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DVD Review: The Ernest Hemingway Film Collection

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The Ernest Hemingway Film Collection

Fox is relying on a few mythologies in its newest box set, The Ernest Hemingway Film Collection. With five films from the 1950s and ‘60s drawn from Hemingway’s novels and short stories, much in the collection depends on the mystique of the author himself—the strength of his persona, the quality of his storytelling, the status of his books within high school classrooms. There is also the myth of the epic: the longer the film, the more precise its recreation of a familiar novel (see the hours of difference in running times between Lord of the Rings’ theatrical releases and their fan-friendly, novel-centric extended editions). And more than anything, Fox is confronting the myth that a Hemingway novel, with the author’s sparse descriptions and dramatic emphasis on the things that are not being said, can make a good film at all.

The studio is playing a dangerous game with this odd mechanism—organizing a box set around a creative writer—and the most endearing movie in the collection is also the odd one out. Jean Negulesco’s Under My Skin, based on Hemingway’s short story My Old Man, is compelling, once you get past the ‘50s polish, extended musical interludes, and Leave it to Beaver-esque familial shine. John Garfield plays Dan Butler, a crooked American jockey traveling around Europe with his young, squeaky-clean son, escaping the Italian gangster on whom Butler welched. The film has that certain contempt for factual detail unique to stars and starlets of ‘50s Hollywood: if the rough-and-tumble Garfield is a jockey, he is the biggest jockey who ever lived. Moreover, the film is brazenly Amero-centric despite its post-war Paris setting. But Under My Skin thrives more than the other Hemingway films in this set because it actively removes itself from Hemingway’s story. By adding those marvelous film noir speeches, Negulesco includes an extravagance of language noticeably removed from Hemingway’s standard prose, as well as an ending good enough for Willy Loman. “He rode it honest,” a friendly jock says of Butler. “No one can take that from him.”

The other four films in the collection—two based on novels, one on a collection of short stories, and another on one of Hemingway’s most famous single stories—are unavoidably linked. All four feature writer characters. All four have nurse-patient relationships. All four revel in their European locations. In short, in a box set devoted to America’s most happily expatriated writer, one seldom short on writerly advice, film is perfectly in tuned to the repetitious themes in Hemingway’s works. Given Hemingway’s breathtaking skill as an author, these common threads are hardly noticeable in his books, or easily forgivable. In two-hour doses, the redundancy in story is tiring, so that Hemingway’s stories cease fascinating, and the collection comes to be about these films’ outdated modes of cinematic spectacle.

A Farewell to Arms is the Lord of the Rings , true-to-the book epic in the group, a grand 1957 adventure starring Rock Hudson as Hemingway’s mirror of an Italian ambulance driver in WWI, who happens to fall in love with an English nurse named Catherine Barkley (Jennifer Jones). The film does follow the plot closely, retaining a few symbols from Hemingway’s manuscript. But, across the Italian front, crossing a lake into Switzerland, the film is wonderful because of its slow, at times achingly patient pacing, a relic of its time meant to exploit the relatively new technologies of widescreen and color, along with Italy’s studios and set builders. The result is an operatic mood matched by the film’s beautiful colors; the cinematography and sets are gorgeous, even if they borrow from Gone with the Wind. The visual niceties of the film are hardly matched by its performances. Supporting actors—a young Elaine Stritch and legendary director turned actor Vittorio de Sica—carry the show. Hudson is Hudson. Jones is awful, playing Barkley not as a woman in desperation but as a teacher scolding a truant student, a condition made worse by her constant use of the word “darling” and “boy.” Also, it’s just never a good sign when a movie has yodeling in it.

The remaining three films offer variations on the same set of triumphs and setbacks, though no more yodeling. They do have the wonderful displays of that rich Cinemascope Technicolor. The marvelous slow pacing. Composers working overtime to create expansive scores. Gregory Peck as Harry Street in The Snows of Kilimanjaro, displaying his uncanny ability to stretch seven syllables out of the word “why.” However, the most recent film in the group, 1962’s rarely seen Hemingway’s Adventures of a Young Man, based on the semi-autobiographical Nick Adams stories, is essentially a longer version of A Farewell to Arms, extending the ambulance driver’s story before and after the war while clarifying the juvenile reasons behind Hemingway’s life and character: a hateful, overbearing mother in Mrs. Adams (Jessica Tandy), a pristine, incorruptible pre-war Americana that bores a scamp like Nick Adams—for that is the only word for him—just as much as it instills in him Hemingway’s trademark sense of adventure. You quickly wonder about the need to package the two films together, until the larger trend of juvenility emerges.

These movies—and Hemingway’s books—are filled with reactionary men: Street throwing a glass across the room and walking out on a party like a petulant child because his girlfriend is teasing/abusing him. The impotent war veteran Jake Barnes (Tyrone Power) in 1957’s The Sun Also Rises refusing to take any side in the fights he orchestrated between his friends or Robert Cohn (Mel Ferrer) getting involved in the fights in the first place. In Hemingway’s writings, this sort of behavior is always the result of man’s interaction with woman; reflecting the base material, the relationships between men in these five films are infinitely more complex and lasting than any of the sentimentalized relationships that grow and are cut off between these contemptuous other halves.

Wait, you say. This is Hemingway we are talking about, and I admit that criticizing a Hemingway-based movie because of its unconvincing women is, on the surface, dumb (Hemingway’s women have a tendency to be unconvincing). But as a writer, he at least knew and clarified the difference between sympathetic weakness and outright insanity: Catherine Barkley, for all her possible faults, was believably in love with Lieutenant Henry. On film, Catherine Barkley is manic, obsessive, erratic, stifling, and intolerable, flying into rages at every odd moment before turning them suddenly into exclamations of love and delight. And it may not be Hemingway’s fault. The Hollywood of the 1950s or the actresses themselves were just as guilty as Hemingway for romanticizing or simplifying women’s roles; for every Norma Desmond, you have a hundred femme fatales worked into their certain stereotype. But whomever is to blame here, these women are impossible, and the films in this collection, whittled down to focus only on Hemingway’s flawed male hero, are less than appealing representations of Hemingway’s writing as a result.

And while they are good examples of the era’s standards of filmmaking, no film in the set is exemplary or truly innovative. The performances—save Stritch, De Sica, and Peck—are forgettable. And at a few points—such as Snows on Kilimanjaro‘s hunting sequence, which includes African tribesmen happily serving white colonials while carrying a rhinoceros head around a fire, chanting—the films are so patently offensive in a contemporary context as to make me wonder if we want to remember them. Beside nostalgia, then, a sense of preservation or the people who saw these movies when they came out and rightfully and fittingly want to retain some element of that memory, little reason remains for the Ernest Hemingway Film Collection. It only shows the myriad things that can go wrong in adapting a cherished novel to the screen, especially the works by a writer of such subtlety and controversy—of such mythology—as Ernest Hemingway.

Image/Sound

As good as the restoration has been to these films, the image and sound are hardly ideal. Frame jumps, transition issues, cloudy audio, and generally low volume take away from a nostalgic viewing experience.

Extras

While the historians offer some interesting insights into the production of these movies, the material on the set is up-and-down. Up: the classic newsreels announcing A Farewell to Arms‘ gala opening night. Down: the Hemingway of Film segments, mostly a sycophantic form of English class.

Overall

A nice set of examples of what not to do in adapting a legendary writer for the screen.

Cast: John Garfield, Micheline Presle, Luther Adler, Orley Lindgren, Noel Drayton, Gregory Peck, Susan Hayward, Ava Gardner, Hildegard Knef, Leo G. Carroll, Rock Hudson, Jennifer Jones, Vittorio De Sica, Oskar Homolka, Mercedes McCambridge, Tyrone Power, Ava Gardner, Mel Ferrer, Errol Flynn, Eddie Albert, Richard Beymer, Diane Baker, Corinne Calvet, Fred Clark, Dan Dailey Director: Jean Negulesco, Henry King, Charles Vidor, Martin Ritt Screenwriter: Casey Robinson, Peter Vierte, Laurence Stallings, Ben Hecht, A.E. Hotchner Distributor: 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment Running Time: 626 min Rating: NR Year: 1950 1962 Release Date: March 6, 2007 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.

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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.

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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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