Scotland Is About to Become a Cultural Powerhouse. Here’s Why.
- Ashley Dick
- 5 days ago
- 5 min read
Scotland is on the cusp of something big.
I usually end the year with a month-by-month recap of what’s happened across film, TV, and the wider creative industries. I started doing that again in late 2025, until I realised something more important was happening. A pattern had emerged.
This isn’t just another industry fluctuation. This is Scotland’s moment.
Over the past year, I’ve analysed how South Korea deliberately built its global cultural dominance across music, film, television, fashion, and food. I’ve spent time in Japan, another country whose cultural output doesn’t just entertain, but actively supports and feeds multiple industries.
And then I looked at Scotland and realised we’re doing the same thing. Quietly. Imperfectly. But unmistakably.
This isn’t a naïve “production is back, we’re saved” argument. Things are still hard. But today I want to explore what’s happening, what it means, and how this shift could benefit you. Especially if you’re a creative person trying to figure out whether there’s a future here.
How Culture Is Actually Built
Cultural dominance doesn’t happen by accident.
Earlier this year, I took a deep dive into the rise of South Korean media in Western film, television, fashion, music, and food. The success of Korean culture was the result of a conscious, strategic decision. The South Korean government observed that one blockbuster film could generate more revenue than selling 1.5 million Hyundai cars, and you can make many blockbuster films at once.
Culture became soft power.
Investment followed: film, TV, games, music, fashion, beauty. The result is a global appetite for Korean stories, aesthetics, and talent.
Japan took a different route. Rather than only exporting Japanese titles, its animation and video-game industries became global talent hubs. Other countries now source Japanese creators to build their own IP.
France, meanwhile, taxes all media shown in the country and reinvests that money directly into French film and television. This has created a self-sustaining screen industry where experimentation, artistry, and longevity are possible.
Countries that value culture build systems around it.
For most of my life, Scotland hasn’t done that. Instead, we’ve lived with a deeply ingrained belief: if you want to succeed, you need to leave. It’s a brutal mentality, and it’s shaped generations.
I’ve had people tell me outright that the only reason they found success was because they left Scotland. At one point, I believed that too. I structured a large part of my life around the assumption that departure was inevitable.
But something has shifted. And there are clues everywhere.
The Hard Years: Reality Check
Let’s be honest, Scotland’s creative industries have taken a beating.
After the pandemic shutdown, the 2023 strikes, and a prolonged commissioning freeze, 2024 became the year of “survive to ’25.” Companies closed. Projects vanished. Talented people left the industry altogether because they simply couldn’t sustain an income.
2025 arrived with mixed signals.
Early in the year, the The Traitors controversy exposed how undervalued Scottish crews are. Funding intended for Scottish production was used to bring in teams from elsewhere. A public dispute followed between BBC Scotland and Screen Scotland, during which the BBC Scotland director claimed there “probably wasn’t the expertise” within Scottish crews to make the show.
Anyone who’s worked on sets here knows that simply isn’t true.
Green Shoots of Change
Despite the setbacks, there were real signs of progress.
Screen Scotland began calling for partners to deliver new talent schemes. These are crucial entry points for filmmakers to get their first major opportunities. When previous schemes disappeared in spring 2024, it left a huge gap. Trained, ready creatives had nowhere to go. Knowing replacements were coming mattered.
Then came the cancellation of River City, Scotland’s only soap opera. This was devastating, not just emotionally, but practically. Soap operas are training grounds. They create crews, writers, performers, and directors who go on to sustain entire industries.
At the same time, something unexpected emerged: micro-dramas.
These ultra-short, phone-first series, which are hugely popular in Asia, started appearing on freelancers’ schedules across the UK. One-minute episodes. Cheap, fast, absurd, addictive.
In many ways, they’re the cultural successor to soap operas. Different format. Same function.
Scotland at Cannes: A Turning Point
Mid-year, Scotland took a slate of documentary projects and filmmakers to Cannes. I was in the room watching those pitches.
I’ve been to Cannes four times in five years. In 2022, I remember seeing Aftersun and thinking, Wait—this is Scottish? I’ve been to the festival before and not met another Scot during the full 2 weeks.
This year was different.
Scottish Director Lynne Ramsay was in competition. Four Scottish documentaries were showcased at the market. There was a Scottish industry party. And for the first time, there were loads of Scots everywhere.
We weren’t invisible. We weren’t token. We were present, and taken seriously.
The Scottish New Wave
In August, Screen Scotland finally announced its new talent schemes. More support. More levels. More access. But these schemes are competitive, and with such a huge amount of talent competing for a space, you cannot wait around hoping someone picks you.
When the opportunity to make a high-budget short disappeared in 2024, I was devistated but I didn’t wait for the opportunity to come back around. I made The Boulder - a short film portraying the life of an artist as Sisyphus pushing the boulder. It’s not a £20,000 film by any measure, it was made with favours and modest savings, but it moved me forward.
That’s the mood in Scotland right now.
I call it The Scottish New Wave. Variety called it “Scotland’s DIY Filmmakers”
“A growing wave of filmmakers, frequently working in collectives, sometimes alone, is turning away from the conventional trajectory. Operating on limited means, they are writing with their resources in mind, shooting quickly or in grabbed moments between other work, and building peer-to-peer support to make high-quality films on their own terms.”
Projects like Salvation, Tummy Monster, and Public House sit alongside bigger, funded successes like On Falling and The Outrun.
Is there tension about who gets represented as “Scottish cinema”? Absolutely. That conversation matters. But what’s undeniable is momentum.
Why This Matters
For decades, Scotland sent a message, sometimes subtly, sometimes loudly, that success meant assimilation or escape.
That’s changing.
This year alone saw releases like I Swear By Kirk Jones, The Harvest, Tornado by John Maclean, and California Schemin’—the true story of two Scottish rappers who pretended to be Californian to get signed. A metaphor if ever there was one.
Directed by James McAvoy, no less.
My theory is simple:
A strong indie base
Government-supported productions
International shoots
Festival visibility
Rising stars
A globally loved music scene
Early creative education
Together, these create gravity.
In five years, Scotland won’t be asking for permission. People will come because it makes sense.
A Call to Arms
If this future excites you, support it.
I worked for Odeon Cinemas for seven years. I promise you: audiences vote with their money.
Go see Scottish films. Go to festivals. Attend Q&As. Tell filmmakers you loved their work. Be visible. Be vocal.
If California Schemin’ is playing near you—go. Buy the popcorn. Make it an event.
And if you’re a creative: don’t wait for validation. Make work. Find collaborators. Embrace where you are.
Scotland doesn’t need to apologise for itself anymore.
It’s time to build something, and stay.
You can watch a video essay of this article on the Cinora Youtube Channel.
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