Goodbye, All The Best Video

I’ve spent the last few years audibly being thankful that in the modern age my mid-sized college town still had a video store, one that was founded the year before I was born, and had survived big box renters like Blockbuster and Hollywood Video and the proliferation of streaming services like Netflix. But 2020 had one last punch to throw and it landed squarely on the temple of my beloved video store, All The Best. 

I feel silly admitting how hard this is impacting me. I see myself going through the grieving process in the expected steps: I feel guilt for not renting more than I did and not racking up heftier late fees than I could’ve, and I’ve begun concocting hairbrained schemes to keep it afloat. Eventually I’ll accept it but I’m already planning on avoiding the street it’s on because the thought of seeing the building shuttered and the purple awning removed genuinely makes me want to sob. 

I can imagine most people will think my reaction is ridiculous. The majority of video stores closed within the last decade and the mass public abandoned physical media almost as long ago. It’s the vestigial tail of an animal that evolved some time ago, I get that. I also get that in an era where you have thousands of hours of tv and movies that are pumped directly to your phone the idea of driving to a building to wander aisles to select something to watch seems an absurd act. 

For me going to the video store was more than just watching a movie; it was an experience and a connection to like minded people. Growing up in the country in a conservative religious family I found culture and saw the world through the movies I found at our local video store. That’s a quaint idea now and I can’t imagine what it must be like growing up with everything ever being available at your fingertips, but in the 80’s and 90’s it was an oasis in a desert, and without it I could’ve easily been a different person. 

Beyond that it was a way to share a part of my childhood with my own children. Going to the video store meant they’d get to pick a movie and some candy and popcorn, maybe buy a used movie or two. I rarely faced a weekend as a kid without renting a 5-for-5 (5 movies for 5 days) and although I think they mostly enjoyed the candy I tried my damndest to give them some of that. 

Times change, I guess, and old ways die. I’m only thirty five but I feel like an old man watching the culture I’ve held dear alter into something unfamiliar and unappealing, as overly dramatic as that sounds. 

I don’t know if I’ll be leaving the area any time soon but I do know that should I ever transplant my family somewhere else one of the first requirements right after good schools and safe neighborhoods is “is there a local video store still?”

All The Best you were the best. Your employees were friendly and helpful and most importantly they liked and knew movies. Your selection was great. You had the popcorn tubs I loved that doubled as a way to carry out my movies and snacks. Most importantly you were a human way of doing things and the sterility of a streaming algorithm will always be a poor substitute to your tangible, tactile humanity. From the bottom of my heart I say thank you for everything you’ve done for our community and for all of us who habitually occupied your aisles. I’ll never wear my Leprechaun shirt in a place where it will be properly appreciated ever again.

I desperately hope there’s an 11th hour reprieve but should we not get the PG-13 ending where the spunky teens of the youth center save the video store then know that your memory will live on in our hearts.