An Ode To Videodrome Atlanta And The Joys of Physical Media-Oriented Spaces

When I first walked into a Blockbuster store as a kid, my mind exploded. Up to that point, my fervent film love was confined to Disney VHS tapes I owned or whatever videotapes my Uncle Doug had lying around. Walking through this domain’s doors, I was greeted with more VHS tapes than I could’ve ever imagined. Every genre under the sun was suddenly within my grasp. The horror movies with the gnarly covers that terrified yet compelled me. Those major adult dramas (Titanic, Cold Mountain, etc.) I occasionally heard my parents reference. Best of all, this place had all the Pokemon TV show tapes I couldn’t find at Wal-Mart.

God knows there were endless problems with Blockbuster, including how it affected independent video stores and the limited types of films it held. Still, first stepping into a Blockbuster at six years old did feel like a new phase of cinema obsessiveness had been unlocked. Just wandering down the aisles and being surrounded by physical copies of movies was a glorious sensation. The staggering decline of physical movie media outlets in recent years has ensured that the opportunities to wander betwixt cinema’s tangible iterations have been few and far between.

In my Atlanta, Georgia voyages, though, I paid a visit to the legendary Videodrome video rental store. Here, the wonders of existing in the same space as countless DVDs was not just revived but refined. Rather than merely mimicking an experience I had as a child, Videodrome created a new kind of joyous memory built on my decades of expanded cinema knowledge. God bless these stores.

Videodrome Killed It Before I Stepped Inside

After exiting my Lyft ride, me and my well-worn Velcro sneakers traipsed over to the Videodrome entrance. Having just eaten the best mac n’ cheese, biscuits, and friend chicken of my entire life at Mary Mac’s Tea Room, my belly was full and my spirit was soaring. Further serotonin was unlocked as I glimpsed at the two signs situated next to the Videodrome entrance. One of them was a Black Lives Matter sign. The other was a poster for the wonderful 80s B-movie The Miami Connection.

Cinema master Sean Baker called this title one of his four favorite motion pictures for a reason, it’s an extraordinary work of DIY artistry (it’s also got a kick-ass soundtrack). Here I was in a new city, preparing to enter an unfamiliar store, and here was a familiar cinema gem staring straight back at me. Every store should have pro-Black Lives Matter signage and Miami Connection posters next to their entrance. They just instill good vibes before you even set foot inside.

Once I was actually inside VideoDrome, my eyes could barely comprehend the sheer number of DVD covers staring back at me. Quickly, the structure of the store became apparent to me. Most of the right side of the store was dedicated to sections divided by English-language filmmakers. Spike Lee had a portion of one shelf, so too did Barry Jenkins and Damien Chazelle (among many others). My personal favorite was one lower shelf that made room for both John Sayles and Lynne Ramsay features. I never in my life thought I’d see these two cinema virtuosos get their own video store sections, but golly was I glad to see it.

Videodrome’s right sector also had an extensive B-movie cinema section. The left side of the store, meanwhile, was dedicated into sections pertaining to either genres (family films, for instance), new releases, or countries (Hong Kong, Portugal, Brazil cinema, among many others).

I first made a beeline for the B-movie area because, hey, those movies have the coolest covers. The features themselves may not live up to what’s on the VHS/DVD’s exterior, but the art is still cool to process. There were all kinds of obscure goodies in here full of motion pictures I’d either never heard of or thought I’d never hold in my hands as a DVD. Afterward, it was time for the auteur section, which is where I started to get a bit choked up.

Physical Media’s Joy In A Streaming Apocalypse

Much like with my Academy Museum excursion last year, Videodrome’s detailed collections of directing filmographies were a glorious respite to the streaming culture landscape. Amazon, Netflix, Hulu, they’re all about emphasizing either exclusive movies kept behind paywalls or motion pictures they have temporary licenses to. The emphasis is on reinforcing the brand names of Silicon Valley conglomerates, not the art itself.

Within the hallowed halls of Videodrome, though, I saw great care to making sure everyone from Celine Sciamma to Sidney Lumet to Otto Preminger got their works properly displayed and organized. The focus here wasn’t on boosting Amazon’s bottom dollars (“quick, put more ads for The Terminal List into this stream of The Pawnbroker!”) not consuming your attention with sudden trailers/clips from streaming originals. It was just on letting David Lynch’s or Charlie Chaplin’s filmography wash over visitors.

I’d freely admit, too, my perception was skewed by how choked up I got getting reminded of so many glorious movie watching memories in one space. Losing Ground, the excellently filmed Kathleen Collins directorial effort, was something I once thought could only exist on FilmStruck. Here it was, though, on Videodrome’s shelves. The Daytrippers, But I’m a Cheerleader, Ace in the Hole, the Small Axe features, they were all here.

Suddenly, I was transported back to countless hours spent on my couch, absorbing the flickering images of these features. Getting to hold these features in my hands for the first time was like I was getting to meet these movies for the first time, as weird as that may sound. They weren’t just tiles on a streaming service home screen. I could run my fingers across But I’m a Cheerleader or the 25^th Hour/He Got Game double feature Blu-Ray. These tactile joys extended to all kinds of motion pictures, another upside Videodrome had over typical streamers.

Because of the disinterest almost all streamers have with pre-1995 movies, I had to scrounge and put in extra effort to find many of these movies that made up my best cinema memories. Here they were, though, all displayed in glitzy packaging on Videodrome’s shelves like new Disney movies were showcased on Blockbuster shelves back in the day. My heart was full recalling so many wonderful moviegoing memories and realizing a new generation of Atlanta film nerds can uncover these glorious endeavors sooner in their lives than I did. That hope for the future is only possible because of Videodrome’s staff and operators. Their efforts have created a haven where all forms of movies can flourish.

“A Great Artist Can Come from Anywhere”

Strolling across the shelves and hallways of Videodrome, I was constantly impressed by how in-depth the selection at this place was. There wasn’t just a section for Argentinian films, for example, but that domain contained Trenque Lauquan, one of my favorite 2023 movies. Laura Citarella's expansive cinematic chronicling of a woman that goes missing is marvelous creation full of exquisitely framed images and a quietly ingenious story structure (specifically in how the film’s two parts are divided). It warmed my heart to see it in Videodrome’s inventory.  This amazing, underrated piece of cinema was more accessible than ever!

Eclectic and varied selection was the name of the game in this place. That quality makes Videodrome an outstanding microcosm for cinema as a whole. This is an artform where incredible and impactful art can emerge in anything from Drive My Car to Frankenhooker to Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives to Titane to Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans and everything in between. There is no one way to make a great movie. What a privilege and an honor to exist within a space dedicated to champion that versatility. “

“A great artist can come from anywhere,” as a wise Anton Ego once said. Streamers cultivating libraries built on algorithms and giving people what they’ve already seen can make it hard to remember that fact. Not within somewhere like Videodrome, which took all the fun parts of Blockbuster and then fixed up all its flaws (namely Blockbuster’s banning of NC-17 and unrated movies or lack of foreign language features). Much like The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, Videodrome built on the potential of the past while recognizing how yesteryear’s institutions could stand major tweaks.

Just walking through Videodrome with my belly full from Mary Mac’s scrumptious cuisine and my favorite music pouring into my ears through my headphones provided a level of joy I’ve rarely felt in my life. Ah, but all good things must come to an end. I had to go present on a panel at the NLGJA conference that afternoon and soon, my public speaking responsibilities forced me out of Videodrome after spending two hours inside.

Before exiting, I took one last look around the place. This was truly a special place, the apotheosis of how cool and detailed a video rental store could be. As I knew at a young age walking around wide-eye and stunned at my local Blockbuster, there’s something special about being surrounded by physical media. For film freaks like me, it’s like you’re finally in a space that’s as passionate about this artform as you are. Videodrome didn’t just remind me of that specialness, it took it to the next level with its comprehensive selection.

Long live physical media.

Long live eclectic movies.

And long live the new flesh, er. Videodrome Atlanta.

How Unexpected Trans Camaraderie Transformed Toilet Stall Tears Into Strip Club Cheers

 

Lisa Laman's iconic cameo in the film Hustlers 

Have you ever sobbed in a strip club bathroom? Take it from me, it’s a bizarre experience.

For starters, you’re trapped within four very intimate walls, which doesn’t help alleviate those feelings of being trapped by your emotions. As you’re trying to keep tears stuck in your pupils, energetic, you might notice rebellious graffiti adorning the stall walls. Such fist-clenching energy feels like it’s worlds away, even unobtainable, as you’re crying. Meanwhile, wafting into the bathroom are the sounds of Dolly Parton tunes and faint “woo!”’s from patrons over the sudden appearances of bare breasts. How can one be sad in a place with tiddies and Queen Dolly? Alas, I was fraught with profoundly rattling dysphoria.

I couldn’t have imagined this situation when I first strolled into the doors of Clermont Lounge in Atlanta, Georgia. Nor could I have comprehended, as I gently wept on that toilet seat, that immense trans joy was literally waiting around the corner. But before those emotional highs and lows, let’s take a cue from a song I heard all the time in P.E. class and “take it back now y’all.” Let’s go back to Lisa Laman’s earliest days in the Lone Star State.

Lisa Begins: Origins

Allen, Texas. A little suburb located about 25 minutes outside of Dallas. There were Caucasians and Starbucks locations everywhere, but no strip clubs. Within the halls of my non-denominational Christian church and schools, these locations were talked about in hushed whispers, like some far away circle of Hell we couldn’t even imagine. Occasionally, someone on a field trip might share a dubious story of some recent male High School graduate now working as a dancer at once of these laces. Another Sunday, a youth leader would reference strip clubs as the apex of debauchery.

This was a land of abstinence-only assemblies where speakers would harrowingly talk about how anyone who has sex will die. Applying any nuance to sexuality, let alone humanity to sex workers, was a laughable notion. Thus, my upbringing ensured I imagined strip clubs as crawling with dirt, cocaine and “lost souls.”

As I got older, thankfully, my worldview expanded beyond what schools and youth groups taught me. This included cultivating a more nuanced and immensely supportive perception of both sex and sex work. Still, in my first 29 years on this planet, I’d never stepped for into a strip club. When I was planning my itinerary for a trip to Atlanta, Georgia, though, a queer gal pal of mine passionately suggested I check out the Atlanta landmark Clermont Lounge. One of the oldest strip clubs in the city, it’s entirely owned by women and has glowing reviews online.

Taking weekly estrogen injections or traveling on my own all once sounded impossible Now they were part of my everyday reality. Now it was time to tackle something else that once sounded far-fetched. I wouldn’t just be venturing into a new city. I’d finally come face-to-face with a strip club.

Into the (Bare) Belly of the Beast

Clermont Lounge shares a building with the Hotel Clermont (the two are apparently unconnected in any way beyond operating in the same physical space). To enter, you need to walk down a set of wooden stairs and then enter through a doorway in the back. It’s a fun little entryway accentuating how some special hideaway from general society awaits. I myself entered this domicile at 4:30 PM on a Saturday and immediately found it…empty.

The Clermont Liunge’s interior was dimly lit (likely to draw more attention to lights connected to the performers), with only a glistening disco ball and strings of Christmas lights on the ceiling bringing light into the place. Also catching my eye in this place was a very kind middle-aged blonde woman sitting on her phone at the bar. She immediately waved me down, said howdy, and introduced herself as one of Clermont’s performers. She looked glorious and we began chatting about all things Atlanta as well as her years of experience dancing at Clermont Lounge.

Once she began preparing for her performance, I was left to my own devices. I began nursing a Shirley Temple (I don’t drink), sat down at one of the tables, and plucked out a Charles Band autobiography I was reading. As I focused on absorbing stories about Band’s affair with Demi Moore without much light, I found myself chuckling. I’d spent years building up every single strip club as a drug-smeared abode oozing toxic personalities. Now, in its first 90 minutes of operation, it was basically just a library…albeit with bare-breasted beer banners on the walls. Maybe libraries should start incorporating those.

Inevitably, people began trickling in. More specifically, men were trickling in. The handful of non-Lisa Clermont Lounge patrons were grizzled, middle-aged men who were all loud and rowdy even before a drop of alcohol entered their system. Suddenly, I got flashbacks to my exploits being alone at my local lesbian bar. All those times gay men I didn’t know would “playfully” grip my knee or touch my hair without my consent. I had come here just to see pretty ladies and live vicariously through the physically adept exploits of sex workers. Not get grabbed.

Then, I remembered they were cis-het men…and I wasn’t with anyone. Oh God. Were they going to hit on me? Would they see me reading alone at this table and use that as an invitation for flirting? I’m a lesbian, leave me alone, ya brutes!

Then, the most devastating thought hit me as more men piled in. If there’s an entirely male clientele at Clermont Lounge…what does that make me?

Will I be perceived as a man by everyone else? Does being here automatically mean my woman card is revoked? Oh God, are there traces of my assigned at birth gender on my face? Is my facial hair showing? Why didn’t I do more this morning to look more “lady-like”?

These were the cruel, catastrophizing thoughts racing through my head as men increasingly outnumbered me in this space. It once sounded so fun to go to a strip club for the first time. Now, it was a nightmare. Immediately, I dashed into the women’s bathroom, leaped into a stall, and locked the door behind me. As I sat there trying to do some calming breathing exercises, one of the lady dancers came into the stall next to me. I could see on her feet a pair of pink heels adorned with heart patterns.

They were so pretty…and they just hammered home my dysphoria. I could never wear those. I almost broke my neck the one time I tried to wear really elaborate heels out in public. Is my not wearing those another sign I’m not a woman? I was spiraling, there was no other word for it. Gender insecurity and dysphoria were crushing my brain. No amount of breathing exercises could truly quell my pain. As I dabbed the tears from my eyes, I vowed to take care of myself. It was time to head for the exit. Lisa’s inaugural strip club adventure ended here.

I Thank the Bank for the Money, Thank God for Trans Camaraderie

With my purse situated on my shoulder, Shirley Temple stewing in my belly, and tears dabbed away, my feet firmly began to move towards the Clermont Lounge exit. Then, I saw another dancer had come out to the main area, a person we’ll call Appa (because of the way they lift people up). I’d previously run into Appa real briefly while reading, since Appa was changing a lightbulb or some other remedial task. They were very friendly in this quick exchange and we even bonded over how we were both wearing thigh-high socks that day.

When I came out, Appa immediately gave me a grin and a wave before signaling I should come stand next to them. A redhead with eyes radiating energetic creativity, Appa was all ready to go for performing in her leatherbound bras, panties, and heels. As I stood next to them, Appa and I began talking. During this exchange, they nonchalantly revealed they were non-binary and used they/them pronouns.

“Yeah, I dress like this,” they remarked, gesturing to their ultra-femme-leaning “leather mommy” appearance, “for capitalism!”

We both chuckled, each knowing how capitalism’s ridiculous demands inspire trans people to “mask” or modulate just to make rent. Those shared experiences were such a richly human contrast to my worries earlier about “failing” as a woman. Now here I was talking to a person who nonchalantly reinforced my validity as a trans soul. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone. Our conversation lasted a while longer, with Appa complimenting my appearance and inquiring how I was enjoying Atlanta so far.

Absorbing unbridled enthusiasm and queer chaos cascaded within Appa’s aura. Their personality kept me so captivated, my brain failed to return to focusing on catastrophizing dysphoria. As they bounced away to perform at the bar, Appa was still chatting with me, making amusing Avatar: The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra references. After watching Appa talk the talk, I was transfixed (no pun intended) to see how they’d “walk the walk” in their strip performance.

First up was Appa impressively dancing and sliding on the bar stage on their knees (thank God for those soft, thigh-high socks!) to a country song. Though I’m an expert in the genre’s 2000s exploits (Cross Canadian Ragweed hive, rise up), I’m not cultured enough to know what this ditty was. All I know is Appa crushed their dancing and rhythmic movements. The precise timing and theatricality for when they finally took their top off was also stupendous, I just adored the grandiose physical flourishes they injected into this action.

That was all already enough to make for a tremendous show, especially since Appa’s choreography and tiddies were so glorious. Then came the second of their two early performances, which Appa clarified beforehand was set to a song “just for me” since there were barely any patrons in the bar.

That’s when Weird Al Yankovic’s “Your Horoscope for Today” began blaring over the speakers.

I can’t even begin to say how much Weird Al has positively affected my life. If there was any musician who could solidify turning around my Clermont Lounge experience, it was the man behind “Skipper Dan” and “The Night Santa Went Crazy.” Suddenly, I could feel God in that Clemont Lounge.

Witnessing a powerful trans redhead lip-syncing to Weird Al was an experience too perfect for me even to dream about. There was no way something so aligned to my interests could ever materialize in reality. Yet Appa turned tht concept into engrossing reality. I was in awe of their showmanship, including perfectly coordinating ass smacks, boob flexes, or knee slides to the tune’s silliest sonic flourishes.

After the song finished, Appa left the stage to make way for a brief break in the performances. Immediately, Appa made a beeline to me (I’d been at the bar cheering and tossing dollar bills across both tunes) and I quickly blabbered about how Weird Al was one of my all-time faves. We found further common ground on how often we’d heard the man’s ingenious parodies (like “The Saga Begins”) before the original tunes he was lampooning.

With my tummy rumbling, I knew my Clermont Lounge experience was at an end. But I made sure to personally thank Appa for their kindness, trans camaraderie, and excellent music choices. They’d never fully know it, but just their kindness and being open about their gender identity restored my spirit. Appa insisted on a hug before I left and I was happy to oblige. With that, I exited Clermont Lounge and began strolling over to a nearby pizza joint. I’d lived through my first strip club encounter.

Trans People…Is There Anything They Can’t Do?

Once I walked back out into the sunlight and waited for Uber, I had to stand there and blink for a moment (and desperately try to charge my dying phone). Was all of that real? Everything within those Clermont Lounge walls (from the sobbing to Appa to even me reading at a table) seemed so surreal.

Returning to my Vrbo a few hours later, I sat in my bed and stewed over this emotional rollercoaster of a day. My mind also drifted to how my Clermont Lounge expedition occurred one day after I presented at a panel at the NLGJA Queer Journalism Conference (the whole reason I went to Atlanta!).

This place was packed with amazing, talented queer souls with excitingly varied journalistic interests. That night, a meet-up was organized for trans attendees of the event. So many of us trans folks (of delightfully varied gender identities) were put into a conference room and began endlessly chatting. The room was abuzz with the voices of individuals often silenced in society.

During this event, one attendee gave a mini-speech where she recalled how she’d come out as trans back in 2003. “When I first attended a trans journalist meet-up back then,” she remembered, “there were only five of us. And now…” She didn’t even need to finish the sentence. Her gesture to the room’s shoulder-to-shoulder crowd said it all.

We are many. We are not going anywhere. And we are here for each other.

You never know where that truth might get reinforced. I certainly didn’t think, at the height of my dysphoric spiral, Clermont Lounge would be such a place. Yet, Appa’s kindness provided a life raft when I was drowning in a sea of loneliness. Moments later, their dazzling dance work on stage radiated the kind of trans confidence I try exuding every day with my colorful, glitter-dotted makeup. They took that stage and made it their own, complete with stripping to a wacky Weird Al song they could lip-sync to without breaking a sweat.

It was such a memorable, glorious depiction of a trans individual being boisterous, alive, and contorting a space to suit their needs. Witnessing Appa performing on their terms (specifically in stripping and dancing to music they like) and unabashedly talk about their passions was a balm for the soul. I love seeing us be ourselves, throwing societal norms to the wind. Who knew such unforgettable trans camaraderie was waiting for me moments after I was sobbing on a strip club toilet?

I smiled in my Vrbo bed, thinking about that reality before closing my eyes. As slumber began chasing after me, that anxiety-ridden part of my brain still did its terrible nighttime dance reminding me how I didn’t know what lay in store for me the next day. Maybe I’d get harassed. Maybe my friends would suddenly say they hated me. Perhaps I’d just have a static, banal day. With this experience of going from bathroom stall sobs to euphoria fresh in my brain, though, I staved off the catastrophizing thoughts. I knew, from the bottom of my soul (at least for a moment), I could handle whatever came next. That’s the power of trans joy and connections…and Weird Al music.