Digital Week – November 5

This week’s roundup features only blu-rays.

A Bread Factory (Grasshopper Films)

Patrick Wang’s mammoth two-part, low-key comedy displays intelligence and wit in its depiction of a small town’s arts center whose 40-year reign is in trouble when the arrival of a Chinese avant-garde duo threatens to upend the community’s artistic status quo. The excellent ensemble plays it straight but also deadpan enough to lighten the load when some plotlines take a turn toward the absurd. Led by Tyne Daly, the large cast features Brian Murray, Amy Carlson, Janeane Garofalo and Nana Visitor. Wang’s loyalty to them—and to his own vision—helps smooth over occasional rough patches, like scenes of theatrical rehearsal that are uncomfortably reminiscent of Jacques Rivette. The film has a strikingly grainy look in high-def; extras on a DVD include a conversation between Wang and critic Jonathan Rosenbaum, a making-of featurette and a music video.



Days of Wine and Roses (Warner Archive)

Hard-hitting performances by Jack Lemmon and Lee Remick as an alcoholic husband and wife who falls into his spiral with devastating results are the main reasons to see Blake Edwards’ perceptive but at times dated 1962 adaptation of JP Miller’s 1958 television play. Despite melodramatic bits, Lemmon and Remick are on-target throughout, especially in the unforgettable scene when the sober Lemmon visits the drunk Remick and slowly proceeds to fall off the wagon. Philip H. Lathrop’s expressive B&W photography looks especially impressive on Blu; extras comprise an Edwards commentary and vintage Lemmon interview.



Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark (Warner Archive)

This 1973 TV movie, creepy and silly in equal terms, dramatizes a bizarre tale of spirits in a house trying to lure a housewife who’s just moved in with her otherwise occupied husband to their grasp, with terrifying results. Director John Newland has made one egregious mistake: actually showing the monsters, who look like badly dressed gremlins and are quite risible. Otherwise, this is taut and effective—and, at 75 minutes, satisfyingly compact. The film looks good in hi-def; extras are two commentaries.



From Beyond the Grave (Warner Archive)

Five strange tales of terror make up director Kevin Connor’s 1973 omnibus film, with Peter Cushing as the owner of an antique store whose perceived slights give several customers—especially those who try to con or steal from him—awful payback, like a suicide prodded by a spectre or a horrible death at the hands of the proprietor himself thanks to a coffin studded with spikes. It all goes down quite effectively thanks to an energetic cast, including David Warner, Lesley Anne-Down, Donald Pleasence and Ian Bannen. There’s a nice-looking hi-def transfer.



Jay Myself (Oscilloscope)

This sympathetic portrait introduces photographer Jay Maisel, who lived in a landmark building, The Bank, on the corner of Spring Street and the Bowery for the past half-century (he bought it for a song back in 1966). Director Stephen Wilkes gives us an eye-opening glimpse at how Maisel had to move his voluminous collection of artifacts after he sold the building in what was the largest private real estate sale in the city’s history. There’s a fine hi-def transfer; extras include additional interviews with Maisel and his colleagues, along with outtakes.



The Kitchen (Warner Bros)

Based on a graphic novel, this rambunctious tale of a trio of Mafia wives taking over from their husbands after the men are sent to prison has its intermittent pleasures, but first-time director Andrea Berloff has decided that a surfeit of violence—even dismemberment—is entertaining. Hint to Berloff (who also wrote the movie): it isn’t. Such gratuitous scenes detract from a well-made if not groundbreaking mob movie, and as the wives, Elisabeth Moss, Melissa McCarthy and especially Tiffany Haddish—who underplays superbly—keep it afloat. Grimy Hell’s Kitchen locations look great on Blu; extras are a deleted scene and a two making-of featurettes.



The Proposal (Oscilloscope)

Artist Jill Magid has directed a fascinating if obviously frustrating documentary about how the archives of the great Mexican architect Luis Barragán ended up in Switzerland, almost completely unavailable to scholars and the general public. When she wants to mount her own exhibition about the architect, Magid tries to get through to Federica Zanco, who oversees the archive, by proposing ever more desperate schemes—building to a diabolical one at the end—but the bulk of the film is taken up by ethical quandaries: who owns another artist’s legacy? Does the public deserve to see it? There’s a first-rate hi-def transfer; extras comprise a commentary and Magid interview.