'Paradise Records' Review: Logic’s Directorial Debut Makes a Stunning Statement at Tribeca
Tramayne Hudson and Logic in 'Paradise Records' Tribeca
Logic Leaves the studio for the Director’s Chair in a Career-Defining Debut That Feels Like a Cinematic Mixtape
A self-funded debut that fuses hip-hop swagger with indie spirit, Paradise Records is a messy, funny, heartfelt tribute to the places that raise us—and the people we fail, forgive, and ultimately fight for along the way. Logic, known to the world as a platinum-selling rapper, steps behind the camera with a filmmaker’s eye and an artist’s heart. What emerges is a project that feels like a mixtape made on 16mm—rough around the edges, but full of love, legacy, and lived-in texture. In many ways, this isn’t just a film—it’s a love letter to the record stores of the past, the friends we keep around long after the music fades, and the chaotic, stoner-era energy that raised a generation of cinephiles.
Set over the course of a single chaotic day, the film follows Cooper (played by Logic), the struggling owner of a small record store in Bend, Oregon. Deep in debt and barely holding his business together, Cooper is caught between saving his store from financial collapse and dealing with an increasingly bizarre string of customers, criminals, and coworkers. His cousin and right-hand man T Man (a scene-stealing Tramayne Hudson), a sensitive clerk named Table (Reed Northrup), and the shop’s voice of reason, Melanie (Mary Elizabeth Kelly), round out a cast of employees who feel pulled straight out of a Kevin Smith fever dream—and for good reason. Smith executive produced Paradise Records, and his fingerprints are all over the DNA of this film. The spirit of Clerks is alive here—but updated, warped, and infused with Logic’s own worldview.
Tramayne Hudson and Logic in 'Paradise Records' Tribeca
What starts as a regular workday quickly spirals into a whirlwind of comic absurdity. Logic plays dual roles—Cooper and his shady uncle, who brings with him a money-laundering scheme involving some comically inept mobsters. Add in two bumbling robbers (played by Oliver Tree and Nolan North) who take the store hostage, and the day starts feeling like a live-action Adult Swim sketch—high-energy, fast-talking, and full of stoner logic. Slaydro (Tony Revolori), a local dealer under house arrest, floats through the store offering non sequiturs and bad advice, and just when you think the story can’t get more surreal, Jay and Silent Bob show up in a black-and-white sequence like a cinematic blessing from the gods of indie cinema. The moment is ridiculous, and yet, it lands.
Though Logic cites Dog Day Afternoon as an influence, the real DNA here comes from lo-fi legends like Clerks, Slacker, and Half Baked. The record store becomes its own warped microcosm—handwritten signs hang from dusty vinyl bins, conspiracy theories are debated in the back room, and the characters’ personalities bounce off one another like pinballs in a smoky arcade. Logic’s performance as Cooper is intentionally understated—he’s more neurotic clerk than rap god—and he plays him with a kind of sweet, sputtering earnestness. His awkward demeanor is disarming, grounding the zaniness in something genuine.
Still, Paradise Records never forgets its emotional stakes. Beneath all the smoke clouds and jokes about Reddit, there’s a real sadness to Cooper’s financial desperation. We learn he’s been paying his employees out of pocket, watching his debt balloon past $170,000, all while refusing to compromise the spirit of the store. There’s a quiet scene—rare for this film—where Cooper just sits behind the counter, doing the math on a napkin. The stillness lingers.
One of the most remarkable aspects of Paradise Records is how fully Logic owns the vision—financially, creatively, and spiritually. The film was entirely self-funded, a labor of love that allowed the artist to make decisions free from corporate influence. That creative independence shines through every frame, from the cinematography to the casting to the emotional center of the script. It’s not just a film—it’s a personal stake in a new future as a filmmaker and It seems to have Paid off. Logic’s choice to invest in himself reflects the very theme of the movie: taking ownership of one’s narrative, and supporting those you care about without compromise.
Logic in 'Paradise Records' Tribeca
Logic’s direction shows an intuitive sense of rhythm. He stages chaos with clarity, leaning into handheld intimacy rather than flash. There’s an electricity to the editing, a tactile warmth to the lighting, and a music-video sheen that occasionally gives way to something looser and more lived-in. At times, the film feels like a playlist you can walk through—each scene its own track, its own tone.
The ensemble cast adds a richness to the hangout vibe. Hudson’s T Man is a comedic force, delivering offhanded jokes with razor-sharp timing and unexpected heart. Slaydro and Table feel like characters born on internet message boards and refined through improv rehearsals. When Joseph Gordon-Levitt shows up as a hostage negotiator and delivers a monologue that’s one part TED Talk, one part Nicolas Cage meltdown, you realize Paradise Records is going for broke—and succeeding.
What’s most impressive, though, is how Logic blends his influences into something that never feels like a retread. Yes, it owes debts to Clerks and Friday and Empire Records, but it never leans too hard into nostalgia. Instead, it builds its own culture. There’s something powerful about seeing a Black and biracial cast leading a film that’s just about vibes—no trauma arcs, no major tragedy, just people trying to stay afloat, sell some records, and figure it all out.
Logic in 'Paradise Records' Tribeca
By the final act, the film dips into surreal territory—acid trips, meta jokes, fourth wall breaks—but it somehow works. It’s chaotic, sure, but the chaos is curated. Every gag, every guest star, every off-kilter edit feels intentional. Logic has clearly poured his heart (and likely his wallet) into this thing, and it shows.
The Tribeca premiere audience left buzzing, not because they were surprised he could pull it off, but because of how confidently he delivered. Paradise Records doesn’t beg for validation—it earns it. This is a love letter to creativity, to building something that lasts, and to the spaces—physical and emotional—that shape who we become. Logic has made a film that’s not just good for a rapper-turned-director. It’s good, period. And it signals the arrival of a multidimensional artist with the capacity to shape culture across mediums.
Logic in 'Paradise Records' Tribeca
If this is the start of a new chapter for Logic, then the real story is only just beginning. Paradise Records feels like the opening track on an album we didn’t know we needed. One thing is clear: Logic’s not stepping away from music. He’s stepping into something even bigger—and for once, he’s doing it entirely on his own terms.
Will the film win an Oscar? Probably not. But that’s not the point. What Paradise Records captures is something rarer—a genuine, feel-good piece of cinema reminiscent of the work of Logic’s mentors like Kevin Smith, whose fingerprints are lovingly woven throughout. In a time when everything feels divisive, urgent, and high-stakes, Logic has offered up a story about friendship, resilience, and chasing your vision even when no one else sees it yet. And in doing so, he’s made exactly the kind of movie we all need right now.
RATING: ★★★★½
Paradise Records
Festival: Tribeca (Spotlight Narrative)
Director/screenwriter: Logic
Cast: Logic, Tramayne Hudson, Reed Northrup, Mary Elizabeth Kelly
International sales: The Gersh Agency
Running time: 1 hr 46 mins
