Breathtaking beauty is on display for three-plus hours, and watching on Blu-ray is the best advertisement for the tourism industry in all four states.

An accomplished cast—Diane Lane and Dennis Quaid as the parents and James Gandolfini as the PBS producer—makes this a worthy pendant to the original, itself available in a truncated DVD version. Extras include directors’ and Lane commentary and short making-of featurette.

The exceedingly dangerous central affair with tragically fatal consequences meanders for far too long, and even if the film has been returned to its original length—113 minutes instead of a truncated 87—Gunn’s patchwork technique results in a disappointing dramatic experience. Extras include The Blood of the Thing, a collection of interviews from the 1998 DVD release; and an audio commentary.

Still, thanks to a cast led by Colm Meaney and Anson Mount and beautiful photography—watching it on Blu-ray is mandatory—the result is genuinely compelling. Extras include behind-the-scenes features and on-set footage.

Which is precisely what it is: beginning with the Big Bang 14 billion years ago, the show quickly moves through the solar system’s origins, dinosaurs, Ice and Stone Ages and the present day in an entertaining style that makes extensive use of CGI, which looks amazing on Blu-ray (and in 3-D if your TV can handle it).

Despite the lunatic goings-on, Nickles’ audaciousness initially compels continued viewing; too bad he runs out of steam and perfunctorily peters out. The movie’s visuals are well-captured on Blu-ray; extras include two making-of featurettes.

This septet of sights provides an enlightening survey of the world’s most popular religions; and Blu-ray is the best way to take this tour, revealing one spectacular sight after another.

Among the 14 episodes’ subjects are how the planets were irrevocably changed, the origin of the solar system (again!), comets, UFOs and even the place of God in the universe. Needless to say, the visuals enthrall as much as the subject matter.

Comments from his wives, children, colleagues and antagonists—and sublime footage of his feuds with Gore Vidal, William F. Buckley and the incredible battle with Rip Torn at the climax of their movie Maidstone—center Joseph Mantegna’s look at the rock star of American writers. Extras include Mailer speaking on various topics and a gallery of his letters.

This strong, intelligent work of activism is equally factual and emotional, which it balances beautifully. Extras include a 30-minute film, More Than One Thing (1969), Freidrichs’ commentary and additional interviews.

Alternating new interviews with vintage footage, Geller and Goldfine show that, with smarts and acumen, American capitalists were once innovative, not merely complainers about unfair taxation ruining job creation. Extras include five deleted scenes.

Hosted by comedian Tony Robinson, Time Team comprises a dozen episodes that are a time machine back to Britain’s Roman past, from London to Wales, and including a stop at the famous Hadrian’s Wall, the poster boy for Roman civilization in Britain.

There are visits to Burghley House Chatsworth, Blenheim Palace, Holkham Hall and Boughton House—the last rightly called the English Versailles, not only for its breathtaking baroque buildings and acres of sculpted lawns but also for the treasure trove of incredible paintings, furnishings and sculptures that clutter up its rooms and grounds. The lone extra is a 22-minute behind-the-scenes featurette.

When a resident of the New York State hamlet of Meredith, three hours north of Manhattan, builds a wind farm on his property, reality hits everyone, pro and con: mills are monstrosities, loud, blot out the sun, expensive, and backed by a conglomerate that makes massive profits whether they work or not. This is a remarkable educational primer for residents of Meredith and Tug Hill, a nearby town farther along in wind farming, and sympathetic viewers. Extras include additional interviews.

Despite its long absence, several arias are among the most popular and memorable in the repertory, and Angela Gheorghiu and Jonas Kaufmann sing them passionately. The orchestra and chorus—led by conductor Mark Elder—are in good form. Visually, McVicar’s production has its peculiarities, with sets and costumes not of the period; the sound blasts out of the speakers. The lone extra is a making-of featurette.

The Criterion Collection deserves accolades for bringing back this modest masterpiece: perhaps its subtle politics will register where didacticism won’t. The low-budget film looks excellent on Blu-ray; extras comprise Young and producer Michael Hausman’s commentary, a new interview with Edward James Olmos (who has a small role) and a short 1973 documentary by Young, Children of the Fields.

Their chemistry—and some del Rio skin—help the bumpy 82-minute ride. The original 35mm print, courtesy of Rochester’s George Eastman House, has been satisfactorily upgraded, although there are inevitable visual blemishes.

The cast is in top form throughout, there are solid one-liners and enough guest stars (Linda Hamilton and Carrie Ann Moss, most obviously) to make the 13 hit-or-miss episodes endurable. On Blu-ray, the series shines; extras include featurettes, deleted scenes and audio commentaries.

The movie has a decent hi-def transfer; extras include on-set featurettes.

Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim are tastes I’ve yet to—and probably won’t—acquire, and despite the fact that one of my favorite singers, Aimee Man, loves them, and despite cameos from the likes of Will Farrell, John C. Reilly, Robert Loggia and William Atherton, this ill-conceived vanity project is DOA. On Blu-ray, the movie looks better than it deserves; extras include a commentary, deleted/extended scenes, interviews and featurettes.

Directors Marlind and Stein’s action sequences have occasional visual pop, but the belabored attempts to make these characters mythic weighs down the plot. The extravagant set pieces translate well to Blu-ray; extras include music video, making-of featurettes, bloopers and a picture-in-picture accompaniment to the film.

Andrea Riseborough and especially Abbie Cornish completely outclass their material, but aside from savvy art direction and Oscar-nominated costuming (both come off best in hi-def), there’s little else to recommend here. The lone extra is a 20-minute featurette.

Among those profiled are Chinese artist Ai Weiwei, who could not attend the unveiling of his sculptures in Manhattan because he was jailed as a dissident; Serbian performance artist Marina Abramovic; and British painter Rackstraw Downes. All of the artists discuss how their provocative art challenges their audiences.

The Architecture of Doom brilliantly dismantles the Nazi ideology of art, which was followed to its fatal end; Dear Uncle Adolf recounts ordinary Germans’ affection for their Fuhrer with an illuminating look at letters written to him; Hitler: A Career succinctly sums up his life and politics in 150 minutes; and The Top Secret Trial of the Third Reich unveils the show trial of those conspirators in the failed assassination attempt of Hitler on July 20, 1944. 

Danny Huston is not bad as the narrating anti-hero, but Elisabeth Rohm is simply outstanding as the wife, giving a rare American film performance filled of naked—in many ways—eroticism. She transforms this cardboard character into a full-blooded woman; all that matches her are excerpts of Beethoven’s chamber music.

If you’re in the right mood, you might get a brief scare, but most viewers will be patently bored: and happy that several of the performers went on to bigger and better things.

Since she never appeared in another movie, having only this on her resume is nothing to crow about. Still, collectors of soft-core flicks will find something here to sate their appetite.

Soon, thanks to grassroots campaigns and bad publicity, it all fell apart for awhile. The director talks with former “patients” and leaders of the program, letting them have their say; extras include a post-Memphis Film Festival screening panel and Fox’s onstage marriage proposal to his partner.

Accompanied with equal parts finesse and power by Kozena’s husband, conductor Simon Rattle, and the Berlin Philharmonic, this live recording is crystalline-sounding.

In the hands of conductor Valery Gergiev, the London Symphony Orchestra plays it for all its worth in a truly dazzling performance. Scarcely less good is their traversal through Igor Stravinsky’s pungent Symphony in Three Movements. Too bad another substantial work didn’t round out this excellent but too short (58 minutes) disc, whose Super Audio CD surround sound is impressive.

If Mitch and Stella are played without much nuance by Wood Harris and Daphne Rubin-Vega, at least there are sparks between Stanley—never identified as Kowalski here, for obvious reasons—and Blanche Dubois: Blair Underwood and Nicole Ari Parker.

After so many inferior Streetcars on New York stages over the years—Alec Baldwin/Jessica Lange, John C. Reilly/Natasha Richardson, the Cate Blanchett import—respectability is just what Blanche’s doctor ordered.

The four nimble performers—Christina Ricci, Halley Wegryn Gross, Nick Gehlfuss and Jordan Dean—aren’t top-notch Shakespeare speakers, but they are able to convey (with a great assist from George De La Pena’s frolicsome choreography) the hilarious and bittersweet absurdities that the relationships in Dream abound in.

Steven Skybell’s Bottom occasionally amuses, Bebe Neuwirth’s Titiana looks smashing in a black leather outfit, and Erin Hill sings pleasingly while accompanied herself on harp. But Speciale’s Dream is nothing special.

As patriarch Ben lies dying in his hospital bed, his wife Rita is giddy with excitement that she’ll finally start a new life, while their children—gay, unattached Curtis and straight, alcoholic, divorced Lisa—helplessly look on.

Mark Brokaw directs with brio, but The Lyons is as undernourished as Silver’s others. And why, for the sake of a bad pun, does he mistitle his own play?

In this typically witty and erudite exploration of the relationship between eternal bachelor Jack and his ward Ann, who has her designs on him, Shaw has written a play massive in scale, including one act, Don Juan in Hell, that’s often presented separately—or deleted entirely from Superman stagings.

Still—as it always does—Shavian wit saves the day, the actors (particularly Brian Murray’s blustering Ramsden) are fine individually and as an ensemble, and the Irish Rep’s tiny stage is used adroitly by Staller and set designer James Noone. It’s not a perfect Man and Superman, but can there be?

But Jo Bonney’s compact staging and the fine cast of seven are able to convey the outlines of real lives anyway.

But despite Pryce’s, Alan Cox’s and Alex Hassell’s heroic efforts, The Caretaker never amounts to much; whether it’s because the play itself lacks gravitas or because we’ve become numbed to Pinter’s rug-pulling is hard to say. Later Pinter works like The Homecoming and Celebration, for all their exaggerated nastiness, have characters worth dissecting: not so The Caretaker.