A former Uncut film of the month, shamefully under-promoted by the British film industry. Imaginatively based on the cult BS Johnson novel, it stars Nick Moran as a misanthropic bank clerk who elects to wreak vengeance on society for perceived injustices. A sort of Billy Liar with fire in its belly, it’s intense, inventive and, finally, explosive.

The crowning glory of the Anthology project, this DVD box set features the 10 hours of footage originally seen on TV and video, plus an extra 80 minutes on a fifth disc.

A relaxed Paul, George and Ringo, talking to interviewer Jools Holland, relate The Beatles story from top to bottom with humour, a wealth of anecdote and personal revelation, and a surprising willingness to relive the arguments, the bitter financial battles and the split.

Inter-cut with historic clips of the Fabs in action, this definitive documentary arrives with improved picture quality and stereo, and 5.1 surround sound.

Knebworth 1980 is the last time all six Beach Boys appeared together in the UK. Brian is now a zombie, and Dennis is a mess. Nice harmonies, though, and the songs aren’t bad, either. On Tour is riveting. Cameras track a content 21st-century Wilson on stage and off. Carol Kaye, Pet Sounds bassist, insists he “still has the power to do something mind-blowing” before he performs a new song that is, indeed, mind-blowing.

Sharon Osbourne, reviewing Series One, sighs wistfully to her son: “I wish it was back then, Jack… we were innocent then.” Jack replies: “I think we’ve been robbed of our innocence.”And it was precisely those na

He hasn’t made a record since 1970, but the Syd Barrett legend continues to grow. Narrated by Newsnight’s Kirsty Wark and first shown as a BBC documentary, this serious-minded 50-minute film examines the legacy of the Floyd’s original Crazy Diamond, mostly through interviews with former band members Dave Gilmour, Rick Wright, Nick Mason and Roger Waters. They paint a harrowing picture of Barrett’s disintegration, although the Madcap himself is reduced to a ghost-like presence, seen only in a few flickering frames of archive footage. That it feels like a tribute to someone long dead only emphasises the overwhelming sadness of Barrett’s fate.

A pretty convoluted and derivative 2002 Bollywood outing, ranging over several years and telling the story of Suraj and Komal (Anil and Karisma Kapoor), who are estranged following the machinations of the latter’s snobbish billionaire father. Heavy-handed melodrama and some risible musical sequences, reminiscent of a raunchy ’80s nightmare, try the patience.

Intense Israeli thriller merging politics, religion and thwarted romance in which Rabbi Meltzer (Assi Dayan) encourages his soldier students to embrace martyrdom. A huge hit on home turf, it’s fiery spirit ensures it translates.

This cult item came about in 1976 when Claude LeLouch fastened a camera to the bumper of a Ferrari 275 GTB and sent it on a high-octane, outlaw street race, burning up the boulevards of Paris. No roads were blocked off, no stunt drivers used. Everything you see is real. It’s fucking astonishing. Available online at www.spiritlevelfilm.com

Tony Hancock enjoyed immense success on TV as a jowly, luckless blowhard in a bleak and hostile world, but many doubted he could transfer to the big screen. The Rebel (1960) has been pooh-poohed by purists but for those prepared to indulge its creaky satire, it’s a period treat. It casts Hancock as an incompetent artist who thinks he’s a genius and moves to Paris. Having wowed the avantgarde with his preposterous theories, he comes under the wing of George Sanders’ art dealer, who mistakenly believes him to be responsible for the work of his more modest but brilliant roommate. The best moments are the small ones, including Hancock’s belligerent encounters with landlady Irene Handl. The Punch And Judy Man is more melancholic, Hancock starring as a seaside entertainer with a socially ambitious wife. The film inadvertently reflected the strains that would lead to Hancock’s suicidal end in 1968 as a lonely alcoholic.

Arguably the two most powerful kitchen-sink dramas of the early ’60s were both adapted from the works of author Alan Sillitoe. Saturday Night And Sunday Morning (1960), directed by Karel Reisz, provided British cinema with an equivalent to Brando thanks to Albert Finney’s electrifying performance as marriage-wrecking factory-hand Arthur Seaton (“I’m a fighting pit-prop of a man who wants a pint of beer, that’s me!”). But Finney perhaps lacked the surly sophistication of borstal boy Tom Courtenay in Tony Richardson’s later The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner (1962). Scripted by Sillitoe from his own short story, where Reisz’s film looks antiquated in plot and pace, Richardson’s seems fresh and emotively ferocious in its attack on the English class system at that time. Courtenay’s is a more empathetic and complicated anti-hero than Finney’s, and undoubtedly Runner flexes its working-class wrath that bit louder, though neither of these films should be missed.