If you’re anything like me during exam term, you’ll know that FilmTok and film Twitter are probably the most effective procrastination tools ever created. One minute you’re taking a “quick break”, and the next you’re hours deep into edits of emotionally devastated protagonists staring at an ocean while a Mitski song plays overtop. After enough scrolling, though, you start to notice a pattern.

Between the quippy “A24 has done it again” Letterboxd reviews, the unread copies of Past Lives and Moonlight screenplay books used as home decor, and even the A24-themed birthday parties, it becomes clear that, at some point, this production and distribution company transformed into a fully commodified personality trait. The logo itself has become shorthand for a particular identity, with “very A24” having somehow become both a genre and an aesthetic category in its own right. There is some subconscious awareness when you’re watching Lady Bird, Midsommar, or Marty Supreme, that you’re watching an A24 film.

“At some point, this production and distribution company transformed into a fully commodified personality trait”

But what actually is ‘the A24 style’? Twitter thinks it’s an amalgamation of melancholic lighting, emotionally unavailable protagonists, indie soundtracks, awkward silence, grief, and at least one shot of someone crying in a bathroom mirror. A vaguely existential cinematic moodboard that collapses wildly different filmmakers and creative voices into one flattened brand identity.

What’s strange is how quickly this happened. Production companies are usually invisible to audiences. Nobody walks out of the cinema saying, “Wow, that felt very Warner Bros.” or “Such a Paramount-coded film.” Yet, A24 has managed to slip into everyday vocabulary in the same way as fashion labels or skincare brands. The studio’s name now carries more cultural weight than many of the filmmakers themselves, even when A24 often has little to do with the actual creative process beyond financing or distribution.

And that’s where ‘the A24 problem’ begins. Defining films primarily through the company behind their marketing reduces cinema into a single aesthetic category, flattening the work of individual directors, writers, cinematographers, and actors. It ignores how radically different many A24 films actually are. The glossy, hyper-online satire of Bodies Bodies Bodies with its sharp dialogue, neon lighting, and Gen-Z irony is a world away from the quiet intimacy of Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun, which feels grounded in memory, restraint, and emotional realism. Their soundtracks, performances, pacing, cinematography, and emotional aims are completely different. The only real connective tissue is the logo before the opening credits.

Ironically, the company itself is not especially flawless at the thing it actually does: distribution. A24 has repeatedly faced criticism for poor international releases, particularly outside the US. Films regularly arrive months late internationally – if they arrive in cinemas at all. Past Lives, for example, had a huge delay between its US and UK release, while smaller A24 titles such as Y2K often disappear almost entirely outside of The States. For a company so central to online film culture, its accessibility can feel strangely limited.

“The only real connective tissue [between the films] is the logo before the opening credits”

I think this phenomenon is largely due to the fact that the brand taps directly into wider Gen-Z habits of consumption. The company sells a curated cultural image of face caps, T-shirts, candles and tote bags, turning film appreciation into something physical and performative. There is nothing more Gen-Z than signalling taste through the things you buy and post online. In the same way that trends cycle through fashion, skincare, or makeup, A24 has found a way to make films move through internet culture as aesthetics to temporarily inhabit. This also intersects with celebrity culture. Actors like Rachel Sennott or Florence Pugh become inseparable from the brand’s image of curated indie cool, with entire emotional reactions built around a film nobody has actually seen yet. At times, A24 feels like an internet moodboard, built through celebrity personas, TikTok edits, and hyper-online anticipation.

Still, it would be unfair to dismiss the phenomenon entirely. A24 has genuinely helped stranger, riskier films enter mainstream conversation in a ways that feels increasingly rare – take Backrooms as a particularly relevant example. In a culture dominated by sequels, cinematic universes, and algorithmic content, there’s something valuable about audiences passionately engaging with emotionally difficult or formally unusual films. Even if the branding can seem superficial, it has still encouraged younger audiences to care about cinema again, as evidenced by the fact that Gen Z is one of the most cinema-going generations in years, with an average of seven cinema trips a year. That, at least, feels worth holding onto.