Reviews

As the franchise gets ever more desperate, any wit is sacrificed for diminishing returns of grosser grossness and louder loudness. If you want to see Jason Biggs' pubic hair find its way into the wedding cake while he does his 'embarrassed' face for the thousandth time, this is the movie for you. Directed by Bob Dylan's son, for Christ's sakes.

Impressive Steve Albini-produced second from post-punk pivots

With the final series of Buffy over (and how could they kill off Anya so glibly? But don't get me started...), all that's left to console us sad (in both ways) fanatics is the music from the show, here slickly marketed with sleevenotes by Joss Whedon. Kicking off with The Breeders' blast at the theme tune, it rolls through the Dandy Warhols, Dashboard Prophets, Aimee Mann, The Devics and Laika. There are score fragments, too, notably Christophe Beck's "Dead Guys With Bombs".

Third album from much-heralded Dublin singer-songwriter

Gord's substantial pot of gold gets prospected, Canadian-style

Two late-'60s psych-country masterpieces on one disc

Selective Wizzardry and solo material

Nicholas Ray's 1948 debut launches a retrospective season at the NFT

There's only one real Robin Hood, and that's Errol Flynn, now buckling his swash in this lovingly restored version of the 1938 classic. "You speak treason," observes cowardly King John (Claude Rains). "Fluently," Errol proudly admits, before crossing blades with Olympic duellist Basil Rathbone, rescuing the blushing Olivia de Havilland and feeding the poor of Sherwood. Hurrah!

Sadomasochistic shenanigans over the fax machine