There are few bands, it seems, as disaster-prone as Shack. Ravaged by narcotics, crippled by debt (the sleevenotes to their third album HMS Fable infamously thanked Cash Converters) and nearly torpedoed by missing master tapes and missed opportunities, this Liverpool outfit clearly monopolise the anti-Midas touch. Matters were not helped three years ago when London Records pulled the contractual plug as well.
Low-key Argentinian road movie of sorts from director Carlos Sorin. A lost dog provides the impetus for an old man to amble off on a slow journey: he's not really looking for doggie, he's hunting meaning and a decent way to die. New friends shuffle about and there's much sentiment which would be panned if this was a Hollywood flick.
Dark, hugely inventive '93 animation from Tim Burton, possibly much too spooky for kids (or probably not, the sick little psychos). The Pumpkin King of Halloween tries to co-opt Christmas; the voices of Catherine O'Hara, Pee-Wee Herman and other disreputable types ooh and aah. Dazzling, macabre and faintly mad, an Oscar nominee for visual effects.
Paul Schrader deals with intriguing, uncomfortable issues here, but with, for him, a slightly saddening conservatism. Telling the story of Bob Crane, the '50s star of Hogan's Heroes, whose career nosedived as he became increasingly addicted to filming his own sexploits, it's initially vibey and buzzing, with a terrific turn from Greg Kinnear, but later lapses into soggy moralising and mopey depression.
You can't move these days for quality American TV dramas—Six Feet Under, The Badge, Boomtown, 24, the increasingly amazing Alias—so it says a lot for the enduring genius of David Chase's Mob epic that it remains the most compelling of the current generation of TV imports. Series Four was as frightening and funny as anything that preceded it, and was especially notable for its treatment of the darkening relationship between James Gandolfini and Edie Falco. The episode where Tony snuffs Ralphy is unbelievable.
Pre-Star Wars, '70s Hollywood loved its post-apocalyptic sci-fi dystopias—think The Omega Man, Rollerball and Logan's Run. With a brilliant cast—Charlton Heston, Edward G Robinson in his final role—and a superbly ghoulish twist, few come bleaker or better than this.
The legend behind such blaxploitation classics as Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song, an incalculable influence on Tarantino and Spike Lee, recorded this in 1974. Fundamentally, it's him growling over "funky grooves". A born philosopher, he opines that "A Birth Certificate Ain't Nuthin' But A Death Warrant Anyway", and, after bemoaning the fact that he'll never visit every bar in the world, claims that "between a woman's breast is the thickest thorns you can ever lay your head on". We'll look out for that, Melv. Godlike, of course.
