Money Please! MuseumShift’s Guide to Salary Negotiation
Disclaimer: This advice is based entirely on my own experiences negotiating salaries within museums, primarily state-funded institutions and non-profits supported through a mix of government funding, grants, and private donors. Salary structures, hiring processes, and flexibility can vary significantly between organizations, regions, and funding sources, so these insights should be viewed as a personal perspective rather than blanket career advice.
Le Basics… and How I Got Here
With the exception of my first salaried, full-time position with benefits, I have either negotiated my compensation or accepted an offer without negotiation because the pay already exceeded my expectations.
For me, successful negotiation has always come down to knowing your worth and approaching the conversation with data and confidence. That means understanding the market, researching comparable salaries, clearly articulating your value, and recognizing that advocating for fair compensation is part of being a professional – not a betrayal of the mission-driven nature of museum work.
One reality that’s widely understood in this field is that the most significant salary jumps often come from moving between roles or institutions, rather than staying in place and relying on incremental raises – even when you’re performing well and taking on more responsibility. Because of that, this article focuses primarily on the moments where you have the most leverage when entering a new role and negotiating a starting salary you feel comfortable with from the get-go.
That doesn’t mean every negotiation was easy or that every institution had unlimited flexibility. Museum work – especially within state-funded institutions and non-profits – comes with unique financial realities and budget constraints.
Before leaving my first job (where I did not negotiate initially), I was preparing to ask for a raise. By that point, I had completed my master’s degree, spent more than a year consistently exceeding expectations, and made myself an important part of the organization’s day-to-day operations. I had the experience, the accomplishments, and the data to support it. While that role did provide a 3% raise after the first year, and a 1% increase every year after, I felt that the amount of work I had taken on, when compared to my job description upon hire, required a conversation. For this organization, the policy only allowed for additional increases based on certain events – for which my newly obtained graduate degree was a strong contender. I did leave before seeing this through, but my initial drive to see myself fairly compensated for the work I was doing stayed with me throughout my career.
Looking back, that moment was important because it forced me to recognize something a lot of museum professionals struggle with — being passionate about the work does not mean you should undervalue your labor. That “passion tax,” which I’ve touched on before, isn’t something I can just accept without question. Whether the fight is ultimately successful is another story, but I don’t think open acceptance serves anyone well; it’s often where people end up being taken advantage of.
In that case, I wasn’t asking for more money simply because I wanted it — I was asking because my qualifications, contributions, and responsibilities had grown exponentially.
That experience impacted how I approach every salary conversation, and it’s the foundation for everything I share in this guide.
Salary
From X
We are to the point now that nearly all jobs are listed with a salary range. In most places, it’s a legal requirement. However, as I’ve spoken about before, some intuitions are better at following this than others. If it’s unclear, reach out to the contact listed with the description. More often than not, they will share their expected salary range for the position. If not, I say steer clear of it.
Once you have that range, assume their budget is aiming for mid-range. For example, if a job is listed at $70,000–$85,000, they likely will end up offering around $76,000–$78,000 to a qualified candidate. I have been part of the hiring process for several roles, and this unofficial rule seems to apply across the board. To get past this, on the hiring end, I had to request that the offered salary exceed this number and submit my argument. Of course, I found this out after having negotiated two salaries (for myself) beforehand. And sadly, sometimes, that effort alone will deter someone from offering more when they can do less paperwork and offer the role to a candidate that will accept the pre-determined amount.
With that assumption, you now have an idea of what they’ll offer and where you can make your case for additional compensation.
Salary Guides
Because I’m ancient, I remember the 2017 AAM Annual Survey, and I’ve revisited it more than once during my career for salary negotiations. While the data is now outdated, the unfortunate reality is that salaries in the field haven’t changed all that much since then. Hope is not lost, however. The Association of Art Museum Directors conducted a salary survey as recently as 2025.
These surveys are very useful, not just for your negotiating power but for museums as well. Transparency in this field varies greatly, so having a publicly available resource to refer to is great for everyone.
Cost of Living
Cost of living is one of the most overlooked aspects of salary negotiation, especially in the museum field, where compensation can look wildly different depending on location and institution. A salary that feels comfortable in one location can feel completely insufficient in another, even if the job title and responsibilities are the same.
Housing costs are the biggest differentiator here. Rent in large metropolitan areas can consume a large chunk of a museum salary, particularly for non-executive roles, while smaller cities or regions with lower housing costs may make a smaller salary go significantly further. The same is true for everyday expenses like groceries, transportation, and utilities, which can vary enough to meaningfully affect monthly budgeting.
Institution size also plays a role in how far a salary goes. Larger museums, or well-funded institutions in major cities, may offer higher base salaries, but those increases are often offset by higher living expenses. Conversely, smaller institutions or those in less expensive regions may offer lower salaries, but the real-world application of those funds can feel more balanced depending on local costs and lifestyle expectations.
Don’t fall into the trap of forgetting context. A “higher” offer is not always a better offer, and a lower number is not automatically a worse one. What matters is how the compensation applies to the cost of living in that specific location, and whether the overall package is worth it for you – all while understanding that you are working in a field that is often underpaid relative to workload and education requirements.
Institutional Realities
It’s also worth actually looking at the institution itself. The website, social media, programming, exhibitions, and even how often things change can tell you a lot about where an organization sits financially. Over time, it becomes pretty easy to get a sense of whether a museum has significant resources, whether it’s doing a lot with limited means, or if it’s clearly struggling.
While you can often find tax filings, posted salary ranges, and other public financial documents, they don’t always tell the full story. The day-to-day visibility of the museum, such as its digital presence, public programming, exhibitions, and general upkeep, can often fill in the gaps and give a more practical sense of how resources are being used.
This is important to note because salary flexibility is largely set by operating budgets and funding sources. A museum that relies heavily on grants or municipal support will often have different constraints than one with a large endowment or a strong and stable revenue stream.
None of this replaces asking for fair compensation, but it does help set expectations and allows you to counter with an increase that a struggling institution may be able to accommodate.
How do you measure up?
Once you have a sense of the salary range and the institution you’re dealing with, the next step is figuring out where you actually fit within that range. This is very job-specific, as many roles require specific degrees, experience, or combinations that demonstrate your ability to fulfill the position. This is where things tend to get personal, and where a lot of people either underestimate themselves or default to being overly cautious.
In museums, job descriptions and actual responsibilities don’t align. Titles don’t always keep up with the work, and it’s not unusual to find yourself managing projects, programs, or administrative responsibilities that go beyond what was originally outlined when you were hired.
Experience like this helps you understand your worth. What kinds of work are you trusted to handle independently? Have you taken on projects end-to-end? Are you regularly operating at a level above your formal title? These patterns tend to be more telling than a simple count of years in the field or the specific titles you’ve held.
Mental Preparedness
Before you get an offer, you should already have a number in mind. You know the salary range, you understand the institution, you’ve looked at the cost of living, and you’ve thought about where you fit within the role. Then, all you have to do is decide what you’re willing to accept.
If the offer comes in lower than what you were expecting, that’s where the counteroffer comes in – and your initial number can change. It’s all about “reading the room” and getting out of the mindset and unspoken pressure to be grateful for the opportunity.
But what if they rescind the offer? While this is something people worry about – and I’m sure it has happened – I’ve never personally experienced it, nor have I known anyone who has had an offer rescinded solely for making a reasonable counteroffer. That said, the fear of it is real, especially in fields like museums where jobs, and often pay, are scarce.
My question to you would be whether you want to work for an organization where asking a normal, professional question about pay and benefits is enough to put the offer at risk. A counteroffer isn’t some ugly, shameful thing… it’s a standard part of the hiring process, and in many industries it’s expected.
If an institution responds negatively to that conversation, it tells you something important about how they view employee advocacy from the start. That’s useful information to have before you accept, not after.
I know it can feel uncomfortable, but a counteroffer doesn’t need to be scary, weird, or complicated. Keep it grounded in the same information you’ve already been working with – your experience, the scope of the role, and the market range you’ve researched. Be clear about what you’re asking for, why it’s justified, and don’t apologize for making the request.
You also need to be prepared for the answer to be no. Institutions may have hard budget limits, endowment or grant constraints, or other factors that prevent them from moving on the increase. That doesn’t automatically mean you misjudged your value… it may simply mean there isn’t flexibility in that particular role at that time. Some institutions will even share this information with you a la “it’s not that we don’t understand your value or want to pay you more, it’s because of a, b, c.”
You can also just… walk away. If you sense that the duties, requirements, etc., would end up burning you out without the balm of a decent salary, then you need to do what is best for you given all the factors at play.
I Practice What I Preach
I’ve given similar, albeit condensed, advice like this before via DMs, comments, and conversations, and have had people respond positively to seeing it laid out in a larger format. So, here it is in full.
In practice, I’ve had mixed outcomes but consistently positive forward movement. For a couple of roles, my counteroffer wasn’t fully met, but I was still offered slightly more than the original offer. For another, the institution came in above my counter entirely, which was genuinely unexpected. When I transitioned to the private sector, I requested a salary match that represented roughly a 10–15% increase over the initial offer, which was accepted without pushback. In my current role, also in the private sector, I was offered a substantial increase from my previous salary without needing to negotiate at all.
As I’ve said earlier, moving between roles has been the most reliable way I’ve seen meaningful salary growth in a relatively short period of time. In my case, my current role represents roughly a 70% increase from my previous position. That sounds dramatic on paper, but in the context of a field that is historically and consistently underpaid, it feels less like a windfall and more like finally reaching fair compensation for the level of responsibility and experience involved. Even if I had stayed in roles with small, incremental raises, I would not be anywhere near this level of compensation today.
I hope this has been helpful to those currently navigating similar situations, EMPs, or anyone uncomfortable with the process. Salary negotiation doesn’t have to be scary or dramatic. We already accept a certain level of risk with every application and interview in this field, so it’s worth applying that same perspective here.
Even if a negotiation isn’t successful, the process itself demonstrates that you understand your worth, the field, and the institution you’re engaging with. Sometimes that results in a small pay bump, improved benefits, or additional time off. At the very least, it reinforces that you are willing to advocate for yourself in a professional way.
Honestly, Tvyek is pretty miraculous. It’s permeable to water vapor but not to water, it’s nearly impossible to tear, but can be easily cut. It’s cheap and made entirely without binding chemicals. In addition to being used for wristbands, it’s used to wrap construction sites to keep out water during construction, for tear-resistant envelopes at Fed-Ex, coveralls for mechanics, and my wallet, actually.
Fun tip, though it looks like paper, Tyvek is plastic, and cannot be recycled with paper.
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Museums often present themselves as spaces for the public good – stewards of culture, education, preservation, and access. Yet, behind the exhibitions, programming, as well as a carefully managed brand and institutional voice, lies a workforce that is underpaid, overworked, and expected to accept this reality as part of the deal. That is rarely stated outright, but it lingers in hiring practices, salaries, reliance on contract and part-time workers, internships, and GLAM culture at large. This is something that is often referred to as a “passion tax,” which means that if you care enough about the work, you will endure the instability that comes with it. That burden, however, is not equally felt.
This was the key focus of a 2023 article by ArtNews titled, “Museum Workers Are Plagued by Widespread Precarity, New Report Finds.” Those of us working in the industry just nodded our heads as it was a truth that we’d collectively experienced. Museum worker and blogger, Museum Drip, changed their Instagram bio to “Widespread Precarity” and has remained as such ever since. This article finally shed light on a system that we were all too familiar with. I, too, had to put my own @museumshift spin on it.
For those without the ability to absorb years of low wages, that expectation becomes less of a “passion tax” and more of a barrier to entry. Museums often showcase equity, accessibility, and representation while simultaneously maintaining labor conditions that make long-term employment in the field financially unsustainable for large portions of the workforce. At a certain point, it stops feeling accidental. The question becomes whether museums are merely underpaying passionate workers, or whether the field itself is inherently coded in who it allows to remain.
So, how did I get here?
What initially prompted this article was an internal museum communique that got shared with me by an individual who identified themselves as a former employee. It described a staff-supported food pantry intended to assist employees experiencing food insecurity. Even assuming the effort was well-intentioned, the optics were difficult to ignore… workers struggling to afford basic necessities were seemingly being asked to rely on support systems funded, at least in part, by other workers likely facing the same conditions. It raised larger questions about the challenges museum workers face. It left me wondering how widespread this was.
I did some digging and reached out to my followers. This won’t include every example or anecdote shared with me, but it points to a pattern that appears far more common than many institutions would like to admit. A pattern where executives and upper administration are earning comfortable six-figure salaries (or more), while other staff members quietly rely on internal food pantries, mutual aid, or other informal support systems.
Putting a Name to the Feeling
Museums Moving Forward’s mission is to create a more just museum sector by 2030 through data, discourse, and workforce analysis. It does this by working with museums, cultural workers, and philanthropists to measure and address conditions in the field. Their latest report from 2025 offers a picture of an industry under sustained strain, particularly around pay, advancement, and retention.
According to their report, more than two-thirds of full-time entry-level art museum workers do not earn a living wage, and over three-quarters have never received a full promotion despite an average tenure of six years.
Nearly half of workers report actively searching for another job in the past year, and more than half have considered leaving the field entirely – with low pay, burnout, and a lack of growth opportunities consistently cited as primary reasons. I, myself, have taken at least two breaks from the field due to burnout. I acknowledge my own privilege of partner support while finding work outside the industry, though it still came with sacrifice.
Not surprisingly, these pressures are not felt by all. Executive-level professionals report significantly higher career satisfaction across nearly all metrics, with roughly 77% describing themselves as “thriving” in their current trajectory, compared to about 31% of entry-level workers. At the same time, white workers report the most favorable outcomes across income, promotion, and workplace treatment, underscoring how existing inequities compound within institutional hierarchies.
While unionized workers may report mixed experiences regarding day-to-day satisfaction, they consistently show measurable, positive outcomes with salary increases and changes to working conditions. Non-union museum employees earn roughly 78% of what unionized workers make, suggesting that collective bargaining remains one of the few mechanisms producing improvement in the field. That, and job-hopping… but that’s a subject for another time.
With this in mind, the data doesn’t point to isolated “unhappiness,” but highlights a broader structural pattern which shows career uncertainty at the lower levels of museum work, paired with significantly greater stability and satisfaction at the top of institutional hierarchies. But how do you get there without first enduring low pay and hardship?
Museum Unions
This is why I brought up union stats, as some unions are bridging the gap through support and advocacy. Many food support systems are either organized through unions or closely tied to them, which makes sense when you look at what’s actually being negotiated right now – not just compensation and contracts, but trying to make sure that staying in the field is sustainable. I’m not part of a union, nor a union expert, but it’s an example of how these conditions are being addressed.
Across multiple cultural institutions in New York and beyond, responses to economic uncertainty amongst museum workers have often taken the form of mutual aid rather than anything formally structured. During and after the COVID-19 pandemic, museum employees organized emergency funds, resources, and networks for basic needs such as rent, housing, and food insecurity. And that’s consistent across the board – the majority of these efforts are being initiated by current and former staff, and are generally divorced from administrative systems.
In some cases, museum leadership and institutional donors did contribute, but these efforts were still primarily, and overwhelmingly, worker-led. That distinction matters because it points less to isolated generosity and more to what actually holds the system together when things get tough. What you end up seeing isn’t just individual hardship, but a kind of structural silence or avoidance. When financial insecurity shows up at cultural institutions, the response is often lateral rather than vertical.
For those of us who have spent years moving across organizations in the field, that pattern feels familiar. Looking closely, the people who respond to and manage the day-to-day realities of institutional crisis are often the same ones working to keep organizations afloat during periods of instability.
Back to the Museum E-Mail
The internal e-mail describes a food pantry where employees are both encouraged to contribute and permitted to access non-perishable food items. It presents the pantry as an internal support resource structured around employee participation and acknowledges that some individuals in the state face food insecurity.
I reached out to the museum to inquire if they organized any internal food assistance programs for staff. They did not respond.
Publicly available non-profit filings for the museum show a steep internal pay hierarchy, with senior leadership earning roughly three to five times more than the next staff tier. These figures show a wide disparity in reported compensation between senior leadership and other staff.
Follower Response
What came back confirmed that this was more pattern than exception. I did not share the museum’s name, but when I raised the situation more generally, one respondent asked whether it referred to the museum in question and said they had knowledge of it, adding that it was not well-received. Others described similar staff-led support systems at their own institutions, many of which are now defunct.
Across these accounts, respondents described arrangements framed as informal, employee-led networks addressing food insecurity rather than formally resourced institutional programs. These descriptions were anecdotal and not independently verified.
With museums often hosting, organizing, or providing space for community support efforts, it is difficult not to notice that many of the people running those programs may themselves be experiencing financial insecurity. I do not want to frame this entirely in negative terms, but it does raise questions about how institutions balance outward-facing public missions with the internal conditions of the people who sustain them.
Classism by Any Other Name…
As leadership continues to “thrive,” the rest are left trying to stay afloat – at least those without outside financial support or stable, adequate wages. It returns to the idea of the “passion tax,” or more accurately, the quiet expectation that people will absorb instability in exchange for proximity to the field they love. But what emerges from all of this is less about individual endurance and more about who is able to remain in these institutions long-term, and who is gradually pushed out.
This is where questions of diversity become more than representational. It is not only about who is visible in exhibitions or programming, but also about who is able to survive within the workplace itself. If museums continue drawing from the same narrow pool of people who can afford to accept underpaid or unstable work, the field risks reproducing limited perspectives. Meanwhile, many who have reached the executive level may have forgotten the conditions of their own entry into the field, entered during periods of greater economic stability, or benefited from financial support that insulated them from concerns about basic survival.
What presents as a labor issue, then, is also a question of access. And if access to cultural work is quietly determined by economic background, then “passion” starts to look less like a shared value, and more like an economic filter for who is able to stay in the field at all.
So what do you do when passion and dedication aren’t enough? The museum machine doesn’t stop; it just adds a few more part-time or internship positions and calls it sustainability. Unfortunately, my landlord is still asking for something called “money.”
Even better, the comments to this Twitter post were an absolute FIRESTORM of mostly dudes explaining to her that dials can’t only have 2 positions (not true) and that it wasn’t a very good piece (not true) that she was being disrespectful to her teacher (don’t care) and that it was a sign of her stupidity/rabid feminism/intellectual laziness/misandry/etc. that she couldn’t see any “middle ground.”
It became, in its way, a performance piece. I was absolutely mesmerised, even as I wished I could cock-punch people through the internet.
“Dials can’t have only 2 positions” is also missing the point. Even if it doesn’t have only 2 positions, the point stands that getting less of/farther away from “raging feminist” requires getting more of/closer to “complicit in my own dehumanization.” You should always be at 0% having to be complicit in your own dehumanization.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am basically a 90s video rental store clerk who somehow found myself in the museum field. I’ve been talking about movies my entire life; museums only claimed me in adulthood, so don’t expect anything particularly respectable or eloquent in my critiques – or in my taste in media.
Speaking of the 90s and things that aren’t exactly highbrow, let me introduce The Relic. I saw it in theaters, owned it on VHS, and have revisited it more times than I should probably admit. It brings together two of my enduring interests: museums and horror.
If you’re a horror fan, it is a solid entry in the creature-feature catalog – monster chaos unfolding inside a museum, with bonus layers of grant competition, scientific research, questionable narratives, and the ever-stressful exhibition opening looming as the bodies stack up.
If you haven’t watched this, I would suggest giving it a go (if the above feels like your scene). It’s currently FREE to watch on Pluto.
I have always had a soft spot for this movie – no matter how much criticism it gets – so I left out a few plot points and creature reveals. Partly because they don’t really tie into the museum angle, but also because I think it’s more fun to discover them yourself. This is the kind of film that’s perfect for a rainy day in your sweatpants, snacks, and zero expectations. It might not win everyone over, but if you go in ready for something messy, gory, and a little ridiculous, it’s a pretty fun time.
While I prefer to do these breakdowns “watch-along” style, this film doesn’t lend itself to that approach, as it jumps around topically.
Since I have a feeling not many of you have seen this “gem,” I’m going to give an obligatory !SPOILERS! warning. Stop now and watch, or read on and be spoiled.
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Problematic Trope
The film opens with an Amazonian tribe (the fictional Zenzera) being observed, photographed, and documented by anthropologist John Whitney. Rather than being portrayed as distinct individuals, the tribespeople are presented as a monolithic “other,” as they carry out an unknown ritual. The scene’s lighting, cinematography, and sound design emphasize a fear of the unknown. We learn that this ritual gives rise to the Kothoga, a monster central to the film’s narrative. This depiction leans heavily on the “white explorer” trope, framing Indigenous cultures as dangerous and primitive, with their spiritual practices and artifacts as otherworldly. In later dialogue, Whitney’s research is quickly defined as studying “ancient” tribes, which just showcases how non-Western cultures can be defined and viewed.
This happens a lot in horror. Many films build tension by treating non-Western cultures – fictional or not – as dangerous or mysterious rather than complex, fully realized communities. When real cultures are used, it reinforces harmful stereotypes by framing them as inherently ominous. Even with fictional groups, audiences are sometimes unable to separate fiction and non-fiction.
Some films flip this dynamic by centering the perspective on the culture that would traditionally be treated as the outsider. In these cases, unfamiliar practices are normalized, and the real threat comes from intrusion, colonization, or other external aggressor (see Prey, for example).
Exhibition
The main exhibit that serves as a backdrop in this film, Superstition, already feels off in its comparison of the term in different cultures. Western examples – spilled salt, umbrellas opened indoors, avoiding walking under ladders – are used as an entry point, introducing visitors to superstitious belief. But that framing feels unstable from the start. Alongside black cats and full moons are statuary and funerary practices of Ancient Egypt, representations of Pan and other gods, Mesoamerican rites, and ceremonial dress from various cultures, and – added late in the process – an Amazonian (Zenzera) artifact. All of these are things tied to structured belief systems and cultures. Placing them next to casual habits as if they exist on the same level feels… unbalanced.
From a museum standpoint, this exhibit lacks curatorial oversight and a clear sense of mission. It treats one side as trivial and the other as mystical. And then there’s the issue of how fully formed everything already is. We’re shown that the Kathoga statue is a last-minute addition, but the exhibit is acting like the statue was always the main event, as it’s given a place of prominence.
When critiques of this show are raised – whether well-founded or not – the usual response is that its primary intention is donor funding. In other words, it may not aim to be especially profound or convey a strong message, but rather generate revenue. I find this odd, since this museum would be expected to display comparable works as part of its regular programming.
While the film constantly presents non-Western belief systems as both real and potentially threatening, while framing Western superstition as relatively trivial, one could argue that the lead detective, Vincent D’Agosta, places greater weight on these so-called “trivial” superstitions, as he is shown observing his own rituals – such as refusing to pick up a heads-down penny, avoiding stepping over bodies, and carrying his lucky bullet.
I hope she gets overtime… and puts on a mask.
And then there’s the sudden push on prepping the statue that has suddenly been made a key focal point of the show. It arrives in pieces, along with leaves for packing material. The crates look fine, albeit inadequately packed. We’re meant to believe that conservation and restoration of a damaged artifact can be handled in a matter of days, right in the middle of an active install. That feels like a pretty wild ask. In reality, any meaningful restoration work – especially on something structurally damaged and culturally significant – takes time, planning, and careful handling, not to mention the ethical considerations of how far you intervene. But here, it’s just folded into the urgency of the plot. It adds to the same issue: the exhibit is treated as both professionally curated and hastily assembled.
Work is conducted on it until the pre-show fundraiser opening. While red carpets are being rolled out, the restoration technician and conservator, Perri Masai, is shown working on the piece as debris blows around the workspace. I’d hoped to see respiratory protection and adequate ventilation… I saw neither.
Grant Funding
One of the first scenes where we see a discussion about museum culture and politics occurs between Dr. Margo Green and her colleague, Greg Lee. We quickly learn that both have applied for the same grant. While this is technically allowed, with caveats, it’s a dick move. It’s clear that Greg knows this and has planned to act underhandedly. Through this exchange, the film establishes a professional rivalry – both within the museum and, likely, academically.
In reality, multiple applications from the same institution for a single large grant are uncommon and typically discouraged. Most major grants accept only one application per institution per funding cycle, and proposals often undergo internal review. While the film does not specify the grant’s parameters, it seems unlikely that both could legitimately apply independently without institutional oversight – especially since the grant would fund not only their research but also their staff.
That said, the presence of the donor at the background exhibit gala, and the fact that both of them plan to schmooze them, suggests this may not be a traditional grant at all. This reads more like a private donor or foundation that operates with its own board, rules, and application process.
This is also where we learn that Margo doesn’t like the idea of schmoozing, as she just wants to be left alone to focus on her work (which, same). We later see her practicing in an auditorium: discussing her work, why it’s important, and detailing how the grant funds would be used. So again, there’s some ambiguity there. Ultimately, the grant isn’t used as an accurate depiction of museum funding, but as a plot device to create tension.
Facilities
Security and Access
Early in the film, we see Margo arrive at work. She enters through the public entrance, signs in, and greets the security guard (Fred). I would expect a museum of its size and implied prestige to have a separate employee entrance to help with visitor flow. The sign-in and sign-out process may be for accountability purposes – so staff can be tracked in case of an emergency – but I doubt it would be prominently placed.
This alludes to a pre-keycard era, but by the late 1990s, a major museum like this would already have, or be in the process of implementing, electronic access control systems. Since the film is based on earlier source material, it’s possible this aspect simply wasn’t updated to reflect 90s systems. However, this argument falls apart later in the film when security is able to lock down whole sections of the museum, with electronic door locks, and we see keypads in use. So, system failures are at the whim of narrative dependency… got it.
In parallel, we also see a school group entering the museum. It’s unlikely that large groups would simply enter en masse without coordination. They would be checked in, organized, and led in a more controlled manner. In the film, however, the children appear to stream in with minimal oversight. Considering two of the kids wander off, this tracks.
A little history on fire suppression…
During the gala preview, things start to fall apart pretty quickly. I won’t get into specifics, but the security system flags certain actions as “theft” and starts to malfunction. There’s no smoke, no fire, yet the sprinklers still go off as part of the broader system failure.
The sprinkler deployment feels antiquated, yet its zoning suggests a more advanced system. For the time, it was probably a fair representation – even if the film’s overall security system sits in a strange technological limbo.
That contradiction actually lines up with what was happening in museums at the time. The field was in a transitional moment, moving away from traditional suppression methods such as standard wet-pipe sprinklers and halon systems, toward pre-action and water mist systems. These newer approaches were meant to reduce water damage to collections while also addressing environmental concerns.
By 1993, the Western Association for Art Conservation had already documented this shift, especially in new construction and retrofits. For a film released in the late 90s, likely produced in the mid-90s, and based on even earlier source material… some of these seemingly outdated and/or inconsistent details start to make more sense.
Roles and Hierarchy
Greg Lee might be a pest; however, it is nice to see Margo has support in Dr. Ann Cuthbert, Dr. Albert Frock, as well as her team. This support serves as a contrast to Lee’s more scheming and self-serving behavior.
While Ann’s role at the museum is somewhat nebulous, the remaining positions feel more defined.
The bodies aren’t even cold…
It hasn’t even been 24 hours, yet the curator and director of security are already looking to reopen the museum. I understand the pressure – you’ve got an opening scheduled, a gala preview hosted by the Board of Directors tomorrow, bartenders and caterers lined up, guest lists finalized – but you also have a dead security guard (no, not Fred!) that seemed like a staple in the institution.
I want to believe the Board of Directors would understand a delay, but at the same time, I’m not entirely convinced of that. It also raises another question: who is actually in charge here? We meet a variety of museum staff, such as curators, security personnel, and various employees, but there’s no clearly established museum director or other authority figure. The chain of command is vague, especially given the severity of what just happened.
While Dr. Ann Cuthbert appears to function as a de facto leader in several situations, she is listed as a curator – not a director, not an administrator – and I don’t recall any single executive figure ever being introduced or addressed on-screen. Each time I’ve watched this, I have always identified Cuthbert as the director/leader of the museum… which she is, if only in practice.
Maybe that’s something the film gets right. In moments of crisis, institutions like this become less about formal hierarchy and more about who actually steps up and handles things. Which is something I can attest to.
Real Museums
The museum used for exterior shots, as well as some interior shots of the lobby and exhibit spaces, is the Field Museum in Chicago, for which the movie is also set. According to IMDB, production initially approached the Museum of Natural History in New York, but they declined. Additional sets were built in Los Angeles.
During one of the scenes, we see the back-of-house storage. Let’s be real, this is industrial shelving. Granted, all the items look to be wet specimens, and I’m certainly no expert on housing for natural history museums, but I feel that standards are probably similar across the board. However, if her role, research, and staff rely on grant funds to continue, perhaps some of that work may include rehousing and reworking of museum storage spaces. To the film’s credit, the shelving system shown was era-appropriate. The move towards space-saving methods and a closer eye on conservation standards was still happening, so it’s not unrealistic to think that this museum could have been in a transitional phase – an argument used throughout this breakdown.
Final Notes
Tropes, Theft, and Narrative Revenge
“They made a deal with Satan to vanquish their enemies. So, Kothoga was born.”
Applying Western theology to non-Christian cultures always annoys me. That being said, part of me likes the idea that the Zenzera culture they took from gets some kind of revenge. It’s explained a little more in the film, but I see room for narrative expansion. The Kothoga pushes back and punishes the people who came in, took things, and tried to exploit them. It’s satisfying to see the invaders face consequences. The chaos the monster causes is retribution – something that was initiated at the very beginning of the movie. The museum is the backdrop where that revenge takes place – the symbol of exploitation becomes the site of reckoning. It’s grim, but it works. While there are some deaths that hit hard in this film, it’s worth noting that broad-stroke revenge scenarios rarely get a curatorial eye. Am I reading more into this movie than perhaps the originators intended? Likely. I never read the book, though.
The original author worked in a museum?
This movie is actually based on a book of the very same name. Coincidentally, one of the authors (Douglas Preston) worked at the Natural History Museum in New York as a writer, editor, and manager of publications in the 1970s and 80s. This is likely why AMNH was initially scouted, as a fictionalized version is used in the original novel. This could also be why the more technical aspects of this movie seem underdeveloped/outdated. It could also be that “accuracy” in this genre is less important than plot, scares, and other thriller aspects – which is understandable. It was written for general audiences in mind, not… you know… US.
The Science
I’m the last person who should be talking about the science happening on screen. The closest I’ve been to a lab was in college, and it focused more on bones, stone tools, and pots… not DNA sequencing. I would love someone with a science background to weigh in on the validity of Dr. Margo’s work throughout the film. I am fairly certain, however, that DNA sequencing takes longer than shown, even if you have your own lab.
Destroying scientific storage and labs… a funny anecdote
In the climax, the scientific storage areas and lab are obliterated. While some of these specimens are likely replaceable, I would expect many are not – RIP to the giant ground sloth skeleton. Early on in my career, I could never. In fact, I actually packed up a collection I was processing during an active assailant situation. Now, I would let things burn to the ground if it meant surviving and killing a monster that was going to eat me. I like to think I’ve got my priorities in order these days.
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Thanks for sticking around. There was a lot more to unpack here than in my other breakdowns, since this is one of the few cases where the museum isn’t just a backdrop, but the main setting.
Did you work for a natural history museum in the 90s? Did your scientific heckles rise during the film? If so, I want to hear from you.
