The streaming revolution was originally built on a democratic promise. Netflix and the other platforms promised that film history would become accessible on an unprecedented scale, and that the cultural elitism that had defined cinema for decades would finally disappear. There was no longer any need to hunt for special DVD editions, attend retrospective screenings, or search through the dusty shelves of video stores. With a few clicks, practically everyone could access the same catalogue. It seemed that cinema would finally become a mass product. One of the great paradoxes of the streaming age, however, is that the democratization of access ultimately did not eliminate cultural hierarchies. On the contrary, it created new ones.
When everything becomes available, access loses its value. Once scarcity disappears, something else becomes the rare resource: attention. Modern people do not live in a shortage of films, but in an excess of them. More new content appears every day than anyone could watch in a lifetime. In this endless supply, the most important question is no longer where to find films, but what is worth watching. This is precisely where the new elitism appears. Cultural status no longer comes from having access to something, but from being able to navigate the chaos.
In recent years, watching films has increasingly become an identity. The rise of Letterboxd is perhaps the clearest example of this shift. At first glance, it appears to be merely a film diary or social platform. In reality, it is much closer to the role once played by the bookshelf or the record collection. Lists of favorites, ratings, thematic selections, and year-end statistics are not only about films, but about self-definition. They are about the kind of person we want to appear to be. A Wong Kar-wai marathon or a Chantal Akerman list has become, in certain cultural circles, as much a status marker as a special watch or a designer bag. Not because it is more expensive, but because it signals a certain taste, knowledge, and cultural capital.
In this sense, modern cinephilia has moved surprisingly close to the world of luxury. Luxury has never been only about money, but about distinction. It is about whether someone is able to appreciate things that not everyone understands. According to Pierre Bourdieu, taste always expresses social position as well. In the streaming age, this mechanism has not disappeared. It has only changed form. Film watching is no longer passive entertainment, but cultural self-expression. The fact that someone collects Criterion Collection releases, subscribes to Mubi, or regularly attends retrospective screenings carries, in certain circles, the same identity value that fashion or gastronomy carries for others.
What is especially interesting is that this new elitism is not primarily material in nature. A Bergman film or a restored Ozu classic is cheaper to access today than ever before. The real bottleneck is not money, but time and curiosity. The new form of cultural capital is born not from ownership, but from attention. In a world where everyone has access to the same films, the difference lies in who is willing to devote time to them. The streaming age democratized supply, but attention remains unevenly distributed.
This may also explain the unexpected renaissance of physical media. The popularity of 4K Blu-ray releases, Criterion boxes, and restored collections may appear irrational at first glance in an age when everything is only a click away. In reality, these objects are not technological tools, but cultural statements. They signal that their owner does not simply consume films, but wants to form a relationship with them. Streaming embodies convenience, while physical media represents commitment. Just as vinyl is not about practicality, Criterion editions are not only about image quality.
There is some historical irony in all this. The original aim of the streaming age was to remove cultural gatekeepers and turn cinema definitively into mass culture. In a certain sense, that has happened. Yet people clearly still want to distinguish themselves through taste. Cultural hierarchies have not disappeared. They have simply shifted location. When everyone is watching the same catalogue, what matters is no longer what can be watched, but what we choose from it.
Perhaps this is the most interesting paradox of the streaming age. The technology that was supposed to erase cinephile elitism has ultimately recreated it. This time, it is organized not around access, but around taste. In the 21st century, watching films is no longer simply entertainment. Increasingly, it is cultural identity. And like every identity, it is ultimately about who we are, or at least who we would like to be.