Video rental epitome of consumerism
News that Video Ezy, the Australian-based DVD rental franchise, is pulling out of New Zealand brings back old memories. Midway through 1996, notices appeared in the Waikato Times, advertising for Video Ezy staff. The franchise had decided to open a store in the Hillcrest shopping centre.
It would kick off in December. This was perfect timing. It coincided with the final submission date for my thesis rewrites.
After 11 years as an imperfect scholar, I could segue into professional life.
Alas, things are seldom as simple as that. Video Ezy was unimpressed with my curriculum vitae.
I failed to get an interview. Three degrees from the University of Waikato were apparently insufficient to open the doors to minimum wage employment.
As it happened, fate or destiny was just playing tricks, delaying the inevitable. One of my best friends ended up working at the place a few months after it opened. When the boss fired yet another of the original employees, my friend put in a good word for me. After a hesitant, ridiculously informal chat on the phone, the job was mine.
I thus entered the video rental industry in the early months of 1997.
Video Ezy Hillcrest was at that time struggling. Burdened by old and mostly awful stock, its owner/ manager was under pressure, having no real background in the industry or enthusiasm for working in the shop on a regular basis. A builder by trade, with a colourful, criminal past, Alan had clashed with each and every staff member whom head office had employed on his behalf.
No respecter of franchise rules, he was a natural rebel. Eventually, I became Video Ezy’s de facto manager. For no extra pay.
Given more responsibility, I began to reshape the shop, expanding its classic and festival sections, ordering many more older titles and non-English language material than any standard franchise store ever would. This was an act of blind faith, based on little more than a belief that quality films should rent to discerning customers.
Happily, Hillcrest rose to the challenge. Its demographic, which included a high percentage of university staff, did prove sufficiently interested.
Of course, I tend to reminisce through rose tinted glasses. The shop was booming, all right, but so was the entire industry.
My precious classic and art house titles were in effect subsidised by mainstream fare. They gave us a point of difference, but they were never the raison d’eˆ tre.
The real money flowed from a seemingly fool-proof business model: buy multiple copies of new release films or PlayStation games, realise an at-times huge profit, then sell the stock off, making even more.
Only the most forward of thinkers could have predicted the implications of the digital revolution.
On any given Saturday night, in the early 2000s you could go through periods of serving folk one after another for hours on end. It never ceased to amaze me how the punters unthinkingly bought into the idea that a new release was automatically the superior of an older title, no matter its actual calibre. Video stores were the epitome of consumer capitalism, premised on the cult of the new and the disposability of anything that failed to rent within a finite period.
My favourite memory from my nine years at Video Ezy involves such a Saturday.
There was a particular customer, informally christened ‘‘The Goddess’’, a woman of breathtaking aesthetics and considerable intelligence. In the manner of such things, management provided her especially close service. At the peak of trading one Saturday night, The Goddess drifted in, suggesting that she would be open to rental advice.
Management did not have to be asked twice. As we waded through the throngs, she indicated a preference for a particular film, the new release of the moment.
Given the hour, there was little chance of its availability.
The computer confirmed as much: only one copy remained and that was obviously in the hands of another customer, who had yet to approach the counter.
The Goddess stood forlornly in the midst of the multitude, considering her options. Then something quite remarkable happened.
A man, a complete stranger to both her and me, approached and surrendered the title in question. He obviously wanted it as much as she did. However, moved by the grace of a transcendently beautiful woman, his own needs had become secondary. She accepted the gift with thanks, but wasn’t especially surprised at the gesture.
I suspect things like that happened to her all the time. And so they should have.