Is it conceptual?

I am used to people being baffled by the existence of a video shop in 2017 (2016, 2015, etc, back to Y2K), but last week I was faced with a question about the ontology of the thing…

“It’s conceptual?” she asked…

Flicks is not (intentionally, at least) an installation / work of art. It is, I reply, a 20th century video shop: we rent movies to people for money. But, if I reflect on the question (as I have been forced to do ever since I was asked) I can’t really insist that my reply rings true.

If we understand the “video shop” as a company or business (which is Ltd) then it’s a concept, which means that we want to understand it as a physical thing. It is not, however, the sum of its many tangible parts; the films on DVD or VHS are objects within it, but not actually “it” at all.  Nor is it 19 Christmas Steps – that’s just where it is; it was somewhere else before and something else was in its place and will no doubt be here/there in future. It is also not any one, two, three or more specific people; the change in ownership some four or five years ago and the advent of cats continues to challenge the notion that even people are a persistent imperative.

It is, then, the renting of movies – but isn’t that just a theoretical thing, anyway? I mean, we make up and change the rules on rental all the time (prices, duration, subscription model, loyalty programmes, etc), and haven’t we absolutely messed with the original model by introducing a private hire space and a selection of local records for sale?

Surely, then, the “video shop” is only conceptual.

But it can’t  just be the idea of renting movies, either, because iTunes and other online platforms, from which you can rent movies, aren’t a video shop – are they?

Is it, then, the idea of renting movies from people in a physical place?

But that can’t be  it, either, because you can do that at the library and what we do is different… isn’t it?

Well, i suppose, then, we could say that what’s unique to the “video shop”, which seems now to be as marked by its scarcity as anything else, is that it is born of an historical moment and that the link or persistence of its historical imperative is paramount to its present ontology. The 20th Century part of its and our title means everything.

Further, we might surmise that the video shop is also an attitude as much as a concept:  the rules, service and space we continually decide to provide are a matter of attitude originating from three company Directors – myself and the two Daves.

It is definitely not, then, a number of other things people have tried to convince me that it is (especially over the past two or so years as it becomes oddly fetishized like the redundant format of VHS): not an archive, not a repository, not a library, not a community service. It can only exist (conceptually, even) because of the collectively understood and accepted existence of a specific concept in the past and, as such a time should ever occur that we should stop renting movies to people for money (the one immovable concept of its historical persistence), then it should cease to be a “video shop”.

So, while that still doesn’t qualify it as an art project or installation, it is true that the video shop is conceptual. Which makes my job far more difficult than just renting movies to people for money (which is hard enough). I must also tell people about 20th Century Flicks (a “video shop”) in order to garner their acknowledgement and endorsement of the ontology of the concept: only through collective cognizance can I hope to prove, and continue, its existence.

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What a Work Experience

Last week we had a work experience placement at 20th Century Flicks. It’s not something we usually do and it was quite the learning experience, for all involved. We are such a small scale business that, aside from the three of us who run things, we only even have one casual employee. So, at the end of the week, we asked Ethan to tell us a little something about his experience in the shop and this is what he had to say:

Overall, I think that working at 20th Century Flicks has been an interesting experience. One thing I have taken from it is learning how you can run your own independent business, and that it means you have to do and are in charge of pretty much everything. I have also taken into account how extremely difficult it can be to do all of these things.

The work I did was not that varied, but it didn’t at all get boring- especially if you are someone like me who enjoys sorting through countless DVDs, finding it fun looking at them all, occasionally jotting down films of interest. I did a similar job when sorting through the collection- laminating covers and filing them in their relevant genres, sometimes having fun debates on which movies go where.

I also think that everybody working there is really nice to work with and we had some cool conversations about movies and music- especially now that they have a small record section in the shop corner. It felt like I didn’t have a boring minute, as everybody there made sure I was always busy doing things, even if the shop was quiet.

I thought it was really nice that I was actually trusted to work behind the shop counter and get films for customers- it was cool that I felt like I was a part of everything. It was also really good that I felt like I was actually making a difference in the shop while working, instead of feeling like a stupid work experience student- being there and not really caring about it. I felt like I was properly working there (although there were a few restrictions, like serving customers) and was doing my part.

I do understand why it was supposed to be quite a boring job (as they told me it might be), but it was actually fine and I think I did learn a few things about working in a work environment (however professional it might be) and that it can sometimes be quite dull, wherever I go.

Being here has boosted my confidence massively for working in any job and it has really helped me for the future.

Written by Ethan Llewellyn for 20th Century Flicks. Please note that we have already accepted the maximum number of work experience placements we can accommodate for 2017. We will post other scheduled work experience responses here in due course.

John Carpenter, live

 

On Sunday night we had the great pleasure of seeing and hearing John Carpenter, live, at Colston Hall. His filmmaking and musical talents have long been admired by those of us here in the video shop – and not just now, but by former staff members in the years before our times, too.

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For me, it was also a first visit to Colston Hall. Despite its proximity to our shop I had never stepped inside. As a dedicated and stereotypical film nerd I tend to spend the big bucks I earn here at the video shop (ahem) on cinema tickets, fancy cheese and close to my body weight in red wine, but little else. So an outing to a venue with a large audience capacity was an unusual shock to the system.

It got me thinking. There must have been more than a thousand people sat around me watching, cheering and enjoying the audio visual show. But the man performing is also a filmmaker whose films would never attract anywhere near this number of people if screened even in the very same town.

Case in point: last month, as part of Scalarama 2016, we showed In the Mouth of Madness, at Bristol’s Cube Cinema, to an audience of around 60 people. The tickets to see the film were a fiver; attending Carpenter live was a little over thirty quid.

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So, my question is this: is it only the live appearance factor that makes people turn up in droves to celebrate a renowned musician/filmmaker or is there something about venues and perceived forms of entertainment also at play?

For example, does ‘Colston Hall’ suggest entertainment that you can’t miss owing to its reputation as a venue that attracts world class acts? And does ‘Cube Microplex’, as an artists’ collective, with highly reduced ticket prices, suggest something you could watch at home or in another venue, thus removing the prestige and scarcity factors? I wonder, too, even though the performance at Colston Hall was visual as well as audio – there were several clips packaged together of footage from John Carpenter’s films, albeit sometimes in incorrect aspect ratios – is the visual (on photochemical film or in a digital format) considered an insignificant element in weighing up the attractiveness of paying to attend an event?

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I ask because, even though I thought the concert was great and while I did have a splendid time, I still rate my best John Carpenter experience as when I saw Escape From LA (far from my favourite of his films) on a 35mm film print in the small but wonderful auditorium at Paris’ Grand Action cinema. And, as great as it was to see clips of his films set to live music, complete with his totally adorable dance moves, I would have loved to have seen those films shown in full, in the correct aspect ratio, with appropriate masking, on a big cinema screen, so much more.

I know I am often in the minority (I still think running a rental store is a good idea and I know it’s 2016), so some of these questions may indeed be rhetorical, but I’m keen to hear from other people on the issue. I would love to know about your perceptions of value entertainment, appropriate film and concert admission costs and the role of film as a form of entertainment both on its own as well as as a combined element in another style of live show. Please do comment below or send an email to my attention (Tara) at: info[at]20thcenturyflicks[dot]co[dot]uk

A bunch of John Carpenter films are available to rent at 20th Century Flicks and our Kino is available for hire if you want to get a group together and see something here. 

Silent Studies in the Kino – According to Tara

For a long time I thought I didn’t like silent cinema. It’s easy to be prejudiced against an era or a genre of film when your first encounter had you looking through the wrong keyhole.

It was about seven or eight years ago that I went to a silent film screening in Bristol. I can’t remember which film it was but I know it was a slapstick comedy with either Chaplin or Keaton, and it featured blackface. I was horrified and, quite honestly, shocked. I’d never seen a film with blackface exhibited publicly before and there had been no trigger warning before the screening. There was no context given and there I was, amidst a room full of white middle-class folk laughing their asses off.

On a less serious but still ultimately off-putting note, the music was poorly matched to the film. It was jaunty, whimsical and upbeat all the while. I hated everything about the screening and, as a result, was pretty much turned off silent cinema for life.

Or so I thought.

Several years later I met Dr Peter Walsh. He’s a feminist and a film scholar. His expertise is in early and silent cinema. He seemed immediately like a great guy who doesn’t endorse jaunty, inappropriate, crap music – or blackface. So, I thought, maybe there’s more to this silent cinema malarkey than I’ve given it credit for…

And so, with curiosity and hope, I invited Pete to run a silent cinema course at Flicks. I was first to enroll.

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The course exceeded the foolishness of my keyhole metaphor and opened an actual door to previously inaccessible cinema. Throughout the course I was introduced to The Silent Feminists: America’s First Women Directors (1993) which included the totally amazing Alice Guy who experimented with Gaumont’s sync sound system known as the Chronophone until such time as she got married and had to resign. She continued to work elsewhere after Gaumont gave her the boot but her husband kinda got in the way.

While a woman being nudged out of the way by dudes is an all too familiar story in film history it was great to at least hear about some of the women who made a mark before the patriarchy pushed them aside because documentaries (un)like this one far too often have us believing that women were altogether absent. Turns out it’s not just funny white dudes doing blackface after all. In fact, Lois Weber, who also features in the documentary, refused to work on one particular film, taking a stand against blackface – yep, there were heroes fighting for what’s right even in the early era.

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Course, I can’t help but wonder why The Silent Feminists, a forty-five minute documentary about women in a field where women are often absent from the dominant historical narrative, has yet to be released on DVD or BluRay. Please, BFI, help a sister out?

I also discovered that not all silent cinema is scored with unimaginative organ playing (like The Lost World, 1925) or jaunty piano. Having seen clips from Georges Méliès’ A Trip to the Moon (1902) many times before, I was amazed to discover that I have never seen the full film, restored, coloured, and gloriously scored by Air. I was also amazed at how many inappropriate scores have been recorded and released with Dziga Vertov’s Man With a Movie Camera (1929). Personally, I like it properly silent: no score. We also had a series of great, and divisive, discussions after watching Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927) with a Giorgio Moroder score.

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Perhaps most surprisingly was that I chose, of my own volition, to watch silent movies at home – not so much for homework or even extra curricular viewing, but just for the fun of it and with a genuine interest. Jean Painlevé’s wonderful sea urchins on our old never-before-rented VHS of Surrealism and Science (1925) and a beautifully scored, visually exciting and honestly suspenseful Swedish horror film, The Phantom Carriage (1921) were two such treats.

Silent Studies in the Kino was our first foray into adult education courses at Flicks and, from the perspective of both student and course administrator, I can honestly say that it was so darn good it not only makes me want to schedule more classes in the Kino but it also changed my previously rigid opinion of an entire era of cinema. Cheers, Pete.

Dr Peter Walsh is Co-director and Co-curator of South West Silents and can found on twitter as @soylent_grey.

 

South West Silents Speak Up! Ben Hur: A Tale of the Christ (1925)

“There will be no further reason for a future production of Ben-Hur for the screen… Ben-Hur is a picture for all times!” Variety, 1925

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It’s hard to think of the name Ben-Hur without thinking of the two accompanying names Charlton! and Heston! Even as Paramount Pictures and MGM are about to hurl another incarnation of Lew Wallace’s novel Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ (1880) at us (now the fifth adaptation of the book to be made into a feature film) it is still very hard not to think about that tall, blond haired, big jawed, gun loving American superstar.

But that gives you some idea of the importance Ben-Hur has had on the history of cinema and how much the 1950s’ version is burnt into our cultural consciousness. After all, every Bank Holiday we get the opportunity to see it on our television screens (that or The Great Escape (1963), The Sound of Music (1965),  or Zulu (1964) – it was always Zulu in my house to be honest.)

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But forget about those Bank Holiday TV schedules because when it comes to the history of film, Ben-Hur has always been there; Ben-Hur systematically appeared at every changing moment of cinema’s history, all the way back to the birth of cinema (the unofficial 1907 version,   At the height of the silent era there was the faithfully titled Ben-Hur a Tale of Christ (1925), and at the peak of the Hollywood Studio system there was William Wyler’s version (1959) – through the ages the words BEN HUR were always there.

This is why the new adaptation has been a long time coming; you would have thought that a new 21st Century Ben-Hur would have been announced straight after the success of Gladiator (1999). On the band wagon films like Troy (2004), Alexander (2004), King Arthur: Director’s Cut (2004) and even Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven (2005) went into rapid production, shortly after the release of Gladiator, and yet, Ben-Hur didn’t.

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Maybe the 2003 animated version of Ben-Hur (Heston’s final acting role; he voiced Judah) which was already in production stalled all possibility of making another live action version for quite some time. Whatever the story Ben-Hur is back on the big screen this August (2016) and from the look of the trailer it most certainly has the hint of a 21st Century adaptation; it’s loud, screaming-in-your-face and seems to have even more animation than the actual animated film from 2003.

And yet, when watching the trailer for Timur Bekmambetov’s all-screaming and all-chariot-racing Ben-Hur, you can almost hear that old saying in your head, “Well, they don’t make ’em like they used to!” But, to be honest, it’s more than likely people would have said the same thing about William Wyler’s 1959 version had they seen Fred Niblo’s earlier silent version from 1925.

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There are slight differences in both versions when it comes to the storytelling; the 1925 version gives far more screen time to the connections between Judah and Jesus than in the later Wyler version, which is understandable as Niblo very much stuck to Wallace’s book, unlike the later adaptations. But, alas, this particular element slows down the 1925 version at certain points, particularly in the scenes just after the sea battle – it has to be said that the sea battle and the infamous chariot race are extraordinary! Truly extraordinary in fact!

This is what I really want to flag when it comes to talking Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ. Many have asked us over the years what makes the silent film era different from any other in the history of cinema? While obviously the classic quote from Gloria Swanson, “We didn’t need dialogue, we had faces!” from Sunset Boulevard (1950), springs to mind, but one other major factor makes the silent era different from any other era in cinema: they built everything for real!

Cabiria (1914), Intolerance (1916), Robin Hood (1922) and Napoleon (1927) are titles that secure the legend that when it came to money, they threw it in front of the camera. If anything, Ben Hur is another classic example of this. Nothing is left out.

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When watching the 1925 silent version of the sea battle it seems far more extensive than the later Wyler version, after all, the silent version has real boats to crash and burn! These real size Galleys and Roman Trireme were completely seaworthy and very capable of reacting to a full-on sea battle that would include plenty of local Italian extras armed to the teeth and all in suited up in armour. In the end, the filming that took place included smashing one of the galleys into the Roman Trireme and setting the Trireme alight (which is all in the book). But the action got out of hand on the shoot and the production lost control of the fire and lost the entire Trireme before they could finish shooting. All the extras had to throw themselves into the sea to escape being burned. The 1959 film can’t touch that – understandably, they ended up using model boats!

But what about Ben-Hur’s famous chariot race? Surely the 1959 film wins hands down. Well, possibly. It’s incredibly exciting but have you seen the 1925 version? What can I say? The 1925 production had already built one Circus Maximus in Rome, a set which was later abandoned due to spiraling production costs. The production then expanded on original plans and a bigger version of the Circus Maximus was built set just outside Hollywood. They prepared for one of the biggest shooting days in Hollywood’s history.

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A call out was made for (if studio publicity is correct) 7,000 extras for a single day’s filming. Almost all of Hollywood left the city on Saturday 7th October 1925 to see what all the fuss was about. They arrived at the Circus Maximus set (which had apparently cost the studio $500,000) and were given a full day’s entertainment of chariot racing. The likes of John and Lionel Barrymore, Harold Lloyd, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, John Gilbert, Colleen Moore, Marion Davies, Sam Goldwyn, and Lillian Gish were all noted being as in the crowds, as well as celebrated directors such as Henry King, Reginald Barker, Clarence Brown and George Fitzmaurice. They, like the rest of the crowds who had arrived to be part of the auction, were stunned by the sheer size of the set. Someone else stunned was  assistant director, William Wyler, who, 34 years later, would end up directing the 1959 version. In 1963 Wyler explain to film historian Kevin Brownlow,

“I was given a toga and a set of signals…. The signals were a sort of semaphore, and I got my section of the crowd to stand up and cheer to sit down again, or whatever was called for. There must have been thirty other assistant doing the same job.”  

At the end of the day, 42 camera operators had filmed roughly 53,000 feet of film. Filming continued on the Maximus set for another month, filming close-ups as well as stunt work. In the end, Editor Lloyd Nosler had to compete with 200,000 feet of film for the chariot sequence alone. But what a job Nosler did when it came to the completed sequence. In the end he did such a good job that it influenced framing and editing of the later adaptations for not only Wyler’s version but also for the animated 2003 version. Let’s see if it influenced this newest adaptation!

At a cost of $3.96 million the 1925 version of Ben-Hur claims to be the most expensive silent film ever made. If it is the most expensive film of the silent era, it most certainly shows it.

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So if you want to see the REAL Ben-Hur! Look no further than Fred Niblo’s 1925 Ben-Hur: A Tale of Christ. You won’t be disappointed!

Recommended Reading:

The Parade’s Gone By: Kevin Brownlow

Lion of Hollywood: The Life and Legend of Louis B. Mayer: Scott Eyman

Written by James Harrison of South West Silents for 20th Century Flicks

Anomalisa: Act 2

A few days after I’d seen Anomalisa a friend of mine asked if it would make an okay date movie. I said no. She went to see it anyway.

The next morning she sent me a text that said, “You were right.”

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Anomalisa may, even on my own advice, be a terrible date movie. Still, and I say this as someone who went to see it with their partner, it might also be a wonderful way in for discussing intimacy taboos.

For many, Anomalisa  is desperately depressing; the idea is that we are all alone and have no hope of finding anyone who who will understand us, or even anyone who is “different”, individual.

Michael Stone, after spending the night with our titular Anoma-Lisa,  finds her every bit as irritating as everyone else he’s ever met. Pause, sigh. He just can’t accept that everyone, no matter how ‘special’ or ‘individual’ they seem at first encounter, is human. We all eventually reveal habits or behaviours that irritate. Humans aren’t perfect.

The first taboo, then, in watching this film with a loved one, is accepting that the person you’re with annoys you. The second is in accepting that you annoy them. Ouch.

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But there’s  also something deeply comforting about the extremity of the alienation Michael feels, and in the unflinchingly  bleak outlook of the film itself. It’s not so much that his attitude is one that provides comfort, nor is it his inability to get to grips  with the fact that, in the end, all humans are disappointing. They’re human, after all. Pause, sigh. Instead, it’s that we see the fragility of someone who feels utterly, utterly alone – and that’s what can be comforting.

For the optimist who feels delight every day, for the person who is overjoyed by what the world offers and who finds happiness rather than alienation in others, sure, Anomalisa is bleak. But, for those of us who suffer anxiety and depression, or sometimes find it difficult to relate to others, who feel that even our loved ones don’t understand us some of the time – maybe much of the time – it can be comforting precisely because it means we aren’t alone. That anyone else can feel so acutely what the high functioning anxiety sufferers and manic depressed among us feel, means that someone else out there understands. Pause, breathe.

And, as horrible as Michael is, at least in part owing to his own cycle of depression – he is the unwitting maker of his own misery – he’s also human. Well, actually he’s a stop motion animation. So I guess writer/director Charlie Kaufman is human. Either way, thanks to Anomalisa, sitting in the  dark next to someone you love, feeling unashamedly in tune with the miserable protagonist onscreen, you might just have opened up a line of conversation, a way to start talking about how difficult it is to admit that sometimes, even though everyone is an individual, you too might feel utterly, utterly alone. The good news is that you’re not.

Anomalisa is now available to rent on DVD from your favourite neighbourhood video shop – i.e. us.

Anomalisa: Act 1

I can’t stop thinking about Anomalisa. It isn’t the best or even the most entertaining film I’ve seen this year, but it’s stuck with me. Every fourth or fifth day since seeing it, when I’ve forgotten to busy my mind, allowing reflection and existential dread to set in, I think about it and another crisis of self and Other presents itself, and strikes a chord.

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Returning to Anomalisa in this piecemeal way – via the abstraction of my fading and, I’m sure, altering memory – I find myself caught in Charlie Kaufman’s web. Am I self or Other? Am I alienated or comforted by his artful depiction of loneliness and yearning? I am lonely? Am I yearning?

I never really reach determined answers to these questions but I do spend a lot of time thinking about the different types of relationships in my life and how I feel about them. And instead of writing a review, or an analysis or any sort of critical piece about Anomalisa and the back catalogue of Charlie Kaufman’s weird and wonderful films, I’m going to write a series of responses to my encounters with this film.

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My first response to Anomalisa, on reflection at least, was fairly superficial. It spoke to me most forcefully as a movie about customer service. Though I really enjoyed the likes of Clerks (1993), Empire Records (1995) and  High Fidelity (2000), the reality of working in a video shop (or a book shop, fashion retailer, museum, etc, etc) is decidedly different – less broody for a start.

Having worked in customer service for twenty years, one of the strangest things to get used to is the crisis of equality that it kicks up.

The true success of any relationship rests upon an equal balance of power between the two parties involved. But this is essentially impossible in both customer service and Kaufman’s mind. While there is at least a theoretically attainable equality in friendships and sexual relationships, customer service is built upon the foundation of one person serving another.

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Michael Stone (voiced by David Thewlis) is the miserable author of a famous book about the secrets of great customer service: to treat customers as humans not consumers. He’s so successful that even the hotel he’s staying in (The Fregoli) has improved their service and increased business by some absurd percentile somewhere around ninety. Despite his success, he just can’t seem to actually connect with anyone – to him, they all look and sound the same – that is, until he meets the titular Anomalisa.

This is the part that’s relevant to working in a video store and, customer service more widely. Stone knows how to do business related human things like; optimise customer satisfaction and increase sales through approach and response strategies. But none of this involves connecting with people in any real or meaningful way. Quite simply put: making money hasn’t really got much in common with being human.

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And this is why, despite how great it is to feel like an individual (the video shop is a far cry from corporate sticks) I just end up seeing myself as the slightly less successful, awkward, occasionally irritating, squawky voice of Jennifer Jason Leigh, rambling on about insignificant things with scrambled eggs in my mouth when I should be smiling constantly, well groomed (probably) and more enthusiastically helpful when people ask for rom-coms.

But then again, the soft crooning of Tom Noonan stands in for the bland endlessness of so-called ‘great’ customer service, and that’s just the pitiful result of measured, distanced, interaction. So, while a high standard of service; politeness, efficiency, perhaps even servitude, is generally preferable in the industry, there’s nothing unique or sincerely empathetic about it.

The only conclusion, then, is that it’s better to be Anomalisa… right?

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Check back next week for further reflections on this beautiful, bleak film.

 

 

 

Mommy, where do videos go when they die?

Ever since our appearance on The One Show last year, people with boxes, attics, lofts, basements and garages full of unwanted videos have been calling. Understandably, most people don’t want a bunch of old VHS to continue taking up space and collecting dust in their homes.

The recycling plant for VHS, previously in Bristol, has closed down. Charity shops are packed to the rafters with the darned unsaleable things. So I understand why, after hearing about our store, with its wall of VHS, people would think we might be just the ticket for finally dispensing with one’s home collection of unloved movies.

Unfortunately, we don’t always want them either.

Most of the time it’s because we already have them. Our collection is a little over 19,000 strong (mostly DVD, a couple hundred Blu-ray and a couple thousand VHS). If something is super rare – say you have some video nasties – then yeah, we’d take those. But, tends to be that if you do have such beasts you either a) don’t want to offload ’em or b) do but know that they’re worth summat, so you take to eBay. Much as we’d like to have those puppeies,we’re a video shop and it’s 2016 so, you know, we can’t really afford to pay £200 a pop for summat that may never even see the light of rental day.

What happens, then, to the hundreds and thousands of VHS in your homes?

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Unless you’re super recycle conscious, it’s unlikely you can be bothered to take them apart and separately recycle the individual components. So, I dare say, many of them turn to landfill.

And that’s what’s likely to happen with all those DVDs you’re amassing, too.

Despite the decline of home entertainment sales – and the close to obliteration of the rental industry – DVDs, and indeed Blu-rays, are still being made. But even if they’re picked up for a pound or two in the sale bins, it’s unlikely you’ll keep them forever.

Maybe you will re-watch Die Hard, and All About Eve. But will you really return to The Knowing? That’s a stretch, and I say this as a bona fide Nic Cage devotee.

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This is not my way of making a case for the internet. Rather, it’s my way of pointing out how sad the fate of so many physical copies of movies truly is. It’s also why a rental store is the kind of thing you ought to support.

We’re actually more environmentally friendly and cost effective than physically buying the stuff yourself. And we don’t throw stuff away just because it’s a bit crap – we have plenty of terrible movies and we intend to keep ’em for as long as you want to come rent ’em. What we have become is a sort of library. We keep stuff as best we can (including donations of stuff we don’t have, just that we can’t take duplicates) which means our selection is bigger and better than the majority of what’s available through online streaming platforms. We don’t have everything and we are aware of that, but we have a lot.

However, and this is the point I really want to make, what we don’t do is add to the problem of rampant consumerism and landfill culture. We’re not into making you buy stuff at an accelerated rate so that you can fill your homes with crap and we don’t throw out a tonne of films to landfill – even when our collection of ex-rentals is blocking access to the counter. Kinda like it is right now.

So stumble on in, make your way through the trenches of display cases and find something to watch without contributing to the great plastic waste. We’ll do our best to remain a repository for things you might like to see but not own. Because we’re just about the closest thing that there is to home entertainment heaven.

 

Joy: the greatest mop movie ever made

I went to see Joy last week, it was my first cinema visit for 2016. I was already primed to like the film, what with my love of J-Law and B-Coop in David O Russell movies, and like it I did. Not just because there’s a beautiful moment at the very end of the film (SPOILER ALERT?) where the characters have an exchange that mirrors the actors’ journies in David O films – B-Coop acknowledges that J-Law has now not only met his status in stardom but in fact surpassed it, becoming the new centre of gravity for David O, but also because it’s a story about a woman who persists in the face of adversity.

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While there’s a pro-capitalism reading in there – human with financial and familial problems decides to fulfill her dream (the American dream) by working really, really, really hard (because apparently you can have anything you want in life if you just work hard …  and become ruthless in your approach) – but the film also features a compelling story about one downtrodden woman and a mop. And it’s the mop I wanna talk about.

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For those of us who clean our own floors, a good mop story can be quite emotional. And so it was, for me, resident shop mopper. You see, the thing about mopping is that it’s one of the most truly depressing human pursuits; a thankless, literally back aching and no matter how many times you do it, you pretty much always need to do it again kinda task.

And so, the film’s narrative has more than just three acts; much like the ups and downs of mopping there’s the joy when you finish and the floor is finally clean, followed by the despair at seeing the floor sullied once more – ad infinitum. In this way, Joy is a film with as many moments of fist bumping elation as face palming dismay. And, because of that, truly resembles the sisyphean nature of human life.

The true joy, then, in Joy, is at being enabled to experience a spectrum of exaggerated but still lifelike mop related emotions, in a darkened room.

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One of the reasons I love cinema so passionately is because it allows us to experience and engage with such intense emotions – the kind that everyday life, for all its mop like frustration, doesn’t really do. If I were to cry each morning as a new spillage, mud trampled trail or cat related mishap hit the floor, I’d be considered more than melodramatic. But in the cinema, I can cry each and every time adversity hits – in whatever guise or shape that might take. And only the film will be described in terms of relative melodrama. What joy.

 

 

 

Christmas Giveaway

I fracking love Christmas movies. Even the bad ones. In fact, sometimes I especially like the bad ones (except Love Actually, obvs). So, I thought I might like to reward someone else who also likes Christmas movies.

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To that end, if you wanna win a prize, you can answer the following ten questions about ten great Christmas flicks, email them to us at: info[at]20thcenturyflicks[dot]co[dot]uk and, if you’re lucky – it’ll take a Christmas miracle! – you might just win yourself ten free rentals. 

  1. Nicolas Cage is in a Christmas movie. We have it in the shop. What’s it called?
  2. There’s a movie about a man taking his geese to market that’s set at Christmas time. What’s the name of the actor who plays that man?
  3. Billy Bob is the opposite of a Good Santa. In that movie he has a love interest and she was in a TV show. What TV show was she in?
  4. Barbara Stanwyck’s in a Christmas movie. Which is awesome. She steals something. What does she steal?
  5. Which famous British film had its titular concept inspired by Brief Encounter?
  6. The Brain Gremlin in Gremlins 2: The New Batch references a famous American writer and critical and political thinker. What’s her name?
  7. Diane Keaton stars in this year’s Christmas family cinema release Love the Coopers. Which other family Christmas flick did she star in some ten years earlier?
  8. Hulk Hogan was in a very silly Christmas movie. We don’t have it in the shop. But it involves something cray in the caves beneath an orphanage. What that?
  9. What colour are the Martians that Santa conquers?
  10. Which muppet gets mistaken for the Grinch on his way to the bank?

Good luck and have yourself a merry little Christmas… x