THE MARIO BAVA COLLECTION (Volume One)

If Riccardo Freda was the grandfather of the Italian Horror film, combining the supernatural with scientific rationalism and the secrets of fragmented psyches, Mario Bava was the father proper. Creating several important conventions of the supernatural gothic and giallo film, Bava's aesthetic sensibilities forged a stylistic template which is still imitated. Bava's craftsmanship is now more readily acknowledged by critics but the scope of his artistry is taken for granted. While Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento, and lesser mavens Joe D'Amato, are lavished with praise, the man who started it all is often overlooked. Bava was the first truly important Italian director to merge the spectral conventions of the gothic and psychological in his lyrical operas of fem fatales, vampires, and psycho sexual killers. Mining the dark byways of human instinct, he brought a penetrating sense of realism to the suspense formula, treating unnerving sexuality and taboo themes with unprecedented atmosphere. From the darkly beautiful romanticism of Black Sunday to the psychological thrills and preoccupation with murder of The Woman Who Knew Too Much, Bava's attention to character is intense and his visual integrity mirrors the haunted emotions of his Outsiders. A gift for fans, Anchor Bay's The Mario Bava Collection (Vol One), collects five of the maestro's visions of terror and awe, marking a definite improvement over the original Image releases. These near flawless transfers give fans ample opportunity to examine Bava's directorial and technical skill as never before, and mark what we can hope is a resurgence in the man's life and career.

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Bava's filmography is an aesthetic history of Italian terror. Within it we can trace the major themes, story lines, and styles of European and modern American horror. From the supernatural Gothic of the genre's appropriately termed 'Golden Period' (where he developed his distinctive visual flair as a cinematographer Riccardo Freda) to the psycho-sexual Giallo murder mysteries that he injected with sexual subtext and delirious violence, Bava was at his best when exploring the night-side of the species. This he often chose to represent with traditional supernatural symbols. Bava's love of folklore was served marvellously well by a technique grounded in the traditional basics -- and challenged/evolved by a personal directorial approach anything but traditional. This is obvious in his very first film, wherein he uses the camera as a subjective eye, establishing lingering POV shots and subjective camera angles to help tell a twisted story of similarly fragmented lives grappling with the supernatural (all long before it became cliché to do so). Bava is devoted to atmosphere and the mechanics of mood in Mask of the Demon, which lends sinister beauty to this visual poem of desire and decay.

Filmed in 1960 in attempts to cash in on the British success of Dracula, Bava chose La Maschera Del Demonio as his first independent project (awarded to him because he had helped finish other director's work, including Caltiki for Freda). The Mask Of Satan was released in the US under the title Black Sunday for exploitation mavericks AIP. In a plot exploring the dissolvent of the traditional family and the contradictory nature between fantasy and reality with the more obvious theme of occult revenge, Black Sunday focuses on the malignant shadow the past exerts over the present. During the 17th century, Princess Asa Vajda (Barbara Steele) is condemned to bloody death by her Catholic inquisitor brother as punishment for witchcraft. The scene where a mask of spikes is brutally pounded into her beautifully enraged, fearful face still packs a punch! Here we immediately see Bava's subjective originality as he focuses on the mask's eyeholes approaching Steele's erotically doomed face. Asa vows to return from the grave and wreak havoc on her family (a pet theme of the era, used in Long Hair of Death and several other gothic films). The remaining plot merges traditionalist themes of sin and redemption with unique visual flourishes. Centuries later Adrej Gorobe (John Richardson) and Tomas Kruvajan (Andrea Checci), two doctors travelling to a medical convention, come upon the moldering crypt of a depleted castle that holds the final resting place of Asa -- a crumbling sarcophagus that one of the doctors spills blood on. Resurrected, Asa awakens her demonic consort, enslaves the doctor, and works her will upon the doomed Vajda family, whose surviving daughter Katia resembles her. An atmospherically startling conflict between good and evil, love and loss ensues.

A fable of sin and culpability, Black Sunday marries a literary plot devoted to Old Testament morality with visuals seeped in suggestive sensuality. Atmospheric and thematic elements are brought to the fore by Bava's compositions, dream-laden story logic, and Steele's iconic performance. This release makes it apparent just how effectively Bava married the psychological conflicts of characters in the physical elements of atmospheric sets. A fairy tale for adults, this film resonates with the earthy power (and narrative honesty) of a folk tale, evoking a sense of the primal, the archetypal. The plot is satisfying enough to work as drama and simplistic enough to allow the viewer to breath, creating a timeless quality. The emotionally satisfying premise of a witch/vampire returning to possess her descendent -- and the moments of psychological introspection that follow -- lend further complexity.

A conservative moral sense informs The Mask of Satan. This is evident in the major theme, which is 'the sins of the fathers' being visited upon their children, as the malevolent Asa uses the very structure of the family unit to undermine the innocent. Bava gives vent to a truly nightmarish universe here. Chaos threatens to wash away conventional faith at first, but humanity is redeemed by love. Innocence is not necessarily enough to save one from evil, and the 'good' fall just as easily as the culpable, yet goodness has its own rewards, as the ending reveals. This uneasy yet undeniably effective interplay between traditional folklore motifs and a philosophy that teeters from nihilism to almost cliché moralizing increases the tension. Of course Bava's visual sense is paramount. Rolling fog banks, foreboding castles, pale faces, and bleak skies are accompanied by the mournful wail of spirits as Bava draws tight his narrative.

Anchor Bay presents Mask of Satan in its uncut and uncensored international version, sporting the original Italian original score and somewhat irritating English dubbing. While the Italian language version and/or the AIP musical score would have been wonderful additions (perhaps even as extra tracks), the Mono rendition of Roberto Nicolosi's score is appropriately moody. The anamorphic 1.66:1 aspect ratio is superb, with crisp black-and-white images. Anchor Bay's transfer is considerably cleaner than the original Image disc, sporting sharper depth.

Extras are plentiful, although some are culled from the Image disc, which debuted around six years ago. Particularly engaging is the Audio Commentary from Tim Lucas, who covers a wide range of topics. Focusing not only on the film (relating several little known facts about the production and its influences), Lucas also discusses the time period, the genre as a whole, and manages to connect several different threads back to the film without loosing his main focus (or our interest). Although this is the same track used by Image, it bears listening to again. Next is the International trailer, which suggests a more serious film than the ensuing US Trailer, put fourth from AIP. A satisfying Poster and Stills gallery is next, featuring images from the film and some publicity posters. A TV spot is followed by written Bios for Bava and Steele.

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The second disc is the much maligned Black Sabbath (1963), a disturbing frame-tale of betrayal, sexual indulgence, and death. Wrapped within the time-honored anthology format each tale is lent the timeless permanence of a folk-tale, merging literary motifs with an intimate (and chilling) perspective of mortality.

Boris Karloff not only narrates the journey in full cheesy glory but appears in the most beautifully photographed entry, The Wurdalak, the most memorable of the pieces. Closing out the AIP American version, here the episode is second, and, no, alas Karloff's voice is not his own. The Italian version of this anthology, Three Faces of Fear, is what we get, and, to be truthful, Karloff's voice aside, this is the best way to see the film. While AIP'S cut has its fans, and brings a sense of campy humor to the table, the changes in sequencing and content change the overall theme. This print, then -- the Italian version -- is indispensable for Bava devotes.

Three Faces of Fear begins with The Telephone, a stylish nod to the giallo that focuses on Rosy (Michele Mercier), a beautiful young woman who returns home after partying to find herself victim to increasingly nasty telephone calls. There seems, in fact, to be no one on the line, which adds a ghostly sense of menace to the proceedings. When the caller finally does speak, she realizes she is being watched, and that someone from her past is very angry, and very, very near . . . Calling Mary, an old lover with whom she's had a falling out, Rose hopes to weather the coming storm of violence. Betrayal and revenge close the film in an emotionally intensive manner quite different than the American version. The second story, The Wurdalak, originates from a Russian story/theme in folklore, and is an atmospheric masterwork, terrifying without the need for physical bloodshed, effective because its fears are steeped in relationships and the nature of love and loss. Count Vladimire d'Urfe (Mark Damon) discovers a headless corpse with a dagger in its heart when travelling on horseback. He brings the corpse to a nearby hut. The family tells him that their father recently set out to slay the 'Wurdalak,' a vampire. Later that evening Gorca (Boris Karloff), the patriarch, returns home . . . changed. His dog doesn't recognize him, the children instinctively shy away from his touch. Having killed the vampire, Gorca has himself become such a creature. After Gorca slays one of his grandchildren, d'Urfe tries to save Gorca's daughter Sdenka (Susy Andersen) from her father's fate. In a disturbing comment on the destructive power of love, both the girl and our protagonist's soul are lost to darkness. A Drop of Water, the third tale, is perhaps the most disturbing, digging away at human psychology. Emphasizing the nature of greed and guilt, this is both a tragedy and fantasy of subversive intimacy. A nurse (Jacqueline Pierreux) is called out on a storm-swept night to tend to a corpse that must be laid out in traditional fashion before burial. The nurse helps herself to a ring from the corpse (she was a medium who died in a séance) and drops a glass of water -- the sound of dripping water at the scene of the crime follows her home, tormenting her with guilt. In an atmosphere of isolation and the occult which is suggested rather than completely stated she is driven mad -- and either kills herself or is killed by the vengeful spirit.

In Black Sabbath, the script's explosive moments of lust and violence are accompanied by undeniable emotional resonance. Generous amounts of skin and blood are mirrored by surprisingly believable dialogue, careful camera compositions, and a self assured directing style that, while lacking the primal power of Black Sunday, displays Bava's growing skill at coloring his nightmares with distinctive shadows and mood, and a refined sense of plotting and character development. Bava marries subject to form with skill and energy. His gothic nightmares and modern psychosis are embodied in tantalizing explosions of surrealistic imagery, the fantastic, and cold intellect. Telling stories with images instead of words, he dips the screen in the blue of fantasy and the red of violence and eroticism. So intensely believable are his various worlds of fantasy, science fiction, ancient history, and horror that it's often difficult to tell where Bava's real world ends and his cinematic escapes begin. A foundation of fantasy underlies many of his films, evoking in even the most realistic scenes the tension and phantasmagoria of an adult faerie tale, which, to an extent, was precisely what a number of his films were - modern myths and fables of terror, identity, transformation, and alienation. Instilling formulaic genres and plot devices with original ideas and a uniquely disquieting style, a lurking shadow of tension and palpable suspense flows beneath the visually thrilling surface action of his dark mysteries of self, soul, and the supernatural, evoking a sense of the outré even when the content is placed strictly in the realm of the realistic. For it isn't so much what Bava did as how he did it, teasing the soul of his subjects, scenes, and characters whose approach and effect captured an essence of occult power even when their themes were devoted to the realm of physical reality.

Fans were originally told that the Bay was releasing both the Italian and AIP American cut of this feature, and it is a shame that this couldn't come to pass, for a double feature would have proved valuable for comparison. The American-International version not only changed the sequential order of the episodes but left off some of the more atmospheric moments. More importantly, it altered the phone episode, eliminating any reference of Lesbianism, tacking on a ghost story instead (the ghost story actually works better, instilling a deeper sense of unease). Be that as it may, this is the film as envisioned by Bava. Featuring the original score and Italian language track, Three Faces of Fear is an authentic piece of horror history, and a poetic hybrid of camp and the gothic. This transfer is much cleaner/sharper than the previous Image release, cleaning up the scratches in that print. A second commentary with Bava-obsessed (hey, that's a good thing!) Tim Lucas packs so much information into his talk that you feel compelled to whip out a notebook and take notes! A Life In Film: An Interview With Mark Damon is an enjoyable addition (particularly on some of the things he claims to have accomplished, such as inspiring Roger Corman to make his Poe adaptations!). International and American Trailers are included on the disc, as well as a TV Spot, Radio Spot, Poster Gallery, and well written Bios for Bava and Karloff.

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Bava's unerring sense of style is just as apparent in The Girl Who knew Too Much (1962) as in the Gothic films he would be idolized for. This, the first Gailo proper, focuses on style and plot more often than subtle nuances of characterization. The Giallo, in general, has courted both controversy and admiration for its unapologetic worship of imagery over content, focusing on violence, sexual intensity, and perversion. Specializing in convoluted plots, psychosexual imagery, and offbeat characters whose shifting perceptions hold deadly secrets, Giallos evoke the physical horror of corrupted/damaged flesh while celebrating the same. Similarly it evokes emotional terrors of betrayal, the modern world's sense of alienation, and the instinctive fear of loss. Originating as an established art form with this picture, Bava focused on a major POV character struggling with her memory/sense of perception to decode acts of violence, establishing a theme that would be stolen in many later films both in and out of the genre. Creating the formula, this POV character, reused in countless variations, witnesses/experiences an act whose deciphering is crucial to her survival (and the plot!). Perception becomes a character unto itself, emphasized alongside the fetishistic imagery. No where is this more true than here.

In a story line that emphasizes mystery and the art of detection, and which focuses most powerfully on the main character's frail mental condition as she attempts to uncover a deadly murder spree, young and sexually ripe (if dreamy and inexperienced) Nora Dralston (Leticia Roman) takes a vacation to Rome. With a deep affection for murder-mystery novels, Nora's inexperience and naivety -- as well as her need to experience intrigue for her own development -- makes her the ideal candidate for the ensuing mayhem. When she arrives on the very night that her aunt Edith up and dies, she gets more than she bargained for. In a panic, she rushes outside only to be attacked by a mugger. Knocked unconscious, she first witnesses a crime whose implications/identity she doesn't quite comprehend (a genre staple milked for further effect in Argento's later thrillers, particularly the 'Animal' trilogy), and whose fragmented puzzle-pieces she must supply before she too is murdered. Hospitalized, Nora is dismissed as an over imaginative girl by the handsome young Marcello Bassi (John Saxon), a doctor. When a mysterious man begins to stalk her, and further murders occur, her amateur investigation leads to 'The Alphabet Murders,' a series of events never solved. Everyone is a suspect before the tension packed if happy ending.

Wielding the camera like a knife, cutting conventions of expectation with as much passion as his masked, black-gloved killers exhibit separating flesh from bone, Bava's brush is humanity, his canvas the world - a world not only of sights and sounds but of emotional extremes that fluctuate between innocence and deviance with the blink of an eye. Using light, shadow, various gels, and impressive special effects, Bava breathes cinematic life into sound intellectual and emotional concepts. These, much like his intimate yet flashy approach to violence, were way before their time. His major characters were not actors - they were, in fact, the primal, universal phenomena of death, violence and eroticism. Bava was also a dreamer with the industry know-how to lend flesh to emotional concepts, breathing suspense into deteriorating portraits of culture that both mirror and are mirrored by the select characters who Bava's disorganized but penetrating story focuses on. Thematic anchors upon which to hang his roving camera as well as flesh-and-blood personas who breathe and kill and die, Bava's characters are both symbolic and intimate, and his treatment of them subtle - when he isn't brutally killing them.

Employing sensual camera shots and gliding pans, murder is lent colorful flair, shocking without the graphic excess of, say, Bay of Blood. Graceful, operatic in a way that the excesses of slasher films can't mimic, the misogynist accusations against this story are overemphasized by those with their own political axes to grind. Interweaving the art of detection and the cold thrills of suspense with sexual frenzy, uncontrollable human impulses, and enthusiastic if far from graphic bouts of violence, Bava emphasizes the uncharacteristically complex motivations of his characters while making the problem of perception - so crucial to the success of the Giallo - uncomfortably intimate. He accomplishes this by making his character's motives understandable, and making violence disturbingly beautiful while portraying the desirable act of sex as a prelude to treachery.

This marks the first time that The Girl Who Knew Too Much has ever seen shelf space anywhere in its original uncut International version. If this wasn't reason enough to cry whoopee! than the condition of the print should be. Featured in carefully preserved anamorphic 1.77:1, the transfer is clean and gorgeous, evoking the beauty that only black and white imagery can. Anchor Bay's admirable transfer is again a significant improvement on the original image release, having removed many of that copy's scratches. Most of the lines are now gone, and there is no noticeable grain or splotches. This is clearly the best way to see Bava's seminal Giallo. Also impressive is the language track, featured in the original Italian language (with optional English Subs). The sound and score are perfectly passable in Mono, preserving the original listening experience of the film, and the theme song is annoyingly catchy.

Extras are just as generous here as for above discs, featuring yet another Audio Commentary with Tim Lucas, who somehow manages to keep finding new facets of Bava's personal and professional life to unearth for our illumination, putting Bava and his contributions in prospective in particular relevance to this often underrated yet indispensable effort. Lucas' commentary -- original to this release-- unearths new visual and thematic dimensions to the story as it unfolds on screen, with even his more outré interpretations evoking reflection. His mentions of the AIP cut of the film makes one eager to see it

Perry Martin and Frank H. Woodward interview John Saxon as well, and it is a delight to see him weighing in with his memories regarding the experience of working with Bava. Saxon is always professional and an interesting speaker, and his insights -- particularly his early impressions of Bava -- are rather surprising. Both an International and US Trailer are next, as well as another Poster and Still Gallery.

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Knives of the Avenger (1966) is something of a departure from Bava's customary subject matter yet is charged with the director's trademark atmospheric flair, use of color, and narrative rhythm. Brooding, sexually charged borderlands between hate and love, redemption and sin are emphasized by both the basic story and Bava's interesting choices of emphasis. Character's sins and motivations are brought close to home, daring us to sympathize with them despite their classically tragic pasts. Whereas Bava's Giallos operate in an emotionally cold wasteland where the identities and motivations of the killers are closely guarded until final revelations and his supernatural epics focus on a marriage of occult tragedy with intimate character flaws, this historical adventure rotates between the violence of steel and warmth of compassion.

A rather typical entry in the Sword and Sandal 'Viking' sweepstakes of the era saved by Bava's unique interpretation of the genre, Knives of the Avenger is riff off pseudo history combining an Epic big picture feel with a theme of personal redemption and familial honor. While Queen Karin's husband King Harald is lost at sea she hides away with her son Moki from one Hagan, a brute who wishes to marry her, and won't take no for an answer. When a beggar comes by her hideout (similar to a scene from The Oddessey), she turns him away, breaking the Nordic code of hospitality -- a no no! -- but, later, he returns to save her from being assaulted by two men. When she lets him stay, she discovers that he is none other than Rurik, a bum who raped her years before in retaliation at Hagan for murdering his wife and son. When he learns that there is a possibility that Moki might be his own son, he finds a new purpose in life -- a new family to defend against Hagan and his soldiers.

Knives of the Avenger takes a mind-numbingly dull sub-genre -- one too often littered with sweaty men's chests and nothing much to do with them but heave and grunt -- and graces it with a tragic and classically structured drama. This is heroic tragedy of Greek stature, padres. This narrative could have also been converted into a western, urban crime film, or war drama. In this case, Bava films it as a historical action story, focusing his energetic eye on the structure of the family unit (a re-occurring theme in his work), and spicing up the more internalized drama of relationships with some blistering fight scenes. By making the hero a one-time rapist, and his new family none other than the woman he raped (and a child who may be his own), Bava challenges the over simplified relationships usually played out in between one-sided Good guys and Bad guys. Here, there is no clear dividing line, no good or bad, merely different shades of gray. Loyalties, like time and feelings, change. Irony is developed in a naturalistic manner. In fact, the entire film, while looking good (as it should, being helmed by Bava) looks more realistic, more gritty and unadorned than many of his other films, particularly the fantasies and gothics. Resembling Rabid Dogs in its approach to lighting, the tough romanticism of its themes are juxtaposed with the realism of the action and mood. More gentle and tender than many of Bava's film, and strangely optimistic despite the emphasis on crime and redemption, a sadness permeates the entire story, and the ending seems both harsh and poetic, a condemnation and celestial pardon, of sorts. This is strong, dramatic stuff, folks, played for intimacy rather than the usual grunts so inherent in the genre.

The least of these titles both thematically and stylistically, Knives of the Avenger is still a worthwhile addition to Bava's filmography, and is treated respectably. Sporting a 2.35:1 widescreen aspect ratio, anamorphically enhanced, this transfer is a bit murkier than the above three films but nothing to snub, as colors are bold and images clean. Little grain is noticeable, but enough to worry over. The overall clarity of the print reinforces Bava's use of color in depicting mood, something even more prominent in the supernatural thrillers. The new Italian track is wonderfully crisp with Optional English Subs, always appreciated when dealing with foreign films. The original Mono track is clean and efficient, and as an extra feature, the English Dubbed track is also offered, allowing for an enjoyably different experience. The other extras are minimal, consisting of a Trailer and the repetitive Bava Bio.

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Bava was at his arguable best when exploring the night-side of the psyche as it grappled with the mysteries of the unknown, which he chose to represent with primal supernatural symbols. His love of folklore and traditional storytelling aesthetics was served marvellously well by a technique and directorial approach anything but traditional, using the camera as a subjective eye long before it became cliché to do so. The results of his approach are nothing less than visually magnificent in Kill Baby Kill, one of his last forays into the Gothic realm which he kicked off with Black Sunday. A fable of sin, repression, and guilt wrapped in the narrative puzzle of supernatural conspiracy, this film is one of Bava's most effective occult achievements. Marrying a plot devoted to Old Testament-like morality with visuals seeped in fog, mystery, and dread, this is also a bold piece of surrealism. Each of these elements is emphasized by Anchor Bay's impressive release, which makes it apparent just how closely -- and to what depth of effect -- Bava married the psychological conflicts of characters with fantastic imagery.

Dr. Eswe (Giacomo Rossi-Stuart), a young coroner, is summoned to a desolate Eastern European village to investigate a series of mysterious deaths. There he meets the attractive and naive Monica (Erika Blanc), a medically trained native who has recently returned to her home. Forming an autopsy on a young maid against the villager's wishes, Dr. Eswe finds that he's been dragged into a nightmare of ancient curses and spectral revenge. Legend has it that a young child who was left to die on the street during a festival by the town drunkards returns to haunt the village, and that whomever she looks on dies. Discovering a golden coin hidden in a corpse's heart by a local witch Ruth (Fabienne Dali), the good doctor travels to the Villa Graps to see the reclusive Baroness (Gianna Vivaldi), where he descends into a horrifying puzzle of demonic manifestation and the supernatural. Amidst native violence and the mistrust that the doctor must face, the shade of Melissa haunts the town at night, attacking even those who mention her name. Who will be next? And what can a single man do about it?!

Kill Baby Kill is a folk tale on film, capturing the primal immediacy of that rustic form in its simplistic yet emotionally satisfying premise. A conservative moral sense informs both the story and its stylistic execution, but is soon overthrown as Bava leads us to a world of immorality. This is most evident in the theme of 'the sins of the fathers' being visited upon the children, as the malevolent wanders the village cursing/murdering not only the guilty but the innocent as well. In this Bava crafts a truly nightmarish universe that is also more honest in its chaotic temper. Many of the revenant's victims played no part in her tragic death, yet their innocence doesn't matter. An uneasy interplay between traditional folklore and such nihilistic philosophy increase tension as Bava allows his visual sense to drench the cast and setting in palpable terror. Rolling fog banks, foreboding castles, pale ghosts, and orange sunsets creep across the screen, accompanied by the mournful wail of spirits as Bava draws his profoundly disturbing narrative tight. Growing from the supernatural themes of the film, moments of the absurd stand out as emotionally jarring. Yet these are achieved in such a way as to appear naturally grown from the situation. Breaking with classical supernatural tradition, which often treats the supernatural as an unnatural invasion of previously established contexts of reality, Bava subverts reality from within, suggesting the disturbing possibility that 'reality' itself is fluid and constantly changeable, and frail human kind in little if any control of either the nature of existence or his tenuous place within it. A great innovator, merging not only genres but various visual and technological styles, the director expresses a wonderful sense of the surrealistic -- a seed that would flower to greater effect in Lisa and the Devil, his masterwork.

Kill Baby Kill receives a respectful treatment visually, presented in its aspect scope of 1.85:1, enhanced for anamorphic televisions. The transfer is lush and haunting, revealing depth and a baroque flourish. Colors are crisp and firmly entrenched in a Gothic sensibility, including bleeding sunsets and blue-tinted shadows in murky, dark nights. The language track is in original Italian with optional subs, and increases the authenticity of the viewing experience. The audio level is satisfying in original Mono.

Extras are a mixed bag not only for what this disc lacks but for what we now know the Dark Sky Films version had managed to cull together. Dark Sky's version sported not only an informative Audio Commentary by Tim Lucas but one of the most impressive interviews with Lamberto Bava ever conducted (revisiting original locations from the film), directed by David Gregory. Anchor Bay only offers the International Trailer and Curse of the Living Dead (its alternative title) TV Spots. This is a small (if valid) complaint, yet the film looks so good that you can forgive it. More importantly, this marks the first time -- in the US at least -- that the film has been presented with its original language track. While one wonders what prevented Dark Sky from delivering their edition of the film, and hopes to see at least the fine extras on that disc in the future, until then this disc is leaps beyond past prints, and is a fitting ending to a box set that treats its director with appreciation and its audience with generosity. A treasure trove for those without these titles already in their collection, the set is also recommended for those who already own the Image editions, as these prints look superior. The original language tracks, commentaries, and visual documentation of the films make it worth a double dip.

Review by William P. Simmons