Why Netflix Struggles To Make Good Movies: A Data Explainer
Why do Netflix films keep falling flat?
Intro: What Does $320 Million Buy?
In February of 2025, Netflix released The Electric State—a widely panned sci-fi misfire starring Chris Pratt and the actress who plays Eleven in Stranger Things. Everything surrounding this film—the trailer, the press tour, and its very existence—would have been swiftly forgotten if not for one intractable detail: the movie cost $320 million.
What did this $320 million buy Netflix?
A Metacritic score of 30 and a Rotten Tomatoes mark of 14%.
A gaggle of reviewers lamenting that the film "lacked soul or meaning" and was "just plain dumb."
No fewer than fifty think pieces deconstructing Netflix's moviemaking strategy.
For that same $320 million price tag, Netflix could have funded Anora—that year's Best Picture winner, reportedly made for $6 million—53 times over. Though who's to say if those 53 Anoras would have been any good.
Released after a series of critically maligned movies and the sudden departure of film head Scott Stuber, The Electric State’s dismal reception prompted industry-wide confusion about the persistent shortcomings and broader purpose of Netflix's filmmaking efforts. How could so much money be spent in service of so many subpar movies?
I recognize this article has the makings of a self-important hit piece, where an intrepid writer attempts a "vicious takedown" of the 18th most valuable company on Earth. But I have no interest in doing such a thing (nor am I capable of doing such a thing). What genuinely interests me is finding a plausible explanation for why a $530 billion company consistently falls short in its attempts to make great movies.
So today, we'll unpack what drives Netflix's underwhelming film output—and explore what purpose these streaming movies are supposed to serve.
Why Netflix Struggles to Make Good Movies
It hasn't been all bad for Netflix. In its first decade of original content production, the streamer has made some genuinely great movies. As evidence of cinematic competence, I offer the following examples: The Irishman, Hit Man, Rebel Ridge, Maestro, Roma, KPop Demon Hunters, All Quiet on the Western Front, Marriage Story, Society of the Snow—and absolutely not Emilia Pérez. (Under no circumstances should Emilia Pérez qualify.)
The streamer is capable of producing and acquiring quality films, but these cases are outliers. Across IMDb, Letterboxd, and TMDB, the typical Netflix film scores well below the platform average for theatrically released movies.
The streaming service has found product-market fit in lower-brow entertainment, subsuming an entire category of content that no longer qualifies as "theatrical" (which is an industry buzzword for "I will leave my house and pay money to watch this"). Netflix has proven prolific in churning out Christmas movies, low-effort documentaries, formulaic rom-coms, and teen movies. This glut of forgettable films overshadows the platform's critically acclaimed titles (both statistically and in cultural imagination).
An abundance of subpar movies suggests that Netflix is skimping on its film slate—that they get what they pay for—but in reality, the streamer has committed significant resources to original movies. Between Oscar plays, mid-budget thrillers, Hallmark-inflected Christmas content, and films called The Electric State, the platform has spent a non-trivial amount of money. The average Netflix film costs less than films from major studios like Disney and Paramount, but more than indie mainstays like A24, Blumhouse, and The Weinstein Company (formerly Miramax).
Some of the streamer's lower-budget titles may be missing from this calculation, but even with those factored in, the average Netflix movie likely costs two to three times more than an A24 film—a studio broadly understood as shorthand for "pretentious but good."
If Netflix is spending generously, then the platform's subpar output must be a reflection of filmmaking talent. People are getting paid; the question is whether these are the correct people to be paying.
We'll start with acting talent, since star power is often taken as a proxy for watchability on streaming. According to historical averages, the typical Netflix star has headlined more movies, worked on bigger budgets, and built a more critically acclaimed filmography than their non-Netflix counterparts.
Netflix frequently casts veteran actors who may be on the downside of their careers (and skew the dataset with their extensive filmographies). In 2025, the streamer produced countless unremarkable films starring well-known performers, including:
Back in Action: This one starred Cameron Diaz and Jamie Foxx, and I'm told it was about spies.
Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F: This one had Eddie Murphy and the music from the "Crazy Frog" ringtone.
Happy Gilmore 2: Adam Sandler is in this one, accompanied by cameos from every celebrity who has ever lived, and many real-life golfers who are bad at acting.
Netflix understands the value of putting Eddie Murphy's face on a streaming thumbnail (which is a depressing sentence to both type and read). In a sea of content, a recognizable star carries outsized weight.
Performers benefit from the sheer visibility offered by Netflix's global base of ~300 million subscribers—exposure guaranteed independent of movie quality and something boutique studios like A24 simply can't replicate.
The same cannot be said for off-screen talent, mainly a film's director. Netflix has struggled to attract and retain top-tier filmmakers, who remain attached to the prestige and permanence of a theatrical release.
According to historical averages, the typical Netflix director has achieved less acclaim, has lower box office returns, and has a shorter resume of prior directing credits—all while working with bigger budgets.
Consider our three aforementioned star vehicles—Back in Action, Happy Gilmore 2, and Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F. Even the most obsessive Letterboxd film nerds will have no idea who directed these movies. These are filmmakers-for-hire, evaluated by their ability to stay within budget and deliver a finished cut on time.
The streamer has courted some big names in the past, such as Martin Scorsese, Alfonso Cuarón, and Bradley Cooper—but these have mostly been one-off projects, with few directors returning for a second collaboration.
After ten years of original content production, many filmmakers are opting out of the great Netflix moviemaking experiment, even when it's in their best interest financially. The streamer has lost several high-profile bidding wars for top-tier filmmaking projects over the last few years.
Weapons director Zach Cregger turned down a $50 million offer from Netflix for a $37 million budget from Warner Bros. and guarantees of a theatrical release.
Netflix offered a staggering $150 million to Emerald Fennell and Margot Robbie for their upcoming adaptation of Wuthering Heights, but lost out to Warner Bros., which promised an $80 million budget and a traditional release.
What's striking in many of these cases is the gap between Netflix's offer and that of the winning studio: What's priced into the $70 million difference between the streamer's bid for Wuthering Heights and that of the eventual winner?
You can make the argument that filmmakers are banking on the unbounded financial upside offered by a theatrical release, and that certainly is a factor, but that doesn't explain the enormity of such a gap.
As mushy as it sounds, there is an emotional component to theatrical exhibition, one that may overshadow financial guarantees. For starters, there are practical benefits to a traditional release: your film will play better on the big screen, viewers will watch it in one sitting, and will not be checking their phones while passively consuming your art. But there are also intangible sociocultural factors: the red carpet, the active consumption of your film as marked by someone leaving their house and paying money, and the knowledge that what you made is not disposable (at least for a month-long period).
Netflix understands the stigma associated with its platform and must therefore overpay filmmakers as compensation for a streaming-first debut. Yet these generous offers struggle to compete with uncapped financial upside and the emotional pull of the big screen. Directors go to film school hoping their work will be watched with intention—and apparently, millions of dollars cannot offset the romance of theatrical exhibition.
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Final Thoughts: Ten Dollar Content
During the pandemic, Netflix became a daily essential, along with food delivery, bulk bottles of hand sanitizer, and those annoying games people played on Zoom. After months of limitless streaming consumption and social isolation, I started to see little delineation between the platform's films, limited series, docuseries, reality game shows, and Trainwreck: Poop Cruise. It was all content, interchangeable digital tiles that served the same purpose.
My skepticism stems from the streamer's business model. This tech platform yearns for my monthly payment of $9.99 and must give me something in return for my almost-ten dollars. Rather than one single thing, Netflix gives you everything: hundreds of TV series, NFL games, a show called Is It Cake?, WWE, the SAG Awards, a few prestige movies, a boxing match featuring a 58-year-old Mike Tyson, and Love is Blind: Portugal.
It's the asymmetry between streaming purchase and product that defines our modern conception of "content," and this word's burgeoning use as a pejorative term. Someone pays $10 for a future state where they will be rewarded with an ever-changing assortment of media properties. My renewal at the end of August is for the prospect of entertainment in September, comprised of programming that will be released and enjoyed at a later date. I'm not entirely sure what I'm paying for. What I do know is that I'll receive content (in the broadest possible sense), and that this content will be better than silence.
As a consumer, it's remarkable how much time and money streamers spend in pursuit of my ten-dollar subscription. The flip side of this equation is the disposability of what is being offered. Functionally speaking, there is no difference between The Irishman, Making a Murderer, The Queen's Gambit, Love is Blind: Sweden, and The Electric State. Netflix's goal remains the same: fill as many hours of my day as possible so I feel justified renewing for another month. I am not paying for any one thing; I'm paying for the promise of media abundance.
Under these conditions, it's unlikely I'll discover an all-time favorite movie that alters my understanding of the human condition. What's more likely is that I will be entertained for an hour after a long day of work. Directors want their movies to be event-ized, to be consumed deliberately. Netflix, by contrast, aims to erase my boredom while I exert minimal energy or thought. As long as these goals remain fundamentally incompatible, the result will be a steady stream of forgettable films.
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So I guess the answer to why Electric State is so bad comes down to: Netflix hired a lousy director? I actually wish they would court better screenwriters because imho that's where they're really falling flat. Friends who saw Electric State didn't complain about the acting or direction, they told me the plot was a mess and the dialogue was cliched. Maybe if Netflix started with a solid foundation of good writing they'd have better rating scores? But of course, that can be said of the theatrical film world as well. Writers never get their due, the studios just want famous actors and a director with a track record, and they think that's enough. It all starts with someone at a keyboard getting their ideas across. If you hire a mediocre writer and force them to do endless rewrites to satisfy some algorithm, you just end up with a tepid, confusing mess no matter how famous the cast is.
Most data you presented doesn't even look statistically significant. I mean, look at the IMDB rating comparison, 6.08 vs 5.97. Without looking at the data, I would guess this isn't statistically different, if you get the same ratings in 2-3 months this could even change in favor of Netflix, who knows. My point is that they are equal. Same thing in the leading actor comparison, maybe two of that are significally different. Good analysis, but I was hoping a more careful approach when interpreting this data.