Once upon a time, the world looked to you for dreams. Your stories lit up the dark. You taught us to hope, to fight, to love bigger than we ever thought we could. You drew us into the theaters–Heck! My first real job, at fifteen, was that of being an usher at the Algonquin Theater in Manasquan, NJ, wearing a suit several sizes too big, where my pants were belted up around my rib cage and I could stick my hand out the fly to collect tickets. I didn’t care, I loved watching the movies, over and over again. I know a part of my love for storytelling had its roots watching the dreams that came out of Hollywood, but somewhere along the way, you started recycling the dream.

Let’s be clear: the issue isn’t foreign productions undercutting you with cheaper labor or tax incentives. This isn’t about money—this is about meaning. While you’re too busy crunching box office projections, pushing agendas or polishing another paint-by-numbers sequel to a storyline so predicable, so superficial, the rest of the world is blistering by you, telling stories that feel alive.

Look around. South Korea delivers genre-bending tales that slip between social commentary and character drama without blinking. Scandinavian series dig deep into human darkness and come back with something honest. Indian filmmakers are blending myth and modernity with unapologetic flair. Even small indie studios are crafting intimate, resonant stories that travel the globe without a cape or a sequel.

What do you offer in return?

Another reboot. Another origin story. Another climax telegraphed halfway through Act One. Your scripts seem to be engineered by advertisers, your characters one ticket stub short of an influencer, your endings are a fast food big meal to placate the mindless couch polyps–– It’s not just predictable—it’s anesthetic.

The real loss is that you’ve trained audiences to expect less and you truly think we are stupid and are less. And now, those same audiences are quietly, steadily, turning to other voices. Not because they’re louder, but because they’re real. I would rather slug through an Amazon Prime series interrupted by brainwashing commercials than go see a Hollywood dumpster fire.

We know the risk is higher when a story doesn’t follow the template. But that’s what made you great in the first place. You took risks. You shattered norms. You redefined what cinema could do. So why now are you so afraid of silence, of slowness, of substance? You used to bulldoze through the walls of social pressure—now you’re just another face in line, submitting to pat-downs for the soulless dystopian junk you helped create.

Hollywood, the world still wants stories. But now, it’s learning to look elsewhere.

Wake up. Or keep fading into your own formula. You are so hell bent on protecting Intellectual Properties, thinking that A.I. is your greatest threat. Your greatest threat is not seeing that A.I. is your greatest asset.

Sincerely,
A Storyteller Who Still Believes in Magic—Just Not Yours Anymore.

PostMortem

If you’re hunting for storylines, give me a ring—I’ve got enough to defibrillate the flatline diagnosis you’re mistaking for cinema.