Summertime DVD Break

Dark City: The Director’s Cut
In the final few years of the 20th century, a heady sort of trend emerged in science fiction film. Reacting largely to technology’s progressing effect on the human experience, The Matrix and a handful of lesser tagalongs wrapped up notions of reality and experience in a bow of paranoiac sci-fi capering. The easy pinnacle of this mini-genre, though (now that we can all agree on The Matrix as little more than a rad tech demo) is the one that takes its cues from deep fantasy rather than virtual reality: Alex Proyas’ 1998 stunner Dark City, which follows an apparently murderous amnesiac (Rufus Sewell) through the streets of its titular metropolis as he investigates his own emerging telekinetic powers as well as a race of pasty “Strangers” who may or may not be bending reality to their own sinister purposes.

Silly as its synopsis may sound, Dark City's gorgeous, austere blend of fantastical sci-fi and film noir has gained an enthusiastic following since its initial box office sputter (Roger Ebert champions the film as 1998’s single best), and the newly prepared Director’s Cut should only improve its standing. Most of the changes are minor, even unnoticeable, but it’s the big one that makes the difference: Gone is the theatrical release’s studio-mandated opening narration and montage, which together gave away egregious chunks of information about the nature of the Strangers.

The result is a much more suitably mysterious film, as these antagonists and their visually wondrous methods are afforded the introductions and impact they deserve, reinforcing Proyas’ strong vision for what the disc’s special features reveal is a film of great personal importance to him. It’s generally true that the “alternate cut” has lately become as much a way to move DVDs as a deference to the filmmaker, but fans of the film (and first-time viewers even moreso) will be glad to know this one moves an already underrated film squarely into the upper reaches of the sci-fi canon.

Spaced: The Complete Series
Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg’s Shaun Of The Dead and Hot Fuzz are often unfairly grouped with the unfortunate sort of lowest-common-denominator behemoths that lately pass for “spoofs,” but two things clearly distinguish them (aside, of course, from actually being funny): a dignified internal logic that manifests cultural gags and references through the characters rather than simply around them, and the even more impressive feat of bringing this giddy homage across in the very craft of the film rather than merely through the script.

The many genre fans eagerly awaiting the duo’s next project (due in 2010) will be glad to know their first collaboration is finally available in a stateside DVD release.

Spaced is not, however, a feature film, nor does it (as the title may suggest) have anything directly to do with science fiction. It’s a sitcom, and a rather run-of-the-mill one in concept: Pegg and co-creator Jessica Stevenson play Tim and Daisy, two acquaintances who pretend to be a couple to score an affordable North London flat.

The pair’s friends and neighbors round out a small, strong ensemble, but the real treats emerge as the show finds its footing midway through the first season: A treatise on the pop culture-saturated British slacker circa 2000, Spaced follows sitcom conventions only between offhanded cannonballs into deft genre homages, bringing to the consciously mundane details and hassles of lazy, grown geekdom a kinetic, surprisingly suitable tone.

Yet Pegg, Wright and Stevenson never take their eyes off the prize: Spaced’s clever, observant character work and thoughtful (but never pandering) emotional dynamics make the show extremely accessible even for those who aren’t inclined to, say, nod solemnly along as Tim’s general disposition remains soured seven months after The Phantom Menace’s release. The show’s two-season, 14-epsiode run makes for a tidy DVD set (which includes a feature-length doc on the series) but potential viewers should be warned that 14 episodes aren’t nearly enough of something so special.

Trafic: The Criterion Collection
French actor and filmmaker Jacques Tati only made a handful of films (most of them starring his bumbling, guileless alter ego Monsieur Hulot), but his inimitable blend of physical humor, quizzical social commentary and visual acuity was sufficiently brilliant to ensure that each remains in high regard despite flaws. This pertains particularly to 1971’s Trafic, the final and slightest of his Hulot quartet, but the film still handily impresses; the most plot-driven (at least the one that can actually be summarized) of Hulot’s outings, Trafic finds the character a car designer tasked with transporting his company’s latest prototype to an Amsterdam car show.