Cinemas Don’t Owe Filmmakers Fairness — They Owe Investors Profit Inside the Nigerian Cinema Theatre, Where Art Meets Arithmetic

By P. Adejare

In recent weeks, a familiar debate has resurfaced in Nigeria’s film industry. Prominent filmmakers and actors — including Ini Edo, Niyi Akinmolayan, and several others — have publicly criticized cinema chains over what they describe as unfair allocation of screening times. Their films, they argue, are pushed into early-day or midweek slots, limiting visibility and undermining box office performance.

The complaints have circulated widely on social media, often framed as evidence of bias or institutional disregard. But the controversy reveals less about conspiracy within cinema exhibition than about a persistent misunderstanding of how the business of cinemas actually works.

Fairness, in this context, is a misplaced expectation.

Cinema theatres in Nigeria are not cultural institutions tasked with balancing artistic recognition or professional seniority. They are commercial enterprises operating under significant pressure. High energy costs, imported projection equipment, staffing expenses, rising rents, and investors demanding returns all shape how decisions are made. Within this environment, every screen is an asset, and every hour of programming must justify itself financially.

A cinema screen is not a reward. It is a revenue-generating unit.

Time slots are therefore allocated based on expected demand. Prime hours — Friday evenings, weekends, and holidays — are reserved for films most likely to attract large audiences quickly. When a film underperforms in its opening days, it is reassigned to less competitive hours. This practice is not punitive, nor is it personal. It is standard operating procedure in cinema markets across the world.

Opening weekends matter because they provide the clearest signal of audience behavior. Marketing campaigns, interviews, and online engagement ultimately point toward a single test: whether people buy tickets and show up. A film that fills seats early earns continued visibility. One that does not is gradually scaled back.

This logic applies in Lagos no differently than it does in London or Los Angeles. What differs in Nigeria is the expectation — voiced by some filmmakers — that the system should bend in recognition of artistic quality, reputation, or contribution to the industry.

Niyi Akinmolayan, for example, has argued that films need time and consistent access to premium slots to build momentum. Ini Edo and others have echoed similar sentiments, suggesting that reduced showtimes create a self-fulfilling cycle of underperformance. These concerns are not frivolous. But they overlook a central reality: cinemas cannot afford to subsidize potential.

Artistic merit does not automatically translate into commercial demand. A film can be well-acted, well-directed, and culturally relevant — and still fail to attract large audiences. Star power, once a reliable predictor of turnout, has become increasingly unreliable. Social media enthusiasm often exaggerates interest, creating the illusion of popularity that dissolves at the ticket counter.

The gap between digital noise and physical attendance has widened, leaving some films stranded between perceived success and measurable performance.

When such films lose prime screening slots, disappointment is often reframed as injustice. Yet from the perspective of the cinema operator, the issue is pragmatic rather than political. Empty seats during peak hours represent losses that cannot be recovered. A theatre that consistently sacrifices revenue for sentiment risks its own survival.

The language of unfairness also tends to obscure harder, less public conversations — about marketing strategy, audience targeting, and release timing. Was the promotional campaign designed to reach ticket-buying audiences beyond social media? Was the release window overcrowded with competing titles? Was demand overestimated? These are strategic questions, not ethical ones.

There is an irony in the public outrage. Many of the filmmakers criticizing cinema practices are also producers who understand budgets, forecasts, and return on investment. In their own businesses, few would prioritize equity over profitability. Principles, it seems, are easier to defend when overhead belongs to someone else.

Public confrontations with cinemas rarely help struggling films. Audiences are largely indifferent to entitlement narratives, and investors watch closely how industry professionals respond to commercial disappointment. Noise does not generate momentum. Demand does.

A more productive discussion would begin well before release week. How is anticipation built months in advance? How is online attention converted into ticket sales? How are release dates chosen to avoid internal competition? These considerations shape outcomes far more decisively than post-release disputes over time slots.

Cinema scheduling is not a judgment on artistic worth. It is a reflection of consumer behavior, translated into showtimes and screen counts. To interpret it otherwise is to confuse business decisions with personal affronts.

Inside the Nigerian cinema theatre, art may inspire the work, but arithmetic determines its placement. Cinemas do not exist to guarantee fairness. They exist to remain viable.

They do not owe filmmakers equal treatment. They owe investors profit.

Until that reality is fully absorbed, the same arguments will resurface with each release cycle — public, emotional, and disconnected from the only measure that ultimately matters: whether audiences are willing to buy tickets and show up.