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Blu-ray Review: Wild at Heart

Shout! Factory outfits David Lynch’s worst film with a competent yet weirdly retro Blu-ray that squanders the possibilities of the medium.

3.5

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Wild at Heart

A large part of the exhilaration of David Lynch’s art resides in its fearlessness. Lynch is a surrealist who appears to possess unusual access to his subconscious, allowing his taboo urges and anxieties to seemingly drift across the canvas or screen with little intermediary. At his best, as in Eraserhead, Mulholland Drive, and Twin Peaks: The Return, Lynch’s intuitive recalibration of American iconography and genre tropes is profound, locating the nexus of our culture’s perversion. Lynch is a dramatist of erotic violence, utilizing symbols and riffs to elucidate the potentially actualizing pull of sexual suppression. This irony gives his art its emotional backbone, uniting its formal and narrative dissonances. Without this backbone, Lynch’s techniques can feel desperate and scattershot, as in his polarizing Wild at Heart.

Released in 1990, the year the first season of Twin Peaks premiered on ABC, the film feels like Lynch’s attempt to top the unruly kink of Blue Velvet and perhaps his brilliant two-hour Twin Peaks pilot, and this aspiration triggers a self-consciousness that’s unusual in his work. The insinuations of Lynch’s greatest work, about the repressions of society, are rarely present in Wild at Heart, which literally pushes everything to the foreground, starting with a sequence that opens on a torrent of flames with the title rushing toward us like the credits of a 3D horror movie. Fire will prove to be the film’s motif, from a burning man to a burning house to the ongoing closeups of matches exploding in fire as smokers strike them to light their cigarettes. In, say, Blue Velvet, the titular material signified a diseased and unhinged patriarchy eaten up with nostalgic oedipal issues, while the fire in Wild at Heart symbolizes unruly passion. The latter is a surprisingly banal equivocation for someone of Lynch’s talent, and it underscores the film’s pervading obviousness.

Lynch alternately satirizes and indulges such obviousness in Wild at Heart, and the conflicting impulses cancel themselves out. When one of the film’s protagonists, Sailor Ripley (Nicolas Cage), says that his snakeskin jacket is a symbol of his individuality and personal freedom, Lynch understands the sentiment to be a joke on the derivativeness of Sailor’s “rebellion,” which is lifted from Elvis Presley vehicles and countless narratives concerning juvenile delinquency. But Lynch also wants us to accept this mannered collection of clichés (including a Presley accent) as a character of stature who learns that love is frequently thwarted by the machinations of a cynical world. Nowadays, Cage might be able to render a character like Sailor moving, but in the ‘80s and early ‘90s the actor was a postmodernist who often stood outside of his roles. Cage takes Sailor less seriously than Lynch does, and this tonal disjunction allows the film to collapse in on itself.

Wild at Heart significantly differs from most Lynch productions for the way its narrative belongs concretely to a singular genre (the outlaw road movie) and largely pivots on heroes who aren’t sexually repressed. Most of Lynch’s plots involve temporal loops that splinter, suggesting fractured psyches, while Wild at Heart proceeds very slowly toward an inevitable finish line, including even a requisite heist gone wrong. And Sailor and his lover, Lula (Laura Dern), are red-hot youths in their prime who feverishly fuck in seedy motels, while on the run from Lula’s mother, Marietta (Diane Ladd), who covets Sailor and sends killers of escalating viciousness out to hunt him. The film’s structure and sense of sexual freedom are related: If the characters aren’t repressed, there’s no need for a dissolving story that reflects the unmooring psychological and emotional weight of said repression. These qualities also ensure that the film has nowhere to go dramatically. Though Marietta is profoundly neurotic, Lynch and Ladd turn her into a shrill demon who suggests an evil Sarah Palmer without any of the latter’s pathos. (One wonders what Grace Zabriskie might’ve done with Marietta.)

A David Lynch film without a material sense of repression, guilt, and alienation is ultimately a gallery of indulgences and poses divorced of meaning beyond their intended shock value. Wild at Heart is brimming with violent, racially and sexually charged imagery that’s meant to give Blue Velvet fans what Lynch thinks they want. In the film’s first scene, Sailor beats an African-American man to death, smashing his head against a marble staircase while Lynch drools over the gore. Yes, Sailor is defending himself, but the unremitting brutality of this action makes it hard for an audience to accept Lynch’s un-ironic assertions of the character’s inherent innocence. Which is to say that Lynch affirms the entitled self-pity of delinquent youth cinema rather than critiquing it. Other scenes suggest that the filmmaker’s ticking items off a personal checklist, including red curtains, overweight dancing women, cryptic codes and symbols, hipster cameos, and totems of pop-cultural Americana that come to suggest a debauched game of Mad Libs.

Yet Lynch’s talent still surfaces in Wild at Heart. Near the end of the film, Lula, who has been tastelessly shown in flashbacks to have been sexually abused as a child, is cornered in her motel room by the most disgusting of the film’s villains, Bobby Peru (Willem Dafoe), a leering Marine who appears to have maggots for teeth. In an agonizingly prolonged moment, he corners and gropes Lula, uttering “fuck me” as a mantra until she’s forced to repeat the phrase. Bobby commits an act of aural rape, which he callously brushes off as a joke, getting off on Lula’s submission as well as his ability to reject her. Lynch and Dern suggest that Lula is aroused by this violation, elucidating an inexplicable emotional realm in which desire, self-loathing, and masochism merge, leaving a person drained and demoralized as well as titillated and unmoored. This scene brings Wild at Heart roaring to life, anticipating the audacious sexual empathy of Lynch’s Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me.

Image/Sound

Colors are rich and vivid, in accordance with the print that was also used for the 2004 MGM DVD. But grain levels are variable, especially in the film’s second half, and certain sequences are soft with shrill hues of white. In short, this disc’s image is more reminiscent of a respectable DVD than a Blu-ray, suggesting that another refurbishing is in order. Two audio tracks have been included: a 5.1 surround and a 2.0 stereo, the latter of which is true to the source track. The 5.1 mix informs the film’s many ostentatious diegetic effects with superb body and agency, though dialogue tends to be drowned out. The 2.0 mix has more balance between foreground and background elements, though the score and copious sonic violence have more vitality on the 5.1 track. It boils down, then, to a viewer’s individual priorities. For this critic, the film’s soundscape is more important than its musical yet wearying dialogue.

Extras

Most of these supplements have been ported over from MGM’s 2004 DVD (which were subsequently featured in the 2014 Twilight Time Blu-ray), in addition to a new interview with Wild at Heart novelist Barry Gifford. The author speaks of how his novel was adapted by David Lynch for the screen, discussing cuts and alterations that complement the stash of deleted scenes that are also on the disc. These scenes are the most fascinating feature in this collection, for illustrating how Lynch prunes and hones his films. Some of these moments have extraordinary human textures, suggesting that a greater film existed in an alternate cut. Most of the other interviews are disposable, speaking vaguely of Lynch’s brilliance, and there’s one inadvertent howler: In the “Love, Death, Elvis And Oz: The Making of Wild at Heart” documentary, someone says that Lynch doesn’t riff on other films or media, which is followed by a still from Wild at Heart in which a dog carries a human hand out into the desert, a clear allusion to a sequence from Yojimbo. Lynch himself is barely present in these extras, though he speaks briefly and informatively of how MGM paid for a new print of the film for the 2004 DVD restoration, allowing him to color correct troublesome nighttime scenes. TV spots, image galleries, and the original theatrical trailer round out a package that could have benefited from more contemporary extras.

Overall

Shout! Factory outfits David Lynch’s worst film with a competent yet weirdly retro Blu-ray that squanders the possibilities of the medium.

Cast: Nicolas Cage, Laura Dern, Willem Dafoe, Diane Ladd, J.E. Freeman, Isabella Rossellini, Harry Dean Stanton, Crispin Glover, Grace Zabriskie, Sherilyn Fenn, William Morgan Sheppard, David Patrick Kelly, Sheryl Lee Director: David Lynch Screenwriter: David Lynch Distributor: Shout! Factory Running Time: 124 min Rating: R Year: 1990 Release Date: August 21, 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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