Could Video Stores Make a Comeback?
Fangoria recently ran a piece spotlighting Snips Movies, a thriving rental shop in Bebington, UK. Boasting over 17,000 titles, many unavailable on any streaming service, Snips isn’t the kind of nostalgia shrine we’ve seen Gen Y hobbyists running out of their garages. It’s a working business serving a clientele beyond nostalgia junkies chasing the glow of Friday night VHS rentals.
That’s right: A whole new generation of customers has discovered the allure of renting physical media.
Zoomers’ embrace of the old movie rental experience should give us pause. For years, the cultural consensus has been that streaming killed the video store and salted the earth where it once stood. Netflix, the company that hastened Blockbuster’s demise, now serves as shorthand for the whole model of all-you-can-eat digital subscriptions.
The rental store was supposed to have been reduced to a fuzzy memory.
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And yet, evidence now shows that the video rental store model didn’t die so much as go into torpor. Just as the American shopping mall is seeing signs of life after decades of decline, video stores may be quietly positioning themselves for an unlikely return.
To understand how video stores might come back, we have to revisit the concept of the Third Place.
Sociologist Ray Oldenburg coined the term “Third Place” to describe the informal gathering points that fall between home (the first place) and work (the second). Barber shops, diners, and yes, even shopping malls, all once fit that description. These venues became crucibles of culture because they fostered informal conversation and shared public ritual across classes.
People used to denounce malls as temples of consumerism. And they had a point, but what they missed was the mall’s role as a backdrop for courtship, socializing, and rites of passage.
Likewise, video stores provided a public service beyond movie rentals. The simple acts of browsing the shelves, chatting with fellow customers, and consulting the clerk could steer you toward unexpected gems. Like the mall, the video store was a kind of agora; small, yes, but significant.
That context helps us see why video rental shops didn’t completely vanish. That unique format of interacting with art and people is an experience streaming platforms just can’t replicate.
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Netflix’s early pitch was tantalizing: unlimited access to movies at the click of a mouse. No more late fees. No more stock shortages. And no more wasted trips.
For a time, the convenience seemed well worth trading away human interaction.
Then convenience exacted its price.
Image: Cuties, Netflix
Two decades after the dawn of streaming, the cracks are impossible to ignore. The movies you want to see are scattered across half a dozen competing platforms. Licensing deals lead to titles vanishing with zero notice. Subscription prices rise while catalogs shrink.
And worst of all, discovery has been reduced to algorithmic nudges that recycle the same narrow trough of mainstream slop.
The great irony is that streaming has begun to look suspiciously like the cable packages it once feigned to replace. Maybe there are thousands of titles online, but streaming services’ collections are horribly curated, missing vast swaths of film history. Want a cult Italian horror flick from 1982? A forgotten TV movie from the 70s? Good luck finding them on Netflix.
And don’t even bother looking for director commentaries, bonus features, or even legible subtitles.
Meanwhile, physical video stores like Snips Movies and Portland’s Movie Madness specialize in precisely that neglected material. They offer what streaming platforms can’t or won’t: the long tail of cinema at your fingertips.
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So could video rental stores really stage a return?
Under the right conditions, yes. But their success won’t come from trying to resurrect the Blockbuster model. The days of every suburb hosting a corporate chain with wall-to-wall new releases are gone. And good riddance. What we’re seeing instead are highly localized boutique operations that leverage their strengths as Third Places.
Three factors stand out:
Curation – A good video place is more than a warehouse. It’s a library with a vision. Knowledgeable staff can guide patrons toward hidden treasure. The store itself becomes a form of cultural commentary
Scarcity – In an era when digital content feels endless yet shallow, the finite nature of physical collections can be refreshing. A store with 10,000 titles can provide more satisfaction than a streaming platform with 40,000. Because each title at the video store was chosen and displayed with intent
The Social Factor – Human interaction is the ace in the rental store’s hand. While Netflix offers algorithmic recommendations, a video clerk offers personal taste. Whereas streaming isolates us on our private screens, the video store invites us to browse together and share opinions.
Snips Movies’ success is not accidental. Its owner, Dave Wain, stresses that the draw isn’t just nostalgia. For younger customers, the act of renting a disc is novel. In a world where most entertainment is ethereal, the tactile act of choosing a case, handling a disc, and committing to a film sight unseen carries surprising weight.
If video stores are to scale beyond their current niche, they will have to adapt. The winning formula likely involves hybridization: combining rentals with other services that reinforce rental shops’ Third Place identity.
Movie Madness is a prime example. Beyond rentals, it offers film classes, screenings, and even a prop museum. And that diversified model could prove replicable in other cities. Imagine a rental store that doubles as a mini-cinema, a brew-and-view, or a workshop.
Technology also opens new doors. A video store could maintain an online catalog where patrons reserve titles in advance, adding modern convenience to retro physical interaction. Membership tiers could include perks like discounts on local events, priority access to screenings, or even exclusive imports. The more imaginative rental shop owners get, the better their odds of success.
To be sure, the comeback path doesn’t involve competing with Netflix on its own terms. It involves offering what Netflix and its clones cannot: tangible enjoyment of film with fellow cinephiles.
The return of video rental stores reflects the growing hunger for places where culture is lived instead of passively consumed. For all its convenience, streaming has flattened our relationship with media. Films appear and vanish with no warning and leave no trace. The robot steers us toward the same handful of corporate products. It’s fast food for the imagination.
By contrast, the video rental store preserves continuity. It insists that films matter enough to be kept and shared. And it fosters socialization that no machine learning model can match.
And perhaps most importantly, the video store reminds us that entertainment was never meant to be a solitary drip-feed of content. It was always intended to be am IRL group activity.
When Blockbuster fell, it seemed the video rental store would vanish forever. But revived rental shops like Snips Movies and Movie Madness prove that the model isn’t dead. Perhaps it’s evolving, just as malls are recapturing their vitality by reclaiming their identity as Third Places. The way video stores can follow their lead is by doubling down on what streaming can’t imitate.
Contra the hopes of nostalgia junkies, the new video store won’t look like the old one. It will be smaller but more social. And if enough rental shop owners follow suit, we may see a day when the lights of a marquee and the glow of a neon “Open” sign draws film buffs to another revived Third Place.
Because sometimes the way forward looks a lot like rewinding.
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Brian Niemeier is a best-selling novelist, editor, and Dragon Award winner with over a decade in newpub. For direct, in-person writing and editing insights, join his Patreon.