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Blu-ray Review: 3 Films by Roberto Rossellini Starring Ingrid Bergman

Less conceptual than uncommonly intuitive, the work produced by Rossellini and his new muse during this period would do nothing short of usher in what we now know as the modern cinematic age.

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3 Films by Roberto Rossellini Starring Ingrid Bergman

In May of 1950, Italian filmmaker Roberto Rossellini married Swedish actress-turned-Hollywood-icon Ingrid Bergman. Earlier that year, the two had welcomed a son amid a flurry of tabloid gossip and moral accusations. The pair met less than a year prior, after Bergman had expressed interest in working with Rossellini, and though each were married at the time, a personal and professional relationship developed, resulting in perhaps the most fruitful collaboration in cinema history to that point. Despite the outside conditions (both director and star were constantly harassed by the media during these years), it stands to reason that it was this very environment that inspired such emotionally and aesthetically brave decisions on the part of Rossellini, who had already helped popularize his home country’s neorealist movement throughout the preceding decade.

The films Rossellini and Bergman made in the early ‘50s were something altogether different, and not only in comparison to the director’s prior output. Still retaining distinct aspects of the vérité sensibility with which he made his name, particularly in the films’ unique sense of locale and ethnography, this (retroactively defined) trilogy of spiritual and existential concern would prove to be Rossellini’s most crucial contribution to the cinematic canon. No longer simply a mode for dramatic storytelling, though with an unmistakably melodramatic façade modeled on the design of concurrent Hollywood productions, these films would instead ponder issues of great psychological import via a decidedly metaphysical approach. Less conceptual than uncommonly intuitive, the work produced by Rossellini and his new muse during this period would do nothing short of usher in what we now know as the modern cinematic age.

What’s interesting is that Rossellini would accomplish this feat with but a modicum of narrative gestures, transposing the histrionics of melodrama into slow-simmering character studies of grave consequence. In fact, the first three (out of a total of five) films the director would make with Bergman follow markedly similar trajectories. In each case, a married woman in a foreign land becomes disenchanted with her current lifestyle and embarks on an instinctual, soul-cleansing mission to ameliorate her discomfort. In a conventional sense, little transpires in these films, each woman simply—and in some cases inexplicably—relinquishing her grasp on her carefully controlled persona in an effort to find meaning and, hopefully, inner happiness. By stylistically stripping these films of traditionally dynamic storytelling attributes, yet without sacrificing the tumultuous undercurrents which motivate these women, Rossellini happened upon an entirely fresh methodology.

These properties can be seen in their nascent form in both 1950’s Stromboli and 1952’s Europe ’51. The former, Rossellini and Bergman’s first pairing, is a harrowing account of an idealistic woman’s descent from newly married refugee to frightened mother-to-be against the literally volcanic backdrop of the coastal Sicilian village of the film’s title, while the latter charts the inexorable social degradation of a mother in the wake of her son’s death. Both setups suggest ample opportunity for outsized theatrics, and there are indeed instances of intense emotional discord on the part of Bergman, but it’s in the quiet moments, at the interstitial junctures, where these films gather their accumulating power. In Stromboli, it’s most evident as Bergman traverses the island landscape, exploring the disorienting coordinates of her new home and absorbing the local culture (it’s here we also see Rossellini’s neorealist philosophy reassert itself, with documentary-like sequences of commercial tuna fishing). Bergman’s character in Europe ’51, meanwhile, has little such freedom, as her efforts at a more modest, humanitarian way of living lead to charges of such extreme activism that she’s institutionalized for her behavior. In each case what we’re witnessing is the simultaneous disillusion and evolution of a woman with desires far greater than her present situation can possibly fulfill.

In 1954’s Journey to Italy, marriage can bring fulfillment to Bergman’s character, though not without the undertaking of a transcendental odyssey that will finally bring her feelings full circle. And it was with this film that Rossellini himself would reconcile his major thematic and aesthetic preoccupations, arriving in the process at a plateau of cinematic serenity. As in the prior two films, the inner turmoil of Bergman’s character, Katherine, is a reflection of her surroundings. Naples, a city of vast historical beauty, is transformed here into an intimately claustrophobic environment, smothering a relationship that presumably had roots in genuine passion and reciprocation. When Katherine’s husband, Alex (George Sanders), proposes some time apart, the two venture toward different activities, his more hedonistic and hers more devotional, before reconvening for a visit to the ruins of Pompeii which brings suppressed feelings flooding to the surface. The final scene, one of those rare instances where the divine seemingly interjects both in the production and the narrative alike, elevating each to a level neither could have reached on their own, marks a division: between the old and the new, the antiquated and the modern, the schematic and the instinctual.

More so than most any subsequent movement, let alone simply a professional pairing, you can consistently sense the influence of Rossellini and Bergman’s partnership in the constantly recalibrating trends of international cinema. From Bresson to Godard to Antonioni (arguably the only director to directly build on Rossellini’s foundational design) to, more recently, Abbas Kiarostami and Nuri Bilge Ceylan, Rossellini’s combination of compositional austerity and structural indeterminacy has been a vital component of how we continue to analyze and engage with cinema—not to mention criticism. That these two immense figures in filmmaking had to converge, collapse, and reconfigure is thus apt as we consider their lasting impact. That a break in arguably the foremost contemporary art form would occur at the midway point of its first full century is likewise no accident. Bergman’s personal journey to Italy may have had immediate consequence in her and Rossellini’s various pursuits, but the artistic reverberations have endured longer and have had far greater impact than anyone could have anticipated.

Image/Sound

Considering that Stromboli, Europe ’51, and Journey to Italy are Italian productions from the early 1950s, starring an array of international actors and non-actors speaking a variety of conflicting languages, the films comprising the Criterion’s box set intelligibly and impressively transfer to the high-definition format. All three restorations—or technically five, if you include the Italian versions of Stromboli and Europe ’51, also included here—are presented on 1080p Blu-ray with the respective quality advancing with each successive film. Thus, Stromboli, the oldest of the films, looks the weakest by comparison, with some damage marks and fluctuating contrast throughout. Similar inferiorities plague Europe ’51, which is smoother overall, but is hampered by scratched frames on occasion. Nevertheless, both films look quite textured with hints of grain and plenty of detail in close-ups. The sources for these films obviously leave Criterion with only so much to work with, but noticeable effort has been put into these transfers—and on those terms both are satisfying visual experiences. Journey to Italy, however, eclipses each by a wide margin, looking excellent by any standard. The transfer is clear and clean and offers a lot of depth in the frame, with very few if any damage marks to mar the appearance. Audio, meanwhile, is also at the mercy of each individual source. Each film is offered in a linear PCM track (in either English, Italian, or both), and as Roberto Rossellini’s soundtracks were mostly stitched together in post-production via dubbing to account for the varying nationalities of his actors, each is understandably scattered and occasionally disorienting. Dialogue is mostly clear, however, with voices upfront and noise kept to a minimum. As with the picture, not much more could have probably been done with the elements offered, and thus nothing egregious is evident enough to warrant much complaint.

Extras

The supplemental package put together for this set by Criterion is, in a word, triumphant. It would be futile to detail everything on offer, but suffice it to say they’ve left nearly no stone unturned. Highlights include vintage introductions to each film by Rossellini himself, film-specific interviews with critic Adriano Aprà, an audio commentary track on Journey to Italy by feminist film theorist and filmmaker Laura Mulvey (who approaches the film from a invigoratingly philosophical angle, meditating on the film’s theoretical and historical concerns), a conversation with daughters Ingrid and Isabella Rossellini, an interview with director Martin Scorsese, a comparison of the multiple version of Europe ’51 by Elena Dagrada, and a pair of essential, in-depth visual essays by scholar and critics Tag Gallagher and James Quandt, who expertly deconstruct both the director’s aesthetic and narrative advances over the course of the trilogy. Elsewhere, there are a handful of lengthy documentaries (about both the director and star, as well as their lasting legacy) spread across each disc, including a fourth dedicated to additional extras, which, among other pleasures, also features one final collaboration between Ingrid Bergman and Rossellini entitled The Chicken, a lighthearted short film shot around the couple’s home in 1952. A hefty 85-page booklet including essays by Richard Brody, Dino Iordanova, Elena Dagrada, Fred Camper, and Paul Thomas rounds out the package, which is quite simply one of the most complete that Criterion has ever produced.

Overall

Less conceptual than uncommonly intuitive, the work produced by Rossellini and his new muse during this period would do nothing short of usher in what we now know as the modern cinematic age.

Cast: Ingrid Bergman, Mario Vitale, Renzo Cesana, Mario Sponza, Alexander Knox, Ettore Giannini, Giulietta Masina, George Sanders, Maria Mauban, Anna Proclemer, Tony La Penna Director: Roberto Rossellini Screenwriter: Roberto Rossellini Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 518 min Rating: NR Year: 1950 – 1954 Release Date: September 24, 2013 Buy: Video

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Review: Robert Wise’s The Body Snatcher on Shout! Factory Blu-ray

This sterling Blu-ray transfer is occasion for reconsidering the film as more than a minor entry in producer Val Lewton’s body of work.

4

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The Body Snatcher

Robert Wise’s The Body Snatcher thrives on dramatizing how individual responsibility functions within a larger chain of command. Though the film is set in late-19th-century Edinburgh, the dilemmas faced by medical student Donald Fettes (Russell Wade) are in lockstep with the global catastrophe of World War II, as Fettes struggles to determine whether or not he should obey the unorthodox commands of his mentor, Dr. “Toddy” MacFarlane (Henry Daniell). MacFarlane employs the graverobber John Gray (Boris Karloff) to deliver corpses for his medical experiments, as bodies are in short supply due to legal reasons. While not an explicitly coded story about Nazi war crimes (for one, neither MacFarlane nor Gray profess an ideology of hate), the focus on the shadowy machinations of power is prescient of the rhetoric of the Nuremberg trials, where Nazis who participated in the atrocities committed in Auschwitz and other concentration camps denied their criminal culpability.

Though the stakes of The Body Snatcher are much lower than genocide, one of the film’s primary thematic concerns is the psychological guilt of those who participate in murderous schemes for personal benefit. The medical field becomes a conduit for fascism, as Fettes wants to develop a medical practice devoted to personal care rather than profit, personal agendas, or scientific advancement at all costs. And since these ideas are being explored under the supervision of producer Val Lewton, they’re conveyed in the style of his frightening poetics.

One remarkable scene finds Wise amplifying the claustrophobia of confined spaces through tight framings. In it, MacFarlane’s slow-witted assistant, Joseph (Bela Lugosi), has just announced to Gray his blackmail demands after learning of Gray’s body-snatching practice. Despite the initiative to profit from his knowledge, Joseph is at best inept and seems to be merely imitating the kinds of exploitation he witnesses all around him. Wise flips Lugosi’s popular on-screen persona from suave predator to clueless victim. Karloff gives Gray a snarling confidence that manifests in the steady luring of Joseph toward his death. Confronted with the reality of his actions, Gray immediately locks into a mode of self-preservation, seduction, and murder. Such cold and calculating actions project the underlying terror of how rationality might be abused to harm weak or unsuspecting citizens.

A lesser, plot-driven subplot of the film concerns the efforts of Fettes to restore spinal function to young Georgina (Sharyn Moffett), a paraplegic who arrives with her mother, Mrs. Marsh (Rita Corday), at MacFarlane’s home seeking help. Georgina feels like a redux of the girl from Wise’s prior Lewton production, 1944’s The Curse of the Cat People. Whereas in that film Wise gave profound expression to how a child’s mind is affected by parental abuse, The Body Snatcher reduces Georgina’s emotions to a plot device, as Fettes’s more personal and intimate approach to medicine is meant to impugn MacFarlane’s unfeeling, hard-nosed methods.

Even if the narrative threads aren’t as tightly focused on exploring a complex theme as one might hope, The Body Snatcher nevertheless manages to still send chills, and predominately through Wise’s fleet direction and Karloff’s unflinching embodiment of a real-world monster. As with other Lewton productions, the scares are rooted in how character guilt or corruption gives way to fear rather than vice versa. Indeed, while Karloff receives top billing as the film’s embodiment of terror, it’s actually Daniell’s MacFarlane who pulls the strings. In fact, after MacFarlane believes he’s snipped away all loose ends, it’s his own mind that proves to be the final obstacle that cannot be overcome. Less supernatural than secular, the film challenges viewers to look more closely at how society might be impacted by their own behaviors and actions—especially those conceived of or acted upon when others aren’t watching.

Image/Sound

While the DVD transfer of The Body Snatcher released with Warner Home Video’s The Val Lewton Horror Collection was certainly serviceable, the new 4K scan of the film’s original camera negative absolutely sparkles on this Blu-ray release. From beginning to end, the film’s sumptuous high-contrast, black-and-white images are stable and without discernible fault. Depth of field is sharp and focus remains consistent throughout. To this viewer’s eye, hardly a single shot looks anything less than superb. The DTS-HD monaural soundtrack is clean and highly audible, with dialogue and music perfectly balanced.

Extras

Several extras are holdovers from Warner’s 2005 DVD collection, including a feature commentary track by Robert Wise and historian Steve Haberman, as well as the documentary Shadows in the Dark: The Val Lewton Legacy. Each are a wonderful means to comprehend the significance of both this film and Lewton’s legacy, especially if one is just getting acquainted with the extent of the producer’s work. The one new extra is a brief appreciation of The Body Snatcher by Gregory Mank, who spends the bulk of his time talking about why Boris Karloff’s performance is so special. Also included on the disc are a theatrical trailer and a stills gallery.

Overall

Shout! Factory’s sterling Blu-ray transfer is occasion for reconsidering The Body Snatcher as more than a minor entry in producer Val Lewton’s body of work.

Cast: Boris Karloff, Rita Corday, Russell Wade, Henry Daniell, Edith Atwater, Sharyn Moffett, Bela Lugosi Director: Robert Wise Screenwriter: Philip MacDonald, Val Lewton Distributor: Shout! Factory Running Time: 77 min Rating: NR Year: 1945 Release Date: March 26, 2019 Buy: Video

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Blu-ray Review: Edgar G. Ulmer’s Detour on the Criterion Collection

This unbelievably beautiful restoration is a poignant testament to the talent of an obscure artist too often taken for granted.

5

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Detour

There’s a fragility to Detour that only strengthens its spell. Edgar G. Ulmer’s 1945 film is an inventively sparse mixture of docudrama and DIY expressionism: There are no lush sets and camera pirouettes on display here, as Ulmer makes do with found settings, isolated props, and abbreviated, shaky tracking shots that are rich in authentic and incidental textures. There is tension between edits that cobble sometimes mismatched takes together, meaning that one can almost feel the work that’s necessary here to sustaining an illusion with limited means. Detour has a fly-by-night intensity, then, that’s derived by the thinning of the distance between the film’s collaborators and the audience, suggesting the fluid quality of live art, particularly theater and musical concerts, with the gutter vitality of pulp fiction at its most wrenchingly subjective.

In this context, Detour’s tricky narrative resembles an auto-critical study of how to put a scheme over with no money. Al Roberts (Tom Neal) is an aspiring musician hitchhiking from New York City to Los Angeles to see Sue Harvey (Claudia Drake), who left him to try to break into movies. In the sort of observational flourish that’s typical of Ulmer’s films, we see Al playing a piano in an empty bar, with stacked chairs in front of him in the foreground that lend compositional dynamism to the image while casually illustrating his sense of rejection. To put it bluntly, Al may always be relegated to playing after hours rather than primetime, and Sue wants to enter the center ring. Both characters are stunted artists hamstrung by a lack of resources. In the tradition of disenfranchised men in film noir, Al gets into trouble.

Detour opens on Al at a diner, tellingly arguing with a customer over a selection on the jukebox after the film’s main events have already occurred. A shadow creeps over Al, enclosing his face in darkness as he begins to narrate for us, describing how he wound up as a drifter. Ulmer and screenwriter Martin Goldsmith never allow the audience to forget that Al’s telling the story, as he’s almost certainly an unreliable narrator. Al recalls being picked up off the side of the road by Charles Haskell Jr. (Edmund MacDonald), who throws his money around before dying in circumstances so absurd as to lead us to suspect that Al is either hiding something or outright lying. After Haskell dies, Al, in a masterpiece of convenient rationalization, decides that robbing Haskell makes sense, as no one will believe that he didn’t kill the man anyway.

Driving Haskell’s car, wearing the man’s clothes and spending his money, Al gives a ride to Vera (Ann Savage), who’s hitchhiking near a gas station. In another twist so ludicrous that we doubt the veracity of Al’s story, Vera immediately discerns that Al isn’t Haskell, claiming to have recently ridden and fought with him—a development that’s foreshadowed earlier by the scratches on Haskell’s hand. Vera and Al are soon trying to sell Haskell’s car, becoming bound by desperation and sexual tension, as Vera reveals herself to be a formidable, bitter, and merciless opponent. Savage gives the film a jolt of hothouse energy, her curt, pragmatic ferocity serving as a counterpoint for Neal’s commanding recessive-ness.

Detour’s lean 69-minute running time also suggests simplification wrought by economics. Ulmer never resolves the mystery of Al’s trustworthiness, and another death, even less likely than Haskell’s, exacerbates the impression that Al’s attempting to kill his way out of a thicket of escalating crises. The audience is watching either the story of a delusional or unrepentant killer or of a man so profoundly unlucky he might earn words of sympathy from Job. This ambiguity amplifies the tension that’s been created and sustained by Ulmer’s raw yet beautiful style, while complicating the self-pity that often drives crime films.

Detour also pointedly lacks a third act, leaving Al drifting in the narrative ether. Vera tries to blackmail Al into helping her with the sort of conspiracy that drives many noirs, but this development is brutally curtailed, as is Al’s quest to find Sue. The film eats itself alive before the viewer’s eyes, post-modernly reflecting its hero’s doom, which functions as a heightened symbol for the ordinary disappointments of real life. Detour’s struggle to exist mirrors our efforts to do the same, and the film has an aversion to bullshit that’s livelier and more suggestive than anything in most contemporary cinema.

Image/Sound

This new 4K restoration, the result of over a decade of research, is awesomely pristine, rich, and detailed. To those who first came to Detour through subpar VHS editions and online streams and have come to associate it with a lurid crumminess that suggests the film equivalent of a beat-up E.C. comic, the transfer will likely look and sound too beautiful. But one quickly adjusts, as this Criterion edition honors Ulmer’s artistry, emphasizing the beauty he conjured even with a few thousand dollars and a week-long shooting schedule. Close-ups are vivid, revealing people’s wrinkles and creases, and clothing textures are shown to be pivotal illustrations of character. Above all, there’s a silkiness to the image, a velvety sheen that honors its aesthetic virtuosity. Meanwhile, the soundtrack gracefully oscillates between the various sounds of the road and diners and hotels, offering a subtle aural portrait of down-and-out life that contrasts with the dynamic mythmaking of the score. The hisses and pops of prior editions are gone, and so the film sounds as great as it looks.

Extras

Edgar G. Ulmer: The Man Off-Screen, a feature-length 2004 documentary, and a new interview with film scholar Noah Isenberg, author of Edgar G. Ulmer: A Filmmaker at the Margins, cover overlapping ground but are each worthwhile. Both supplements discuss Ulmer’s background as an immigrant from the Czech Republic—though he, like many directors in America who hailed from that part of Europe, claimed to be from the more cosmopolitan Vienna—as well as Ulmer’s early working relationships with legends like F.W. Murnau and legends in the making like Billy Wilder. And both pieces attempt to explain how Ulmer, an intelligent, talented, and cultivated man, failed to achieve the recognition that was enjoyed by, say, Wilder. (Ulmer’s stunning The Black Cat figures into each account.)

The Man Off-Screen offers an appealingly wandering account of Ulmer’s life, with guests like Joe Dante, John Landis, and collaborator Ann Savage celebrating the filmmaker’s inventiveness. Meanwhile, Isenberg offers a concise examination of Ulmer’s aesthetic, suggesting that the filmmaker’s unsatisfied quest for mainstream success benefitted his art. Robert Polito’s essay, included with this disc’s accompanying booklet, examines the creation of Detour with exhilarating precision, while contextualizing the film within the crime genre at large, on the screen as well as on the page. The theatrical trailer and a supplement detailing the origin of Criterion’s extraordinary restoration round out a slim but nourishing package.

Overall

This unbelievably beautiful restoration is a triumph of preservation as well as a poignant testament to the talent of an obscure artist too often taken for granted.

Cast: Tom Neal, Ann Savage, Claudia Drake, Edmund MacDonald, Tim Ryan, Pat Gleason Director: Edgar G. Ulmer Screenwriter: Martin Goldsmith Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 69 min Rating: NR Year: 1945 Release Date: March 19, 2019 Buy: Video

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Review: Satoshi Kon’s Perfect Blue on Shout! Factory Blu-ray

The film is a prescient vision of a modern world defined by media oversaturation and social media validation.

4

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Perfect Blue

Satoshi Kon’s Perfect Blue is a prescient vision of a modern world defined by media oversaturation and social media validation. In the film, Mimi (Junko Iwao), a J-pop girl-group singer who decides to give up music for acting, finds herself targeted by a stalker who threatens to ruin her if she doesn’t return to her old gig. More than just a stalker thriller, however, Perfect Blue unfolds as an extended study of Mimi’s fraying mental health as she begins to question her own identity as more and more crimes happen around her, with evidence pegging her as a suspect.

One avenue in which Mimi’s sense of self is undermined is, of course, the internet. Early on in Perfect Blue, she’s pointed to a website where she supposedly keeps a diary for her fans. Yet Mimi, who can barely even operate a computer, didn’t write the site’s entries, and she panics over the false confessions being posted on the web under her name. In the film, the internet is amusingly shown in its early days; URLs are absurdly long jumbles of letters and numbers, and sites are mostly text-based with maybe a background image added for flavor. Even here, however, the power of the web to enable false identities to propagate and be taken as legitimate is shown to be considerable, and Mimi is helpless to counter the lies put out by whomever has control of “her” site.

Resentment of Mimi’s abandonment of pop drives Perfect Blue’s violence, which befalls those helping the star’s pivot to acting. Kon’s depiction of violence is brutal, delivering a lot of ripped flesh and gushing blood. At one point, a photographer is stabbed in the eye with a screwdriver, while the climactic confrontation ends with so much blood that it seeps out of the victim’s body in a thick wall of sludge. Kon is circumspect only when it comes to the true source of the film’s crimes—obscuring, misdirecting, and withholding the identity of the killer at almost every turn. Throughout, we only see the murderer’s hands wielding weapons, and no clues are offered by the blurred, scrambled perspectives of the dying victims.

Kon also uses this disjointed perspective to illustrate how Mimi’s sense of self slips away from her, not only from the paranoia mounting around her, but also from the regular degradations that the entertainment industry foists on her. Having left the world of pop and its machinations behind her, Mimi finds herself now at the hands of the masculine world of film. Her aspirations to be a serious actress lead her to taking the role of a rape victim in a production called Double Blind, and soon she’s suffering through uncomfortable scenes where she feels violated by the aggressiveness of the film’s scenarios. (She also gets booked with shocking speed for a nude photo shoot to emphasize she’s no longer a “good girl.”)

Much of Perfect Blue’s turmoil comes not from Mimi struggling to clear her name of murder accusations, but from her attempt to control her own narrative, to put forward an image that isn’t co-opted, as much by the killer as the normal power players in show business. Her inability to decide what kind of person she wants to be is as disturbing as the bloodletting that occurs all around her, and is one facet of what’s allowed Perfect Blue to endure as a masterful articulation of powerlessness in the age of media saturation.

Image/Sound

Shout! Factory’s release of Perfect Blue comes with a remastered presentation of the film, and comparing it to the old, standard-def version (also included here) reveals that the new transfer boasts richer color depth and sharper contrast. Yet the integrity of Satoshi Kon’s most minute aesthetic choices, like the way the grimy backgrounds and deliberately fuzzy line details contribute to the film’s hallucinatory edge, have not been compromised. The surround sound remix for both the English and Japanese language tracks ably distribute the dissonant sounds of violence (glass shattering, blood spurting) and Masahiro Ikuni’s score of unnerving drones and frenetic breakbeat production across the channels into a suffocating cacophony.

Extras

The most substantial feature included here is a 40-minute lecture on the film given by Kon himself, and in which he offers his interpretation of the material and insights into his filming process. Elsewhere, there are brief interviews with both the Japanese- and English-language cast in which they give their thoughts on the film, and both a recording session and ad hoc music video for the “Angel of Your Heart” song that plays during the photographer’s murder.

Overall

Perfect Blue looks excellent on Shout’s disc, though it retains the grimy, slightly indefinite features that contribute the film’s brilliant depiction of blurred reality and illusion.

Cast: Junko Iwao, Rica Matsumoto, Shinpachi Tsuji, Masaaki Ōkura, Yōsuke Akimoto Director: Satoshi Kon Screenwriter: Sadayuki Murai Distributor: Shout! Factory Running Time: 81 min Rating: R Year: 1997 Buy: Video, Soundtrack, Book

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