Todd Haynes and Indie Royalty Rewrite the Streaming Script at Letterboxd’s Video Store

Olivia Bennett, 12/9/2025Discover the resurgence of the video store in 2025 with Letterboxd's new virtual Video Store, featuring curated selections like Todd Haynes' "Poison" and the long-awaited "Kennedy." This innovative streaming rental service blends nostalgia with modern convenience, revolutionizing indie film distribution and empowering cinephiles worldwide.

The curtain rises on Wednesday, December 10, as Letterboxd invites cinephiles in 23 countries to trawl its curated virtual aisles—and let’s be clear, “curated” is the operative word. This isn’t some slick dump of whatever happened to be collecting digital dust. At launch, the Video Store shelves groan (digitally, at least) with nine titles, each slotted into one of two collections: “Unreleased Gems” and “Lost & Found.” Far from a simple grab bag, these selections reflect the deep, sometimes obsessive cravings of the Letterboxd userbase, all filtered through a careful blend of review data, watchlist pining, and perhaps a dash of the platform’s mischievous charm.

Glimpses of the initial lineup offer a sense of what’s at stake. Todd Haynes’ infamous debut, “Poison,” gets top billing—a film still whispered about from the back rows of 1990s festival halls. Alongside it, “Kennedy,” the Indian neo-noir that spent 2023 trapped in festival limbo, now emerges blinking into the streaming daylight. These aren’t just flicks—each is a minor act of cinematic resuscitation. If you’ve spent more hours than you’d care to admit combing forums for a grainy festival screen grab, this is your cue.

Letterboxd’s Video Store, unlike the algorithm-heavy behemoths crowding the streaming space, seems tailor-made for those who turn film watching into a full-contact sport. The curation process blends cold analytics with theatrical flair: millions of data points, member wishlists, and behavioral breadcrumbs, all guiding the team’s hand as if selecting costumes for opening night. Yet there’s that essential human touch; the sense that someone, somewhere, is watching and thinking alongside you.

The economics might catch a few by surprise—but in a good way. Rentals in the U.S. range from $3.99 to a still-humble $19.99, a spectrum that covers everything from weekend popcorn fodder to the kind of highbrow imports that used to haunt arthouse calendars before half of them shuttered. Set aside the spreadsheet for a moment—what you’re really paying for is access, nostalgia, and a taste of something that isn’t currently blaring in a multiplex or buried on page eleven of a streamer’s catalogue. Once you hit “play,” you’ve got 48 hours to bask in glory (or puzzle over the ending, depending on the director’s mood).

Is it revolutionary? In a way, yes. There’s a palpable nostalgia for the physical act of browsing—fingers itching to flip a creaky sleeve, eyes scanning for a handwritten “Staff Pick.” But make no mistake, this is all very 2025. The platform flows between Apple TV 4K, Chromecast, AirPlay, phones, tablets, and whatever smart device the future throws our way. There’s a certain irony in that frictionless convenience, isn’t there? The act of discovery, always one step ahead of obsolescence, dressed up in high-tech luster this time around.

Commenting on the launch, Letterboxd CEO Matthew Buchanan sounded every bit the proud ringmaster, hinting that the service owes more to its zealous congregation than to focus groups in boardrooms. “We take their lead,” he said, “They tell us what’s really happening.” One can almost hear the distant echo of old-school video clerks, only now they’re hiding behind usernames and taste badges, dictating the next wave of cult rediscoveries.

Let’s not overlook the sly industry shakeup unfolding backstage. In a space where indie filmmakers often wait years—and sometimes never—for proper distribution, this is a different kind of access point. Distributors can revive the forgotten, filmmakers can meet an audience assembled by pure grassroots demand. In a not-so-subtle power shift, a networking site best known for arguing over aspect ratios is quietly calling the shots.

It isn’t just nostalgia; there’s something ruthlessly modern about the execution. As Hollywood recalibrates amidst consolidation, fatigue, and whatever new streaming service just launched last week, Letterboxd’s Video Store arrives with both a knowing wink and a serious competitive edge. The velvet rope is software, the crowd is global, and the films are fresher than ever—albeit sometimes faintly eccentric, which is exactly the point.

At the end of the day, it’s hard not to admire the transformation. The old video store, with its sticky floors and mismatched fluorescent lights, is reborn—now sleeker, smarter, and perhaps just as democratic. No longer do cinephiles have to settle for whatever’s handed down from the major streaming gods. The power, as it so often does in 2025, belongs (at least a little) to the people determined enough to ask for it. There might be the odd miss or quirk in the catalog—some things never change—but for anyone eager to leap beyond the algorithmic vanilla of mass-market platforms, the Video Store offers a bracing alternative.

So, as the virtual doors swing wide, there’s no pressing need to dust off the VCR or wax nostalgic about Blockbuster stickers. The real action? It’s happening online, in real time, one unlikely gem at a time. Letterboxd has managed to turn film discovery—once again—into an event, and in a world more crowded with content than ever, that might just be the rarest find of all.

There’s something faintly miraculous about the fact that, in 2025, the humble video store—yes, an actual store for movies, albeit virtual this time—has resurfaced on Letterboxd, that digital sanctum of film buffs and aspiring Scorseses. Not content with being just the world’s most passionate film diary, Letterboxd unveiled its grandest spectacle yet: a full-bodied streaming rental service known as the Video Store. And if that name stirs up echoes of neon signs and sun-faded VHS boxes, well, that’s rather the point.The curtain rises on Wednesday, December 10, as Letterboxd invites cinephiles in 23 countries to trawl its curated virtual aisles—and let’s be clear, “curated” is the operative word. This isn’t some slick dump of whatever happened to be collecting digital dust. At launch, the Video Store shelves groan (digitally, at least) with nine titles, each slotted into one of two collections: “Unreleased Gems” and “Lost & Found.” Far from a simple grab bag, these selections reflect the deep, sometimes obsessive cravings of the Letterboxd userbase, all filtered through a careful blend of review data, watchlist pining, and perhaps a dash of the platform’s mischievous charm.Glimpses of the initial lineup offer a sense of what’s at stake. Todd Haynes’ infamous debut, “Poison,” gets top billing—a film still whispered about from the back rows of 1990s festival halls. Alongside it, “Kennedy,” the Indian neo-noir that spent 2023 trapped in festival limbo, now emerges blinking into the streaming daylight. These aren’t just flicks—each is a minor act of cinematic resuscitation. If you’ve spent more hours than you’d care to admit combing forums for a grainy festival screen grab, this is your cue.Letterboxd’s Video Store, unlike the algorithm-heavy behemoths crowding the streaming space, seems tailor-made for those who turn film watching into a full-contact sport. The curation process blends cold analytics with theatrical flair: millions of data points, member wishlists, and behavioral breadcrumbs, all guiding the team’s hand as if selecting costumes for opening night. Yet there’s that essential human touch; the sense that someone, somewhere, is watching and thinking alongside you.The economics might catch a few by surprise—but in a good way. Rentals in the U.S. range from $3.99 to a still-humble $19.99, a spectrum that covers everything from weekend popcorn fodder to the kind of highbrow imports that used to haunt arthouse calendars before half of them shuttered. Set aside the spreadsheet for a moment—what you’re really paying for is access, nostalgia, and a taste of something that isn’t currently blaring in a multiplex or buried on page eleven of a streamer’s catalogue. Once you hit “play,” you’ve got 48 hours to bask in glory (or puzzle over the ending, depending on the director’s mood).Is it revolutionary? In a way, yes. There’s a palpable nostalgia for the physical act of browsing—fingers itching to flip a creaky sleeve, eyes scanning for a handwritten “Staff Pick.” But make no mistake, this is all very 2025. The platform flows between Apple TV 4K, Chromecast, AirPlay, phones, tablets, and whatever smart device the future throws our way. There’s a certain irony in that frictionless convenience, isn’t there? The act of discovery, always one step ahead of obsolescence, dressed up in high-tech luster this time around.Commenting on the launch, Letterboxd CEO Matthew Buchanan sounded every bit the proud ringmaster, hinting that the service owes more to its zealous congregation than to focus groups in boardrooms. “We take their lead,” he said, “They tell us what’s really happening.” One can almost hear the distant echo of old-school video clerks, only now they’re hiding behind usernames and taste badges, dictating the next wave of cult rediscoveries.Let’s not overlook the sly industry shakeup unfolding backstage. In a space where indie filmmakers often wait years—and sometimes never—for proper distribution, this is a different kind of access point. Distributors can revive the forgotten, filmmakers can meet an audience assembled by pure grassroots demand. In a not-so-subtle power shift, a networking site best known for arguing over aspect ratios is quietly calling the shots.It isn’t just nostalgia; there’s something ruthlessly modern about the execution. As Hollywood recalibrates amidst consolidation, fatigue, and whatever new streaming service just launched last week, Letterboxd’s Video Store arrives with both a knowing wink and a serious competitive edge. The velvet rope is software, the crowd is global, and the films are fresher than ever—albeit sometimes faintly eccentric, which is exactly the point.At the end of the day, it’s hard not to admire the transformation. The old video store, with its sticky floors and mismatched fluorescent lights, is reborn—now sleeker, smarter, and perhaps just as democratic. No longer do cinephiles have to settle for whatever’s handed down from the major streaming gods. The power, as it so often does in 2025, belongs (at least a little) to the people determined enough to ask for it. There might be the odd miss or quirk in the catalog—some things never change—but for anyone eager to leap beyond the algorithmic vanilla of mass-market platforms, the Video Store offers a bracing alternative.So, as the virtual doors swing wide, there’s no pressing need to dust off the VCR or wax nostalgic about Blockbuster stickers. The real action? It’s happening online, in real time, one unlikely gem at a time. Letterboxd has managed to turn film discovery—once again—into an event, and in a world more crowded with content than ever, that might just be the rarest find of all.