By Heidi Mitchell
"USA250: The Story of the World's Greatest Economy" is a yearlong WSJ series examining America's first 250 years. Read more about it from Editor in Chief Emma Tucker.
Popcorn and movies -- as intertwined as Laurel and Hardy, Fred and Ginger, Butch and Sundance.
But it wasn't always so. Long before its buttery aroma seeped into the upholstery of American theaters, the snack lived a humbler life. Indigenous peoples in South America had been popping corn for millennia, but it didn't reach the U.S. until the 19th century, when whalers returned from South America with the whole grain in tow. By around 1850, popping varieties emerged in New England and "pop-corn" entered the vernacular.
The appeal was obvious: It was cheap, fast and theatrical. Families popped it over wood stoves; peddlers sold it in paper cones at circuses, carnivals and busy promenades. Its umami scent did half the work. A whiff of fresh corn could draw a crowd quicker than any barker's repetitive shout.
The breakthrough came at the 1893 Columbian Exposition (or Chicago World's Fair). Chicago inventor Charles Cretors unveiled a steam-powered wagon capable of popping corn consistently and at volume. His patent made commercial oil popping possible, says Charlie Cretors, his great-grandson and chief executive of C. Cretors & Co., which manufactures equipment for popcorn popping in theaters.
"Popcorn wagons became a new business that could support a family," Cretors says. Adjusted for today's dollars, "the popcorn man would be earning $70,000 a year, and the taxes were almost nonexistent at that time."
Yet when movies arrived in the early 20th century, ornate theaters wanted nothing to do with the noisy snack. Deluxe-theater owners had modeled their palaces after opera houses and temples, complete with velvet drapes, gilt ceilings and live orchestras. Popcorn, with its flying crumbs and sonic crunch, was too lowbrow -- and too messy -- for their polished halls. Many banned it outright.
"They feared oil, butter and crumbs destroying their beautiful carpets, seats and rugs," says Ross Melnick, professor of film and media studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara.
A margin business
The Great Depression changed everything. As audiences thinned and revenues slumped, smaller theaters and even high-end movie houses embraced popcorn and its huge 70% profit margins. The arrival of "talkies" further eased its entry: Orchestras disappeared, dialogue filled the soundtrack and a little crunching no longer disrupted the show.
Talkies also democratized moviegoing since literacy was no longer required. Vendors clustered outside theater doors, selling to patrons in nearby stores and in pushcarts as they streamed in and out, until owners realized "if you can't beat 'em, own 'em," says Wendy Boersema Rappel, who manages marketing for the Popcorn Board, which promotes the product.
By the 1930s, popping machines were increasingly becoming fixtures in lobbies. It was the Golden Age of Cinema, but many audience members were still broke. Theaters responded with double features -- two films for the price of one. "You'd get hungry between film A and film B, but you didn't need to leave because popcorn was satisfying and sold right there for 10 cents," says Melnick.
World War II cemented the snack's dominance: Sugar rationing crippled candy production, while popcorn, unrationed and still cheap, filled the void. The treat became a national staple. "The show starts in your nostrils," Melnick says. "You smell the popcorn and you're reminded of every film you ever saw."
Eye-popping math
Popcorn remains one of the most profitable consumer products; kernels cost pennies per serving, store well, generate little waste and require minimal labor. Because corn is purchased by weight but sold by volume, margins are unusually high. Studios capture much of each ticket's revenue -- especially early in a movie's run -- but concessions deliver the profits that keep theaters solvent. In its most recent quarter, for example, AMC Entertainment reported that almost 36% of total revenue came from food and beverages, much of which was popcorn; in some years, concessions have accounted for 40%-50% of operating profit for other big chains.
Popcorn's reliability is another advantage. As a crop largely grown in the Midwest, it's comparatively insulated from global price swings that affect candy, packaged goods and soda syrups.
What's more, as movie theaters struggle with the competition from streaming services, concessions remain a critical lifeline; that's partly why there has been a rise of dine-in theaters serving full meals, as well as expanded menus of cocktails, pizza and other regional dishes. Still, popcorn endures as the "default order," says Jeff Waaland, founder and co-chief executive of Golden Link Inc., a maker of licensed film collectible concession vessels. "People walk in thinking about popcorn before they see the food menu. Popcorn and Coke are the nucleus of a theater's success."
Collectible cups and buckets -- once rare and tied only to blockbuster film franchises -- have also made popcorn even more valuable to theaters; they hold a lot more (and sell for a lot more) than the typical large container. AMC, for instance, sold more than $50 million worth of merchandise, much of which was collectible buckets in 2023. "When this craze started, it was mainly the large cinema chains buying into the high-end areas," says Waaland. "Independent theaters are now buying these popcorn buckets, because it's a part of the fandom experience."
Popping along
As popcorn becomes even more crucial to the economics of movie theaters, the industry continues to look for new ways to attract customers. Some chains are testing organic kernels, lower-salt offerings and alternative cooking oils. Equipment makers are developing machines that are more energy-efficient, and ventilation systems that waft aroma through the lobby -- an old-school marketing tactic that still does the trick.
Sustainability may be the next trend: Recyclable buckets and compostable bags are on the horizon. Meanwhile, collectible buckets will only grow more elaborate, with light-up features, custom molds and limited-run designs tied to premieres.
"Novelty buckets have become such a part of the experience in the past five years," says Melnick. "But it's just another permutation of what you take home when you go to the movies." One hundred years ago, he says, you might get a pinup of Mary Pickford. "Now you get a Barbie bucket. It creates a connection to a brand and, I believe, represents the somewhat fading star system of Hollywood (Margot Robbie's stardom notwithstanding) and the importance of IP: In many cases, the brand has become more prominent than the stars." And that bucket is always filled (originally, at least) with popcorn.
What hasn't changed is popcorn's sensual impact: That unmistakable smell signals the beginning of a shared experience, which is increasingly hard to come by. What was once a Depression-era stopgap, then a wartime necessity, has become a pillar of the moviegoing experience and the film business itself.
"You have so many pleasure sensors working at once at the movies," says Melnick. "The emotions of being with family and friends, the excitement of the dark room and the energy of the film itself. The smell and texture of popcorn, both subconsciously and consciously, have become part of the sensory experience."
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(END) Dow Jones Newswires
February 13, 2026 12:00 ET (17:00 GMT)
Copyright (c) 2026 Dow Jones & Company, Inc.
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