DiscLand - DVD and Blu-ray Reviews

King of Jazz (Blu-ray)

(The Criterion Collection, 3.27.2018)

Created at a time when sound and color were still novel and new additions to the filmgoing experience, King of Jazz was an attempt to push cinema as far as it could go in 1930. From beginning to end, there is a vivid sense of the medium's potential being discovered onscreen. Relentlessly idiosyncratic, eccentric, and odd, this film offers an embarrassment of cinematic riches, ambitious flourishes that were almost unthinkable at this early point in film history. To cite just one example, King of Jazz anticipates the intensely symmetrical dance choreography of Busby Berkeley, not to mention the proto-psychedelia of his 1943 directorial triumph, The Gang's All Here. While it should be noted that this is an extremely jumbled, chaotic revue, offering little narrative to pull you through the proceedings, the film's episodic approach is somewhat fortunate in light of the restoration challenges involved.

With several brief segments missing, freeze frames, dissolves, and other techniques are used to bridge the gaps, but since the film has a completely fragmented approach -- as new sequences are introduced, they almost register as new films -- there's no sense of a flow being disrupted. (Similar techniques were used, to more distracting effect, in the restoration of George Cukor's A Star is Born.) The net result is a fascinating time capsule that's capable of relaying its essential charms -- in small or large doses.

The wide assortment of extras on this disc have a chaotic, all-over-the-map quality befitting the film they reference. In addition to a booklet that offers a helpful overview of the film's history, a commentary track, 44 minutes of video essays, five minutes of deleted scenes, a pair of live action shorts (from 1929 and 1933), and two Oswald the Lucky Rabbit cartoons, this disc offers a pair of interviews that are probably the best place to start and/or stop, depending on how much time you have for King of Jazz extras.

In his 17-minute interview, jazz and film critic Gary Giddins -- who also appears on the commentary track -- discusses the history of symphonic jazz and the career of the film's star, bandleader Paul Whiteman. He also concedes that the film's jokes are pretty weak, but makes a case that they're redeemed by all that cinematic bravura. The 19-minute interview with musician Michael Feinstein covers some of the same terrain, but he also gets into Whiteman's clashes with George Gershwin. Unlike his sparring partner, Whiteman is virtually unknown today, but King of Jazz makes a persuasive case for devoting at least 98 minutes to his lively legacy. -- Jonathan Doyle

Great Balls of Fire! (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 2.27.2018)

Movies about the early days of rock and rock roll (ie. The Buddy Holly Story, La Bamba) tend to get bogged down in a nostalgic reverence for their period and its perceived historic importance that takes us out of the moment, stripping the subject matter of its messy, hormone-fuelled appeal. Great Balls of Fire! is not one of those movies. Arguably the most underrated rock biopic of all time, this lively portrait of Jerry Lee Lewis (memorably played by Dennis Quaid) abandons all earnestness, in order to create a complex portrait of a "more innocent time." In some ways, innocence is the film's primary subject, one investigated via the central controversy of Lewis' life: his marriage to 13-year-old first cousin (once removed), Myra Gale Brown (Winona Ryder in one of her best performances). For biopic purposes, this turns out to be a fortunate event, as it takes any gestures toward naivete off the table. Instead, we get a refreshingly clear-eyed portrait of the rock and roll life that acknowledges the messy, disturbing truths biopics normally ignore, without overlooking the liberating, carefree high that propelled all this excess in the first place.

Further complicating matters, the film's tone seems to be pitched from Lewis' perspective, which means the real consequence of his irresponsibility is never fully felt by the audience, even if it is repeatedly acknowledged -- in all kinds of playfully ironic ways -- by writer-director Jim McBride and his co-writer Jack Baran. A case could be made that the film's greatest virtue is its daring experiment in tone, one that feels especially relevant in 2018. Neither celebrating nor condemning Lewis for his constant impropriety, McBride bypasses the kind of sanctimony that detaches so many biopics from the moment they inhabit. It's a fitting choice for the film's subject, as Jerry Lee Lewis is essentially a one-man irreverence machine, incapable of understanding or conforming to the norms of polite society.

Of course, any intelligent person watching this film understands where Lewis went wrong, and using the film to critique his lifestyle would serve no dramatic purpose. By attempting to remain somewhat neutral, McBride forces the issue in a much more exciting and surprising way. From the moment Lewis and Brown tie the knot, their relationship is all guilt and awkwardness, which is where innocence comes into play. While there's no doubt that Lewis robs Brown of her innocence -- as she packs to move out of her parents' house, she takes a moment to put her toys away -- his adult psyche isn't much more mature than hers.

This is the disturbing irony of Great Balls of Fire!: Lewis' corrupting influence stems from his own lack of maturity, a void that probably came about because he devoted a disproportionate percentage of his life to music, rather than more common pursuits like, say, learning not to marry your cousin. McBride and Quaid effectively capture this childishness in the aftermath of the marriage, treating the whole debacle like the mischievous screw-up of a little kid, the kind of offense you might get grounded for.

If this all seems a little rambling and unhinged, there's a good reason for that: Great Balls of Fire! is a vital, convention-smashing biopic that takes an extremely restrictive subgenre (the rock biopic) and expands its potential, leaving viewers an abundance of conflicting issues to consider. While you should see this film for the supporting players alone (the cast includes Alec Baldwin, X's John Doe, Stephen Tobolowsky, the late, great Trey Wilson, and even cult movie historian Joe Bob Briggs), the main attractions are Quaid and Ryder. This is also a major triumph for McBride, a great overlooked auteur who gives the proceedings the same poppy kick as his Breathless remake, but with the thought-provoking richness of his earlier experiments, namely David Holzman's Diary and Glen and Randa.

This no-nonsense release from Olive Films includes a strong transfer, a theatrical trailer, and nothing else. In any case, the film itself has more than enough to offer, even as the credits roll. For one, we learn that piano and vocals for Jerry Lee Lewis were performed by "the killer himself." It's also worth noting that this 29-year-old film concludes with a once-impressive claim that is now downright shocking (but still potentially true): "Jerry Lee Lewis is playing his heart out somewhere in America tonight." Be sure to see Great Balls of Fire! while that claim is still accurate. -- Jonathan Doyle

 

The Hero (1966) (Blu-ray)

(The Criterion Collection, 2.20.2018)

Offering further evidence of Satyajit Ray's place as one of the essential modernist auteurs of the fifties and sixties, The Hero plays like a compendium of European art cinema tendencies from that period. In telling the story of successful actor Arindam Mukherjee (Uttam Kumar) and his struggles with self doubt, regret, and uncertainty about the future, Ray channels the artist-in-crisis from Fellini's 8 1/2, the dream imagery from Bergman's Wild Strawberries, and the middle-aged alienation from Antonioni's La notte. As always, his varied interests find unity in his distinctive brand of humanism, which seems to be the aspect of his cinema that most resonates with director Wes Anderson. That's particularly relevant in this case, as The Hero is the film most strongly evoked by Anderson's Ray tribute, The Darjeeling Limited, another movie about angst-filled men in crisis, indulging in drugs and extreme introspection on board an Indian train. But where Anderson's film is a triumph of stylized digression, Ray's is a focussed examination of compromise and the struggle to reconcile public perception with personal experience.

This conflict is at the core of the film's ironic title. While much of the world outside the train seems to regard Arindam as a kind of hero, the woman interviewing him (Sharmila Tagore's Aditi) gets to experience the more fragile, fearful, and wounded man beneath the surface. Her wide-ranging conversations with Arindam give the film its unconventional flashback structure, one that allows an otherwise restricted time frame to broaden in scope. In an era of countless introspective podcasts, the overlap between therapy and celebrity interview is widely understood, but Ray discovered (and dramatized) this decades earlier. Flashbacks this frequent and sprawling -- one of them spans roughly five years -- would be considered indulgent in most cinematic contexts, but the flashbacks here are clearly motivated by the interview, and they allow Ray to present an unusually detailed portrait of one man's memory, as it guides (and complicates) his path forward.

Yet another welcome Ray release from The Criterion Collection -- previous Blu-rays include The Apu Trilogy, The Music Room, The Big City, and Charulata -- The Hero includes a booklet with an essay by author Pico Iyer and Ray's 1980 tribute to Kumar, an interview with film scholar Meheli Sen, and an interview with Tagore from 2008. In the latter, the actress explains that she met Ray as a 13-year-old, and he went on to act as both mentor and father figure. She praises Ray for bringing a new naturalism to Indian cinema and shares the surprising reason she wears glasses in The Hero: she didn't look old enough for the role.

The interview with Sen offers a more analytical consideration of the film, elaborating on its debt to Fellini, its place in Ray's evolution from classicism to experimentation, and its commentary on the state of the arts in 1966. She also explains that Kumar was Bengali cinema's biggest star at the time and the film was a conscious demystification of his stature. But as Ray's written tribute to Kumar makes clear, he wasn't altogether comfortable bringing his star down to earth, which may explain why Aditi is reluctant to learn Arindam's darkest secrets. Like Ray, she wants to expose the truth, but she can't deny the allure of myth. -- Jonathan Doyle

I, Daniel Blake (Blu-ray)

(The Criterion Collection, 1.16.2018)

At the age of 79, a freshly un-retired Ken Loach won the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival for the second time in a decade with this seething look at the injustice of the British welfare state. Yet another collaboration between Loach and frequent screenwriter Paul Laverty, I, Daniel Blake makes it clear that this system simply doesn't work -- and it's apparent to everyone involved, even those who are paid to enforce the rules (and "sanctions"). Armed with a refreshingly difficult, temperamental protagonist who has the ideal personality to highlight and expose bureaucratic absurdity, this film makes a wise leap beyond simply skewering a broken system. Viewing all events through a humanist lens, Loach and Laverty lay out two very different paths for interacting with people in need: robotic detachment and open-hearted compassion. By carefully detailing the destruction of the former and the healing potential of the latter, they give this film's political perspective a depth and emotional resonance that is rare in films of this kind, even the consistently distinguished efforts of Loach and Laverty.

The Criterion Collection has only delved into Loach territory on one previous occasion -- with the excellent 2011 release of Kes, which also includes 1966's Cathy Come Home. While there are still many other Loach films deserving of the Criterion treatment, I, Daniel Blake is a good place to start, and this disc sweetens the deal with several substantial extras. In addition to a trailer, seven minutes of deleted scenes, a booklet, and a commentary by Loach and Laverty, Criterion includes a 38-minute making-of (How to Make a Ken Loach Film) and a feature length documentary from 2016 (Versus: The Life and Films of Ken Loach).

How to Make a Ken Loach Film offers an enlightening peek behind-the-scenes, revealing little-known aspects of Loach's process through interviews and behind-the-scenes footage. A recurring theme on this disc is Loach's unassuming demeanour -- a surprise, in light of his subversive filmmaking preferences -- and that is on intriguing display throughout this featurette. An opponent of hierarchical thinking, Loach seems happy to blend in with the extras, men and women who seem to be experiencing some of the same economic hardship as Loach's characters. In addition, several of his collaborators offer insight into the filmmaker's relationship to the documentary form, and Loach himself gives a stirring speech about "the cinema of dissent" at the Cannes Film Festival.

The most substantial extra on this disc, Versus has one major liability -- Louise Osmond's mystifying decision to frame everything in an aspect ratio (approximately 2.35:1) that forces her to crop clips from Loach's films -- but this proves to be a generally illuminating look at Loach's life and work. The director's uncompromising political spirit is apparent throughout, causing countless professional setbacks, but we also achieve a better understanding of Loach as a human being, one who experiences tragedy (he lost a son in a car accident) and joy (he acknowledges an unlikely affection for movie musicals). Like I, Daniel Blake, Versus makes it clear that Loach's passion for political filmmaking would be incomplete without his passion for people and life itself. -- Jonathan Doyle

Young Mr. Lincoln (Blu-ray)

(The Criterion Collection, 1.9.2018)

One of the most enduring pre-WWII John Ford films, Young Mr. Lincoln benefits enormously from an unlikely premise. Rather than portray the most historic years in Abraham Lincoln's life -- Steven Spielberg tackled that period 73 years later in Lincoln -- Ford and screenwriter Lamar Trotti focus on an earlier period. In other words, Young Mr. Lincoln is the story of a legend before he became a legend. Presenting this period with an idyllic, almost fairy tale simplicity, the film humanizes this celebrated American by illustrating his modesty and insecurity. Always doing his own thing, this Lincoln (played endearingly by Henry Fonda, who wears the most extreme fake nose this side of The Hours) is an undeniable individual, and we can see how that paves the way for greatness. This is most apparent in the film's engrossing second half, a courtroom drama that anticipates another righteous Fonda classic, 1957's 12 Angry Men.

Young Mr. Lincoln was released on DVD by Criterion in 2006, and this HD upgrade features only one extra that wasn't part of that two-disc set: a new commentary by author Joseph McBride (Searching for John Ford: A Life). Fortunately, the returning extras are all extremely worthwhile. These include a 30-page booklet, a radio adaptation of Young Mr. Lincoln from 1946, brief audio interviews with Ford and Fonda, a 50-minute video interview with Fonda from a 1975 episode of Parkinson, and a 43-minute documentary about the early career of Ford, written and hosted by the great Lindsay Anderson (If…., O Lucky Man!).

In the audio interviews, Ford and Fonda speak to Ford's grandson Dan Ford. The director tells a story about Fonda that the actor disputes elsewhere on the disc, while Fonda shares an (off the record) reminiscence about Ford's colourful use of language. The actor elaborates on his relationship with Ford in the Parkinson interview, and he also covers his complicated dynamic with daughter Jane and son Peter, praising their work and insisting that they've overcome their past differences. 70 at the time of this interview, Fonda is friendly and amusing throughout, though a darkness some will recognize from On Golden Pond (or Once Upon a Time in the West) sneaks through every now and then.

The highlight of this disc is Omnibus: John Ford, Part One, the aforementioned documentary that details Lindsay Anderson's perspective on Ford's early career. In some ways, this is a relatively standard history lesson, but Anderson manages to include many worthwhile anecdotes -- for example, in Four Sons, Ford took inspiration (and sets) from F.W. Murnau's Sunrise -- and offers many glimpses of Ford, who was "generally regarded as impossible to interview." In spite of his impressive filmography, the director had an undeniably strange, hostile disposition. Driven by an unpretentiousness so extreme it morphs into pretension of a different sort, Ford remains intriguingly unknowable. With that in mind, one can only hope that Criterion finds an excuse to include Omnibus: John Ford, Part Two on a later disc. -- Jonathan Doyle

Serial Mom (Blu-ray)

(Shout! Factory, 5.9.2017)

You don’t have to be a great admirer of John Waters’ filmmaking to revere the man himself. While he should be commended for the guileless way he portrays those on the margins of society, and his films have an anything goes spirit that’s entirely their own, he never developed a real command of the medium. Instead, he poured his time and energy into an equally worthy objective: refining his abilities as a cultural observer, bringing together his interest in radical politics, true crime reporting, avant-garde art, film history, and rebellious music of all kinds to develop an instantly recognizable sensibility. Evidence of this can be found in his interviews, articles, books, and speaking engagements, but it comes through most powerfully in his films, in spite of their technical shortcomings. Tapping most powerfully into Waters’ interest in true crime and B movies, Serial Mom is littered with film clips and outrageous acts of criminality—not to mention the strange digressions involving a Pee-wee Herman doll (“that guy’s a weirdo”) and L7 (known here as “Camel Lips”)—simultaneously pleasing Waters’ outré fanbase and a substantial segment of the mainstream.

Psycho (1998) (Blu-ray)

(Shout! Factory, 5.9.2017)

When reflecting on Gus Van Sant’s remake of Psycho, it’s easy to forget what a colossal disappointment it was back in 1998. Based on films like Drugstore Cowboy, My Own Private Idaho, and even Good Will Hunting, cinephiles had reason to believe that the director had some fascinating tricks up his sleeve. By telling us precisely what to expect (a shot-for-shot remake of Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 classic), Van Sant created an ideal opportunity for surprise. Going into the film, you sensed that even the slightest unexpected development could return viewers to the uncertainty they experienced while watching the original. Instead, the director embraced the conceptual art aspect of the undertaking, delivering a film with no major deviations from its source. This made for a bland, predictable experience in the short-term, but over time the film has taken on the additional dimensions that Van Sant always intended. It may not work as a linear narrative experience, but as an experiment in imitative filmmaking -- one that forces us to contemplate the most minute cinematic gesture -- it never ceases to fascinate.

Streets of Fire (Blu-ray)

(Shout! Factory, 5.16.2017)

As even the most devoted Walter Hill fanatic would probably acknowledge, his peak period of stylized, high-energy filmmaking -- that included The Driver, The Warriors, Southern Comfort, and several other exercises in heightened masculinity -- concluded with 1984’s Streets of Fire. Riding high on the success of 48 Hrs., Hill and his collaborators were given an opportunity to do just about anything. While it’s not really acknowledged anywhere on this jam-packed 2-disc Blu-ray set, Hill was obsessed with Kathryn Bigelow and Monty Montgomery’s weirdly overlooked The Loveless (he even mentored Bigelow through an unrealized attempt at a studio debut), so he decided to borrow that film’s early rock, Leone-inspired biker movie sensibility (not to mention star Willem Dafoe) to create a hyperbolic genre musical that embraces extremes in almost every area -- except its soundtrack. Rather than highlight the kind of real deal rockabilly that gave Bigelow’s debut its attitude, Hill saturates Streets of Fire with middle-of-the-road, Jimmy Iovine-polished pop rock. Nonetheless, this film remains a powerful shot of adrenaline that comes closer to the spirit of The Warriors than any film Hill made before or since.

The In-Laws (1979) (Blu-ray)

(The Criterion Collection, 7.5.2016)

Arthur Hiller wasn’t anyone’s idea of a great auteur. His filmography was erratic at best and his visual approach tended to be a little clumsy, particularly in the latter half of his career. But there’s a very good reason he managed to consistently work with Hollywood’s most accomplished actors, occasionally generating comedy classics like The Americanization of Emily or Silver Streak: he was an unfailingly good-natured person who knew how to build the confidence of his collaborators. The ultimate example of this may be 1979’s The In-Laws, and the extras on Criterion’s new Blu-ray are a testament to the hard-to-spot skills that distinguished Hiller -- who died on Wednesday at the age of 92 -- from his peers.

In addition to the trailer and the commentary that were previously included on the 2003 DVD, this Blu-ray includes two substantial new features: a 25-minute interview with star Alan Arkin and a 35-minute featurette about the making of The In-Laws. In the latter, Ed Begley Jr., Nancy Dussault, James Hong, and David Paymer reflect on Hiller’s virtues as a person and a director. Begley says he loved and revered the filmmaker, while Paymer explains that Hiller earned those feelings by being a kind, gentle person to everyone on the set. This kind of touchy feely praise doesn’t usually come up on Criterion releases, but it seems that Hiller’s conduct as a person was at the core of his success with actors.

Another recurring theme in this featurette is the importance of taking comedy seriously. Both Begley and Hong remark that the film’s humour grew out of the decision to play all the comedy straight. By taking even the most ridiculous scenes seriously, they were able to make the absurdity of the script that much more impactful, rather than allow it to be overshadowed or confused by silly acting. Begley and Paymer both explain that they were enormous fans of Arkin going into the shoot and Paymer can still vividly recall a life-changing compliment he received from Arkin -- about the way he chewed gum.

Now 82, Arkin clearly has fond memories of The In-Laws. Throughout his interview, he breaks into laughter while remembering key scenes and compares the film favorably to his other career highlights. He also explains the film’s unlikely origins. After seeing Peter Falk on a talk show, Arkin pitched him on the idea of making a film together. When Falk agreed, Arkin reached out to young screenwriter Andrew Bergman because of his high regard for Bergman’s Blazing Saddles script, which Arkin insists is 50 times funnier than the finished film. Fortunately, Arkin felt similar enthusiasm for Bergman’s The In-Laws script… and just about everything that followed. This kind of unguarded passion is rare in interviews, but it’s a testament to the power of Hiller’s positive thinking. He left his collaborators with the kind of joyful memories that last a lifetime -- and, every once in a while, the movies followed suit. -- Jonathan Doyle

 

Dr. Strangelove (Blu-ray)

(The Criterion Collection, 6.28.2016)

Even if Dr. Strangelove isn’t one of your favourite Stanley Kubrick films, there’s no denying that it played a vital role in his evolution as a filmmaker. Landing in between his early independent productions and his more daring studio films, this is a movie of crucial transitions. For one, it was the first film where Kubrick acted as sole producer, a role that would radically change his approach. By making all the crucial decisions about the production, marketing, and release of his films, Kubrick emerged as an unlikely crowd-pleaser—who also happened to make the kinds of challenging, uncompromising films normally relegated to the margins. Before going all the way in that direction with 2001: A Space Odyssey, Kubrick first confirmed his mass appeal status with the grim ironies of Dr. Strangelove. While this film would likely flop with the more complacent, uninformed audiences of 2016, its bleak outlook was perfectly in synch with a populace crippled by Cold War angst.

Dr. Strangelove was already given a relatively deluxe Blu-ray release seven years ago, but Criterion’s new special edition offers two major upgrades: (1) a transfer that’s just about perfect and (2) nearly two hours of new extras. Sadly, the most exciting of these is a series of Kubrick audio clips that run a mere four minutes. Still, in that short time, he manages to cover a great deal of ground, including the paradoxical nature of all nuclear scenarios, the importance of script collaboration, and the undeniable -- if often overlooked -- fact that directing is just one third of the filmmaking process. (Writing and editing make up the other two thirds.)

Of the new interviews, the most fascinating is probably the conversation with Richard Daniels, senior archivist at The Stanley Kubrick Archives. Thanks to his intimate knowledge of Kubrick’s papers, Daniels is able to dispel several myths about the mysterious filmmaker and offer all kinds of illuminating first-hand documentation. At one point, we see a sheet of paper listing the models for each of the film’s characters and the actors Kubrick originally had in mind for these roles.

A more traditional history of the film is offered by Mick Broderick, author of Reconstructing Strangelove. If you’re a fan of the film, you’ll probably want to read the book in full, but Broderick offers crucial context, exploring Kubrick’s newfound independence from longtime producer James B. Harris, the film’s rivalry with Fail-Safe, and Dr. Strangelove’s distinctive advertising materials.

In addition all of that—and most of the extras from the previous release—this Blu-ray includes Rodney Hill’s exploration of Kubrick’s influences (Joseph Campbell, Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung), David George’s discussion of the source material (written by his father, Peter George), and a look at the film’s distinctive visual style by two veterans of Kubrick’s camera departments. If you haven’t seen Dr. Strangelove in a while, this material will give you all the inspiration you need to take Criterion’s stunning new restoration for a spin. With nuclear proliferation heading in several uncertain new directions, you should definitely take another look -- before it’s too late. -- Jonathan Doyle

Death Becomes Her (Blu-ray)

(Shout! Factory, 4.26.2016)

Along with Steven Spielberg, James Cameron, and very few others, Robert Zemeckis is a rare filmmaker whose sensibility -- and preoccupation with innovation -- has resulted in films that bear the precise personal stamp of an auteur without sacrificing mainstream appeal. What’s often forgotten about Zemeckis is that he was once perceived as box office poison, co-scripting Spielberg’s first flop (1941) and failing to find an audience for his first two directing efforts (which are still among his best): I Wanna Hold Your Hand and Used Cars. What distinguishes these films (particularly Used Cars) from most of the director’s later work is a biting cynicism that channels the worldview of caustic comedies like Dr. Strangelove. Just as Spielberg tapped this youthful cynicism for 1941, Zemeckis joined forces with young screenwriters Martin Donovan and David Koepp (who went on to write the next year’s Jurassic Park) on 1992’s Death Becomes Her, the most negative, mean-spirited, and irreverent film of his post-Used Cars career.

Charting a long-running feud between a pair of vain, shallow rivals (Meryl Streep, Goldie Hawn) and the bumbling moron (Bruce Willis) they’re both inexplicably drawn to, this Zemeckis curiosity temporarily interrupted his box office winning streak, which may explain why he wholeheartedly embraced feel-good sentiment two years later on Forrest Gump. While it’s not much fun spending time with these reprehensible characters, Death Becomes Her works as an exercise in visual indulgence that’s equal parts Roman Polanski, Coen Brothers, and Barry Sonnenfeld. The film’s overall perversity also seems to stem from Zemeckis’ involvement in Tales from the Crypt, the then-current HBO series that he executive produced and occasionally directed.

In a recent interview with the Shock Waves podcast, Shout!/Scream Factory’s Jeff Nelson and Cliff MacMillan explained that they hoped Death Becomes Her would be a full-blown special edition, but they had trouble getting any of the actors involved. Instead, they had to settle for a limited (but sufficient) selection of extras: the trailer, a photo gallery, a vintage featurette, and The Making of Death Becomes Her, a new 25-minute documentary featuring Zemeckis, Koepp, and several key crew members. This featurette is a bit unfocussed, but Zemeckis and Koepp both make it clear that they enjoyed a fruitful and rewarding collaboration. In the case of Streep’s famous backwards head scene -- the film’s Oscar-winning effects look a little silly by modern standards -- Koepp says Zemeckis asked him to expand a quick moment into a long scene, even though it seemed impossible to execute.

For those familiar with Kevin Smith’s notorious Bruce Willis stories -- their Cop Out collaboration was unpleasant to say the least -- an observation from producer Steve Starkey is especially revealing. He explains that Willis works much better when he’s collaborating with a director who has a solid game plan, as it gives him the confidence and freedom to take risks. While Death Becomes Her is not one of Zemeckis’ most distinguished films, it clearly benefits from careful planning and self-effacing actors who are willing to put aside their vanity -- unlike the characters they play. -- Jonathan Doyle

 

The Trip (1967) (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 3.22.2016)

As of April 5th, Roger Corman has been going strong for an impressive 90 years, but he only spent 16 of those years (1955-1971) actively directing movies. (He made one last bonus film, Frankenstein Unbound, in 1990.) Thanks to his incredibly thrifty and efficient approach to independent filmmaking, he was able to direct roughly 50 movies during that time. While he broke new ground in beatnik horror-comedy (Bucket of Blood), racially charged drama (The Intruder), Faustian sci-fi (X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes), biker anthropology (The Wild Angels), and gothic aesthetics (the Poe Cycle), a case could be made that his most daring and groundbreaking movie was his one-off foray into psychedelia: 1967's The Trip.

Kill Me Again (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 3.22.2016)

When John Dahl arrived on the filmmaking scene in 1989 with Kill Me Again, he had almost everything he needed to become a major auteur. Like fellow neo-noir writer-directors the Coen Brothers before him and Quentin Tarantino after him, he had a knack for inventive narrative ideas, ruthless characters, precise visuals, and the occasional flourish of absurdity. However, as his subsequent films -- both good (Red Rock West, The Last Seduction, Rounders) and not so good (Unforgettable, Joy Ride, You Kill Me) -- have proven, Dahl lacks the most important virtue of the aforementioned auteurs: a distinctive sensibility. It's fitting, then, that he ultimately arrived at a career directing TV (including acclaimed series like Breaking Bad, House of Cards, Justified, and Hannibal), a medium characterized by directorial interchangeability.

The Gong Show Movie (Blu-ray)

(Shout! Factory, 3.29.2016)

For those of you who aren’t up to speed on your ’70s cult variety shows, The Gong Show was a true oddity of its time, a kind of warped variation on American Idol -- if the performers were far more imaginatively irritating. A talent show for people with little discernible talent, this series became a surprise hit, giving just about everyone in the United States a platform for their mandatory 15 minutes (or seconds) of fame. As a result of this success, Chuck Barris found himself accosted by “future stars” (aka weirdoes) wherever he went, resulting in irritation that slowly mutated into self-loathing. You can see this experience recreated -- with extreme creative license -- in 2002’s Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (an adaptation of Barris’ “unauthorized autobiography”) or you can go straight to the source by watching the movie Chuck made while this phenomenon was coming to an end.

As pop culture historian Russell Dyball explains on this disc’s audio commentary, The Gong Show had already been pulled from the air (in spite of strong ratings, Barris decided it was time to move on) before TGSM hit theatres. For obvious reasons, the movie -- which combines highlights from the show with exaggerated dramatizations of Barris’ day-to-day life -- made little impression at the box office and quickly disappeared into obscurity. As Dyball sees it, a screening of The Gong Show Movie is like a Bigfoot sighting: even if you swear you saw it, almost no one will believe you. If nothing else, this disc should correct that, finally rescuing Barris’ one big screen star vehicle from obscurity.

Neither a triumph nor a mess, The Gong Show Movie is an intriguing curiosity about a largely forgotten chapter in pop culture history. In spite of the aforementioned self-loathing, Barris had enough ego to fire his co-writer/director Robert Downey Sr. -- the anti-establishment auteur behind Putney Swope, a film that has been cited as a formative influence for both Paul Thomas Anderson and Louis CK -- in the middle of the shoot, taking the reigns himself. In addition to being an undistinguished actor, Barris has no idea what he’s doing behind the camera, but the film is never less than watchable, particularly if you have a high tolerance for the excesses of late ’70s/early ’80s comedy.

If you’re the kind of person who is likely to watch The Gong Show Movie with a certain level of academic distance, you might want to go straight to the commentary, which offers a lively history of the movie and the show, including anecdotes about key regulars (the Unknown Comic, the Bate Brothers), the involvement of future celebrities (Paul Reubens, Kevin Spacey), and even a conspiratorial look at the Danny DeVito cameo that probably never happened. The pleasures of this Blu-ray may be reserved for comedy historians and obsessive fans of The Gong Show, but if you fit either description, this disc qualifies as a minor treasure. -- Jonathan Doyle

The Boost (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 3.22.2016)

Based on the James Woods tradition of playing cocky characters full of arrogance and bluster, it’s easy to get the wrong idea about The Boost’s Lenny Brown. At the outset, he seems like yet another con artist scoundrel, but we soon realize that this character is something far more unusual for Woods: an earnest naïf. With rare vulnerability, Woods expresses openhearted optimism about the future to his equally innocent wife, Linda (Sean Young). As Lenny starts to experience professional success, there’s something almost unbearably touching and guileless about his reaction: “Every time I sell something, it means someone believes in me.”

Jinxed! (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 3.22.2016)

The test of time has made one thing abundantly clear about Don Siegel: almost everything he directed was more worthwhile than audiences and critics realized at the time. This applies to his flops and hits alike, but few cinephiles have taken the time to follow this theory all the way to the end of his filmography. Films like Charley Varrick, Escape from Alcatraz, and Telefon have all aged unusually well, but his final film remains a mystery to most for one very simple reason: Siegel was its biggest detractor. While the director managed to go on living for another decade, a mid-shoot heart attack forced him to hand over the reigns to former protégé Sam Peckinpah -- who was also in rough shape, dying a few years later -- but that was the least of Siegel’s worries.

Kiss Me, Stupid (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 2.17.2015)

At the time of its release, Billy Wilder’s Kiss Me, Stupid was maligned, but not for reasons that carry much weight in 2015. Many felt Wilder drifted too far into smuttiness, crossing enough lines of good taste to earn the condemnation of the Catholic Legion of Decency. But looked at from a modern perspective, there’s nothing particularly offensive about the film’s portrait of sex addiction, prostitution, and convoluted infidelity. If anything, Wilder was ahead of his time, exploring troubling neuroses and relationship dynamics long before Hollywood was comfortable tackling these topics. In fact, seen alongside the more successful, fantasy-oriented comedies of the ’60s, Kiss Me, Stupid seems refreshingly modern.

A Hole in the Head (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 1.27.2015)

Frank Capra is both celebrated and notorious for his sentimentality, a trait that can be tremendously resonant when used truthfully (It’s a Wonderful Life being the best example), and hopelessly problematic everywhere else. The second to last film in the director’s illustrious career, 1959’s A Hole in the Head has a relatively dark view of family -- that suddenly and inexplicably turns heartwarming. While the film is full of historical curiosities (partly owing to a diverse cast that includes Frank Sinatra, Edward G. Robinson, Thelma Ritter, and Keenan Wynn), Capra perpetrates bizarre misjudgments of tone, resulting in a puzzling clash of emotion and content.

Caveman (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 2.17.2015)

It would be almost irresponsible to make a cerebral cavemen movie, but co-writer/director Carl Gottlieb (Jaws) proves there’s plenty of room for wit and creativity. Starring Ringo Starr, Dennis Quaid, Barbara Bach, and Shelley Long, Caveman is a relatively straightforward story about an inexpressive caveman’s clumsy love life, and the other day-to-day struggles of his people. After a strong start, the film prematurely runs out of steam, but Gottlieb’s bag of tricks is sufficient to make up for most of the film’s shortcomings. For one, he chooses to make his characters almost completely incapable of speech, resulting in a refreshing lack of dialogue, grunts notwithstanding. This isn’t quite a silent film, but the effect is similar.

The Night They Raided Minsky's (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 2.24.2015)

Best known for injecting a new degree of documentary realism into mainstream Hollywood filmmaking with 1971’s The French Connection, William Friedkin came from a background in non-fiction filmmaking. This can be felt all over The Night They Raided Minsky’s, Friedkin’s second or third fiction feature (like The Birthday Party, it was released in December 1968) after the lightweight (if inventive) Sonny and Cher vehicle, Good Times. The result is a lively portrait of 1925 New York… that pulls the viewer in too many directions. The film’s tendency toward over-direction is apparent right off the bat, as the viewer is bombarded with visual conceits and abrupt changes in direction. Working with visual consultant Pablo Ferro -- arguably the heir to Saul Bass’s throne as cinema’s great graphic designer -- and legendary editor Ralph Rosenblum (Annie Hall), Friedkin offers an abundance of stimulus, but little sense of purpose.

Psych-Out (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 2.17.2015)

If ever a great American filmmaker missed his moment, it’s Richard Rush. While he managed to direct several terrific films (Psych-Out, Getting Straight, The Stunt Man), his timing always seemed slightly off. In the case of Psych-Out, he anticipated the psychedelic techniques and family baggage flashbacks of Midnight Cowboy, as well as the hippy attitudes of Easy Rider before they reached the mainstream. However, there’s a good reason Rush never achieved the cultural penetration of those landmark works. Rather than combine his techniques with grounded, universal dramatic ideas, Rush preferred to pursue broader extremes, both comic and surreal. Psych-Out isn’t a triumph of real world storytelling, but it’s one of the most intricate and uncompromising movies ever made about the psychedelic ’60s.

The Wild Angels (Blu-ray)

(Olive Films, 2.17.2015)

Prior to Easy Rider, biker films had one major problem. Since bikers were perceived as anti-social misfits who posed a threat to society, filmmakers felt obligated to portray them in an unflattering light. While bikers are ostensibly the heroes of The Wild Angels, it’s somewhat difficult to get behind their cause. Whereas the characters in Easy Rider are seeking some kind of utopian ideal, the characters in The Wild Angels are simply wreaking havoc, ingesting whatever substances they can get their hands on, while assaulting animals and humans alike. That said, the characters who keep their more extreme impulses at bay prove to be somewhat appealing, if only because they reject every cliche of movie behaviour in the book. You might not want to live like these characters, but they’re certainly fun to watch.

The Bitter Tears of
Petra von Kant (Blu-ray)

(The Criterion Collection, 1.13.2015)

The exceedingly idiosyncratic work of Rainer Werner Fassbinder is not for everyone, but for those who respond to his intricate aesthetics and complex re-wirings of the Hollywood melodrama, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant is an overwhelming cinematic experience. Set almost entirely in a single room, the film makes no effort to hide its roots in theatre, but Fassbinder and his collaborators discover thrilling cinematic ideas at every turn. Even more impressively, he constructs an intricate web of characters and relationships that constantly builds in complexity, resisting simple conclusions. The troubled romance between Petra (Margit Carstensen) and Karin (Hanna Schygulla) produces the film’s most emotional moments, but the character that really transcends the limitations of melodrama is Marlene (Irm Hermann), a constant presence on the periphery of Petra’s highs and lows, typing and sketching in the background without uttering a word. As a dramatic variable, she proves to be a wildly unsettling presence, an ignored solution to the protagonist’s troubles, and a stark counterpoint to Petra’s forceful (and ultimately tragic) pursuit of desire.

The Shooting and
Ride in the Whirlwind (Blu-ray)

(The Criterion Collection, 11.11.2014)

It’s hard to believe now, but the pair of enigmatic westerns Monte Hellman directed in 1966 were both produced under the auspices of exploitation guru Roger Corman. More Samuel Beckett than Edgar Allen Poe, these minimalist gems operate according to sensibilities that Corman spent his career rejecting. Rather than seek moments of visceral impact, the director finds power in the unspoken, building emotions far more complex and elusive than we expect from classic westerns. As Hellman repeatedly explains on this disc, Corman came close to pulling the plug when he read the two scripts (rapidly generated by Jack Nicholson and Carole Eastman), but he ultimately chose this guaranteed break-even proposition over the possibility of any wasted investment. While these films had little commercial impact in North America, they have gone on to become two of Corman’s most enduring -- and challenging -- works of art.

Violent Saturday (Blu-ray)

(Twilight Time, 7.8.2014)

One of the greatest triumphs of intermittently virtuosic director Richard Fleischer (The Boston Strangler, The New Centurions), Violent Saturday offers a fascinating take on the heist film that proves no less memorable than classics of the genre like The Asphalt Jungle, The Killing, and Reservoir Dogs. Much of the credit goes to noted noir screenwriter Sydney Boehm (The Big Heat), who breaks from convention in several striking ways. Rather than place all his emphasis on the planning of a robbery (which takes place late in the film), he also explores the interpersonal issues of a seemingly unconnected group of characters. It eventually becomes clear that these people have one thing in common: they’re all present at the robbery Fleischer and Boehm patiently build toward. The time spent getting there is stylish, atmospheric, and rich with possibility, but the payoff somehow manages to exceed expectations, making for a strikingly muscular and unsentimental crime melodrama that is one of the best of its kind.