DVD, Blu-ray and TV

Dick Lester's faithful two-part version of Dumas' adventure tale has truly imaginative action sequences, a cracklingly witty screenplay by George MacDonald Fraser, swashbuckling heroes (Oliver Reed, Frank Finlay), OTT villains (Faye Dunaway, Christopher Lee), a fantastic supporting cast (everyone from Charlton Heston to Spike Milligan) and a visibly huge budget. Wonderful stuff.

Riding the ever-popular straight-man-gay-world comedy wave (see Happy, Texas, Three To Tango, In And Out), debut writers, actors and co-producers Jennifer Westfeldt and Heather Juergensen add a distaff twist with their tale of a bi-curious gallery manager and her impulsive fling with a neurotic Jewish copy editor. The lines are witty, the nods to Annie Hall ubiquitous, though the resolution is strangely conservative.

Yes Years chronicles the band's career from the late '60s through to their '90s reunion via two hours of archive footage and interviews. Greatest Video Hits is more focused and concentrates on the late '70s and '80s when Trevor Horn and Buggles bizarrely joined the line-up. It's easy to scorn Yes' pretension, but Yes Years reminds us that the early material at least boasted some great tunes.

Screened on TV last Christmas, this celebrity fundraiser for the Peter Cook Foundation features a host of comedians including Michael Palin, Rik Mayall, Angus Deayton and Dom Joly (reprising the one-legged Tarzan sketch) and, unfortunately, Josie Lawrence and Griff Rhys-Jones. A fitfully amusing parade of the old and new, worth purchasing if only for the excellent, pithily epigrammatic Jimmy Carr.

Two strands of British comedy collide with utterly predictable results (all together now: "Oooh, Matron!") as the usual crew is augmented by the sublime Frankie Howerd and a positively quirky supporting cast (Anita Harris, Peter Jones, Julian Orchard). Post-irony, I think we should admit the Carry Ons are dreadful, but Sid James' laugh remains an imported national treasure.

Heavy metal pioneers certainly, but as this appealing history shows, Deep Purple also had the knack of turning a great riff into a decent pop song. There's a dated feel to the lengthy interviews with the likes of Jon Lord, Ian Paice and Ritchie Blackmore, all conducted in the early '90s. But as all but two of the live performances in the archival footage come from 1968-74, it hardly matters.

Watch Mr Bowie's greatest creation take his curtain call

Nick Broomfield's documentaries are as much farcical as investigative, with the director affecting the role of bumbling, plummy-voiced faux-naif, Kurt & Courtney (1998) was no exception. He looks hilariously out of place trailing around grungey Seattle, politely interrogating a series of eccentrics, conspiracy theorists and whacked-out dopers. He examines the possibility that Courtney murdered her husband, but witnesses prove so unreliable he drops the charge.

Psychiatric patient Prot (Kevin Spacey) seems remarkably sane, except for his assertion that he's really an alien visitor from a distant planet named K-Pax. It's Starman meets One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest (in a nicely ironic piece of casting, Jeff Bridges plays the psychiatrist determined to discover Prot's real identity), and works nicely even if it does err on the side of sentimentality.

Steve Buscemi's 1996 writing/directing debut, by turns subtly hilarious and desperately sad, is a scruffy, rambling tour of barfly life, wherein his shiftless mechanic becomes an ice cream salesman and romances a much-too-young-for-him Chloe Sevigny. The tagline—"One man's search for... who knows what"—perfectly captures its loaded small-town shrug. Bruisingly good.