What the hell was Netflix thinking with “Blockbuster”?

I’m really confused.

Look, I don’t usually turn off movies or shows because even bad movies can be fun to bitch about. (Hell, I watched all of a nearly three-hour Marilyn Monroe fanfic, even though less than halfway through, it was plenty obvious that Blonde was garbage cinema, and if you liked it, you should feel bad.)

There are even times when I intentionally seek out bad films because they’re excellent exercises in critical analysis.

Blockbuster is Netflix’s new half-hour comedy from creator Vanessa Ramos, best known as a writer on shows like Brooklyn Nine-Nine and Superstore. With a resume like that, and a cast led by Randall Park and B99 alum Melissa Fumero, Blockbuster certainly looked like an easy win with some nostalgia-fueled laughs.

And maybe it is. Unfortunately, I only got through the first 5 minutes and 39 seconds of the pilot episode before having to turn it off, thumb that shit down (props to Netflix for turning thumbed-down titles black-and-white!), and wonder what the holy hell Netflix was thinking.

Although I am appropriately geriatric in my millennial status, I can assure you this criticism isn’t coming from a deep well of blue-and-yellow nostalgia. Growing up, my family was entirely too cheap and conservative for the likes of Blockbuster -- no, I was limited to broadcast television (no cable!) and whatever G/PG cassettes were available at the local library.

So no, this isn’t a nostalgia-fueled rant. This particular rant is fueled by something else ...

I already wrote this fucking show. And yes, I’m biased, but my version is waaaaaaay fucking better.

My stab at VHS-drenched nostalgia narrative is titled Videorama. It’s about one of the last remaining video rental stores in Orlando, Florida, set in the long-forgotten, distant past of (and this is super fucking important, so pay attention!) 2005.

My story was set in 2005 for a few critical reasons. First, it was roughly 2007 when I originally wrote the story as a screenplay (it’s now a delightfully fun-to-read novella on Amazon Kindle that is “unexpectedly heartfelt” and “thoroughly satisfying to its end”). Second, as I evolved and rewrote the story over the years, the 2005 timeline turned the story into a meaningful period piece as it sampled, riffed, and played with key moments of relevant pop culture ... from that period. Revenge of the Sith, Halle Berry’s Catwoman, Kevin Smith, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Ryan Reynolds in Blade Trinity, Ryan Reynolds in Amityville.

Videorama is a period piece because, fundamentally, video rentals don’t make any sense in the modern day. The very idea causes my brain to seize up with logical fallacies that leave me screaming at my television, Netlfix’s Blockbuster frozen at the 5:39 mark.

Because that’s where things immediately fall apart with the Netflix show. My brain is already preloaded with the essential, IRL fact that (aside from the Oregon store) Blockbuster (and video rentals at large) expired a long time ago -- relevant to this story, the final iteration of Blockbuster corporate expired in 2014. Meanwhile, in the first 5 minutes and 39 seconds of Netflix’s Blockbuster, the modern-day references are brain-breaking: The Great British Bake Off (debuted in 2010 but obviously didn’t become a significant part of the cultural zeitgeist until much later), the 2019 horror flick Midsommar, Van Jones (a political commentator from CNN), WeWork, Facebook, Logan Paul, and even TikTok influencers, because why the fuck not?

These are all things that simply do not exist in the same universe as Blockbuster, and anybody watching these first 5 minutes and 39 seconds is faced with this painful logical fallacy: Blockbuster, the institution, expired in 2014 (or earlier, depending on your point of view), but Blockbuster, the show, keeps name-dropping modern day pop culture! When the hell is this show supposed to be taking place??

The answer is: today. Right now. This show is literally set in an alternate universe where Blockbuster, the institution, doesn’t expire until 2022.

Which brings us to the second brain-breaking logical fallacy. Netflix somehow thought it was a good idea to create a show about Blockbuster, titled Blockbuster, and literally dripping with all the nostalgia that comes with the MERE FUCKING MENTION OF BLOCKBUSTER ... but for some reason, sets the show in present-day 2022?

Again, brain-breaking fallacy: a nostalgia-driven show set in 2022 DOESN’T MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE.

The premises of Netflix’s Blockbuster are utter garbage, and since I’ve tread that path myself with Videorama, I could point out how to fix these broken premises, but I’d just be pitching my own novella.

Yes, there are other issues in the first 5 minutes and 39 seconds of Netflix’s Blockbuster. The writing is weak, the exposition dumps stink, too many characters are introduced too quickly to understand who any of them are (also, how does a fantasy Blockbuster operating in 2022 afford so many staff?!), and of course, the jokes aren’t funny. Unfortunately, all of this criticism means absolutely nothing because I spent those first 5 minutes and 39 seconds with my brain tied in knots trying to comprehend the absolute garbage premise of this show.

We know what a modern-day Blockbuster looks like, thanks to Netflix’s very-excellent documentary, The Last Blockbuster. It’s a nostalgia-fueled retail space, kept alive by the sheer passion of staff and community -- un-coincidentally, these are the same themes in my own Videorama story.

It doesn’t take a narrative genius to figure out how to make a must-see half-hour comedy about the long-lost institution of video rentals ... so what in the hell was Netflix smoking when it greenlit Blockbuster?

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