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DVD Review: House

Criterion’s new release is a must-own and a welcome step in the film’s canonization as a brainy and blisteringly strange cult classic.

4.0

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House

Upon its initial American release three decades after its possessed nascence, House, Nobuhiko Obayashi’s long-lost debut feature, was embraced with open arms by a bewildered but more than amenable audience. Initially championed by the fine upstanding folks at Subway Cinema, the canny cabal that annually bring Gothamites the New York Asian Film Festival, Obayashi’s trippy explosion of gender commodification and melodramatic psychedelia first screened in Manhattan last summer at the IFC Center, then again at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and then earlier this year at the IFC Center for a month-long, seriously held-over run—and, oh yeah, a sporadic national series of roadshow screenings. These recent screenings paved the way for Janus Films’s new release of the film under the Criterion Collection banner.

We have much to thank the Subway Cinema folks for in their key role in bringing House out of Janus’s vault and onto DVD. They deserve all the credit they can get for reviving interest in Obayashi’s cracked haunted house flick. But the trouble with the road the Subway crew paved for House is that it’s left American critics completely disarmed in the face of Obayashi’s dazzling, acid-drenched assault. To be sure, House is wacky as all get-out, but it’s also a wonderfully complex putdown of the plastic world of material cuteness that little girls dream of when they imagine growing up in a world ruled by nostalgic advertising and romantic melodramas. With its severed gams, demonic fluffy white cats, and killer piano forte, House is a dollhouse nightmare that could only come from the mind of an inspired and seriously disgruntled ad man like Obayashi, whose career pre-House was made with ads like this blisteringly weird this commercial for Mandom cologne starring Charles Bronson.

Most American critics contracted an Andromeda strain of the Stendhal Syndrome and flew into flights of ecstatic frenzy over House. Even The New York Times‘s Manohla Dargis, she who soared into an epileptic fit after seeing Seijun Suzuki’s Princess Racoon at Cannes in 2005, remarked with mouth agape about House that perhaps we should give credence to the fact that Obayashi pieced together some of the plot of the film from his own daughter’s dreams. As Dargis pointed out, at the point of her writing that review, nothing had been written about Obayashi’s oeuvre that was readily accessible to an English-speaking public (Chuck Stephens has since provided an informative history of Obayashi’s career around the time of his making House; still, it’s telling that that essay is the only article featured in the booklet Criterion included in their new release).

So how exactly does one dispel House‘s air of impenetrability and make sense of it? For starters, one has to acknowledge that Obayashi’s film, which seems to have inexplicably descended on American critics like 2001: A Space Odyssey‘s monoliths, makes sense and even has a plot, of sorts. Oshare (Kimiko Ikegami) has just been introduced to her new mother-in-law (Tomokazu Miura) and is now clearly sublimating something fierce. In struggling to reconcile her image of her dead biological mother with this new surrogate, she takes a trip to the countryside to visit her spinster aunt (Yoko Minimada), who was left widowed and untouched after her fiancé died in WWII. Once there, Oshare and her ultra-precious all-female troupe of friends accompany her in her journey back to her mother’s roots. Ultimately, everyone is picked off one-by-one by Oshare’s deranged aunt just because they insist on sticking together and generally maintaining a picture book ideal of sisterly solidarity.

As Dargis points out, there’s an unnatural haze that pervades the film’s every frame, a Polaroid-white sheen that covers everything with an air of misplaced wistfulness. All tension in Oshare’s regressive fantasy world floats atop the surface of the advertisement imagery that Obayashi loads House with. This is a world where painterly billboards with cheerful baby-blue skies look naturalistic by comparison to the rippled sorbet sunsets that preside over Oshare’s aunt’s distant, vine-covered villa on a hill. The place is best described as an eerily picturesque landscape—at least, picturesque by the standards of Romper Room and other children’s shows defined by DayGlo pastels and AstroTurf surfaces—that melts at a whim or is transformed by diabolical stop-motion sequences full of double exposures and reverse-motion photography. It’s a place where quaint household objects have become jubilantly homicidal portals to hell: Lampshades, plastic skeletons, killer phone cords, airborne severed body parts, and that darn cat all dance about with an unholy zeal in an attempt to literally just eat their cute ‘lil victims up.

And what cute victims they are. These girls have invested so much of their personalities into the underpinning cute-centric logic of the products Obayashi reluctantly slung that they no longer even have human names. There’s Mac, the girl who thinks with her sto”mac”h, Kung Fu, the high-kicking teen, Fanta, the daydreamer, and several other ersatz goils. If you were to swap their outfits and matching accessories, you almost certainly wouldn’t be able to distinguish one from the other. When they die screaming, it’s a daft act of psychic venting enacted on a new generation of lonely women that have invested too much meaning in things (“I began to talk with them [household objects] after awhile”) from an older, now-embittered one. Oshare’s gal pals are “young” and “unmarried” and they believe sincerely in the safety of objects. Therefore: Young pretty things must die!

The funniest thing about House is how sincere Obayashi’s half-cocked body-horror gender politics gets. Once Oshare inherits her aunt’s spite after applying an especially menacing tube of lipstick, the film’s eponymous domicile begins to snap up victims left and right in a frenzy of sexually charged limbs. One of the girls is buffeted to death in a one-woman pillow fight while another has her digits, her legs, bits of her torso, and her arms lopped off by a famished baby grand piano. At this point, Obayashi only shows off the girls’ bodies when they’re getting chewed up by flying upholstery and evil witches. While their bodies are not all-together undeveloped, they’re not exactly the stuff of centerfolds either—and Obayashi knows this all too well. Before the film’s fittingly florid coda, he treats us to a parade of budding flesh and begs us to consider it a wormy taste of what prepackaged fairy-tale perfection really looks like. LSD really must be a hell of a drug.

Image/Sound

The folks at the Criterion Collection have once again outdone themselves. Their new DVD release features a spotless video transfer; the myriad colors of the film look especially sharp now that Janus had a print of the film color-corrected. It’s a notable improvement over the Masters of Cinema release of the film, whose video quality is significantly inferior (there’s significant edge enhancement in the Masters of Cinema release and its video transfer is also comparatively much blurrier and drenched in a funky ruddy tint). The soundtrack on the Criterion release is similarly crystal clear; it perfectly balances the various soundtracks, including the sound effects, sugary synth music, and saccharine dialogue.

Extras

Criterion’s House DVD features some terrific special features that make this release a valiant alternative solution to people that don’t already own the earlier Masters of Cinema DVD. The highlight of Criterion’s release is Emotion, a 40-minute short film Obayashi made in 1966 that plays out like a self-parody and Richard Lester homage, featuring voiceover narration by Japanese cultural historian Donald Richie and a vampire (called “a Dracula”) playing the piano in the forest while umbrellas twirl and possibly pay homage to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. But all of the other ancillary special features are equally worthy. A lengthy interview with Obayashi provides an enlightening personal history of contemporary cinema and pop preoccupations in Japan when Obayashi directed House. Even a three-minute appreciation of the film by director Ti West (The House of the Devil) is thoughtful enough to make one want to overlook the fact that we need to resort to an appreciation as superficial as West’s to enlighten the film for first-time viewers (he talks about the craft and the considered wackiness of the film eloquently but never once attempts to grapple with its thematic content).

Overall

Even if you have seen House before and are too scared to mess around with its bananabananabanana-ey goodness, Criterion’s new release is still a must-own and a welcome step in the film’s canonization as a brainy and blisteringly strange cult classic.

Cast: Kimiko Ikegami, Yoko Minamida, Kumiko Oba, Miki Jinbo, Masayo Miyako, Mieko Satoh Director: Nobuhiko Obayashi Screenwriter: Chigumi Obayashi, Nobuhiko Obayashi Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 88 min Rating: NR Year: 1977 Release Date: October 26, 2010 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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Blu-ray Review: Ingmar Bergman’s The Magic Flute on the Criterion Collection

Criterion’s new release of Ingmar Bergman’s The Magic Flute is a vast improvement over the studio’s 2000 DVD.

3.5

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The Magic Flute

With his uncharacteristically cheerful The Magic Flute, Ingmar Bergman managed the challenging task of preventing his brooding existential musings from coloring the proceedings, while also fusing the seeming incompatabilities of opera and cinema in a way that pays respect to both art forms. By embracing the pure artifice of opera while employing rhythmic editing, an abundance of his typically expressive close-ups, and Sven Nykvist’s especially nimble camerawork, Bergman transfigures the stage space into something truly cinematic, spinning a yarn with all the joy and warmth of a fairy tale, and with little more than the bare essentials that a typical theater would have provided him.

Filming exclusively on a full replica of Stockholm’s famed Drottningholm Court Theatre, Bergman relies on a purely theatrical set design full of painted backdrops, rudimentary yet meticulously handmade felt costumes for various animals, and elaborate paper scrolls with lyrics written on them which occasionally pop up in front of the actors as they sing their lines directly to the camera. Such techniques help to bring a charming and amusing meta-textual layer to the film that pays homage to the stagecraft of opera and is part and parcel of a whimsical aesthetic that helps The Magic Flute unfold in storybook fashion.

Other self-aware touches are less successful, such as the periodic backstage scenes and the repeated cuts to close-ups of a young girl (Helene Friberg) who, eyes full of wonder as she gazes at the stage, functions as a kind of saccharine surrogate for Bergman himself, who was drawn to Mozart’s opera in his youth. But these superfluous intrusions are primarily mitigated by uniformly stunning renditions of Mozart’s music and an abundance of dynamic performances. And Bergman’s unique capacity for capturing the ebbs and flows of people’s inner states lends the characters and their travails a palpable emotional weight that nicely complements the droll comedic touches that dominate the film.

While the first half of The Magic Flute is as light-hearted as anything Bergman ever made, the second half plays a bit more to his strengths, allowing for more expressionistic flourishes in the cinematography and more direct conflict between the darker impulses hinted at early on. From the fiery dungeon where Monostatos and his minions intimidate and terrify Princess Pamina (Irma Urrila) after kidnapping her and Sarastro’s (Ulrik Cold) cult-like and red-clad brotherhood, to the Queen of the Night’s (Birgit Nordin) terrifying rendition of the song bearing her name, Bergman and Nykvist move toward a more complex lighting, staging, and blocking that’s more cinematic than operatic as the drama begins to crescendo.

Yet while the story’s more foreboding elements are more in line with Bergman’s traditional thematic concerns, such as the shifting power imbalances between men and women, it’s the increasingly absurd foibles of Pagageno (Håkån Hagegård), who’s tireless in his search for true love in the form of an imagined Papagena, that’s most lovingly rendered here. Playing out alongside the more prevalent rescue-adventure narrative, Pagageno’s undying quest reveals him as something of a Shakespearean fool whose dopiness is only that much more apparent when contrasted by the suave and handsome Prince Tamino (Josef Köstlinger), whom Papageno is tasked with accompanying to save Pamina.

With precise comic timing, Hagegård brilliantly captures Papageno in all his ungainly glory as he stumbles in and out of humorous and dangerous ordeals. But as aimless and clueless as Papageno often seems, Bergman sees him as a wounded yet pure soul worthy of compassion. “Love brings relief in pain and sorrow. It soothes a soul in misery,” Papageno sings toward the end of the film. And in a rare happy ending for Bergman, albeit one already written for him, The Magic Flute goes out on a sweet, touching note that sings of love transcending all.

Image/Sound

Considering that the Criterion Collection’s 2000 DVD of The Magic Flute has often been deemed one of the distributor’s weaker image transfers, there was much room for improvement with this new release. And the 2K restoration the film on display here certainly delivers, boasting more well-balanced colors that bring a heretofore unseen richness to the costumes and backdrops. Skin tones have lost the orange hue of the earlier transfer and now appear more natural, and with a slight warmth to them, something that’s especially welcome given the film’s preponderance of close-ups. But the image still appears soft throughout, though that’s mostly noticeable in the wide shots. The sound, however, is practically flawless, with the uncompressed stereo track boasting effective channel separation that dynamically captures the beauty and raw power of the musical performances.

Extras

Tystnad! Tagning! Trollflöjten!, or Lights! Camera! The Magic Flute, is an hour-long behind-the-scenes feature made for Swedish television that provides a peek into everything from the various steps of the casting process to engineers and other craftsmen designing and constructing the replica stage upon which the film plays out. Certain snippets, like Bergman working with the orchestra or artists painting the elaborate backdrops featured in the film, are intriguing, but the documentary as a whole lacks focus. A 30-minute interview with Bergman, recorded just before the release of The Magic Flute, touches on many of the same topics already covered in Tystnad! Tagning! Trollflöjten!, though the director’s discussion of why he finds opera to be an essential, and still relevant, art form, coupled with his stories of his lifelong fascination with Mozart’s opera, sheds light into why he wanted to make this film. The interview with Bergman scholar Peter Cowie is regrettably the shortest of the three features, but his thoughts on Bergman and Nykvist’s aesthetic tactics are both detailed and insightful. The package is completed with a fold-out booklet with an essay by author Alexander Chee.

Overall

Criterion’s new release of Ingmar Bergman’s The Magic Flute is a vast improvement over the studio’s 2000 DVD, but don’t come to the show expecting a bounty of extras.

Cast: Josef Köstlinger, Irma Urrila, Håkan Hagegård, Ulrik Cold, Birgit Nordin, Ragnar Ulfung, Elisabeth Erikson, Erik Sædén, Britt-Marie Aruhn, Kirsten Vaupel, Birgitta Smiding, Helene Friberg Director: Ingmar Bergman Screenwriter: Ingmar Bergman, Emanuel Schikaneder Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 138 min Rating: G Year: 1975 Release Date: March 12, 2019 Buy: Video

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Review: Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? on Twilight Time Blu-ray

One of the greatest of American satires finally hits high-definition video with an okay transfer of an inferior source.

3.5

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Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?

Frank Tashlin never could harmonize his celebratory/critical impulses toward American pop culture, so it comes as no surprise that Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? is both his funniest and most despairing picture. It’s also fitting that, after surveying a culture’s many popular obsessions (comic books, movies, rock ‘n roll), the director saves the sharpest knives for the institution whose job it is to package them for mass consumption: advertising.

Following a trademark bit of Tashlinesque wall-breaking (star Tony Randall plays the Fox fanfare on a small orchestra of instruments, then forgets the title during his introduction), the opening credits roll as a series of tableaux-like sketches, each skewering the inanities of ludicrous products pitched frontally to audiences (“Pour yourself a full glass of that heavily-brewed, clear swamp water, Shelton’s Beer”; “Wow Soap contains fallout, the exclusive patented ingredient”). The sequence hints at a trenchant critique under the rollicking humor; the phony ads, ridiculous but hardly too far removed from authentic commercials, posit the notion of consumers serving their products instead of the other way around, culminating with a spokesperson pulled into the hungry maw of a washing machine.

The characters are being similarly devoured by the system they breathlessly scramble to support, chief among them Rock Hunter (Randall), a Madison Avenue ad executive sinking in the quicksand of slogans, jingles, and campaigns. His spot in the company’s totem is low, and he may lose his position if he can’t come up with an idea to sell his newest product, Stay-Put Lipstick. Fortunately for him, flying into town is Hollywood glamour superstar Rita Marlowe (Jayne Mansfield), whose “oh-so-kissable lips” make her the perfect lipstick spokesperson, and Rock’s movie-mad niece (Lili Gentle) just happens to know where she’s staying.

In an attempt to make her latest beau jealous, and reap publicity for her studio, Rita snatches the first man to walk into her room as her new squeeze—a case of “being in the right place at the right time” for Rock, and the popcorn in his pocket erupts into fireworks as he smooches a towel-wrapped Rita. This comic serendipity isn’t a plot contrivance, but an illustration of Tashlin’s slashing view of how, in a capitalist society, everything and everyone can be packaged and sold, regardless of their abilities: Just as Edmond O’Brien’s gravel-voiced gangster was turned into a teen sensation at the end of The Girl Can’t Help It, so here is Rock, who has trouble keeping his long-stemmed smoking pipe lit, knighted “Lover Doll” and promptly mobbed by scores of screaming young fans.

Though several characters are aware of the ad world’s machinations, none of them are above its sway, and, in one of the film’s most merciless gags, the hero comes home one night to find both his niece and his fiancée (Betsy Drake) paralyzed from overdosing in bust-expanding exercises. Because Tashlin, like Billy Wilder, often equated success in “the nonsense of what we call our civilization” with prostitution (or, at least, hucksterism), the title’s query becomes not so much a matter of whether than of when: Rock’s ascension in his firm’s importance ladder may seem divine, but to Tashlin it’s all just a Faustian deal sealed with the coveted key to the executive bathroom, a corrupt Holy Grail complete with a heavenly chorus.

People in Tashlin’s films often become extensions of their material possessions, and the irony of the merchandising cuts both ways: Just as Rita is a hilarious pop construct—a Marilyn Monroe spoof that’s also transparently Mansfield’s own dig at her image—she also molds Rock into a replica of her long-lost true love. Throughout Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?, characters contort themselves to fit the fetishization of image rampant through society, always causing pain to their own souls; Drake hopes to lure Rock back to her by turning herself into a buxom fembot, but as she pliantly puts it, “Those tight sweaters are too heavy.”

Savage as it is, Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? remains, paradoxically, among Tashlin’s most joyous works. Continuously vibrating with comic energy, the Cinemascope screen is a playpen of jubilant brassiness, compounded by superb performances. The director may loathe that the characters sell their souls, yet he can’t help but admire the brio and creativity with which they do it, like the ravenous force with which Rock embraces his new stud persona or the slippery glibness his associate (Henry Jones) employs in navigating Madison Avenue’s polluted waters. Tashlin knew that he was inescapably a part of the culture he was satirizing, and the picture’s head-on immersion in proto-New Wave homage (everything from Tarzan and Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing to Louella Parsons and Groucho Marx) amounts to the auteur’s confession of his complicity. After all, when a young fan announces that she’s going to see The Girl Can’t Help It again, “courageous youth” is all caustic sidekick Joan Blondell can snap.

Indeed, the film’s mid-narrative break could be seen as a reversal of the famous opening of The Girl Can’t Help It: Where Tom Ewell stretched the image into the widescreen rectangle, here Randall shrinks it down to the television square, made grainy and monochromatic “for all you TV fans.” Tashlin’s most radical rupture, however, lies in Blondell’s monologue about her days helping silent-film actresses and vainly attempting to forget a long-lost love, a moment of unexpectedly naked emotion where the character’s wisecracking façade is cracked and the pain underneath is captured in a harsh single-take.

Lured and trapped by the gilded cages of consumerism, the characters yearn for a Rousseau-like return to nature; Rock dreams of a chicken farm, while the company president (John Williams) would rather be tending to roses than clients. The film’s subversive tragedy is that the cartoon surfaces of Tashlin are closer to the entrapping gloss of Douglas Sirk than it is first apparent. The happy ending is nominally enforced, yet the characters remain frozen in their rigid roles, becoming, as Jonathan Rosenbaum has pointed out, “abstract Brechtian commentators on their own dilemmas.” Our laughter explodes only to dissipate grimly.

Image/Sound

Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? is one of the most chromatically inventive, deliberately cartoonish live-action films ever made, and Twilight Time’s Blu-ray makes it obvious that it’s aged considerably and has yet to receive any kind of significant restoration. Colors are fuller here than they were on older DVD releases but still look rather faded. In terms of disc artifacts, there are few issues, most notably the instances of black crush that occur when the softer colors of a composition are also marked by thick grain. The sound presentation is significantly more stable: Both the surround and original 2.0 track are pristine, with the dialogue and the boisterous swells of Cyril Mockridge’s score balanced evenly throughout.

Extras

An audio commentary with film historian Dana Polan delves into the film’s satirical richness and how its mixture of broad comedy and subtler character acting elucidates its themes. Polan particularly highlights how all the product placement on display gleefully implicates the film in its own critique of increasing commercialization. Also included is an essay in which Julie Kirgo provides a thoughtful overview of the film and its themes.

Overall

One of the greatest of American satires finally hits high-definition video with an okay transfer of an inferior source, highlighting the need for future restoration.

Cast: Tony Randall, Jayne Mansfield, Betsy Drake, Joan Blondell, John Williams, Henry Jones, Lili Gentle, Mickey Hargitay Director: Frank Tashlin Screenwriter: Frank Tashlin Distributor: Twilight Time Running Time: 93 min Rating: NR Year: 1957 Buy: Video

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