Trump's Movie Tariff Might Suck for Hollywood—But It's a Win for Canada
When Donald Trump announced a 100% tariff on all films produced outside the United States, Hollywood panicked—and for good reason. His plan to “save” American cinema from a “very fast death” isn’t just economically misguided; it’s culturally out of touch. While this move threatens to disrupt global distribution and severely limit access to international films in the U.S., there’s a surprising silver lining: Canada may stand to gain.
Let’s face it: Hollywood’s been struggling for years. Sky-high budgets, box office flops, stagnant theater experiences, and streaming fatigue have left even the biggest players scrambling. Major studio blockbusters no longer make their money at home. In 2024, more than 70% of box office revenue for big releases came from international markets. Streaming platforms like Netflix, Prime Video, and Apple TV+ aren’t U.S.-centric operations anymore; they’re global content hubs that commission films in dozens of languages to suit regional tastes, relying on a worldwide subscriber base for growth. In other words, for American films to succeed today, they need to travel—both culturally and commercially. A 100% tariff on international films won’t solve this; it will only suffocate the ecosystem American cinema relies on. Tariffs like these discourage foreign films from entering the U.S. and invite retaliation from other markets. Worst-case scenario: American films get shut out of global markets. Suddenly, the industry risks becoming a closed loop, cut off from the audiences it desperately needs.
This disruption wouldn’t stop at the box office. The ripple effects would hit film festivals especially hard. Events like Sundance, SXSW, and Tribeca thrive on international programming. Foreign-language films elevate lineups, attract global press, and draw distributors eager to find the next breakout hit. Remove those films, and these festivals risk becoming echo chambers—domestically insular, culturally stagnant, and commercially irrelevant. The very essence of these festivals would unravel.
Sundance, the largest indie film festival in the U.S., thrives on international films—especially through its World Cinema competitions, which spotlight emerging global talent and connect them with American audiences and industry leaders.
In Trump’s view, cinema isn’t a conversation; it’s a commodity. He doesn’t see the film industry’s interdependence—he sees its capital. The financiers. The investors. The media conglomerates anchored in Los Angeles and New York. At its core, this policy is less about American cinema and more about protecting American ownership. It’s a push for control, not creativity.
And while there’s a decent chance these tariffs never materialize—they already read like a poorly thought-out tweet—if they were to survive a full term, the long-term effects are worth considering: A migration of that ownership elsewhere. If international films are squeezed out of the U.S., investors may follow the talent—and the returns—where the stories are still allowed to cross borders. The next global creative hub? It could be Canada.
Enter the co-production.
Co-productions are formal agreements between countries that allow filmmakers to access public funding, share production resources, and streamline distribution across borders. Canada has treaties with more than 50 nations. These arrangements don’t just help Canadian creators work with international partners—they make Canada an attractive production hub for global filmmakers looking to stretch their budgets and access new audiences.
From a business standpoint, co-productions reduce financial risk and open access to new markets. Creatively, they produce hybrid narratives—stories that reflect the complexity of our multicultural world. And Canada has already proven how successful this model can be.
Films like Room (Ireland-Canada) and Brooklyn (UK-Ireland-Canada) earned international acclaim and Oscar nominations, while Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape of Water, shot in Toronto with Canadian crews and partially financed here, won Best Picture and grossed over $195 million worldwide. Television co-productions like Orphan Black and Vikings became global hits, blending Canadian infrastructure with international appeal. We’re not starting from scratch—we’ve already laid the groundwork.
The first season of The Last of Us was filmed entirely in Alberta, Canada, and accumulated over 1 billion minutes streamed during its first week of release. But does this make it a Canadian product?
But what even is Canadian film?
Here’s the challenge: What does it mean to make a film “Canadian”? What makes a film distinctly Canadian? Is it where it’s shot? Who funds it? There’s no definitive Canadian aesthetic, no singular genre that screams “this is us.” Canada’s film scene has long struggled with the question of identity—our stories tend to be subtle, modest in scale, yet rich in cultural nuance. This lack of clear identity has often been seen as a weakness. But perhaps it’s time to recognize it as a strength. In an increasingly interconnected world, national cinema isn’t about hard borders but about creative permeability.
Canada has long been the best-kept secret of the global film industry—our cities double for New York, Chicago, and even Gotham, our crews are world-class, and our tax credits quietly keep major studios coming back. Just look at the sheer scale of what’s already being made here: Marvel blockbusters like Deadpool, X-Men, and Hawkeye regularly film in Vancouver and Toronto. HBO’s The Last of Us, one of the most expensive shows ever made, was shot entirely in Alberta. Amazon’s The Boys—a global hit—is proudly made in Toronto. These aren’t one-offs. They’re proof that Canada already supports ambitious, visually stunning, globally distributed productions. The world’s biggest studios trust our crews, our cities, and our incentives. But instead of just servicing these projects, imagine if we built an ecosystem that encouraged ownership and co-creation too.
This image is taken directly from the credits of Avengers: Endgame, one of the most successful films in history, grossing $2.8 billion USD at the box office. Such success would not have been possible without the support of Canadian initiatives like Ontario Creates and provincial tax credits.
The beauty of Canada lies in its anonymity. We don’t need to scream “we are the next big thing” from the rooftops. We don’t need to force a national identity on our films. Instead, Canada can become the quiet powerhouse, the trusted collaborator. Our openness to co-productions, our favourable exchange rate, and our creative flexibility make us an ideal destination for investment in a post-tariff world. What we lack is a robust ecosystem of domestic investors. To step into the global spotlight, Canada must transform its technical excellence into cultural capital. We need to empower our producers and studios to retain ownership over the content they help bring to life—not just facilitate someone else’s vision, but collaborate as equals in shaping it.
Trump's tariff, however misguided, may inadvertently give Canadian cinema the opening it has long needed. With its multicultural ethos and international ties, Canada has the opportunity to evolve from Hollywood North into a truly global platform for collaborative storytelling. In the end, Trump's tariff doesn’t protect the American film industry. It exposes how deeply interconnected that industry has become with the rest of the world. Stories don’t respect borders. They move, adapt, and resonate across cultures. If Trump insists on building walls, Canada must be the one to build bridges.
This is just the beginning of a massive conversation, and I want to hear from all sides! Whether you're in production, business, or a fan of cinema, your perspective matters. Drop your thoughts in the comments—together, we can reshape the future of global filmmaking!