The Obituary the Video Store Deserved

Read Time:5 Minute, 36 Second

MOVIE REVIEW
Videoheaven
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Genre: Documentary
Year Released: 2025
Runtime: 2h 53m
Director(s): Alex Ross Perry
Where to Watch: in theaters starting July 7, 2025

RAVING REVIEW: VIDEOHEAVEN doesn’t just honor the video rental era, it resurrects it. Alex Ross Perry’s ambitious documentary does not follow the typical nostalgia-doc blueprint. There are no teary-eyed talking heads or fuzzy recreations of childhood memories. Instead, this is a cinematic thesis—structured, argued, and illustrated with methodical intensity, yet pulsing with deeply felt personal conviction. Ironically, the film feels like one of those educational documentaries you would have watched in school, but in the absolute best way possible.

Narrated by Maya Hawke, whose voice lends a gentle blend of curiosity and dry wit, VIDEOHEAVEN is constructed from a patchwork of hundreds of films and television shows that featured video stores. These aren't mere reference points—they are the body itself. The film doesn’t just analyze video stores; it explores how they’ve been portrayed on screen, what those portrayals say about our cultural relationship to them, and ultimately, what we lost when they faded into obsolescence.

Perry draws a direct line from the scrappy, occasionally sleazy mom-and-pop shops of the '80s to the sterile corporate monoliths of the '90s and their quiet extinction in the 2000s. In doing so, he doesn’t just build a timeline—he crafts a mood—one of loss, one of a community space reduced to a punchline, and finally, forgotten entirely.

The genius of VIDEOHEAVEN isn’t just in its encyclopedic research or its frequently dazzling execution—it’s in how much emotion Perry draws from the smallest moments. A perfect example is Ethan Hawke delivering Hamlet’s iconic soliloquy from within a Blockbuster Video in Michael Almereyda’s 2000 adaptation. Or a dusty shelf of overlooked titles in the blurry background of a '90s sitcom. Or the ever-familiar clerk who smugly suggests Bergman to a customer searching for CON AIR. The film’s power doesn’t lie in sweeping nostalgia, but in its quiet celebration of the everyday moments that defined an era.

This approach may not be for everyone (although they’d be wrong.) No on-screen interviews or musical montages celebrate the "good old days," the length may be a struggle for viewers who don’t already carry a flame for this lost world. But for those who do—especially those who remember roaming aisles filled with horror box art, getting judged by an underpaid cinephile, or sneaking glances at the forbidden "back room"—this time capsule is more immersive than any physical museum could provide.

And yet, VIDEOHEAVEN is more than memory preservation. Perry has something to say. He highlights how video stores were simultaneously democratic and exclusionary, liberating and awkward, accessible yet filled with unspoken rules. He unpacks how these spaces served as gathering spots, pick-up joints, self-education hubs, and even sacred rituals for cinephiles, where selecting a weekend rental could feel like an act of personal identity formation.

What’s striking is how the film handles the contradictions inherent in its subject matter. The same stores that empowered young, budding film nerds also leaned heavily into stereotypes. Clerks were often written as gatekeepers, mocking customers, or serving as comic relief. By spotlighting both empowering and problematic portrayals, Perry offers an even-handed perspective on why the video store died, not just due to streaming, but because their mythos had already begun to crumble onscreen.

Maya Hawke’s narration finds the tone for such a complex balancing act. There’s a reverence to her delivery and sly commentary, especially when the film addresses its recursion, using footage from STRANGER THINGS, in which Hawke plays a clerk herself. Her voice guides us through this labyrinth of archival imagery, grounding the viewer even when the references become increasingly obscure.

In those obscure moments, VIDEOHEAVEN’s depth becomes the most powerful. From Troma Entertainment icons like THE TOXIC AVENGER PART III: THE LAST TEMPTATION OF TOXIE to overlooked oddities like VIDEO VIOLENCE or DISCONNECTED, Perry’s magnitude of scene selection proves exhaustive without ever feeling hollow. There’s real joy in watching this filmmaker pay tribute not just to the stores, but to the weird, wonderful titles they championed.

Although lengthy at almost three hours, this runtime won’t be a chore for many—it will be a gift. Perry’s essay doesn’t overexplain or editorialize where it doesn’t need to. It assumes the viewer gets it. And for those who do, this is as close as we’ll ever get to revisiting that ritual of pacing between New Releases, Staff Picks, and the Dollar (or even fifty-cent) Rental Section, trying to decide between a new comedy or a dusty horror deep cut.

VIDEOHEAVEN feels like the final word on the video store—not because it exhausts every possible angle, but because it captures the feeling of that era better than anything before it. The excitement, the awkwardness, the freedom, the frustration. It even captures the guilt we now feel for letting it slip away. There’s no promise that such spaces will ever return, nor is there a suggestion that they should. But Perry makes a convincing case that something sacred was lost when they left—and that loss is worth remembering.

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[photo courtesy of CINEMA CONSERVANCY]

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