A retrospective on my relationship with Godzilla through the video store that started it all

ALYSSA CHARPENTIER,

THE EARLY 2000s

Once, I bathed in pale light and the sweet-sharp odor of cellophane-wrapped DVDs. I'd charge past aisles of horror, drama, and all manners of films that didn't interest me to the back of my personal promised land on legs that didn't know scrutiny or fatigue, with love in my heart and a word on my lips: "Godzilla."

After weeks, and often months, of withdrawal, I'd acquire my drug of choice near the furthest borders of the DVD section. Any worry I carried—any trivial suffering or slight—crumbled as my tiny hands grasped for what they wanted most.

Finally, following an unbearable period of separation, I had reunited with my old Godzilla film friends. My hungry eyes savored the titles: Son of Godzilla (1967), a personal favorite, Godzilla vs. the Sea Monster (1966), Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla (1974), and the one I most wanted for Christmas, Godzilla vs. Hedorah (1971).

*My TriStar 50th anniversary DVDs—the same ones I used to rent at Hastings*

I delighted at the colorful artwork and Godzilla's striking image displayed across the various DVD cases. His ugly grimace on Son of Godzilla's golden cover; his open maw against Sea Monster's oceanic backdrop; the riveting psychedelia of Godzilla's raised fist between variations of the smog monster, intercut with beams of lightning.

Nothing was more beautiful to me than these physical embodiments of my obsessions. I didn't care what others thought of them or me. I didn't blink when family members groaned or asked, "When are you going to grow out of this?", or when they'd fuss over whether or not Godzilla movies made children violent.

All the purity of my being and character distilled into those rare, glorious moments when I'd behold the objects of my supreme affection. And I found them all at Hastings.

HOME. A HAVEN. HEAVEN.

The U.S. recognizes Blockbuster as the champion video rental store. I knew physical media Heaven by a different name: Hastings Entertainment.

While Blockbuster and Hastings both provided similar services and originated in Texas, Hastings predated Blockbuster by 17 years (it opened in 1968, while its counterpart opened in 1985) and outlasted it by several more. The digital world spelled doom for both businesses, to the dismay of the nostalgic-hearted and physical media lovers everywhere.

Although my childhood Hastings building has been refashioned into an Ace Hardware/furniture store fusion, I'll never forget it and what it impressed upon me: a sense of wonder and an enduring respect for the things in this world we can have and hold.

A GIRL AND HER GODZILLAS

Family members recall me begging them to drive a few extra miles to our local Hastings in Lewiston, ID, whenever we crossed the Snake River from my hometown of Clarkston, WA, into Idaho. Often, a trip to Lewiston teased the possibility of getting my film fix.

Sometimes, my mom would indulge me with a Hastings visit. More often, we had other places to be, but I cherished each time she'd bring me to the establishment.

During these nigh-magical moments, I'd abandon my mother at the store's entrance and fling toward the Sci-Fi section near the back of the DVD aisles. The smell of plasticy, mint-condition movies was aromatic, filling seemingly every molecule around me. The thrill of discovering which Godzillas awaited me set my heart racing.

Which body part moved faster—heart or legs—when I'd run through that store, I can't say. Perhaps they synced to a rhythm of mutual joy.

Once I found my pals, I'd choose a few to rent and proudly declare, "It's Godzilla time!" a refrain often echoed by my uncle. Some days, I'd bring the campy chaos of Godzilla vs. Gigan (1972) home with me. On others, I needed a dose of what I called "yellow Godzilla" (per the film's DVD case), Godzilla: Final Wars (2004).

*An unopened 50th anniversary copy of “yellow Godzilla” acquired on eBay*

Each movie evoked unique emotions and feelings. Final Wars made me feel hip and brave. That version of Godzilla, all sleek edges and attitude, epitomized "cool."

Godzilla vs. the Sea Monster made me fall in love with "Island Godzilla," as I called him, bolstered by my undying devotion to its '67 successor. Godzilla Against Mechagodzilla (2002) boasted incredible fight scenes and effects, and although I didn't understand the film's story at the time, I knew it and its leading lady were serious.

*In this house, Hedorah gets his own mini-collection*

Godzilla vs. Hedorah, my #1 to this day, sent mucky monsters slithering through my nightmares. I dreamed once of being trapped in my grandmother's house, haunted by Hedorah, whose glaring red eyes would follow me through the windows from outside. If I left, he'd devour me or spew me with sulfuric acid mist. Even if he peered in at me for too long, I risked danger, so my dream self ducked behind couches and chairs to evade detection.

In another dream, Hedorah chased me onto a barren beach along some dim, foggy coastline, eager to dissolve me like the creature from Stephen King's The Raft (1982).

None of these dreams and memories would have been possible without Hastings.

THE SCARCITY MINDSET

When I was growing up, I didn't have the luxury of streaming services or even a world that openly embraced or knew Godzilla—loving this series in the early 2000s meant "social suicide" for children like me. Kids wore Star Wars backpacks and nobody blinked. Others celebrated superheroes and comics. But Godzilla represented a hard line in the sand, and I stood on the side of the "weird kids."

It was a lonely existence and provoked a lot of bullying, especially when I so brazenly flaunted my Japanese monster mania like a badge of honor.

I spent my formative years as an only child to a single mother. She worked tirelessly at a grocery store to pay the mortgage on the home she'd purchased for us, make car payments, and keep food on the table. Many afternoons, I'd come home from school to my mom asleep on the living room sofa. Diffident and ostracized by the neighbor kids, I passed the time playing with bugs in the backyard, writing, drawing, or watching Godzilla movies in my bedroom on my beloved PlayStation 2.

There was just one problem: I didn't own very many Godzilla movies.

Finding purchasable Godzilla films during my childhood was not only difficult but expensive. I'd ask my mom for Godzilla for Christmases and birthdays, but she could only find affordable ones once in a while. Some of my favorites, like Son of Godzilla and Sea Monster, rarely sold for under $50. My mom couldn't justify the expense.

*My $60 copy of* Son of Godzilla (referenced later)

Hastings enabled me to watch the Godzilla movies I couldn't afford to own. During this time, Netflix also ran its DVD mail-out rental service, where customers could order physical movie copies to their homes. Naturally, I asked my mother to load up the mailbox with the Kaiju King.

I ordered Godzilla, Mothra and King Ghidorah: Giant Monsters All-Out Attack (2001)—that's not a mouthful at all—Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla II (1993), Godzilla: Tokyo S.O.S. (2003), and a couple others. Then, for the next few days, I'd post up by the living room windowsill and wait.

And wait. And watch mornings melt into afternoons and early evenings.

Every hour or so, I'd slide the curtains aside and watch for that beautiful USPS truck to sidle up next to our mailbox across the street. One sun-dappled afternoon, the mailman had barely shut our box before I threw myself out the front door and whipped it open again to see… a slender, bright red envelope with "NETFLIX" emblazoned on the front.

I ran back inside with all the sprightliness a child can muster, my heart giddy and full and my legs pistons of euphoric fury, to pry open the envelope. I read the film summary printed on the inside label in Courier New font, which was stickered to the thin white disc sleeve that held the movie. Reverently, I slid the DVD from its paper housing and just looked at it for a moment.

Awe and envy swirled inside me. Yes, these deliveries marked wonderful occasions. However, like my Hastings rentals, they carried an air of impermanence.

"You don't get to keep me," the matte DVD artwork seemed to whisper as I admired it in my bedroom. "But I'm yours for now."

I don't need to tell you I didn't waste any more time popping that disc into my PS2. When it was Godzilla time, it was Godzilla time.

*The PS2 lives on! I need to dust her off and play some* War of the Monsters *(2003)…*

SCARCITY BREEDS DESIRE...

AND APPRECIATION

To some, my humble childhood Godzilla beginnings might seem a touch sad or regretful. Nowadays, it's difficult to imagine a world where physical media, or a lack of it, limits our ability to consume entertainment.

When we want music, we tap the Spotify app on our phones and access more songs than we could ever listen to in a lifetime. If we want a movie, we browse an endless library of new and old titles, toggling between occasional interest in something promising and the ever-present "But there might be something better" thought that also infects circumstances like modern dating.

We're indecisive now. Jaded. Waterlogged with content and tides of potential. All this familiarity has bred contempt for many of us. For others, it's spiraled them into hyper-consumptive mindsets spurred by a fear of missing out or not keeping pace with the latest content.

But when I was a little girl, I didn't feel these pressures. I didn't exist in perpetual overwhelm. I possessed something rarer and deeper, something I try to remind myself of now and then when I feel the weight of a whirlwind world: a pure connection to the art.

*Images from* Godzilla Against Mechagodzilla *(2002)—Kiryu powers down after going rogue, Toho Studios*

Godzilla is art. It shows in every stroke of paint on a scenic studio backdrop. It's felt in the exquisite, life-like details of miniature toy Tokyos, tanks, and planes. It's woven, like the meter of poetry, into Godzilla's movements as he sweeps through cityscapes, in grimaces and growls, and in the imaginative forms that his friends and foes take.

I believe I would have still become a Godzilla fan without the help of Hastings or Netflix. The things we love most have a purpose in our lives, and they have a way of finding us regardless of circumstances.

But those Hastings visits are branded on my mind. I will never forget the sincerity and totality of my bliss running through that store to one of the only things in my life at that time that brought me joy and made me feel less alone.

*A painted image of Mothra from* Godzilla vs. the Sea Monster/Ebirah, Horror of the Deep *(1966), Toho Studios*

*Godzilla rampages in* Godzilla vs. Destoroyah *(1995), Toho Studios*

*A man. A monster suit. A miniature city. Perfection. From* Godzilla (1954), *Toho Studios.*

A PHYSICAL MEDIA CHILDHOOD

When I had a Godzilla movie in hand, I cared for nothing but my joy. I never wondered, "Am I weird for liking this?" even when kids at school assured me that I was.

I didn't care if my favorite Godzilla movies were the "right" ones to have as favorites or the best in the series. I didn't care how my femininity or personhood came across to people because I liked "boy stuff" (despite this also being an issue with certain members of my family).

Men didn't idolize me for being into "their" entertainment. I hadn't yet participated in a community of people who had their own strong opinions about certain movies (and certain other fans), nor was I compelled to collect against my wallet's will for social media, look attractive, prove my intelligence and devotion, or ensure I was liking all the new Godzilla stuff to appear like a true fan, even though, after a while, I definitely wasn't enjoying the American films.

I was simply myself. I owe that sense of self to physical places I could step into, like a new world, and lose myself in. Or, rather, find myself in.

The sounds of announcements and music coming over the speakers, the aisles and aisles of movies and games, the spread of comics and toys, the people who would give me curious looks when a little girl sprinted past them down the scuffed white linoleum floors toward her little slices of Heaven…

The feel of a physical disc in my hand. The way it trembled and made a rattling sound in its case when I'd turn it over and over in awe. The way Godzilla's printed face glared at me from the case's cover art, beckoning me to watch it come to life on screen.

*Hedorah the gas-guzzler,* Godzilla vs. Hedorah *(1971), Toho Studios*

The pride I'd feel when I'd skip up to the register with my favorite thing ever in my hands. The way I'd float out of the store and clutch the movies to my chest in sheer glee because I'd finally gotten them again, like reuniting with a lost stuffed animal.

And, of course, the sad but mildly satisfied feeling of sliding the movies into the return box after a few days of watching them, knowing I'd gotten my fill for a little while... and that when the time was right, I'd be back for them.

Then, the time spent by the living room window, knowing the neighbor kids outside would make fun of me if they saw me run out to the mailbox, and not caring one bit about it, because they didn't dictate my joy. Godzilla was more real to me than they were.

The scarcity. The lack. The patience. The utterances of "No Hastings today." The $60 copy of Son of Godzilla that my uncle finally got me in my teens, because I wouldn't shut up about it.

The Christmas I asked Santa for Godzilla vs. Hedorah, then received it under the Christmas tree and played it over the years for myself, my mom, and a horrified babysitter who asked if I was really allowed to watch it.

The slow introduction of Godzilla toys to the American market and, by extension, my life. The stuffed King Ghidorah Beanie Baby I'm looking at on my display shelf right now, next to the plush Anguirus, Rodan, and a GMK Godzilla who roars when you press his chest. (We were inseparable for years, even when my grandma's dog chewed him up; he was given stitches and is better now.)

The Hastings exclusive variant of the Godzilla: Kingdom of Monsters (2011) IDW comic that my grandparents got me at our local store. The old Hastings I frequented as a teen in Coeur d'Alene, ID, where I found my next Godzilla comic: Godzilla: History's Greatest Monster (2014). That same year, I stumbled upon William Tsutsui's book Godzilla on My Mind: Fifty Years of the King of Monsters (2004) online, begged my grandma for it, and proceeded to read it more than ten times.

*My first Godzilla comic—from my local Hastings!*

I fell in love with Godzilla before it was well-liked and well-distributed, when it represented something only halfway attainable and deliciously out of reach. I played Godzilla: Unleashed (2007) on my Wii and Godzilla: Save the Earth (2004) on my PS2 because we didn't have mobile Godzilla games at the time. If we did, I didn't know about them.

I didn't have many Godzilla toys because they either didn't exist or weren't popular enough in the U.S. for me to accumulate. Even Netflix didn't carry all the movies I was dying to watch again, or for the first time.

In the end, it all amounted to a beautiful connection I will never form with something again.

I'M BETTER FOR IT.

If I'm honest, I wouldn't trade my childhood or the time in which it happened for anything. In many ways, I was the last generation to discover my interests by introduction and word-of-mouth instead of inescapable cultural immersion, and to explore them further via physical locations and tangible interactions with the media.

There's something undeniably special about holding an object in your hands and knowing it's real. The tactile memories we form with physical media hold greater longevity and emotional richness than flicking through a streaming catalog on our phones or TV apps.

So, give your DVDs, CDs, and books some love. If you're old enough, you remember a time when they loved you back.

Digital media offers a lot but doesn't ask for much in return. It's less a relationship and more of a touch-and-go, casual encounter: easily forgotten, easy to discard.

Me? I'm grateful for my tangible, lack-filled youth. It gave me character, appreciation, and something to look forward to.

Truly, I was born for such a time as back then—when monsters and media collided in a perfect storm of formative memories.

For the Love of All Things Hastings: My Formative, Physical Media-Filled Childhood