Last week, the entertainment world didn’t rock like a hurricane, but it still reeled when streaming pioneer Netflix announced it had sealed the deal to purchase Warner Bros. Discovery. For film aficionados like yours truly, who don’t watch movies just for a good time but treat them as artistic endeavors that enrich life by exploring the human experience, this news fuels nightmares. The deal likely won’t wrap up for at least a year, but every second between now and then ticks down the doomsday clock for the future of cinema.
What’s that? I sound dramatic? You don’t think this situation is all that bad? I—and many other serious movie fans who spend absurd amounts of time studying the ins-and-outs of the film industry—beg to differ. Netflix buying Warner Bros. Discovery marks a worst-case scenario that could destroy the art of filmmaking forever.
First off, despite stuffing their platform with an absolute ton of original movies—most of which suck eggs—Netflix doesn’t operate like a film studio. It’s a business. A company obsessed with the bottom line. Sure, major film studios also chase profits and churn out cinematic junk food. However, major studios still employ executives—few though they may be—who actually care about producing works of art. These individuals take chances on young, unknown filmmakers or fund experienced filmmakers with fresh, unique ideas.
Not Netflix. Their entire model for content creation relies on analytical data. If a project fails to fit their specific parameters—no matter who the filmmakers are—they won’t greenlight it. Big Blue Data Academy recently completed a study showing exactly how Netflix uses analytics to determine which projects to fund.
“Netflix analyzes various types of user data to improve its content strategy and enhance user engagement. This includes viewing preferences, total watching time, pauses and replays, the types of devices used, and broader market trends. By leveraging predictive analytics, Netflix can forecast the potential success of a film or series and measure expected audience engagement. These insights help the company make data-driven decisions about what content to produce or promote. Additionally, Netflix can determine the optimal timing for a film’s release, identify trending topics, and segment its audience based on interests. Its powerful streaming analytics platform plays a central role in transforming raw data into actionable strategies for content planning and user retention,” the study explained.
Imagine a young George Lucas in our modern era walking into Netflix to pitch a story set a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away—only for Netflix to reject it because it didn’t fit their predetermined parameters. What a cultural tragedy that would be. Yes, films must produce profit. I get that. But Hollywood doesn’t greenlight every project solely to make money.
Some films exist for their artistic value and the impact they leave on audiences now and in the future. Films shape our culture, our outlook on life, our understanding of ourselves, and the human condition as a whole. If studios only make movies that guarantee a hit, innovation dies. Everything turns cookie-cutter, bland as vanilla ice cream. Filmmakers lose the freedom to tell the stories they feel called to tell—the ones they believe will touch the soul of a viewing audience. Instead, every project must match analytic data.
It’s a cold, soulless content strategy that, much like artificial intelligence crafting screenplays, tears the human element out of the most powerful storytelling medium the world has ever seen.
As if that weren’t enough reason to hate the Netflix–Warner Bros. Discovery deal, consider that Netflix CEO Ted Sarandos shows very little interest in preserving movie theaters and the movie-going experience. He favors shorter theatrical release windows, meaning films spend less time in theaters before heading to streaming. Shorter windows slash box-office profits. They benefit streaming—stuffing Sarandos and friends with cash—but they rob the rest of us of the time we need to see cinematic events as the filmmaker intended: in a theater.
For me, the theater is a sacred space. When I walk into a theater, I expect a spiritual experience. One of the primary ways God often speaks to me is through storytelling, especially movies. The first time I truly heard the gospel happened at the movies. My dad and I went to see The Passion of the Christ, just to see what all the hype was about. Neither of us were religious then. That evening, I encountered the reality of Jesus in a packed theater. I joined the people around me as we wept over the story of the Savior.
A profound spiritual reality poured through Mel Gibson’s masterpiece and shattered the carefully crafted secular world I had built for myself. Jesus invaded my heart, my soul, my life—through film—an encounter that happened in a theater, shared with others. It was communal. The Holy Spirit worked on the souls in the seats around me. Would the movie have hit me the same way if I’d first watched it at home? I’d like to think yes, but I don’t believe so. Watching Jesus’ story transform the people around me played a critical role in my spiritual awakening.
By the way, I’ve been a Christian ever since. God used that movie as a tool to bring me to eternal salvation. He spoke to me in a language I understood—and the theater played an essential part in that encounter.
And that’s what we risk losing with this merger. I pray we don’t—but right now, I’m not optimistic.
