I’ve been traveling a lot lately and posting less—paying assignments get top priority for my time at home—so I’m a little behind. And this week at my MSN column I left the Hollywood new releases to the blue-star panel of MSN film critics (you can find their reviews quoted in my coverage of Date Night (Fox), Death at a Funeral (Sony) and The Joneses (Fox)) and gave cursory coverage to the painfully self-indulgent self-produced comedy of midlife crisis and career ennui Multiple Sarcasms (Image). I finally caught up with the newly restored Pandora and the Flying Dutchman (Kino) and put down a few words on the recent box set releases spotlighting directors Sacha Guitry and Akira Kurosawa, stars Errol Flynn and Kim Novak, and the King himself, Elvis Presley.

The Gondry clan watches Michel's documentary about them

What does that leave for this column? How about Michel Gondry’s The Thorn in the Heart (Oscilloscope), an intimate portrait of his Aunt Suzette Gondry, the strong-willed patriarch of the Gondry family, and her thorny relationship with her son Jean-Yves.

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What a couple of weeks for DVD collections. They’re usually paced through the year until the Christmas rush, when the emphasis is on the new, the familiar and the cult. Well, Christmas came early this year for fans of classic cinema, and of course it hit while I’ve been traveling and have had less time than usual to explore them. So I’ve sampled my way through each of these sets, seeing two or three films from each collection and dipping my toe into the supplements (which is a moot point for some of them). I wish I’d had more time to view and more time to reflect and write, but as I’ve got a single weekend before I’m off again, I’m going to get through these before they are completely outdated. I present them chronologically: oldest films to most recent.

Presenting Sacha Guitry (Eclipse Series 22) (Criterion)

The Story of a Cheat

How did the reputation of actor, playwright and filmmaker Sacha Guitry, once the toast of French theater and cinema and popular culture, so slip into obscurity over the years? In the United States, at the very least, he is barely a footnote and his films all but impossible to see. This box set of four comedies from the thirties, written and directed by leading man and defining personality Guitry, goes a long way to correcting both oversights. The Story of a Cheat (1936) takes the idea of narration to a new level in a comic memoir of a reluctant scoundrel (“What have I done to the Lord that people constantly solicit me to engage in crime?”) recounting his life in snappy flashbacks with running commentary. The visual credits sequence alone (which surely inspired Orson Welles’ visionary trailer to Citizen Kane) is a treat. The Pearls of the Crown is even an even more intricately cut bauble of a lark, a tale that bounds through history (and multiple languages) and over the globe to trace the journeys of seven perfect pearls, and once again teases the audience with its tongue-in-cheek storytelling and droll self-awareness when it comes to actors playing multiple roles.

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I shine a light on two ends of the artistic spectrum on DVD and Blu-ray in spotlight pieces on my blog this week—the cinematic glories of Powell and Pressberger’s The Red Shoes and Black Narcissus and the exploitation creativity of the Roger Corman-produced drive-in knock-offs Galaxy of Terror and Forbidden World. Here’s what else has been released.

Meet the Runaways

The Runaways (Sony) – The Runaways may have been more phenomenon than phenomenal but the hard-rocking quintet of teenage girls made their mark on the music world with a blast of grrrl power and teen rebellion. They were tossed into the culture in 1976 as a gimmick—the original all-girl rock band (and I do mean “girl” – they were all under eighteen when they released their first single)—and they delivered a mix of punk attitude and sexual tease. More importantly, they were inspiration to aspiring female rockers all over. The promotion was largely exploitation but the music—their music—was their voice of frustration and empowerment in a male-dominated world.

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Rock ‘n’ Roll High School: 30th Anniversary Special Edition (Shout! Factory)

If Rock ‘n’ Roll High School isn’t the greatest rock and rebellion film of all time, it is certainly in the running, a pure, cheerfully juvenile blast of blitzkrieg guitar rock, Looney Tunes sight gags, teenage hormones and rebellion against authority because it’s there. They aren’t exactly rebels without a cause, it’s just that their cause is music and fun and the celebration of power punk rockers The Ramones, who in this universe play the rock anthems of the day. At the risk of dating myself, when I discovered the film playing in heavy rotation on HBO, I was in the high school that alternative music culture forgot and had no idea who the Ramones were (or even what punk music really was) but responded to the four-square rock anthems in three chords and double time the way I responded to Chuck Berry: the essence of the rock and roll. That’s what director Allan Arkush responded to as well. Various stories tell of producer Roger Corman’s bright idea to do a “Disco High School” movie (Arkush talked him out of that one) and of his preference to hire Cheap Trick as the featured band (too expensive, it turned out). And who knows, the stories may be true, or just more Corman musings that were never destined to actually go anywhere but make for great copy. What is definitely true is that Arkush wanted to try his hand at a rock and roll movie, an American A Hard Day’s Night with a B-movie budget, a California culture setting and an anything goes comic sensibility. It turned out that the Ramones were on the same page.

Do ya wanna dance? Riff and the Ramones rock the halls

Thirty years later, the Ramones are part of my playlist and the film remains as energetic, endearing and fun as ever, not so much a dated artifact from my g-g-g-generation as a timeless slice of teenage kicks and a cartoon of youthquake rebellion against the killjoys of authority. While the seminal New York power punk band provides the beat, P.J. Soles powers the film as Riff Randell, rock and roller and aspiring songwriter who just wants to spread the gospel of rock music. Mary Woronov is her arch nemesis Miss Togar, the new high school principal whose controlling personality and authoritarian streak makes Nurse Ratched look soft and sweet. Where Soles literally dances her way through the film, swinging and swaying done the halls and barely able to keep still in class, Woronov is a drill sergeant in a skirt and a pinched expression who sends her toadying team of storm trooper hall monitors (imagine Jonah Hill and Seth Rogan in these roles) to tell on anyone who dares have any fun under her watch.

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The original rock and roll concert film, The T.A.M.I. Show has been unavailable in any form approaching complete since its original theatrical release… until now. Shout! Factory presents The T.A.M.I. Show: Collector’s Edition. Hosted by Jan and Dean and featuring Chuck Berry,  Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson & The Miracles, the Supremes, James Brown and the Fabulous Flames and the Rolling Stones (among others), it’s a whose who of 1964 rock, soul and pop acts performing to a live audience of Los Angeles teenagers. Director Steve Binder (who went on to produced the Elvis ‘68 Comeback Special) shot it on video for close circuit showings and then transferred it to film and edited it into a tight presentation for theaters, distributed by AIP, the kings of teensploitation and drive-in movies.

The Rolling Stones: Time was indeed on their side

Go-go dancers in bikinis, short shorts and halter tops shake and shimmy on scaffolding (Teri Garr is rumored to be one of them, but I couldn’t pick her out) while the acts run through their greatest hits, opening with Chuck Berry and Gerry and Pacemakers trading off songs (those smiling British lads are mere pretenders next to the effortless guitar magic of Berry). Smokey Robinson is smooth, Marvin Gaye pours on the soul and The Beach Boys are such nice, clean-cut lads for boys who sing about surfing and cars (drummer Dennis Wilson is the only sign of life in their tightly controlled performance, shaking his head like he’s holding himself back from really exploding on the drums). It all builds to the explosive R&B energy of James Brown, who pours out sweat while working every number like it’s the last, and finally The Rolling Stones, probably the only act on hand who could follow the hardest working man in showbiz. This is Brian Jones-era young Stones, not yet seasoned into the bad boys of rock. Even Keith Richards looks (relatively) harmless and unravaged by drugs. And yes, Mick’s snakey legwork and slithery moves can’t match the exhilaration of Brown’s showmanship, but he’s got a different vibe, not yet surly but sassy and silky and confident beyond his years. Just under that pretty face is attitude and sexual energy just waiting to spring forth on America’s impressionable youth.

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There are few no lost masterpieces in Forgotten Noir Vol. 13 (VCI), the latest installment in the DVD series from VCI featuring orphaned crime films from the forties and fifties, and it’s a stretch to even call the films in this double feature “film noir,” but they are intriguing finds. Eye Witness (1950) is a moderately classy and somewhat sluggish murder mystery that has no real film noir credentials. Robert Montgomery directs and stars as a smart-talking American lawyer turned amateur detective in a rural British village, where his Yankee savvy and urban bluntness collides with British restraint and manners. It does have fun with the slang barrier, however, which recalls a classic quote about the American-British relationship: “Two great countries separated by a common language.” Longtime Hitchcock collaborator Joan Harrison produces and you can spot a young Stanley Baker in a bit part as a policeman on the witness stand. The disc is mastered from the “uncut British version” and features the British title on the opening credits: Your Witness.

Breakdown (1952), the sole screen effort by stage director Edmond Angelo, is a low budget and very American quasi-noir boxing drama set against a culture of political corruption and the brutal arena where young boxers are destroyed by greedy managers. The charismatically anemic William Bishop is a hot young boxer sprung from prison by a shady ward boss (Sheldon Leonard, who also narrates) to help out his kid brother, an aspiring boxing manager (Wally Cassell), only to be pressured into fighting the champ in a match he isn’t ready for. Though running a brief 76 minutes and shot on the cheap, it’s more of a low budget indie than an actual B movie. There isn’t much style to this stage adaptation but it moves along at a good clip and leaves more casualties than you might expect. The print quality is unexceptional but fine for both, with a softness to the image, minor print damage and hiss on the soundtracks.

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[Originally published in Eugene Weekly, 1999, reprinted for the DVD new rerelease]

In 1996 composer, producer, and guitar legend Ry Cooder entered Egrem Studios in Havana with the forgotten greats of Cuban music, many of them in their 60s and 70s, some of them long since retired. The resulting album, “The Buena Vista Social Club” (named after a once great but long since defunct Havana music hall) became a Grammy winning international bestseller, bringing this exciting, percussive music to the world, and more importantly bringing it back to Cuba. The album turned the spotlight on long neglected artists and revived dead or defunct careers. In 1998 Cooder returned to Havana to record a solo album by 72 year old vocalist Ibrahim Ferrer (“the Cuban Nat King Cole,” according to Cooder) and as he reassembled his master class of musicians, filmmaker Wim Wenders was on hand to document the occasion.

Curtain call

Wenders splits the film between portraits of the performers, who tell their stories directly to the camera as Wenders wanders the streets and neighborhoods of Havana, and a celebration of the music heard in performance scenes in the studio, in their first concert in Amsterdam, and in their second and final concert at Carnegie Hall. There are some terrific stories in the film. Ibrahim Ferrer, once a major vocalist, was making his living shining shoes when Cooder tracked him down for the album. 80 year old pianist Ruben Gonzalez hadn’t played in ten years and insisted that arthritis prevented him from taking it back up (his subsequent performances dispels that statement immediately). Guitarist/singer Compay Segundo is a father of five at 92 and isn’t giving up hope for a sixth. The way Wenders intercuts their stories with spotlight concert performances gives the audience a taste of their art before introducing the person behind the performer, then concludes with their spotlight performance in concert. The music is marvelous on its own, but the background enriches our experience of the performance.

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On a week as busy as this, you can only cover so much. Here’s what I was able to see. My pick of the week, Criterion’s Blu-ray and DVD special edition of Paris, Texas, is here, but a close runner-up is another Criterion release: Roberto Rossellini’s War Trilogy (Criterion).

Anna Magnani in Rome Open City

Roberto Rossellini had been a journeyman director working within Mussolini’s Italian film industry when he redefined his career and all but inaugurated the neo-realist movement with this trio of films made at the end of World War II. Though he was no partisan, he started working on Rome Open City (1945) before Rome fell to the Allies and shot his drama of partisans fighting the Germans and the Italian Fascists in the streets of the liberated city, amidst the poverty and devastation and uncertainty of the future. Rossellini famously scrounged raw film and unused short ends from American newsreel crews for footage and that’s been the explanation for years of bleary looking prints and home video copies. And yes, the conditions of the shoot have an enormous affect on the finished film; Rossellini only had to point the camera to get a portrait of the hard life on the streets. But while Criterion’s disc is hardly Hollywood Studio crisp, the newly mastered digital transfer, restored from a fine-grain 35mm print, looks better than you’ve likely ever seen it. The same can be said for all the films in the set, which are clean and clear enough to see where Rossellini and his crew made due with out-of-focus and unsteady images and shots grabbed on the fly. The fast newsreel footage is grainier than the film stock he was used to using for his studio films, but it gave Rossellini and his crew a flexibility to shoot in available light on the streets and it gave the images that jolt of documentary immediacy in key scenes.

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Arnaud Desplechin’s mercurial, knotty and cinematically vibrant drama of family dysfunction stirred up over a Christmas gathering was the top film of my Best of the Year list in 2008. Now A Christmas Tale (Criterion) arrives on DVD in a presentation worthy of it. Directing with an even more restless energy than he showed in Kings and Queen, Desplechin sketches out a family tragedy, the untimely death of a first-born, that precedes the story by decades and then only overtly references it a few times, even as the shadow of that death hovers over the film: in the cancer that family matron Junon (Catherine Deneuve) has been diagnosed with, in the fragility of her teenage grandson Paul (Emile Berling), and in the odd sibling dynamics that have caused eldest daughter Elizabeth (Anne Consigny) to, in effect, legally separate herself from her brother Ivan (Mathieu Amalric, in a mesmerizingly manic-depressive performance).

Mathieu Amalric and Catherine Deneuve

“Henri is the disease,” she tells us in one of the film’s direct address monologues, but perhaps the disease is in the blood – the same disease that killed Joseph at age six, the same disease that will eventually kill her mother (even with a bone marrow transplant, which will only give her a few more years; they have the mathematical formula to prove it!), and maybe the same disease that haunts her own son, Paul. For whatever reasons, Paul seeks out his outcast Uncle Henri and invites him to the family Christmas he’s been banished from for five years; this helps stir up quite a holiday nog, complete with a brutal little brawl and a bit of adultery that may come some way to smoothing over a few emotional rough patches.

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The Shield, one of the smartest, edgiest and most uncompromising crime shows on TV, ended its seven-season run in 2008 with a brilliant final season and one of the greatest series finales ever broadcast. Michael Chiklis’ Vic Mackey is one of the most distinctive TV characters ever created, a maverick officer at once corrupt and dedicated, violent and protective, and utterly passionate in his job while lining his pockets on side. But this season, every evil act and dirty deed that Mackey and his Strike Force ever perpetrated comes back on him as his one-time best friend Shane (Walton Goggins) goes on the run and his wife is confronted with the truth of his legacy. Creator Shawn Ryan and his crew keep surprising us with the turns the show takes yet never compromises the integrity of the show, the characters or the world they live in. Watching Vic’s world unravel is riveting, but every character gets to shine as the show takes its final bow. The Shield: Season Seven – The Final Act out on DVD in a four disc box set with commentary on every one of the thirteen episodes by various collections of the cast and crew and a well-made half-hour featurette on the development of the storyline and character arcs of the final season: Nobody Expects to Lose, Nobody Expects to Die: The Shield’s The Final Act.

The Jack Lemmon Film Collection features five comedies made between 1954 and 1964. These are not his most famous films but the earliest in the set chart the development of the young star and the best of them show off the talents that made him such an appealing, attractive leading man before he settled into the exasperated whine of the oppressed everyman in films like The Fortune Cookie, The Odd Couple and The Prisoner of Second Avenue. This collection rediscovers the confident, somewhat cocky yet cheerfully charismatic modern urban single male, a man of wit and wile and a cornerstone of decency. Read more »

This Is Spinal Tap is bad music, bruised egos and brilliant comedy.

“It’s such a fine line between stupid and clever.” — Nigel Tufnel

Rob Reiner walks that fine line in his hilarious mockumentary rockumentary, ostensibly the portrait of a has-been metal band resurrected from a well-deserved obscurity for a disastrous comeback tour.

Improv comedy veterans Michael McKean, Christopher Guest and Harry Shearer don’t just play clueless heavy metal rockers and longtime bandmates David St. Hubbins (lead singer), Nigel Tufnel (lead guitar) and Derek Smalls (bass) offstage, they write and perform their own material with the preening assurance of would-be metal gods. Between the absurdly sexist and metaphorically confused lyrics, they fill the bombastic songs with heavy licks and aimless solos that screech into the stratosphere of self-indulgence.

The most inspired scenes take place away from the crowds, where the eternally adolescent rock stars stumble through creative tensions, girlfriend troubles, absurd touring mishaps, scraps with cynical record executives (Fran Drescher, whining with phony sincerity) and smarmy music promoters (an inspired Paul Shaffer cameo, pleading with the band, “Do me a favor, just kick my ass!”).

There had been countless documentary spoofs before “This Is Spinal Tap,” but this inspired put-on was the first to actually capture the texture and style of real documentary. The actors were let loose to riff on situations and Reiner’s skeleton crew shot it all on the fly. The results were cut into the classic rock doc form, a mix of live concert footage, behind-the-scenes glimpses of the tour (which falls apart before our eyes), introspective interviews with the blissfully unaware subjects and of course the historical survey. The band’s British Invasion knock-off beginnings and flower-power psychedelic detour are captured in pitch-perfect re-creations of mock-archival footage.

The parody was so dead-on that some audiences walked out believing it was all true, and why not? “This Is Spinal Tap” was the first mockumentary to parody an event that had yet to occur: David St. Hubbins and Nigel Tufnel attempt to harmonize on “Heartbreak Hotel” while standing at Elvis’ grave. Who knew that U2 would do it for real years later in their Graceland visit in “Rattle and Hum”?

They are without a doubt the funniest faux band in the movies, and the film is a comedy classic. On a scale of 1 to 10, this is easily an 11.

Originally published as part of the “MSN Cadillac” series.

Rebels With a cause: Rock!

There isn’t another rock documentary in the world like The Kids Are Alright. This is no familiar biographical narrative or historical overview talking about the band’s generation, but a scrappy, vibrant musical portrait painted in the bold colors of rock itself: impassioned lyrics, power chords, crashing drums and smashing guitars.

Diehard fans of the Who argue that they were the most exciting live band in the world (or at the very least in the world of rock ’n’ roll). Director Jeff Stein dedicated himself to capturing the essence of the band through performance, onstage and off.

The Kids Are Alright features no narrator, no conventional interviews, no intimate confessions of artists reflecting back on a life of music. Stein pulls together his portrait almost exclusively from archival sources — concert footage, TV appearances, skits, talk show interviews. He slips back and forth through the band’s career from 1965 to 1978, contrasting the nerdy-looking boys energetically performing early hits on pop programs like “Ready Steady Go!” and “Shindig!” with the dangerous rockers charging up the crowds at the Monterey Pop Festival and Woodstock and the rock legends pumping out “Baba O’Riley” in 1978 with the dynamism of veterans transformed by the power of their own music.

Between shows we see them goof with Tommy Smothers and quip with talk show host Russell Harty. Pete Townshend offers self-effacing comments (“If you stay away from quality, you’ll be all right”), John Entwistle takes a machine gun to a few gold records and Keith Moon plays the prankster in cheeky interludes with Ringo Starr and a rather disinterested dominatrix. Mere months after those segments were shot, Keith Moon died of a drug overdose at the age of 31. Stein’s tribute to Moon is appropriately playful, not a eulogy but a celebration of his life and spirit.

The entire film maintains that spirit and energy, and it explodes in the climactic concert performance of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” staged for the film. The exhausted band was furious for having to return to the stage for one more song and channeled their anger into rock ’n’ roll. The performance is rejuvenating: Townshend bounces and struts and finally slides across the stage like a teenager and Moon recaptures the drum punk of old in his blistering attack on the drum kit. It’s a thrilling climax to the liveliest, most dynamic portrait of a band — or any artist, for that matter — preserved on film. Rock is dead. Long live rock.

Originally published as part of the “MSN Cadillac” series.