As the years pass and the ’80s and ’90s move further into our rear-view mirror, the trends and traditions of those decades risk being forgotten. As someone who grew up during that era, one of my fondest memories was walking into a Blockbuster and wandering the aisles, hoping to find a film that would transport me elsewhere. The video store experience shaped my cinematic palette—an experience I once believed would always be part of our pop culture fabric. But in the blink of an eye, it vanished.
In a media landscape dominated by algorithms, endless queues, and instant gratification, Alex Ross Perry’s Videoheaven arrives like a long-lost time capsule—tangible, personal, and achingly nostalgic. Directed with both passion and heart, this documentary is more than a story about the VHS and video store era; it’s a poignant examination of what we lose when the physical spaces that once shaped our identities and self-discovery disappear.
Narrated by Maya Hawke, Videoheaven unfolds across seven chapters, using archival footage and film clips to explore the role video stores once played in cinema and culture. Each chapter offers a unique angle on the rise, cultural relevance, and eventual decline of video rental spaces. While some may find the format repetitive, I found it captivating. Perry transports viewers back in time, rekindling the tactile, social experience of browsing aisles, discovering hidden gems, and engaging in spontaneous conversations with fellow movie lovers.
Within these chapters, Perry’s insights are clearly rooted in personal experience. His time working at Kim’s Video adds a lived-in authenticity to his exploration—not just of the stores themselves, but of the complex dynamic between customer and clerk. In what might be considered a precursor to “film Twitter,” Videoheaven examines the often judgmental nature of clerks and even suggests that this culture may have contributed to the video store’s decline. As consumers flocked to Redbox and Netflix, they found comfort in anonymity—free from the fear of being judged for their tastes—accelerating the demise of the in-person rental experience.
A standout chapter, “The Horror Aisle,” blends clips from 1980s horror classics and cult oddities to showcase the perfect harmony between horror fandom and video rentals. From Troma to Cronenberg to De Palma, Perry taps into a deeply personal nostalgia that echoes my own experience: when VHS box art and shadowy aisles became sacred ground, laying the foundation for a lifelong love of the genre.
As the film enters its third hour, it risks feeling slightly overlong. Videoheaven is the kind of documentary you’ll know early on whether you’re in sync with its structure and pacing. I was on board from the beginning. By the final chapter, a wave of melancholy sets in as Perry reflects on the death of video stores and the extinction of VHS. What was once a vibrant fixture of daily life is now a relic—more likely to appear in period pieces than in the world around us.
With Videoheaven, Alex Ross Perry has crafted a cinematic eulogy for the video store. Equal parts love letter, critique, and eulogy, the film is rich in emotion, memory, and cultural observation. Despite its extended runtime, it’s a moving reminder of what once was—and stands tall as one of Tribeca 2025’s most resonant entries.
