Is Jasper Mall a real documentary?
Short answer: Yes, but it’s also the cinematic equivalent of finding a lone french fry at the bottom of an abandoned food court fryer—unexpectedly poignant and weirdly fascinating. Directed by Bradford Thomason and Brett Whitcomb, *Jasper Mall* (2020) is a real documentary that follows the slow-motion limbo of a dying mall in Jasper, Alabama. Think of it as a time capsule stuffed with neon signs, echoing hallways, and the lingering ghost of “retail optimism.” No, this isn’t a *Black Mirror* episode where the mall gains sentience and starts judging your life choices. It’s just humans, fluorescent lighting, and the haunting beauty of decline.
Wait, So This Isn’t a Mockumentary About Raccoons Running a Mall?
Nope. While the film’s vibe occasionally edges into “is this even real?” territory (looking at you, empty carousel), every awkward small-talk exchange and half-empty parking lot is authentically unscripted. The documentary’s cast includes:
- A security guard who’s seen things (but won’t elaborate)
- Shop owners clinging to hope like a toddler to a helium balloon
- Mall walkers who’ve logged more miles than a cross-country road trip
If you’re waiting for a twist where the escalators revolt or a secret underground mall society emerges, you’ll be disappointed. Reality is surreal enough here.
Why Does It Feel Like a Dream I Had After Eating Too Much Cheese?
Good question! The film’s lingering shots on vacant storefronts and awkwardly cheerful elevator music create a vibe that’s equal parts nostalgic and existential. It’s *real*, but it’s also a Rorschach test for your feelings about capitalism, community, and why that one candle kiosk is still in business. The directors didn’t need CGI or a raccoon heist subplot—they just pointed a camera at a mall’s twilight years and let the awkward, tender, and absurd moments roll. So yes, it’s real. But maybe pack a emotional support pretzel bite before watching.
What is the Netflix documentary about the mall?
If you’ve ever wondered, “What if a shopping mall had a midlife crisis?” then Netflix’s *The Last Blockbuster* (yes, we’re talking about a video store, but stick with us) is the existential rabbit hole you didn’t know you needed. This documentary isn’t *just* about a surviving Blockbuster clinging to life in a Bend, Oregon strip mall. It’s a weirdly profound ode to the 1990s and 2000s, when malls were temples of neon, cinnamon pretzels, and awkward first dates. Think of it as *Planet Earth* for extinct retail species—complete with emotional interviews, VHS tape nostalgia, and a mascot (Sandworm) that haunts your dreams.
Why malls? Why Blockbuster? Why any of this?
The doc cheekily argues that malls (and their sidekick, Blockbuster) were the original social networks—a place to *literally* hang out without algorithmically curated feeds. It’s packed with:
- Celebrity cameos (Kevin Smith shows up to cry over *Clerks* DVDs. It’s art).
- Deep-cut trivia (Did you know Blockbuster once turned down buying Netflix for $50 million? Oops).
- Existential questions (Is a mall still a mall if the Orange Julius is replaced by a vape shop?).
By the end, you’ll feel a strange urge to hug a Circuit City sign or write a Yelp review for 2003. The documentary doesn’t just explore why malls died—it asks if they’re *really* dead or just… napping. Spoiler: The answer involves a lot of duct tape, community spirit, and the enduring power of Pauly Shore movies. If that doesn’t scream “cultural time capsule,” we don’t know what does.
In true meta fashion, *The Last Blockbuster* is less about brick-and-mortar decline and more about the bizarre things humans cling to for comfort—like rewinding VHS tapes or arguing about whether Cinnabon counts as a food group. It’s a love letter to a time when “Netflix and chill” meant driving to a mall, renting *Speed* on DVD, and hoping your mom didn’t need the car. Grab your JNCO jeans and dive in. The nostalgia is strong with this one.
Are there documentaries about similar dying malls?
Yes, and they’re weirder than a food court pigeon with existential dread.
If you’ve ever wanted to watch fluorescent lights flicker their last flicker while a narrator muses about capitalism’s quirks, boy, are you in luck. The dying mall documentary genre is thriving …sort of like that one Cinnabon that’s somehow still open. Jasper Mall (2020) is a standout, following a determined mall manager in Alabama as he battles empty corridors, rogue skateboarders, and the haunting echo of abandoned Auntie Anne’s pretzel stands. Spoiler: The plants in the atrium might outlive us all.
For those craving existential malaise with a side of retro aesthetics
Check out The Mall of the Future (Vice, 2017), a sardonic deep-dive into malls that tried (and failed) to “innovate” with holograms, robots, and VR rollercoasters. Imagine a sentient Alexa wandering a Sears, asking, “Why was I built?” Alternatively, Junkspace (2013) offers avant-garde takes on dead malls, blending philosophy with shots of decaying fountains. It’s like Blade Runner, but with more 90s-era Orange Julius regrets.
Why are these documentaries so strangely compelling?
- Nostalgia: Remember when your biggest life decision was “Hot Topic or Spencer’s?”
- Surrealism: Watching a yoga class take over a former Forever 21 is peak post-modern art.
- Schadenfreude: Nothing soothes existential crises like seeing a Kay Jewelers being reclaimed by mold.
Whether you’re here for the eerie beauty of crumbling retail temples or just want to see a mall Santa negotiate his lease, these docs prove that dying malls are the soap operas of urban decay—dramatic, absurd, and oddly poetic. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re off to aggressively relate to a JCPenney mannequin.
Who owns the Jasper Mall?
Ah, the million-dollar question, wrapped in the mystique of fluorescent lighting and the faint aroma of Cinnabon. Officially, Jasper Mall is owned by a corporate entity with a name so aggressively mundane it’s probably a front for an interdimensional pigeon council. Public records point to a company called Stanley Centers Inc., which sounds less like a mall overlord and more like your neighbor’s accounting firm. But let’s be real—does anyone truly own a mall? Or do malls simply allow us to borrow them, like a library book with a food court?
The mall’s spirit landlord (not a ghost, probably)
If paperwork isn’t your vibe, consider the teenager who’s been “hanging out” near the sneaker store since 2007. Or the lone remaining plant in the atrium, surviving on spilled Orange Julius and existential dread. They’ve got squatter’s rights, at least in the metaphysical sense. Ownership is a fluid concept when you’re dealing with a building that’s equal parts community relic and time capsule of early 2000s optimism.
- The pigeons in the parking lot: They’ve unionized. Trust us.
- The guy who fixes the coin-operated massage chairs: His name is Ron. He’s seen things.
- The abandoned pretzel kiosk: It’s now a sovereign nation. Visa applications pending.
Corporate? Existential? Yes.
Stanley Centers Inc. may hold the deed, but Jasper Mall’s true ownership is a group project gone rogue. Think of it like a reality show where the prize is a slightly broken escalator and stewardship of the last functioning payphone in Alabama. The mall belongs to everyone and no one—like a pair of communal AirPods or the concept of hope. But hey, if Stanley Centers wants to pipe up, we’ll gladly redirect all complaints about the AC (or lack thereof) to their HR department.
