"I don't have anything from the television series. I treasure the videotapes from Columbia House"
About this Quote
It lands like a punchline, but it’s really an elegy for how show business treats its own people. Mark Goddard - an actor whose fame is bound up with a particular TV series - admits he has “nothing” from it. Not a prop, not a framed still, not even a studio-issued memento. That absence isn’t just personal minimalism; it’s a quiet indictment of an industry where the objects of cultural memory are owned, warehoused, auctioned, or discarded by corporations, while the people who gave them life go home empty-handed.
Then comes the wonderfully specific pivot: “I treasure the videotapes from Columbia House.” Columbia House, the mail-order subscription behemoth, evokes a time when fans built libraries one shipment at a time. Goddard isn’t treasuring some deluxe, archival box set blessed by the network; he’s treasuring the mass-market, consumer-grade copies that circulated through living rooms. The subtext is sharp: the real custody of television history often belongs to the audience, not the studio.
There’s also a classically actorly irony here. For a performer, the work is ephemeral; once it airs, it vanishes into reruns, syndication packages, and rights disputes. So the thing he can actually hold - the “videotapes” - becomes a stand-in for ownership, validation, and continuity. It’s nostalgia, sure, but weaponized nostalgia: a reminder that legacy is frequently something artists have to mail-order for themselves.
Then comes the wonderfully specific pivot: “I treasure the videotapes from Columbia House.” Columbia House, the mail-order subscription behemoth, evokes a time when fans built libraries one shipment at a time. Goddard isn’t treasuring some deluxe, archival box set blessed by the network; he’s treasuring the mass-market, consumer-grade copies that circulated through living rooms. The subtext is sharp: the real custody of television history often belongs to the audience, not the studio.
There’s also a classically actorly irony here. For a performer, the work is ephemeral; once it airs, it vanishes into reruns, syndication packages, and rights disputes. So the thing he can actually hold - the “videotapes” - becomes a stand-in for ownership, validation, and continuity. It’s nostalgia, sure, but weaponized nostalgia: a reminder that legacy is frequently something artists have to mail-order for themselves.
Quote Details
| Topic | Nostalgia |
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