Do Movies Still Need Multiplexes? – The New Yorker

Last week, movie-theatre chains that are planning to reopen their multiplexes in July became the subject of a drama of their own making: “Mask Wars.” It was a battle fought in the press and over social media—and the chains blinked. Adam Aron, the C.E.O. of AMC, announced, on Thursday, in Variety, that, when most of its theatres reopen their doors (in anticipation of the July 24th release of “Mulan” and the July 31st release of “Tenet”), staff would all be required to wear masks. For moviegoers, on the other hand, masks would be optional, because, Aron said, “We did not want to be drawn into a political controversy.” His remarks prompted vehement reactions on social media, and, on Friday, Aron changed his mind, issuing a statement announcing that viewers would be required to wear masks after all. The Regal chain, which plans to reopen on July 10th, had originally punted the requirement for both employees and patrons to local laws, but, following AMC’s shift, also changed its policy to require the wearing of masks by staff and viewers alike. Cinemark will not be requiring viewers to wear masks. None of the three chains will be taking customers’ temperatures at the door unless local guidelines mandate it.

There’s a built-in exception to the mask policy (tacit with AMC, explicit with Regal): customers will be allowed to remove them while eating and drinking—which, for many viewers, means much of the time. Even for the non-eaters, there’s the question of how the policy will be enforced, once the lights go down and the movies begin—a potential recipe for conflict between viewers and theatre staff, and, for that matter, between audience members themselves. In the end, moviegoers will decide for themselves what risks they want to take to see “Mulan” and “Tenet” when the movies are newly released, or whether to hold off for the inevitable streaming releases down the line. The dreadful prospect, of course, is that the reopening of theatres will cause, or help to cause, another spike in COVID-19 infections; the mere possibility may give enough viewers pause to render the economics of these reopenings dubious.

The economic harm inflicted upon those who work in the movie business—whether in theatres, in production, or in offices—has been grievous. The only thing worse would be a new wave of illnesses and deaths caused by a hasty return, and, as usual, the canaries in the mine are the least-paid and least-protected employees—those working shifts behind a cash register or at a concession stand or pushing a broom or, now, preparing to wield other sanitation equipment to disinfect theatres between shows. Movie actors and crew members are protected by unions; many in the industry’s white-collar jobs can continue to work from home. Theatre staff have neither form of protection, and many will have no choice except to return to work and face the risks.

What the past three months of relative confinement—and the resulting shift from theatrical to online releases—have proved is that movie theatres, particularly the multiplexes, hardly matter now. The widespread shutdown has only exaggerated and accelerated a shift that was already occurring. Most films in limited release never get past a handful of screens in big cities or college towns, and the few that do so (such as “Parasite” and “Portrait of a Lady on Fire”) don’t make up for the dozens that quickly vanish after a weekend or a week, never to be seen again—until they turn up streaming. Fewer and fewer daring movies get released in theatres, and many that do are seen on fewer and fewer screens—often, just one week in New York. Most of the best movies never see the inside of a multiplex. What’s more, many of the best rarely get out of big cities; some of them never get out of New York until they’re streaming, and others never play in theatres at all. The number of good movies that do well financially in theatrical release is painfully low: last year, they included “Us,” “Little Women,” “Uncut Gems,” “Ad Astra,” and “Richard Jewell.” But the best movie of the year, “The Irishman,” was a Netflix production and had only a nominal theatrical release.

It’s hard to argue for the artistic importance of theatrical release when, by and large, its financial success is sustained mainly by the most impersonal work that Hollywood has to offer, the corporate-controlled and ‑dominated franchises. What’s more, the very qualities that draw large numbers of viewers to theatres—distilled by studio executives into the term “theatricality”—are antithetical to much of what’s most original and advanced in the modern cinema, which presents experience in intimate dimensions that are even better suited to viewing in private, close up to the computer or television screen, than to the cavernous spaces of theatres. (That’s as true of “The Irishman” as of “Portrait of a Lady on Fire.”) The art of movies belongs not only to filmmakers addressing a crowd but also to those who address audience members one by one. The history of cinema, the quest for artistic proximity, has long been thwarted or stifled by the spectacular element, the flexing that theatrical releases favor.

The lockdown, and the possibility of theatres closing down soon after opening up (or attracting scant audiences), are only accelerating a process that has been under way for years: the shifting of viewership to streaming. Since mid-March, online releases of such distinguished films as “Never Rarely Sometimes Always,” “Fourteen,” “The Whistlers,” “Shirley,” and “Yourself and Yours”—plus the Netflix release of “Da 5 Bloods”—have taken the place of theatrical releases. In the case of Dan Sallitt’s drama “Fourteen,” it has done so with marked success, more than what would have been likely in theatres: in its sixth week of release, it’s available through ninety theatres in virtual release. The forthcoming digital releases of “The 11th Green” and “Tito” (films that might not have been likely to see the inside of movie theatres in regular week-long releases) suggests that, in a summer with reduced studio releases, critics will have the chance to adjust their antennae toward movies that, under usual circumstances, would be overshadowed by widely ballyhooed ones released on thousands of screens—and that, because of home viewing, are now as widely available.

Some of these are overlooked classics—such as Bill Duke’s “The Killing Floor”—which benefit from a time when rediscovered films are on a level playing field of online availability with new studio productions. The shuttering of theatres has emphasized the process of reclamation—and, paradoxically, has thrust one aspect of public viewing to the fore, namely, repertory houses. As I wrote in April, what I miss most about theatres isn’t the presence of new releases, whether in multiplexes or art houses; it’s the revelatory programming at repertory houses, thanks to the depth of knowledge, the diligence, and the devotion of their programmers. The single most important event to occur in digital releasing since the coronavirus, for instance, is the release, in May, on the Criterion Channel, of a group of films under the rubric “Tell Me: Women Filmmakers, Women’s Stories,” comprising works mainly from the nineteen-seventies and eighties in documentary, essay, and metafictional forms. Yet this release was derived from a series curated by Nellie Killian at Metrograph, in 2018. It’s a sort of creative curation, an archival artistry and passion that, at least temporarily, while repertory houses are on hold, should be undertaken by streaming services on their own. (For that matter, I think it’s only a matter of time before the Criterion Channel becomes a venue for new art-house releases.)

Currently, daring and original movies produced or released by Netflix (such as “The Irishman,” “Atlantics,” “Burning Cane,” and “Marriage Story”) have had only nominal theatrical releases before becoming available to stream; and, were it not for sheltering, “Da 5 Bloods” would have followed the same pattern, appearing in theatres for a short time before dropping on the streaming platform. But such front-loaded theatrical releases are formalities—a way of following the Academy’s long-standing rules that tether eligibility to theatrical releases. (This year, the rules have been loosened to allow films appearing digitally—but only if a theatrical release had been planned.) Such rules, which are followed by many critics’ groups as well as by editors assigning reviews, serve above all to protect the multiplexes. They have nothing to do with whether a movie deserves to be reviewed or exalted. Movies aren’t a rule, a venue, or a set of institutions; they’re an idea, an aesthetic. The reopening of theatres, at potential risk to employees and moviegoers, is a good moment to consider both the pleasures offered and the pressures imposed by the industry’s emphasis on public viewing—and what a diminished role for movie theatres might hold for the future of the art.