DVD: Amelie

In November of that sad autumn of 2001 I found myself coming back from the doctor's office one afternoon, nursing a cold and none too happy with the world, and decided to make a detour to the Cineplex Odeon at Dupont Circle. I landed in the front row of a packed theater. The film was Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Amelie, and it was as inherently therapeutic as any prescription I was carrying at the time.

Amelie proved a showcase for a gamine named Audrey Tautou, all big brown eyes and Louise Brooks-inspired haircut as the title character, an introverted Frenchwoman who leaves her emotionally stifling childhood home for life among the quirky souls of Parisian apartment houses, train stations, and cafes.

If Amelie is used to living in her head -- and really, when is the last time you saw a film focused wholly on an introvert? -- there is no shortage of action once she moves from being an observer of life to a participant. Upon discovering of the power she has to influence the lives of others, Amelie takes up an avocation as both fairy godmother and avenging angel, her outward fragility masking steely resolve, resourcefulness, and even a soupcon of sadism.

And boy, do the people around her need help. One thing that struck me upon seeing the movie yet again was the degree to which most of the characters are floundering within self-imposed imprisonments, which range from remaining under the thumb of a petty, mean-spirited boss to clinging to grudges, giving free rein to jealousy or hypochondria, and even hiding within one's own mind and fantasies. In fact, Amelie is as much a festival of neuroses as any Woody Allen film, though it's leavened considerably by its sweetness, charm, and can-do spirit. No wonder American audiences fell in love with this movie.

And I suspect they fell for Audrey Tautou in a big way, much as her on-screen character is jolted out of isolation by a chance encounter with Nino (Mathieu Kassovitz), a guy with a few quirks and obsessions of his own. Like the title character in Jane Austen's Emma, Amelie's own love story develops as she's trying to sort out everyone else's lives, and like Miss Woodhouse, she is is great danger of getting it all terribly wrong.

One note: as sweet and life-affirming as Amelie is, save it for a movie night when the kids aren't around. You know what they say about the French? Well, they are right.

And aside from those piquant touches (and scenes), you'll enjoy all the extras on the DVD, from the multiple trailers to the featurettes and filmographies. And whatever you do, if you are not fluent in French, don't forget to switch those subtitles on.

Enjoy.

DVD: Bleak House (2005)

We've gone DVD mad this fall at Olsson's, and I've been having a fine time revisiting old favorites well worthy of the home video library, in particular literary adaptations from British cinema and television.

Not that revisiting a fondly remembered series or film always produces the expected result. Most of you have likely had the experience of holding on to memories of a favorite TV series or movie, only to watch it again after the passage of years (and through more discerning eyes) and discover that the production values don't live up to your imagination. Bad sound, misconceived costumes, and performances that don't bear scrutiny have you cringing from the couch.

You can expect no such problems with the recent BBC literary adaptations, most of which are downright sumptuous. In the past decade or so, the novels of Dickens, Eliot, Trollope, and various Brontes have been brought to the small screen, handsomely, with excellent casts, in BBC productions. The art direction and period detail are stunning, the performances memorable, the entertainment quotient high.

Oh, I'm being coy about it all. These things are fun. They've got villains you love to hate, will-they-or-won't-they couples, and a lot of colorful characters uttering aphorisms in accents you can't quite place.

I've squirreled away a few of these recent BBC offerings, by coincidence lesser-known Dickensian works such as Martin Chuzzlewit, Our Mutual Friend, and Bleak House.

Bleak House, the most recent of these, is almost eight hours of sprawling, engrossing Victorian entertainment of indefinable category. Is it a love story? A detective novel? A social treatise?

Well, this being Dickens, it is all those things and more. The story begins with a glimpse of the arcane and apparently brutal workings of the early 19th century British legal system, as yet unreformed and given to leaving victims in its wake.

Into this arena step three young people: Richard Carstone and Ada Clare, a pair of orphaned cousins preparing to wait out the interminable legal case that will determine their respective inheritances, and Esther Summerson, the dignified young woman who is to be Ada's companion while she and Richard take up residence with yet another cousin, John Jarndyce.

But if Richard and Ada stand on the brink of possible riches, it's the penniless Esther who proves to be the heart of the story. Her gentleness, intelligence, and warm heart draw admiration (and assorted would-be suitors), but it's the questions about her unknown parentage that eventually place her at the center of a power struggle that is linked to nearly every character in the drama.

At this point I should mention that when I said sprawling, I meant it. You're going to meet a lot of people, from aristocrats to the poster children for human misery. Bring on the lawyers, detectives, soldiers, loan sharks, urchins, 19th century activists!

Keeping track of the cast might require a wall chart, scorecard, or other device to keep everyone sorted. I'd propose admitting defeat and going straight to the Masterpiece Theatre website, specifically the link I've provided below, which not only identifies each character but the actor who plays him/her.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/bleakhouse/whos_who.html

Don't let the list of names scare you off, however; half the fun is seeing the people who pass through Esther's life. Lots of familiar faces here: Pauline Collins as the batty but kind Miss Flite; Gillian Anderson, aloof and enigmatic as Lady Dedlock; Hugo Speer, a valiant and loyal Sergeant George; Nathaniel Parker, PBS's Inspector Lynley, as that houseguest from hell, Harold Skimpole.

Having a wonderful time menacing everyone else from inside and outside the courtroom are the crafty Ian Richardson, playing the lord chancellor, and Charles Dance, as Tulkinghorn, the sort of lawyer who could clear K Street with a single glance.

And speaking of menaces, get a load of Philip Davis's comic gem of a performance as the snarling money lender Smallweed, crippled but still able to torment people and cats ("Ye brimstone beast!") and put the squeeze on debtors. Anybody who saw him as the kindly husband in Vera Drake is in for a big surprise.

It's not just a field day for veteran actors, either; the young members of the cast deliver top-notch performances and have wonderful chemistry. Among the standouts are Anna Maxwell Martin, nicely underplaying as Esther, and Burn Gorman, who almost steals the show as Mr. Guppy, a lovesick law clerk with an enterprising streak.

So what else happens, aside from love and legal matters? It's not giving away too much to say that as in the Harry Potter books, a number of people end up quite dead, several of them dispatched under mysterious circumstances. That's where the lawyers and guns part comes in, and it's ample reason for the presence of Mr. Bucket (Alun Armstrong), one of the pioneering detectives of fiction, who eventually unravels the secrets of more than one pivotal character.

As is usual with Dickens, you can anticipate multiple love stories: in this case, two filled with promise and several almost unbearably poignant. There are moments late in the series when a character will surprise us all with sensitivity, selflessness, or a heartfelt expression of devotion. Be prepared for tears.

But mostly, be prepared for life, with all its moral ambiguity, unfairness, missed opportunities, and chances for redemption.

• DVD: Henry V (1989)


• CD: Henry V (soundtrack)

It is conventional wisdom that the movie industry's most sought-after audiences are the young, particularly teenaged boys, especially those who will see a film multiple times in the cinema. Well, this blogger has never belonged to the latter demographic, but I will see a select few films more than once in the theater. It requires, though, a movie worth the trip.

That was not a problem back when Kenneth Branagh's Henry V was released and I spent two separate evenings at Buffalo's North Park Theatre watching it. You should know that Buffalo is a city with a vibrant theater community and even its own outdoor Shakespeare festival, so it wasn't as though cultural deprivation had drawn me down to Hertel Avenue.

Imagine sitting in a vintage movie house and gazing at a pitch-black screen. Out of the darkness emerges Henry V's Chorus, Derek Jacobi -- he of the silky, insinuating voice -- and suddenly the audience is propelled into a medieval world of politics and power, where closed doors conceal bishops plotting strategy, a traitor hides behind a well-loved face, and the fate of thousands turns on a diplomatic mission -- or a minor affront.

Taking the role of the young, untried English king: the director himself, an Irish-born Shakespearean actor named Kenneth Branagh, who had been before the camera but never behind it. As familiar as his performance is from repeated viewings over the years, it still bears examination from various angles. The way Branagh chose to play the first scene always puzzled me: as the insecure monarch with barely contained fury, he suggests the menace of a coiled snake -- a contrast too great, I believe, with the more human protagonist that is revealed in the battlefield and postwar scenes: by turns boyish, confident, stoic, ruthless, witty, and on the verge of collapse. It's a rich performance, one that's bound to recall some unsettling parallels on the national and world stage.

Still, even if Branagh claimed that career-making lead role, his screenplay and direction reveal a more nuanced reading of the play and a generous approach to his cast.

And what a cast. Note how often the camera lingers on the faces of that powerhouse ensemble, which includes such long-time Branagh associates as Richard Clifford, Michael Maloney, John Sessions, Jimmy Yuill, the great Richard Briers, and of course an ageless Brian Blessed, here playing Exeter, the king's warrior uncle, as a striding, weapon-wielding vat of testosterone.

And if you come expecting cheap shots at the French, don't waste your time. Cast as the king of France: Paul Scofield, whose image ought to appear under gravitas in your dictionary. At his side: an imposing Richard Easton, playing the Constable of France, and Christopher Ravenscroft, all dignity as Montjoy, the herald who at times appears to supplement the role of the Chorus. And the French princess, Katherine, is played by the gifted and intelligent Emma Thompson.

The powerful casting doesn't end there. As Mistress Quickly, wife to soldier and all-round sinner Pistol (Robert Stephens), Judi Dench delivers a touching -- and vanity-free -- performance.

I should note too that Branagh gives some marvelous scenes to Judi Dench's real-life husband, Michael Williams, cast as, believe it or not, Michael Williams, the English soldier who has a crucial pre-battle encounter with the king.

But the moral heart of the film belongs to Ian Holm, a bantam cock of a warrior as Fluellen, the Welsh captain who in this film embodies courage, decency, and good sense. Branagh has not entirely eliminated the comic elements of the character, but as you watch Holm your heart will swell and your eyes will fill quite as often as your lips smile.

Speaking of humor, I recall clearly that North Park audiences snickered when Derek Jacobi, in modern dress, strode onto battlefields and seaside cliffs to hold forth on the action of Henry V. Shades of "This is Dan Rather, reporting to you live from Harfleur." But Jacobi is such a welcome presence and does such wonderful things with his voice that I've completely reconciled myself to the conceit, and I suspect you will as well.

Another distinction: Fans of Laurence Olivier's World War II era film should prepare themselves for a markedly different take on the material. Branagh's interpretation allows for a good deal of moral ambiguity and not a small amount of bloodshed. Yes, his judicious editing of the text emphasizes the king's mercy, and of course the filming and scoring of the Saint Crispian's Day speech is a bit of magic politicians would do well to study. Still, Branagh's Agincourt sequence, with its very graphic look at the costs of battle, ought to spark some post-film discussions.

Thus the depiction of war is considerably earthier than Olivier's, and that extends to sets and costumes. As I watched the 1944 film, I found myself distracted by the grand, rather fussy attire of the actors. On the other hand, Phyllis Dalton's Academy Award-winning designs in the Branagh film are always appropriate to the character but never distract from the performance. In short, they're costumes for the working day.

And what a working day it must have been. By the end of the battle at Agincourt, everyone, with the exception of Christopher Ravenscroft, is coated with a layer or two of blood and mud. In fact, in many scenes our actors look convincingly gritty, greasy, muddy, and miserable, except for anyone safely kept off the battlefield. Branagh's memoir, Beginning, chronicled some of the filming process and its setbacks, including those moments when the production threatened to turn into Carry on Agincourt. So much for glory on the battlefield!

Speaking of memoirs, I'm still waiting -- in vain, apparently -- for a director's edition of Branagh's Henry V. Yes, I'm aware that the DVD was briefly out of print, and we should count ourselves blessed with any region-appropriate edition. Still, it's disappointing that the extras don't include director commentary, interviews, or a "making of" featurette, only French and Spanish subtitles, the movie trailer, and the Cliffs Notes to Shakespeare's play.

No, I am not making that last bit up, and students are going to need those notes anyway, given all the cuts Branagh made to the text. Speeches, scenes, even characters are missing in action, though Branagh does flesh out the story by using flashbacks from Henry IV, Part 2. That has the advantage of allowing us to glimpse Falstaff (Robbie Coltrane, an inspired bit of casting), as well as Pistol, Bardolph, Nym, Mistress Quickly, and even the unreformed Prince Hal, in their wilder days. Whatever the exclusions and additions, the film moves along so briskly that I have a hard time believing it clocks in at 137 minutes.

It goes without saying that I sprang for both the DVD and Patrick Doyle's wonderful soundtrack. His scoring of the speech to the troops on Saint Crispian's Day is a particularly inspiring piece of movie music.

It didn't take very long after the film's release before trailers for other movies were incorporating passages from Doyle's Henry V score, which might have been a clue that the composer was here to stay. In addition to his work for subsequent Branagh films, Doyle has composed scores for projects as diverse as Indochine, Sense and Sensibility, Donnie Brasco, and even Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Most recently his Japanese-inspired compositions graced Branagh's latest Shakespearean adaptation, the HBO film As You Like It, which is now out on DVD.

DVD: Jane Eyre (1944)

The movie and jazz buffs among us often wind up in the frustrating and apparently endless cycle of having to update our collections every time something is remastered, repackaged, and/or issued with bonus material. Your full-screen DVD gets replaced by a wide-screen version with director's commentary and all the whistles and bells, or that luscious Ella Fitzgerald CD set gets moved aside when Verve issues a new edition with bonus tracks. And so it goes.

It's entirely forgivable, therefore, if the words "special edition" cause you to sigh and roll your eyes. But there are certain works that earn that title honestly, and I've just stumbled on one: the Cinema Classics Collection's release of the 1944 Jane Eyre.

Thanks, no doubt, to the enduring popularity of Charlotte Bronte's novel, as well as the indefatigable efforts of filmmakers on both sides of the Atlantic, Jane Eyre has been adapted for cinema and television a truly mind-boggling number of times. Our long-suffering heroine has been played by Samantha Morton and Sorcha Cusack, by Zelah Clarke and Charlotte Gainsbourg. George C. Scott, Timothy Dalton, Ciaran Hinds, and, most recently, Toby Stephens have all taken a turn brooding away as Edward Rochester.

You know the timeless appeal of the story, as well as its plot: having survived a childhood marked by emotional and spiritual deprivation, a young governess undergoes a test of character when she falls in love with an enigmatic and possibly dangerous man.

It therefore provides an interesting subtext to examine the casting in Robert Stevenson's 1944 version. His Jane: Joan Fontaine, who had notable successes playing shy, vulnerable heroines in two of Hitchcock's greatest films, Rebecca and Suspicion. This is not to say she's playing a victim here; Fontaine's watchful eyes and subtly changing expressions suggest a woman who masters her emotions for sheer survival.

Fontaine's understated approach works not merely for the character but also alongside her costar, a practically combustible Orson Welles. His energy and ferocity give Rochester a dangerously obsessive edge. But watch what happens each time he and Fontaine touch. A simple hand clasp conveys worlds of tenderness and passion, not unlike the thwarted lovers in Elia Suleiman's more recent Divine Intervention.

Speaking of intervention, I know what you're thinking. With a force of nature like Orson Welles on the set, how much of the project belonged to the director, Robert Stevenson, and how much to his leading man? The subject is addressed to some degree in the featurette included on the DVD, Locked in the Tower: The Men Behind Jane Eyre. A nice contrast is made between Stevenson, who evidently typified British understatement, and Welles, who roared along at full volume.

It was great getting the lowdown from various insiders, including Stevenson's widow and children, but I must confess what made the featurette for me was the inclusion of Simon Callow among the on-camera commentators. Callow, a writer, director, and scene-stealing actor (Four Weddings and a Funeral, A Room with a View), is also the author of a multi-part biography of Orson Welles. His input is some of the most engaging of the documentary, and I could listen to the guy for hours.

But I've only touched on a portion of the extras on this DVD set. Be sure to watch another of the short films on the disc, Know Your Ally Britain, which Stevenson made for what we used to call the War Department. It's a World War II tutorial designed to give GIs and other Americans some grasp of British culture and day-to-day living, especially those times when the Luftwaffe was flying overhead. The film itself has not been restored in the manner of the main feature, but it's still very much worth a look.

And I haven't even gotten into all the other features of the set, including commentary tracks from multiple participants. For that project, they rounded up various film historians, a Welles biographer, and former child star Margaret O'Brien, who played Rochester's ward in the movie.

Non-audio goodies include an informative booklet and a packet of movie still postcards, all of which ought to tide us over until the next remake.

• DVD: Summer's Lease (Acorn Media)

I am a hopeless Masterpiece Theatre addict -- the giant tea mugs and tendency to use the odd Britishism are dead giveaways -- and since my high school days those Sunday night literary adaptations and gritty dramas have been a cause for celebration, if not popcorn. Perhaps you too are part of the Masterpiece Theatre Underground. Raise your hand if you couldn't identify the latest medical drama or incarnation of CSI, even under interrogation, but have spent many an evening in the agreeable company of Peggy Ashcroft, Helen Mirren, Gordon Jackson, Ian Richardson, Timothy Spall, et al. Great performances, great memories.

For me it was therefore a happy surprise when Acorn Media issued a DVD set of Summer's Lease, a quirky 1989 miniseries about an English family's stay at a villa in Tuscany. John Mortimer himself wrote the screenplay, adapting his novel of the same name. Susan Fleetwood stars as Molly Pargeter, a British housewife whose summer vacation takes both exhilarating and unsettling turns.

If you haven't seen the array of movies -- Room with a View, Enchanted April, Where Angels Fear to Tread, etc. -- in which stuffy Brits go to Italy to get their groove back, why are you sitting there reading this blog? There are DVDs and VHS tapes for you to track down. Go find them.

While the rest of you are getting caught up in that that department, I'll get back to Molly's story. As played by Fleetwood, Molly is that essential but often self-effacing figure that every family needs: the one who rallies the troops, puts up with the moods and inconveniences and hysterical children, forgives a lot and appears to ask little in return. It follows too that such a person has hidden but rarely disclosed talents and passions, and in Molly's case those come to the fore when she takes that crucial summer holiday with her family.

It is not destined to be a smooth ride. The older two of her three daughters are affectionate enough but also in the midst of that "My parents are so uncool" stage. Her husband, who may or may not be keeping some dirty little secrets from her, has been blackmailed into inviting along her crafty old reprobate of a father (John Gielgud), a leftist writer and wit with a deathless libido and a gift for embarrassing everybody.

On top of that, the water goes out at their vacation home. And did I mention someone turns up dead?

But I've barely scratched the surface of Molly's meandering, enigmatic tale, which manages to encompass her passion for Italian paintings and her growing quest to uncover the secrets of the community. This unassuming British tourist has a few surprises in store.

As Molly, the luminous Fleetwood is both grounded and vulnerable, a woman whose basic intelligence and good intentions can't always save her from trouble.

Not surprisingly, Mortimer has given Gielgud all the best lines, which I will leave for you to enjoy during the film. And there's a rich supporting cast making up the array of aristocrats, bored youth, tourists, wheeler-dealers, and others in the Pargeters' suddenly expanded social circle.

There's even sort of a reverse Enchanted April thing going on, in that we follow Molly back to rainy old London as the series concludes.

My one concern with the DVD is that the digital transfer could stand to be brighter and crisper. Nevertheless, as you are drawn into the film, there are plenty of visual pleasures, notably that Tuscan scenery and some wonderful Piero della Francesca paintings Molly can't resist seeking out.

As it happens, the DVD set recreates the experience of watching the miniseries: chapters open with a recap of the previous episode, followed by the theme music, and end with credits and a reprise of the music. It makes a nice change from those irritating snipe ads that nearly all the networks now cram into the screen to distract you from the program you're watching -- sorry, to promote hot new shows. Anyway, with this DVD, it's all Summer's Lease, all the time.

And I loved hearing Nigel Hess's music again, especially the opening and closing theme, "Carmina Valles," sung by Chameleon, which is made up of members of the Swingle Singers. Hess is noted for his compositions for British and American television series, and it's a safe bet PBS fans have heard his music at one time or another.

As for the old question about whether one should read a novel before seeing the film adaptation, I'd offer the following observation. Olsson's carries both the novel and the DVD of Summer's Lease, and as one of my Scottish friends used to say when offered the choice between chocolate and ice cream, "Can't we have both?"