Netflix is available in almost every country in the world, and has nearly as many subscribers as there are people in the United States. But the company seems to be searching for something more: a way to bring all of those users together. In May, it reimagined the Tudum live event—its annual, Comic-Con-like celebration of the platform’s most beloved titles—as a variety show, complete with a Lady Gaga performance at the Kia Forum, in Los Angeles. (The singer has a role in the streamer’s hit series Wednesday.) Named after the sound that plays at the start of original Netflix productions, the event brought disparate fan bases together. The goal, apparently, was to encourage Netflix subscribers to engage with the shows and films they already love—and inspire them to check out new ones. But the evening also seemed to be saluting the very platform that houses them: The host, Sofia Carson, who stars in multiple Netflix movies, addressed the crowd collectively as “Tudum.”
For the most part, however, the audience stayed siloed in their own groups, cheering for the franchises they already liked. Subscribers who streamed the event at home seemed to act similarly: Abigail De Kosnik, an associate professor at UC Berkeley who studies fandoms, admitted to me that she “just forwarded through to the shows that I watch.” As it turned out, just because fans were in the room together didn’t mean they’d be fans of everything.
Yet Netflix seems eager to raise its own generation of devotees—something akin to the “Disney adults,” who incorporate their love for the world of Mickey Mouse (and his many friends) into their lifestyle. Netflix doesn’t offer theme parks, decades’ worth of merchandise, or an extensive coterie of fairy-tale princesses for fans to dress up as every Halloween. But it has a clear interest in pursuing such ventures: The streamer has announced an immersive year-round installation opening later this year in Philadelphia and Dallas. Dubbed “Netflix House,” the space will allow visitors to take photos in re-created sets, purchase themed meals, and even play a round of mini golf on a course that references popular shows and movies. “I do sense Netflix trying to cultivate that brand-name loyalty,” De Kosnik said, “or at least that sense that, like Disney, they are a universe that you want to play in.”
The company has recently demonstrated its ability to generate the kind of affection that supports such in-person, dedicated endeavors. KPop Demon Hunters, the animated film about a trio of world-saving singers, has become Netflix’s most watched movie of all time since its release, in June—a bona fide hit. Buoyed by a Billboard-charting soundtrack and eye-popping visuals, the film even lured audiences to theaters, topping the box office during a one-weekend run. Fans have been the undeniable catalyst behind its rise: Sony Pictures Animation, which produced KPop Demon Hunters, had reportedly sold the movie’s rights to Netflix for a small profit, and the Tudum event barely included anything touting the film’s imminent arrival. But people who discovered the movie turned it into a word-of-mouth juggernaut, enough to encourage Netflix to send the film to cinemas—where fans showed up to sing along.
Such fans could help the company deepen its cultural footprint. Some of the film’s supporters certainly consider themselves Netflix enthusiasts too: “I usually go to them first,” Tiffany Silver, a Los Angeles–based cosplayer whose repertoire includes a KPop Demon Hunters character, told me of their streaming preferences. “They’re kind of like my comfort channel.” Others are hesitant to declare fealty. Hayley Lerner, a fan-fiction writer who co-hosts the podcast This Week in Fandom History, told me that in her experience, Netflix often churns out “flash in the pan” fandoms; new shows may inspire a spate of amateur works—fiction, art, theories—only to get canceled by the streamer soon after. (Notable examples include the fantasy drama Warrior Nun and the sci-fi mystery The OA, both of which lasted only two seasons but inspired robust fan campaigns, pushing Netflix to renew them.) Netflix executives have pushed back against this characterization: As the company’s co-CEO Ted Sarandos told Bloomberg in 2023, “We have never canceled a successful show. A lot of these shows were well-intended but talk to a very small audience on a very big budget. The key to it is you have to be able to talk to a small audience on a small budget and a large audience at a large budget.” Still, Netflix’s voluminous library seems to leave the impression among viewers like Lerner that such decisions are handed down flippantly. The result, she said, is a “feeling of futility” about investing in a Netflix show.
In other words, a die-hard fan of Netflix as a brand isn’t a sure thing—not until fans feel supported themselves. Rebecca Williams, an associate professor at the University of South Wales and the author of Post-Object Fandom, told me that communities usually develop through a “feeling of attachment.” In the case of film and TV obsessives, that connection tends to be with story and characters. The most sustainable universes boast several key ingredients for cultivating a loyal audience: an ever-updating canon, a consistency in aesthetic and tone, and an element of nostalgia, with enough archetypal figures or narrative beats to make even a new work feel familiar. A casual viewer, Williams explained, “might watch something once and think, That was fine, and never go back and watch it again. But fandom is about carrying that on—so rewatching things and going back and looking at it from different perspectives.” Trekkies started local clubs to dissect character arcs, even after Star Trek: The Original Series was canceled. The X-Files watchers congregated on message boards to share theories, an obsession that carried them through the show’s revival.
Netflix, however, doesn’t necessarily seem to execute any one method for generating a following. Its latest efforts—live experiences, stage shows—are meant to, Sarandos said in an earnings call in 2023, “build fandom in a way that can drive revenue, but mostly it strengthens the core of the business.” Fandom longevity hasn’t appeared to be the goal, in other words: The streamer’s signature binge model, for example, can lead to the majority of viewers disengaging shortly after they’ve finished watching. The company has also endeavored to work with established quantities (filmmakers, showrunners, and franchises) without first developing a sense of an overarching creative direction. That strategy can pay off; many of the streamer’s reboots of cult hits have been successful, and a show such as Wednesday can partly attribute its triumphs to the name recognition of its director, star, and famous source material. Yet fan behavior has been unpredictable, too: Viewers flocked to a comic-book adaptation starring an Oscar winner, only to pan the sequel. A sci-fi movie directed by the team behind Avengers: Endgame, with a cast led by two of Hollywood’s most popular actors, may seem like a no-brainer, but it wound up being a nonstarter. Wednesday was one of Netflix’s most-watched series during its first season; the second season saw a 43 percent decrease in viewership between the first batch of episodes and the second, which were released weeks apart.
No wonder Tudum, the fan-oriented showcase in May, felt so disjointed, even amid attempts to present a unified Netflixian front. A pretaped clip showed Lily Collins as her eponymous Emily in Paris character referencing different Netflix titles to a group of executives—an implicit suggestion that the works all exist in the same universe. Some of the casts of Netflix series, meanwhile, tried to nod to that effort through scripted bits: The ensembles for several teen dramas assembled for “a YA class photo,” and the Love Is Blind co-host Vanessa Lachey directed a “Tudum Kiss Cam” to roam the crowd. The kiss cam focused not on the attendees, but on couples plucked from Netflix’s various reality dating shows. Scattered applause ensued.
The cast members of KPop Demon Hunters attended the event as well, but they never appeared onstage. That obviously didn’t hurt the movie’s performance; it just illustrates the difficulty of forecasting what viewers will become most obsessed with, even for a company that alters thumbnail images to appeal to particular user types and recommends watch lists based on astrological signs. As much as audiences enjoy seeing their favorite characters and celebrities, they also seem to welcome a sense of discovery and ownership—that is, championing projects that weren’t pushed on them by algorithms or through assumptions about their tastes.
Netflix may eventually build enough trust in the quality of its offerings to spawn a generation of hard-core enthusiasts, just as Disney has: people dedicated enough to follow its franchises and characters into theaters, arenas, and mini-golf courses. But fandom, De Kosnik explained, isn’t just about engagement; it’s also a way to “make meaning from the culture that is all around us.” Netflix’s library may occasionally inspire that meaning, but right now, the company itself is still seen as little more than a streaming platform. “To say that you’re a Netflix fan would essentially be like in 2002 saying you’re a cable fan,” De Kosnik said. “Like, ‘Oh my God, I love Comcast Cable.’ Nobody would ever say that.” At least not yet.
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