MY local video store closed down about three months ago. It went from a well-stocked shop that had everything from the staples —
Love Actually,
Citizen Kane,
Private Benjamin to box sets and a reasonably good foreign film section where you could always find a copy of
Wings of Desire or
The Double Life of Véronique.
But over the last six months, like so many video stores around the world, it endured a slow and painful death. Video killed the radio star, so now maybe it was time for revenge.
Shelves started to thin out, ‘Latest Releases’ dwindled, and soon stock was for sale (followed by the actual shelving) until all that was left was a few copies of Demi Moore’s
Striptease, ancient X-Box games and torn posters of
The Royal Tanenbaums.
The demise of the local video store, along with the milk bar, the manual typewriter and Polaroid cameras is inevitable and yes, downloading a movie is cheaper and more efficient, but watching a video at home always seemed to have more to do with chilling out than it did saving time.
Then there was the ‘event renting’; moments in life when only renting a dvd would do: the hangover (
Bridesmaids), Boxing Day (
Raiders Of The Lost Ark), insomnia (any of the
Bourne franchise), a scorching hot day (
Jaws), nursing a broken heart (
Breathless) and a rainy Sunday (
Rebecca).
Like trawling between shelves at a bookshop, there was something about cruising down to the video store, the inevitable bickering about which movie to get (‘‘We’ll never watch five movies in three days.’’), sniggering over the hilariously bad triple X titles, secretly hoping that all five copies of
Batman Begins weren’t already out.
An added bonus was catching up with the ‘Video Guy’, a particular breed who shares their DNA code with every other man or woman around the globe who has ever had the lucky job of working behind the counter.
They were usually incredibly passionate about film and free with their assessments about whatever you happened to be watching, and if you were lucky enough to develop a rapport, they were just as astute as Margaret and David. The good ones never judged, they just cracked open the case with one hand, their face an unreadable mask, while they searched for the
Twilight disc.
There are still a few reliably good video stores around, staffed by those same guys (usually bearded) who have an encyclopaedic knowledge that could rival Leonard Maltin’s, but are definitely on the endangered list.
A few weeks ago someone smashed in the front window of the closed shop near me, so now it looks like it belongs in one of those photo essays about abandoned buildings in Detroit. But then, one afternoon while I was walking past, a teenage girl in a twirly skirt, who looked like she should be on a cover of
Frankie, stood posing in front of the window, the eighties style sign writing emblazed on the glass. Her boyfriend took a photo from across the road with his iPhone, probably suspecting this was their last chance.
