For good or bad, a typical Overton Window – the process via which an idea might move from unthinkable > radical > acceptable > sensible > popular > entirely unremarkable – used to have a reliable half-life of years.

Interracial marriage, for example, in the US was still banned in many states until the 1967 Supreme Court case Loving v. Virginia (later dramatised in the film Loving). While the law then changed, public opinion took decades to catch up. In 1968, only 20% of Americans approved of interracial marriage; by 1991, approval had crossed 50%, and in 2011 it hit 86%.

Time from policy change to majority acceptance: ~25 years. Normalisation: ~40–50 years.

We can point to similar timeframes for divorce, same-sex marriage, the decriminalisation or legalisation of cannabis, or even the notion of women in leadership positions.

I mention this because President Trump seems to function as his own one-man Overton Window. Witness what he said over the weekend about imposing tariffs on movies “produced in foreign lands.”

Trump Has Form

Of course he does. While the Overton Window is usually moved by gradual societal, media, and political pressures, Trump, like other populist or authoritarian-leaning leaders, uses a different mechanism:

• Says something previously unthinkable (e.g. the election was stolen, NATO is obsolete, “fake news”)
• Forces it into public discourse (whether through outrage, debate, or support)
• Treats pushback as proof of his outsider / anti-elite status
• Normalises the conversation by repetition and framing critics as enemies

Each time he floats a new proposal — no matter how unserious, unconstitutional, or bizarre — it becomes part of the political debate, simply because he said it; POTUS, the guy in charge.

In this context, and no matter how economically illiterate, logistically chaotic, violating trade agreements, or culturally retrograde the idea of tariffs on movies “produced in foreign lands” might be, the notion is now out there.

The Discourse Spiral

Now look, it’s easy to get academic about this stuff. One can imagine theses, dissertations, entire studies being written about Trump’s modus operandi (and not just in the future – I’m sure they exist). But we can already see his pronouncement on foreign movie levies being digested by media in their special gastric tract reserved for Trump hot takes:

• Provocation (cough, splutter): Trump says we should tax foreign-produced movies
• Immediate polarisation: reaction splits instantly into love/hate, cheer/condemn; fans say “finally someone’s standing up for Hollywood jobs”; critics say it’s anti-free-trade madness
• Intellectual rationalisation begins: columnists and minor academics pop up: “Look, of course I don’t agree with the way he said it, but isn’t he tapping into something real? Shouldn’t we be talking about offshoring in the entertainment industry? Why do so many studios film in Canada anyway?”
• Legitimising discourse: policy analysts appear on TV panels: “Well, film production incentives are already distorting location choices… maybe some kind of tariff or tax incentive is worth exploring to bring jobs home.”
• Technocratic hedging: former trade negotiators and cultural policy wonks chime in: “Of course a blanket tariff is impractical, but there are mechanisms under WTO rules that allow for domestic film subsidies; perhaps what he’s really pointing to is a need for rebalancing.”

At the end of which we might find that Trump has quietly dropped the idea (or denies he ever meant it; or claims it’s already happening; or tweets something contradictory next week).

Either way, the idea has passed through the system. It’s now “a thing.”

So… a Tariff on Foreign-Produced Movies? Really?

Could it actually happen? On paper, it’s legally fraught, economically incoherent, and diplomatically combustible. A tariff targeting films made abroad – especially in an era when even American movies rely on global locations, international co-productions, and cross-border financing – would be near-impossible to implement cleanly. It risks violating WTO rules, angering trade partners, and punishing American studios just as much as their overseas counterparts.

And yet, whether it happens or not almost misses the point. The mere suggestion already shifts incentives.

If you’re a studio exec trying to greenlight a slate, or a production company scouting locations, or a producer weighing tax credits in Toronto versus Atlanta, you’re now forced to account for political risk. Even a hint of tariffs introduces uncertainty. Will a Trump administration penalise offshore shoots? Will distributors face higher costs for international content? Will another country retaliate?

Some may pre-emptively shift production back to the US, not because it makes financial sense, but because it feels politically safer. And even if nothing materialises, the idea’s been seeded into the conversation. It’s circulating among talking heads, trade groups, and studio lobbyists.

Meanwhile, for the thousands of people who crew those overseas shoots – the local camera operators, set designers, grips, catering teams – this is more than a hypothetical. Their livelihoods depend on an interconnected film economy that transcends national borders. Tariff talk, however unserious its origin, introduces real jeopardy into an industry buffeted by strikes, platform pullbacks, cancelled shows, and volatile economics.

We’ll have to wait and see if Trump actually pushes this, if Congress lets him, if courts allow it. But for many who depend on global filmmaking, the waiting itself is a risk.