Time Bandits: The Criterion Blu-ray review

The movie portion of this review was previously published at Bullz-Eye. Stills are not screengrabs from the Criterion Blu-ray.

If you were a certain kind of boy or young teenager in the ‘80s, then there’s a good chance Time Bandits was a very important film for you. Sure, you loved Ghostbusters, Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Goonies, but Time Bandits was special in a different way because not everyone else was in on it; it was seemingly dismissed even by most adults (well, the ones I grew up around anyway). For many young people, it was our first introduction to the whacked out joys of Monty Python, even if we didn’t realize it at the time, as Time Bandits is not a proper Python film. But half of the six-man comedy troupe is involved in the picture, and so when we finally got around to discovering Python, we recognized John Cleese and Michael Palin from this film. Little did we know, though, that all of Python’s strange animations were the handiwork of the guy that directed this piece. Wasn’t it refreshing to not have every fact and figure at your immediate disposal way back then? You picked up information over the years while actively seeking it out. Perhaps, as Time Bandits hints, computers really are the playthings of Evil.

David Rappaport and Craig Warnock

However, it’s also possible you were not a certain kind of boy in the ‘80s, or that you’ve never even seen Time Bandits. If so, let’s lay it out there. One night, 11-year old Kevin (Craig Warnock) lies in his bed. Out of his wardrobe tumble six dwarfs on the run from God (who here is referred to as the Supreme Being). He’s their employer and they build trees for him. But they’ve stolen a powerful map from God, and now travel around through history, attempting to loot the past for riches. Kevin follows, and finds himself in all manner of incredulous situations, such as bantering with Robin Hood (John Cleese) or conning Napoleon (Ian Holm) out of his wealth. At the same time, Evil (David Warner, in one of his very best roles) watches over, secretly plotting his takeover of the world via the map, and eventually, an understanding of computers. Exactly what is “The Most Fabulous Object in the World,” and can the inept group of thieves procure it? 

Sean Connery as Agamemnon

As is probably to be expected, Time Bandits works on two different levels. There’s the fantasy/adventure angle for younger viewers, and a sharp, comical script loaded with observations and commentary for the adults. Much of the film’s satire revolves around consumerism and greed, and the lengths to which people will go in order to satiate such desires. Although John Cleese and Sean Connery get top billing (albeit alphabetical), the film’s stars are Warnock and the dwarf actors. David Rappaport plays the leader, Randall, and the emotional backbone of the film is really the relationship between him and Kevin, which is not even remotely a feel-good sort of thing. In fact, the dwarfs aren’t even particularly nice people, and in one segment, when Kevin is separated from them in Ancient Greece, he meets King Agamemnon (Connery), who is more of a father to him than his real father ever was. The dwarfs kidnap Kevin away from his new, perfect life, because they realize he’s actually smarter than they are, and they need him to further their schemes.

David Warner as Evil

Time Bandits didn’t seem a particularly dark movie to me as a kid, but in rewatching it today, I find myself somewhat aghast at how cynical it really is (although even when I was young I realized how fucked up and bleak the final moments of the film are). This really should come as no surprise when you consider that Terry Gilliam unveiled Brazil, the ultimate dark, fantastical social commentary of the 80s, a few years later. (Gilliam was even trying to get Brazil made before Bandits.) While this was Gilliam’s third film (he’d previously co-directed Monty Python and the Holy Grail and helmed Jabberwocky solo), it was the first in which he indulged himself seemingly every whim and idea. Each frame of the movie is crammed with detail, from the important to the trivial, and perhaps what’s most striking about it today is that all the effects are handmade (also the name of the production company – Handmade Films). This is a CGI-free picture, from back when there was no CGI, and it’s all the better for it. It’s a tangible universe; one that you can feel and believe in.

John Cleese as Robin Hood

None of this is to imply it’s a perfect film - just that it’s an ambitious and fun one. While the movie spares little time getting going, it takes forever to end, and much of the big finish, in which Kevin and the dwarfs battle Evil, goes on for far too long, and undercuts some of the intelligence the film is rooted in. When the Supreme Being (Ralph Richardson) shows up, the movie somewhat recovers, but even by then it feels as though the joke has perhaps gone on for a little too long. Yet these are nitpicks from someone who’s seen it countless times, and is possibly taking it all a bit too seriously. Time Bandits remains Fantasy 101, and a must see for people who enjoy this kind of fare. While you’re at it, why not share it with an impressionable 10-year old?

Blu-ray Review & Extras: The previous Image Entertainment Blu-ray release was a visual letdown, and barely deserving of the format, so thankfully Criterion has finally stepped up to the plate and delivered their shining goods via this new 2K digital restoration supervised by Gilliam. Time Bandits soars once again! Ported over from their own previous DVD release is a commentary track featuring contributions from Gilliam, Craig Warnock, Michael Palin, John Cleese, and David Warner (though not all together in one room). A new 23-minute piece traces the design aspects of the film through interviews with costume designer James Acheson and production designer Milly Burns.

Running at a whopping 81 minutes is a revealing conversation between Gilliam and film scholar Peter van Bagh. From the Midnight Sun Film Festival in 1998, the interview was recorded not long after Gilliam finished Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, though that particular film is only briefly discussed at the close. The rest of the conversation traces his growing up in Minnesota, his joining of Monty Python, and talk of each his classic films made until that point. If it’s not the definitive Gilliam interview, it’s certainly up there, and it is always a delight to listen to Gilliam talk life and shop, and here he’s given plenty of time to pontificate.

A short, vintage 8-minute piece from Tom Snyder’s Tomorrow is an interview with Shelley Duvall tied to the film’s release, which more than anything else is a great reminder of how obnoxious Tom Snyder was. There’s a short gallery of photos from the set, and a very funny three-minute trailer that wreaks havoc with the concept of trailer voiceovers - also ported over from the Criterion DVD. (The “Time Bandits Scrapbook,” which ran for 3:13 is absent.) Instead of a booklet, this disc’s essay, entitled “Guerrilla Fantasy” by critic David Sterritt, is printed on a large fold out piece of paper, which flips over to reveal a recreation of the iconic map. It’s not as large as the one in the film, yet would look very nice framed, though I suspect David Sterritt would rather me not recommend doing that. Finally, the disc features a snazzy lenticular slipcover, which may or may not be available on future pressings of the disc.

Photo of fold-out map included in the Criterion disc

The Innocents: The Criterion Blu-ray review

[Note: Screengrabs are taken from the MGM DVD release.]

Two big budget studio ghost stories from the early sixties are cinematic siblings, a notion exacerbated by the fact that in both cases the ghosts may (or may not) be products of overactive imaginations. Those classic films are The Innocents and The Haunting. The latter seemingly steals most of the thunder from the former, but now that Criterion has stepped up to the plate, maybe The Innocents will get some long overdue kudos and love. Based on the 1898 novella The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, The Innocents borrows its title from a stage adaptation by William Archibald, who also worked on the screenplay. Director Jack Clayton wasn’t satisfied with Archibald’s work, so he turned to no less than Truman Capote, who whipped the script into shape, and created the blueprint from which Clayton eventually worked.

Deborah Kerr stars as spinster Miss Giddens, hired by a disinterested uncle (Michael Redgrave) as governess to orphans Miles (Martin Stephens) and Flora (Pamela Franklin, in her film debut) at his palatial but crumbling country estate, Bly. Though Bly’s grounds include a staff headed by housekeeper Mrs. Grose (Megs Jenkins), Giddens is firmly in charge of the children, and any decisions made about their welfare and well being are entirely in her hands. Giddens learns of the recent troubled history of the estate, namely the untimely deaths of the previous governess, Miss Jessel, and the uncle’s valet, Peter Quint (Peter Wyngarde). Soon enough, the visions begin. First Quint and then later Jessel torment Giddens, pushing her to the brink of sanity. The more she learns of the deceased, sexually deviant coupling, the more frenzied she becomes. Soon, Giddens is convinced the pair has evil, dastardly plans for the children, and she’ll go to any lengths to save them.

As to the possible existence of these ghosts, The Innocents is played so squarely down the middle that it really can go either way, and I don’t believe I’ve ever found it as ambiguous as I did upon viewing it via this new Criterion edition. This is to the film’s credit, because in the real world, we (well, most of us) don’t immediately believe someone who says they’ve seen a ghost. Those of us who do not give a season pass on our DVR to Ghost Hunters tend to be skeptical of such claims. The key to appreciating the movie on a level different than ghost story, I believe, is in the viewer’s ability to take Mrs. Grose seriously and not just write her off as a daft old woman who could never understand the supernatural. Because she’s the only other adult playing a major role in the proceedings, and as the movie never shows her as anything other than kindly and wise, her view of events must not only count, but is also crucial. And though Mrs. Grose is far too polite to ever say anything, she clearly believes Miss Giddens to be nucking futs.

I’ve experienced The Innocents on a couple previous formats over the years – official MGM laserdisc and DVD releases - and both were above average presentations, showcasing the movie with a clean print and in its proper Cinemascope 2.35:1 aspect ratio. And yet this Criterion Blu-ray with its spotless 4K transfer remains something of a revelation. This is the sort of movie Blu-ray was made for, as every monochrome frame of The Innocents is crammed with detail that can finally be pored over and analyzed in a home setting like never before. One even wonders if the movie looked this ideal in its original theatrical release.

Blu-ray Extras: Cultural historian Christopher Frayling pulls double duty here, with a 23-minute introduction, as well as helming the commentary track. Though there is a fair amount of overlap between the two, I have to give the guy some props: He’s engaging to listen to and seems to know more than anyone else about this movie; indeed, he may even know more than the people who created it. A new 19-minute interview features cinematographer John Bailey discussing Innocents DP extraordinaire Freddie Francis and his approach to the film and working relationship with Clayton. A relatively short piece (14 minutes) on the making of the film, entitled “Between Horror, Fear, and Beauty,” briefly features Francis himself, as well as editor Jim Clark and script supervisor Pamela Mann Francis. It’s a shame that someone didn’t (or wasn’t able to) round up Pamela Franklin and/or Martin Stephens for commentary as their POVs would seem invaluable to Innocents discussion. The disc also features the film’s trailer and the inner booklet offers up an essay entitled “Forbidden Games” by Maitland McDonagh. From an extras standpoint, not one of Criterion’s strongest showings, but as is nearly always the case with this company, the exceptional film presentation is the real star.

Scanners: The Criterion Blu-ray / DVD Combo review

It’s difficult to calculate the exact influence the work of David Cronenberg has had on sci-fi film and what the genre might be like without him. His work, or at least the first half of his career, so squarely belongs to Cronenberg that it’s entirely possible his absence wouldn’t make a big difference at all, as nobody can do Cronenberg like Cronenberg. Even Cronenberg arguably had a tough time of conveying his specific brand of sci-fi by the time he got to eXistenZ in 1999, which to date remains his last completely original screenplay.

But a new Criterion release demands that we travel all the way back to 1981, when American audiences were considerably less familiar with the Canadian filmmaker. Despite having made a half a dozen features prior to it, Scanners was the movie that put Cronenberg on everyone’s radar, and it blew their minds…

Read the rest of this review by clicking here and visiting STARLOG.

Picnic at Hanging Rock: The Criterion Blu-ray / DVD Combo review

Back when I first saw 1975’s Picnic at Hanging Rock in the mid ‘90s, we didn’t have the internet. And the Criterion laserdisc I owned (one of the very last Criterion laserdisc releases) was bare bones, so beyond the film itself, there was no information on it. If memory serves me correctly, for some time I believed it to be based on a true story, and the movie’s opening intro, coupled with its mission to not answer its central mystery, might lead anyone to believe that it is. It just seemed like a highly artistic interpretation of real events. And it still does today, though via this brand new Criterion edition, decked with numerous bells and whistles, it’s easier to discover the truth, which is that Picnic at Hanging Rock was based on a fictitious novel by a lady named Joan Lindsay – a paperback copy of which is included in this set.

Hanging Rock - from a distance

The story at first revolves around a girl’s school in Victoria, Australia, in 1900, and the students’ St. Valentine’s Day outing to the imposing volcanic monument, Hanging Rock (which is a very real place). Upon arrival, quiet weirdness abounds, and after several lazy, dreamlike hours, three of the girls and one of the teachers have gone missing. The second half of the film studies the effects the disappearances have on not only the school, but also the nearby town and its variety of residents. It is, after all, a small town at the turn of the century where people do not just disappear.

Mrs. Appleyard passive-aggressively terrorizes Sara

The movie is crammed with ideas, thoughts, and feelings, expressed through an intricate, restrained drawing of its numerous characters, with the repression of the time period leading to people unable to properly communicate their fears, hopes, and desires. Mrs. Appleyard (Rachel Roberts), the severe, imposing school headmistress, takes out her frustrations on the awkward student, Sara (Margaret Nelson), while the much younger and more vibrant Mademoiselle de Poitiers (Helen Morse) is wracked with guilt over her inaction the day of the picnic. The befuddled Sgt. Bumpher (Wyn Roberts), who leads the investigation and search party to find the missing, continually finds himself at a loss for words (his position, coupled with his resemblance to Graham Chapman, leads to a frequent expectation for him to finally break out with an “All right! All right! All right!”).

Michael and Albert spy the schoolgirls headed for the rock

The privileged young English boy Michael Fitzhubert (Dominic Guard, who, for my Whovian brethren, played Olvir in “Terminus”) is haunted by the disappearances more than anyone else, and he makes it his mission to find out what happened, regardless of the potential cost to his own well being. By contrast, his blue collar Aussie acquaintance, Albert (a young John Jarratt, the bad guy of Wolf Creek), is haunted by his own past, and has closer ties to the school than he could ever know. Not every struggle in Hanging Rock is caused by the mystery, yet they often appear to be reflected in it.

Anne-Louise Lambert as Miranda

What is perhaps most absorbing about Hanging Rock is not the characters we spend time with throughout the entire film, but rather the missing girls, led by the luminescent Miranda (Anne-Louise Lambert), and their intellectual math instructor, Miss Greta McCraw (Vivean Gray) – all of whom cast a potent spell in the 40 or so minutes of screentime they have. Lambert is a cinematic angel, and her visage haunts the movie long after she’s gone, just as it does the viewer after the credits roll. But these days Gray’s McCraw is my favorite. The steely, calculating teacher, enlightened with a knowledge of the world that Bill Nye and Neil deGrasse Tyson would appreciate, appears to be living out of time and place. McCraw hypnotizes, not least because the movie dishes even less on her disappearance than the others. The film strongly suggests that the rock awakens something primal and perhaps even sexual in these women – something they were unable to tap into or unleash in the society they had grown up a part of, but that the rock opened, and they found inviting.

Mlle. de Poitiers (l) and Miss McCraw (r)

Yet those assertions are more my interpretation than anything else. Picnic at Hanging Rock should mean something different for each viewer. It’s that kind of movie, and the open-ended narrative is the lack of punctuation on an unfinished sentence. It’s an exercise in mood and sound (the music ranges from classical works to Zamfir’s pan flute to evocative original compositions), and most certainly stunning cinematography by Russell Boyd. Though it was not director Peter Weir’s debut film, it was the one that introduced his considerable talents to the world. Weir has since gone on to helm some truly incredible films over the course of his long career, though there’s not a one of them I wouldn’t put up against Hanging Rock just to demonstrate how strong the movie really is.

Lastly, keep an eye out for a very young Jacki Weaver (Animal Kingdom, Silver Linings Playbook), who receives theatrical billing much higher on the marquee than her character - an amorous maid working at the school – demands. Off the cuff: Anyone else often find themselves playing games of “Is that Jacki Weaver or Sally Struthers?”

   

Blu-ray/DVD Extras: Picnic at Hanging Rock arrives in a “dual format” combo single Blu-ray/ two DVD set, which is a recent Criterion experiment that apparently, as of last Friday’s announcement, will be halted come September. Bit of a shame, really. I can see how DVD consumers would have issues with the price increase, but Blu-ray enthusiasts that “didn’t like making room for DVDs they didn’t want” just smacks of the oft-ridiculed first world problems. As a Blu-ray freak, I am always happy to get a free DVD with my purchase, Criterion or not, so I didn’t even really have time to warm up to this new presentation before it was dispensed with. In any case, the movie looks jaw-droppingly gorgeous and the 5.1 surround track more than gets the job done. Weir uses both pictures and sound to weave his tapestry, and both are surely tighter here than on any previous Region A/1 release. 

At the top of this piece I mentioned the Criterion laserdisc. It was followed by a bare bones DVD edition in 1999, and now, 15 years later, we have this hulking combo set that includes the paperback novel. Seriously, when the package arrived, I thought there were two movies enclosed. After all this time, Criterion rectifies those previous meager presentations with a host of lovingly prepared goodies.

Extras kick off with a 10-minute introduction by film scholar David Thomson, which is followed by an enlightening 25-minute interview with Weir - a welcome inclusion, as he meditates and dishes on all things Hanging. Likewise, “Everything Begins and Ends” is a 30-minute doc featuring interviews with producers Hal and Jim McElroy, exec producer Patricia Lovell, DP Russell Boyd, and cast members Anne-Louise Lambert and Helen Morse. At first glance it would be easy to take this disc to task for not featuring a commentary track, but between the Weir interview and the doc, there’s really no need for one as plenty of ground is covered, and Hanging Rock is not the kind of movie that viewers should be walked through scene by scene anyway. 

Additionally, there’s a theatrical trailer, and 26-minute period doc from ’75 entitled “A Recollection…Hanging Rock 1900,” much of which is shot at Hanging Rock, including further interviews with Joan Lindsay, Dominic Guard, Weir, and others. Lastly, on the video side of things, there’s a 50-minute black and white short film called Homesdale. It was this movie that led exec producer Lovell to hire Weir to helm Hanging Rock, though why that is remains yet another mystery, as the tone, feel and subject matter of the short isn’t much like the feature film. Even Weir seems puzzled by the fact in the interview piece. (Frankly, Homesdale is such an oddball piece, its weirdness makes Hanging Rock seem pretty straightforward by comparison – perhaps therein lies the answer.) 

In addition to the Lindsay paperback, this edition includes a beautiful 28-page inner booklet, laced with stills from the movie, and featuring a new essay by author Megan Abbott entitled “What We See and What We Seem,” as well as an excerpted piece from a 1996 book on Weir, by Marek Haltof, entitled “Peter Weir and the Australian New Wave Cinema.”

All screengrabs in this piece were taken from the DVD.

Metropolitan & The Last Days of Disco: The Criterion Blu-ray reviews

Filmmakers who only make movies when they feel they have something worth saying are a rarity in this age, where it seems the goal is to see how quickly one can be hired to helm the latest, biggest superhero opus. Whit Stillman has only made four movies since 1990, including his hyphenate debut, Metropolitan, which was released that year, and rather amazingly snagged an Academy Award nomination for Best Screenplay. It lost to Ghost, which, from today’s perspective, is a travesty, but typical of the Academy nevertheless. 50% of Stillman’s filmic oeuvre, including the aforementioned Metropolitan, along with The Last Days of Disco (1998), both hit Blu-ray last week, and from the fine folks at Criterion, no less.

When I think of Stillman’s films, what I think of first is the speech; the way the characters speak. His films are drunk on subtle affectations of the English language (but not necessarily the language itself). It isn’t that, in a Stillman movie, what the characters have to say isn’t important, but rather that you’ll find yourself almost hypnotized by the manner in which they’re saying it. No doubt some viewers will be just plain annoyed by the incessant, rhythmic chatter. Those people will not find the next film of his any more tolerable, because there’s no question that a Stillman film is a Stillman film. I’d use the word unique if not for the fact there are now four of them. Now, all of that said, Stillman’s dialogue is second to none, and positively crackling when heard within the context of the situations he devises, and coming from the mouths of the memorable characters he’s created.

Metropolitan follows a group of young, rich people living in New York City during Debutante Season, which apparently coincides with Christmas break. Now you must understand that I was born and raised in small town Missouri, and have spent my adult life in Texas. There is no reason on this Earth or any other why I should care about these people and their cushy situation, and yet Stillman writes characters that interest, and therefore their situations are of interest as well. The kids in Metropolitan are interesting because they genuinely appear to struggle with their existence. It’s easy to write privileged folk as shallow. Most do. What’s tough is giving them some sort of depth, which Stillman does. Into their privileged lives stumbles Tom Townsend (Edward Clements), who is not privileged, nor is he rich. The group accepts him (some quicker than others), as they are basically decent people and they recognize a kindred spirit in Tom, and the film showcases one complex conversation, argument and/or debate after another, all draped in some wraparound, romantic entanglements.

I’ll never quite understand why Metropolitan is reminiscent of some John Hughes movie from an alternate universe, yet for me it is. It’s sort of like The Breakfast Club, if that movie had little interest in appealing to the masses. I think Stillman wants his movies to be appreciated and liked (any filmmaker who’ll tell you otherwise is lying), but I think he also knows there’s a specific audience for his work. I’ll not venture out and guess who that audience is, because by my own admission I don’t feel as though I’m part of the target, and yet I’m endlessly amused by his universe. It’s anyone’s guess who’ll like a Whit Stillman movie, and the only way to find out is to dive in and see if it’s a club you want to join.

Chris Eigeman

Some years after Metropolitan, in 1994, Stillman unveiled Barcelona, which starred Chris Eigeman and Taylor Nichols, both of whom had made their big screen debuts in Metropolitan. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that someday soon, Barcelona also gets the Criterion treatment. Four years after Barcelona came The Last Days of Disco, which ended up being Stillman’s last movie until 2011, when he brought us Damsels in Distress, which I must confess I have not yet seen, as it played for only a week in San Antonio, but is hitting DVD and Blu-ray in September.

But we’re here to talk about Disco, and The Last Days of it. Much of what I wrote about Metropolitan applies to this movie as well, except that Stillman had a bigger budget and access to all sorts of folks who at the time were up and coming Hollywood talent: Chloë Sevigny, Kate Beckinsale, Matt Ross, Robert Sean Leonard, and Matt Keeslar to name a few, as well as Chris Eigeman, the De Niro to Stillman’s Scorsese for the third time in a row. Or the MacLachlan to his Lynch. Someday, for a lesser known director and actor combo, I will hopefully say “The Eigeman to his Stillman.” Disco follows a group of twentysomethings in the year 1980, or maybe 1981, as they navigate their way through the changing times. Their self-involved dialogue covers their places in the world to sexuality to careers to, of course, disco. With a Whit Stillman movie, you can’t always tell when he’s taking his characters seriously and when’s having a laugh at their expense. Such lines are blurred, and that’s a big part of the charm of his style.

What I believe to be the triumph of Disco, is that despite packing the movie from one end to the other with disco hits, and regardless of the fact that much of the film takes place in a Studio 54-like nightclub, the movie never once, not even for a second, feels in the least bit kitschy. It is a Whit Stillman movie first and foremost, and his style never gets swallowed by the tacky surroundings, nor does he as a writer or director ever rely on nostalgia or wallow in excess or wink through the camera. The title of the film is wholly accurate, and yet it’s a film that shouldn't be judged by that title. Simply put, you may have no interest in disco yet still appreciate this work. No mean feat, no lack of vision and talent.

It’s tempting to suggest that these two movies would make a fine double feature, but I won’t. The day these discs arrived I watched Metropolitan, and let it wash over me. A few hours later I put on Disco, and within ten minutes I realized that I couldn’t watch two Stillman movies in one day. They’re too thick for that. The movies leave the viewer with so much to think about, that one cannot simply move on to the next one. I ended up putting a week or so between the viewings and Disco felt all the stronger for it. It was perhaps the most rewarding viewing of the movie I’d ever had. In some ways the same can be said for the Metropolitan viewing, simply because I’ve never seen it look as nice as it does on this Blu-ray. (It may even have been the first time I saw it in its proper aspect ratio.) Disco has always looked reasonably good, so this presentation wasn’t exactly revelatory, but a nice Criterion presentation nevertheless. (If you're interested in Blu-ray screencaps, I recommend looking at the articles at DVD Beaver here and here.)

Whit Stillman

Blu-ray Extras: The star extras here are undoubtedly the commentary tracks. Metropolitan features Stillman, editor Christopher Tellefsen, as well as Chris Eigeman and Taylor Nichols. It’s an informative track to be sure, and certainly well worth a listen if you’ve any interest in grass roots independent filmmaking (indeed, Metropolitan is one of the poster children for true indie filmmaking). The Disco track features Stillman, Eigeman, and Sevigny and by comparison is a great deal more fun and flirty, due to Sevigny’s lively presence.

Additionally, Metropolitan offers up some deleted scenes and some alternate casting choices, with optional commentary, as well as a booklet with an essay by Luc Sante. Disco also has some deleted scenes with optional commentary, an audio recording of Stillman reading a chapter from his book, The Last Days of Disco, With Cocktails at Petrossian Afterwards, which was published a couple years after the movie was released. There’s also a behind-the-scene promo featurette from 1998, a stills gallery, and a trailer, as well as a booklet with an essay by David Schickler.

Harold and Maude: The Criterion Blu-ray review

[Note: All screengrabs in this piece are taken from the old Paramount DVD release of Harold and Maude and are by no means indicative of the video quality of this Blu-ray.]

Trying to find something profound or insightful to say about Harold and Maude feels like an exercise in futility; anything I’ve got, the film already says about 20 times more eloquently, yet let’s give it a whirl, but be warned, because you’re gonna get tons of “me, me, me” in this piece. I can’t write about the movie any other way. It’s too personal. Nor do I wish to offer up some kind of plot summary, which would be pointless. If you’ve not already seen this movie, then just go buy this disc, you poor bastard, and if you don’t like it, I don’t want to know you. There are few movies that grab me emotionally the way this one does; some of the others that do, like Shampoo, are also directed by Hal Ashby, who was one of the most gifted visual storytellers that ever lived. The guy had a knack for finding truth in the most unlikely of places; he made a career out of it. This ability of his was never more obvious than in Harold and Maude, the story of the awkward, depressed young man (Bud Cort) who falls for a free-spirited lover of life (Ruth Gordon) that’s four times his age.

Remember those people who were diagnosed with a sort of depression after seeing Avatar, because they were so affected by the movie that they wanted to live in that world, but couldn’t? Harold and Maude is my Avatar. It guts me. I have to be careful about the frame of mind I’m in when I watch it, otherwise it’s liable to send me spiraling into a state of melancholy, much like yesterday’s viewing of this Blu-ray did. This is an odd reaction to such a life-affirming movie, but I think the reason I respond like this is because it’s a reminder that I’m not living my life as fully and with as much joy as I should.

It’s so easy to be pessimistic in this day and age, because our culture is drenched in cynicism. How do you fight against what’s in front of you at every turn? Further complicating the issue is that there’s a potential price to pay for not joining in on the group skepticism and that’s that you may not be taken seriously. You may even, heaven forbid, be labeled naïve. Most everything we are as a culture today is the exact opposite of what Harold and Maude is (was?) about. If I could, I’d sit the entire country down, pass around joints, bongs and baked goods, and make everyone watch Harold and Maude simultaneously. If it made a dent for just one day, it’d be worth it.

One of my favorite lines, depending on which day I’m talking about the movie, is Maude’s, when she’s dealing with an angry police officer (played by an uncredited Tom Skerritt): “Don't get officious. You're not yourself when you're officious. That is the curse of a government job.” Harold and Maude is all about challenging authority, and it was part of a whole wave of films that were doing just that, although few of them managed to do it as sweetly as this one. It was made in era when film really took authority to task in a way it doesn’t today. Maybe it reflected the times. Back then people thought they could make a difference and cause change. They felt their opinions carried some weight and that authority figures like politicians had some decency buried deep inside them that was just waiting to be dragged to the surface. Nixon probably changed a lot of that, but certainly today – and this goes back to the rampant cynicism – too many people believe less in challenging authority than they do in dismantling it altogether.

So I guess Harold and Maude takes me to a time that I never got to experience (having been born about a month before the film’s release), and it does it in a way that’s not even remotely preachy or maudlin or nostalgic (or maybe it’s all of those things?). It’s a story of two people who’ve experienced tragedy and hurt and pain, and how one of them overcame it long ago, and is now intent on helping the other through the rough times, so they can both get to a better place. Folks have often placed an emphasis on the romance between the two leads, but that’s the last thing I think about when it comes to Harold and Maude, because it’s about so much more than that. There are a million romance flicks out there - many of them with pairings far stranger than this one - but there is only one Harold and Maude.

Having dealt with Harold and Maude for years now through Paramount’s DVD release (and before that on Paramount’s laserdisc), it’s never really occurred to me how much of an overhaul this movie might need, but the difference between that disc and this Criterion Blu-ray is pretty revelatory in terms of picture quality. Whereas before the movie was mired in muddy dark browns and greens, on this Blu-ray it’s now covered in eye-popping dark browns and greens, not to mention a whole other palette of surprising colors that I was never able to notice before. I often wonder with Criterion discs if some of these old movies look better than they did upon release. This one certainly looks better than I’ve seen it before, and in fact when I went back and looked at the Paramount DVD for screengrab purposes, I was rather stunned by how bad it looked. Also, in addition to the original uncompressed mono soundtrack, this edition offers up a newly remastered stereo track. The music of Cat Stevens has never sounded so good in a feature film.

Hey Criterion! More Hal Ashby on Blu-ray! Shampoo, pretty please!?!? You did that one many years ago on laserdisc and it’s time to go back to the well. 

Director Hal Ashby's Hitchcock cameo

Blu-ray Extras: In a perfect world, the special features here would be considerably more extensive, or at the very least there’d be interviews or commentaries with Bud Cort and/or Vivian Pickles[1], but alas, ‘tis not to be. Perhaps it was the lovely little 2011 interview with Yusef/Cat Stevens that made me want more? Yes, that must have been it. Because before this Criterion disc came along, I was satisfied with the content of the nearly bare bones Paramount DVD I’ve had for years. In addition to talking with Cat, there are vintage audio pieces (that play over montages) with both Hal Ashby and screenwriter Colin Higgins from ’72 and ’79 respectively, taken from Harold Lloyd Masters Seminars. An informative commentary track alternating between Ashby biographer Nick Dawson and the film’s producer Charles B. Mulvehill rounds out the disc’s bonus features. (The two theatrical trailers on the Paramount disc have not made the leap, I’m afraid to report.)

Additionally, the Blu-ray includes one of those fine inner booklets that Criterion does so well. This one spans 36 pages and is full of cute little Harold and Maude illustrations in the same vein as the cover art. It features: A new essay entitled “Life and How to Live It,” by one of the most insightful, not to mention dangerous, living movie/TV critics, Matt Zoller Seitz (whom, it must be said, I also call a friend); a reprint of a 1971 New York Times article/interview with Ruth Gordon by Leticia Kent entitled “A Boy of Twenty and a Woman of Eighty”; a transcript of a 1997 conversation between Bud Cort, cinematographer John Alonzo, and James Rogers of the Colin Higgins Trust; lastly, there’s a short 2001 interview conducted by Rogers with the film’s executive producer, Mildred Lewis, and her family, entitled “Meeting Colin Higgins.”

 [1] Bud Cort and Ruth Gordon have quite understandably gotten all the glory for Harold and Maude over the years, but damn it, Vivian Pickles, who plays Harold’s mother, is just as good as the two leads, and maybe as important to the goings-on. Through many viewings, I’ve come to really appreciate what this actress brought to the movie, and how spot on her portrayal is of a mother very much at wits end and utterly ill-equipped to deal with her emotionally disturbed son. Again, like so much of this movie, Mrs. Chasen is very much a character of her time, yet the character transcends the decades and works every bit as well today. Nearly every word that comes out of her mouth is priceless and every move she makes is calculated comedic perfection. Pickles just doesn’t get nearly enough credit for her work here.

Godzilla: The Criterion Blu-ray

My history with Godzilla (1954) is all but non-existent. The last time I saw the film – the American version known as Godzilla, King of the Monsters!, starring Raymond Burr – I was probably nine and it was on TV on a Saturday afternoon. So far back was this, and so ignorant was I, that upon receiving this Blu-ray, I was mildly shocked to learn that the movie was in black and white, and not in color as I’d (for whatever dubious reasons) remembered it! Obviously I’d never seen the original Japanese version of the film - how few Americans have? – nor, up until this disc was announced, did I even know it existed. So yeah, that’s heaping loads of in the dark, isn’t it? Especially for a movie guy like me. What can I say? I’ve always been more of a King Kong kinda guy.

However, I have numerous friends for whom all this Godzilla and Toho stuff is a fucking religion (Toho’s the studio that produces all the Japanese giant monster movies), and out of respect for their tastes I wanted to find out more via this disc. One of my friends once said to me, “The way you are about Doctor Who is the way I am about Toho movies.” In my head, I probably said something along the lines of “How dare you compare that nonsense with the holy grail of sci-fi television?!?!” Well, Lee, I get it now…but we’ll come to that shortly.

The other, perhaps more immediate reason this disc was a draw, is that it’s Criterion. Criterion means something – actually, it can mean a number of things, but in this case it means that loads of people like me, who’ve dismissed the Godzilla concept as little more than “man in suit” over the years, will be experiencing this movie for real, for the first time. Criterion is the mark of quality for film aficionados, and this exact same set, with the very same content, could be released on another label, and it wouldn’t get a tenth the attention it’s going to get by being a Criterion disc.

So if I once was blind, but now I can see…what is there to see? A surprisingly well-crafted parable for Japanese nuclear paranoia following the wartime bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, only barely disguised as a monster movie. Disguised? Parable?? Godzilla is probably neither. It hangs these themes out in plain sight, and even builds its storyline around them. The original 1933 King Kong is narratively, by comparison, kid stuff. This is serious science fiction, even if the science is pretty bad (Oxygen Destroyer?!).

Takashi Shimura as Dr. Yamane

What isn’t at all bad, however, is the drama of Godzilla, which is given able support by its four lead actors. Takashi Shimura, who in the same year starred in Seven Samurai for Akira Kurosawa (learn more about the numerous Toho/Kurosawa overlaps on the commentary tracks), plays Dr. Yamane, the man the country turns to when Godzilla first attacks. He theorizes that the creature is some long dormant prehistoric relic, awoken and mutated by nuclear testing and fallout. Despite the creature’s destructive capabilities, Yamane believes the creature should be studied, not destroyed. Shimura plays Yamane with an ashen face throughout the picture, as though he’s well aware of the conundrum he purports to believe in. It’s a powerful performance, from a guy who was one of the great actors of the day in Japan, yet he may not give the movie’s most interesting performance.

(L-R) Akira Takarada, Momoko Kochi, Akihiko Hirata

No, that honor must be bestowed upon the movie’s other “mad” scientist, Dr. Serizawa, played by Akihiko Hirata, who is one third of the film’s love triangle. This eye-patch wearing genius concocts a doomsday weapon of sorts that could be used against Godzilla, but like many such scientists, his creation has driven him over the edge. To use or not to use, that is, well, it’s one of the dilemmas Serizawa must face. He’s also engaged to Yamane’s daughter, Emiko (Momoko Kochi), who’s drifting away from him and into the arms of the film’s “hero,” Hideto Ogata (Akira Takarada). Hero is placed in quotation marks, because Ogata is the hero in concept only. He’s very much the stock good guy that amounts more to an ideal than a solid idea, and yet he serves his purpose in the grand scheme of the triangle. Kochi and Takarada both do fine work, but the filmmakers are more interested in exploring the ramifications of Godzilla’s existence through the two scientists, which, again, emphasizes this movie’s place in the world of sci-fi.

After watching this movie, it’s easy to understand how an empire was built on the concept. This is a moody, sometimes unnerving think piece, as much as it is popcorn entertainment – a perfect fusion of two very different types of films, thanks to the vision of director and co-screenwriter Ishiro Honda. To think of it as merely “man in suit” does it a huge disservice. One scene continues to haunt me every time I think back on it. It’s during Godzilla’s rampage through Tokyo, in which he seems hell bent on destroying everyone and everything to do with the city. A mother trembles on the street, cradling her young children, as the city falls apart around them. She comforts them the only way she knows how: “Don’t worry, we’ll be with daddy soon” - a reference to an apparently deceased husband and father. It’s a chilling moment that would be perfectly at home in a movie about nuclear annihilation (or any number of other types of disasters), but instead it’s in this movie about a giant, radiation-breathing lizard, and it’s morbidly serious, and speaks of how deeply this movie can be felt, and how seriously it can be taken.

However, let’s not forget the undeniable sense of fun the movie also has. Just the sheer joy one can get out of the filmmaking, and the knowledge that this movie was the first of its kind, is exhilarating. By and large, the Godzilla creature is convincing, as men in suits go, but what do I know? My religion is old Doctor Who, so my opinion should be taken with a grain of salt. I did [re]learn a little something profound from this disc, and that’s the value of creating a heightened sense of reality, versus just trying to make something look as real as possible. The Godzilla movies seem to largely succeed because of this philosophy, and film must surely be a better art form for it. I believed in this creature and this scenario far more so than I did in the ones that Roland Emmerich unveiled in his ‘90s big budget Hollywood version of Godzilla, a movie that was so forgettable I had to head to Google image search just to find out what its monster looked like, so unmemorable a creature it was they created. Everybody knows what the classic Godzilla looks like.

All this space taken up and I’ve barely mentioned Godzilla, King of the Monsters! (1956), which also appears on this disc. Director Terry Morse took Honda’s version and reworked it for American audiences, by removing scenes, dubbing the principal actors, and most importantly, by shooting new footage with Raymond Burr (and several other actors) as reporter Steve Martin, a new character inserted into the action as an observer. There’s no question it was a valiant effort, and it quite rightly has its apologists, for myriad reasons, but after watching Honda’s original film, it can’t help but come up short, probably because we know so much about filmmaking today that all of the little nips and tucks are painfully obvious to even the untrained eye. In any case, Criterion has put it alongside the original version, and given it its proper due, which is as it should be, because, from the U.S. standpoint, it’s a huge part of the history of this story, and it would be unthinkable to not include it for American audiences.

Do be warned: These movies look far from perfect, so if you’re expecting crystal clear imagery, you won’t find it here. They’re loaded with scratches, although it appears Criterion did the very best they could with what they had to work with. Apparently these movies looked like this back in theatres in the ‘50s. Personally I found it all rather charming, and perfectly at home here, but I do feel the need to warn first-time Godzilla viewers to keep their expectations in check. (Note: The images in this article are not screengrabs from the Blu-ray.)

Blu-ray Extras: By a long shot, the star extras here are the two commentary tracks (one on each version of the movie) from film historian (i.e. “Godzilla nerd”) David Kalat. This guy is smart, well-spoken, and occasionally even funny, and takes listeners/viewers on an informative ride over about a three-hour period. If you’re into discovering more about this fictitious universe, as well as the real world making of it, Kalat’s tales and insights will keep you thoroughly entertained and enlightened for the duration of not one, but two movies.

Beyond the commentaries, there are new interviews with actors Akira Takarada and Haruo Nakajima (the guy in the rubber suit), which each run about 10 or 15 minutes, as well as special effects techs Yoshiro Irie and Eizo Kaimai, which runs about a half hour. Also present is a 50-minute, undated interview with composer Akira Ifukube. There’s also a new interview with Japanese film critic Tadao Soto, in which he discusses the film’s cinematic place in history. A short featurette details the photographic effects of Godzilla, while “The Unluckiest Dragon” is a video essay detailing the history of the fishing boat Lucky Dragon #5, which was part of the inspiration for the start of the film. Finally, there are trailers for each version of the movie, and a booklet featuring an essay by J. Hoberman.