We often see the same pattern whenever a new film is released. If the box office is weak in the first few days and the audience response does not pick up quickly, many people will immediately conclude that the film is unlikely to recover its cost. At first glance, this seems odd. A film is not something that physically disappears after a few days. In theory, it can keep being shown. People can watch it later. It can continue to exist across different platforms and slowly earn back part of its cost. But the problem is that a film, when it is operating as a theatrical product, is not really a long-tail product.
A blog post can stay online for ten years and slowly find readers through search engines. A book can keep selling over time, and sometimes be rediscovered years later. Music can accumulate plays on streaming platforms for a very long period. But cinema distribution works differently. Theatrical release is not an infinite shelf. The core resource of a cinema is not the film file itself, but the screen, the time slot, and the position in the schedule. A prime evening session on one screen can only be given to one film. Once the cinema gives that slot to one film, it cannot give the same slot to another film that may have a better chance of making money.
This is why the first few days after release are so important. They are not just a few ordinary days. They are the days in which the market forms its first judgement. Cinemas look at attendance. Distributors look at the box-office curve. Media outlets look at heat and discussion. Audiences look at what other people are saying. If the opening is weak, cinemas will reduce the number of sessions. Once sessions are reduced, fewer people can see the film. Once fewer people can see it, the box office becomes even weaker. Once the box office becomes weaker, the schedule is cut again. When this cycle begins, it becomes very difficult for a film to recover simply by being shown for a long time.
The film market today is also different from the film market of the past. In the past, information travelled more slowly, and audiences had fewer choices. Even if a film did not have especially strong word of mouth, it might still survive for a while through stars, relationships, advertising, organised viewing, or some form of social mobilisation. But today, there are too many choices. Audience attention is scattered across films, streaming, television series, short videos, games, and social media. A cinema cannot afford to keep taking risks for a film that is being pushed mainly through connections, human favour, or heavy advertising. If the audience does not respond, the cinema is the one left carrying the risk of empty seats.
This is also why many modern cinemas have moved towards multiple smaller theatres rather than a few large halls. If a large hall has only a handful of people sitting in it, the waste is obvious. Smaller halls allow the cinema to spread risk. If one film has little demand, it can be moved to a smaller room or given fewer sessions. If another film suddenly gains momentum, it can receive more screenings or be moved to a better room. In this sense, the physical structure of the modern cinema is itself a way of managing market volatility. The cinema no longer wants to make a huge bet on one film. It uses many smaller rooms to cover more films, more audience groups, and more time slots.
So it is not that films no longer have a long tail. They still do. A film may continue to exist through streaming, television rights, overseas distribution, festivals, special screenings, and later online discovery. But that is no longer the main battlefield of theatrical revenue. The main battlefield of cinema release is the start. It is the opening. It is the first weekend. It is whether the first wave of audiences is willing to enter the theatre. The long tail belongs to the later life of the work. The cold start decides whether the film can survive the first market test.
From this perspective, it becomes much easier to understand why film promotion in the first few days matters so much. Promotion is not merely telling people that a film has been released. It is fighting for the chance to start the market. If the first wave of audiences arrives, the box-office numbers look better. If the numbers look better, cinemas are more willing to keep the sessions. If the sessions remain, media and social platforms keep talking about the film. Once discussion continues, more viewers begin to wonder whether the film is worth seeing. This is the snowball effect. The first snowball may be small, but once it starts rolling, it can grow by itself.
Han Hong’s public support for Feng Xiaogang’s film Zhua Te Wu touched precisely on this mechanism. When she appealed to Beijing audiences to “give face” and help bring in the first wave of box office, she was in effect trying to activate the film’s cold start. She was not wrong to understand the importance of the first wave. In theatrical distribution, early momentum is extremely important. What films fear most is not criticism after a wide audience has seen them, but a cold opening in which the market never really starts.
The problem is that a cold start is only a technical market mechanism. It is not a substitute for the film itself. It can help a film enter public attention more quickly, but it cannot replace the audience’s judgement. A launch can amplify an existing attraction, but it cannot create attraction out of nothing. If the film itself is strong, the launch can become a positive cycle. If the film itself is weak, or if the promotional language creates resistance among viewers, the launch can turn into a backlash and spread negative feeling more quickly.
The controversy around the phrase “give face” did not arise merely because it was a promotional slogan. It arose because it seemed to turn a commercial choice into a social obligation. Buying a film ticket is supposed to be a personal decision based on interest, time, word of mouth, and aesthetic judgement. You can tell the audience why the film is good. You can talk about the director, the actors, the story, the historical setting, or the artistic quality. But you cannot use the language of personal favour to replace those reasons. A film ticket may not be expensive, but the viewer is still spending time, attention, and judgement.
This shows that today’s audience is less willing to accept an older style of social mobilisation. In the past, phrases like “support it”, “show up for it”, or “give some face” may have had more power, because personal relations and social sentiment were often part of cultural consumption. But today’s viewer is much closer to an independent consumer. He is willing to pay for good work, and he is willing to spread genuine word of mouth when something moves him. But he is much less willing to be pushed by the language of obligation. Especially with a public commercial product like a film, once the appeal to favour crosses a line, it easily becomes irritating.
So the failure of this promotional moment was not a failure to understand the importance of the cold start. It was a failure to distinguish between a content-based start and a favour-based start. A truly effective cold start should come from the content, the word of mouth, the genre, the aesthetic appeal, and the film’s own power to attract viewers. It should not depend mainly on relationships. A viewer can be moved by a scene. He can be persuaded by a sincere review. He can be influenced by a friend who has just watched the film and strongly recommends it. But he is unlikely to be persuaded for long by the claim that he should watch a film simply to give someone face.
This also brings us back to the basic logic of the film market. A launch matters, but it cannot be separated from the work. Promotion can open the door for a film, but there must be something real behind the door. The cinema does not provide a permanent shelf. It provides a short market opportunity. The audience does not offer unlimited patience. It offers a limited amount of attention. If the film can hold that attention, it has a chance to keep moving. If it cannot, bigger stars, stronger relationships, and louder promotion will only expose the problem faster.
The long tail of film has not disappeared, but it has largely moved away from the theatrical battlefield and into later channels. What a theatrical film truly has to fight for is whether it can form a sustainable market signal at the beginning. That signal cannot be manufactured by advertising alone, nor can it be maintained by relationships. It must convince cinemas that scheduling the film will bring a return. It must convince audiences that buying a ticket is worth it. It must give public discussion a reason to continue. A cold start is the first step by which a film enters the market, but the quality of the film itself decides whether that first step can become a continuing path.
The lesson is therefore quite clear. Theatrical cinema is not mainly a long-tail economy. It is a cold-start economy. But the cold start is not magic. It is only one part of the market mechanism. What truly allows a film to gather momentum is not face, but the film itself. If the work can stand, the first wave of attention becomes the beginning of a snowball. If the work cannot stand, the first wave only becomes a faster test.
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