On a December evening, the Mark screening room at Upstate Films’ Orpheum Theater in Saugerties sits in its usual pre-show hush—warm lights, immaculately tuned sound system, plush seats patiently waiting. It’s the kind of place purpose-built for people who still believe in leaving the house to watch a movie on the big screen with strangers, a faith increasingly tested in the digital era. And now, that faith is being tested again, as Netflix moves to acquire Warner Bros.
In Hollywood, the news triggered a familiar ripple—one part panic, one part weary resignation. In the Hudson Valley, it felt more like someone quickly flicked the lights on and off and asked, “What if this all goes away?”
“I mean, we’ve all been bracing ourselves for one bad scenario or another,” says Upstate’s co-executive director Paul Sturtz. “And this was surely a bad one.” Netflix, he notes, has long been “no friend of the movie theater world,” with co-CEO Ted Sarandos treating theatrical release as an “outmoded idea” that filmmakers must be gently weaned off of. “He basically says people just want to watch movies at home,” Sturtz adds, “and he says it over and over.”
The sale isn’t final. Paramount Skydance rushed in with its own counterbid, turning the whole thing into a corporate drama that could run for months. But even in this limbo, local independent theaters—already surviving on tight margins and community devotion—are sketching out what life might look like if one of the last major studios shifts decisively toward streaming.
Shorter Theatrical Windows
For Sturtz, the nightmare begins with the theatrical window, which is typically 30-45 days. Netflix typically gives a movie roughly 14 to 17 days in theaters before migrating it to the platform—a death sentence for small theaters that depend on longer runs. “To make any money on a film, you need multiple weeks,” he says. “A 17-day window gets you two weeks and a third weekend. That’s it.” And once audiences know they can catch the same film at home before their popcorn has even gone stale, the going-out impulse collapses.
All of this comes at a moment when Warner Bros. has been one of the few studios still backing the kinds of films that independent theaters depend on. Sturtz rattles off examples from the past year—One Battle After Another, Weapons, Sinners—big swings made by filmmakers with actual visions and budgets to match. “There’s absolutely no scenario where Warner Brothers doesn’t reduce the amount of risky films they make,” he says flatly. “Those $20 to $50 million movies—the most exciting work—that’s what disappears.”
In Millerton, Jeremy Boviard, general manager of The Moviehouse, heard the news and felt his own stomach drop. “Netflix was the worst-case scenario,” he says. It wasn’t personal—just reality. “Theatrical exhibition has never been more challenging than it is now. And Netflix has repeatedly said for a decade that theatrical is not their business model.”
The danger isn’t just economic; it’s cultural. “The difference between seeing a movie in a theater with an audience versus watching at home…it’s not a special or memorable experience most of the time,” Boviard says. He talks like someone who’s seen a hundred quiet transformative moments in a dark room—friends and strangers laughing in sync, gasping together, lingering afterward to talk. “We’re increasingly isolated and lonely,” he adds. “The theater is one of the last places that brings people together in a meaningful way.”
In-Person Experiences
Local indie theaters also program in-person events with filmmakers and actors that can’t be replicated online. (An upcoming screening of The Testament of Ann Lee at the Crandell Theater with the actress Amanda Seyfried in attendance sold out hours after it was announced.) “I’ve found when programming special events for us,” Boviard says, “it doesn’t necessarily have to be a big name draw or anything like that. People appreciate hearing from the creators or behind-the-scenes stories or being able to interact with filmmakers. That’s still part of the experience that we can offer that is unique to the in-person.”
But Boviard is also looking at the numbers. Since Covid, studios are releasing about 20 to 25 percent fewer wide-release films than before. A shrinking Warner slate—especially one steered toward streaming—tightens the pipeline even more. “If we removed all Warner Brothers films from the last few years,” he says, “that’s a worse experience for moviegoers, and it definitely impacts the bottom line.”
At Story Screen Cinema in Hudson, co-owner Mike Burdge remembers his immediate reaction to the sale: “Oh God. Oh God. We’re in hell.” He laughs as he says it—dark humor remains one of the more durable tools available to independent exhibitors. But like Boviard and Sturtz, Burdge sees the sale as a direct threat to the diversity of films he can show.
For Story Screen, Warner Bros. is essential, not just for new releases but for its sprawling repertory catalog. “Especially with the Christmas season—Gremlins, A Christmas Story, Lethal Weapon—we mix and match from their catalog all the time,” he says. “They’re very open about what’s available, and affordable, and easy to book.” It’s hard to overstate the loss of a century of film history if repertory rights disappear into a streaming vault.
If Warner titles got harder to access, Burdge would adapt—he’s quick to note the many third-party distributors and studio archives that remain. But there’s no denying the hole Warner would leave. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say it would decrease the diversity of our programming,” he says.
Still Optimistic About the Future
Yet Burdge is, surprisingly, the optimist of the bunch. Netflix has long insisted it would never do certain things—ads, live sports, theatrical releases—until suddenly it does. “They flip and flop sometimes,” he says. “But often in a good way.” He imagines a scenario in which Netflix recognizes the marketing and cultural lift that real theatrical release gives a movie—a lesson the company seems to be learning, if slowly. “It’s possible they take a step back and say, actually, we can make more money with a standard theatrical window.”
But even if that hope materializes, the next two years will be precarious. Consolidation has already strained distributors, cut the number of mid-range adult films, and funneled investment into sequels and franchises. Sturtz calls it a “doomsday scenario” for filmmaking that falls between the $3 million indie and the $300 million superhero tentpole. Boviard sees the same pattern: “It’s an increasingly risk-averse industry. They’re circling the drain with IP.”
And then there’s the basic, quiet reality of running a movie theater in 2025. Independent houses operate on thin margins. Most are nonprofits. Most rely on memberships, donors, or sheer force of will. “There’s no good business model for running an independent theater,” Sturtz says. “We constantly have to raise money to bridge the gap.” Boviard shares a similar truth: a theater looks like a multiplex on the surface—same movies, same popcorn—but the structure underneath is entirely different.
Still, none of these owners talk like people ready to quit. If anything, they sound more certain than ever of the value of what they offer. Sturtz sees it in the Mark room in Saugerties, in the way people respond to a beautiful space built for moviegoing. Boviard sees it in the conversations after screenings. Burdge sees it in the growing popularity of repertory events.
“What keeps independent theaters going is people going to movie theaters,” Burdge says simply. “If everyone who cared went once a month, everything would be fine.”
Boviard puts it even more directly: “There is still something special about the theatrical experience. People still value that.”
And Sturtz sums up the counter-narrative he chooses to believe: Yes, big tech companies keep insisting there’s no reason to leave your house. “But we still have the desire to use our legs and be sociable,” he says. “These are precious community spaces worth fighting for.”
Whatever becomes of Warner Bros., that story—the one happening in the dark, one showing at a time at local indie theaters—isn’t going quietly.
“Bid screen.” Is that a pun?
No Jane, that’s just a typo. Thanks for noticing! It’s been edited.