Though there are 1.33:1 versions available, this director approved Criterion DVD beautifully presents Time Bandits in the film's intended 1:85:1 theatrical ratio. Time Bandits was originally shot full screen (aspect ratio 1.33:1) with the intention of it being cropped to fit a widescreen format. Though non-anamorphic, Time Bandits looks very crisp with well-balanced colors and nice contrasts. The Dolby Digital 2.0 Surround audio sounds very acceptable with no obvious flaws. With regards to extras, there is a "hands-off" Time Bandits scrapbook that is fairly interesting. But what really sets this DVD apart is the stellar audio commentary by director Terry Gilliam, cowriter/actor Michael Palin, and actors John Cleese, David Warner, and Craig Warnock ("Kevin"). Gilliam and Warnock provide most of the commentary providing interesting anecdotes and amusing tales of behind-the-scenes shenanigans. These detailed tidbits of information are a "must have" for fans. —Rob Bracco

Returning to the sketch-show format of their earlier days, Monty Python' s The Meaning of Life was always going to feel less ambitious and less coherent than their cinematic masterpiece, The Life of Brian. And inevitably given the format, some sketches are better than others. But, for a movie that has been much-maligned, The Meaning of Life actually features some of the Pythons' most memorable set-pieces: the exploding Mr Creosote has to be the most wonderfully grotesque creation of a team whose speciality was the grotesque; while the sublime "Sperm Song" mixes satire and lavish visual humour in a musical skit of breathtaking audacity. Elsewhere, Eric Idle produces another musical gem with "The Universe Song" ("Pray that there's intelligent life somewhere out in space / 'Cause there's bugger all down here on earth!"), while the Grim Reaper's appearance at an achingly tedious dinner party is the Pythons doing what they do best: mocking their own middle-class origins. Best of all, perhaps, is Terry Gilliam's modest introductory feature, "The Crimson Permanent Assurance", a 20-minute epic tale of the little men rebelling against the corporate system, a theme and a visual style that foreshadows his own masterwork, Brazil. Admittedly too many sketches sacrifice subtlety for shock tactics (the organ donation scene in particular requires a strong stomach), but when this film works it's nothing less than vintage Python. —Mark Walker

The last volume of the first season of Monty Python's Flying Circus packs the final four gag-filled episodes on one DVD. The aptly named "Untitled" is a disappointing episode in comparison to the others in this volume. In the show's highlights, Terry Jones attempts to enter the record books by leaping across the English Channel and eating a cathedral while a chartered accountant tries to get a job as a lion tamer (but only the short, squat kind with a big nose that eats ants). In the most inspired bit, a trio of interviewers attempts to open up hiring procedures for libraries by hiring only animals. While it offers its share of bizarre moments and hilarious humor, this is one instance in which the ideas are simply funnier than the execution. Episode 11, "The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra Goes to the Bathroom," features an Agatha Christie detective parody in which reenactments of the murder lead to a heaping pile of dead detectives, the recurring Dying Pallbearers skit, a man who hypnotizes bricks, and Mrs. Rita Fairbanks and the Townswomen's Guild's reenactment of The Battle of Pearl Harbor. Episode 12, "The Naked Ant," is highlighted by one of their funniest sketches ever: The Upper Class Twit of the Year competition, Python's thumb in the nose at boorish yuppies. Other skits include a politician who falls through the earth's crust while making a party political speech, the rise of the Bocialist party leader Mr. Hilter (who, he insists, was never in Germany), and businessmen leaping out of office-building windows. The final episode of the season, "Intermission," features the first reference to the ever-popular Python cry "Albatross." Other bits include Cardinal Richelieu's dead-on impersonation of Petula Clark, a little boy confessing he'd like Raquel Welch dropped on top of him ("She's got a big bottom," adds his buddy), and a Special Crimes Squad that fights crime with voodoo, magic wands, and Ouija boards. Though these final episodes aren't as consistent or smooth as the midseason classics, they are full of inspired moments and infected with a brand of nonsensical comic absurdity that we've come to know and love. —Sean Axmaker

"Blessed are the cheesemakers," a wise man once said. Or maybe not. But the point is Monty Python's Life of Brian is a religious satire that does not target specific religions or religious leaders (like, say, Jesus of Nazareth). Instead, it pokes fun at the mindless and fanatical among their followers—it's an attack on religious zealotry and hypocrisy—things that that fellow from Nazareth didn't particularly care for either. Nevertheless, at the time of its release in 1979, those who hadn't seen it considered it to be quite "controversial."

Life of Brian, you see, is about a chap named Brian (Graham Chapman) born December 25 in a hovel not far from a soon-to-be-famous Bethlehem manger. Brian is mistaken for the messiah and, therefore, manipulated, abused, and exploited by various religious and political factions. And it's really, really funny. Particularly memorable bits include the brassy Shirley Bassey/James Bond-like title song; the bitter rivalry between the anti-Roman resistance groups, the Judean People's Front and the People's Front of Judea; Michael Palin's turn as a lisping, risible Pontius Pilate; Brian urging a throng of false-idol worshippers to think for themselves—to which they reply en masse "Yes, we must think for ourselves!"; the fact that everything Brian does, including losing his sandal in an attempt to flee these wackos, is interpreted as "a sign." Life of Brian is not only one of Monty Python's funniest achievements, it's also the group's sharpest and smartest sustained satire. Blessed are the Pythons. —Jim Emerson

Could this be the funniest movie ever made? By any rational measure of comedy, this medieval romp from the Monty Python troupe certainly belongs on the short list of candidates. According to Leonard Maltin's Movie & Video Guide, it's "recommended for fans only," but we say hogwash to that—you could be a complete newcomer to the Python phenomenon and still find this send-up of the Arthurian legend to be wet-your-pants hilarious. It's basically a series of sketches woven together as King Arthur's quest for the Holy Grail, with Graham Chapman as the King, Terry Gilliam as his simpleton sidekick Patsy, and the rest of the Python gang filling out a variety of outrageous roles. The comedy highlights are too numerous to mention, but once you've seen Arthur's outrageously bloody encounter with the ominous Black Knight (John Cleese), you'll know that nothing's sacred in the Python school of comedy. From holy hand grenades to killer bunnies to the absurdity of the three-headed knights who say "Ni—!," this is the kind of movie that will strike you as fantastically funny or just plain silly, but why stop there? It's all over the map, and the pace lags a bit here and there, but for every throwaway gag the Pythons have invented, there's a bit of subtle business or grand-scale insanity that's utterly inspired. The sum of this madness is a movie that's beloved by anyone with a pulse and an irreverent sense of humor. If this movie doesn't make you laugh, you're almost certainly dead. —Jeff Shannon

It was inevitable that Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut would be the most misunderstood film of 1999. Kubrick died four months prior to its release, and there was no end to speculation how much he would have tinkered with the picture, changed it, "fixed" it. We'll never know. But even without the haunting enigma of the director's death—and its eerie echo/anticipation in the scene when Dr. Bill Harford (Tom Cruise) visits the deathbed of one of his patients—Eyes Wide Shut would have perplexed and polarized viewers and reviewers. After all, virtually every movie of Kubrick's post-U.S. career had; only 1964's Dr. Strangelove opened to something approaching consensus. Quite apart from the author's tinkering, Kubrick's movies themselves always seemed to change—partly because they changed us, changed the world and the ways we experienced and understood it. And we may expect Eyes Wide Shut to do the same. Unlike Kubrick himself, it has time.

So consider, as we settle in to live with this long, advisedly slow, mesmerizing film, how challenging and ambiguous its narrative strategy is. The source is an Arthur Schnitzler novella titled Traumnovelle (or "Dream Story"), and it's a moot question how much of Eyes Wide Shut itself is dream, from the blue shadows frosting the Harfords' bedroom to the backstage replica of New York's Greenwich Village that Kubrick built in England. Its major movement is an imaginative night-journey (even the daylight parts of it) taken by a man reeling from his wife's teasing confession of fantasized infidelity, and toward the end there is a token gesture of the couple waking to reality and, perhaps, a new, chastened maturity. Yet on some level—visually, psychologically, logically—every scene shimmers with unreality. Is everything in the movie a dream? And if so, who is dreaming it at any given moment, and why?

Don't settle for easy answers. Kubrick's ultimate odyssey beckons. And now the dream is yours. —Richard T. Jameson

Monty Python's Terry Gilliam (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas) directs this wild, wild version of the stories of Baron Munchausen, pushing the limits of 1989 special effects technology to bring us such sights as a horse divided in half and running around in two parts, and a giant Robin Williams with his head flying off his shoulders. Basically, this is a treat for Gilliam fans, as the sustaining idea of the film runs out of steam, and manic energy alone keeps the momentum going. Casual viewers might find it tedious after awhile. There are nice parts for fellow Python Eric Idle, as well as Sting, Alison Steadman, and Uma Thurman as a dazzlingly beautiful Venus on a half-shell. Gilliam had greater artistic and commercial success with Brazil, The Fisher King and 12 Monkeys. —Tom Keogh

Although this DVD is wrapped in the handsome packaging of the "Vista Series," the extras here are minimal. The first disc has no extras but is packed with four separate Dolby Digital 5.1 tracks and is THX certified. The second disc holds four features, including a standard making-of featurette (15 minutes long) and a nifty segment that allows viewers to compare the storyboards to the final film and separate the music and sound effects in the train station sequence. More satisfying is the 20-minute short on the state of comic books, featuring revealing comments from critics and authors including Frank Miller (of the touchstone Dark Knight series). Seven deleted scenes are introduced by the director, and while none is significant to the plot, they are all must-see for fans of the film. Though this first installment of the Vista Series may deliver less than viewers might expect, the exquisite attention to design promises big things from future endeavors. —Doug Thomas

All films take a certain suspension of disbelief. Fight Club takes perhaps more than others, but if you're willing to let yourself get caught up in the anarchy, this film, based on the novel by Chuck Palahniuk, is a modern-day morality play warning of the decay of society. Edward Norton is the unnamed protagonist, a man going through life on cruise control, feeling nothing. To fill his hours, he begins attending support groups and 12-step meetings. True, he isn't actually afflicted with the problems, but he finds solace in the groups. This is destroyed, however, when he meets Marla (Helena Bonham Carter), also faking her way through groups. Spiraling back into insomnia, Norton finds his life is changed once again, by a chance encounter with Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), whose forthright style and no-nonsense way of taking what he wants appeal to our narrator. Tyler and the protagonist find a new way to feel release: they fight. They fight each other, and then as others are attracted to their ways, they fight the men who come to join their newly formed Fight Club. Marla begins a destructive affair with Tyler, and things fly out of control, as Fight Club grows into a nationwide fascist group that escapes the protagonist's control.

Fight Club, directed by David Fincher (Seven), is not for the faint of heart; the violence is no holds barred. But the film is captivating and beautifully shot, with some thought-provoking ideas. Pitt and Norton are an unbeatable duo, and the film has some surprisingly humorous moments. The film leaves you with a sense of profound discomfort and a desire to see it again, if for no other reason than to just to take it all in. —Jenny Brown

If Franz Kafka had been an animator and film director—oh, and a member of Monty Python's Flying Circus—this is the sort of outrageously dystopian satire one could easily imagine him making. However, Brazil was made by Terry Gilliam, who is all of the above except, of course, Franz Kafka. Be that as it may, Gilliam sure captures the paranoid-subversive spirit of Kafka's The Trial (along with his own Python animation) in this bureaucratic nightmare-comedy about a meek governmental clerk named Sam Lowry (Jonathan Pryce) whose life is destroyed by a simple bug. Not a software bug, a real bug (no doubt related to Kafka's famous Metamorphosis insect) that gets smooshed in a printer and causes a typographical error unjustly identifying an innocent citizen, one Mr. Buttle, as suspected terrorist Harry Tuttle (Robert De Niro). When Sam becomes enmeshed in unravelling this bureaucratic glitch, he himself winds up labelled as a miscreant.

The movie presents such an unrelentingly imaginative and savage vision of 20th-century bureaucracy that it almost became a victim of small-minded studio management itself—until Gilliam surreptitiously screened his cut for the Los Angeles Film Critics Association, who named it the best movie of 1985 and virtually embarrassed Universal into releasing it. —Jim Emerson