【My Sisters Friend (2019)】

In 2025,My Sisters Friend (2019) the red carpet doesn’t just belong to movie stars anymore — it belongs to YouTubers, Twitch streamers, and TikTokkers-turned-Netflix leads. Hollywood has entered a new era where the most coveted currency isn’t box office numbers or awards season buzz, but follower counts, engagement rates, and the ability to move an audience with a single post.

As studios scramble to capture increasingly fractured attention, digital-native creators have become some of their safest bets. They arrive not only with talent but also with built-in fandoms — millions of subscribers who treat premiere dates like tour stops and merch drops. What used to be a gamble on an unknown actor is now a calculated investment in influence.

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The power balance is shifting. Many creators have already mastered storytelling, production, and marketing on their own terms. Now, with traditional media eager to tap into their reach, they’re negotiating roles, shaping projects, and even bypassing gatekeepers entirely. The question isn’t whether creators are Hollywood-ready — it’s whether Hollywood is still required at all.

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The power of built-in audiences

Studios aren’t casting creators just because they’re trendy; they’re making strategic business decisions. Online stars bring direct access to potential viewers, along with a proven ability to spark conversation. In an industry where marketing budgets often rival production costs, creators offer a compelling proposition: promotion baked into the talent itself.

According to a 2025 report from Digital Voices, user-generated content drives nine times more engagement than traditional brand messaging — a return on investment studios can’t afford to ignore, especially when there’s data that suggests millennials and Gen Z find social media content "more relevant than traditional TV shows and movies" and feel a stronger personal connection to social media creators than to actors and TV personalities. According to China Widener, vice chair of Deloitte LLP and U.S. technology, media and telecom leader, Gen Z spends “54 percent more time on their social platforms” than on traditional media platforms. 

As the influence of creators continues to redefine the power structure of Hollywood, the traditional systems — built on big studios, agents, and A-list actors — are being forced to adapt. No longer is it enough for a film or TV show to simply rely on star power; increasingly, it’s the creators who build and engage their own audiences that studios are looking to tap into. The question now is: How do traditional power players navigate this shift?

Seth Schachner, managing director of Strat Americas and a veteran of the media and tech industries, has observed firsthand how this shift is leaving some studios a step behind. "The studios are maybe a little bit clueless about this... is Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt really appealing to the 20-somethings or Gen Z?" he says.

Casting decisions have evolved to reflect this logic. As early as 2018, The New York Post reported that films were being cast with "social media quotas" in mind — a practice that has only deepened. In a 2025 podcast interview, Stranger Thingsstar Maya Hawke confirmed that producers now hand directors "a sheet with the amount of collective followers" they expect a cast to bring. As Tiffany Little Canfield, the casting director for Jon M. Chu's Wicked, put it plainly: "I see social media numbers as a type of fame. Just a new way to quantify fame."

That redefinition of fame has rewritten the talent pipeline. Viral reach now rivals, and sometimes outranks, traditional credentials when it comes to landing roles, partnerships, and even production deals. But follower count alone no longer guarantees success, or even relevance.

"Someone with 10 million followers isn’t necessarily a big deal anymore," says Lindsay Nead, founder and CEO of Parker Management, a leading digital talent management agency. "It really comes down to the analytics — who their audience is, where they’re located, how much they engage. A huge following might look good on paper, but if no one’s actually watching, there’s no value. It’s not just a numbers game; it’s a data game now."

That shift has created a new class of stars: influencers whose reach is measurable, monetizable, and undeniable.

In 2021, Addison Rae signed a multimillion-dollar dealwith Netflix off the viral success of He’s All That. Harsh reviews didn’t matter; the movie topped global charts, thanks in large part to Rae’s 88 million TikTok followers. Charli D’Amelio followed a similar trajectory, moving from dance videos to Dancing with the Stars, a reality series of her own (The D’Amelio Show), a Broadway debut, and a guest spoton the upcoming Apple series The Studio. Emma Chamberlain’s ironic YouTube humor has translated into high-fashion campaigns, red-carpet hosting, and production credits. YouTube vlogger-turned-filmmaker Casey Neistat is back directing original content after launching one of the most influential daily vlog channels of the 2010s.

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And the next wave isn’t just in front of the camera. Creators like Quinta Brunson (Abbott Elementary) and Issa Rae (Insecure) began as viral stars; now they’re showrunners and producers shaping the future of scripted television. Even content houses like the Sway House and Hype House, once dismissed as Gen Z group projects, have launched production companies. 

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"The old rules don't always apply," Schachner says. Think of creators as self-sustaining ecosystems: They write the scripts, build the audiences, and monetize directly, often without traditional gatekeepers.

Rather than hiring creators to promote a finished product, studios are increasingly bringing them on from day one, not just as stars, but as producers, writers, and world-builders. As Nead notes, after a wave of short-term campaigns, the industry is now swinging back toward long-term collaboration. "We’re definitely seeing a resurgence of longer-term partnerships," she says. "It’s more important than ever — both for impact and authenticity." That shift reflects a growing recognition that creators aren’t just promotional tools; they’re creative partners who understand their audiences better than anyone.

Studios want loyalty, not just reach. Micro-influencers with tight-knit communities are now prized above macro-names with passive followings. In this economy, engagement isn’t just a stat — it’s leverage.

"The most successful projects are the ones where creators are brought in from the beginning," Nead says. "They’re not just hired hands anymore — they’re shaping the direction, the creative, the entire vision. The industry is starting to realize that when you give creators ownership, you get better content."

For many creators, especially those from underrepresented communities, social media has become a launchpad not just for visibility but for legitimacy. Bypassing traditional casting calls and industry gatekeeping, creators have used their platforms to tell the stories Hollywood overlooked — and to prove there’s an audience for them. It’s a path that’s allowed queer voices, BIPOC talent, and disabled creators to build influence on their own terms, then carry that cultural capital into rooms that once ignored them.

YouTuber-turned-filmmaker Eugene Lee Yang, known for his work with The Try Guys, used digital media to explore queer identity and now develops projects that foreground LGBTQ+ storytelling. Drea Okeke(@dreaknowsbest) built a massive following through comedic skits rooted in her Nigerian-American upbringing — and parlayed that into brand deals, speaking gigs, writing opportunities, and a part in the Fuse Original Series We Need to Talk About America. Former Vine star Rudy Mancuso recently directed and starred in Musica, a feature-length film based on his life and Latinx heritage. And TikTok comedian Zarna Gargis currently starring in the Mindy Kaling-backed film A Nice Indian Boy. 

These aren’t one-off success stories; they’re proof that creators from marginalized backgrounds aren’t waiting for permission. They’re building influence on their own terms, then carrying that cultural capital into rooms that once ignored them.

"The opportunity that exists now is so powerful," Nead says. "Creators have a better shot at doing things on their own terms than ever before."

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The culture-makers of now

Creators are no longer just part of the zeitgeist; they are the zeitgeist. A single TikTok can sell out a lipstick, resurrect a '90s fashion trend, or send a decades-old song back up the charts. Alix Earle’s recommendation of a drugstore eyeliner triggered a viral sellout moment dubbed the #AlixEarleEffect. Influencer Monet McMichael’s honest beauty reviews and Sofia Richie Grainge’s minimalist "quiet luxury" aesthetic have each generated millions of views and shifted entire consumer trends, often without even trying.

But the power that creators wield is being met with growing scrutiny. Gen Z audiences are getting savvier, and a little more cynical, about over-curated lifestyles and brand-heavy content. "The end of the influencer era may finally have arrived," declared a recent New York Postop-ed, pointing to a shift toward creators who feel more real, raw, and reflective of everyday lives.

Authenticity is the new algorithm hack. The creators making the most impact today have "a super clear, unique voice," Nead says, offering a perspective and a relationship with their audience that feels unscripted.

A growing industry, still without guardrails

Yet behind the ring lights and revenue streams lies an industry still defining its rules, especially when it comes to young talent. As more families turn social media into a livelihood, questions are mounting around labor, consent, and exploitation. Netflix’s The Dark Side of Kidfluencing and other recent exposés have shed light on the blurred lines between childhood and content creation, and the lack of protections in place.

There’s precedent here: It took decades (and the Coogan Law) for Hollywood to implement child labor protections. The creator economy, now facing a similar reckoning, is still largely self-regulated. Burnout, blurred boundaries, and a lack of oversight remain endemic, particularly among teen and tween creators. 

Some change is slowly underway. Lawmakers in states like Illinois, Utah, and California are exploring creator-specific labor laws, while SAG-AFTRA is assessing how to adapt traditional union protections to include digital-native performers. Most recently, the union launched an Influencer Committeeto advocate for fair pay, contract transparency, and protections against exploitation in the creator economy, including potential benefits like health insurance and pensions. It’s a signal that legacy institutions are beginning to take influencers seriously as workers. 

But in most cases, the burden still falls on creators — and their families — to self-police, set boundaries, and build sustainable careers in a system not built to protect them.

A new era of fame

As the lines between creator and celebrity blur — and between platform and production company collapse — one thing is clear: influence is no longer a side hustle. It’s a career path, a cultural force, and increasingly, a source of power. Hollywood used to make stars. Now it recruits them from the internet: already followed, already fully formed.

"If they’re not forward-thinking about how to integrate creators into their strategy, I don’t know how they’re going to keep up," says Nead. "Traditional media just isn’t what it once was. It’s time to evolve or risk being left behind."

The rules have changed, and the people writing them are holding the cameras themselves.

Topics Creators