In film industry–obsessed Los Angeles, business analysis and reporting on studio product tend to dominate the conversation so much that media coverage of more artistically ambitious cinema is severely marginalized. For that reason, dropping a movie in a reliably high-grossing location matters a great deal. Robust opening-weekend box office begets continued success, and a weak first weekend usually is impossible to recover from.
While distributors may be happy with the numbers at L.A.'s newish multiplexes in the short term, these theaters generally aren't in the business of curating with the preservation of film culture in mind. In addition to booking movies by well-known but art-minded auteurs such as Darren Aronofsky and Mike Leigh, they tend to pad their schedules with straight-up studio films as loss leaders — think Tron: Legacy at the Landmark. That's opposed to a different kind of art house model, such as the one in place at Landmark's Sunshine Cinema in New York, where the Aronofsky film would be the loss leader, and an audience attracted to that sort of borderline art film could potentially trickle down to more adventurous content, such as a foreign film or documentary.
PHOTO BY ANNE FISHBEIN
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Ted Mundorff, CEO of the Landmark chain, dismisses complaints about the financial challenges of the L.A. market. "Whoever believes that doesn't know anything about Los Angeles," he says, citing Blue Valentine as an example of a film that grossed more in its opening weekend in Los Angeles than it did during the same period in New York. "[Distributors] make more money in Los Angeles than they do in New York, I guarantee you that."
Statistics obtained by the Weekly suggest it's not uncommon for a film that does well in New York to gross considerably less in Los Angeles. For example, the French romance Mademoiselle Chambon, which was considered a hit here, made about two-thirds as much in its L.A. engagements as it did in New York. Lena Dunham's Tiny Furniture attracted Hollywood's attention — the indie film earned its writer-director-star an HBO series and a deal with Scott Rudin — but couldn't attract local moviegoers. Its L.A. box office take was a pitiful fifth of what the film made in New York.
Tiny Furniture played for two months in New York and lasted just two weeks in Los Angeles, which is emblematic of the accelerated process of natural selection that governs indie-film releasing. "I like to say it's a somewhat democratic world," Mundorff says. "A small indie film, if people like the film, then more people are going to go, and the film stays around longer and moves from city to city. And if people don't like the film, they vote it off the island."
This capitalistic notion of "democracy" — the likening of an art film to a reality show contestant who can lose the popularity contest and fall out of the game before L.A. audiences get a chance to vote — is one thing coming from a corporate CEO, but even art-first indie distributors admit they evaluate New York box office before making a firm commitment to L.A.
"Sometimes we say, 'Let's open in just New York, and if the number really pops there, then let's open in Los Angeles and see if it goes further,' " says Hu, whose Strand Releasing will put out last year's Cannes Film Festival winner, Thai film Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, this spring. "But when it doesn't work in New York, you just know it's a no-win situation. The distributor and the exhibitor [will] agree: 'You know what, let's not open L.A. It's just gonna be a waste.' "
Where Mundorff's pragmatism can read as dismissive of the kinds of films a distributor such as Strand releases, Hu's realism is tinged with heartbreak. "As a cinephile myself, I do feel the short shrift," he says. But "You can only lose so much money, and at a certain point you have to say, 'Hey, as much as I love it, the Los Angeles market just is not supporting these movies.' "
That might seem ironic — are we not a city overflowing with people passionate enough about cinema that they've made it their profession? In fact, many of my sources suggested the industry's dominance here actually stymies attempts to develop a rich and varied film culture. As Magnolia's Quinn puts it, "L.A. is a company town. And in a company town, company films consume consumers' attention."
In a place where many people who care about movies have a stake in the sustenance of the commercial film industry, a good film is great, but a movie with "grossing potential" is much better. The bigger the business a movie does, the more integral it becomes to the collective local conversation, and thus it attains a priority over a foreign film or documentary that can be watched later on Netflix — or, in many cases, seen for free at a guild screening or at home on a "for your consideration" DVD.
"Aren't so many people in Los Angeles so used to seeing things for free?" asks Hu, laughing at the absurdity. "They need to put their money where their mouth is, and I just haven't been seeing that.
