Scarcity is cool again

How a Sunday matinee of MEMORIA in Long Beach restored my hope for younger theatrical arthouse audiences

This past weekend, I went to see Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Memoria at the wonderful Art Theatre of Long Beach. I had already seen the movie a couple times during earlier runs last year – both in the spring as part of the American Cinematheque’s programming at the Los Feliz 3 and in the fall at the Alamo Drafthouse DTLA. It’s somewhat rare for me to pay to see a movie three times in theaters anymore, even if I really love it, as I typically feel like I’m already behind on first (let alone second) viewings. This is especially true now that we have fewer drive-ins operating year-round in Southern California; I used to routinely clock third viewings by sticking around for the second feature on a double-bill, which I may have first seen at a hardtop and then the previous weekend at the same drive-in. But even that was usually more of a matter of convenience and “taking in the vibes” than it was love for a particular title.

Memoria, though, is a special case. Critics tend to toss around the notion that a film “demands multiple viewings” an awful lot, but that truly applies here. And not just in the sense of figuring out “what it all means,” though that’s certainly a part of the film’s allure. Having experienced the movie three times now, one of the things I most appreciate about it is that, for all there is to interpret after it’s over, it is perhaps Weerasethakul’s most uncluttered realization of a transcendental style to date. That may seem like a contradiction, because it is. It’s this very tension that makes the feedback loop of re-watching the movie so engaging: you try to intellectualize it after you see it, only to have the thoughts flee your head and to enter a more spiritual state the next time you watch it. The movie effectively rejects the viewer’s attempts to use the text itself to validate their own assumptions, which is pretty damn exhilarating. The viewer’s experience with the film mirrors protagonist Jessica’s with the sound she hears throughout, but not in a way that feels forced or cutely uncanny.

Cherishing the value of the re-watch cycle brings me to the film’s unconventional release strategy. As many of you may recall, Memoria will purportedly never be made available on home video or VOD in the U.S. (though there is an international “special edition” Blu-Ray out there). This is where arthouses and neighborhood theaters like the Art come in: they will be responsible for running the movie for, well, eternity. Next month, the film has six bookings across five states. In April, it’s already slated for another two. Since this strategy was first announced in 2021, many on #filmtwitter have dismissed it as “elitist,” which was among the many isolated bits of social media discourse that left me deeply worried for the future of cinema in the past couple years. Do these folks not recognize that by making content ubiquitous, unlimited, and always available, we are completely devaluing it? I suppose in the orbit of the Internet where capitalism has no recognized value whatsoever, devaluation is a virtue not a liability, but I personally want to live in a world where movies are worth something (monetarily and otherwise), thank you very much.

The release strategy isn’t just about preserving the film’s intrinsic value, however; it’s also about preserving the intended experience. One of the fallacies of the (mostly younger) group of movie consumers who opt for home viewing – either due to personal preference or geographic necessity – is that the difference between theater and home amounts to screen size, sound quality, and resolution. Certainly, these factors can affect the way one processes a film, but I’ve had plenty of theater experiences marred by bad presentation that could be considered technically inferior to what’s easily attainable at home. To focus just on fidelity to the source A/V, however, ignores so much of what experiencing a movie is about. Doing so really marginalizes film as an artform because it treats it as just another piece of content (now who’s the shameless capitalist?).

In my view, as Memoria so perfectly illustrates, release cadence and scarcity can be a valid part of the intended film viewing experience. Just as these tools can be used as a way to build anticipation for a release by the marketing, publicity, and distribution arms of a studio (think of the age-old “platform” release for an Oscar contender), they can also be leveraged by a filmmaker in partnership with a distributor. “For Memoria, cinema experience is crucial or maybe the only way. Let’s embrace the darkness and dream, one at a time,” Weerasethakul said in his statement on the release strategy.

When I think about my own experience with the movie over the past ten months, its availability has unquestionably played a role in my engagement with it – in the alternation between logical and transcendental processing that I discussed earlier. I would argue that only by returning to the film after a forced break does it operate in its highest register for the viewer. If it had been readily available on Blu-Ray and VOD shortly after its theatrical release, I likely would have gone back to it in rapid succession, trying to settle on an interpretation. But doing so would have effectively been taking a laxative to pass a meal meant to be digested very slowly over time. It would have essentially subjected Memoria to the same pause-and-repeat status as any old series released on Netflix.

The highlight of my experience seeing Memoria at the Art Theatre, however, may not have even been the movie itself, which only grows in my estimation with each viewing. When I arrived at the cinema just before showtime, I was greeted by a sight that I did not expect: a line spilling out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk. This was a movie that was first released in the Los Angeles metro area nearly a year ago, which had played several local theaters in a variety of suburbs. And it was programmed in the not-exactly-desirable 11 a.m. weekend morning slot, ruling out most who woke up late with a hangover from the night before.

But clearly, intrigue had continued to build for the film since it last played at the Drafthouse in September. I don’t think the Art was fully expecting the demand, either; the manager came out to gleefully proclaim that they would hold start of the show a little late, until everyone could buy tickets and get settled without missing anything. He also used the opportunity to promote their annual Oscar fundraiser to all of the captive patrons. Having spent quite a few afternoons in completely empty arthouse auditoriums in the years since the pandemic, the sight of this line was enough to nearly bring me to tears.

But even more unexpectedly and impressively, there were a lot of young people in line. When I got inside, I did a rough headcount. Attendance was not quite 100, but the fact that it comfortably crossed 50 for this movie at this time was a welcome surprise, given I was expecting no more than a couple dozen at this early hour. Of those turning out, nearly half appeared to be under the age of 30. That wouldn’t necessarily be unusual in Los Feliz or downtown, but outside of the city-center at this particular moment for exhibition, it’s stunning. Sure, the performance attracted its fair share of older benefactors of the theater as well, but it could have easily been an opening weekend crowd for Everything Everywhere All at Once at the ArcLight Hollywood if it were still showing movies.

This tells me that what distributor NEON is achieving with Memoria, a challenging film that runs contrary to everything we’ve been told about younger consumers’ attention spans, is something special. Looking at the (relatively short) list of post-Covid-lockdown indie/arthouse hits, most are accessible crossover fare. Everything Everywhere All at Once and even RRR aren’t so far away from the mass-appeal Marvel blockbusters that continue to dominate the box office, as long as you’re open to a greater level of cultural specificity. The Menu and The Green Knight play with genre and mythology in ways that now feel familiar to most consumers thanks to “pedigreed TV.” But Memoria is a true arthouse movie that offers few conventionally “narrative” pleasures. Even its most recognizable asset – Tilda Swinton in the lead role – rejects all of the easy routes to audience identification. Sure, the film may seem a little more accessible than Weerasethakul’s previous works by virtue of Swinton’s familiar presence, but then again, she’s speaking Spanish for most of the runtime. The takes are long, the answers don’t come easy, and the experience will madden many. Whether it was intended as such or not, Memoria feels like an ode to a bygone era of thriving international arthouse cinema.

And yet, there was a line full of young people to see this film, almost a year after its initial Los Angeles release (and over a year after its Manhattan debut). I desperately wanted to run to the FedEx Office down the street and print out impromptu “exit poll” surveys for them to fill out, to figure out what drove them there. Getting these younger moviegoers back to the cinema regularly for more than just tentpoles is vital to the medium’s future. I intently focused on overhearing as many of their conversations as I could. Most had not seen the movie before, and many seemed to not be regular moviegoers (or at least, not fanatical arthouse moviegoers).

There was definitely a feeling that seeing the film made one “in the know,” culturally speaking – these attendees came partly because they could talk about it and possess a certain cultural currency as a result. The fact that it hadn’t played in Los Angeles for months only seemed to contribute to this, not make it feel like a day-old bakery item. There wasn’t a strong gender skew to the audience (the Film Bros clearly got the movie out of their system months ago), and judging mainly by clothing and appearances, many were “cool kids” into the arts, but definitely not “film kids” who see everything. I couldn’t get a good sense of where most heard about the showing, but many purchased tickets online (as though this was a Regal or an AMC) and didn’t seem to be familiar with the theater itself. The audience etiquette was not great; several walked in late and audibly struggled to find seats in the dark, and there was some texting and time-checking during the movie. Weirdly, this made me hopeful more than it annoyed me; getting young people back to the cinema should be the first priority, teaching them how to behave can come next.

My takeaway from this experience confirms a suspicion I’ve had for a while now: if we want to get younger people (under 30 and especially under 25) back to movie theaters for more than just tentpoles, we have to make theatrical moviegoing cool again. In the ‘70s and ‘80s and ‘90s and even the early ‘00s, perceptions of coolness tended to be driven by worship for younger filmmakers, from the New Hollywood vanguard all the way to the Tarantino/PT Anderson/Kevin Smith crew. But in an era where YouTubers and TikTokers from around the globe are the ultimate auteurs, maybe putting stock chiefly in people – either behind or in front of the camera – is not a differentiating strategy. Maybe we need to once again assess the truly medium-specific elements of cinema, and figure out what’s different and edgy and now cool about it. And maybe, as Memoria’s release shows, there’s a way to turn something fundamentally old-fashioned – a theatrical-exclusive release – into something that feels radical to the next generation.

Never underestimate the power of counter-cultural trends and the degree to which young adults – particularly those with creative minds – crave them, even if they’re actually recycled. Perhaps the way theatrical movies become cool again is precisely by leaning into the ways in which they differ from “content.” In a world where younger consumers feel bombarded by a never-ending stream of inputs in their digital lives, perhaps the reprieve they are looking for is actually a slower pace. While I don’t want to overstate how “mainstream” a very demanding film like Memoria can become, I do think there’s something to be gleaned from the idea of today’s younger generation being drawn to a work that requires such patience. Maybe it’s one of the few places they actually can escape the ADHD-inducing push notifications of pop culture and social media. Maybe the comparatively slow pace of cinema offers a potential reprieve. Which is to say, maybe filmmakers and studios should consider whether the way to capture a younger audience is not to try to replicate or impersonate the content they get at home and on-the-go, but to offer them something they can’t see on their own devices. Something that is, in fact, even cooler.

I can already hear the voices of those who will take issue with this post: “Danny, you’re talking about 60 people at one showing in a major metropolitan market, for a movie that has grossed no more than a few million dollars.” (NEON stopped officially reporting grosses after the initial New York City engagement.) I don’t dispute this, but I think that in today’s challenged theatrical landscape, especially for arthouse movies, we have to put more stock in our own anecdotal experiences and our guts to start brainstorming the creative solutions that are so desperately needed. What I experienced on Sunday in Long Beach felt like an indication that Memoria, one year into its release lifetime, may be tapping into something special. It suggests to me that distributors – both of independent movies and bigger releases – should be taking a harder look at creative release strategies that support the aims of their filmmakers. And it also suggests to me that studios, more broadly, too often think about what the larger entertainment ecosystem is telling them about how to smartly release films, rather than using their film releases to set the agenda for the larger entertainment ecosystem.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to market a time-honored pastime to a new generation, spurred by the debate around the new Major League Baseball rules, especially the pitch clock. So much of the discourse surrounding these new rules centers on their purported value in converting non-fans of the sport by catering to them – i.e., if we just make baseball games move faster with more action, perhaps the new generation of sports consumers will like them more, and they’ll finally become baseball fans. The flaw here is that the adjustments focus on “fixing” baseball’s “flaws” rather than selling its unique virtues and how these can actually speak to the new generation of sports consumers. I get it: certain elements of the game aren’t resonating with contemporary audiences anymore. But why do we always focus on what we can change, rather than other promising avenues to make a valued pastime accessible to a shifting spectator pool? I feel the same way about movies. So many of the “critical” think-pieces I read are about how “movies are too long” or how “movies aren’t diverse enough,” and on and on. This thinking then leads studios to churn out new releases that are 20 minutes shorter with more ethnic representation in the cast, and even fewer people end up going to see them.

This is all just to say: Cinema isn’t broken, it just needs to find a way to reach new audiences. Perhaps the way to do that isn’t to indiscriminately shower audiences in content posing as cinema, but to make them work for real cinema again. Of course, it will take great movies like Memoria to reward their effort, but people are more motivated to put in that effort than media corporations give them credit for. After three years of pandemic-induced idling, the masses – particularly in the younger demos – have begun to realize that laziness isn’t cool anymore.