In 2023, a trend swept TikTok and Instagram in which young women pointed cameras at the men in their lives and asked them the question, “How often do you think about the Roman Empire?” The men, almost to a man, answered with some variation of “Every day.” It was a silly and baffling meme, which to my eyes illuminated little beyond the weird, too-online men in the lives of these weird, too-online women (I myself almost never think about the Roman Empire, and when I do it’s usually in the context of a half-remembered Far Side cartoon). It did, however, lead to a follow-up meme which was much more interesting and universal: what is your “Roman Empire?” What is the subject about which you find yourself thinking every day, which haunts your dreams and shapes your worldview, the seemingly silly preoccupation which informs the very core of your being?
It will come as no surprise to those who know me personally or read my words that my Roman Empire is the video rental store. There was a time, not very long ago, when these temples of cinephilia existed in every community in America, from the hip metropolis to the suburban strip mall to the rural general store. If you needed a break from reality, or just some entertainment to accompany a takeout pizza, you could step inside and be physically surrounded by thousands of movies, along with posters, movie theater snacks, and other signifiers of the world of film. Each store had its own unique inventory, meaning that, if you couldn’t find the movie you wanted, you could drive ten minutes and try your luck at the next store— a stark difference from the monolith of streaming. Compounding all of this is the fact that I actually lived through this era. I was born just as the video store was attaining cultural dominance, and graduated from high school just before its decline (they were almost all gone by the time I left college). This is the world I grew up in; like Krypton, it no longer exists.
I’m telling you all this to contextualize my perhaps outsized emotional response to Videoheaven, the new essay film from director Alex Ross Perry. Will those who are not my precise age and who do not share my particular hyperfixation find themselves as captivated by this three-hour meditation on a brief fad in media consumption and consumer electronics? I have no idea. All I can tell you is that I watched it, from beginning to end, in a state not unlike Matthew McConaughey watching his video messages in Interstellar.
Videoheaven does not contain one frame across its 172-minute runtime, barring interstitial graphics and chapter titles, of original footage. Rather, it is constructed entirely of scenes from movies and TV shows (as well as the odd newscast or Blockbuster training video) set within the confines of a video rental store. The fact that so many such scenes exist (and then some— shockingly, Patrick Bateman never makes an appearance) speaks to the quiet yet central place occupied by the video store in American culture. We see George Costanza haggling over late fees and Frasier Crane bemoaning the lack of high-brow selection; we see Randall from Clerks and Pacey from Dawson’s Creek belittling customers from their behind-the-counter perches, and Cheryl Dunye using hers to research her passion project in The Watermelon Woman; we see Craig Wasson and James Woods passing through the video store as a gateway to erotic obsession, and Arnold Schwarzenegger and Mark Wahlberg crashing through its shelves in bombastic shootouts. The video store was a nexus of high culture and daily mundanity, and a way for the movie industry to slyly comment on its own place in the world.
The narration of Videoheaven is written by Perry and read by actress Maya Hawke, best known for her role as teenage video store clerk Robin on Stranger Things (amusingly, the first image we see in the film is of Maya’s dad Ethan, wandering the aisles of a Blockbuster in Michael Almereyda’s 2000 update of Hamlet). Hawke traces the history of the video store: the novelty of the (once exorbitantly priced) VCR; the wild west of the grubby mom & pop shop, and the boom of straight-to-video horror; the mass cultural takeover of Blockbuster and other corporate chains; and the inevitable downfall at the hands of DVD and streaming, and rebirth as a nostalgic kitsch signifier. If you’re too young to remember the days of the video store, Videoheaven is as good a history lesson as you’re likely to find.
But, thankfully, Videoheaven is more than that. The heart of the film lies in its various digressions into particular aspects of the video store mythos. The film goes long on the archetype of the snotty video store clerk— by turns condescending or pitiable, rarely likable but almost always smart— and the forbidden beaded curtain which partitioned off the “adult” section from more respectable fare. Each of these elements, Perry notes, have remained in the public consciousness long after most video stores have shuttered, speaking to their outsized, if brief, place in American society. These were universal experiences, and they remain in pop culture like a phantom limb.
The phrase “three-hour essay film” is likely to deter casual viewers, and I can’t say I entirely blame them. The form by definition tends toward the dry and academic, and Hawke’s narration, presented in the cool, even tones of a planetarium presentation, may hit some like a belt of NyQuil. But Videoheaven is surprisingly funny, and manages to maintain a sprightly pace. Part of this is down to the clips themselves; video stores generally lent themselves more readily to scenes of comedy and romantic flirtation than drama, making the film at times feel a bit like a sketch comedy anthology. Perry himself, meanwhile, betrays a wry, at times playful sense of humor. In one of the film’s most amusing running gags, Perry/Hawke affectionately clocks any placement of posters or box art from the schlocky horror comedies of Troma Entertainment, and takes time to dress down films deemed unrealistic in their depictions of video store culture. There are also some inspired editing choices, including a killer segue from Matthew Lillard in Serial Mom to Matthew Lillard in Scream, as well as a truly hilarious re-cut of a pivotal scene from The Ring. Like a know-it-all with a shelf of staff recommendations next to the checkout counter, Perry earns his snottiness through quick wit and earnest cinephilia.
I have spent the above paragraphs shaping my opinions into the form of a traditional “movie review,” but the crux of my opinion is this: I want to watch Videoheaven again. I want to watch it again and again and again. I want to own it on physical media (VHS would be apropos, but I will settle for blu-ray) and leave it on as low-level ambience, the way others might play thunderstorm sounds or whale songs. As Hawke notes early on in the narration, these clips are now the only way to visit the video store. This is, of course, not strictly true— there are a handful of establishments around the country keeping the faith, including Jamaica Plain’s own beloved Video Underground— but the days in which the average American spent an hour or two of their week wandering aimlessly among the video racks, as much of their routine as going to the grocery store, is well and truly gone. Videoheaven provides, if only for three hours, a return to this world— and that, for a born and raised videohound like myself, is the kindest rewind of all.
Videoheaven
2025
dir. Alex Ross Perry
172 min.
Screens Sunday, 8/17, 4:00 @ Brattle Theatre
Special recorded introduction by director Alex Ross Perry
