The release of the four DVD set of Derek Jarman films under the name Glitterbox could not have come at a better time. Not only have there been retrospective viewings of Jarman’s groundbreaking, and sometimes controversial, films around the U.S., but also a documentary feature looking at the life and career of the English filmmaker will soon see wide release.

With this box set bringing together films from early in Jarman’s career with the three films that he completed before his death in 1994, it seems one of the best places to begin to draw out some understanding of his intentions as a filmmaker: to speak frankly about his homosexuality and infection with AIDS, to challenge the narrative constraints of modern cinema (especially in England in the late ’70s/early ’80s when he first arrived on the scene) and to bring to bear his avant garde/experimental and political leanings in an infinitely watchable form.

The latter is especially true of the two pseudo-biopics that are on this set – Caravaggio and Wittgenstein . Both weave the groundbreaking work of these men into the films (especially the challenging and beautiful paintings of Caravaggio) into stark evocations of their lives brought to bear on sparse sets and Brechtian stagings of key moments in their careers. Even with the tiny budgets Jarman had to work with, both films are filled with arresting imagery and capture the essence of the two men without resorting to over-dramatization or the dull recitation of facts.

Glitterbox also brings to DVD (for the first time, if I’m not mistaken) the film that Jarman is possibly best known for: Blue . The 76-minute film is a single shot of a blue screen accompanied by a stark and beautiful musical score composed by Simon Fisher Turner and the voices of Jarman and frequent collaborator Tilda Swinton (among others) telling the story of his life and ambitions and visions as an artist. It is a rare achievement and comes as close as any director has in capturing how one person views the world in a very literal sense.

What this set truly captures is how liberating viewing Jarman’s work can be. If you are willing to remove all kinds of expectations and thoughts about how a movie should be made or how a story should be told, you will get so much out of the five films on this set. They practically beg you to let the sure hand of Jarman and his nimble mind guide you. Until Matthew Barney and Guy Maddin arrived in the film world, no other director seemed willing to ask so much of an audience. For that alone, Jarman and this lovely set of films should receive the highest of praise.

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In my formative years as a cinephile, I remember seeing the box for Diva on the shelf of my local video store – a reproduction of the iconic poster that apparently graced the walls of many a liberal arts college dorm room and studio apartment in the years following its release.

Knowing vaguely that the film was French, it seemed out of my league and above my level of understanding. It seemed, in a word, grown-up. That kind of thinking, unfortunately, kept Diva off my radar for exactly 27 years, which is the length of time from its theatrical release to this remastered DVD edition’s release date.

Now that I’ve finally watched it, not only do I see what the fuss was all about with this film, but I also regret that it has taken me this long to finally give myself over to its hyper-stylized beauty and riveting mise-en-scene.

Diva has often been called a thriller, which in some senses it is, but that kind of thinking seems to diminish its more poignant qualities. The title character is Cynthia Hawkins, an opera singer who refuses to be recorded for mass consumption. So, obsessive fans like Jules are forced to sneak tape machines into her recitals to make bootlegs. At a particular recital, Jules also decides to steal the diva’s dress. These items play important roles in the film, but are pure MacGuffins.

In fact, another tape is at the heart of Diva – the fast beating thriller heart of the film. It’s a confession by a former prostitute about an illegal trade in drugs and women going on in Paris. In her last moments, the prostitute sneaks the tape into the bag on Jules’s trusty moped, enmeshing him in a whirlwind of pulse-quickening chase scenes (including a much-talked about moped vs. man pursuit through the Metro) and sinister dealings.

Attempting to harmonize these two visions, one dreamy and romantic, the other hard-boiled and sordid, has undone many a filmmaker, but director Jean-Jacques Beineix is able to walk the tightrope between the two, while not losing a second of the film’s momentum and ecstatic allure. Although much of the credit should be handed off to DP Philippe Rousselot and set designer Hilton McConnico for capturing the unabashed cool of these bohemian Parisians, Beineix stitches it all together seamlessly with nice dashes of wit and goofball humor thrown in for good measure.

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httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOnwmtsMkqI

A series of artistic images and blurry night scenes loosely based on New York band the National and the making of their breakthrough album Boxer, French director Vincent Moon’s music film A Skin, A Night is a bittersweet offering for fans of the band.

Shot using Moon’s trademark saturated cinematography and scored by odd layers and instrumental pieces taken from the album, A Skin, A Night is a great visual representation of the dark, dream-like quality present in the National’s music, however, and sadly, the film shows no interest in being a documentary. There are occasional glimpses of band members talking about anxiety and the group’s early days fighting up the ranks, and a very interesting studio moment where singer Matt Berninger shoots down a piano arrangement, insisting the band can come up with something better, but these are too few and far between. The film is much more interested in giving us a visual impression of the band than documenting the facts behind it. As an art piece, it works just fine; as a National dvd, it is pretty underwhelming.

I guess my biggest beef with the film is that it needed more actual National music to go along with all the abstract imagery. Most of the background music in the film is bits and pieces of studio sessions. These range from great- there is an awesome Slow Show/Blank Slate sequence and an extended live performance of About Today- to way too short, blips of Bryan Davendorf drumming on a metal fan cage or Padma Newsome playing the violin for 4 seconds. I would have loved to hear some of the demo recordings and live studio footage featured on Boxer’s teaser website. Those offered real, interesting looks at the ideas behind the songs and how they went on to form one of the most well-reviewed albums of 2007.

The small audience that will embrace this DVD are collector’s and die-hard fans of the band; and as you can tell by this review, even some of them will be a bit disappointed.

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Director Jean-Luc Godard has famously said that all you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun. I would like to think that one of his contemporaries, Louis Malle, decided with The Fire Within to test this precept, as both are key to the plot of this striking work.

The gun is a sleek-looking Walther pistol that Alain Leroy has tucked away in a briefcase in his room. A depressed recovering alcoholic, Leroy plans on using it to commit suicide, a fact he states plainly and free of emotion one evening (this scene was quoted through Wes Anderson in his film The Royal Tenenbaums in the harrowing scene where Richie Tenenbaum slits his wrists).

There are many candidates for the girl sprinkled throughout this movie, but the one that seems to haunt Leroy most is his estranged wife, Carol. Their strained relationship is what sent him into a drunken spiral and landed him in a detox clinic, where he is still living despite being considered cured.

There are other women to consider, though, many of whom Leroy encounters in a long journey through Paris. As he visits them and his old haunts in the city, the deeper portrait of this troubled soul starts to surface, one that paints Leroy and many of the people his age as spiritually empty, filling the void with alcohol, drugs and casual sex.

The film is as much a devastating critique on a generational malaise that was slowly seeping into French society, as it is a heartbreaking portrait of depression. Leroy is at the mercy of the demons that still reside within him, an idea Malle visually expresses with several shots of his main character trying to force his way through an ever-flowing stream of traffic.

It isn’t easy to watch, considering the questions that Leroy and his friends mull over during the course of the film, but it is made a little easier to swallow by Maurice Ronet’s sympathetic and heartbreaking portrayal of a man unhinged. He doesn’t wallow or rail against the dying of the light, but instead marks everything through his expressive eyes and drags on his ever-present cigarette.

The film is also a testament to the genius of Malle, a director who throughout the early part of his career reflected so much of contemporary society back on his viewers, and often not in a very sympathetic light. The questions asked in this movie don’t come with easy answers, but as Malle demonstrates, demand that we ask of ourselves and of others.

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