What 'The Studio' Taught Me: You Can't Love Film By Taking It Too Seriously.

Like many film enthusiasts, I once treated cinema as my entire life. I believed this devotion would grant me entry into the temple of art, only to find this attitude brought more trouble than joy. While it helped me find like-minded friends, it also led to bitter falling-outs that destroyed some of my closest friendships. Eventually, I realized that films—particularly those I elevated as "art"—weren't as important as I'd made them out to be. Though I still love, worship, and feel passionate about cinema, I've come to understand that my previous devotion was more about narrow taste than genuine appreciation. True joy in loving film only came when I stopped conflating my personal love for cinema with its supposed importance.

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The Studio (2025) follows Continental, a historic Hollywood film studio (whose name echoes John Wick), as it struggles to survive in an industry where art and commerce increasingly clash. The series centers on newly appointed Studio Head Matt Remick, a passionate advocate for art films who has grown weary of commercial productions that cater to market demands. Matt hopes to use his new position to raise the artistic standards of Hollywood filmmaking.

Though Matt and Continental are fictional, many of the show's plotlines mirror reality, featuring actual directors and actors playing themselves. In the first episode, Matt attempts to collaborate with Martin Scorsese on a film based on the Kool Aid beverage brand. While his boss envisions a box office triumph that would rival Barbie, Matt strives to achieve both commercial success and artistic merit.

Whether or not Matt finally makes it, his dedication has resonated deeply with film enthusiasts. Many cinephiles draw a clear distinction between "Films" and "Movies"—the former representing works of artistic value, the latter denoting commercial productions. They often see studios as a capital-driven system run by business people who grasp profit margins but not artistic merit. Interestingly, while the Academy Award for Best Picture goes to producers, their names fade from memory—instead, people credit directors for a film's success. So how will Matt stand apart? How will his artistic passion shape the projects under his leadership?

The Studio portrays Matt's character with remarkable nuance, with Seth Rogen bringing vibrant energy and humor to the role. As the story unfolds, viewers discover that being a Studio Head isn't the all-powerful as the position appears to be. Matt's passionate pursuit of art films, ironically, might not serve artistic cinema's best interests. During his time as a middle manager, he could freely express his opinions about films—despite occasional cold shoulders and mockery from directors. Now, as the person everyone seeks to please, his preferences become targets for flattery, potentially clouding his judgment.

He finds himself questioning what truly means to make the right decision, struggling to balance company interests, personal taste, filmmakers' visions, audience demands, and the abstract notion of "artistic truth." Most importantly, Matt remains fundamentally human, complete with your average person's flaws. His emotions often influence his choices, as shown in episode 2 when his desire to witness the creation of a great long take leads him to sit beside the director at the monitor. The outcome is predictable—like any boss who hovers over employees' work, his well-intentioned presence creates unexpected complications.

Dramatic plot twists, emotionally rich performances, and memorable dialogue—these hallmarks of classic TV series are packed into every minute of The Studio. Without exaggeration, I binged through episodes one to four, laughing through the first three episodes (the fourth is less humorous but quite insightful). And somewhere in that laughter, I began to realize that Matt embodies every film enthusiast. If we movie lovers had the chance to become a Studio Head like Matt, we would likely make the same choices he does. Like Matt, we have complex feelings toward directors who have deeply inspired us—we both love and criticize them, feeling grateful when they express through film what we cannot say ourselves, yet frustrated when they produce disappointing works. How would we interact with our favorite directors with such feelings when meeting them in real life? In the story, Matt is less a traditional Studio Head and more an ardent film fan playing the role of a studio head. While trying to keep his job, he uses his position to get closer to the directors and actors he admires. He has always been a fan, from start to finish.

That's why all film lovers can find a deep connection with Matt. Following his emotional journey helped me discover an answer to a vital question: how could I find peace with my intense passion for cinema?

During 2018–2019, I experienced one of the happiest periods of my life. While studying at a film school in the United States, with promising job opportinities and no sign of COVID-19 yet. I spent my days with creators from around the world who were determined to break into the film industry. I immersed myself completely in that environment—the outside world seemed frozen while the school and I pulsed with vibrant energy.

Yet in recent years, after witnessing COVID's impact on filmmaking, the rise of short-form video platforms, and the looming presence of AI threatening to replace human creators, we've had to face an uncomfortable truth: despite the industry's resilience and the continued creation of excellent work, film isn't as vital as we once believed. Movies—which we had elevated to life's meaning and treated as sacred—aren't that consequential in the grand scheme of things. I know that if you love film as deeply as you are, you'll resist this idea, as I did too. But what if I told you that after accepting this reality, I actually came to love film even more?

Like Matt, I once dreamed of changing the world through cinema because films had transformed my life, until I realized that the movies I held sacred had touched only me and a handful of others who shared similar experiences. Even blockbusters don't deeply resonate with everyone, and those who are moved don't necessarily carry that impact forward. Not everyone or will—or needs to be—transformed by films. By insisting others share my exact perspective on cinema, wouldn't I simply be prioritizing my personal interests over the greater good? And if I elevated film's artistic value above life itself, wouldn't that naturally put me at odds with profit-focused studios? Even filmmakers who dedicate their lives to the craft don't take such an absolutist stance—after all, the film industry operates according to its own market dynamics.

You know what? My favorite aspect of this show isn't just its humor—it's how Matt continues to love film in his own way after navigating all that drama. For instance, he and his friend/colleague still meet at night to rewatch their favorite films, even though during the day they might have had to upset that same director for the company's benefit. The director would never forgive him for sure, but does that make Matt's enduring love for film any less real? Not at all, right?

This reminds me of a piece of advice from a highly successful film industry alumnus before my graduation: "If you truly love film, don't be picky about your work, don't worry about others' opinions—just keep going and move toward your goal." This wisdom applies to anything we love deeply. You don't have to take it too seriously to love something. As long as we approach what we love with sincerity and keep moving forward, that's enough.