I LOVE BOOSTERS--Boots Riley's follow-up to "Sorry to Bother You" (2017) is a riotous, shape-shifting caper comedy that doubles as a critique of consumer capitalism stitched together with equal parts mischief and fury. Set in a heightened, faintly sci-fi Bay Area, the film follows Corvette--played with magnetic wit by Keke Palmer-- the leader of a loose collective of shoplifters who target a rapacious fashion empire. Alongside comrades Sade (Naomi Ackie) and Mariah (Taylour Paige), Corvette navigates a world in which exploitation is both systemic and absurdly normalized. Their mogul adversary (Demi Moore) becomes less a villain than a grotesque symbol of excess run amok. Riley’s gleefully overstuffed script is bursting with visual gags, speculative detours and political asides that feel beamed in from another, more radical cinematic tradition. Yet what might register as chaos in lesser hands acquires a strange coherence thanks to Palmer who brings emotional clarity to Riley’s maximalist tendencies, embodying both the allure and moral queasiness of participating in the very system she hopes to upend. The ensemble cast (LaKeith Stanfield, Eiza González, Will Poulter, Don Cheadle, et al) moves with a comic rhythm that feels at once anarchic and precise, as if everyone tuned themselves into Riley’s peculiar frequency. What lingers isn't any single setpiece but the sensation of a filmmaker intoxicated by the possibilities of the medium. Riley’s satire isn't tidy; it sprawls, contradicts itself and occasionally threatens to collapse. Few contemporary American films feel this alive to the absurdities of modern life. Or this willing to laugh, loudly, defiantly and fequently, in its face. (A.)   

https://youtu.be/cO3MrHffZDA?si=mzXdcPKk6W_GtS-_      

PASSENGER--A long-distance coach traveling overnight through a remote stretch of country roads picks up a stranded young woman (Lou Llobell) whose dazed demeanor suggests she's fleeing something more troubling than a broken-down car. Among her fellow passengers is a weary ex-soldier (Jacob Scipio) and a sharp-eyed older traveler played by Melissa Leo whose instincts prove more reliable than anyone realizes. As strange incidents accumulate and the bus veers farther from its route, the riders discover that one of them may be carrying a malevolent force. Norwegian director André ("Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark," "The Autopsy of Jane Doe") Øvredal’s supernatural horror flick never quite transcends its genre cliches, but is made with enough skill to be a satisfyingly eerie ride. Øvredal has long shown a knack for turning confined spaces into pressure cookers. Here the bus itself becomes a rolling chamber of dread, its narrow aisles and dim overhead lights transformed into instruments of dread. Scipio gives a grounded, sympathetic performance, Llobell conveys both vulnerability and an unnerving stillness, and Oscar winner Leo lends the proceedings a welcome gravitas. (B MINUS.)

https://youtu.be/URYNySesCJA?si=vtGBFk0apBQWBtnx

THE STRANGER--François Ozon undertakes what might seem at first glance an almost perversely ill-suited project: a faithful yet interpretive adaptation of Albert Camus' "The Stranger," the most interior of existential novels. And yet the result is one of the director’s most lucidly controlled, aesthetically rigorous works, a film that converts philosophical opacity into a kind of stark, shimmering cinematic language. Ozon’s oeuvre has long oscillated between mischievous artifice ("8 Women") and coolly observed melodrama ("Swimming Pool"), but here he strips his approach down to something almost ascetic. Benjamin Voisin plays Meursault, a French- Algerian clerk whose emotional indifference--to his mother’s death, to his lover Marie (Rebecca Marder), to the social rituals surrounding him--culminates in an impulsive killing on a sun-drenched beach. The ensuing trial, less concerned with the crime than with Meursault’s failure to display expected grief, becomes a moral theater in which society convicts him as much for his temperament as for his act. Comparisons with Luchino Visconti’s 1967 version which starred Marcello Mastroianni and Anna Karina are inevitable. While Visconti’s "Stranger" leaned into a kind of classical solemnity, Ozon’s treatment feels more unsettled and attuned to the colonial tensions that haunt Camus’ masterpiece. By granting a greater presence to the murdered man and his family, Ozon subtly reframes the narrative without dismantling its core by allowing the political to seep into the metaphysical. What emerges is not a definitive reading of the text so much as a compelling re-articulation. Cool, deliberate and at times hypnotically severe, Ozon's movie honors Camus less by reproducing his prose than by discovering an equivalent cinematic stillness where meaning flickers in the gaps between action and affect. (A.) AVAILABLE TO BUY OR RENT ON VARIOUS STREAMING PLATFORMS.

https://youtu.be/K5-x2Fx-JJ8?si=hjaA8EmR--u5ugqS

TALK RADIO--Few American directors have proven as temperamentally attuned to the feedback loop between media and mania as Oliver Stone, and this 1988 film remains one of his most compelling achievements. Adapted from the stage play by Eric Bogosian--who also stars and co-wrote the screenplay--the movie compresses the theatrical intensity of its source into a cinematic chamber piece at once feverish and rigorously controlled. Bogosian plays Barry Champlain, a Dallas-based late-night radio host whose program thrives on confrontation. Night after night, Barry invites callers to spar with him, cultivating a persona that oscillates between caustic provocateur and reluctant confessor. The story unfolds over a single evening as the host’s increasingly volatile exchanges--with cranks, bigots, conspiracy theorists and the merely lonely--begin to erode the boundary between performance and self. Behind the scenes, Barry’s personal life frays: his producer (John C. McGinley) struggles to manage the show’s growing notoriety while his estranged wife (Ellen Greene) and girlfriend (Leslie Hope) bear witness to his compulsive need for confrontation. The trajectory is inexorable, building toward a violent climax that feels less like a twist than an inevitability. Stone’s direction, often associated with grand historical canvases, here turns inward. The visual field is constricted--much of the action takes place within the radio studio--yet the film generates a sense of vast psychic sprawl through its sound design. Voices, disembodied and relentless, become the true antagonists. The callers’ anonymity amplifies their menace while also rendering them oddly intimate; they're at once nowhere and everywhere, a diffuse chorus of American discontent. What distinguishes it from more schematic media satires is Stone's refusal to grant Barry a stable moral vantage point. Bogosian’s performance is mesmerizing precisely because it resists easy categorization. Barry is by turns incisive, cruel, self-lacerating and nihilistic. The movie suggests that his on-air persona is not a mask but an accelerant, intensifying tendencies that might otherwise remain latent. In this sense, Stone and Bogosian translate the play’s monologic intensity into a study of amplification itself:  how technology magnifies not only voices but appetites, resentments and the desire to be heard at any cost. If the 1988 milieu evokes a pre-digital age, its implications feel uncannily contemporary. The spectacle of a host feeding on outrage and being consumed by it anticipates later media ecosystems with disquieting clarity. Yet "Talk Radio" is less prophecy than autopsy: a precise, unsettling dissection of a culture enthralled by its own noise. Extras on the KL Studio Classics' Blu-Ray include an audio commentary with historians Josh Nelson and Alexandra Heller-Nicholas; a standalone interview with Stone; and the original theatrical trailer. (A.)

https://youtu.be/xrJZDxEEYao?si=S2Y_sKVZoG0uRj9J

NOW AVAILABLE IN THEATERS, HOME VIDEO AND/OR STREAMING CHANNELS: 

THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA 2--Two decades after "The Devil Wears Prada" turned the fashion world into a crucible of ambition, its belated sequel arrives with a knowing grin. Directed once again by David Frankel, the film reunites its principal triumvirate: Meryl Streep (glacially imperious Miranda Priestly); Anne Hathaway (former Priestley assistant Andy Sachs); and Emily Blunt (still-acerbic Emily Charlton). Time has rearranged their hierarchies but not their ambitions. The streamlined premise is cannily contemporary. Andy, now a seasoned journalist navigating a precarious media landscape, is lured back into Miranda’s orbit when Runway faces an existential crisis in the age of digital disruption. Emily, having parlayed her survival skills into a high-powered consultancy, finds herself triangulated between loyalty and opportunism. The plot moves briskly through couture showrooms, glass-walled offices and algorithm-driven anxieties where influence is measured as much in clicks as hemlines. Frankel directs with a lighter touch than previously, less interested in a Cinderella arc than in the aftershocks of success. The film’s pleasures are largely performative. Streep delivers Miranda’s barbed dialogue with surgical precision, her silences doing as much work as her speeches. Hathaway gives Andy a tempered intelligence, her earlier wide-eyed idealism replaced by something more pragmatic. Blunt, the franchise's stealth weapon, brandishes Emily’s wit as a kind of armor, each line landing with expert timing. If the screenplay ultimately settles for tidy resolutions, it compensates with an undercurrent of ruefulness about careers built on perpetual reinvention. The sequel doesn't recapture the original’s novelty, but it doesn’t need to. Instead it offers something rarer:  a sense of lived-in continuity as if these characters have been evolving just out of sight, waiting for the right moment (and outfit) to return. (B PLUS.)

IN THE GREY--Guy Ritchie returns to the criminality and clockwork intrigue that launched his career, albeit on a globe-trotting scale that both indulges and refines his instincts. The premise is disarmingly simple:  a covert task force is assembled to reclaim a billion-dollar fortune siphoned away by a sadistic autocrat. Jake Gyllenhaal anchors the operation as a quick-witted strategist whose cool veneer masks a gambler’s appetite for risk. Former Superman Henry Cavill leans into his hulking physicality as the team’s blunt instrument, bringing a dry, self-aware humor that undercuts his imposing presence. Quietly steering the testosterone-fueled chaos, Eiza González rounds out the trio with a seductive, sharply intelligent turn. Ritchie’s familiar stylistic tics--fractured timelines, whip-smart narration, needle-drop exuberance--are deployed with a restraint that suggests evolution rather than repetition. If films like "Snatch" and "Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels" reveled in anarchic sprawl, the setpieces here are engineered with near-mathematical precision. The result is a slick caper flick that moves with the assurance of professionals who know exactly how the game is played. (B.)

IS GOD IS--The fierce, darkly lyrical directorial debut by Alesha Harris feels both theatrical and ferociously cinematic. Adapted from her own stage play, Harris leans into myth, memory and vengeance with a confidence that rarely wavers, even when the film’s tonal ambitions threaten to outpace its narrative footing. The story follows twin sisters Ana and Racine (played with striking contrast by Mallori Johnson and Kara Young) who are summoned by their long-estranged mother, a burn-scarred figure known only as “God" (played with imperious stillness by Vivica A. Fox). From her bed, she dispatches them on a revenge mission to hunt down the father who abandoned and brutalized them years earlier. What unfolds is less a straightforward journey than a surreal odyssey through a heightened American landscape populated by grotesques and wounded souls. Harris stages the sisters' pilgrimage with an eye for stark composition and ritualistic rhythm, borrowing from the grammar of westerns and revenge thrillers while filtering everything through a distinctly Black feminist lens. The dialogue--at times incantatory, at times mordantly funny--retains its theatrical origins, but Harris opens the movie up with bold visual choices. Less interested in tidy catharsis than the jagged process of reclaiming agency, it's unruly, uncompromising and frequently electrifying. (B PLUS.)

MICHAEL--Antoine ("Training Day," "The Equalizer") Fuqua's long-gestating Michael Jackson biopic proves less excavation than consecration. Written by John ("Gladiator") Logan, the film traces Jackson’s arc from his childhood years with the Jackson 5 through the vertiginous ascent of solo superstardom, staging familiar milestones (the Motown years, the making of "Thriller," the Pepsi commercial accident, etc.) with dutiful, museum-like fidelity. Jaafar Jackson, Michael’s nephew, assumes the titular role with uncanny physical precision, a feat of mimicry that occasionally deepens into something like real feeling. As tyrannical patriarch Joe Jackson, Colman Domingo brings a stern, coiled gravity that hints at generational trauma the movie is mostly reluctant to address. Fuqua directs with polish and scale--concert sequences pulse, the camera glides, iconography is reverently reproduced--but the drama feels curiously airless. This isn't a life so much as a brand narrative shaped more by the Jackson estate’s imprimatur than any artistic inquiry. While gesturing toward the hardships of an abusive parent and the pressures of fame, it consistently substitutes trauma for unearned uplift. Most glaringly, "Michael" sidesteps the controversies that have long shadowed the late superstar. Well-documented allegations of child abuse are conspicuously absent, reportedly excised from earlier versions at the demand of the Jackson family. And Michael's increasingly complex public identity (racial, sexual, psychological) is flattened into the vague rhetoric of transcendence. The result is less a biographical portrait than whitewashing that insists upon its mythologized subject's innocence without engaging the questions that make his legacy so fraught. What remains is a handsome, hollow spectacle that moves efficiently through the beats of a legend while carefully avoiding the man himself. (C.)

MORTAL KOMBAT II--Director Simon McQuoid's sequel to his 2021 hit understands that subtlety is rarely the point when fists, fireballs and spinal injuries are on the menu. As sequels go, it's louder, busier and more self-aware than its predecessor, embracing its own gleeful excesses with a wink that feels earned rather than desperate. The threat this time is existential: warlord Shao Kahn (embodied with hulking relish by Martyn Ford) arrives to claim Earthrealm outright, forcing its ragtag defenders into a tournament that looks less like a martial arts contest than a demolition derby with mystical overtones. At the center is Johnny Cage, played by Karl Urban with a roguish smirk that suggests he knows he’s wandered into the wrong movie and plans to enjoy it anyway. Flanking him are familiar faces: Sonya Blade (Jessica McNamee, the franchise's moral spine); Kano (Josh Lawson) whose vulgar comic relief remains weirdly indispensable; and Liu Kang (Ludi Lin), bearing the narrative weight of prophecy with a stoic intensity. Newcomer Kitano (Adeline Rudolph) adds a welcome streak of unpredictability with her loyalties shifting as fluidly as the omnipresent CGI landscapes. McQuoid stages the chockablock mayhem with an eye for clarity over chaos--a small miracle given the barrage of visual effects--and the action setpieces possess a certain rhythmic precision. Not every joke lands and the plot is more scaffolding than structure, but "Kombat II" plays the game with just enough confidence to keep fans entertained. (B MINUS.)

OBSESSION--At the heart of Curry Barker’s sly, unnerving foray into supernatural romance is a deliciously queasy irony: the more tightly one tries to hold onto love, the more grotesquely it mutates. What begins as a tale of unrequited longing curdles, scene by scene, into something far stranger and morally acidic. Michael Johnston plays Bear, a soft-spoken loner whose fixation on Nikki (embodied with a beguiling mix of warmth and wariness by Indee Navarrette) pushes him toward an ill-advised experiment in sorcery. The spell meant to secure Nikki’s love “forever” works all too well. But Barker, who has a sharp eye for emotional imbalance, is less interested in the mechanics of magic than its psychological toll. Nikki’s devotion becomes absolute, suffocating and increasingly unhinged. Bear soon finds himself recoiling from the very intimacy he engineered. Rather than leaning on shock tactics, Barker allows dread to seep in gradually: a glance that lingers too long, a smile that arrives half a beat too late. The modest scale works to its advantage, trapping the characters in a tightening emotional vise. Johnston gives a finely calibrated performance charting Bear’s shift from yearning to panic with subtle, almost imperceptible changes. If the premise suggests a cautionary fable, the movie avoids heavy-handed moralizing. Instead, it lingers in the gray areas where desire shades into entitlement and affection into possession. The result is a horror flick that feels disarmingly intimate even while edging into the otherworldly. By the time Barker reaches his subtly devastating climax, he's achieved something increasingly rare: a genre exercise that unsettles not through spectacle but recognition. Love, it suggests, is most dangerous not when it fails, but when it refuses to end. (B PLUS.)

RESURRECTION--Bi Gan’s 2025 Cannes competition entry confirms the Chinese auteur as one of contemporary cinema’s most singular architects of time, memory and dream space. Following the languorous hypnotism of "Kaili Blues" (2015) and the vertiginous 3-D reverie of "Long Day’s Journey Into Night" (2018), Bi advances his oeuvre with a movie at once more austere and metaphysically daring:  a work less concerned with narrative resolution than the sensation of consciousness itself drifting across temporal planes. At its most

immediate level, "Resurrection" traces the journey of a taciturn drifter who returns to his remote hometown after years away, summoned by news of a death that may or may not have occurred. What begins as a loosely structured homecoming gradually dissolves into a fugue of overlapping identities and unstable timelines. Encounters with figures who seem to exist both in the present and as echoes of the past--a woman who may be a former lover, a child who resembles the protagonist as a boy, a reclusive caretaker guarding an abandoned cinema--suggest a world in which memory is not recollection but habitation. The “resurrection” of the title emerges less as a literal event than as an ontological condition: the persistence of people and places in altered, recursive forms. Bi’s films have always operated according to a poetics of drift, but here his signature long takes and sinuous camera movements achieve an almost sculptural purity. The extended setpieces (particularly a nocturnal passage through a half-submerged village) recall the bravura sequences of his earlier work, yet they're less ostentatious, more attuned to the rhythms of breathing and perception. Time stretches, contracts and folds in on itself not through overt formal trickery but through a precise orchestration of sound, shadow and spatial disorientation. The result is a work that feels both tactile and oneiric, grounded in physical environments yet perpetually slipping their bounds. Where "Long Day’s Journey" offered a melancholic romanticism, this movie pares emotion down to its barest essences: longing, déjà vu, the faint terror of recognizing one’s own past as something alien. Dialogue is sparse, often elliptical, and the performances are deliberately hollowed out as though the characters themselves are unsure of their own reality. In this sense, Bi edges closer to a kind of cinematic phenomenology, inviting the viewer not to interpret events so much as inhabit their unfolding. Yet for all its austerity, "Resurrection" isn't hermetic. Its images (flickering projectors, flooded streets, faces glimpsed in passing) carry a deep, almost aching beauty, as if the film were mourning the fragility of experience even while preserving it. Bi has always been haunted by the possibility that time cannot be held; here he suggests that it can, in fact, be re-entered if only in fragments. The result is a masterpiece of rare cohesion and ambition that both consolidates and extends Bi’s distinctive visual language. It doesn't simply revisit his familiar concerns but refines them into something approaching the sublime. The Criterion Premieres Blu-Ray includes an interview with Bi and notes by critic Siddhant Adlakha. (A.)  

THE SHEEP DETECTIVES--The irresistible premise of Kyle Balda's pastoral whodunit in which sheep become sleuths yields a disarmingly elegant entertainment that wears its whimsy lightly while honoring the classical pleasures of detective fiction. Shepherd George Hardy (Hugh Jackman) spends his evenings reading crime novels aloud to his flock, blissfully unaware that they comprehend every twist and turn. When George is found dead under mysterious circumstances, the sheep--steeped in the logic of literary murder mysteries--resolve to solve the crime, venturing beyond their meadow into a human world far messier than the tidy narratives in George's books. Balda toggles between rustic charm and procedural intrigue buoyed by a live-action ensemble that includes Emma Thompson, Nicholas Braun and Hong Chau, each contributing a note of human befuddlement in contrast to the sheep’s burgeoning deductive skills. But it's the vocal performances that give the proceedings its most distinctive sparkle. Julia Louis-Dreyfus lends brisk authority to the flock’s de facto leader while Bryan Cranston, Chris O'Dowd, Regina Hall and Patrick Stewart (among others) supply a veritable chorus of live-wire personalities. What emerges is a droll, gently knowing comedy about how narrative shapes perception even for those on society’s margins. (B PLUS.) 

VIRIDIANA—Among the most provocative achievements of Luis Buñuel’s storied career, this 1961 masterpiece occupies a pivotal slot in the director’s filmography: a work that fuses the anticlerical fury of his early surrealist provocations with the cool, observational satire of his later European works. Winner of the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival (and banned in Spain), it stands as one of Buñuel’s most unsettling critiques of charity, piety and bourgeois morality. Produced after Buñuel’s long Mexican exile and during his tentative return to Spanish-language filmmaking, "Viridiana" represents a moment of creative reorientation. While the anarchic dream logic of "Un Chien Andalou" and the savage blasphemy of "L'Age d'O" hover in the background, the tone is more controlled, its provocations delivered with a quiet, almost clinical precision. By this point, Bunuel had refined a method in which surrealist disruption no longer appears as shock montage but as moral paradox embedded within narrative realism. The story follows Viridiana, a novice nun (played with luminous severity by Silvia Pinal) who visits the estate of her uncle before taking her vows. What begins as a conventional melodramatic setup gradually curdles into a meditation on spiritual idealism confronted by human perversity. The uncle, played by future Bunuel muse Fernando Rey, becomes obsessed with Viridiana’s resemblance to his late wife, setting in motion an episode of coercion that permanently unsettles her faith in the moral order she wishes to serve. What distinguishes it within Buñuel’s oeuvre is his refusal to position virtue as a stable counterweight to corruption. Viridiana’s attempt to practice Christian charity by sheltering a group of beggars on the estate leads not to redemption, but grotesque collapse. The infamous sequence in which the beggars stage a drunken parody of the Last Supper remains one of Buñuel’s most audacious images: a moment where sacred iconography becomes carnivalesque spectacle. Yet its power lies less in the scandalous surface than structural irony. Charity, in Buñuel’s formulation, becomes a form of narcissism, an attempt to impose moral order on a world that stubbornly resists it. The beggars themselves are neither romanticized nor demonized; they simply embody the unruly materiality that Viridiana’s spiritual ideals cannot withstand. Seen alongside "Belle de Jour" and "The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie," it forms the core of Buñuel’s late-period triumphs. All three dismantle social institutions--religion, sexuality, bourgeois civility--with a mixture of deadpan humor and philosophical skepticism. But "Viridiana" remains the most austere of the trio, its narrative unfolding with the stark inevitability of a parable gone wrong. In retrospect, the film appears as a harbinger of Buñuel’s mature style. The surrealist iconoclast had evolved into a master ironist, capable of revealing the absurdity of moral systems without raising his voice. If Buñuel’s cinema repeatedly exposes the fragile illusions that sustain social order, this was the moment where that revelation achieves its most devastating clarity.The Criterion Collection’s 4K Blu Ray edition includes interviews with Pinal and scholar Richard Norton; excerpts from a 1964 episode of “Cineastes de notre temps” about Bunuel’s early career; an interview with Bunuel conducted by Mexican critics Jose de la Colina and Tomas Perez taken from their book, “Objects of Desire:  Conversations with Luis Bunuel;” and Princeton University professor Michael Wood’s essay. (A.) 

A WOMAN UNDER THE INFLUENCE--John Cassavetes' 1974 magnum opus stands not only as a towering achievement within its director’s singular oeuvre, but as one of the defining American films of the twentieth century. To claim that it's Cassavetes’ best movie is not to diminish "Faces," "Husbands" or "Love Streams," but to recognize the extraordinary degree to which his aesthetic, ethical and emotional concerns mesh with a force and clarity found nowhere else in his cinema. It's the work in which his fascination with love as a social contract, marriage as sanctuary and battleground and performance as a form of lived-in truths reaches its most devastating realization. At the film's center is Mabel Longhetti (Gena Rowlands), a housewife whose fragile mental state places her at odds with the rigid expectations of domestic normalcy. Cassavetes refuses every easy framework--pathology, melodrama or social diagnosis--that might explain her behavior. Instead he situates Mabel within a dense web of relationships: her well-meaning but volatile husband Nick (Peter Falk), their children, Nick’s coworkers and an extended family that oscillates between concern and barely concealed embarrassment. The movie’s brilliance lies in its insistence that Mabel’s “problem” cannot be isolated from a social environment that demands conformity. "Madness" is not an aberration but a pressure point where love, fear and repression collide. Cassavetes' famously loose, improvisatory style is deployed with remarkable structural discipline. The handheld camera work and raw sound design create an intimacy that borders on the invasive, implicating the viewer in the same uneasy spectatorship practiced by the characters themselves. Few American films have so unflinchingly examined the violence latent in ordinary gestures of care. Yet the movie ultimately belongs to Gena Rowlands whose performance constitutes one of the supreme achievements in screen history. To call it the greatest performance by an American actress is not mere hyperbole, but a recognition of its unprecedented range, vulnerability and moral complexity. Rowlands doesn't “play” mental illness, she embodies a woman whose emotional expressiveness is perpetually out of sync with the world around her. Her Mabel is alternately radiant, awkward, seductive, childlike and terrifying, often within the same frame. Rowlands exposes Mabel’s neediness and excesses without asking for pity, allowing dignity to emerge through her character’s utter lack of social armor. It's acting as a form of existential risk. The film demands that its actors relinquish control, vanity and safety in pursuit of something closer to reality than representation. No performance in cinema so completely collapses the distance between character and actor, observation and participation. In "A Woman Under the Influence," Cassavetes achieves his most profound synthesis of form and feeling, and Rowlands single-handedly redefines what screen acting can be: not illusion, but exposure. The Criterion Collection Blu-Ray includes an audio commentary with composer Bo Harwood and camera operator Michael Ferris; a conversation between Rowlands and Falk; an archival audio interview with Cassavetes conducted by historians Michel Ciment and Michael Wilson; a stills gallery featuring behind-the-scenes photos; Kent Jones' essay,' "The War at Home;" and a 1975 interview with Cassavetes. (A PLUS.) 

 ---Milan Paurich