The Fall are here brilliantly captured in their early-'80s heyday. First released on video in 1983, this is an amateurish but energetic send-up of pop promos, with Mark E Smith on hilarious form, whether skulking around an empty football ground, miming into a beer can on the video for "Kicker Conspiracy", or dancing like a basket case for "Eat Y'Self Fitter".
This six-DVD set's total running time of 24 hours is enough in itself to set alarm bells ringing. Footage of northern soul in its '70s prime is almost non-existent. Cameras only ever went inside the legendary Wigan Casino once for a documentary (1977's This England), which isn't included. What does that leave us with? Talking heads padded out with the shittest home-made videos you've ever seen. And over a hundred northern soul artistes as they are now, miming to re-recordings of their hits. One star for unintentional comedy value.
No stranger to stage dramatics, Peter Gabriel created one of rock's great spectacles on 1993's "Secret World" tour. Seen by over a million people across five continents, only U2 and the Stones have rivalled it for theatrical excess. Robert LePage's stage designs still astound—and a still youthful-looking Gabriel matches them with his own charismatic presence on songs like "Sledgehammer".
Luc Besson oversaw this brain-batteringly stoopid collision between hopped-up, old-school kung-fu flick and Lock Stockish Brit gangster movie. Jason Statham just about gets his mouth around some sub-Tarantino dialogue as an ex-special forces getaway driver caught up in bad business involving a slave ring in Nice. Risible.
Underrated 1989 adaptation of Jay McInerney's seminal NY nightlife novel, riddled with "Bolivian marching powder", period electro-pop and a brave (though criticised) performance from Michael J Fox as a broken-hearted magazine fact-checker who's burning the candle at three ends. Kiefer Sutherland's a bad influence. Dryly comic, painfully candid.
The umpteenth retail release for this era-defining cash-cow of Scottish junkies, and the cracks are now beginning to show. Yes, it's a beautiful burst of propulsive film-making, but after the likes of Jesus's Son and Requiem For A Dream, it seems a little too eager to please, a little too chipper, too Ewan McGregor to be wholly credible.
C Thomas Howell picks up homicidal hitch-hiker Rutger Hauer while driving through the desert and very wisely boots him out of the car at the first opportunity, setting in motion a duel between the two that involves a lot of exploding cars and a huge body count. Utter tosh.
Claude Lelouch arguably never surpassed this 1966 Oscar-winning romance, which sweetened French new wave experimentation for the global mainstream. For all the heart-tugging lyricism, it's still immensely affecting. Bright Anouk Aimée and brave Jean-Louis Trintignant, both widowed, fall in love as that durable theme tune twinkles away.
John Milius' deeply personal take on the surf generation of the '60s is everything you'd expect from Hollywood's last great iconoclast. It's a sumptuous visual feast, an epic journey charting the testosterone-packed lives of three surfing buddies (Jan-Michael Vincent, William Katt and Gary Busey) and an unbelievably heavy-handed extended metaphor, as the ebb and flow of the tide is mirrored in our heroes' lives.
Detective Kyle Bodine (Ed Harris) meets the unhappily married-to-money Rachel Monro (Madeleine Stowe) and before you can say Body Heat he's dumping the hubby (Charles Dance) in a lake, and his own career along with it. Harris is dependable as ever but Stowe curiously inanimate, leaving China Moon with a central relationship that's about as steamy as a bowl of cold soup.
