Director Metin Hüseyin's breezy adaptation of Meera Syal's terrific fictionalised memoir about growing up Anglo-Asian in the West Midlands in the early '70s suffers a little from British film's TV smallness, feeling at times like an extended episode of Goodness Gracious Me. But the crisp script and immense charm of 14-year-old newcomer Chandeep Uppal as the sassy prepubescent heroine Meena bring Syal's rites-of-passage story to life.
First issued on video in 1985, this is a fully absorbing, occasionally revealing insight into the country legend's late '60s heyday. A fly-on-the-wall documentary charting a typically grinding US tour, Cash is never less than engrossing, be it gleefully jamming with a nonchalant Dylan (a searing version of Billy Edd Wheeler's "Blistered"), duetting with 'er indoors June Carter ("Jackson") or cutting rug with lead guitarist Carl Perkins ("Blue Suede Shoes").
Neil Labute adapts an AS Byatt novel and rather blots his edgy image. It follows Gwyneth Paltrow and Aaron Eckhart through Yorkshire and Paris as they uncover the personal secrets of a late-Victorian poet. Labute's emasculated in the company of academics, and the overall tone's uncertain and vague.
Steve Martin darkens his usual screwball comic persona for Novocaine, playing a suburban dentist implicated in drugs and murder charges in a noir-tinged comedy thriller which turns increasingly Hitchcockian as it unfolds. Helena Bonham Carter's femme fatale, Laura Dern's dental assistant and Kevin Bacon's hilarious cameo appearance lend extra clout to a patchy but commendably accomplished feature debut from writer-director David Atkins.
Two years ago, Bill Wyman published a superbly researched history of the blues. Now bearing the same name comes an unmissable visual companion to the book. The commentary is instructive, and Wyman's knowledge and passion for his subject is palpable. But the real thrill lies in the archive footage. There's Leadbelly and Bessie Smith, John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson and Jimmy Reed and lots of evocative footage of the Delta.
Jonathan Miller's 1966 adaptation of Carroll's fantasy masterpiece has a sitar soundtrack from Ravi Shankar, a dreamlike Victorian atmosphere and a cast to die for (Peter Cook, John Gielgud, Peter Sellers). Totally far out.
The TV version of Chris Morris' Radio 1 series Blue Jam (plus the late-night counterpart, Jaaaaam, also included here) pushed beyond the edges of comedy with an almost sadistic determination into a blurry miasma of appalling, nightmare scenarios, Kafkaesque horror and bitter, acidic satire, to the bleak accompaniment of a dark ambient soundtrack. The heaviest 'light entertainment' ever attempted, Jam didn't so much make you laugh as fill you with a rapt, faintly nauseous feeling of unease.
Brian Cox and Leonard Rossiter are the TV executives broadcasting Sportsex and Artsex to keep the masses lulled into passivity in Nigel Kneale's 1968 dystopian TV play. It's creaky and dated, with the production values of Dr Who, and not in the least bit erotic—but it's also prophetic (of reality TV) and strangely compelling.
Released in 1972, Federico Fellini's extended love letter to his adopted home city is less of a linear drama than an impressionistic anthology of autobiographical memories, sketchy anecdotes and documentary-style snippets. With sumptuous cinematography by Giuseppe Rotunno and a lush Nino Rota score, Roma is a minor Fellini work but a ravishing and innovative visual symphony.
