The Foyer Is the New Stage
Something strange is happening in our small town cinemas. The film is no longer the main event. The foyer is.
Over the past year, a cluster of independently owned picture houses, think places like The Lighthouse Royale in Napier or Harbour View Cinematheque in Nelson, have started treating the in between bits as prime real estate. Not for posters. Not for popcorn pyramids. For theatre. One cinema turned its carpeted lobby into a makeshift living room for a season of 1970s dramas, complete with second hand couches and a volunteer pouring instant coffee into mismatched mugs. Another built a narrow corridor lined with fake ivy and gravel underfoot before a run of rural thrillers. You had to walk through the paddock before you saw the paddock on screen. It sounds gimmicky. It is not.
What they have understood is that marketing does not have to shout. It can host. By the time you take your seat, you are already in the mood. Already talking to strangers about the set up in the foyer. Already posting a photo of your mate pretending to nap on the floral couch. The ticket becomes access to a temporary world. And here is the clever part. None of it feels sponsored. No logos slapped on cushions. No desperate tie ins. Just atmosphere, built with plywood and enthusiasm.
For years we have treated cinema advertising as a captive moment, blast them with trivia slides and local ads while they wait. These operators have flipped that thinking. The waiting is the product. The pre show becomes part of the narrative arc. It is immersive without being expensive. It is theatrical without being precious. Most of all, it is generous. In a streaming heavy era, that generosity is the differentiator. You cannot download a foyer that smells faintly of dust and fresh coffee. You have to show up. And showing up, it turns out, is very good business.
Over the past year, a cluster of independently owned picture houses, think places like The Lighthouse Royale in Napier or Harbour View Cinematheque in Nelson, have started treating the in between bits as prime real estate. Not for posters. Not for popcorn pyramids. For theatre. One cinema turned its carpeted lobby into a makeshift living room for a season of 1970s dramas, complete with second hand couches and a volunteer pouring instant coffee into mismatched mugs. Another built a narrow corridor lined with fake ivy and gravel underfoot before a run of rural thrillers. You had to walk through the paddock before you saw the paddock on screen. It sounds gimmicky. It is not.
What they have understood is that marketing does not have to shout. It can host. By the time you take your seat, you are already in the mood. Already talking to strangers about the set up in the foyer. Already posting a photo of your mate pretending to nap on the floral couch. The ticket becomes access to a temporary world. And here is the clever part. None of it feels sponsored. No logos slapped on cushions. No desperate tie ins. Just atmosphere, built with plywood and enthusiasm.
For years we have treated cinema advertising as a captive moment, blast them with trivia slides and local ads while they wait. These operators have flipped that thinking. The waiting is the product. The pre show becomes part of the narrative arc. It is immersive without being expensive. It is theatrical without being precious. Most of all, it is generous. In a streaming heavy era, that generosity is the differentiator. You cannot download a foyer that smells faintly of dust and fresh coffee. You have to show up. And showing up, it turns out, is very good business.