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So, AMC Theatres is gearing up for its big Q3 2025 earnings call on November 5th. You know... So, AMC Theatres is gearing up for its big Q3 2025 earnings call on November 5th. You know, the one where executives in suits will get on a webcast and use words like "synergy" and "forward-looking momentum" while trying to convince Wall Street that everything is just fine. And how are they building up to this moment of corporate truth? By selling you a light-up plastic DeLorean to hold your popcorn.
Let that sink in.
This isn't just a popcorn bucket. This is a mission statement. It’s a giant, glowing, gull-winged symbol of a company that seems to have completely run out of ideas for the future, so it’s frantically strip-mining the past for every last scrap of goodwill. They’re banking on you remembering how you felt watching Michael J. Fox in 1985, and hoping that feeling is worth whatever absurd price they slap on a piece of molded plastic from a factory in Shenzhen.
This is a bad strategy. No, "bad" doesn't cover it—this is a five-alarm dumpster fire of creative bankruptcy. It’s like a band that can’t write new music, so they just tour their one hit album over and over again at state fairs, selling increasingly elaborate t-shirts until the original members are all replaced and nobody remembers why they liked the song in the first place. Is this what the future of cinema is? A trip to a museum of things you used to love, with a gift shop on the way out?
Nostalgia is a Hell of a Drug
Look, I get it. Nostalgia sells. And to be fair, some of it is being done with a veneer of class. They’re re-releasing Annie Hall and Something’s Gotta Give as a tribute to the late, great Diane Keaton. It’s a genuinely nice gesture, and a reminder that studios used to make movies for adults that weren't about superheroes punching CGI monsters. People will go, they’ll remember a time when movies felt different, and AMC will make a few bucks. Fine.
But it’s part of a pattern that’s getting harder and harder to ignore. One week it’s a Keaton retrospective, the next it’s a Back to the Future re-release. What’s next? A special Jaws screening where they throw a bucket of chum on you in the third act? It feels less like a celebration of film history and more like a desperate rummage through Hollywood’s attic for anything that isn’t nailed down. They want us to believe this is innovation, but really...
The ‘Back to the Future’ popcorn bucket at AMC movie theaters is the perfect, ridiculous endpoint of this thinking. It’s not about the movie; it’s about the stuff. The collectible. The thing you post on Instagram to prove you were there. The actual film becomes secondary to the experience of buying merchandise. I can just picture the meeting where this was approved. Some marketing VP, probably named Chad, stands in front of a PowerPoint and says, “The data shows high engagement with tangible, retro-themed assets.” And everyone nods, because that sounds a hell of a lot easier than figuring out how to make going to the movies a genuinely compelling experience again.
The whole thing is a distraction from the real questions. Why are ticket prices so high? Why does a soda and a box of Buncha Crunch cost more than my monthly Netflix subscription? Why is the floor so sticky? Instead of answers, we get a plastic car. Thanks, guys.
Praying at the Altar of Swift
Of course, there’s one other pillar holding up this whole rickety structure: Taylor Swift.
After the absolute monster success of The Eras Tour concert film, AMC is going back to that well, and they’re going back hard. Swift is releasing a new "movie experience" for her album The Life of a Showgirl, and she’s partnering with AMC to distribute it. It's not a concert film this time, but an 89-minute "Official Release Party" with a music video premiere, lyric videos, and "personal reflections."
Let’s be real: this is going to make a boatload of money. The Swifties will show up in droves, they will trade friendship bracelets, they will sing along, and AMC’s Q4 numbers will probably look fantastic because of it. AMC isn’t just a theater chain anymore; it’s a venue for Taylor Swift’s global fan club meetings. And for AMC, that’s a pretty good business to be in. For now.
But what happens when Taylor decides to take a break? What’s the plan then? This ain't a long-term solution. It’s a golden parachute made of pure luck. Relying on one pop megastar to save your entire industry is the definition of putting all your eggs in one very, very famous basket. It proves that the core product—the magic of just going to see a new movie, any new movie—is broken. If it weren't, you wouldn't need these massive, one-off cultural events to get people through the doors.
I tried to find showtimes for a regular movie at my local AMC the other day, somewhere near me in the sprawling suburbs, and it was a mess of confusing start times and premium formats. Do I want Laser? IMAX? Dolby? Prime? It’s exhausting. I just want to sit in a dark room and watch a story without having to cross-reference a tech manual first. Offcourse, that simple experience doesn't seem to be the priority anymore.
So on November 5th, when the executives start talking, they’ll point to the Swift numbers. They’ll probably mention the strong performance of their "commemorative retail offerings." They’ll even take questions from the meme-stock retail investors who treat the company like a religion. But will anyone ask the hard question? Will anyone ask what the plan is for the day the nostalgia runs out and Taylor Swift is on vacation?
I wouldn't bet on it.
It's a Sideshow, Not a Strategy
At the end of the day, all of this—the plastic toys, the tribute screenings, the release parties—feels like a desperate attempt to make the theater feel like an event again. But they’re just decorating the lobby while the foundation crumbles. It’s a collection of shiny, distracting tactics masquerading as a cohesive strategy for survival. Selling collectibles and hosting fan events isn’t a vision for the future of cinema; it’s what you do when you’ve given up on having one.