For civil society, the loss of movie theaters would be a tragedy.
In October 2023, the last commercial movie theater shuttered its doors forever in downtown New Haven, Conn. Two years later, the Bow Tie Criterion Cinema's marquee still protrudes from the building’s facade, tangibly reminding passersby of a bygone era: when strangers publicly gathered to view the latest Hollywood films.
With a population nearing 138,000 and Yale University reigning over its downtown, New Haven would seem to offer a sizable and marketable audience of movie-goers. (In fact, when I worked in the Elm City, I would frequently go with friends to see a movie after hours.) And yet Criterion’s empty halls and darkened screens collect cobwebs and dust instead of stirring the imagination, instigating laughs and tears and screams, or evoking a deeper, shared connection with our emotions and the human drama.
The New Haven cinema scene, however, is not an anomaly—it’s a victim of a larger trend, with thousands of movie theaters nationwide closing in recent years.
Indeed, the death of movie theaters is a symptom of a more existentially consequential reality in American culture: the erosion of communal gathering spaces within civil society. This has larger implications not only for our economics and cultural creativity, especially with the rise of artificial intelligence (AI), but for our perceptions of and interactions with others, and the binding commonalities between us.
An autopsy would identify a myriad of explanations for theaters’ closures, both external and self-inflicted: technological leaps in home entertainment, the pandemic’s lingering effects, ideology-infused and lower-quality films, avoidance of rude or annoying viewers, and even high prices, to name a few. Convenience, however, seems the most likely culprit: 65% of U.S. adults now prefer to watch newly released movies at home rather than in theaters.
What is certain is that theaters are not where the public is: profitability and ticket sales have largely subsided in the past few years. Prior to 2020, nearly ten movies eclipsed the billion dollar mark. In 2025, only three films accomplished that feat (Avatar: Fire and Ash, James Cameron’s third entry in the Avatar franchise, is projected to join the billion-dollar club).
The economic stakes of this sector’s decline are significant. Currently, the American film and television industry supports 2.32 million jobs, pays out $229 billion in total wages, and comprises more than 122,000 businesses, according to the Motion Picture Association. It’s an industrial engine, and theaters remain a crucial aspect of that ecosystem.
But more importantly, the consequences could be transformative to the human condition—and not for the better.
Human beings need common stories. From Ancient Greece to Rome to Victorian England to the modern day, people have instinctively gathered to be enthralled by “imitations” and to reflect on universal truths. As Aristotle observed in Poetics thousands of years ago, a good drama or comedy is attractive because it can illuminate something fundamental about ourselves.
There is a good reason for this. Viewers experience psychological and physiological benefits when engrossed in a compelling story. Moreover, doing so with others can form strong social and emotional bonds. Culturally, a shared lexicon of references, quotes, plots, and even memes are developed, which can transcend political, racial, gender, class, and other social divisions.
In short, shared narratives are a pillar of civil society—and theaters, with their entertainment and popcorn and even dark balconies, uniquely facilitate them. We may not have all read Poetics, but most of us know Star Wars. With fewer civic associations and opportunities to interact with one other, the cultural importance of movie theaters becomes strikingly apparent.
For more than a century, movies—aside from television—have been a primary medium by which Americans have consumed storytelling, largely due to affordability. A movie ticket was cheaper than a ticket to the opera or theater, making movies an entertainment for the masses. In recent years, however, as prices skyrocket, fewer people are opting to go out—thus producing and/or compounding the vicious cycle in which the American movie industry is spiraling. While word-of-mouth phenomena may still exist, akin to the ‘Barbenheimer’ meme, those will likely be outliers rather than the norm.
Movie theaters, and civil society, cannot survive on memes or social media trends alone. As attention spans shrink, with users demanding shorter, snappier clips, the movie medium risks drifting toward irrelevancy. Yet films, far more than TikToks and AI, lend themselves to being edifying, exploring the transcendentals—the good, true, and beautiful—to a greater extent.
Indeed, the content people consume matters, impacting how we “perceive reality” and “our desires and what we decide to pursue in life,” according to Dr. Edward Sri. However, recent developments threaten not only to accelerate Americans’ consumption of AI-manufactured, "empty-calorie" content, but fragment audiences entirely—ensuring that Americans may no longer even watch the same stories.
This fragmentation is not theoretical—it is the present. The Walt Disney Company and OpenAI have just announced the forging of a three-year partnership “[b]ringing together Disney’s iconic stories and characters with OpenAI’s groundbreaking technology,” according to a joint press release. This team-up will put “imagination and creativity directly into the hands of Disney fans in ways we’ve never seen before.” In this virtual sandbox, people can “make”—or generate—their own, personalized Disney stories through AI.
This may sound liberating or even democratizing. But, more than likely, this partnership will unleash an onslaught of Frankenstein'd AI movies: slop, derivative, and soulless fabrications that simulate creativity and imagination. Will this high-tech tool perpetuate a great lie: that one can become an artist or filmmaker without work or craft?
The allure of this immersion—and, frankly, power—is tantalizing. Granted, fans have long created their own stories with characters from Indiana Jones, Star Wars, DC, and Marvel for decades. YouTube is riddled with fan films. Moreover, throughout history, artists have developed skills by copying other great works. But those require time, labor, and effort. Even flawed attempts can serve as first steps into a much larger work.
Disney and OpenAI’s partnership is merely a bellwether for an industry grasping for profit after post-pandemic box office bombs, without fully reckoning the societal costs. For most, this utterly nefarious and deceptive marketing ploy will dull true ambition and creativity, rather than sparking the imagination. If one is conditioned to produce entertainment instantly, discipline and work ethic become passé.
Worse, everyone could—and will—have their own hyper-personalized canon. If so, one can simply remain in one's own comfortable silo in perpetuity. This trajectory not only risks movie theaters’ existence further, but cripples commonalities in an already fragmented society.
(How soon before an amateur’s remake of Casablanca will take place at Larry’s Café?)
The world is changing, and it will continue doing so till the last syllable of recorded time is uttered. Nevertheless, engaging in communal spheres remains imperative to our individual and collective social and emotional well-being. Movie theaters have been important and visible vestiges of civil society: Their struggle to survive mirrors modernity’s propensity for isolation. Should cinemas disappear entirely, they will leave a public void—like the Bow Tie Criterion Cinemas in New Haven. And thus, there shall be one fewer common space for shared experiences.
For civil society, the loss of movie theaters would be a tragedy—one that, to paraphrase Aristotle, would be serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude.
