This summer, superhero fans are faced with an impossible choice—should they watch James Gunn’s Superman (2025), DC’s attempt to reboot their cinematic universe with a seemingly comic–accurate Clark Kent, or Matt Shakman’s The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025), a fresh take on Marvel’s first family?
I could’ve sworn I’ve seen them both before.
There’s no dearth of content available for our viewing pleasure—in fact, we’re drowning in it. Yet increasingly, all this “new stuff” doesn’t actually feel new. We’ve entered an era of cultural déjà vu, where spin–offs, sequels, remakes, reboots, and reimaginings dominate the film and TV landscape.
Let’s be honest, storytelling isn’t exactly what’s driving Hollywood anymore. Studios aren’t building the next great narrative—they’re building the next cinematic universe, backed by a recognizable name, with a built–in audience and a dedicated merch shelf at your nearest Target. Original projects, by contrast, look risky, expensive, and hard to sell.
In a world where Disney is always remaking yet another one of your childhood favourites, it’s no surprise that established intellectual property (IP) is the safety net everyone clings to. Of the top 66 movies to earn at least $100 million domestically in the last three years, 47 (71 percent) were entries in an established franchise. The top 10 box office earners in 2024 all came from existing IP, including Inside Out 2, Deadpool & Wolverine, Despicable Me 4, and Dune: Part Two. That trend has continued and expanded this year.
That’s not even counting TV shows, where plot is secondary to expanding existing stories with sequels, prequels, spinoffs, and crossover events. There’s no shortage of content, but when every “new” show is a continuation of something old, and every “original” idea is based on a book or animation, the television space begins to feel stagnant.
Meanwhile, Netflix—a self–proclaimed haven for creative experimentation—has become infamous for cancelling anything mildly innovative after one season, including Jeff Goldblum–starrer Kaos (2024) and the critically–acclaimed whodunit The Residence (2025).
That slow–burn, character–driven sci–fi drama you loved? Buried in the graveyard of Netflix’s one–season originals. But never fear, there’s another season of Emily in Paris (2020–)—aesthetically pleasing, sure, but not exactly intellectually stimulating.
We are witnessing a cinematic ouroboros—the snake eating its own tail being the studios continually devouring their own IP. In a world where a mediocre film like Captain America: Brave New World (2025) outsells outstanding original content like Mickey 17 (2025), is it any wonder which projects get greenlit? The audience doesn’t just passively consume IP—it actively reinforces its dominance over the industry.
Martin Scorsese famously claimed that Marvel movies are more like “theme parks” than cinema. While some people dismissed his critique as elitist, he had a point—he was pointing to a system that rewards repetition over risk and third–act CGI battles over meaningful character growth. When every movie has to tease another movie, storytelling becomes secondary. Even Denis Villeneuve, director of Dune: Part One (2021) and Dune: Part Two, said Marvel films are simply “cut and paste.” One can argue that it’s ridiculous to criticize a superhero franchise while remaking existing IP from 1965, but these aren’t just cranky auteurs mad about capes. These are artists warning against the formulaic commodification of their craft. What’s lost in the sea of spectacle is the soul of cinema—the experimentation, the ambiguity, the risk.
The bitter reality behind this creative crisis is the economics of film–making. Making and marketing a movie can cost hundreds of millions of dollars. Why gamble on a risky original when you can bet on a proven brand with an emotionally invested fanbase lining up at the theatres? In the 1990s, we got such outstanding original films as Titanic (1997), The Truman Show (1998), and The Matrix (1999). Today, they never would’ve been made. Studios are no longer gamblers—they’re risk managers who understand the power of familiarity.
Nostalgia is the most popular drug in the entertainment industry. Studio execs know this, and they feed it to their audiences in liberal doses. Disney knows we’ll sing along to Frozen II (2019). We’ll buy Moana’s sister’s doll from Moana 2 (2024). We’ll cry during Inside Out 2 because the kids who watched it in elementary school are now high schoolers, desperately trying to cling to the last vestiges of childhood. Studios don’t have to demonstrate the depth of their characters if the audience already loves them!
A snarky side character from your favourite franchise elevated to main character status. A remake of your comfort show. A trailer set to a 2000s song that feels like a memory. Why build emotional resonance from scratch when you can borrow it from your audience’s past?
These choices aren’t just creative—they’re strategic. We don’t just want to feel entertained. We want to feel safe. In a world that feels increasingly unpredictable, familiar stories offer audiences a kind of shelter. But comfort can quickly become complacency—at some point, we must ask what we miss out on by endlessly rewatching the same film.
We binge–watch full seasons over a weekend and forget them by Monday. Content has become background noise, and studios stick to what’s familiar. Showrunners know that they have to keep rehashing and repeating plot points—just in case you were ordering food or checking your Duolingo streak while scrolling. In today’s fragmented attention economy, studios have adapted by flattening storytelling instead of deepening it.
Everything is a recap. Dialogue is repetitive. Flashbacks are frequent. The plot has to fight our phones. It’s not that audiences are getting dumber—just more distracted. Film and TV are borrowing the logic of short–form content and prioritising immediacy over immersion.
If you ask audiences explicitly what it is that they want, they’ll demand original stories. However, when Pixar releases an original movie like Elio (2025), it tanks, despite excellent reviews from critics. We mourn the lack of creativity in the industry while ignoring originals like Turning Red (2022), Elemental (2023), and Elio, instead lining up for Toy Story 5 (2026). Studios might be risk–averse, but so are we.
There’s a clear disconnect between what audiences claim to crave and what they actually support. We claim to want emotional depth, but we often skip past it for the dopamine hit of a familiar franchise. Would audiences actually go see a genre–bending cyberpunk meditation on consciousness (The Matrix) today?
The Matrix cost $63 million to make. Today, that budget would barely cover the visual effects for a Marvel third act. But more importantly, The Matrix was strange, intellectual, and subversive. It was unlike anything that had come before, and that’s why it changed cinema. The fact that The Matrix wouldn’t survive Hollywood’s current development process should terrify us—it means we’re actively filtering out future classics in favor of safer, duller noise.
The film industry ought to evolve, yes, but not at the cost of originality. One compelling development is the evolution of a classic character archetype—the all–knowing mentor. These characters were once portrayed as wise, stoic, and emotionally detached. Now they’re tired, flawed, broken. We no longer want Yoda or Obi–Wan training Luke Skywalker. We want Han Solo—roguish hero turned regretful father—dealing with his washed–up misfit son. We want broken people trying to do better. We want complicated protagonists who don’t have all the answers. It’s therapy disguised as blockbuster in a world of ecological collapse, political instability, and AI–induced existential uncertainty.
Science fiction used to be future–facing. Now, it’s often nostalgic or even dystopian at best, because it feels easier to reimagine the past than to dare to imagine the future. But how many times can we re–edit our pasts before we forget how to envision the unknown?
The same problem manifests when we keep trying to “fix” our problematic faves by remaking them. While some of these remakes are necessary acts of cultural reckoning, others feel like overcorrected, sanitized attempts to repackage a story that didn’t need to be remade—Snow White had been told a thousand times before the Brothers Grimm published it in 1812, Walt Disney sold it to us at scale in 1937, Kristen Stewart and Lily Collins stared in their respective retellings, and Rachel Zegler “reclaimed” it in 2025.
This recycling often disregards a story’s original source rather than enhancing it. Similarly, television borrows the structure of serialized literature, but forgets the payoff. Everything ends on a cliffhanger. Every show is desperate for a renewal. There’s no closure, just the promise of more as entire arcs are stretched and diluted. The more content we produce, the more content starts to feel like filler.
That said, IP isn’t inherently bad. Some of the most thoughtful storytelling today comes from spin–offs. Better Call Saul (2015–2022) isn’t just a prequel to Breaking Bad (2008–2013); it’s a masterclass in character development and restraint. Andor (2022–2025) proved that Star Wars could tackle revolution, bureaucracy, and existential dread without relying solely on lightsaber battles. Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (2024) zoomed in instead of zooming out, combining action choreography with narrative art. These stories don’t just extend a universe—they enrich it. They deepen characters. They challenge genre conventions. They transform the familiar into the fantastical.
Barbie (2023) worked not because it was working with established IP, but because director Greta Gerwig subverted your expectations by weaponizing the most consumerist doll in history to deliver a bright–pink existential crisis. It was a cultural dissertation on femininity, capitalism, aging, motherhood, and what it means to be “Kenough.” Barbie succeeded because it took IP and infused it with originality, a unique vision, and unapologetic weirdness. It was bold, chaotic, and just nostalgic enough.
Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong—this isn’t the death of creativity, just its evolution. The Greeks retold the same myths repeatedly by adapting their stories to the relevant moment. Maybe The Fantastic Four isn’t a sign of creative failure, but an exercise in modern myth–making. Sequels, reboots, and remakes could be the building blocks of a budding remix culture in our post–modern era. What if spin–offs and reboots are simply retellings of the “myths” of a digital age?
The question then changes—it’s not whether we should tell the same stories. It’s whether we’re telling them better than before.
Dakota Johnson’s Persuasion (2022) tried to modernise Jane Austen by throwing in snarky one–liners and fourth–wall breaks, but failed to replicate the emotional depth of the original. Meanwhile, the lesser–known Rosaline (2022), starring Kaitlyn Dever, told the classic tale of Romeo and Juliet from the perspective of Juliet’s cousin Rosaline, offering something fresh, funny, and narratively grounded. Both were released directly–to–streaming in 2022, on Netflix and Hulu, respectively. Nevertheless, the Dakota Johnson vehicle did better, despite being an arguably worse film. Why?
Name recognition. Hollywood no longer builds stars—it buys them. Today, a film’s success depends as much on the IP as on the actors attached. Their box office draw functions as insurance, a pair of hands just below the IP safety net. We no longer watch movies for the characters—we watch them for actors who have become brands. While that’s not necessarily a bad thing, it does mean studios are less willing to gamble on unfamiliar faces telling unfamiliar stories. This star–driven economy has eliminated any space for unknowns and emerging talent, which is especially detrimental for original films that can’t afford big–budget stars.
Even once–reliable actors and franchises aren’t immune to fatigue. Despite everything studios believe sells—Tom Cruise, high–stakes stunts, and a name synonymous with big–screen spectacle (Mission: Impossible (1996–2025))—there’s only so many times Ethan Hunt can save the world before the world stops caring. When even the impossible feels repetitive, the lack of originality in cinema heralds a terrifying prospect—turning off general audiences from cinema itself. Characters become caricatures, set pieces become noise, and audiences, increasingly, are choosing silence. The COVID–19 pandemic accelerated a shift in film culture towards streaming, a shift that theatres have struggled to bounce back from. Wthout bold, original storytelling to lure viewers to movie theatres, that recovery may never come. This dry spell for cinemas may prove disastrous, as the future of the silver screen—and the spectacular movies made for them—feels uncertain. The tide can still turn. Marketing movies as unmissable, culture–defining events has the power to change the “I’ll just catch it on streaming next month” mentality.
In 2023, alongside Barbie came Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer (2023), a three–hour behemoth of a film that, along with the Margot Robbie–starrer, took advantage of a fan–driven marketing spectacle termed “Barbenheimer.” People flocked to theatres in black and pink, and two films that couldn’t be more different were able to coexist rather than compete at the box office. Barbenheimer proved that cinema doesn’t have to choose between being commercial and meaningful—it can be both. Audiences didn’t have to pick between art and entertainment, the coexistence of which was what made the Hollywood of old feel so fresh and experimental. After all, cinema didn’t become what it is by playing it safe.
Original films are still being made. However, they lack the necessary marketing budget and support to thrive. Studios want to say “originals don’t work.” Although they never really gave them a chance. Audiences can’t support what they don’t know exists. And at a certain point, neglect becomes sabotage. Hollywood keeps hitting “copy–paste” while we keep hitting “play.”
We’ve normalized content that is “fine,” “fun,” and “serviceable.” However, cinema should not be background noise; it should demand attention. It’s time to let some stories die so better ones can arise. Dilution doesn’t just weaken the medium. It insults it.
Don’t let mediocrity become normal. Let’s stop manufacturing noise and start creating real art—daring, disruptive, and unapologetically human.
