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Criterion Resurrects Paranoid Neo-Noir Classic Klute

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Featuring Jane Fonda at her early-70s best, this atmospheric mystery from Alan J. Pakula shines in its new Criterion Collection reissue.

Successful producer-turned-director Alan J. Pakula hit a hot streak in the 1970s, beginning with his “Paranoia Trilogy” — three films with a visceral sense of atmosphere and a Hitchcock-ian sense of voyeurism, which was conveyed like few others could. 

The trilogy began with Klute, followed by The Parallax View, then finally culminated with All The President’s Men, which earned Pakula an Academy Award nomination for best picture. The tough and stylistic Klute was his second film, one that established him as a force to be reckoned with, and proved that some producers can also be good directors. 

In Klute, Rural Pennsylvania private investigator John Klute (Donald Sutherland) relocates to New York City to investigate the disappearance of his friend Tom Gruneman, a seemingly-ordinary executive. It seems that before his disappearance, Gruneman had been sending lewd letters to Bree Daniels (Jane Fonda), a gamine call girl he had supposedly met before. The enigmatic and persistent Klute tracks Bree down and takes up residence in the basement of her apartment. He quietly observes her and taps her telephone. 

When he finally makes contact to question her, Bree claims not to remember Gruneman — but says that perhaps he was the man who assaulted her once. She agrees to take Klute to meet her pimp, Frank (Roy Scheider), who leads them to a former acquaintance of Bree’s named Arlyn Page (Dorothy Tristan). Having burned bridge after bridge in her personal life, Page is now a hopeless junkie. 

The parallels between Arlyn and Bree pretty much end with their profession; Arlyn’s seemingly doomed existence has become pitiful, while Bree remains optimistic about transitioning from sex work to acting and modeling. The dichotomy between her daytime struggles for legitimacy and her fruitful night job are evident, and despite her ambition, Bree seems to prefer the control and freedom she has as a prostitute. 

Klute thinks that Arlyn may hold the key to the mystery of his missing friend, but any hope of that is lost when she’s found dead in a river. Meanwhile as a romantic relationship starts to blossom, paranoia sets in for Bree as she starts to feel that Klute is not be the only person who has been watching her. 

Filming of Klute coincided with Fonda’s newfound politicization, as she became an outspoken activist against the Vietnam War. Indeed, an argument could be made that, even to this day, she is still the most politically-outspoken star Hollywood has ever seen. This “radicalization,” as it was often referred to, was reflected not only her choice of roles but also her outward appearance. Where through most of the 60s Fonda wore her hair long and blonde, typical of what was needed for the ingénue roles she was playing at the time, her hair in Klute was dyed back to her natural brown — and furnished with a bold new shag cut that had never been seen before. 

Bree’s situation, caught between two worlds, served as a shadow of Fonda’s own sense of self, and her examination of the world she lived in. Initially, Bree treats Klute as one her customers; passively flirting, manipulating, and being playful, but quickly the relationship transitions into something more genuine.

Acting and role-playing are central themes in Klute, and her “performance” helps Bree examine herself and find her independence. While her profession is at odds with her true self, Bree continues her lifestyle as an attempt to escape her own feelings and desires, numbing her emotions through mutual manipulation. 

Throughout the melodrama, this neo-noir presents an earned character study worthy of dissection. Fonda’s reservations about playing a call girl manifested early, as she attempted to drop out of filming and suggested Pakula replace her with Faye Dunaway, which Pakula flatly refused. Ultimately accepting her role, Fonda worked to manifest Bree’s character as closely as possible, achieving truly exceptional results that earned her an Academy Award. 

Fonda’s exemplary feminist characterization of Bree still rings true almost fifty years later. Living on set helped Fonda understand the character, while also allowing her to exercise her political ambitions: during downtime on set, she sent letters and made phone calls. Pakula even set up Fonda’s apartment to be functional, complete with working toilet, electricity, and water. 

Klute himself remains enigmatic throughout the film, but shows a great deal of sensitivity toward Bree. Sutherland’s understated performance creates a mysterious, static image of a character that never shows a strong moral compass. Instead, while fiercely determined to solve the mystery of Gruneman’s disappearance, Klute works not to save Bree, but ultimately to understand her without judgement. As for Bree, her future is left open-ended; for the purpose of the film, though, her story has come to a close. 

Klute comes to the Criterion Collection for the first time on Blu-Ray, newly restored in a fantastic 4K digital transfer supervised by camera operator Michael Chapman with uncompressed monaural soundtrack. Supplemental material features interviews with the one and only Jane Fonda, conducted by actor Illeana Douglas.

There’s also a new program on Pakula by filmmaker Matthew Miele, featuring interviews with filmmaker Steven Soderbergh, film scholar Annette Insdorf, and actor Charles Cioffi, plus archival interviews with Pakula himself. Klute In New York, a short documentary made during filming, is also included, along with a look at the burgeoning fashion of Klute and its early 70s time period by Amy Fine Collins, an essay by critic Mark Harris, and excerpts from a 1972 interview with Pakula.

Long overdue for a Blu-Ray release, and arguably Fonda’s best performance of her career, Klute was considered remarkably innovative upon release and still remains so. It remains a dark and sexy feast for the eyes, with exceptional lighting, use of shadows, color, and use of reflections and glass to illuminate the mysterious aspects of the film. If 70’s cinema means anything to you, this film is required viewing. 

Alan J. Pakula
United States
1971
Spine #987
Available on Blu-Ray and DVD

Hedwig As You’ve Never Seen Her Before

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The new Criterion Collection reissue of Hedwig And The Angry Inch brings us the ultimate version of a classic film about love, gender, and rock n’ roll.

There are two sides to every story. Maybe not so coincidentally, there are two sides to every person. 

Somewhere between Michael Fassbinder and Todd Haynes, fist-pumping and strutting in magnificent wigs and gender-bending till morning, is the pulsating and emotionally decadent Hedwig and the Angry Inch. 

Born out of a D.I.Y. punk aesthetic from its original off-Broadway stage production, the film follows wannabe rock star Hedwig (John Cameron Mitchell) in her journey to follow her former protégé/boyfriend teenage Tommy Gnosis (Michael Pitt). According to Hedwig, Tommy stole the songs they wrote together. Then he became something of a cultural music phenomenon, performing in massive arenas while poor Hedwig was left totally high and dry.

Tommy’s popularity has made him a bona fide rock star to the fullest extent, the voice of a generation, so much so that now the tabloids have caught wind of the two’s previous relationship and feel that Hedwig’s accusations of theft are headline-worthy. 

The band supporting the downtrodden but ever persistent and optimistic Hedwig is “The Angry Inch,” who tour from town to town in seedy suburban, wood-paneled chain seafood joints in hopes of catching on, tearing up the stage (it’s not really a stage) as disinterested and/or angry customers load up plates from the salad bar. It really is a sight to behold such rich pageantry.

As the film proceeds, we experience Hedwig’s act, in which she sings and regales her audiences with flashbacks to the cruel twists and turns from her past. These darkly humorous tales, told through song and monologue, not only inspire and define her work but illustrate Hedwig’s anguish and her existential search for her one true love — her other half, as the film’s centerpiece song, “The Origin Of Love,” would have it. 

We quickly learn that Tommy is not, in fact, the first man to betray our dear Hedwig. Growing up in East Germany as an attention-deprived “girly boy” named Hansel Schmidt, she/he found salvation through rock and roll — David Bowie, Lou Reed, and even the deceptively Canadian Anne Murray. The Berlin Wall was erected the year Hansel was born, and he too found himself disaffected, in a world literally divided into two, with seemingly nowhere to go.

The young Hansel was largely ignored and neglected by his parents until eventually encountering an American soldier (while sleeping in a bombed-out crater, no less) who Hansel quickly falls for. However, this only lasts until a botched back alley sex-change operation, intended to create the opportunity for Hansel, who is now known as Hedwig, and the soldier to marry and return to the United States. The result of the surgery is a scarred one-inch mound between her legs — the original “angry inch” of the film’s title. Worse, this entire experience is soon revealed to be a ruse — the soldier quickly finds another man, and abandons the dazed and confused Hedwig posthaste.

Now divorced, Hedwig finds that she is alone in America. She begins to perform live songs with an all-Korean backing band while doing babysitting gigs and various odd jobs to make ends meet. It is at this point that she meets a sullen, confused, Christian teenager named Tommy, who is immediacy infatuated with her. The two fall for each other and Hedwig teaches Tommy “rock history, lyrics, grooming, and vocal training;” all very essential for future stardom.

However, once Tommy learns about Hedwig’s inch, he flees the relationship with their songs. While a personal vendetta seemingly fuels Hedwig’s dreams for stardom and validation, it’s heartache that inspires Hedwig’s music, which ultimately allows the film to speak convincingly to outsiders and the marginalized. 

While box office success eluded Hedwig in its time, it still radiates as a vivaciously funny, amusingly tragic, and acerbically glammed-out rock musical with sonic blasts of energy. A major advantage of bringing Hedwig, originally a stage play, to screen is the showcase it allows for Mitchell, who co-wrote and starred in the stage play and now directs the film version while reprising his original role as Hedwig. Frequent use of close-ups allows for his face to convey the film’s emotional narrative, allowing the audience to key in on Hedwig’s underlying exhaustion and loneliness when her hair and make-up are down.

For all of Hedwig’s talk about finding “her other half,” you might wonder if Tommy and Hedwig are actually one and the same. The film’s mostly metaphorical ending is somewhat ambiguous, and have left many speculating on this theory. Regardless, nearly two decades after its release, there is little wonder why the production and the film have lived on and become cult favorites. In an era when questions of gender identity and civil rights for trans and non-binary people are at the forefront, Hedwig feels more modern than ever. But the film’s endurance goes beyond LGBTQ issues; Hedwig is a wonderfully crafted androgynous hero (lovingly flawed) who fights to be heard and loved. And really, who doesn’t identify with that?

Hedwig and the Angry Inch comes to the Criterion Collection for the first time on Blu-Ray with a considerable 4K digital restoration upgrade supervised by director John Cameron Mitchell and cinematographer Frank G. DeMarco. The sound has also been given a considerable boost, with a 5.1 surround DTS-HD audio upgrade. So you can donate your old DVD copy (with the horrendous cover) and experience the film in a splendid overhaul.

The supplemental material has also been stacked with a bevy of special features, including an audio commentary from Mitchell and DeMarco recorded in 2001, an intensive new conversation with the cast and crew, a conversation with rock critic David Fricke and composer and actor Stephen Trask on the film’s soundtrack, a 2003 documentary on the making of the film, a Sundance Channel Close Look at the creation of the Adam and Eve sequence, an examination of Hedwig’s creation, look, and legacy through its memorabilia, deleted scenes featuring Mitchell and DeMarco proving additional commentary, and the film’s trailer.

To round it off is a book included featuring production photos with an essay by writer Stephanie Zacharek along with portraits by photographer Mick Rock, illustrations by animator Emily Hubley, and even excerpts of texts (Plato’s “Symposium” and “The Gospel of Thomas”) that inspired the film. It really feels like the complete package, and if you are already a Hedwig convert, this is the ultimate version of the film.

John Cameron Mitchell
United States
2001
Spine #982
Available on Blu-Ray and DVD

Harold Lloyd’s The Kid Brother: More Than Just Slapstick

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The Criterion Collection edition of silent-era comic Harold Lloyd’s classic film, The Kid Brother, proves that Lloyd could absolutely stand alongside his more well-remembered peers, Chaplin and Keaton.

Few silent-era comedy personas could top the legendary career that was Harold Lloyd’s. There were, of course, Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin, both pioneers and premier artists of their day, but somewhat lesser-known today is Harold Lloyd, often designated to be the third in line to his seemingly untoppable peers. In some ways, the retrospective comparison of Lloyd as the overlooked brother reverberates in his 1927 classic, The Kid Brother.

Mostly directed by Ted Wilde (also partially by J.A. Howe and Lloyd himself), The Kid Brother follows the familiar formula in many of Lloyd’s features from this era; his patented “glasses character” must not only prove himself worthy of his social and familial standing, but also brave his way through an adventure for his newfound sweetheart. The Kid Brother is a spirited saga of one Harold Hickory (Lloyd, of course), seemingly a hick with no real authority, who must prove himself equal to his big, virile brothers and his sheriff father, who see Harold as more of a homebody than a robust, manly man. Harold, presented here as seemingly small and gentile, has indisputable wits about him.

Through some charming vignettes and set-pieces, Harold presents clever ways of outsmarting his chasers, doing his household chores, and even featuring an unusual churn plunger and a pulley system for doing dishwashing, drying, and stacking all at once. Harold routinely uses his brains to outwit those around him (brothers included) and often looks the better for it. But still, his father and brothers still consider him to be merely a boy (one that looks about 30).

It isn’t until a medicine show featuring the huckster Flash (Eddie Boland) and roundabout Sandoni (Constantine Romanoff), rolls into town that a downtrodden Harold comes across a dark-eyed beauty named Mary Powers (Jobyna Ralston), the medicine show’s recently orphaned proprietress.

With stick in hand, Harold and Mary have a meet-cute and immediately get to know one another. When the brutish Sandoni comes looking for the seemingly angelic Mary, Harold defends her honor by picking up a stick that, unbeknownst to Harold, has a snake coiled around it. Sandoni flees in terror, leaving Harold with lifted spirits, feeling more macho than ever. Mary must return to her job, but they shall meet again, and Harold intends to properly win her over. While The Kid Brother does contain a heavy dose of romance and sentimentality, it’s still a quick comedy first and foremost. As swiftly as the romance plot is introduced, Harold springs into action and the comedy escalates.

After a series of events, the money for a dam construction project that was being kept at the Hickory cabin goes missing. It is up to Harold to find out who took it (spoiler: Flash & Sandoni) and how to get it back. Only Mary believes he is capable saving his family’s good name, but she is soon taken by a rival suitor, and Harold is literally sent down the river unconscious. Eventually Harold winds up on the Black Ghost ship, and finds the former medicine show hucksters counting the money. A thrilling game of cat and mouse (involving a monkey no less) ensues, and Lloyd eventually wins out, satisfyingly saving the day.

It would be easy to write off Lloyd’s somewhat minimal story of an overlooked younger brother as a simple frame for his typical slapstick comedy of mechanical pratfalls, stunts, and gags. That conclusion would not be entirely wrong, but the willowy framework used here is an example of a strong narrative, built around and improved from simplicity in a charming manner. Everybody loves an underdog, and Harold’s rise and determination are rather infectious. It is also worth noting that, if Lloyd fails in his quest to be taken seriously, his father might be wrongly lynched, creating a rather compelling incentive and tension.

While this specific search for validity through masculinity and agency was nothing particularly new by this point, it does provide an intriguing formula for romantic conquest and creates a somewhat more compounded character. Lloyd ultimately finds triumph when given the proper motivation from the woman he is attempting to woo, and thus pivots from her sensitivity and infatuation. The film takes a delicate tone when it comes to the romantic facets of the story; it is perhaps the sweetest in Lloyd’s filmography. It is also Lloyd’s strength as a leading man that can showcase his many talents as not just a comedic actor but one able to create depth for a character between the silly and serious circumstances he continuously finds himself in.

This is the fourth Criterion Collection release starring Harold Lloyd, and it further showcases the silent-era comedic masterpieces he was known for. The Kid Brother was Lloyd’s personal favorite of his own work, and it hopefully will help gain him a new audience, as it has not only held up, but stands as a great example of how beautiful and mesmerizing these films can be.

This release sees a new 4K digital restoration, along with an orchestral score by composer Carl Davis from 1989, with the archival organ score performed by Gaylord Carter. The archival one may be slightly preferred over the newer one, as it fits the look of the film better, but both are great. A big asset is the active and very informative commentary, featuring filmmaker and Harold Lloyd archivist Richard Correll, film historian Annette D’Agostino Lloyd, and Harold Lloyd’s own granddaughter Suzanne Lloyd. “Harold’s Leading Ladies,” a new conversation between author Cari Beauchamp and Suzanne Lloyd, discusses the three main leading ladies in Lloyd’s silent-era work and how they differ. Also included is “Anatomy of a Gag: Monkeyshoes,” a new video essay by critic and filmmaker David Cairns on how Lloyd constructs his visual jokes.

If that is not enough, there’s a behind-the-scenes stills gallery curated by Harold Lloyd archivist Richard Simonton Jr; “Close to Home,” a new video essay on the film’s shooting locations by author John Bengtson; a Dutch TV interview with Lloyd from 1962; and a featurette from 2005 about Greenacres, Lloyd’s estate, hosted by Suzanne Lloyd. Also included are two rare restored early Lloyd shorts, a new Wurlitzer theater pipe organ score, and a discussion of early film formats by archivist Dino Everett, along with a new tour of the Wurlitzer organ with composer Nathan Barr and organist Mark Herman. Offering more insight into the film’s themes and production is an essay by critic Carrie Rickey. Criterion’s release of The Kid Brother is an impressive package, essential for any Lloyd enthusiast or anyone interested in silent-era comedy.

Ted Wilde
1927
United States
Spine #964
Available on DVD, Blu-Ray, and The Criterion Channel

Reckoning With Elaine May’s Study In Male Discomfort, Mikey And Nicky

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The excesses and studio battles around May’s third film ultimately derailed her directing career, but the film’s heart is its penetrating look at the actions of desperate men.

While already an established comedian, writer, and actress by the mid-1970s, Elaine May was still a rising director, gaining fame for her ability to present unlikable men in complicated situations, and understand what exactly makes them tick. May was simultaneously capable of getting a laugh (usually a nervous one) and creating a bold, nuanced take on the dark side of man.

In fact, May might be one of the most overlooked directors of the 1970s. Beginning her directing career with the one-two punch of 1971’s A New Leaf (a film revolving around a man trying to kill his new wife for the insurance money) and 1972’s The Heartbreak Kid (in which a Jewish man starts pining for a gorgeous not-so-Jewish blonde while on his honeymoon), May seemed poised to be another ambitious voice in 70s cinema, at a time when the New Hollywood movement was gathering steam. However, her directing career eventually became a forbidding cautionary tale of what happens to female directors who become “too difficult.”  

May’s third film, Mikey and Nicky, is less a crime film and more of hideout film. John Cassavetes perfectly plays Mikey, a terrified gangster who is at the end of his rope. He is emotionally shattered, anxious, and paranoid that there’s been a hit called on him. He can’t be certain who to turn to. The only man he does seem to trust is an old compadre, Nicky (Peter Falk), who he has not been too close with in recent years, but is his oldest friend.  

The film takes place over the course of one desperate night. During that night, it’s up to Nicky to help Mikey get out of town before something bad happens. Seeing the two interact with one another, unable to fully commit to any particular mood, is rather enthralling, and brings a live-wire performance out of Falk and Cassavetes. The two characters have known each other since childhood, and have the baggage to prove it. Mikey’s mood swings lead them to some strange places: hotels, bars, buses, and even cemeteries. As the clock winds down, an ordinary-as-they-come assassin, played by Ned Beatty, is hot on Nicky’s trail.

May’s reverence for comedic and dark themes perfectly transitions into Mikey and Nicky, but there’s a newfound despair at play here that hasn’t been felt overtly in her previous work. Perhaps the most uncomfortable scene finds Nicky joining his emotionally frayed girlfriend in her apartment. First, he tells her he loves her, then tries to give her to Mikey as a kindly gesture. Mikey might be slightly more mature and grounded in his demeanor, but he is really no better or wiser; he falls for the setup. The encounter ends soon with a slap in the face, which provokes the two men to storm out, angry at one another for the disaster that has occurred.

These scenes are profoundly uncomfortable, and provide telling evidence of the way both men operate, with one another and within their own egos. These are men ultimately defined by their own greed and desperation.

May was only the third female director to release a film through the major studio system in the sound era; a fact that is as sad as it is impressive. Cassavetes’ attachment to the project isn’t a surprise — Mikey and Nicky feels like a film he himself would direct and cast himself in. By this time, he was already known for making raw, gritty films that lacked polish in favor for intense performances by unorthodox actors. The voyeuristic appeal of these films, and the “off the grid” way they were produced, were not usually tolerated by the studio system. Indeed, during the production of Mikey and Nicky, Paramount Pictures was worried that the film was going over budget (it did) and becoming too unpolished to be commercially viable (it was not).

May’s tumultuous relationship with the studios soured her promising start; Mikey and Nicky would be her last film for over a decade, until she was given another chance at the behest of Warren Beatty to helm what became a much more infamous bomb: Ishtar. That film reportedly cost Sony a small fortune; it was derided almost unanimously by critics upon its release, and became a synonym for a mess of a film. May’s productions were often fraught with creative differences, and frequently going over budget.

Mikey and Nicky was no exception. Reportedly May shot three times as much footage for the film as was standard even for epic films like Gone With The Wind. She would often leave cameras rolling when actors weren’t present, and would hide shot footage from Paramount to maintain creative control of her work. These events eventually put her in director’s jail, but she did find success writing scripts, and even received Oscar nominations for writing The Birdcage and Primary Colors. Given the way films are made now and the type of films that thrive in a world dominated by quasi-indie films made by big companies, May was sadly ahead of her time.

Mikey and Nicky makes its way to the Criterion Collection through a 4k digital blu-ray presentation, supervised by director Elaine May, along with an uncompressed monaural soundtrack. The film has never had a blu-ray release, so this is a considerable upgrade.

Supplements included are: a new making-of-the-film program featuring interviews with distributor Julian Schlossberg and actor Joyce Van Patten, a new interview with critics Richard Brody and Carrie Rickey, and an audio interview with Peter Falk from 1976, along with a trailer and TV spot. Author and critic Nathan Rabin contributes the essay. Rabin is a fantastic writer and clearly has enormous respect and enthusiasm for May’s work, giving much insight into her career.

May herself is absent in just about all of the supplementary material, and that’s a shame, if predictable; she’s notoriously private. However, the material presented is decent enough, and the film’s presentation is better than ever before.

Elaine May
1976
United States
Spine #957
Available on DVD & Blu-Ray

Criterion’s Reissue Of A Dry White Season Lends New Power To Apartheid Resistance Classic

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The opening shot of Euzhan Palcy’s 1989 film, A Dry White Season, in a bright sunburst gleam and green grass, depicts two young South African boys, one white and another black, playing soccer and laughing in warm, idyllic harmony.

This particular scene, as upfront as an opening shot can be, was absent in the film’s original script, but it offers a direct message about segregation to the audience early on. Palcy’s upfront imagery drives the powerful argument that racial harmony is not only simple and beautiful, but even natural. This uncorrupted image exists as a direct contrast to way the film reveals the oppression of South Africa’s black majority, and an indictment of the white apathy surrounding it.

Set in South Africa in 1976, a year in which the country’s apartheid regime faced mounting protests, the film stars Donald Sutherland as Ben du Toit, a good-natured history teacher who is ironically unaware of the current events surrounding his community, and the mistreatment of those not in his classroom. Ben’s middle-class life is quite peaceful; he has a comfortable existence, a wife, two children — a typical life for an educated white man. He is also warmly drawn to his black gardener, Gordon (Winston Ntshona), who he tells to call him “Mr. Ben” in a most affable way.

While things seem ideal for Ben, Gordon’s son Jonathan is reprimanded by the state for a peaceful protest and is severely punished. Gordon, horrified by Jonathan’s wounds and fearing this incident might lead to further targeting, brings his son to see Ben and ask what can be done. Having seen the bloody cane lashes on the boy’s backside, Ben naively concludes that Gordon’s son must have done something to warrant such a severe punishment. Since Ben is resistant to intervene, Gordon concedes and leaves.

While Ben’s wife, Susan (Janet Suzman), matter-of-factly assures Ben that the young boy “…probably deserved it,” the experience stirs unwelcome concern inside of Ben, leading him to doubt his own conclusion.

Things get worse quickly when Jonathan is killed by police. Eventually, while trying to find the whereabouts of his son’s body, Gordon is arrested and jailed for conspiracy. Ben initially sees it as an odd if unfortunate outcome for a man he considered to be quite likable. Things become even more serious when Gordon is tortured and murdered while in custody on these dubious charges. Gordon’s mysterious death, labeled a “suicide,” shocks Ben as he realizes that the police and the powers that be are in fact corrupt, and will do anything to maintain the status quo. This final straw is frustratingly slow to arrive.

And so, Ben seeks justice and answers for his murdered friend in the only way he knows how; through the law. Season then follows Ben’s trials and tribulations as he becomes a political annoyance, undermining the powers that be. Ben approaches a human rights lawyer, Ian McKenzie (Marlon Brando, with his first role in about a decade), who warns him that his efforts are likely futile and would never stand with an apartheid judge. The film then becomes a mini-courtroom drama, McKenzie presents a case arguing that the government has done wrong.

While the case for foul play is strong, the system ultimately denies any acknowledgement of misconduct. In defeat, Ben befriends Melanie Bruwer (Susan Sarandon), a worldly reporter interested in the case, who leads Ben to further examine the injustice in his own society. After all, this is not a new problem.

This attempt to undermine the system is the beginning of the end for Ben, who is under excess pressure and scrutiny from his family (apart from his faithful son), his job, and his community to withdraw this cause and resume his business as usual. The cost of allyship is a fraught one, and unfortunately Ben is made an example, showing that even the most reasonable person can have blind spots.

Season was adapted from a novel of the same name by André Brink, which was released in 1979 and quickly banned by the South African government, due to its condemnation of the apartheid state. The message in film remains faithful, and is still sadly relevant.

While it is a studio picture, released by MGM/UA, the film was only a minor success commercially. However, it did earn Brando an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor, and garnered some strong reviews from critics, including an enthusiastic perfect score from Roger Ebert. Ebert felt the film was not only important but highlighted a range of depth and emotional nuance largely not presented for western audiences. He is completely right in that regard; American cinema is still pretty homogenous in its scope of world issues.

A Dry White Season comes to the Criterion Collection in a director-approved Blu-ray and DVD, complete with a digital 4K transfer upgrade and an uncompressed soundtrack. In terms of supplemental material, Season is packed, and surprisingly dense for a film that was somewhat overlooked at the time of its release. Included is a new interview with Palcy by film critic Scott Foundas, a feature with Palcy discussing five scenes in particular, a 1995 interview with Palcy and Nelson Mandela, a 1989 interview with Donald Sutherland from The Today Show, and a snippet of the 2017 South African National Orders awards, where Palcy receives the highest distinction given to foreign dignitaries. Also included is an essay from by filmmaker and scholar Jyoti Mistry. All in all, it’s hard to ask for a more complete package. It does a wonderful job of contextualizing Palcy as filmmaker, as well as the film’s compelling indictment of South Africa’s racist apartheid-era regime.

A Dry White Season
Euzhan Palcy
United States
Spine #953
Available on Blu-Ray and DVD

Hubris, Hedonism, and Hair: Warren Beatty’s Shampoo (1975)

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Directed by Hal Ashby (Being There, Harold & Maude), 1975’s Shampoo is a multifaceted comical look at sex, politics, gender, and well, hair.

Set on the day that Richard Nixon won the 1968 presidential election, Shampoo stars Warren Beatty as George Roundy, a handsome lothario and hairdresser from Los Angeles who aspires to one day open his own shop and be in charge. With his rock-star swagger, rippin’ motorcycle, and bouffant hair, it’s hard to take Roundy seriously, despite his actual talent and charisma. Having been rejected for a loan and feeling lost in his life, Roundy is more vulnerable than the women he routinely services in his salon… and in their beds.

We learn that Roundy is simultaneously sleeping with his ex-girlfriend, Jackie (Julie Christie), and her best friend Jill, his current girlfriend (Goldie Hawn). He juggles his sordid bedroom escapades while also trying to get a loan from a prominent businessman, Lester (Jack Warden), despite the fact that he is also sleeping with Lester’s wife, Felicia (Lee Grant). Lester is an older conservative, and just assumes Roundy is gay. After all, he is a hairdresser.

Lester asks Roundy to accompany Jackie to a Republican soiree that night. The night does not go as planned, and things soon turn out worse for Roundy, who finds he is still in love with his ex-girlfriend and may have ruined his only shot of appeasing, well, anyone. It is a screwball comedy seemingly where everyone is getting screwed one way or another.

Beatty offers a complex and compelling character study in Roundy, who seemingly can never give a definitive answer, nor turn down an attractive client’s advances. It is hard to sympathize for him even as a quasi-tragic character, as he’s seemingly talented, beautiful, and wooing women left and right with little to no effort. He is essentially an artist with no capability to go anywhere. Roundy’s profound indulgences offer him no real insight or understanding of his relationships. Ultimately, they bring about his own personal and professional undoing. The film showcases Roundy’s lack of focus, vanity, and callousness continuously, conveying these things without much preaching against Roundy’s objectionable behavior.

Some aspects of Beatty’s character may stem from Beatty’s own reputation around Hollywood at the time as a libertine. Casting his ex-girlfriends in Shampoo is pretty meta, and adds to the hubris of his character for those in the know. The sexual minutiae of the film remain provocative and engrossing today. Carrie Fisher’s debut role in the film is also noteworthy; she plays Felicia’s young daughter, who quizzes Roundy on his practice and his heterosexuality before eventually seducing him. The sexual politics of these scenes are not about exactly about titillation, or a lack of moral fiber, but rather about self-absorption, and how clueless the characters are in their actions and search for satisfaction.

Shampoo articulates a specific lack of understanding of oneself and one’s own desires so well that it feels worth the truly-earned bummer ending. As the film ends, our hero seemingly has lost everything he holds dear. Roundy realizes his opportunity for real romantic connection may be gone, and he is now adrift in the wake of his own carelessness. His ending mirrors the way Nixon’s presidency, still to come on the day the film takes place, will eventually go down in flames and bring about uncertainty in turbulent times. Roundy’s comeuppance is well deserved, as is ours, as the political separations and extreme economic inequality of Nixon’s era have never been resolved and still linger today.

The film’s long gestation in pre-production, which Beatty began in the late 60s, was worth it; Shampoo was a massive hit, making 60 million on a modest 4 million dollar budget, and landed Lee Grant a Best Supporting Actress Oscar, among other nominations for the cast. Its reputation has dimmed in the following decades, however; in Hollywood, aging can be a tricky thing. Shampoo is not as provocative as it once was, and its political undertones are somewhat less novel than they were at the time. They seem almost quaint in light of the way the political landscape has mutated. That said, the film does offer some great acting and compelling insight into a transitional period in American history.

Shampoo comes to the Criterion Collection in a wonderful 4K digital restoration with an uncompressed monaural soundtrack exclusive to the Blu-ray. The amount of supplements is a little low, but what’s there is good. The best is a new 30-minute conversation between critics Mark Harris and Frank Rich, who discuss the film’s various topical points and background. Rich also contributes an essay on the film. Also included is an excerpt from a 1998 appearance by Beatty on The South Bank Show, which gives some insight on the star, producer, and co-writer of the film.

That’s really all we get, though, and it’s a shame, since a lot of principal players are still around and would have made for some interesting interviews.  While the extras are nothing to write home about, the transfer does look great and really upgrades the film’s look. The film feels shiny and sunny during the day, cool and sexy at night, which informs the L.A. setting perfectly. The bright colors are rich and robust here, complementing the film’s sense of fading idealism from a bygone era.

Shampoo (1975)
Hal Ashby
United States
Spine #947
Available on DVD, Blu-Ray, and Itunes