Illustration by Michael DiMilo
Digital Killed the Video Store: Review of Kim’s Video
By Geoff Carter
The documentary is one of the few cinematic genres that consistently defies expectations. It covers a huge range of content from the journalistic to the sublime, reconstructing history, muckraking corruption, exposing social ills, documenting human experience, or—as in the case of Gods of Mexico—showcasing sheer visual poetry.
From Nanook of the North to Ken Burns’ The Civil War, (or any of his other numerous brilliant works), to Gimme Shelter to Bowling for Columbine (or any of Michael Moore’s other social critiques), documentaries can examine reality from any number of directions. In fact, at times their content and structures are much more unpredictable than narrative feature films. After all, as Mark Twain once said, “It’s no wonder truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.”
Kim’s Video, a documentary by David Redmon and Ashley Sabin about New York City’s titular iconic video store of the 1980s, not only crosses the line between subgenres of the documentary but manages to blur the boundaries between narrative film fiction and cinematic reality (whatever that is). The documentary opens as Redmon goes to the Lower East Side neighborhood in New York City that housed Kim’s Video store, the iconic shop that stocked tens of thousands of VHS videos ranging from Hollywood feature films to the obscurest of European art films to pornography. With a handheld camera, Mr. Redmon asks passersby where the store is and what happened to it—a setup that seems a little artificial and contrived.
Mr. Redmon then proceeds to give a fingernail sketch of the neighborhood’s bohemian history in the 1980s, providing a backdrop, and an explanation, for the store’s reputations as a mecca for artists, filmmakers, and the coolest of the cool. Apparently, the Coen Brothers frequented the store and somehow amassed more than six hundred dollars in late fees. A montage of the street scene of the time as well as snippets of films illustrating his points—for instance, a clip fromBicycle Thieves underlining the rampant crime there in the eighties, stretch the documentary sensibility into a very personal subjective space. These snippets are a recurring motif throughout the documentary which not only illustrates the director’s love affair with movies but also provides sort of a cinematic cultural touchstone for the audience which ends up playing an important part later in the documentary. Clips from The Conversation, Paris, Texas, Videodrome, The Godfather, and others provide a verification, and a validation, for Redmon’s quest (or obsession).
The director addresses his early obsession with film, how it shaped his life, and from there goes to his involvement with Kim’s Video and its influence on the neighborhood. The narrative then goes into the biography of Yongman Kim, the founder, following the history and unqualified success of his stores, up to its final closing in 2014, and the final disposition of the vast stores of videotapes in the Kim canon, which, despite offers from NYU and other local institutions, ended up in Sicily.
Redmon decides to track down the vast library of tapes—again inserting himself into his content, a journey which leads him to the tiny town of Salemi, Italy, which had talked Kim into donating his library for archiving and safekeeping. Redmon and his crew travel to Salemi, where no one seems to be able to help him. It doesn’t help that Redmon and his crew speak no Italian and don’t even try to speak Italian, even on the most basic level. (There are all sorts of translator apps, dude).
After a series of missteps, misrepresentations, and misunderstandings—and a little larceny—David discovers the tapes sitting neglected in a leaky warehouse. He tries to get to the bottom of what happened but is unable to get to the bottom of the problem and ultimately returns home where he decides to try and enlist the help of Kim Video founder Yongman Kim, who David hopes will try to rehabilitate his collection.
What follows is a weird sort of crossover from documentary film into various tropes and formulas of the feature film. Throughout Kim’s Video, the clips and snippets from a wide range of films, reflecting the vast inventory of the store, continue to underline and sometimes creates the reality of this documentary.
At one point, Dave Redmon decides to toss the dictums of journalistic filmmaking and become the real-life hero of his own movie, so that life imitates the art which had originally precipitated the making of Kim’s Video. Cinema has become a snake eating its own tail. This work has transcended the boundaries of its genre and become a comment—and a witty one—about the nature of film itself, specifically its impact on culture.
Kim’s Video is a self-referential piece, sometimes excessively so. At times, director Redmon becomes self-indulgent and even a little self-righteous, but in general his honest obsession with recovering the lost videotapes of Kim’s megastore is a compelling story. It is an enjoyable mashup of genres: the caper film, the gangster movie, the detective story, the historical slice-of-life, the muckraking journalistic tradition, and the biopic—among others.
If nothing else, this film is a very pleasant surprise. The nostalgic journey of revisiting the lost age of VHS and the exploration of a lost NYC cultural touchstone is by itself a fun viewing experience. Toss in a mystery, an Italian mafia political conspiracy, and an international caper—along with beautifully cut snippets of old film favorites, you have a vastly entertaining evening at the theater for cinephiles and casual movie fans alike.
Kim’s Video can be downloaded from Apple TV, Prime Video, and some of the other major streaming services. It is well worth the price of a rental. The irony here is of course that it was digital—like Apple TV and Prime—that killed the video store.