Through the 1990s, when films still belonged mainly to theatres and the internet remained a distant idea, entertainment arrived at home in black rectangular plastic cases called video cassettes.
If you frequented a cassette store, you understood that the two most important parts of these objects were the transparent windows through which you could see the magnetic tape inside, and the label area where the movie title would be printed or scribbled. Printed labels meant original prints—the most sought after, and a little pricier to rent. Scribbled ones were often illegal copies, but cheaper.
In either case, before renting a cassette, one check mattered most: holding it up and looking through the windows for white or grey patches that hinted fungus on the tape.
Fungus was bad news. It could damage both the cassette and the player. Rent enough cassettes, and you became an expert at detection. Even tapes that looked clean on the outside could betray mould once you lifted the protective flap and looked inside.
One day in the summer of 1997, I held up a cassette not in suspicion, but in admiration. It was a printed-label copy of Mel Gibson’s Braveheart, newly arrived in the store. Few things in life—other than the smell of fresh bread or a new paperback—matched the feeling of inspecting a fresh cassette: the crisp cardboard sleeve, the soft scrape as you slid the tape out, the cool plastic, the chemical smell of tape. I had the privilege of being the first person to rent the eagerly awaited cassette.
Braveheart told the story of William Wallace, a kilt-wearing knight who fought the English to free Scotland. Gibson was then a huge star, thanks to the Mad Max and Lethal Weapon films, and Braveheart had already become his biggest success, winning five Oscars including Best Picture and Best Director. It had run in theatres well into 1996 before cassettes reached Indian stores the following year.
One of the finest things about Braveheart is its music—composed by James Horner and performed by the London Symphony Orchestra. It comes most alive during William’s romance with his childhood love Murron. On a windswept hill, as he prepares to propose, she dares him to do a handstand, “My kilt will fly up,” he says shyly, “but I’ll try it.” Braveheart has its moments.
The film almost never got made. The project was considered too ambitious, expensive and risky. The MGM executive who enthusiastically bought the script was fired by his own board. He and Gibson approached Warner Bros, which declined to back the project without Gibson committing to another Lethal Weapon film. Eventually, the filmmakers pieced together an unusual arrangement. Two studios, Paramount and 20th Century Fox, would split the budget between them in exchange of theatrical rights.
The gamble paid off. Braveheart earned ten times its budget, with revenues from video cassettes entirely a bonus. If it was a big bet before its release, Braveheart left theatres as a beloved film. It reached homes in little black plastic cases.
Three decades have since passed. Like a cassette accumulating fungus over time, Braveheart has not aged well. It is now regarded as one of the most historically inaccurate films ever made. William never wore a kilt (kilts came three centuries later), and there is no record of his marriage to Murron, or of Murron herself. The film’s name itself was inappropriate: it was the Scottish king Robert the Bruce, and not William, who was known by the title ‘Braveheart’.
Still, the film has outlasted the cassette itself. Last year, its 30th anniversary was marked by a special edition soundtrack, Gibson’s return to the filming locations, and commemorative screenings in Scotland.
The cassette, meanwhile, died. Tapes gave way to DVDs and, as the internet became as pervasive as the air we breathe, DVDs gave way to streaming. The idea of home entertainment changed entirely. Instead of inspecting tapes, we now check bandwidth and resolution. The pleasure of feeling cool plastic and crisp cassette sleeves is now matched by the familiar tu-dum before Netflix begins streaming.
The Hollywood that made Braveheart has faded. MGM, which once hesitated over the script, is now owned by Amazon. Major studios that fought each other are now shrinking, reorganising or merging. Paramount has changed hands; 20th Century Fox has died; and the unusual arrangement that made Braveheart possible is no longer feasible today.
Warner Bros, once known for making safe bets like Lethal Weapon, now finds itself up for sale. Its chosen buyer is the rival Paramount, which aggressively fought a Netflix bid to absorb Warner.
Paramount and Netflix have differing visions about the future. Netflix believes films should belong to subscribers rather than theatres. In a way, it has become the world’s neighbourhood video store—instead of renting individual cassettes, you subscribe to the entire library. If cassette sales were once bonus revenue for studios, theatre revenues are now bonus for Netflix. The proposed Paramount-Warner merger, which could become the largest media merger in history, seeks to shore up the traditional, theatres-first model.
Critics, however, say the deal could be as useful as fungus on tape. Large mergers tend to produce fewer studios making fewer films. Warner released 15 films last year, and Paramount 12. The merger could have the blunt effect of eliminating a studio along with its entire yearly output—which means fewer avenues for artists, and a shrinking space for their projects. Would viewers know if a Braveheart ended up never getting made?
Perhaps what happened when I played the Braveheart tape has parallels with this uncertainty. Just as William and Murron had their secret marriage at night, with the soundtrack soaring in the background, the electricity went out. The tape got trapped inside the player. To rescue a stuck cassette, one has to either wait for the power to return or unscrew the machine and unspool the tape manually. Waiting was risky. If the electricity returned at an inconvenient time, the entire family might suddenly find themselves watching William and Murron consummate their marriage.
Hollywood seems to be in a similarly awkward situation. Critics say the marriage between Paramount and Warner is uncalled for; what is needed is a reconfiguration of Hollywood’s mouldy machine. Apparently, something closer to what I attempted that evening: unscrew the machine, unspool the tape, and patiently put it all back together.