One of the benefits of the DVD format is undeniably the
grouping of what might be termed minor chord work, thus allowing for more full-fledged
experimentation without feeling like one is getting ripped off. Certainly this
is true of the new disc from distributor First Run Features which brings together two
portraits of artists from underappreciated dabbler Allan Miller, one of America’s
foremost documentary chroniclers of classical music. Winner of a short-form
Academy Award, 1973’s The Bolero offers
up an intimate portrait of Los Angeles Philharmonic conductor Zubin Mehta at
work, while In Search of Cézanne asks
how much knowledge is necessary to justify one’s artistic likes and dislikes.

One of the most honored films of its kind, The Bolero captures the essence of an
orchestra, trading in a style that regional documentarians like Raul Abellanio
would later adapt to chronicle the simple, workaday rituals of migrant farmhands.
In over-the-shoulder fashion, producer Miller (Small Wonders, From Mao To
Mozart: Isaac Stern in China) and co-director William Fertik focus on Mehta
as he prepares to conduct the Los Angeles Philharmonic in a stellar performance
of Ravel’s classic, titular composition. Viewers are given insights into the
music, the workings of a great orchestra, and leadership style and teamwork,
all by observing a world renowned conductor in rehearsal and performance. Running
just over 25 minutes, the movie explores new ways to keep music in the
foreground, chiefly trading in extreme close-ups that give new contact with
each performer and their music. The
Bolero introduces each musician and instrument as a distinct personality
rather than an anonymous member of an anonymous group and in doing so helps feed
viewers’ understanding of music as an organic, collaborative and symbiotic undertaking.
By smartly saving shots of Mehta for the end, the film delays its climax to match
that of Ravel’s passionate score.

In Search of Cézanne
is an exploration of the life and legacy of 19th century French painter Paul
Cézanne, as seen through the eyes of a young female documentary filmmaker who
is just discovering his work. Traveling from New York
to Paris and to Cézanne’s hometown
in the south of France, meeting scholars and family of Cézanne at each stop,
her journey is a satisfying inquiry into artistic expression and its
appreciation. In the progress of this search, the film interweaves over 45 of
Cézanne’s paintings, photographed with careful attention to color and detail.

Housed in a regular Amray case in a snap-hinge tray, The Bolero/In Search of Cézanne is
presented in full-screen, and runs in aggregate under an hour. A brief text biography
of Miller, notes on the films and trailers are the only air-quote supplemental
extras. A chat with the man himself or a more comprehensive mini-doc would certainly have been a welcome
inclusion, but it doesn’t sully this release. For more information, phone (800) 229-8575, or to purchase the title via Amazon, simply click here. B- (Movies) C+ (Disc)

A half-hour soap dramedy from gay cable net Logo revolving
around a quartet of gym-sculpted, homosexual, African-American West
Hollywoodites, Noah’s Arc isn’t necessarily
in what one might characterize my diversionary entertainment wheelhouse. That’s
OK, though. Downplaying the “bitch factor” that still plagues gay characters on
many mainstream, regular broadcast “straight” shows, Noah’s Arc charts the personal and professional lives of its
regulars with aplomb and style.

Per its official Logo web site,
Noah’s Arc centers on its titular
protagonist (Darryl Stephens), a struggling screenwriter who believes he’s
finally found lasting love in a relationship with a newly out man, Wade (Jensen
Atwood). Noah’s hopeless romanticism is put to the test by his friends Alex
(Rodney Chester), Ricky (Christian Vincent) and Chance (Douglas Spearman), all
of whom constantly remind him of the pitfalls of getting involved with a gay
newbie. Nevertheless, Noah is determined to try to make it work, no matter the
cost.

Loud, opinionated and unfailingly loyal, Alex is an HIV/AIDS
educator and the de-facto matriarch of the group — involved in a seemingly
happy, seven-year relationship with registered nurse Trey (Gregory Keith).
Shaven-headed college professor Chance seemingly has a similarly rooted
personal life — a prim and proper relationship relatively new boyfriend Eddie
(Jonathan Julian) and a step-daughter to boot. Ricky, meanwhile, pines after
Junito (Wilson Cruz).

Noah’s Arc is
briskly paced, and packs most of its tension, fun and punch in the
juxtaposition and clash of its characters’ varying opinions, and how these
attitudes are tested through romantic temptation and other trials and
tribulations. The most conservative and supposedly rational of the group,
Chance always has an intellectual explanation for everything. But after getting
the family he’s always wanted in one-stop-shopping fashion, can he handle the
pressures of domestic bliss? And how will he cope if the fairytale he’s dreamed
of turns out to be more like a nightmare? Alex, meanwhile, copes with jealousy
and suspicion, particularly when Trey starts trying to spice up their
stagnating sex life with some role playing and new ideas. There are other macro
plotlines, but some of these feel like a stretch. Noah’s Arc is best when just sticking to the more inherently
relatable struggles of its well-sketched main quartet. From new boyfriends to
strained friendships to career changes, these men persevere and live their
lives with grace and wit.

Spread out over three discs and housed in a sturdy cardboard
slipcover, this attractively packaged set contains all eight of Noah’s
Arc’s second season episodes, as well as a nice complement of supplemental extras.
Special short digisodes with optional commentary and episodically grouped
deleted scenes stud the first two discs, while cast interviews, behind-the-scenes
featurettes, special photo galleries and a brief blooper reel round out the
collection. There’s also an Easter egg for a calendar shoot several of the
characters took part in, accessible by toggling up on the main menu screen of
the third disc. For more information, visit the show’s web site by clicking here. B (Show) A- (Discs)

The impending arrival of summer brings with it a dose of sweaty
laughter in the form of 1979’s Meatballs,
featuring Bill Murray in his first starring big screen role. Though it helped
spawn a number of desultory sequels and hornball teen sex comedies, director Ivan
Reitman’s debut studio film is actually a very sweet-natured albeit ramshackle movie,
powered by Murray’s shaggy
personality and indefatigable energy.

Murray stars as Tripper
Harrison, the wackiest counselor in the history of North Star, a plebian summer
camp which stands in stark contrast to the nearby elitist Camp
Mohawk, the annual hot-months roost
for snotty and privileged young brats. Despite this purposefully highlighted
distinction (and the obligatory Olympiad competition finale between the groups),
there’s actually much less inter-camp pranksterism than one might surmise based
on that synopsis. Most of the film centers on Tripper and some of the other
counselors cracking jokes with one another, playing tricks on lead counselor Morty
(Harvey Atkin), and good-naturedly chasing female staffers like headstrong Roxanne
(Kate Lynch).

What’s most notable about Meatballs is just how real
the kids are, and how legitimate its setting and energy feels. That’s not too
surprising considering it was filmed on location at an actual summer getaway, Camp
White Pine, located just north of Toronto,
and used many of the camp’s actual enrollees and counselors as extras. Meatballs isn’t a movie with a lot of
preciousness in it; in fact, it’s downright sloppy at times, which is either
part of its charm or cause for wincing. Watching this film again, definitely
more than 20 years since I’d seen it, I was struck by just how much some of its
silly moments — not to mention the sing-songy, insidiously catchy theme song, which
kicks off with the refrain, “Are you ready for summer?” — stick to your psyche.
One of the biggest such reminiscences, of course, is Murray’s
wild speech of pressure-valve release and underdog empowerment, which builds to
a chanted, repetitive climax of, “It just doesn’t matter!” It’s funny, but
there’s also something that rings really psychologically true in that scene,
which makes it even more memorable.

Housed in a regular Amray case in turn stored in a raised-lettering
cardboard slipcover, this special edition release of Meatballs is presented in 1.85:1 anamorphic widescreen, and has
been digitally re-mastered under Reitman’s supervision for optimal picture and
sound. There are a few light flashes and color problems early on, but these
annoyances quickly recede into the background for the most part. Audio is
presented in strong English language Dolby digital 5.1 and stereo mixes, with
optional English, Spanish and French subtitles.

There’s also an audio commentary track with Reitman and
co-writer Dan Goldberg, and it’s a warm and self-effacing affair. The pair talks
about add-on re-shoots, which included the movie’s cold open with Tripper first
awaking, as well as the card-playing and bus terminal scenes with Tripper and Rudy,
to better flesh out the arc of their relationship. The production’s lack of
financing is frequently mentioned, and Reitman takes care to point out crew
members who serve as occasional extras (casting director Jack Blum even played gangly
Spaz). Reitman also tells a funny anecdote about contacting composer Elmer
Bernstein, and working out a deal for him to score the movie on spec; Bernstein
agreed, for a percentage of its receipts, and Reitman relates that it turned
out to be one of the more lucrative assignments he ever arranged.

A three-part making of documentary runs 47 minutes in total,
and includes sit-down interviews with Reitman, writer Goldberg and the
aforementioned actors Makepeace, Lynch and Atkin, as well as writer Len Blum,
costume designer Judy Gellman and many more. The big problem, of course: no Murray.
That’s a mortal wound, really, for a title constructed around such a cult of
personality. That said, there are plenty of nice stories and insights herein, including
from Reitman and others recounting the movie’s campfire ghost story scene. Murray
was apparently a bit drunk, as were several other cast members; Reitman jokes
that he thinks Murray channeled
Richard Burton in the sequence. Keith Knight, meanwhile, relates how he won his
role in large measure by impulsively shaving his moustache (grown for a stageplay
he was in at the time) on site at an audition, in order to convince Reitman
that he could in fact look younger. Most fascinatingly, Reitman and Goldberg
recount how the famously elusive and noncommittal Murray never actually technically
committed to the movie; his friend Harold Ramis was hired to punch up the
script, but Murray kept stringing Reitman and the producers along before
finally just saying he’d “be there” after they’d already started shooting, and
showing up on the third day of filming. Overall, a big part of Meatballs’ appeal lies in one’s embrace
of it as nostalgia. It’s a lighthearted family romp, and key to understanding and
appreciating the further ascendancy of Murray’s
big screen career. B (Movie) B+ (Disc)

Like many, my introduction to reggae music came in the form
of Bob Marley’s Legend album, of
course, and then a high school friend who peddled a much deeper discography of
the genre. I grew to really dig the music, if not always the personal hygiene
habits of those who most embraced it. Still, in the early 1990s, I must confess
I wasn’t really aware of Apache Indian, one of Great
Britain’s most eclectic and electric reggae
performers. At the time I was more into singer-songwriters of a certain stripe,
as well as straight rock ’n’ roll; for a full 18 months or so I was rightfully
under the sway of U2’s Achtung Baby,
my mind completely blown. Then Dr. Dre’s The
Chronic blew up, fusing gangsta rap with catchy neo-funk.

Through embracing his East Indian heritage and its emphasis
on traditions, Apache Indian developed a unique brand of music heavily
influenced by the bhangra style. The emergence of his cross-cultural fusion
sound brought new fans into the reggae fold, and this concert disc from 2006 —
along with The Reggae Revolution, lauded backing band for Sting, Pato Banton, Gregory
Isaacs, Musical Youth, Half Pint and more — celebrates Apache Indian’s canon in
fine fashion.

Recorded on October 21 at the Musicport World Music Festival
in Whitby, North
Yorkshire, Time for Change
Tour runs just over an hour, and finds the charismatic Apache running
through a solid set of call-to-arms grooves against the backdrop of a simple, primary color lighting design. “Tere Toor” kicks things off,
followed by the trumpet-inflected, Hare Krishna-touting “Don Rajah,” a real
up-tempo crowd-pleaser. Next up are “Movie Over India” and “Chok There,” followed
by new tune “Everyday,” which manages to flog a nice melody over some well-worn
traditional lyrics. “Shackle & Chain” slows things down, bleeding into “No
War” and “Om Numah Shivaya.” A two-and-a-half-minute dholo percussion freestyle
summons up amusing recollections of Venice Beach drum circles before giving way
to “Hey Baba,” “Arranged Marriage,” “Ragamuffin Girl” and “Israelites.” There
are “way-o!” shout-outs and calls for rah-speck aplenty, and the band is great,
with guitarist Vince Mills, saxophonist James Renford and keyboardist Mikey
Nanton all superbly aiding Apache’s gifted flow.

Housed in a regular Amray case and presented on a
region-free disc, this DVD comes with a PCM two-channel stereo track and a
Dolby digital 5.1 surround sound track. The former is vastly superior to the
latter; it seems mixed higher and it covers a higher register too. The picture
is fairly clear, and the direction — while full of some kinetic cuts to match
the call-and-resposne of the music — doesn’t overwhelm the material. There are
no supplemental features on the disc, alas. B+ (Concert) C (Disc)

It’s with great admiration and a tip of the hat to its
marketers that I note Primeval
arrived in theaters earlier this year without me actually knowing it was in
fact about a killer crocodile.
Its distributor, Touchstone, you see, sold the movie as a sort of serial killer
safari tale set in a faraway land — all quick cuts, splashed water and ominous
narration. It was a ploy that probably worked out OK, all things considered.
Opening in just over 2,400 theaters the second weekend in January, the movie rang
up $6 million on its way to $10.5 million overall; not at all a big hit, certainly,
but brutal honesty likely wouldn’t have netted Primeval any more lucre. Now with the proper word out, however, the
movie will find its more natural niche audience on DVD… which is to say adolescent-skewing
fans of creature-feature schlock.

Based on the true tales of an African killer crocodile, Primeval follows the African adventures
of disgraced TV reporter Tim Manfrey, played by Dominic Purcell (Prison Break),
who treks to the Dark Continent with hopes of launching a career comeback on
the strength of a story about a 20-foot beast, nicknamed Gustave, with more
than 300 human kills on his resume. It seems a nice investigation on a corrupt
Congressman or pedophilic priest wouldn’t really do the trick, I guess.

The film’s croc is CGI, but Purcell gets up close and personal with an
intriguingly blended human cast, including Orlando Jones (above) as his wiseacre
cameraman Steven Johnson and Brooke Langton as Aviva Masters, a local tour guide and fellow newsie. (Jurgen Prochnow also
costars, for those looking for a connection between this movie and Das Boot.) Unfortunately the characters
are pretty thinly sketched, and director Michael Katleman, a television helmer
making his feature film debut, doesn’t have the means to pull off huge set pieces.
The digital rendering of his “villain” isn’t the best, so he tries to go the cloaked-in-shadow
route, which becomes an exercise in both obviousness and tedium. The aforementioned leading players wring some interesting moments out of their interplay (Jones is always fun to watch), but otherwise Gustave has
only really three big moments in the sun — including one quite literally. The rest of co-writers
John Brancato and Michael Ferris’ material, though, including a local warlord angle, seems
nakedly like what it chiefly is, namely arbitrary padding.

Packaged in an Amray case in turn stored in a cardboard slipcover
with raised effect, Primeval’s DVD release
is packed with some nice bonus features, many of which include puns! Leading
that hit parade is a 10-minute making-of piece, Croc-umentary: Bringing Gustave to Life, which delves into
the computer rendering of its slithery killer. There are also three deleted scenes with
overlaid commentary by Katleman, and a feature-length audio commentary track with
Katleman and visual effects supervisor Paul Linden. Presented in 2.35:1
anamorphic widescreen that preserves the aspect ration of its original
theatrical exhibition, the movie comes with a solidly mixed Dolby digital 5.1 surround
sound audio track — full of naturalistic ambient noise — and optional Spanish, French
and English subtitles. D (Movie) B- (Disc)

Singer Vic Damone has kind of a wide-ranging voice, which helps explain the fact that over the course of his career he laid down more than 2,000 songs, appeared in several motion pictures, and for a time had both his own TV show on NBC and his own New York-based radio series. This concert disc, recorded in 1985, showcases that range, with Damone dashing through more than a dozen tunes, a collection that might be considered highbrow and low.

A high school drop-out who took a job as an usher at the Paramount Theater in the Big Apple and squeezed some advice out of Perry Como, Damone’s career really took off just before his 18th birthday, when he won the acclaimed Arthur Godfrey Talent’s Scout program, then leveraged that into regular spots on the radio and gigs for the legendary Milton Berle. Signing with Mercury Records, Damone quickly caught on, and began recording albums.

On the Street Where You Live is named for one of Damone’s biggest hits, but it’s still a song that doesn’t carry the same, robust nostalgic weight as “New York, New York” and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” two tunes included here that suffer in comparison to Frank Sinatra’s famously belted versions. Recorded at the world-famous Royal Festival Hall, this title finds
Damone accompanied by the Northern Dance Orchestra, and conductor
Norman Geller. From the strange cover files, Willie Nelson’s “To All the Girls” and “Always on My Mind” each receive surprisingly effective colorings, but a rendition of Lionel Ritchie’s “Hello” deserves no answer. Other songs include “When I Dream,” “Easy to Love,” “The Song Is You,” “Come In From the Rain,” “An Affair to Remember,” “That Old Black Magic” and show closer “You’re Breaking My Heart.”

Presented in a fuzzy 1.33:1 full screen transfer on a region-free disc housed in a regular Amray case, On the Street Where You Live runs just over 50 minutes, and comes with a Dolby digital tweaking of the original concert’s monaural soundtrack. A mezzo-mezzo affair, it’s a release best reserved as a stocking-stuffer or thoughtful little surprise gift for long-time Damone fans, but not one likely to wow those less familiar with the crooner’s canon. To order the concert via Amazon, click here. C (Concert) C (Disc)

Classical music pops up chiefly on the news these days
whenever there’s one of those studies every six months or so that shows playing
Bach and Beethoven to your unborn baby can increase his or her I.Q. by 575
percent or something. Once the popular music of its time, it’s now largely the
domain of arts benefactors. Serious conductors aside, many classically trained
musicians try to get into the lucrative world of film composing, or at least
working in orchestral scoring.

For better or worse, my own parents were enthusiasts of a sort,
occasionally spinning actual records, but also taking my younger sister and I
on trips to see the local symphony orchestra. While pop music and rock ’n’
roll, then old-school crooners, rap and the work of great songwriters like Bob
Dylan, Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen would capture my imagination, I think
classical music provided a certain underpinning, as I strongly recall the
wonderment associated with watching violinists working in unison, or cello
players coaxing unusual new sounds out of their life-size instruments.

Combining the instrumental influence of Ray Brown and
Charles Mingus with the vocal styling of Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald, Montana-bred
jazz double-bassist and vocalist Kristin Korb has created a deep, evocative
scat sound all her own. This 75-minute concert was filmed in early 2005 at Vienna’s
famous Porgy & Bess jazz club, and features a legitimately engaging performance
by Korb, the former director of jazz studies at Central
Washington University.
“I’m Old Fashioned” kicks off the play list, followed by a deliberately
dawdling version of “They Say It’s Spring,” “Whirly Bird,” “Wouldn’t It Be
Lovely,” “Lined with a Groove,” “Alone Together,” “Cheek to Cheek,” “Nobody
Wants to Sing the Blues” and “Top of the World.” Like blended yogurt, interwoven
with the live concert footage are discrete sit-down interview tidbits with
Korb, which give the title the feel of a real document rather than just a staid
recital.

Housed in a regular Amray case and presented in 4×3 full
screen on a region-free disc suitable for worldwide play, this DVD comes with
fairly a solid Dolby digital 5.1 audio track. Apart from the aforementioned
interstitial bits, there are unfortunately no other supplemental extras. While
somewhat limited to classical music fans already faithfully familiar with the
subject’s body of work, Korb comes across as an intelligent and unfailingly
positive-minded guide, and might just spark a certain nostalgia for elementary
school field trips amongst lapsed fans of the genre. To purchase this DVD via Amazon,
click here.
B (Concert) C (Disc)

Born Francesco Paolo LoVecchio, which I believe is Polish, singer Frankie
Laine went on to score more than 70 chart hits, and rack up sales in excess of
250 million albums worldwide. He wasn’t a teenybopper success, though. Though born
in 1913, it wasn’t until the mid-1950s that Laine really came into his own and enjoyed
his biggest success, which came when he started recording theme tunes for
movies and television shows, most notably Rawhide
and Gunfight at the OK Corral. Work
hosting three separate variety shows followed, and Laine carved out a nice
niche as a hard-working, scruffy-bearded showman. While Frank Sinatra sang
about always doing it his way, Laine rocked the unshaven look before
it was boho-fashionable, and arguably suffered the consequences, allegedly turning
down an invitation to sing at the White House that came with a whispered side-condition
of some special grooming.

Whether singing the blues, torch songs, gospel tunes,
western theme songs or even jazz, “Old Leather Lungs,” as Laine was known,
brought to bear his own sense of style and personality through a sonorous baritone.
This DVD features a full Laine concert from a 1976 tour of the United Kingdom,
and includes the hit songs “That Old Lucky Sun,” “Jezebel” and “Jealousy,” as
well as “Love Story,” the aforementioned “Rawhide,” “Your Cheating Heart,” “Wrap
Your Troubles in Dreams,” “You’re the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me,” “Lord,
You Gave Me a Mountain,” “Dream a Little Dream of Me” and more. Sadly, Laine passed
away in February of this year 2007, leaving behind 21 gold records and plenty
of fans, but also many more people who never got to appreciate Laine and his
place in the rank of crooner’s of his erae. This program serves as a perfect example
of the beautiful music he brought into this world.

Presented on a region-free disc in a regular Amray case, That Old Lucky Sun comes with a 5.1
surround sound audio track, and runs a brisk 45 minutes. The picture is decent,
if understandably not crystal clear, but the audio more than makes up for any
visual shortcomings. There are unfortunately no supplemental extras herein, but
this program is a perfect encapsulation and overview of Laine’s career, and
somehow one doesn’t mind quite as much as one normally might. B (Concert) C
(Disc)

Films with rampaging dads exercising familial retribution have
enough entries to probably qualify as their own subgenre, both in the basest,
direct-to-video form and in more tricked-out iterations (think The Patriot, for instance). No prurience
or real cathartic release is to be found in Disappeared,
however, starring Ray Winstone.

Written by Simon Tyrrell and directed by Adrian Shergold,
the movie is of said genre, with Winstone (Sexy
Beast, The Proposition)
starring as Harry Sands, a self-made, middle class family man, happily married
with two children. When he learns that his college-age daughter has gone
missing in Istanbul, however, Harry
flies out to find her. To his horror, he discovers from Olivia’s best friend
Manda (Emily Corrie) that the two of them have been working as nightclub
dancers, and not as charity workers as Harry and his wife were led to believe.

So begins Harry’s hunt for his missing daughter, a labyrinthine
journey that leads him to suspect businessmen Peter Vine (David Westhead) and
Metin Fazouk (Dimitri Andreas). Olivia hasn’t been prostituting herself, as the
film goes to painstaking lengths to stress, but Peter, Metin and possibly other
figures seem to have an unhealthy pattern of nursing crushes on girls half
their age. So that leads to… an awful lot of chin-wagging, actually. The police
are sort of helpful, but move too slowly for Harry’s liking; basically everyone
keeps expressing sympathy to Harry, saying, “I have a daughter too.” Winstone
gives a decent performance, but the chief problem is that Disappeared doesn’t make particularly good use of the potentially
intimidating figure that he can cut. He’s a somewhat neutered character, and
the audience keeps waiting for something to interrupt the movie’s solemnly
plotted track. Shergold, too, proves a fairly cut-rate director; he leans
heavily on affected slow-motion, and this tack — along with some quite murky
and shaky handheld camerawork in a few key passages throughout the film’s
second act — certainly don’t help elevate the material.

Housed in a regular Amray case, Disappeared is presented in somewhat grainy 1.78:1 anamorphic widescreen,
with English language Dolby digital 5.1 surround sound and 2.0 stereo audio tracks.
There are no supplemental bonus materials, only a gallery of four preview
trailers, including one for The Breed. The film scores points for not being a completely desultory revenge tale, but it’s not really plausible or gripping enough to recommend to the arthouse set. C (Movie) D+ (Disc)

When America’s
premium gay television network here! (the “queer” and “get used to it” being
implicit) delivered, in the fall of 2005, its first original series to its available
audience base of more than 50 million households, Dante’s Cove instantly became one of the most talked about shows in
the gay community, thanks probably in equal measure to its well-toned cast and
predilection for campiness. The show unashamedly mixed together sex, horror and
elements of the supernatural and gay culture, and then pressed “puree” on the
blender.

Dante’s Cove: The
Complete Second Season, available this week in a two-disc set from Genius
Products, revisits the peaceful beach town where not everything is as its
seems, and checks back in on the sexy, young denizens, picking up where season
one left off. Hunky barkeep Toby (Charlie David) and the older, menacing
Ambrosius (William Gregory Lee) continue to fight for the affection of Kevin (Gregory
Michael), while artist Van (Nadine Heiman) asks witchy sorceress Grace (Tracy
Scoggins) to help teach her to use her newfound powers, much to the dismay of
her girlfriend Michelle (Erin Cummings).

The residents of the Hotel Dante are forced to deal with
many tough obstacles this season, including addiction, infidelity, coming out,
breaking up and death. (No split personalities or evil twins… yet.) Several
newcomers also join the diverse cast this season, including Queer as Folk’s Thea Gill as Diana, a
woman whose past and future are intertwined with the lives of Grace and
Ambrosius, and Gabriel Romero as Marco, the handsome owner of the local outdoor
bar. Other new characters include bad boy Kai (German Santiago), who’s
good at getting his customers what they need, legal or illegal, and Colin
(Dylan Vox), who runs the island’s private sex club and naturally conceals a
dark secret that comes to compromise some of his illicit endeavors.

Dark Shadows, of
course, was the original supernatural-tinged sudser, and I guess NBC tried the
same thing a few years back with one of their daytime offerings, a series whose
name currently escapes me. For better or worse, Dante’s Cove utilizes these elements fairly sparsely, meaning there’s
lots of teeth-gnashing dialogue and emoting instead of deep and labyrinthine explication
by way of intra-show mythology. What the series most has going for it is its
abundance of secrets and reversals, and the manner in which the show’s writers
run these back and forth, across one another. Still, the characterizations
really hew quite frequently to a rather WeHo-narrow interpretation of gay life,
and the camp-factor alone can’t make this worthy of crossover viewing for most mainstream
soap fans.

Housed in a regular Amray case, and presented in widescreen with an English language stereo track,
the set’s bonus fatures include a smattering of deleted scenes and a handful
of brief featurettes. The men and women of the cast (and yes, there are some,
despite the boys’ prominence in the show’s marketing, per the above) get separate
featurettes, and other behind-the-scenes material gives viewers a bit of a peek
at the making of the show. For more information, visit the series’ web site by
clicking here. C- (Series) B (Disc)

There’s hay to be made even in parsing advice on films on
which there’s generally going to be some sort of critical consensus, but an
entirely different sort of really pleasant sensation one gets from being able
to recommend an off-the-beaten path indie flick. Unfortunately, penning a
review of Kill House does not summon
forth that feeling.

Written and directed by Beth Dewey (Tweeked, starring Independent Spirit Award nominee Darling Narita),
Kill House’s cover (a close-up of a
giant hatchet) augurs a splatter-fest horror flick, but the back cover copy
promises “a modern day tale of bloodlust, rivalry and greed” set against the
cutthroat backdrop of the Southern California real estate market. In truth, the
film is neither fish nor fowl, and fairly poorly done all the way around, whether
it’s trying to pass itself off as a blithe black comedy or something a little
edgier.

The movie opens with news of a brutally murdered San
Francisco realtor, which throws Los
Angeles’ Connor Real Estate firm — consisting of Marta
(Susan Artigas), Marc (Oliver Elmore) and Sunny (Dewey again, pulling
multi-hyphenate duty) — into a bit of a tizzy. Left by their vacationing dad
and stepmother to fend for themselves while their house is still on the market,
Lucille (Toni Breen, above) and her stoner brother Kyle (Paul Mocey-Hanton) quickly
set about doing whatever they please, much to the consternation of Marc,
assigned to move the property. Sexually impetuous young Lucy makes moves on handsomely
burly ex-con handyman Jimmy (E. Shepherd Stevenson), who spurns her advances.
When other bodies start piling up, though, Jimmy of course becomes a prime
suspect in the slayings. As the aforementioned agents turn on one another and
Jimmy’s parole officer gets involved in the investigation, all sorts of crazy
paths start intersecting, in a perhaps twisted homage to Short Cuts
that Robert Altman
would likely find most headache-inducing.

Kill House’s casting
frequently doesn’t really match the parts, and the hair, make-up and costumes
give the movie a junky, thrift-store feel, even for left coast bohemia. There
are a few funny, offbeat moments courtesy of some canted line readings; I’m
thinking of Stevenson and Mocey-Hanton in particular, though only the former
really gives a full performance. But Dewey can’t stage a convincing scene to
save her life (the killings are all rendered in discrete close-ups, like a
middle school video project) and the film overall is a clanging, incongruous
mix of desperate tonalities; jokes about “butt implants” land with a heavy
thud.

Presented in 1.77:1 widescreen with a Dolby digital stereo mix,
Kill House at least has a somewhat decent slate
of supplemental extras going for it. The DVD comes with a grab-bag of 10
deleted scenes and a 21-minute, making-of featurette that’s really a bunch of random
behind-the-scenes footage, from B-roll close-up material of the staging of a
murder victim bleeding out to rehearsal footage, special effects make-up tests
and application and some first AD bitchery. Trailers for Kill House and the even bloodier Bachelor Party Massacre round things out; thankfully we’re spared a
pontificating commentary track from faux-auteur Dewey. D- (Movie) C+ (Disc)

Watching a loved one physically suffer can be torture, with
the survivors experiencing greater agony than those fighting death. But what
happens when the patient finds their care lacking — even if they are burned
beyond recognition? From the twisted minds of director Rob Schmidt (Wrong Turn) and writer John Esposito (Graveyard Shift) comes Right to Die, a film sure not to spark spirited debate among
lawmakers regarding euthanasia.

Right to Die stars
Martin Donovan as Cliff Addison, a man harboring a guilty secret from his wife
Abby (The Dead Zone’s Julia
Anderson). He’s committing adultery, you see. When a car accident on a lonely
country road results in Julia being horribly burned over most of her body, however,
Cliff additionally carries the emotional and legal burden of helplessly
watching over his comatose wife — barely living, but still legally and
medically alive. Conflicted, but also motivated by self-interest, Cliff is
determined to get a court order to put her out of her pain. With her condition
worsening, Abby repeatedly flat-lines and is revived. But each time she
clinically “dies,” Abby’s apparition seeks vengeance on those who stand to
profit from her suffering, including a slick attorney (Corbin Bernsen). Pricked
by his conscience, Cliff now searches for a suitable skin donor to save Abby.
As the clock ticks off precious minutes, a race ensues, with souls as well as
lives hanging in the balance.

The Masters of Horror series, written
and directed by some of the genre’s leading practitioners, debuted on the
Showtime cable network in October 2005 to critical and public acclaim, but
Anchor Bay has also been pumping out high-quality DVDs of these one-hour features,
and this release is no different in its wide array of bonus offerings. Housed
in a cardboard slipcover and presented in 1.78:1 widescreen, enhanced for 16×9
televisions, Right to Die comes with
an audio commentary track with director Schmidt in which he discusses the
limited production means of the project, and how this was a freeing inspiration
of a sort. A solid little making-of featurette is also included, while a
segment entitled “Flay-O-Trish” takes a more focused look at the movie’s bloody
special effects. Rounding things out is a scrollable image gallery. B (Movie)
B+ (Disc)

Directed by Nelson Pereira dos Santos,
1971’s How Tasty Was My Little Frenchman
is a filmic document of a very particular time and place. In fact, it might best
be described as an anthropological curiosity that just happens to be captured
in film form. Originally banned in its native Brazil,
and rejected for official competition at the Cannes Film Festival due to the “excessive
nudity” of its aboriginal cast, the movie is a sort of docu-style, very
tongue-in-cheek black comedy, rich with a vein of political metaphor that no
longer holds the same market value.

Set in the mid-1550s in the coastal jungles of Brazil, the film
tells the story of a nameless French adventurer (Arduino Colassanti) who gets
captured alongside a bunch of Portuguese mercenaries by a cannibalistic tribe of
native Brazilians, and then tries in vain to convince his captors — who are in
fact loosely allied with the French, but don’t understand his language — of his
nationality. Sold out by a portly trader who disingenuously tells the tribe he’s
Portuguese, the Frenchman is informed of plans to eventually eat him, months
down the line. Still, the tribe treats him well, bequeathing him a wife, and
including him in the group’s agricultural activities and rituals. The movie,
then, is a picture show of indolent ceremony, custom and idyll, punctuated by
panicked bursts of argument and attempted persuasion.

How Tasty Was My
Little Frenchman is a very loose adaptation of German explorer Hans
Staden’s celebrated and infamous 16th century first-person chronicle, which
details a similar experience that he (obviously) escaped to tell about. As is,
it plays a bit like a foreign cousin of Wicker
Man, one man
raging in culturally isolated vain against a collective who regards him with no
small bemusement. The big problem, though, is that How Tasty Was My Little Frenchman is robbed of its contextual rooting.
The film was made in a dark time in Brazil’s
military rule, and regarded as a veiled societal critique. From the outside
looking in, one can appreciate this vantage point, but not be swayed by it. The
construction of the film — with classical music blaring over its opening 10
minutes, and intermittently throughout — comes across as arbitrary, and there’s
too much narrative slack in the second and third act, no matter the 80-minute
running time. Only in the movie’s interestingly staged last 10 minutes — in which
the Frenchman’s wife confesses a sadness at his impending death, but nods when
he asks if she will then still eat him — is there any real downhill momentum or
lastingly memorable drama.

Housed in a regular Amray case and presented in 1.33:1 full
screen, How Tasty Was My Little Frenchman
comes with an entirely adequate audio track, which is a mixture of French, Tupi
and Portuguese. The problem is that the movie’s English subtitles sometimes lag
distressingly behind the dialogue, leaving one to suss out who is saying what. Boasting
a new digital transfer from a restored negative, the picture for the film is
superb, with only a very small amount of grain occasionally popping up. The
disc’s supplemental extras consist of two interviews, the longest of which is
an 11-and-a-half-minute, rambling and frequently incoherent chat with a
modern-day member of the Krenak tribe, which is depicted in the film. This bit
scores high marks for potential, but there’s no authorial hand here to shape
the material, which actually seemingly begins in mid-thought. The other chat
is, therefore, the best. A nine-and-a-half-minute, direct-address mini-lecture
from Columbia University
film studies professor Richard Peña, this monologue makes up for in insight
what it lacks in flair of presentation. There’s also a gatefold insert with a solidly
informative essay penned by Darlene Sadlier, a professor of Spanish and
Portuguese and an adjunst professor of Communication and Culture at Indiana
University. To order the movie via Amazon, click here. C (Movie) C+ (Disc)

The films of Guillermo del Toro are so memorable because he
combines storytelling acumen with the eye of a great visual artist. I still
vividly recall seeing Chronos in an
arthouse theater in Washington D.C. in 1993, and not merely because CBS News
reporter Bob Simon was there, looking for all the world like a European spy
making some sort of clandestine drop at the local cinema. Whether making
overtly commercial fare like Blade II
and Hellboy or more personal movies,
such as The Devil’s Backbone, del
Toro intermingles themes in fascinating ways.

Set in 1944, Pan’s
Labyrinth is a sort of gothic fairy tale set against the postwar repression
of Franco’s Spain.
The winner of three Academy Awards, the film takes as its protagonist the
introverted Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), a quiet 10-year-old girl who moves to the
northern mountains with her pregnant mother Carmen (Ariadna Gil) after being
summoned by the latter’s new husband. Ofelia’s cruel stepfather, Captain Vidal
(Sergi López), is a humorless fascist officer under orders to rid the territory
of a small group of rebels that fight on unbroken in the Navarra region.

Ofelia, who is fascinated by fairy tales, discovers an
overgrown tangle of brush behind the nearby mill. In the heart of the labyrinth
she meets Pan (Doug Jones), an ancient satyr who claims to know Ofelia’s true
identity and secret destiny as the reincarnation of Princess Moanna, and tasks her
with completing three clandestine assignments before the arrival of the next
full moon. Instructing Ofelia that no one must know about her mission — not her
ailing mother or her new friend Mercedes (Maribel Verdú) — Pan lays out a very
specific series of rules, and warns her that if she does not follow them there
will be harsh consequences. So time is running out, both for Ofelia and for the
rebels who stand in opposition to Captain Vidal. Each will have to battle
hardship and brutality in order to gain their freedom. But who can be trusted
in such a time of lies and danger?

Pan’s Labyrinth is
dreamy and at times unnerving, faintly recalling Alice in Wonderland and, in its own glancing way, The Lord of the Rings, all while still
retaining an inimitable style all its own — a style that might be called “fantastical
revisitation,” owing as it does to florid inner worlds of a creative adolescent
imagination. If the comparison to the latter film series seems far-fetched, it
has less to do with pure alignment of fantasy vision and more to do with the
fact that, as in that series, the conflicts seem at once intimate and grand.
Still, at its heart Pan’s Labyrinth
is an intimate and surrealistic fable, marked by historic underpinnings. There
is little majestic, surging questing; it’s a more intimate and idiosyncratic tale
of good and evil, bravery and sacrifice, love and loss — and to that end a film
that produces more variable reactions. Arthouse patrons with a healthy sense of
whimsy will most appreciate this film, “mere” foreign film aficionados likely
less so.

Available in both single- and double-disc versions, Pan’s Labyrinth comes stored in a
regular Amray case in turn housed in a sturdy cardboard slipcase. It is
presented with animated menu screens in 1.85:1 widescreen, preserving the
proper aspect ratio of its theatrical exhibition. And it’s a gorgeous transfer,
marked by consistent colors, deep blacks and no problems with edge enhancement
or grain. Audio unfolds in Spanish language Dolby digital 5.1-EX, stereo
surround 2.0, and 6.1 DTS-ES mixes, with separate English and Spanish
subtitles, as well as optional closed captioning. Del Toro provides a video
prologue introduction as well as an engaging feature-length audio commentary
track, and the guy approaches the DVD releases of his movies just as a diehard
fan would, as any owner or renter of Hellboy,
in either of its tricked-out iterations, can attest.

Four hearty featurettes kick off the second disc, beginning with a
15-minute look at the mythology and origin of the movie’s more fantastical characters.
Conceptual sketches and preproduction sculptures feed into a superlative,
30-minute look at the film’s visual effects, which points up the breathtaking value
of simple imagination over wads of cash and CGI. Del Toro’s use of colors and
textures are also examined, as is composer Javier Navarrete’s work on the
film’s music. Another big extra is a 50-minute chat from PBS’ The Charlie Rose Show, presented in
full-screen, featuring an interview with del Toro and friends and fellow filmmakers Alfonso
Cuarón (Children of Men)
and Alejandro González Iñárritu (Babel).

An interactive production scrapbook gives viewers a look at
the film’s design work, and del Toro also shares his own notes and sketches,
some dating back many years. Four, minute-long “DVD Comics,” meanwhile, offer
up comic book artists’ interpretations of Pan, the Giant Toad, the Pale Man and
the Fairies. A visual effects plate comparison and collection of trailers and
TV spots round out the bonus slate, along with DVD-ROM, dual-language versions
of the screenplay, synchronized storyboards and photo galleries. B (Movie) A+ (Disc)

A rather wan attempt to pump new blood into the vampire genre by injecting (no
pun intended) a druggie angle, The Thirst purports to be a harrowing
examination of two recovering drug addicts facing an entirely new sort of
“addiction.” It’s a tonal mishmash of gory set pieces, though, and a
movie that can’t really overcome the weight of its limited means, lacking as it
does a convincingly stylistic imagination and flair.

Directed
in slapdash fashion by Jeremy Kasten (All Souls Day: Dia de los Muertos,
The Wizard of Gore), the movie centers on recuperating junkies Max (Matt
Keeslar) and Lisa (Clare Kramer), who are having a tough time adjusting to
their new lives now that they’ve kicked their old habits. When a series of
tragic and sudden events threaten their lives, both are recruited into a clan
of sex- and gore-crazed vampires, led by the charismatic Darius (Jeremy Sisto).
Each depraved fix hooks the couple deeper on their new narcotic, human blood,
but Max and Lisa eventually begin to rebel against their horrific plight,
hoping that kicking this habit will keep them out of hell.

As
I’ve mentioned previously but will reiterate here, I remember flipping through
screenwriter-producer Mark Altman’s 1991 behind-the-scenes book on Twin
Peaks, and being wowed… by the number of typos and errors. Even for what
was obviously a quickie cash-in title, I thought at the time, this was slung
together in pretty haphazard fashion. The same might be said for quite a lot of
Altman’s hackishly referential writing for the big screen, which includes Room
6, starring Christine
Taylor; 1998’s Star Trek-inspired Free Enterprise; Uwe
Boll’s House of the Dead (and its sequel); and the recent Dead and
Deader. Altman is one of five credited writers here, and he and
his cohorts don’t do much beyond come up with nipped bits from other movies and
staple them together in an effort to bridge together set pieces. Director
Kasten, meanwhile, obliges his writers in canted-angle fashion.

A
few of the arterial sprays and dismemberments are enjoyable for diehard genre
fans, but the best that can really be said of The Thirst is that
provides work to a recognizable cast that is mostly above its value —
actors like Sisto (Six Feet Under), Keeslar (Art School Confidential)
and Kramer (Bring It On, Buffy the Vampire Slayer). Adam Baldwin,
Erik Palladino and such horror film veterans as Ellie Cornell (Halloween 4
& 5) round out the cast.

Presented in
1.78:1 widescreen, enhanced for 16×9 televisions, The Thirst comes
packaged in a regular Amray case that is in turn housed in a cardboard
slipcover with slightly raised lettering. Its supplemental features consist of an
audio commentary track with writer-producer Altman and composer Joe Kraemer,
and around 17 minutes of deleted scenes. There are also a DVD-ROM version
of the screenplay, trailers for other Anchor Bay/Starz genre releases, and a
gallery of still images from the movie. D+ (Movie) B (Disc)

Prodigiously talented and rakishly charming, if definitely a bit affected by years of hardcore drinking, Peter O’Toole is a classic guy’s guy, an old school entertainer cut from the cloth of thespians as rabble-rousing globetrotters. His renowned stage performances, though lost for the ages, live on in the memory and laudatory reminiscences of those who saw them. His film work, meanwhile, is no less unforgettable, including sterling performances in Beckett, The Lion in Winter, Man of La Mancha and The Stunt Man, to name a few. Then there’s the matter of 1962’s Lawrence of Arabia, which many consider to be on the shortlist for the greatest film of all time.



All of this is, in its own way, grist for the mill of Roger Michell’s Venus, a rich, frequently lewd and yet ultimately legitimately moving tale of doused March-December sexual attraction and unlikely mentorship that uses and plays upon an audience’s notion of O’Toole — working knowledge or mere impression, it doesn’t really matter — to bountiful, inspired effect. The film’s story centers aroundIan (Leslie Phillips) and Maurice (O’Toole), a pair of veteran actors whose comfortable daily routine of croissants, theater and cranky banter is disruptedby the arrival of the former’s teenage grandniece Jessie (Jodie Whittaker).Thinking that he’s getting a pliable live-in maid and cook, the self-involvedIan is absolutely apoplectic when confronted with the equally self-centered and mouthy Jessie — a thickly accented, adolescent jumble of laziness and hazy ambition who declares aspirations of being a model but seems quite content to merely lay around, snack and watch television. Maurice, however, displays an interest in Jessie that is equal parts academic curiosity and romantic attraction. He takes the unruly teenager under his wing, procuring a risqué modeling gig for her and buying her little knick-knacks. Naturally, degrees of mutual use ensue.

As penned by Hanif Kureishi, Venus is in essence a movie about life’s indignities, and how they visit and prey upon both young and old, frequently in indiscriminate fashion. Yet Venus never succumbs to mopey dramatic tropes, or indeed, even much melancholy; it’s spry, and a heck of a lot of fun. What you so strongly feel while watching the film — even if you’re unfamiliar with the rest of O’Toole’s filmography — is the force and weight of a life lived with full-tilt passion. That, and the tension that the movie achieves through its smart balance of aged contemplativeness and dirty-old-man creepiness, is what makes Venus a true beauty.

The film comes to DVD housed in a regular Amray case and presented in a 1.85:1 anamorphic widescreen aspect ratio that preserves the scope of its theatrical exhibition. An English language Dolby digital 5.1 surround sound audio track more than delivers on the movie’s scant aural demands, and optional English subtitles are also available. By way of supplemental extras, Michell and producer Kevin Loader sit for a somewhat lethargic joint audio commentary track (there’s no O’Toole, unfortunately), and a brief collection of time-stamped deleted scenes runs around four minutes and showcases a bit more interaction between Maurice and Ian. The chief bonus item, then, is a 14-minute featurette which includes cast and crew interviews, a snippet of Whittaker’s audition tape and some behind-the-scenes footage. B+ (Movie) C (Disc)

A fictitious snapshot of influential photographer Diane
(pronounced “Dee-anne”) Arbus — think of it as a sort of impressionistic
Polaroid biopic — Fur stars Nicole
Kidman in the title role, and she brings her characteristic full-bodied
attentiveness and intelligence to the part. Still, even this isn’t enough to
bring to a full boil what is essentially a very symbolically telegraphed and
half-lidded sketch about desire, burgeoning self-expression and independence.

Based on a book by Patricia Bosworth, and adapted for the
screen by director Steven Shainberg’s Secretary
partner Erin Cressida Wilson, Fur is
a sort of through-the-looking-glass tale, centered around Arbus’ putative
“inner experience,” and thus inventing characters and situations wholesale. One
can’t say for certain whether it was this approach that in part, large or
small, resulted in the movie’s commercial implosion (it grossed all of $220,000
domestically, though its widest release came at less than 40 screens), but it
undoubtedly further segregates the subject matter from those that might
otherwise be at least half-interested in either a historical biopic or tale of
self-actualization. Fur, you see, is
about Arbus’ personal growth through a relationship with a guy… covered in fur.

Set in New York City in 1958, the story unfolds in a high society world, the sort of place
where Diane’s momentary tearing up and excusal from a presentation is cause for
gasping, whispered chatter. Yes, Arbus is another oppressed housewife, you see, stifled by
life as an assistant to her portraiture and advertising photographer husband, Allan
(Ty Burrell). She harbors her own considerable talents, though, and soon meets
Freudian with Lionel (Robert Downey, Jr.), a new neighbor stricken by
hypertrichosis, which results in a thick coat of hair that covers his body,
head to toe. Though he hides his face under a bag, Lionel’s penetrating gaze
strips the veneer off of Diane’s tidy reality, and she soon finds herself
sucked into what might be characterized as an emotional affair. She begins to meet with Lionel under the guise of taking his photo, but never quite gets around to doing so.

Despite its outwardly manifested outlandish elements, Fur is for the most part a movie of considerable
subtlety and restraint; Arbus’ journey isn’t quite as in lockstep with Betty
Freidan as one might imagine. Allan is a compassionate and sympathetic figure,
and he initially quite supports his wife’s artistic awakening. Even when Diane
begins to shut him off in more explicit or pronounced ways, much of his
frustration is channeled inward — though he does (somewhat amusingly) grow a
beard in a silent gambit of plaintive outreach. The film’s problem, really, is
that it places such weight on an admittedly contrived plot point and character, and so we
learn nothing of consequence about Arbus or her real-life work. She comes across here as widely defined, a placeholder for the creative spirit.

Presented in 1.85:1 widescreen, which preserves the aspect
ratio of its theatrical exhibition, Fur
comes packaged in a regular Amray case, and is anchored by English language
Dolby digital 5.1 surround and stereo surround audio mixes that are each a bit
low on dialogue register, but nicely capture Carter Burwell’s music — full of moody,
heavy string pieces that at times recalls Phillip Glass and at other times Angelo
Badalamenti. Optional English and Spanish subtitles are also included.

Delicate, animated menu screens give way to the disc’s special
features, which consist of a brief making-of featurette nipped from HBO’s First Look series, deleted scenes with optional
commentary by Shainberg and an audio commentary track from the director, who
allows no lulls, uncomfortable or otherwise, to intercede. Generally eschewing
production anecdotes, Shainberg disdains the line of reasoning that Arbus’ portraiture
work of dwarves, giants and deviants is exploitative. A lot of his patter,
though, merely points up Fur’s
ladled-on representational topcoat. “To some extent film is about transmission
of his world to her,” Shainberg says at one point; then, “Lionel being upstairs
is a metaphoric representation of Arbus’ inner life — the world that she wants
to explore is right there.” Sure, we get it. What of Diane’s deeper, truer
feelings, though — unattached to anyone else, family or otherwise? Fur looks past this forest through the
trees, beholden in willful fashion to its own immaculately tasteful art-posturing. C- (Movie) B (Disc)

Presented by Wes Craven and directed by one of his longtime
assistant directors, Nick Mastandrea, The
Breed is a killer canine flick with just a pinch of the same sort of
exotic-travelogue-gone-wrong found in Turistas. Inspired by animalistic horror
classics like Cujo and The Birds, the movie is an exercise of the expected in its
plotting, but generally solid in its execution; it’s powered by familiar jump
cuts, yet also avoids CGI work in favor of practical stunts and thrills, making
for a pleasingly low-fi genre experience.

The story centers around a group of five twentysomething friends
who hydroplane in for a weekend on a deserted island once favored by the
deceased uncle of two of the characters. Making up the main troika are Nikki (Michelle
Rodriguez) and her studious, responsible boyfriend Matt (Eric Lively), but
their relationship is complicated by the fact that Nikki used to also date
Matt’s older brother, the alternately brash and withdrawn John (Black Christmas’ Oliver Hudson, somehow married
to this).
Also along for the ride are blonde and flirty Sara (Hustle and Flow’s Taryn Manning) and Noah (In Too Deep’s Hill Harper). The alcohol flows freely, and the group
settles in for a good time. Strangely, a puppy shows up the next morning, and
later Sara gets nicked by its protective parent while walking the perimeter of
the house.

It’s then that Matt and John recall a camp on the island
where seeing-eye dogs were supposedly trained; only later does Matt mention
hearing about it being briefly shut down, allegedly for a rabies outbreak.
Turns out it was a special canine research unit, and the experiment gone wrong
has produced a flesh-eating pack of more than two dozen now-wild dogs, all genetically
engineered to hunt and kill. Trapped and outnumbered, the friends must stick
together as they struggle to survive and escape.

Rodriguez will soon likely pull a muscle due to her lack of
screen stretching, and though she’s not the only — or even principal — athletic
ass-kicker here, she does get to negotiate a zip-line during an ill-fated
escape attempt, and have her leg shot
through with an arrow. That leaves most of the heroic lifting to Hudson
(above left), who actually shows a bit more personality than for which I had
him pegged. No top-shelf leading man is he, but in the right ensemble, he
serves quite capably. The entertainment value of The Breed ultimately, though, comes down to how much one wants to
see snarling dogs nip at the heels of its relatively well-toned cast members.
It makes sufficiently good on its conceit — nothing more, nothing less. The cast showcases a generally nice rapport, but the script isn’t exactly crackling with insight or very memorable dialogue.

Presented in a 1.85:1 aspect ratio, and anchored by a desultory
5.1 Dolby digital mix that disproportionately favors soundtrack tunes over
source audio, The Breed comes with
optional English and Spanish subtitles, and packaged in a standard Amray case
with slightly holographic cover insert art. Its special features consist of a
making-of featurette and preview trailers for the movie and a trio of other
First Look titles, including The Dead
Girl, Kovak Box and Disappeared. The aforementioned
behind-the-scenes bit clocks in at 24 minutes, and seems to be a special
installment of a regular stand-alone program entitled Eye on Movie Magic. Detailing a very specialized portion of the
movie’s six-week South African shoot, this segment focuses on the film’s animal
stunt work, and as such includes interviews with Mastandrea, producer David
Lancaster, dog trainer Paul “Sled” Reynolds and, briefly, actress Rodriguez. If
one can get past the Afrikaner-accented narration, it’s actually pretty
interesting to see how some of the action beats are choreographed and achieved
in practical fashion. It’s nothing grandly illuminating, really, but a nice
inclusion. C (Movie) C+ (Disc)

With a rich and emotive voice, Garnett Silk began his career
as a child toaster, and rose to become one of Jamaica’s most astonishing
singers — an exciting young talent from the 1980s dancehall scene. International
stardom on a bigger order seemed in the cards, but Silk’s career and life were cut
cruelly short, however, as he perished in December of 1994, while trying to
rescue his mother from a house fire. Each year, now, the Garnett Silk
Foundation coordinates an Earth Day Bash in his native country to honor his
name and celebrate his music.

Comprised of 74 minutes of concert footage from the
eponymous foundation’s 2003 Earth Day Bash, this disc features a lengthy list
of artists that includes Ras Fire, Doniki & Steady Ranks, The Rastareens,
Edi Fitzroy, Aaron Silk, Anthony Cruz, Lehbanculah, Chuck Fendah, Richie Spice,
LMS, Turbulence, Lukie D, Ras Shiloh and Sizzla Kalonji. The gathering is
substantial, but also maintains a backyard BBQ party feel — something aided by the
single camera approach used to capture the footage here. For the most part,
this works, as it’s clearly filmed on high-grade digital video. Occasionally,
though, the operator(s) pan out into the crowd or mis-rack focus, cutting you out
of the action for several seconds. And when a flag-waving fool keeps clouding
your vision of Richie Spice’s act, you’re left wishing for an editor and/or
director to provide you with a cutaway.

The energy throughout this disc is high, but the performances
vary rather wildly in quality. Chuck Fenda is the reggae equivalent of a
carnival barker, and it’s a tiresome act. Mixed-sex collective LMS is sort of a
poor man’s Fugees, but they bring a cool vibe to their set. Likewise, Suga
Black weighs in nicely with “A Change is Gonna Come” (a track not listed on the
disc’s accompanying song list), and then segues into an interesting cover of “Let
It Be.” The problem is, the song — like many on this disc — is cut off, mid-tune. With
such a packed roster, we sometimes don’t get full tunes, and certainly not entire
sets. It makes for a frustrating experience, ultimately. It’s additionally strange
that there’s not a cover of “Hello Africa,” Silk’s biggest hit.

Presented in a 1.85:1 widescreen aspect ratio, and housed in
a regular Amray case, this region-free disc is anchored by stereo and surround
sound audio mixes, both of which sound a bit tinny at times, the result,
perhaps, of the concert’s soundboard being placed too close to its stage
speaks. Slightly flickering, motion menu screens give way to song selections or
a “play all” function, but there are unfortunately no special features contained
herein. Some sort of behind-the-scenes material on the concert would have been
nice — and seemingly not too difficult to throw together, given all the warmth
for Silk — or even a text biography for relative reggae newcomers. Alas, this
disc remains a specialized entry. C- (Concert) C- (Disc)

Formula works, in entertainment as in math and science. Anyone doubting should check out Home Improvement, a classic, Red State example of a television series that defines its audience early on
and then gives that subset more of what it has grown to love. The show was originally rooted in the gruff, “guys’ guy” stand-up
comedy of star Tim Allen — part of a spate of pilot production deals handed out
to up-and-coming comedians in the early 1990s — but anyone who followed the
series in its later years will attest that only the most trace amounts of that
edge remained. Instead, Home Improvement
grew into the equivalent of a pine tree — a dependably predictable if unspectacular small
screen laffer. Not quite the majesty of an oak, definitely not the delicious novelty of an
apple or lemon tree (that would be more like Arrested Development), nor the mannered beauty of a willow tree… but there you have it, a syndication-ready small screen hit nonetheless.

For those unfamiliar with the Detroit-set show, Allen (above left) stars
as Tim Taylor, the affable, pun-loving host of a Bob Villa-type, do-it-yourself
television program called Tool Time.
His faithful co-host is Al Borland (Richard Karn, above right), and his long-suffering wife
is Jill (Patricia Richardson). Together, they preside over a brood of three
rambunctious sons (with an irritating nine names between them — Zachery Ty
Bryan, Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Taran Noah Smith), and live next door to a
rarely glimpsed neighbor, Wilson (Earl Hindman), who dispenses nuggets of
advice that help, when necessary, steer the perpetually mishap-making Tim
toward compromise and apology.

The series’ sixth
season finds the kids a bit older, so the cuddly “cuteness factor” herein is definitely on the wane. Episodic highlights include Jill planning an anniversary party with her neurotic sisters and, separately, using an inheritance to buy a fancy sports car; Tim fretting over renovation plans of his boyhood home; and Tim forgetting where he hid Jill’s Valentine’s Day gift. Home
Improvement, like many of its familial sitcom brethren, sometimes stoops a bit too
often to the overly simplified husband-as-idiot routine,
and the episodes that cover well-worn ground like couples therapy can’t match the confident strides of The King of Queens or Everybody Loves Raymond. The show is better sticking to family time squabbles and Jill’s attempts at parsing and defeating the sometimes too-macho-by-half attitudes Tim tries to instill in his sons. Still, the characters
are nicely sketched and rather warmly brought to life by both Allen and
especially
Richardson. Guest stars herein include members of the famous Unser racing family and the Beach Boys, who turn out to be cousins of neighbor Wilson.

Presented in 1.33 full screen with audio in Dolby digital
2.0 stereo, Home Improvement: The
Complete Sixth Season comes spread out over three discs in a cardboard slipcase that houses the set’s sturdy gatefold packaging.
Unfortunately, though, the only bonus material comes by way of a six-minute, season-specific blooper
reel, at least some of which fans will no doubt recognize from Dick Clark’s
visit to the set for his blooper-laden specials. C+ (Series) B-
(Disc)

Former actor Ari Ryan makes his directorial debut with this twisty,
mashed-up heist picture, a movie of desperate characters colliding together in
desperate ways. The film is marginally distinguished by its cast, which
includes Henry Thomas, David Boreanaz, Peter Weller, The Departed’s
Vera Farmiga, Nick Lachey, Bruce Dern and Gary Busey, but otherwise about what
one can expect from a hastily shot, conventionally scripted indie genre flick
grinding through as many set-ups per day as possible.

The story centers on Paul Weston (Thomas), a sad-sack inveterate
gambler with a rising debt, and Roger Hargitay (Boreanaz), a yuppie financial
broker who, together with his colleagues, has bent some rules in the pursuit of
a quick payday. The pair doesn’t know each other, but they share a similar
problem — each owes a lot of money, and has no conceivable way to pay it back. Opportunity
and filmic coincidence collide when Paul and Roger are both approached by
separate groups of thieves looking for accomplices in a bank robbery. At the outset,
the heists look simple. Naturally, however, the “easy” job gets
complicated, and the men find themselves involved in the same hold-up at the
same time — a situation that eventually devolves into a stand-off and gun
battle with each other and the authorities.

Jon Lindstrom and Tom Schanley’s script has this madcap nut
at its core, and not a whole lot else. The cast for the most part supply game
efforts — Thomas has a few nice drunk scenes early on, and as Roger’s boss Ed,
Weller injects some levity into the proceedings, chewing scenery and exclaiming
“Gonad!” when something doesn’t go his way — but are often hamstrung by lame or
awkward dialogue. Furthermore, Ryan over-directs the material a bit, achieving
clear compositions and nicely distinguished color palettes for each setting,
but shooting flat masters and then overcompensating with silly, quick-cut
action.

Also, as I’ve mentioned before,
Boreanaz is an actor who is successful only to the degree that he’s an empty vessel for (mostly female)
audience projection. The Hard Easy
doesn’t really afford him that opportunity (though it does get his shirt off in
one scene, a wretchedly staged rooftop basketball encounter with Weller), and
his portrayal of an angsty white collar type, crucial to the differentiation of
the material in his contrast with Thomas’ Lake Tahoe gadfly, doesn’t float.
Roger seems a contrived follower, not believably cowed by panic related to his
circumstances.

The Hard Easy is presented
in widescreen, enhanced for 16×9 televisions, and comes with a slightly subpar English
language 5.1 audio mix, optional subtitles in English and Spanish, and an audio
commentary track with Ryan and producer Scott Gold. There’s also a
seven-minute-plus interview with Ryan, filmed overlooking mid-Wilshire Los
Angeles, in which he makes copious, nervous mention of his own “theatrical
roots” (as if this is an audition to vet his credentials to direct) and also
discusses — quite straightforward and reasonably actually — how he feels a
filmmaker should communicate and rely on the strengths of each of his or her
film’s specific departments. C (Movie) C+ (Disc)

With his shock of white hair and broad, friendly face,
master guitarist Larry Coryell looks a bit like Harry Caray by way of Saturday Night Live’s master
impressionist Darrell Hammond. A pioneer of rock-jazz fusion, Coryell has, over
the course of a long and lucrative career, recorded as a bandleader, soloist
and featured player, while also cultivating a reputation as one heck of a nice
guy — a virtuoso craftsman with the disposition of an amiable and knowledgeable
guitar shop veteran.

Recorded at The Avalon Club in Hollywood,
on October 13, 2005, the
two-disc, simply titled A Retrospective
provides an alluring overview of his canon. Given Coryell’s ample output — more
than 70 albums over the past three-plus decades, from his groundbreaking work
with The 11th House to a string of solo albums for Arista Records in the late 1970s
— any sort of whittling down is bound to produce debate centered as much around
the exclusions as the songs that made the final cut. Believe it or not, I’d
never heard of Coryell until his fine interpretations of Ravel and Gershwin in
the 1990s — music not included here. Based on the alternately electrifying and
evocative nature of what is here,
though, it’s hard to argue too much with the final track listing.

Influenced in equal measure by Chet Atkins and the note-bending
work of Jimi Hendrix, Coryell is a monster on guitar throughout the show, and frequent
collaborator Bernard “Pretty” Purdie sits in on drums, to nice effect. Several
special guests, including Maroon 5’s James Valentine and Los Lobos’ David
Hidalgo, also drop by and lend their talents in homage to Coryell. A fairly simple
introduction gives way to “After Later,” and the two-fer of “Souls Meeting” and
“Souls Dirge” is surely something in which modern-day Arcade Fire fans could find
purchase. The rest of the track listing is as follows: “Hidalgo Rehearsal,”
“Slow Blues,” “Half a Heart,” “Valentine Rehearsal,” “Beautiful Woman,” “Stiff
Neck,” “Morning Sickness,” “Beyond This Chilling Wind,” “Spaces (Infinite)” and
“Dragon Gate.”

Presented on region-free discs in a widescreen aspect ratio
enhanced for 16×9 televisions, A
Retrospective comes anchored by a somewhat desultory stereo PCM audio track, and
packaged in a standard Amray case with snap-tray insert. While a straightforward
biography would have been a nice inclusion for neophyte jazz fans, special
features consist of additional rehearsal footage of tunes not featured in
concert, as well as an interview with the humble Coryell, who hints at a bout
with drug addiction that cost him some of his best years. B (Concert) B (Disc)

Though part of me can’t believe in its actual existence, I heard a rumor that Rush Hour 3 is actually coming out later this summer, so to “swoll” the archives, as the kids (probably don’t) say, comes this re-posting of Rush Hour 2 on DVD, originally published upon its release… what was that, six years ago? Wow. To wit:

In a way, I may be colored by my friend’s prior
interpretation of the film, but watching Rush
Hour 2 I did indeed feel like it was a throwback to those old ’80s buddy
movies, when fleeing villains scaled bamboo latticework (just ’cuz) and heroes
kicked their way through elaborately choreographed fight sequences while
wearing nothing more than a towel wrapped around their waist. Rush Hour 2’s plot is utterly ridiculous
(a smuggling ring, some counterfeit money, revenge for a father’s death and
Zhang Ziyi kicking ass), but it’s hard to take seriously or bear much animosity
toward a movie in which one of the main characters moves the story along by
elucidating his theory of investigation thusly: “Follow the rich white man.” So
Inspector Lee (Jackie Chan) and his mouthy Western counterpart, Detective James
Carter (Chris Tucker), bop from Hong Kong to Los
Angeles, chasing people, having fun, yadda, yadda. Devoted fans
of the principals will be suitably entertained, others by degrees less so.

New Line’s Infinifilm DVD release, though, really decks out
the title with a slew of extras. For those unfamiliar with this line, pop-up
menus allow access to content specifically relating to given scenes on the
screen, interstitial micro-docs on everything from the fashion of the film to
the rehearsals for its action sequences. There are also a bunch of other supplemental features, including animated scene selection, an audio commentary track with director Brett Ratner and writer
Jeff Nathanson, Ratner’s student film Lady
Luck, a script-to-screen function, deleted scenes and five minutes of
outtakes. Graphically, the layout for the special features is a bit cramped,
but the menu does include running times for each option, which is a helpful
bonus. C (Movie) B+ (Disc)