The Wrap Up ...
No Country For Old Men	It took me a while to catch up with this year's Best Picture winner. Relying only on commercials and trailers, I expected Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh to be an inarticulate brute, a force of nature who plowed through obstacles with the same unrelenting force as Israeli tanks through Gaza. Instead, I found him to be rather charming … for a sociopath, anyway. I also was surprised to learn how precisely the title, No Country for Old Men, summed up the message delivered in Cormac McCarthy's novel and the Coens' film. The idea that America has become a far too dangerous, greedy and unpredictable place to live, even for those who come to work armed with a handgun, baton and mace, will hardly come as news to lovers of police dramas and crime fiction. For years, movies and television shows have diagnosed the same malady among big-city cops, many of whom now are content to do their 20 and split immediately for a cottage in Idaho. Chigurh appears to be someone who might have been more comfortable among the murderous Columbians and Cubans depicted in Scarface, than in the American desert where the region's outlaw past is treated with the same reverence as Al Capone's legacy is protected by Chicagoans. The West isn't much of a country for young drug thugs, either. Even so, look for more contemporary hoodlums to adapt his tres-cool weapon of choice, the captive-bolt pistol. The marvelous thing about No Country for Old Man is the forward momentum maintained by the Coens throughout its two-hour length. The aura of dread and dementia is palpable, even as Tommy Lee Jones and the other good ol' boys get all nostalgic about the good ol' days, before mass heroin and cocaine trade, when banks and trains provided the targets for outlaws. The arid physical and moral landscape of the west Texas and New Mexico - as integral a character as any human in the film - is so splendidly rendered by cinematographer Roger Deakins, one can easily imagine Billy the Kid surveying the same territory 100 years prior to Chigurh's arrival. The bonus features offer little more than what can be found in an EPK or on a HBO preview. The better stuff will arrive in short order, I expect. -- Gary Dretzka
Sleuth	By further depopulating the cast of Anthony Schaffer's already spare whodunit, Sleuth, director Kenneth Branagh and adaptor Harold Pinter have stripped the dusty theatrical piece to its bare essentials. Michael Caine plays Andrew Wyke, a writer of popular mysteries, who, when confronted by his wife's lover, the marginally employed actor Milo Tindle (Jude Law), begins to think and act like one his more clever protagonists. The two rivals start out underestimating the other's intelligence and capacity for evil, but learn they'll have think quickly and act like an animal caught in a trap to survive. Branagh's contemporization of Sleuth is most obvious in Celia Bobak's sleek and ultra-modern interior design of Wyke's otherwise traditional country estate. In addition to an elaborate security system, the rooms in Wyke's cold and esthetically intimidating abode are accented with sheets of glass, crystal and metal sculptures, and furniture that defies comfort. Otherwise, Sleuth remains a battle of wits between two sharp and cunning English gentlemen. The verbal thrusts and parries are consistently delightful, even as the plot's credibility wanes in the final reels. One conceit that might be lost on younger viewers was the casting of Caine as the intellectually sadistic novelist. In the 1972 adaptation, the ever-appealing cockney played Tindle opposite Laurence Olivier. Those watching on Blu-ray platforms will especially enjoying seeing how brilliantly cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos plays off the sharp angles and glassy surfaces of Bobak's designs. -- Gary Dretzka
Into the Wild: Two-Disc Special Collector's Edition Deep Water Khadak	Wanna get away … really get away? Here are three fascinating movies that will take you to places so remote, desolate and unforgiving you'll immediately want to book a flight to Hong Kong or New York City, just to be jostled around by human beings. The most familiar of these films, of course, is Sean Penn's screen adaptation of Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild. While much of the movie follows Christopher McCandless (Emile Hirsch) around the lower 48 as he earns money for provisions, the more punishing half takes place in the vast Alaskan wilderness. Even seasoned outdoors enthusiasts know not to mess with Mother Nature in such ways. I don't think I'm giving anything away by pointing out how difficult it is sit back and watch a fool-hardy aesthetic voyager discover for himself the limitations of hubris. In McCandless' pursuit of true freedom, he rejects common sense and pays the price with his life. The challenge for audiences came in determining for themselves whether McCandless' was someone to be admired or pitied. Penn's in-your-face directorial style required viewers to take a good hard look at the young man's sanity from Day One, when he blew off graduate school and donated his entire $24,000 savings account to charity. Then, he purposefully cut off all communication with his family, relying, instead, on the kindness of strangers. McCandless nearly wins us over when turns the abandoned school bus into a wilderness home for the long Alaskan winter, but anyone with even a passing awareness of Krakauer's book will already know that the young man lacked certain necessary survivor skills. Alaska plays its part very well, thanks, in large part, to French cinematographer Eric Gautier. The second disc adds featurettes The Story, The Characters and The Experience, and a trailer. Not much, considering the epic nature of Penn's project. Wanna get away even further? Louise Osmond and Jerry Rothwell's spell-binding documentary, Deep Water, chronicles the around-the-world sailing competition sponsored in 1968 by the Times of London. The catch: the winning sailor must complete the race alone and without stopping. Considering that the nine contestants were without the navigation and communications tools available to today's voyagers, the nearly year-long journey was especially challenging. The film focuses on Robin Knox-Johnston, who finished first by averaging 92 miles a day for 312 days (28,704 miles); Bernard Moitessier, who, incredibly, changed directions before reaching England and headed instead for Tahiti, another 10,000 miles away; and Donald Crowhurst, a relative amateur, whose attempt to pull a Rosie Ruiz ended in disaster. Several of the boats, Crowhurst's included, were outfitted with 16mm motion-picture cameras and tape recorders, and the material remains quite remarkable. The extras include interviews with several of the participants and surviving family members, friends and journalists, as well as footage taken by the sailors; news reels; diaries, audio tapes, ship logs, still photos and an interactive tour of Crowhurst's vessel. The frozen steppes of Mongolia, as seen in Khadak, are as bleak and barren as Penn's Alaska was green and bountiful. The nomadic villagers exist much the same way as their ancestors have done for centuries, going all the way back to Attila his own bad self. The men toil as herdsmen, while the women cook and do chores that are in no way menial. The people we meet here are not unaware of the creature comforts available in more industrialized parts of their country, but most want no part of them. One day, military police in protective clothing inform the herders that their stock is suffering from a disease that can be transferred to humans. Not only have they been authorized to eradicate the animals, but they've also been told to transfer the villagers to housing that makes their yurts look like Club Med. Bagi is a herdsman with a gift for finding lost animals. His epileptic episodes are diagnosed by the local shaman as a means for his ancestors to deliver messages to the living. She also believes his ability to hear the cry of distressed animals suggests he become a shaman, too. His supernatural talents help him rescue a young woman buried under a pile of coal in a moving train. After being arrested at ride's end, they are reunited with his relatives and her theatrical troupe. Trapped in the hellish confines of the residential units, Bagi is tormented by sounds of dead souls and has another seizure. When the shaman re-appears, all sorts of magical, mystical and counter-revolutionary stuff begins to happen, turning Khadak into something resembling a Carlos Castaneda peyote mind-trip. Shot entirely on location, and in frigid conditions, Khadak is beautifully photographed. The musical score, clearly inspired by Philip Glass, adds greatly to the supernatural atmosphere.
Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium	In the 34-year interval between the release of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - adaptations of the same Roald Dahl book - several very decent movies have explored the fantastical realms of enchanted confectionaries and toy stores. Conceptually, anyway, my favorite was The Toy, in which a retail mogul, played by Jackie Gleason, allowed his terminally spoiled son to pick anything he wanted in the toy department. The brat, an aspiring Republican, no doubt, chose a down-on-his luck black janitor (Richard Pryor). Then, too, seven years before Tom Hanks lent his voice to Woody, in Toy Story, he portrayed a 13-year-old boy, who couldn't wait to get Big. Voila, one morning he wakes up in the body of a 35-year-old. Among the memorable scenes in Penny Marshall's comedy was a playful romp on a giant keyboard in F.A.O. Schwarz, where Hanks' character finally was free to act his age. Almost all such movies resemble Pinocchio, in which a wooden toy dreams of becoming a real boy, and The Wizard of Oz, in which Dorothy is given a choice between staying with her new friends in a magical kingdom or returning to Tornado Alley, Kansas. In Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium, writer-director Zach Helm not only gives us an enchanted toy store, but an impossibly upbeat 243-year-old proprietor (Dustin Hoffman). Sensing it's time to ascend to the big toy box in the sky, Magorium bequeaths the property to his sparkle-deficient assistant, Molly (Natalie Portman). Freaked out by being handed such a huge responsibility, and learning of the decades' worth of debts left behind by her boss, Molly must choose between going with her heart or head, which is telling her to sell the store asap. Is there any question which way will Molly go? Hoffman is at his eccentric best as Magorium, even if he doesn't disappear quite as far into the role as Gene Wilder and Johnny Depp were able to do as Willy Wonka. The real star of the show is the bright and brilliantly colored store, as conceived by Thérèse DePrez and decorated by Clive Thomasson. It's simply marvelous. Kid viewers will delight in the antics of the toys, while adults will appreciate the effort that went into collecting the vintage toys, dolls and games. The bonus package is loaded with interesting making-of material, interviews and set tours. -- Gary Dretzka
101 Dalmatians: Two-Disc Platinum Edition The Easter Bunny Is Coming to Town Pat the Bunny: Playdates Unstable Fables: 3 Pigs and a Baby	Half the fun of being a Boomer parent came in introducing little Boomlets to the very same toys, movies and music that kept them amused in the '50s and '60s. It kept mom and dad feeling young, and provided a bonding experience … whether their children wanted one or not. It wasn't until the tykes began embracing gangster rap, hyper-violent video games and nonsensical Japanese cartoons that parents were left in the dust. Now, of course, it's the Boomlets of Boomlets who are being forced to relive the youths of their GrandBoomers grandparents. Fortunately, digital technology now provides 21st Century kids with infinitely more entertainment options than even their parents' generation. Made in 1961, Disney's 101 Dalmatians was recycled through theaters four times, before video cassettes rendered the distribution strategy obsolete. Since 1992, it has enjoyed limited releases in approximately the same eight-year-interval pattern, easily making the transition from VHS to DVD … inevitably to be followed by Blu-ray and downloading. And, yet, even considering the various live-action and straight-to-video adaptations, there is a timeless appeal to watching Pongo and Perdita rescue their litter of puppies from Cruella De Vil. Like most other Disney re-releases in the DVD, the two-disc 101 Dalmations: Platinum Edition adds the kind of interactive extras, and upgraded sound and video treatments, that keep such packages fresh and up to date. They include a virtual-kennel game that allows kids to adopt their own puppy; a modern Selena Gomez music video of Cruella DeVil; the trivia-oriented 101 Pop Up Facts for Families and 101 Pop Up Facts for Fans; 11 making-of featurettes; a discussion of Disney's adoption of the more economical Xerography process; a dramatization of the correspondence between author Dodie Smith and Uncle Walt; and a Music and More feature, with deleted and abandoned songs. Shown first on television in 1977, The Easter Bunny is Comin' to Town is notable primarily for the narration of Fred Astaire, whose job it was to explain to children the origins of the Easter Bunny myth and other non-religious traditions. Animation connoisseurs can appreciate the stop-action techniques employed by Rankin/ Bass Productions, which, in 1970, had also created Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town. Even Great-GrandBoomers will be familiar with Pat the Bunny, a touch and feel book that's been used as a development tool for young children since its publication in 1940. In addition to the iconic touchy-feely cover, the new Playdates DVD includes interactive activities for kids and parents, as well as original music and songs. The Jim Henson Company's new Unstable Fables series begins with 3 Pigs and a Baby, in which the Three Little Pigs adopt a wolf cub left on their doorstep. Is the young'un a godsend, or is it a Trojan horse? The CGI-animated Unstable Fables would seem to have been inspired by Fractured Fairy Tales, from the '60s staple, Rocky and His Friends. Given the studio's genealogy, though, Rocky and Bullwinkle might very well have owed a debt of gratitute to the Muppets. -- Gary Dretzka
Things We Lost in the Fire	In Susanne Bier's intense middle-class drama, Things We Lost in the Fire, David Duchovny plays the world's greatest dad and husband. His Brian Burke is so decent, in fact, that it soon becomes clear he won't make it out of the first reel … otherwise, where's the movie? Halle Berry plays Audrey, Burke's devastated wife and mother of their two young children. Brian's funeral will be well attended, but Audrey is reluctant to invite her husband's best friend Jerry, a junkie and charming ne'er-do-well. She blames Jerry (Benicio Del Toro) for Brian's death, and can't understand why God would take a model husband and left behind a lawyer-turned-junkie. Brian was paying a visit to his pal's flophouse apartment, when an attempt to play Good Samaritan backfired. In the next hour-and-a-half, Audrey and Jerry demand we share their journey to recovery from addiction: he, from heroin; she, from debilitating sorrow and anger. Jerry doesn't need the rage of his best friend's wife to make him feel like he's a piece of crap. He's required to admit to as much at his NA meetings. As part of Audrey's exercise in self-therapy she invites Jerry to share their large suburban home and keep an eye out for each other - and the heart-broken children -- as Brian would have wanted her to do. It proves to be as difficult to pull off in reality, as it is in theory. Things We Lost in the Fire isn't a romance, and the usual clichéd paths to recovery aren't followed by the Danish director. Berry and Del Toro's performances are very convincing, as are those of fellow-addict Alison Lohman, neighbor John Carroll Lynch and the cute-as-a-button kids. Bier, whose After the Wedding was nominated for an Oscar in 1977, tends to go overboard with extreme close-ups and similar tricks, but her feel for the characters' struggles is exemplary. Take a happy pill and give her film a test drive. -- Gary Dretzka
Blue State If all the American liberals who vowed to move to Canada if George W. Bush was, 1) elected President of the United States, and/or, 2) re-elected, Vancouver might now rival Mexico City as the largest metropolitan area in the western hemisphere. That hasn't happened, of course, but there's still time. In his first feature, Blue State, writer-director Marshall Lewy calls the bluff of one such Bush-basher, John Logue (Breckin Meyer), whose friends and colleagues pretty much insist he live up to his empty pledge. John finds a traveling companion in Chloe (Anna Paquin), who's heading north for her reasons. As road movies go, Blue State won't make anyone forget Easy Rider, but forward momentum is maintained by having new secrets are revealed at nearly every pit stop along the way north. While significant to the characters, most of the revelations are neither logical nor believable. Moreover, some of people they meet along the road, including a Canadian Dolly Levi and wanna-be presidential assassin are cartoonish. The interaction between Meyer and Paquin, however, is consistently credible and often compelling. The extras are limited to commentary and previews of coming attractions. -- Gary Dretzka
My Kid Could Paint That The Monastery: Mr Vig & The Nun 1968/20 to Life: Life and Times of John Sinclair The UCLA Dynasty/ High School Phenoms, Vol. 2: Top of the Class Coma Blame it on Pollock … no, blame Warhol … no, blame Picasso. At some unspecified point in the 20th Century, everyone in America became an art critic. No matter if most amateur arbiters of public taste couldn't tell the difference between a Rauschenberg painting and a Rorschach splatter, they knew what they liked and ridiculed anything they hadn't the patience to understand. Their rallying cry could be summed in five words, my kid could paint that, even if they couldn't. Not only could 4-year-old Marla Olmstead paint a reasonable facsimile of an Abstract-Expressionist masterpiece, but a local Binghampton, N.Y., gallery owner also was able to find plenty of people willing to fork over thousands of dollars for what essentially was a novelty item. Enter the media. The New York Times would pick up a story about Marla, published in a community newspaper, and its imprimatur inspired a feeding frenzy led by talk-show hosts and human-interest reporters constantly in search of freaks, geeks and precocious children. As sure as night follows day - or vice versa -a contrarian Grinch eventually would have to emerge to reveal the evil motivations of the post-toddler and protect the republic from low-brow culture. Not surprisingly, perhaps, CBS' 60 Minutes would be the first outlet to ride to the rescue. It sicced the ever-pompous and self-absorbed Charlie Rose on little Marla, who, he declared, couldn't possibly have produced such worthy canvases without the aid of her dad. Well, duh.( 60 Minutes is always at its best when exposing poseurs, charlatans and crooks not associated with CBS and other Viacom interests.) Rose's report effectively killed the market for original Marla's, and set her parents up for scorn, derision and lawsuits … not that they had twisted anyone's arm to buy a painting, or characterized it as anything more than the work of a child. Coincidentally, documentarian Amir Bar-Lev had already been in contact with the Olmsteads and was working on family human-interest story that would raise the question asked by the title of his documentary. His camera was able to capture the look on the faces of Marla's parents when Rose declared the girl's paintings to be a sham, and their subsequent humiliation. Instead of taking their money and crawling back into the woodwork, the Mark Olmstead attempted to clear his name and that of his daughter - who, seemingly, couldn't care less - by agreeing to allow a hidden camera to monitor on Marla's process. It worked, sort of, because the paintings she made - while not up to her usual stuff - passed several other sniff tests and were sold to lovers of work by 4-year-olds and/or investors. Still, the bitter aftertaste left by the media assault on the Olmsteads -- and Rose's implied condemnation of connoisseurs of middle-brow art - is palpable. The extras include interviews with key participants after the film was screened for them prior to theatrical release. Once again, in Pernille Rose Grønkjær's offbeat documentary, The Monastery: Mr Vig & the Nun - a film that recalls the Maysles' Grey Garden -- truth proves better than fiction. The subject of her film is an eccentric Danish octogenarian, J. Lauersen Vig, whose long, shaggy beard resembles those worn by pioneering Mormon elders, and who's never met a woman he cared to date, let alone marry or engage in sexual intercourse. The old coot has been living alone for more than 40 years on the overgrown estate that also is home to the Hesbjerg Castle. What 40 years ago set Vig back only a few thousand dollars now was worth a fortune to developers, whose first act probably would be to demolish the magnificent, if dilapidated mansion. Instead, Vig hopes to realize a long-held dream, by donating it to the Moscow Patriarchate of the Russian Orthodox Church for use as a monastery. Normally, this wouldn't be much of problem, especially in the U.S., where churches will gladly accept used cars, motor boats and real estate, which, then, can be traded for cash. In this case, though, Church officials hesitated investing a pile of cash in a property that primarily would be used for non-revenue-producing purposes, however holy. For his part, Vig seems perfectly willing to accept the free labor provided by the nuns and novitiates, as long as he would be allowed to play puppet master over the repairs and grounds. Vig may appear to be a recluse, but, in fact, he's computer savvy and just as reliant on his cellphone as everyone else on the planet. Among the nuns sent to evaluate the property and jump-start the rehab process is one Sister Amvrosija, who is as headstrong as Vig is crotchety. They both are working towards a common goal, but neither party is comfortable with compromise. It makes for a combustible, if irresistible partnership, as well as a compelling filmic experience. The 1960s may be the single-most analyzed, hyper-inflated and agonized-over decade in the history of mankind. Largely, this is a function of the confluence of electronic media, the coming-of-age of the Baby Boomer generation, the emergence of a sustainable counter-culture, the ascendency of rock 'n' roll and independent cinema, and the de-stigmatizing of psychotherapy and alternative medicine. In the History Channel's 1968, former NBC News anchor Tom Brokaw comes to the hardly shocking conclusion that this particular year was the epicenter of change in the tumultuous decade. (It can be seen as a companion to his book, Boom! Voices of the Sixties: Personal Recollections of the '60s & Today.) The archival material and testimony of the usual subjects is fine, as far as it goes. Like most representatives of the mainstream media have traditionally done, Brokaw and the History Channel chose to ignore what was happening in the streets of Paris, Bonn, Montreal, Buenos Aires and Mexico City, where greater threats to the status quo were thwarted by tyrants who made LBJ and Richard Nixon look like Gandhi. Of course, that might have required another two hours of time, and most mainstream viewers would be unprepared for an avalanche of facts that had previously gone unreported in this country. Still, it would be difficult to make an uninteresting documentary about 1968, and Brokaw is just the kind of guy who can make history lessons palatable. In 1969, left-wing activist John Sinclair was sentenced to 10 years in prison after giving - not selling, giving - two joints to an undercover narcotics officer. The bust demonstrated the lengths to which officials in Michigan and Washington could go to eliminate radicals who operated outside the glare of network cameras. As chairman of the White Panther Party, which didn't have much sway outside Ann Arbor and Detroit, Sinclair was more of an annoyance than a legitimate threat to the republic. In prison, however, the profile of the former manager of the MC5 - perhaps, the first real punk-rock band - was elevated to that of a political prisoner and spokesman for a generation of pot smokers. Two years after he was incarcerated, the John Sinclair Freedom Rally attracted a throng of supporters and such luminaries as John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Stevie Wonder, Bob Seger, Phil Ochs, Allen Ginsberg and Bobby Seale. The attention paid to that rally by an increasingly celebrity-obsessed media caused Michigan authorities to rethink the efficacy of keeping Sinclair in prison, and he was released soon thereafter. Today, he's returned to his musicologist routes and, among other endeavors, podcasts from his adopted Dutch home at www.RadioFreeAmsterdam.com. His authorized biopic is told effectively in the music-heavy biopic, 20 to Life, from director Steve Gebhardt and editor Tom Hayes. Legendary UCLA basketball coach John Wooden never will be confused with John Sinclair, Abbie Hoffman or, even, his Grateful Dead-loving All-American Bill Walton. Between 1964 and 1975, however, his coaching methods and inspirational observations of life on and off the hardwood floor, held the attention of athletes who couldn't help but have one eye focused on the inner-city streets and campuses across the nation. This was no mean feat. The UCLA Dynasty revisits the glory years, and the meteoric rise in popularity of collegiate basketball among students, alumni and gamblers in the wake of the Wooden years. UCLA teams often featured athletes from places where surfing couldn't be used as a legitimate excuse to skip class. Newspaper coverage of the courtship of New York City phenom Lew Alcindor (Kareem Abdul-Jabbar), in 1966, inspired future generations of grown-up reporters, analysts and bloggers to treat high school athletes as if they had already accomplished something noteworthy, and could articulate their feelings about anything beyond whose shoe they're wearing this season. The second edition of ESPN's High School Phenoms adds footage of such soon-to-be stars as Kevin Garnett, Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant, Greg Oden and Carlos Boozer, as well as interviews and commentary. HBO's Coma documents the efforts of doctors, nurses, therapists and family members as they attempt to speed the recovery of four patients undergoing treatment for traumatic brain injuries at the Center for Head Injuries at JFK Medical Center. Liz Garbus' team followed their emergence from a coma into a persistent vegetative state, a minimally conscious state or something closer to normalcy. The DVD also tells the story of Willie Hicks, whose recovery was more pronounced. -- Gary Dretzka
The Yacoubian Building This movie is for anyone who's ever wondered, as I have, what life must be like in a country such as Egypt and Turkey, where the delicate balance between western and eastern influences, fundamentalists and co-religionists, rich and poor, is threatening to swing to one extreme or another. Set in and around an actual Cairo landmark hotel, during the early '90s, The Yacoubian Building goes a long way toward shedding a sliver of light, at least, on the impact on society of such conflicting forces. In the 1930s, when Egypt was still a monarchy, the edifice was considered to be quite the place to stay in and be seen. It still stands today, but the neighborhood has gone to seed. In the movie, it's clear that building provides a bridge between old and new. We know that Anwar Sadat has already been assassinated by Islamist elements in the military, and the secular republic is endangered. Even so, many residents continue to live with one foot, at least, in the past. They interpret the Koran to fit their personal tastes, favorite vices and business ethics. Women are allowed to dress as they like, but there's no question the live in a man's world. In adapting the best-selling novel by Alaa' Al-Aswany, screenwriter Wahid Hamid and director Marwan Hamed have positioned the Yacoubian and its tenants at the crossroads of change, while also spinning off relatives and lovers with stories of their own to tell. Through them, we meet corrupt politicians and brutal police, jihadis and moderate clerics, prostitutes, homosexuals, hashish fiends, whiskey sippers and con artists. This community thrives, even in decay. At nearly three hours in length, The Yacoubian Building poses a stern test for American viewers, who will find the production values to be comparatively primitive. It works better as a mini-series, anyway, so don't be shy about hitting the stop button every 45 minutes, or so, and picking up the story a day later. -- Gary Dretzka
En La Cama (In Bed) Movies don't get much more intimate than the sexy Chilean dramedy, En La Cama. It's set entirely in a downscale motel room - on a bed and in a bathtub -- and the cast list includes only two names, those of Blanca Lewin and Gonzalo Valenzuela. Their characters had just met each other at a party, and the sexual attraction between them was immediate. Our introduction to Daniela and Bruno comes pretty much in mid-thrust, and director Matias Bize quickly assures viewers desperately searching for backstories that we already know as much about the lovers as they do about each other. And, this includes their names. Since we're starting on equal footing with the characters, Bize allows viewers to come to make up their own minds about things revealed in the spaces between orgasms, of which there are several. The actors display real sexual chemistry, and convincingly withhold the secrets that keep the narrative moving forward. Couples will especially enjoy sharing their opinions on the characters' motivations... and credibility as lovers. The featurettes include rehearsal sessions, which are quite revelatory, and an award-winning short by Bize. -- Gary Dretzka
TCM Archives: Forbidden Hollywood Collection, Vol. 2 12 Angry Men I sometimes wonder how the content in American movies would have evolved, if the studios hadn't become signatories to the now-infamous Hollywood Production Code. The way things were going politically, economically and religiously at end of the Roaring '20s, it was inevitable that someone's bubble was going to burst. Instead of hiring a smooth-talking, good-ol'-boy pragmatist -- like the late Jack Valenti -- to flatter Congress and buy off the priests, the studios imported a Republican functionary who wasn't afraid to stick needles in Hollywood's pet balloons. Former Postmaster General Will Hays allowed himself to be used as a tool for the right-wingers, anti-Semites and fire-breathing clergy who were emboldened by the smear campaign against Fatty Arbuckle and the public's contempt for Hollywood laissez faire morality. The first target of the self-styled censors became the unprecedented level of violence in the gangster genre. They would fret, as well, over the bawdy dialogue in talkie melodramas and the absence of retribution for women of loose morals. A half-century later, Valenti's ratings board considers sexual imagery to be far more dangerous than the bloodbaths, rapes and carnage perpetrated in war, sci-fi and vigilante movies. The movies in the second installment of TMC's Forbidden Hollywood Collection carry such suggestive titles as The Divorcee (1930), A Free Soul (1931), Night Nurse (1931), Three on a Match (1932) and Female (1933). Some of the screen's most prominent names appeared on the marquees for these oh-so-scandalous pictures, and a few even received Oscars for their efforts. The A-listers included Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Blondell, Clark Gable, Chester Morris, Norma Shearer, Robert Montgomery, Conrad Nagel, Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Lionel Barrymore, Leslie Howard, Ruth Chatterton and George Brent. The men tended to portray heels and suckers, while the women dressed like flappers and engaged in revenge sex, adultery and promiscuity. The female characters' greatest sin, however, was not paying the price for their misbehavior. The documentary, Thou Shalt Not: Sex, Sin and Censorship in Pre-Code Hollywood does a thorough job explaining how and why things changed so dramatically with the Hays Code, and the decades-long struggle for normalcy. Sidney Lumet and Reginald Rose's classic jury-room drama, 12 Angry Men, is no stranger to the DVD marketplace. This time around, however, the package adds commentary by film historian Drew Casper and the featurettes, Beyond a Reasonable Doubt: Making '12 Angry Men' and Inside the Jury Room. Any citizen who's been summoned to perform their civic duty would do well to screen 12 Angry Men beforehand, as it demonstrates how serious and rewarding an obligation jury duty can be. It also makes a hero out of the lone dissenter, who questions the evidence even after 11 of his peers have formed their own opinions. Today, jury duty is a service looked upon favorably only by bored retirees, employees of the federal government - for whom it's like a paid vacation - and those idealists who believe the system still works … at least, until they're excluded from a jury for being too well read and suspiciously intelligent. Lumet's claustrophobic direction, alongside great performances by Henry Fonda, Lee J. Cobb, Martin Balsam, Jack Warden, E.G. Marshall and Ed Begley, provide sufficient reason for anyone else to check it out, too. -- Gary Dretzka