Co-created by Trey Parker and Matt Stone, South Park debuted in the late 1990s in the shadow of The Simpsons, but about five or six years into its run on Comedy Central the series lapped its groundbreaking predecessor as the funniest and most consistently shrewd animated peddler of sociopolitical commentary on television. The release of its 11th season on DVD only confirms its ongoing genius, featuring a number of new classic episodes.



Coming off a year in which Parker and Stone memorably assayed the hybrid car craze (“Smug Alert!”), the James Frey memoir debacle (“A Million Little Fibers”), the debate over evolution being taught in school (the two-part “Go God Go”) and the online gaming craze (the groundbreaking “Make Love, Not Warcraft,” portions of which featured the show’s kids doing battle as their animated avatars), the creative bar was set awfully high. Right from the start, though, the 11th season of South Park delivers.

Season opener “With Apologies to Jesse Jackson” finds Randy Marsh, little Stan’s father, appearing on Wheel of Fortune and making a rather unfortunate guess during the game, choosing the word “niggers” instead of “naggers” as the correct answer to the clue “People Who Annoy You.” While Stan tries to understand Token’s feelings on the matter, Randy embarks on a self-centered campaign to ban the word, burdened as he is by the discrimination he feels from being known as “That Nigger Guy.” An amazing, razor-sharp send-up of the Michael Richards/Laugh Factory debacle, the episode is side-splittingly funny (without even getting into Cartman’s battles with a dwarf who comes to speak at the kids’ school), and it makes a powerful social point to boot — African-Americans don’t need whites trying to convince them that they “feel their pain” with respect to racial slurs, they only need them to acknowledge that they’re probably not in a position to truly understand the deep-seated hurtfulness of a word with that much of a nasty, oppressive history.

The next episode, “Cartman Sucks,” finds Cartman pranking an asleep Butters by taking a series of photos of him in sexually compromising positions… including one with his penis in Cartman’s mouth (?!). Naturally, Butters, unaware of any of this, misunderstands the definition of the word “bi-curious,” which prompts his parents to send him to a right-wing de-homosexualization camp. (Paging Ted Haggard!) Another instant classic, this episode attacks religious intolerance and hypocrisy, all while letting Stan and Kyle blister a panicked Cartman — who works to cover up the existence of the photos before they get out — as gay, something he hadn’t considered when mock-fellating Butters.

Other episodes include “Le Petite Tourette,” which finds Cartman learning about Tourette’s Syndrome, and feigning his affliction with it so that he might go around cursing people out (it’s hard to believe it took 11 seasons for Parker and Stone to work this idea in); and “The Snuke,” a faux-political thriller, presented in the style of 24, in which a nuclear weapon is hidden in Hillary Clinton’s… well, I don’t want to spoil it. Bono gets rapped in “More Crap,” wherein Randy battles the U2 frontman for the record of the world’s largest “number two.” (There’s a twist ending here that helps save this otherwise bizarrely personal salvo against Bono, along with the fact that crap sizes are measured in “Courics,” as in Katie.)

Tackling, in (relatively) epic visual scope, the spectre of terrorism as applied to a literal war on the mind, the three-episode “Imaginationland” arc is the 11th season’s putative sociopolitical highwater mark, but in fact the aforementioned “With Apologies to Jesse Jackson” is probably the most focused, eviscerating political statement on this set. Running a close second is the equally hilarious “Night of the Living Homeless” (above), a zombie movie send-up in which shuffling, change-needing homeless folk overrun South Park, scaring the bejesus out of the locals and forcing the kids to again save the day.

Spread out over three discs, and housed, like previous seasonal releases, in expansive gatefold packaging in a nice (and this time light purple) cardboard slipcase, the DVD extras here consist only of episodic mini-commentaries by Stone and Parker. Running several minutes apiece, these introductions contain a few bon mots here and there, like the fact that “Imaginationland” was originally thought of as potentially another long-form movie idea. The series itself is of course the main thing, with enough legitimate laughs to sincerely earn repeat-viewing enjoyment. That said, a bit more behind-the-scenes material on these sets would really send the collectible factor through the roof. To purchase the DVD via Amazon, click here. A+ (Show) C+ (Discs)

Muhammad Ali: Made in Miami takes what at first blush might seem a rather tenuous hypothesis — that the city helped make the man — and makes diverting enough, micro-biographic hay out of it that one doesn’t hold the lasting credibility of the thesis (only half run up the flagpole to begin with) too much against it. It is what it so obviously is — merely a lens through which this hour-long PBS title can cast backwards glances, and examine one of the more inherently intriguing cultural figures of the 50 years.

In 1960, a young, hungry, Olympic gold medal-winning boxer named Cassius Clay came to Miami, determined to become a professional world heavyweight champion. In the end, he became something more — a towering legend, a figure who transcended his sport. Blending together period piece footage with modern-day interviews, this film chronicles Clay’s life in Overtown — a neighborhood considered “Harlem South” in days gone by — his affiliation with and training at the famed Fifth Street Gym in Miami Beach, and his adoption of the black separatist teachings of the nation of Islam, which of course led to him changing his name to Muhammad Ali. The film also includes a consideration of Ali’s friendship with Malcolm X, his famed encounter with the Beatles, his dramatic victory over heavyweight champion Sonny Liston and his subsequent refusal to fight in the Vietnam War — all episodes that played out, to one degree or another, in this bustling southern Florida city, which Ali enjoyed for its cuisine and weather as much as its gregarious locals.

The talking-head boxing stuff in Muhammad Ali: Made in Miami is fairly old hat, having been well chewed over by all sorts of ESPN and Sports Century retrospectives over the past decade. Even if you know just the broad strokes of the run-up to the Liston fight, the detail here is garnish, additional color that pales next to the colorful banter of Ali in general. Much more interesting is the additional shading provided on Ali’s relationship with Malcolm X, a friendship that was (and is, owing to the fact one was taken from us long ago by an assassin’s bullet, and the other more or less so by disease) widely misunderstood. Ali’s quest for enlightenment and spiritual peace wasn’t some lark, and it’s interesting to ponder what would have developed had the two had an opportunity to remain close.

Housed in a regular Amray case, Muhammad Ali: Made in Miami comes presented in a 1.78:1 widescreen format, enhanced for 16×9 televisions. The English language 2.0 stereo mix more than adequately handles its meager aural demands, and in addition to a preview trailer, there’s also a supplemental featurette — a conversation with the film’s writer-producers, Gaspar Gonzalez and Alan Tomlinson. To purchase the disc via Amazon, click here. B- (Movie) C+ (Disc)

In 1940, relentless and punishing Nazi air strikes had Great Britain on its knees. The Royal Air Force was desperate for planes, and their supply of U.S. aircraft, sent on ship convoys, had been sunk in the icy Atlantic Ocean by prowling German U-boats. In response, a remarkable decision was made — to fly the planes individually across the unforgiving expanse of sea. Because of the official position of American neutrality, a message went out through only the “aviation grapevine” — that a secret operation in Montreal needed experienced civilian pilots. The benefits were irresistible — a large paycheck, a chance to fly the latest aircraft, and a vital and important job in aiding America’s ally to boot — but the risks were also colossal. These so-called cowboys of the air are among the forgotten heroes of World War II, can-do volunteers who embodied the improvisational spirit that was key to the eventual Allied victory.

Narrated by Carlo Rota, Flying the Secret Sky tells their story — of passionate, risk-taking young men braving treacherous winter skies over the North Atlantic in primitive, unarmed airplanes. Told largely by the pilots themselves, including one American civilian who ferried about Winston Churchill, this 75-minute film uses never-before-seen home movies and rare footage of the “Ferry Command” aircraft and crews to reveal one of the great unknown stories of both WW II and aviation history in general — the secret transfer of hundreds of military aircraft. Director William Vanderkloot skillfully interweaves the personal anecdotes into a compelling larger tapestry, and composer James Oliverio’s original work subtly underscores the tension of some of these voyages.

Housed in a regular Amray case, Flying the Secret Sky is presented in 16×9 anamorphic widescreen. There are unfortunately no supplemental bonus features, but for history buffs interested in more than just the formal, macro-picture provided in textbooks, this is a compelling documentary. To purchase the disc via Amazon, click here. B (Movie) C- (Disc)