Reviews

Peter Greenaway's period piece concerns a 17th-century draughtsman (Anthony Higgins) who agrees to make a series of drawings of her country estate for an aristocrat's wife (Janet Suzman) in return for sexual favours. Part picture puzzle, part murder mystery, it's undeniably stylish and intriguing, but also totally unerotic and bleakly existential.

Coolly stoned record producer Frances McDormand struggles to be a responsible role model for her uptight son Christian Bale and his sexually frustrated wife Kate Beckinsale, while shagging cheeky Britpop 'star' Alessandro Nivola. Though the music's great (Mercury Rev, T. Rex, Roxy), Lisa Cholodenko's languorous movie is more about the gaps in relationships than the rock'n'roll world.

The Orrible Oo's classic video jukebox rockumentary gets a 25th anniversary makeover

Cut from classic troubadour cloth, North Carolinan Holcombe has been recording for 20 years, though dogged by bad luck (dropped by Geffen, his previous album, A Hundred Lies, was only released after fans Steve Earle and Lucinda Williams found him a label). His husk of a voice and country-blues finger-picking is reminiscent of Eric Andersen and Tim Hardin, but closest to JJ Cale. The 48-year-old's stream-of-consciousness lyricism is unique, though, bearing the scars of a troubled past.

Mellow country vibes from the Parkerilla

It's a neat concept, seeing how a particular culture regurgitated Los Beatles. Portugal emerges as a tryer: chap singing through his forehead on "I'll Follow The Sun", "When I'm 64" played on a wasp, a total botch made of "Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da" (which is bollocks anyway, to be fair) and a surprisingly loose grasp of rhythm all round. But, occasionally, Portugal triumphs: an atmospheric "Blackbird", a surfing "I'll Get You" and a delightful fado reading of "Hey Jude" taken at a canter on the pretty Portuguese guitarra.

NY white-funk collective compiled

Charlie Kaufman takes it all the way in a memorable marvel

Revered by film-making legends from Alain Resnais to Martin Scorsese, the Japanese director Yasijuro Ozu specialised in minutely observed and exquisitely composed domestic dramas. Made in 1959, Floating Weeds was one of Ozu's last features, a remake of one of his early silents about backstage politics and romantic turbulence among a troupe of travelling Kabuki theatre players. The subject may sound alien but Ozu makes their problems timeless and universal.

Mercifully free from saccharine Shawshank/Green Mile prison movie proselytising, Steve Buscemi's stark follow-up to the amiable Trees Lounge instead simply tosses luckless dope-dealing suburbanite Edward Furlong in among a brood of psychopathic sexual predators, including Willem Dafoe and Mickey Rourke, and then watches him squirm. Bleak stuff, with a final, disposable redemption.