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DVD Review: Heat

4.0

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Heat

The protagonists of Michael Mann’s universe have a sense of direction and an unyielding devotion to their chosen profession. “All I am is what I’m going after,” says the robbery homicide detective played by Al Pacino in Heat, though this line could easily be the mantra of the championship boxer in Ali or the professional assassin in Collateral. That devotion and that drive is the fuel that keeps them going, and provides a black-or-white moral compass in a world that remains mystifyingly gray. What comfort does that sense of direction provide when it leaves others behind in the disaster zone of a marriage or relationship, and what kind of a life is it when one constantly tells those he professes to love, “I’ll come back, but there’s something I have to go take care of first.”

Those are the questions posed by Heat, which uses the predator-versus-prey narrative of expert thief Neil McCauley (Robert De Niro) outrunning dogged cop Vincent Hanna (Al Pacino) to explore these remarkably similar archetypes of lone wolf masculinity. McCauley is introspective, self-contained in his “alone but not lonely” universe, a career criminal with a talent for big money scores. He has an allegiance and understanding with his crew, but no room in his life for any lasting connection. As he says repeatedly, he refuses attachment to anything he’s unwilling to walk out on if he feels the heat around the corner.

Hanna, on the other hand, is explosive and spontaneous. His interrogation of a suspect involves him bursting into song, then musing whether the suspect fell in love last night, then shrieking, “Gimme all you got! Gimme all you got!” He’s hungry for the chase and working all hours of day and night while his third wife (Diane Venora) passes him “on the down-slope of a marriage.” De Niro may have the better role, a tragic protagonist whose moral values get pushed to their limit, but Pacino has all the best dialogue. To wit, “You could get killed walkin’ your doggie!” and “She’s got a great ass! When I think of asses—a woman’s ass—something comes out of me!” rank up there with Al’s most memorably fiesty line readings. Hu-ah, indeed.

But these characters don’t know how to do anything else, and don’t much want to either. It’s a sentiment that lies in the tradition of American individualists (its no mistake that Mann previously adapted James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans). It feels good to be good at something. There’s something comforting about applying knowledge to the point where it becomes instinct, and if these guys weren’t cops or robbers we could admire them the way we admire the mechanic who fixes our car when it’s broken down. A person is attractive when they do what they like, and do it well. That doesn’t mean they’re easy to live with, as Hanna and McCauley prove time and again, unless you happen to be working with them and speaking their language.

McCauley’s crew includes Chris Shiherlis (Val Kilmer), whose hard loving marriage is on the rocks because of an unrelenting gambling addiction, and Michael Cheritto (Tom Sizemore), who has a family and kids but can’t resist the allure of pulling off whatever heist is planned next: a bank, a vault, an armored car. These men would perhaps be loathsome if they weren’t so capable at their jobs and so devoted to watching each other’s backs (standing by each other as capably and professionally as the marine corps). When in the act, they perform like nimble magicians; when the act is interrupted by cops, they’re a tightly wound fighting unit. Their relationships are much closer to each other than to their actual families.

But Hanna’s empathy lies with McCauley, offering the respect of one adversary against another. As the police close in on the master thief’s grand scheme, Heat follows parallel stories of pursuit and planning in the highly romanticized city of Los Angeles. Immaculately photographed in precise frames and a cool, controlled palette, Mann tells his story with an equally rigorous attention to the details of crime scenes, the mechanics of robberies, and even the inner workings of late night diners and nightclubs that these characters frequent. Throughout, one has a growing respect for Hanna and McCauley (and identifies with Hanna perhaps more because he represents the ostensible Good Guy), and one cannot wait for the fateful moment for these titans to meet. Hanna makes it happen by pulling McCauley over on the street and casually asking, “Whattaya say I buy you a cuppa coffee?”

The centerpiece scene of Heat is perhaps the simplest that Mann has ever choreographed, not relying on his stunning visual craftsmanship but instead on very simple over-the-shoulder shots and close-ups. Of course, the scene is a double thrill for audiences because it represents Al Pacino and Robert De Niro at the peak of their powers: both men middle-aged and seasoned from impressive acting careers, both eking out subtext so thick the scene takes place almost at a metaphysical level. Pacino’s sly impetuosity, contrasted with De Niro’s precision work contemplativeness and thousand-yard stare, is certainly a master’s class in great acting. Indeed, after Heat, these two masters were never so great again (Pacino came close with The Insider and moments in Donnie Brasco and De Niro did a good job coasting through Ronin, but they basically gave up the ghost).

The scene achieves greatness not because Hanna and McCauley offer memorably quotable threats to one another, but because the two men grow surprisingly intimate discussing not only their hopes but also their dreams. Hanna confesses he sees the victims of every crime scene he’s been to, staring at him silently with their black eyeballs. McCauley has nightmares of drowning (“You know what that means?” “Yeah—no time.”). The effect is disarming, perhaps because it gets to the root of what drives these men forward. Not the fear of being alone, but the fear of abandoning control over their destinies, which, of course, are interlocked.

The middle of Heat features one of the most spectacular gun battles in motion picture history, where the palpable threat of bullets whizzing through skyscrapers and blasting into the sides of automobiles is accompanied by a forceful and highly detailed sound design. But the effect of this dramatic shoot-out is heightened by the intimate diner scene that came before, just as Homer’s The Iliad offered glimpses of humanity before armies collided. Thereafter, Heat transforms into a movie about slow mounting doom as each character is locked into the inevitability of their often tragic fates. At the end of the story, one of the two titans will be dead, but after they have played out their game there’s a stroke that will either be praised as brazen machismo or the tragedy of being an American isolationist: cop and killer lock hands as one of them dies.

As with Homer, Heat is told on an impressive, unsubtle epic scale with a dozen highly dimensional main characters, at least four doomed romantic subplots (most poignantly between De Niro and Amy Brenneman as the young graphic designer who wins him over and causes his self-controlled emotional void to crack wide open), and vividly sketched supporting characters: Jon Voight reprises his Runaway Train persona, basing his character on criminal-turned-actor Eddie Bunker; character actor Tom Noonan has a spectacular cameo as a wheelchair-bound crime guru. There’s also an anecdotal subplot about a convict fresh out of prison (Dennis Haysbert) who is incidental to the McCaulay-Hanna narrative until one key crucial moment where he’s asked a typical Michael Mann question: “Are you in? Right now? Yes or no?”

Mann enjoys confrontations like that, where the characters have to make decisions right away, relying only on their intuitions and gut feelings. Life doesn’t always work that way, and often those life-changing events occur with barely perceptible slowness, but drama and poetry are intended to bring moral questions to the fore. When the films are good, they allow us the opportunity to reflect back on our own lives and values. The cop-versus-robber narrative, frequently existing for vicarious thrills and shoot-‘em-up catharsis, here puts us into a place of wonderment: jobs versus families, risks versus sure things, support versus self-preservation. The characters in Heat aren’t so one-dimensional that they only choose one or the other, but they do make choices. And to those unwilling to commit, Vincent Hanna unconditionally roars, “Don’t you waste my motherfucking time!”

Image/Sound

Michael Mann’s perfectionism extends to the 2.35:1 anamorphic widescreen image and especially the Dolby Digital 5.1 English sound design. The street battle hasn’t sounded so precise since Heat‘s original theatrical release, where you can practically feel the bullets ricochet off the L.A. canyon skyscrapers. Mann micro-manages the minutest sound effects, and this DVD makes good on delivering.

Extras

Michael Mann has a distinctive Chicago accent that is initially off-putting, though he does offer a very detailed commentary. He goes from soup to nuts through his script development with real life police detectives and professional thieves through the “causality” of his dramatic narrative. He also offers insights on how he works with the who’s who of great actors in his cast (offering good anecdotes about Jon Voight’s initial resistance to taking the supporting role of Nate, having previously embodied real life crook Eddie Bunker in the film Runaway Train) and his plethora of actual L.A. locations. One wishes Warner Bros had at least included scenes from L.A. Takedown, the TV-movie Mann directed years earlier that served as a prototype for Heat, though the three background documentaries offering interviews with cast, crew, and consultants are better than the average puff-piece. “Pacino and De Niro: The Conversation” offers a glimpse into the master thespian techniques of the two stars, though there’s also the usual “he’s so giving” actor-speak. There are three engaging theatrical trailers and several bland deleted scenes that rightfully belong on the cutting room floor.

Overall

The Iliad of modern crime movies is given absolute platinum service by Warner Home Video.

Cast: Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, Val Kilmer, Tom Sizemore, Diane Venora, Amy Brenneman, Ashley Judd, Mykeltia Williamson, Wes Studi, Ted Levine, Dennis Haysbert, William Fichtner, Natalie Portman, Tom Noonan, Jon Voight Director: Michael Mann Screenwriter: Michael Mann Distributor: Warner Home Video Running Time: 171 min Rating: R Year: 1995 Release Date: February 22, 2005 Buy: Video, Soundtrack

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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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