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Blu-ray Review: The Magnificent Ambersons

Criterion continues its heroic restoration of Orson Welles’s lost and unappreciated masterpieces with this extraordinarily beautiful presentation of The Magnificent Ambersons.

5.0

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The Magnificent Ambersons

Orson Welles’s The Magnificent Ambersons is often thought of as a tragic masterpiece, one that could have been even greater had RKO not unforgivably destroyed 45 minutes’ worth of its original footage and Welles not been distracted by the filming of his unfinished documentary It’s All True. Yet The Magnificent Ambersons is a classic in spite and because of its limitations. Both a fluid and hobbled work about the hobbling of a family and an aristocratic way of life, the film shows a deepening of the cinematic imagination that Welles displayed in Citizen Kane, as its flamboyant formalism expresses the characters’ interior longings while also embodying the very fancifulness that separates the Ambersons from the arising technological society of the early 20th century. Like most Welles films, The Magnificent Ambersons essentially predicts its own demise, and dramatizes a struggle to flourish—to create beauty—in spite of monumental opposing forces.

In the ongoing tradition of privileged artists, Welles was eaten up with a contradiction throughout his career. He longed for a world of caste systems and chivalry and ornate customs that compose in themselves a living art. Welles was to the manor born and he revered the beauty of it, yet he also understood the classist hypocrisy of Victorian and Edwardian cultures, which pivot on fetishizing old money and depend on social inequality. And perhaps it’s because of the failure of The Magnificent Ambersons and It’s All True that Welles came to invent the persona of the traveling rogue with rarefied tastes who’s somewhat of a pauper existing on the margins of the Hollywood machine. Such a real-life character, Welles’s most enduring creation, could in effect be rich and poor simultaneously in flattering proportions.

The mythology of Welles’s struggle to create art is so rich and alluring for critics that one can lose sight of how his films might function for people who expect to see mere movies. For roughly 50 minutes, The Magnificent Ambersons plays as a devastating gothic parable, wedding the prose of Booth Tarkington’s Pulitzer Prize-winning source novel with two incarnations of Welles’s formalism. In the film’s most beautiful moments, we see the aesthetic that Welles was actively honing at the time, which involved deep-focus compositions and flowing tracking shots that serve as a visual equivalent to Tarkington’s haunting, poignantly ornate 19th-century-style verse.

A sentence of approximately 50 words for Tarkington might be, for Welles, a long shot following the snobbish antihero, George Amberson Minafer (Tim Holt), as he argues with his neglected spinster aunt, Fanny (Agnes Moorehead), inadvertently pushing her to reveal her suppressed longing for automobile pioneer Eugene Morgan (Joseph Cotten), while unearthing Eugene’s own tortured love story with George’s mother, Isabel (Delores Costello). Such moments, which are often set on the winding staircase of the faltering Amberson mansion, allow the actors to sustain agonizingly prolonged emotional crescendos, alternating outbursts with cowering withdrawals, particularly Moorehead, who gives one of the subtlest, most ironic, and heartbreaking performances in American cinema.

Other portions of The Magnificent Ambersons anticipate the formalism that Welles would later develop as an eccentric globe-trotting genius who cobbled films together out of footage shot over years. The montage of the Amberson mansion that opens The Magnificent Ambersons, as well as vignettes in which George behaves badly as a spoiled young boy, are shot in a gauzy haze that’s at odds with the lushly prismatic ballroom scenes or the astonishing moment where we see adult George’s face in reflection, as he looms over a landscape that’s inhabited by a dejected Eugene. And other images, such as close-ups of gossiping faces, are clearly shot on isolated sets and exist separate from other planes of action. These fissures in the film’s aesthetic and internal sense of reality are born from production issues, which are vividly discussed in the supplements included in this Criterion Collection Blu-ray, but they establish a precedent for how Welles would later deliberately shatter form as a way of turning his scarce resources into a creative boon.

When people dream of the Magnificent Ambersons that might’ve been, they may be undervaluing the film that is, falling prey to the sort of false nostalgia that destroys the Ambersons. The brutal cutting of the narrative by RKO executives actually achieves a daring emotional effect: As the Ambersons fall apart, so does the film itself. The second half of The Magnificent Ambersons is rife with tragedies that come out of nowhere, born symbolically from George’s meddling in Eugene and Isabel’s tragic non-romance. The delirious rapture of Welles’s direction gives way to brittle fragmentation, with the performances offering a structural through line, including Welles’s own vocal performance as the narrator, who rues for a faded with way of life with a barely repressed yearning that speaks for all of the Ambersons, and for anyone, namely everyone, who’s suspected themselves to be born in the wrong time.

Image/Sound

The softer whites of the image are occasionally shrill, but that’s nitpicking, as this 4K restoration of The Magnificent Ambersons is positively transformative and gorgeous. The foregrounds, middle grounds, and backgrounds of the images have equal crystal clarity, allowing one to fully appreciate the virtuosity of Welles’s cinematic imagination. The interiors of the Amberson home are rendered in crisp compositions that elaborate on character relationships while proffering a world so rarefied it resembles a self-enclosed biosphere. (This disc underscores just how influential Welles was to such filmmakers as Alain Resnais and Wes Anderson.) Blacks are velvety, especially the poetic shadows, and facial textures are intensely tactile. The monaural soundtrack may be less ostentatious of a show pony than the disc’s image, but it offers a much sharper soundscape than prior editions of the film, most evidently in the presentation of dialogue. Now, dialogue complements the compositions to illustrate the characters’ relationships with one another in the frames, intensifying the film’s already considerable spatial specificity.

Extras

This expansive and detailed supplements package offers varying perspectives on how The Magnificent Ambersons influenced Welles’s subsequent career, and was shaped by historical events such as the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Many familiar Welles authorities have been recruited here, from film historians Simon Callow and Joseph McBride, who turn up in interviews filmed in 2018 exclusively for this edition, to filmmaker Peter Bogdanovich, who speaks with Welles in archive conversations that were recorded for Bogdanovich’s essential book This Is Orson Welles.

Unsurprisingly, these supplements focus quite a bit on the gutting of The Magnificent Ambersons by RKO, and on the fall from grace that Welles suffered after the controversy of Citizen Kane and the mixed preview screenings of The Magnificent Ambersons. Callow, McBride, and Bogdanovich are passionate and intelligent critics, all with personal connections to Welles, and their words here contextualize this film as the troubled masterpiece it is.

More surprising are the new video essays by scholars François Thomas and Christopher Husted, which respectively track the shifting cinematographers (including Stanley Cortez and Jack MacKenzie) on the film and the various versions of Bernard Herrmann’s score that resulted from studio meddling. These pieces use intimate, specific examples of scenes both present and lost to illustrate the film that The Magnificent Ambersons is and could have been.

Two audio commentaries, a vintage one from 1985 with scholar Robert L. Carringer and a 2018 track with scholar James Naremore and critic Jonathan Rosenbaum, offer stories of the film’s making as well profound analyses of Welles’s aesthetic. Carringer is particularly engrossing when discussing the freedom that the elaborate sets accorded Welles in terms of fashioning revolutionary choreography, while Naremore and Rosenbaum underscore the subtlety of the actors’ performances, most notably in “the spoon scene,” in which Joseph Cotten’s character speaks tranquilly and empathetically while telegraphing his anger with the violent rubbing of a spoon.

These indispensable commentaries are complemented by the inclusion of two Mercury Theatre radio plays, from 1938 and 1939, respectively: Seventeen, an adaptation by Welles of another Booth Tarkington novel, and The Magnificent Ambersons, both of which are referred to often in this package and show the evolution of Welles’s preoccupation with the author. Odds and ends round out a veritable cornucopia for Welles junkies, such as the filmmaker’s 1970 appearance on The Dick Cavett Show and a booklet that’s rich in wonderful writing by authors and critics Molly Haskell, Luc Sante, Geoffrey O’Brien, Farran Smith Nehme, and Jonathan Lethem. This booklet also includes an excerpt from an unfinished memoir by Welles.

Overall

The Criterion Collection continues its heroic restoration of Orson Welles’s lost and unappreciated masterpieces with this extraordinarily beautiful presentation of The Magnificent Ambersons.

Cast: Tim Holt, Joseph Cotten, Dolores Costello, Anne Baxter, Agnes Moorehead, Ray Collins, Erskine Sanford, Richard Bennett, Orson Welles Director: Orson Welles Screenwriter: Orson Welles Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 88 min Rating: NR Year: 1942 Release Date: November 27, 2018 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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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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