iron
Man in 2008 through to Endgame in 2019, the MCU produced
something genuinely unusual: a connected series of films
that were, individually, mostly good, and collectively
something audiences had never experienced before. The
shared universe worked. Characters crossed over. Threads
built across years. When it paid off, it paid off at a
scale that reshaped the entire industry's assumptions about
what a film could be.
</p>
<p>
The mistake was in identifying why it worked. The shared
universe was not the product. It was the reward for the
product. Audiences invested in the connections between
films because the films themselves had earned that
investment. Iron Man was a good film. The Winter Soldier
was a good film. Guardians of the Galaxy was a good film.
Each one worked as a standalone experience, which meant
that when they intersected, the intersection meant
something. The connective tissue had weight because the
individual pieces had weight.
</p>
<p>
What Marvel - and Disney, which had acquired it - took
from this was a different lesson: that the pipeline itself
was the asset. That releasing four films and multiple
Disney+ series per year, all tagged as MCU content, would
sustain audience engagement indefinitely because the brand
had accumulated enough goodwill to carry anything attached
to it. This is a category error. Goodwill is not a
renewable resource. It is the residue of past quality,
and it depletes every time it is spent on something that
does not deserve it.
</p>
<p>
The post-Endgame MCU inherited an audience that had spent
eleven years being rewarded for paying attention. What it
offered in return was volume. Films that were
competently assembled but existed primarily to move pieces
into position for the next film. Disney+ series that were
mandatory viewing if you wanted to understand the cinema
releases, effectively converting a leisure choice into
homework. Characters introduced and abandoned. Storylines
launched and quietly dropped. The shared universe, which
had once been the payoff for engagement, became the reason
engagement was required just to follow along. The audience
began to disengage - not because superhero films stopped
being possible, but because the implicit contract had been
broken. The pipeline had forgotten that it was dependent
on the films being good, not merely connected.
</p>
<p>
Streaming did not fix this dynamic. It accelerated it and
added a new and more corrosive incentive on top: subscriber
acquisition. A studio making theatrical films needs a film
to be good enough that people will pay to see it. A streaming
platform needs content to exist in sufficient volume and
variety that enough different people will start a subscription
and not cancel it. These are genuinely different problems,
and the second one does not require quality - it requires
surface area.
</p>
<p>
Altered Carbon is a personal example of what this looks
like from the other side. The first season was genuinely
good - ambitious production design, a coherent adaptation
of its source material, the kind of science fiction that
takes its own premise seriously. I liked it. I kept
watching. I was exactly the subscriber Netflix should want
to retain. The show was cancelled after two seasons
regardless, and I eventually cancelled the subscription.
Those two facts are more connected than they might appear.
</p>
<p>
The issue is not that Netflix made a bad decision by its
own logic. The issue is what its logic measures. A
subscriber who genuinely loves three or four ambitious
series and watches them carefully registers identically to
a subscriber who half-watches twenty shows and never
finishes any of them - as long as both keep paying. The
metric that matters is new sign-ups, because that is what
the market rewards. Retention of engaged viewers who care
about specific content is a secondary concern at best.
Cancelling Altered Carbon did not cost Netflix the number
it was optimizing for. It cost them me - eventually - and
I was never the unit being counted.
</p>
<p>
What this produces is a library optimized not for quality
or loyalty but for the minimum threshold of good enough to
keep someone paying while the next acquisition drives new
sign-ups. The service does not need you to love it. It
needs you to not quite hate it enough to cancel. That is a
meaningful distinction. A library built around that
incentive looks very different from one built around making
things worth watching - and over time, the difference
becomes visible.
</p>
<div class="table-wrap">
<table class="attack-table">
<thead>
<tr>
<th>Model</th>
<th>Primary incentive</th>
<th>What it produces</th>
</tr>
</thead>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td>Theatrical studio</td>
<td>
Maximise opening weekend and franchise
extension potential
</td>
<td class="counter">
IP acquisitions, sequels, safe casting,
risk-averse greenlight decisions
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Streaming platform</td>
<td>
Subscriber acquisition and retention
across the broadest possible audience
</td>
<td class="counter">
High volume, uneven quality, early
cancellations, content churn
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>Franchise extension</td>
<td>
Extract value from an established
property at minimal creative cost
</td>
<td class="counter">
Diminishing quality per instalment,
audience fatigue, brand erosion
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>AI-assisted production</td>
<td>
Reduce per-unit content cost to near
zero while maintaining surface coverage
</td>
<td class="counter">
Structural collapse of the floor —
unlimited slop at no marginal cost
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</div>
<h2>AI Is Where This Was Always Going</h2>
<p>
The question AI puts to the industry is not a technical
one. It is a choice: do we hire a writer, or don't we?
Do we commission a director with a specific vision, or do
we generate the output that vision would have produced?
That choice is now explicit in a way it was not before.
And given everything the industry has already demonstrated
about its priorities - the franchise logic, the subscriber
metrics, the systematic elimination of creative risk —
there is not much reason to expect most studios and
platforms to choose the human when the alternative is
cheaper and more controllable.
</p>
<p>
This is what artists have been worried about, and they are
right - but not quite for the reason usually given. The
concern is often framed as AI producing bad films. The more
accurate concern is that AI produces films optimised for
the same thing the industry already optimises for: volume,
familiarity, minimum acceptable quality. AI does not
introduce a new set of values into the pipeline. It
enforces the existing ones more efficiently. A model
trained on what has performed before will reliably produce
more of what has performed before. For an industry that has
spent two decades treating proven formula as the safest
bet, that is not a warning. It is a feature.
</p>
<p>
What gets lost is not quality in the narrow sense - an
AI can produce something watchable, and watchable is
already the threshold most of the industry is aiming for.
What gets lost is the possibility of something genuinely
unexpected. A writer or director brings a specific
perspective that did not exist before, that cannot be
interpolated from what came before, and that occasionally
produces something the market did not know it wanted until
it arrived. The first Matrix was that. The early MCU was
that. The pipeline, fully enforced by AI, eliminates the
conditions under which that becomes possible. Every film
becomes a variation on the centroid of everything that
already worked. The ceiling does not disappear - it just
gets permanent.
</p>
<h2>What Would Fix It</h2>
<p>
The honest answer is that the incentive structure would
need to change, and there is no obvious mechanism by which
that happens from inside the industry. The studios that
consistently produce the best work are either small enough
to be insulated from franchise logic, backed by individuals
with enough capital and conviction to override short-term
return calculations, or operating in markets where the
economics of Hollywood do not apply in the same way.
</p>
<p>
Audiences have some leverage. Theatrical attendance is a
direct signal. Not watching a streaming series past its
first episode is a direct signal. The platforms and studios
read these signals carefully - they just tend to read them
as evidence that they need better marketing rather than
better films. That misreading is itself a symptom of an
industry that has fully internalised the idea that the
product is secondary to the pipeline.
</p>
<hr />
<p>
Cinema at its best is one of the few experiences that cannot
be fully replicated on a phone screen with half your
attention elsewhere. The industry has spent twenty years
making content that can be. That is not an accident. It is
what you get when every structural incentive points toward
volume, safety, and extraction - and nobody in a position
to change it has a strong enough reason to try.
</p>
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