The entire time I lived in New York, I aspired to impress the video store clerks.
Specifically the clerks at Kim's Video and Music, a retail store in the East Village since 1986, sharing space with a former dry cleaning business, which eventually expanded into five locations. I remember the shelves, the basement, the hand-lettered signs, the staircase lined with old band posters. I especially remember the disdain of the clerk when I naively rented "Failure to Launch," a forgettable Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew McConaughey rom-com.
And I remember the day I did it, the moment (there was only one) when I brought something up to the counter that impressed — or at least surprised — the notoriously snobby clerks of Kim's. The video was 1992's Christian Bale musical "Newsies." And the response from the clerk? "Wow, I haven't thought about this in years," he told me, before remarking on its quality and swearing he would do a re-watch himself.
I was befriended by Taylor Negron, developed a seltzer addiction, ran into Martin Short repeatedly and pretended to be cool about it. But that may have been my proudest New York moment. And it's one that can never be repeated. Kim's closed. Premiere Video in my hometown closed. The video store in your hometown probably closed too. With them went a history of people who like to talk about film. There went the neighborhood of video stores. There went something we used to do together, a community found in the aisles.
Netflix's new comedy "Blockbuster" taps into nostalgia with its eponymous blue and yellow video store setting. Though opinions on social media differ as to whether the large cast of the show reflects the often-skeleton crewed Blockbusters people know and remember, it does bring back the ritual. On Fridays, after school or work, but before it grew too late, we would haunt the aisles, searching. It would take forever to pick something out, especially if you were with someone. If that someone was new, a fledging relationship, there would be the hesitation of wanting to impress them with your selection, perhaps choosing something from the Criterion Collection over the popcorn film you really wanted.
There was the moment of truth: reaching behind the case to see if the film was actually available, or if someone had gotten to it first.
There was the moment of truth: reaching behind the case to see if the film was actually available, or if someone had gotten to it first. Video stores were a great equalizer. You ran into everyone there. You could covertly check out someone's viewing tastes, as you might peer over a neighbor's cart in the grocery store. But a video store is also the kind of place where, by returning there Friday after Friday, you grew to know the employees, and they you.
A newspaper once described the assistant manager of my local video store, Isaac Slater, as having the "knowledge of an art house director." He would set aside horror for me. We had long conversations about Hammer films. When I was late returning a video, he called because he was worried; it wasn't like me. I once witnessed him reassure a customer over the phone about the Robert Pattison rom-com "Remember Me," which she had had overdue for 9 days and which he swore to her was excellent. When he hung up, the other cashier said he had "totally lied." "She felt so bad about it being overdue," Isaac said. "She wanted to know it was worth it."
Compare this camaraderie to streaming a video, which you do in bed on your ancient laptop, in your pajamas and alone.
Compare this camaraderie to streaming a video, which you do in bed on your ancient laptop, in your pajamas and alone. There's no pressure to finish, no impetus to rewind. No one's going to ask you about it, or if you want the sequel. You're not going to compare notes the next morning with someone who has a knowledge of film, someone who might recommend another film, knowing your tastes, knowing you.
And yes, perhaps it wasn't the greatest business model. The video store in my college town had a free area with slightly damaged tapes. This is how I first saw "Breakfast at Tiffany's." The last few moments, when Holly Golightly finds her cat and gets kissed in the rain, were entirely static.
And perhaps the isolation of the pandemic taught us we need any social interaction, even if it's only a clerk at the video store asking us how we liked the latest Debra Granik or suggesting to check out Ti West. When I was a new single mom, sometimes Isaac was the only adult I talked to on a Friday, certainly the only one who knew my artistic tastes, or what my comfort watch was. In "Blockbuster," manager Timmy (Randall Park) says the video store is "the only place that's ever felt like home."
Kim's re-opened inside an Alamo Drafthouse. The Blockbuster in Bend is still hanging on — hosting overnight guests, video game championships and viewing parties. It's not just nostalgia. It's community we miss, being together with a shared love of a type of art. Be kind. Rewind—not just those tapes but time. And take us back.
