Videoheaven: Tribeca’s Cinephile Love Letter to the Video Store Era

Nestled among Tribeca Film Festival 2025’s documentary selections, Videoheaven stands out as a tribute to a form of movie-going that once meant belonging. Directed by Alex Ross Perry, this nearly three-hour archival essay film traces the rise and fall of the video store and the profound impact those spaces had on film culture. 

Told in several parts narrated by Maya Hawke, Videoheaven weaves together footage from over 100 films and television programs, including one of my favorite scenes from Frasier where he hilariously tries and fails to rent a copy of How Green Was My Valley. Those clips track the bustling presence of video stores on screen and in memory. What’s fascinating is seeing the evolution of the video store represented in film: from the independent video stores that popped up after the introduction of the VCR in the ’80s, mainly catering to cinephiles and the booming adult video market, to chains like Blockbuster becoming an accessible and consumerist stop for every family. 

Perry’s background as a former video store clerk at the legendary Kim’s Video in New York, which closed in 2004 after almost 30 years in business, gives the film a grounded authenticity. Reportedly in the making for 10 years, Perry was motivated to be the first to present the comprehensive collection of video stores on screen, inspired by Daniel Herbert’s attempt to do the same in book form with Videoland: Movie Culture at the American Video Store (2014).  

The film’s narrative interrogates how these stores served as neighborhood cultural centers and hubs of cinephilic exchange. Of course we see the tropes of the pretentious video store clerks with encyclopedic knowledge of Troma films, but also the awkward romantic exchanges between customers trying to impress each other. We get to see archival footage of hometown video stores, which Perry shows once stood on almost every corner like a Starbucks, giving way to large corporate stores that could offer more movies and a brightly lit, family-friendly outing. The documentary contrasts that era with today’s streaming landscape, framing video stores not simply as nostalgic relics but social institutions that streaming platforms are still struggling to replace.

At roughly three hours, the film demands patience, but Perry makes the case that the subject deserves it. By assembling and re-presenting these images, Perry isn’t just telling the story of the video store, he’s archiving it. In that sense, the film doubles as a time capsule, acutely aware that these institutions are disappearing and that this footage might be one of the last ways to access their presence.

But if you miss walking the aisles of your hometown video store, the tapestry of film clips will wash over you like a wave of nostalgia. And for younger audiences, it offers a vivid glimpse of a cultural infrastructure that predated the algorithm, a reminder that film discovery once depended on place, people, and chance encounters. 

Although for many, the video store is now a relic compared to families gathering around a radio, we’re lucky to have We Luv Video here in Austin holding on to the dream. And with Perry’s film, that dream has a home on screen too. By positioning Videoheaven as both a cinematic essay and an archive, Perry ensures that the memory of video stores won’t just fade into nostalgia, but remain available for future generations to discover. 

Videoheaven is playing at Austin Film Society this month. 

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