Redmon and Sabin also depict Mr. Kim as a relaxed family man, but in the time they fetishize, ex-employees like Nick Zedd recount from Bedford and Bowery as having “….strange memories of employees at Mondo Kim’s shaking in fear at the prospect of incurring the wrath of Mr. Kim; a deranged dictator on a giant ego trip who showed them no respect.” At the time, there were discussions of Mr. Kim himself being involved in mafia activity, though there seemed to be no records of any connection on the Internet. Now, perhaps rather brilliantly, when you Google “mr. kim mafia,” Salemi’s mafia history appears.
Somehow Redmon and Sabin missed these accounts. Thanks to them, Mr. Kim and his video collection remain mythologized, mysterious, and holy from atop his analog media mountain, as powerful as Zeus with his lightning bolt; just as vengeful, too, but the “documentary” won’t mention it.
In the critical discourse surrounding Kim’s Video, Redmon’s inclusion of his narration, feelings, personal narrative, and favorite films is often chided as hubristic and detractive. I disagree, as his self-insertion tends to add charm to this journey. But this criticism grasps at a larger issue: Redmon’s obsession with Kim leads to him mythologizing a deeply problematic video empire. This isn’t a documentary about Kim’s Video; it is a documentary about the directors’ glossy idea of Kim’s Video.
‘Bama Rush’ documentary
“…viewers see less of rush and more of Fleit’s alopecia.”
The Egomaniacs
In the worst cases, a filmmaker’s self-insertion can turn their documentary from something close to reality into something closer to myth. In the silliest cases, you get Rachel Fleit’s ‘Bama Rush’ (2023). Enter the Egomaniacs. HBO’s ‘Bama Rush’ was marketed as a tell-all about the University of Alabama’s notoriously secretive sorority rush process. Millions of viewers tuned in for scandal and sisterhood. Imagine their surprise when, about a third of the way into the documentary, Fleit turns the camera on herself to discuss her struggles with alopecia, realizing that she connected with the topic of rush because, for her entire life, she had been “rushing the sorority of girls with hair.”
As ‘Bama Rush’ continues, viewers see less of rush and more of Fleit’s alopecia. The most liked Letterboxd review of ‘Bama Rush’ rates it one star, with user Aaron Nolan writing, “Using Alabama sorority rush as a Trojan horse to talk about your battle with alopecia is easily one of the most bizarre directorial choices in the history of film.” Whatever Fleit meant to do, her choice only highlighted the shallowness of her investigation, fostered an environment for Internet users to ridicule her autoimmune disease, and contrasted two starkly unrelated narratives. We would know just as much about the rush process (albeit not as much about Fleit’s aversion to wigs) if the film had never been made. As another Letterboxd user put it, the film became “kappa kappa alopecia.”
This balance between obsession and narcissism feels especially obvious in these streaming service documentaries. Take The Jinx (2015), the true-crime docuseries investigating the murders of Robert Durst. The series incorporates discussions that director Andrew Jarecki and his crew had after discovering incriminating evidence during production. The Jinx took the world by storm, demonstrating the power films could hold in the criminal justice system… until it was announced that Jarecki had edited Durst’s original, more ambiguous statements into the finale’s jaw-dropping confession.
