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Blu-ray Review: By Brakhage: An Anthology

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By Brakhage: An Anthology

The cinema of Stan Brakhage has been interpreted as abstract, mythopoeic, philological, and lyrical, but it’s his hyper-auteurist approach that might be most instructive. It’s surely an ironic stroke to associate the filmmaker with auteurism, a critical theory developed to celebratorily grant Hollywood directors ownership of the art they subtly baked into their cookie-cutter money-makers and crowd-pleasers; so draconian were Brakhage’s ideals that he once denounced all studio-produced movies as futilely inartistic. But engaging with Brakhage’s meditative, kaleidoscopic canon often requires doubting, scrutinizing, and—finally—redefining the tools with which one observes and processes art. And when the issue of authorship arises elsewhere, it’s hard to resist envisioning Mothlight or The Dead springing directly and pugnaciously from their creator’s forehead in ebullient shafts of light, gawkily twirling about the nearest film projector to stun a small, unsuspecting audience, and eventually coming to rest with a defiant clang in a cylindrical encasing more akin to Aladdin’s lamp than a 16mm canister.

This is pure romance, of course, which speaks to the profound spell that Brakhage casts. Many of his films were made without the burdensome instrument of a camera, fashioned instead as a rapidly metamorphosing collection of celluloid paintings or collages, but this doesn’t necessarily make his vision any less diluted than that of his actor-encumbered avant-garde contemporaries. In fact, the painstaking methods by which he produced his best work share more of the limitations of animation than of photography, even when assembling exposed images. And considering, also, the humbling scenarios that inspired Brakhage’s groundbreaking shorts (a decaying marriage, incapacitating depression, a troubled career) and their multi-season-spanning production schedules, most would be best described as flitting, time-lapsed explorations, rather than airtight illustrations, of ideas. Where Brakhage succeeded most indelibly, however, was in proving the self-sufficient limitlessness that can be achieved by mistrusting and challenging, rather than simply manipulating and tantalizing, the senses.

Appropriately, the Criterion Collection’s By Brakhage Blu-ray box set is both an affectionate tribute and an invaluable archive, given its subject’s incalculable influence. Spreading 56 representative selections from Brakhage’s oeuvre liberally across three discs, the anthology compiles new high-definition transfers of the films included in the original By Brakhage collection released in 2003, plus several more that comprise a perspective-enhancing Volume II. A handful of the director’s seminal works are still truant (such as the DIY ashtray-prism experiment Text of Light, and two of the Pittsburg Trilogy’s eerily mechanical socio-custodial observations), and the set’s buoyant chronology seems to discourage the discernment of sub-career phases or trends. But structured into thematically peripatetic “programs” by Brakhage’s widow, Marilyn, the anthology entertainingly facilitates curiosity-tethered, piecemeal digestion—arguing, perhaps, each short film as its own singular statement and microcosm rather than as an enumerated opus in a diversified body of accomplishments.

And certainly each of Brakhage’s movies speaks lucidly for itself, on its own terms. Few directors have fretted so persistently on a single corral of motifs—let alone ones as unnuanced as life, death, innocence, and man’s connection to nature—with such an endlessly permutating, perpetually startling system of signature techniques. (One is tempted to reach as far as the poet William Blake, who similarly jerry-rigged a seldom-reproduced printing procedure, in his search for kindred spirits.) At a purely technical level, even Brakhage’s frame-by-frame, painterly tours de force smugly eschew monotony; the eight-second blurb of film Eye Myth shockingly reminds us through incandescent scratches that man may be the most abstracted structure of all, while the 20-minute, reputedly sex-obsessed Lovesong barrages us with textural, stop-and-start mushroom clouds of thick, wet color. Likewise, his use of negative images can either flood mysteriously darkened intervals with nocuous, humiliating light (as in the would-be pornographic self-portraiture of Wedlock House) or tendentiously flatten the aura of assumptions that surround ecclesiastical architecture (The Dead) and deciduous vegetation (The Machine of Eden).

Brakhage’s silent, non-narrative shorts are often appreciated at the same distance as a Pollack painting; we feel we have no choice but to react with modest intellectual hesitation after witnessing something even as rudimentary as geometry ignored, or even defaced (geometry is, like rhetoric, a discipline ensconced snugly within the iron bunker of logic). But leaning on visceral anthropomorphization, while useful (the “angry” reds, the “panicked” pixels, the “esurient” blacks), is like examining only the bottom half of Brakhage’s frame. The Virginia Woolf-esque, insectual dirge Mothlight is on the one hand a curvy, beige poem about mortality and on the other an intrepid excursion into the purely tactile—a region where rigorously determining meaning is less crucial than suspiciously questioning sensation. Avant-garde cinema has often dutifully toyed with and distorted the theoretical source of film patterns; Maya Deren, with whom Brakhage not insignificantly shared an apartment, most quintessentially deconstructed the sultry germ of noir tone with Meshes of the Afternoon. But for Brakhage the task of meta-thinking seems less historical or psychological than human and cosmic. This means that a feature-length light-and-color exhibition like Dog Star Man can appear turgid, inert, or obstinately opaque, but it also confidently demands decoding on a sensory-oriented dimension where adjectives of that ilk are rendered vapid and vacant.

And while Brakhage’s “direct” films (as appellated by earlier camera-dismissing filmmakers such as Man Ray and Len Lye) imply this epistemological tenet most forcefully, we might find ourselves approaching even his more conventional work with an archetype-demolishing eye after breaking through to the anti-thought, or proto-thought, of his élan. 23 Psalm Branch is “about” war, but its frantic editing, scrawled intertitles, and cataclysmically juxtaposed landscapes heavy its laments with the dangers of humanitarian-charged stimuli. The Act of Seeing with One’s Own Eyes depicts autopsy, but its steadiness toward the corporeally existential urges us to resist imposing structure on the frightfully unthinkable. Even Brakhage’s best and most emotional film, Window Water Baby Moving, refracts the straightforwardness of the photographed birth with chronological glitches and repeated images that usher muliebrity from fetishism to utilitarianism and back again. Has there ever been such a sensual collapse between form and content, such a poetic correlation between the act of filmmaking and the act of perceiving?

Image/Sound

It’s a valid question: Why bother with Brakhage in hi-def, given that he photographed so consistently in 16mm? As Walter Benjamin once propounded, technical distinctions can often have poetic, ineffable effects, and in the case of both film vs. digital (and, though in a slightly disjunctive sense, standard definition and hi-def), there are disparities of warmth, of depth, and of—to crib directly from Benjamin—aura. A film like The Garden of Earthly Delights, whose racy, verdant-on-black trajectory seems violent on Blu-ray, seems to benefit more existentially from the extra pixels than even a fully composed studio movie; the narrowed, laser-like concentration on textural image in Brakhage’s work forces us to be thankful for every clarifying line of detail we’re bestowed. And it’s impossible to bitch about grain or aspect ratio here. In some instances, such as when Brakhage scratches or pastes objects to or splatters paint directly on the celluloid itself, the initial print or master may not even be justifiably called “film” in the objective sense: It’s an arts-and-crafts composite that interpolates and appropriates film. It might even be something more organically potent than film. What was missing from the original, 480p set was the range of depth and the excruciating texture to recognize this numinous materialism, an attribute apparent even when Brakhage is photographing reflections or cadavers—all of which look intimidatingly three-dimensional on Blu-ray. Whether reconstructing moth wings or jump-editing from scene to scene to scene, Brakhage’s tactile rhythms in hi-def are like tiny incisions in one’s brain—they challenge their audience to feel, challenge them to determine why they feel. On standard DVD, the prodding is still present, but at a distance the films are less invasive, more content to remain on the screen. 1080p isn’t simply a gesture of home theater fetishism here—it’s a matter of morality.

Extras

Brakhage’s granulated omnibus is such that everything has the feel of a supplement; as such, what extras are here often feel as much like overload as the orgasmic hues that close Lovesong. Still, scholars and the Brakhage-curious alike are likely to applaud Criterion’s glut of content, which includes the admittedly essential bonus material from the original By Brakhage set, as well as some new morsels. The vocal annotations on select films and Brakhage on Brakhage, a series of seemingly perfunctory but incisive interviews, are still the highlights; both reveal the filmmaker as a sensitive, humble artist whose intentions were often far more down to earth than the elusiveness of the eventual product would suggest. Volume II also includes a few lectures of interest (one, on Gertrude Stein, is riveting) and a brief tribute by Brakhage’s wife, Marilyn, that fascinatingly demystifies at least a portion of his production methods. The booklet reprints Marilyn’s highly informative program notes and Fred Camper’s erudite if occasionally gushy study and adds a preservation explanation from Mark Toscano.

Overall

To appropriate Samuel Beckett’s observation of James Joyce, Brakhage’s films are not about something, they are that something itself—be it fake desert, shrub leaf, or fresh placenta.

Director: Stan Brakhage Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 689 min Rating: NR Year: 1954 - 2003 Release Date: May 24, 2010 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.

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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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