The two-disc edition of Sin City easily makes the earlier single-disc theatrical-cut release obsolete by including the regular theatrical cut on the first disc, recutting the movie into four extended segments on the second disc (separated by story line), then piling on an impressive load of bonus features. But there's a catch. Billed as "Recut, Extended, Unrated," with "over 20 minutes" of new footage, the new set's four separate stories are extended by only about 6.5 total minutes of movie action (see details below in "What's New"); the rest of the added running time is the splashy new title shots (named by the title of the story or book) and the four minutes of credits that run at the end of each segment. Each addition makes the movie even closer to the comic books, and these extended segments are generally preferable to the theatrical equivalents (unfortunately, there's no Play All option), but don't expect the same impact as Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings extended editions. And although this version is unrated, the only risqué addition is a bit of violence from Miho that's no worse than the rest of the crazy violence in the film.

How Are the Bonus Features?
Robert Rodriguez has always loved DVDs, so the bonus features are extensive. On the first disc, there is somehow room for the theatrical cut of the film with its DTS track (the extended versions have only Dolby 5.1), two commentary tracks, an alternate audio track with a live audience in Austin, Texas, an interactive map of characters and locations, and 47 minutes of featurettes covering Frank Miller, Quentin Tarantino, cars, costumes, props, and special effects. The first commentary is Rodriguez and Miller discussing the concepts and the cast. The second commentary is mostly by Rodriguez, but Tarantino drops in briefly for the scene he directed (with Clive Owen and Benicio Del Toro in the car), as does an enthusiastic Bruce Willis for his segment.

The Tarantino scene gets a lot of attention on the second disc as well, in a 14-minute take in which he can be heard coaching the actors. Also on the disc are Rodriguez's usual "flic school (among the topics is how scenes were created by merging footage of actors who never actually met), footage of Bruce Willis's band performing in Austin at the time of the shooting, and another Rodriguez cooking school (this time it's breakfast tacos). But the most interesting feature is the "green screen version" of the film: the entire film as it was shot in front of the green screen, sped up to play in only 12 minutes. You can see the actors (in color!) interacting only with the props and each other. Last, there's a DVD-sized complete comic book of The Hard Goodbye.

What's New in the Extended Version?
"The Customer Is Always Right" (the opening sequence with Josh Hartnett and Marley Shelton) has no new footage, but now goes straight into the one-minute epilogue with Hartnett and Alexis Bledel that closed the theatrical cut. "The Hard Goodbye" (with Mickey Rourke as "Marv" ) has two new sequences totaling about two minutes: Marv encounters his mother and finds his gun, and talks to Weevil in the club. In "The Big Fat Kill" (with Clive Owen and Benicio Del Toro), some short dialogue is restored, along with another wicked slice by Miho (Devon Aoki)—about a minute total. "That Yellow Bastard" (with Bruce Willis and Jessica Alba) has about 3.5 new minutes: there are more visitors to Hartigan's hospital bed, including his wife and a nurse; Carla Gugino's Lucille character comes to assist Hartigan when he wants to get out of jail (probably the best addition); and Mr. Shlubb and Mr. Klump have some more lines. —David Horiuchi

EDITOR'S NOTE: According to a Warner Home Video technician involved in the production of The Stanley Kubrick Collection, Kubrick authorized all aspects of the Collection, from the use of Digital Component Video (or "D-1") masters originally approved in 1989, to the use of minimalist screen menus, chapter stops, and (in the case of 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Shining on DVD) supplementary materials. Full-screen presentation of The Shining and Full Metal Jacket was also approved by Kubrick, who recomposed his original framing, reportedly believing that those films looked best on video in the full-screen format. (In fact, the original theatrical aspect ratio of The Shining was 1.66:1, meaning that a relatively small portion of the image is lost.) Kubrick also chose mono over stereo, believing that inconsistencies in theatrical sound systems resulted in loss of control over theatrical presentation. In every respect, the Warner spokesman said, the films in the Collection remain as Kubrick approved them. Any future attempt to remaster or alter them would have to be approved by an appointee of the Kubrick estate.

EDITOR'S NOTE: According to a Warner Home Video technician involved in the production of The Stanley Kubrick Collection, Kubrick authorized all aspects of the Collection, from the use of Digital Component Video (or "D-1") masters originally approved in 1989, to the use of minimalist screen menus, chapter stops, and (in the case of 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Shining on DVD) supplementary materials. Full-screen presentation of The Shining and Full Metal Jacket was also approved by Kubrick, who recomposed his original framing, reportedly believing that those films looked best on video in the full-screen format. (In fact, the original theatrical aspect ratio of The Shining was 1.66:1, meaning that a relatively small portion of the image is lost.) Kubrick also chose mono over stereo, believing that inconsistencies in theatrical sound systems resulted in loss of control over theatrical presentation. In every respect, the Warner spokesman said, the films in the Collection remain as Kubrick approved them. Any future attempt to remaster or alter them would have to be approved by an appointee of the Kubrick estate.

Stanley Kubrick's striking visual interpretation of Anthony Burgess's famous novel is a masterpiece. Malcolm McDowell delivers a clever, tongue-in-cheek performance as Alex, the leader of a quartet of droogs, a vicious group of young hoodlums who spend their nights stealing cars, fighting rival gangs, breaking into people's homes, and raping women. While other directors would simply exploit the violent elements of such a film without subtext, Kubrick maintains Burgess's dark, satirical social commentary. We watch Alex transform from a free-roaming miscreant into a convict used in a government experiment that attempts to reform criminals through an unorthodox new medical treatment. The catch, of course, is that this therapy may be nothing better than a quick cure-all for a society plagued by rampant crime. A Clockwork Orange works on many levels—visual, social, political, and sexual—and is one of the few films that hold up under repeated viewings. Kubrick not only presents colorfully arresting images, he also stylizes the film by utilizing classical music (and Wendy Carlos's electronic classical work) to underscore the violent scenes, which even today are disturbing in their display of sheer nihilism. Ironically, many fans of the film have missed that point, sadly being entertained by its brutality rather than being repulsed by it. —Bryan Reesman

This second DVD edition of Stanley Kubrick's film is anchored by two new documentaries. The 15-minute look at the early Kubrick is rushed and covers no new ground for fans. The 45-minute "Inside the Making of Dr. Strangelove" is more insightful despite having only a few players still alive in 2000 to talk about the production (including Kubrick's partner James B. Harris and actor James Earl Jones). The featurette does a good job of chronicling how a thriller about the end of the world became a comedy. Some publicity material has been added, including posters, the trippy trailer, and some oddly comical "fake" interviews with the two leads. —Doug Thomas

In 1975 the world was at Stanley Kubrick's feet. His films Dr. Strangelove, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and A Clockwork Orange, released in the previous dozen years, had provoked rapture and consternation—not merely in the film community, but in the culture at large. On the basis of that smashing hat trick, Kubrick was almost certainly the most famous film director of his generation, and absolutely the one most likely to rewire the collective mind of the movie audience. And what did this radical, at-least-20-years-ahead-of-his-time filmmaker give the world in 1975? A stately, three-hour costume drama based on an obscure Thackeray novel from 1844. A picaresque story about an Irish lad (Ryan O'Neal, then a major star) who climbs his way into high society, Barry Lyndon bewildered some critics (Pauline Kael called it "an ice-pack of a movie") and did only middling business with patient audiences. The film was clearly a technical advance, with its unique camerawork (incorporating the use of prototype Zeiss lenses capable of filming by actual candlelight) and sumptuous production design. But its hero is a distinctly underwhelming, even unsympathetic fellow, and Kubrick does not try to engage the audience's emotions in anything like the usual way.

Why, then, is Barry Lyndon a masterpiece? Because it uncannily captures the shape and rhythm of a human life in a way few other films have; because Kubrick's command of design and landscape is never decorative but always apiece with his hero's journey; and because every last detail counts. Even the film's chilly style is thawed by the warm narration of the great English actor Michael Hordern and the Irish songs of the Chieftains. Poor Barry's life doesn't matter much in the end, yet the care Kubrick brings to the telling of it is perhaps the director's most compassionate gesture toward that most peculiar species of animal called man. And the final, wry title card provides the perfect Kubrickian sendoff—a sentiment that is even more poignant since Kubrick's premature death. —Robert Horton

EDITOR'S NOTE: According to a Warner Home Video technician involved in the production of The Stanley Kubrick Collection, Kubrick authorized all aspects of the Collection, from the use of Digital Component Video (or "D-1") masters originally approved in 1989, to the use of minimalist screen menus, chapter stops, and (in the case of 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Shining on DVD) supplementary materials. Full-screen presentation of The Shining and Full Metal Jacket was also approved by Kubrick, who recomposed his original framing, reportedly believing that those films looked best on video in the full-screen format. (In fact, the original theatrical aspect ratio of The Shining was 1.66:1, meaning that a relatively small portion of the image is lost.) Kubrick also chose mono over stereo, believing that inconsistencies in theatrical sound systems resulted in loss of control over theatrical presentation. In every respect, the Warner spokesman said, the films in the Collection remain as Kubrick approved them. Any future attempt to remaster or alter them would have to be approved by an appointee of the Kubrick estate.

Available on VHS and DVD editions of The Shining from the 1999 release of the Stanley Kubrick Collection, The Making of "The Shining" is a 30-minute documentary directed by Stanley Kubrick's daughter Vivian, who would later provide the eerie, mechanical music for Full Metal Jacket (credited as Abigail Mead). Rarely seen since it was originally broadcast on British television in 1980, this behind-the-scenes film eschews narration in favor of casual encounters with Kubrick, Jack Nicholson, and other members of the cast. It's one of the only audio-visual records of Kubrick at work, and offers a fascinating glimpse of the director's personality and its influence on his actors and crew. Particularly revealing is a confrontation between Kubrick and Shelley Duvall, who later explains that the filming was intense and often difficult but always rewarding. Nicholson is shown to be insightful, devoted to his craft, and mischievously energetic (this is Jack, after all!), and Scatman Crothers is moved to tears when describing the privilege of working on the film. There's a splendid moment when Kubrick's mother visits the set and gets a quick lesson on the rigors of script revision, and James Mason (who starred in Kubrick's Lolita) also stops by for a visit, still wearing his costume from Murder by Decree, which was being filmed in a nearby studio. For Kubrick fans, this is a "home movie" you don't want to miss.

EDITOR'S NOTE: According to a Warner Home Video technician involved in the production of The Stanley Kubrick Collection, Kubrick authorized all aspects of the Collection, from the use of Digital Component Video (or "D-1") masters originally approved in 1989, to the use of minimalist screen menus, chapter stops, and (in the case of 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Shining on DVD) supplementary materials. Full-screen presentation of The Shining and Full Metal Jacket was also approved by Kubrick, who recomposed his original framing, reportedly believing that those films looked best on video in the full-screen format. (In fact, the original theatrical aspect ratio of The Shining was 1.66:1, meaning that a relatively small portion of the image is lost.) Kubrick also chose mono over stereo, believing that inconsistencies in theatrical sound systems resulted in loss of control over theatrical presentation. In every respect, the Warner spokesman said, the films in the Collection remain as Kubrick approved them. Any future attempt to remaster or alter them would have to be approved by an appointee of the Kubrick estate.

With the 1957 release of Paths of Glory, Stanley Kubrick confirmed his early promise and joined the ranks of world-class filmmakers. The age of the auteur had arrived, and Kubrick was a prime candidate for inclusion in the pantheon of directors later canonized by critic Andrew Sarris in his influential book The American Cinema. Ironically, this was also the period during which Kubrick left his native soil for permanent residence in England, and from that point forward, the Kubrick mystique inflated to legendary proportions. But if Kubrick was no longer bringing himself to the world, he was certainly bringing the world to his films. From the comfort of his rural England estate and locations never far from London, Kubrick would command cinematic odysseys to isolated Colorado (in The Shining), battle-ravaged Vietnam (Full Metal Jacket), upscale New York City (Eyes Wide Shut), and, of course, Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite (in 2001: A Space Odyssey).

Released on VHS and DVD just prior to the July 1999 theatrical release of Kubrick's final film, Eyes Wide Shut, The Stanley Kubrick Collection includes all seven of Kubrick's films from Lolita to Full Metal Jacket—a quarter-century of brilliant, challenging cinema. Authorized by Kubrick prior to his sudden death in March of 1999, the boxed set represents a cooperative effort among the Warner, Columbia, and MGM labels (with Killer's Kiss, The Killing, and Paths of Glory released simultaneously by MGM). All films retain the superior digital mastering of their earlier releases on laserdisc and DVD, and although purists have complained that The Shining and Full Metal Jacket have been released in full-screen format only, this was in compliance with Kubrick's wishes and both films do not suffer unduly from full-screen formatting.

The diversity of Kubrick's work is truly astonishing, even though the director's technical precision and steely perspective on humanity may strike uninitiated viewers as cold and even misanthropic. From the rich, black comedy of Lolita to the bleak heart of darkness explored in Full Metal Jacket, Kubrick's films almost always received mixed (and sometimes scathingly negative) reviews upon their release, only to benefit from glowing reassessment as they grew entrenched in the public consciousness. Here, in all their glory, are the collected films of a genuine master, ripe for study and appreciation for many years to come. —Jeff Shannon

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