The Films of Peter Greenaway

Color, 2007, 134m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring Martin Freeman, Jodhi May, Emily Holmes, Michael Teigen, Michael Culkin, Eva Birthistle / Paradise Digital (Russia R5 NTSC) / WS (2.35:1) (16:9) / DD5.1
After the sprawling and mostly ignored indulgences of his still-obscure Tulse Luper Suitcases series, director Peter Greenaway thankfully decided to go back to basics with this film, an atmospheric mystery revolving around the creation of one of the world's most famous paintings, Rembrandt's "The Night Watch." As with all of Greenaway's more recent output, this one has had extreme difficulty finding distribution outside the usual festival circuit, but it's easily his most satisfying piece of work in the past decade.
In the startling opening sequence, a shadowy group of men waving torches in the darkness assault and temporarily blind Rembrandt (The Office's Martin Freeman). The story then flashes back to find the bawdy Rembrandt living with his pregnant wife, Saskia (Birthistle). As Holland's most prestigious painter, he's commissioned to create a group portrait of Amsterdam's musketeer militia. When one of the musketeers is killed in a military "accident," the painter suspects foul play and begins to investigate, slipping clues into his painting to create an indictment of the guilty parties. Unfortunately, this tactic exposes more than he expected (including a particularly perverse brothel), and the conspiracy manipulates one of his servants, Geertje (May), into contributing to his downfall.
A staggeringly beautiful film, Nightwatching wisely drops the hyperactive digital image layering which consumed Greenaway's more recent work. Instead, the narrative (which often deliberately recalls his first feature, the lush art-history thriller The Draughtsman's Contract) serves as a more linear structure than usual with a fiesty lead performance by Freeman, who imbues the entire project with a welcome amount of lusty humor, energy and soul. Greenaway also includes some welcome elements of other past works (the dark, beautifully-lit stage tableaux from The Baby of Macon, the Dutch painting obsessions from A Zed and Two Noughts, the elaborate and often lewd banquets from The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, the birth and creation/destruction motifs of The Belly of an Architect), and thankfully Greenaway has finally gone back to using an original score, this time by Wlodek Pawlik with a few potent quotations from Giovanni Solamar. Newcomers probably won't find much to latch onto here, but those lamenting the absence of a really juicy film from the director should find plenty to enjoy here. And no one has ever managed to make shots of sweeping torches in the dark look creepier.
Since most viewers will probably never have a chance to see this in a theater, the Russian DVD release makes for a welcome alternative. The anamorphic transfer looks satisfying throughout; some digital distortion is evident in the opening and closing credits, but overall the powerful chiaroscuro lighting effects are captured beautifully. The powerful 5.1 surround mix (in English) is subtle but effective as well, often echoing the unnerving ambient surround effects found in Cook. (A 5.1 Russian-dubbed version is also included, along with optional Russian subtitles). The disc comes beautifully packaged in a cardboard Digipack; no extras, apart for promos for some of the company's other upcoming releases.

Color, 1987, 119m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring Brian Dennehy, Chloe Webb, Lambert Wilson, Stefania Casini / MGM (US R1 NTSC) / WS (1.85:1) (16:9), Culture (Japan R2 NTSC) / DD2.0
Wildly out of step with his previous two films, Peter Greenaway's The Belly of an Architect moves far away from the pastoral England of his early work and instead glides through the austere, vaguely ominous streets of Rome where towering, crumbling architecture hovers godlike over the people below. Ostensibly a game of emotional musical chairs played with an American, an Englishwoman, and two devious Italian siblings, the film is really a study of permanence (or lack thereof), as legacies both fulfilled and still growing overshadow the pain of lives destined to be cut short.
The titlular architect, Stourley Kracklite (Brian Dennehy), arrives in Italy by train while still in the throes of passion with his wife, Louisa (Sid and Nancy's Chloe Webb). That night they're welcomed with a gala dinner inaugurating Kracklite's newest project, overseeing the research and restoration for an installation devoted to the French architect Etienne-Louis Boullée. Meanwhile nature has two surprises in store: Louisa is now pregnant, and Stourley is suffering from advancing stomach cancer. Stourley plunges headlong into his own private obsessions, repeatedly photocopying architectural designs, wandering the great buildings of Rome, and ignoring the needs of his wife who soon falls into the arms of one of Stourley's patrons, Caspasian Speckler (The Matrix Reloaded's Wilson), who plots with his sister, Flavia (Suspiria's Casini), to usurp all of the glory and potential cash from Kracklite's project.
In terms of plot and visual fillips, this is still one of Greenaway's most minimalist films; the drama moves along its nine-month course in a simple, accessible manner (next to Drowning by Numbers, this would be the best place for Greenaway newcomers to begin), largely eschewing the eccentric peripheral characters who populate most of his other films. Most significantly, this was Greenaway's first film with a strong human pulse thanks to Dennehy's impassioned performance; not surprisingly, Greenaway's next three films were as much actors' showcases as they were aesthetic studies. Cinematographer Sacha Vierny returns again with his trademark gliding camerawork, conjuring up some breathtaking visuals around various Roman landmarks. Even such simple devices as a child's top and billowing curtains become objects of visual delight through his lens, making his absence from world cinema now especially regrettable. Regular composer Michael Nyman had to step out of this project due to other commitments, but his position is more than ably filled with a stunning score from modern classical favorite Wim Mertens (with a handful of somber cues from Glenn Branca still remaining after most of his score was rejected).
Barely released upon completion, The Belly of an Architect received a token run in British cinemas from Film Four but didn't reach American audiences until 1990 after the surprise success of Greenaway's The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover. Unfortunately Hemdale's video transfer captured little of the film's visual sheen, burying it in an ugly, cropped transfer swabbed in murky tones of brown. The Japanese DVD (which optically censored Casini's frontal nudity) was a slight improvement but still cropped and very soft. MGM's DVD offers the closest approximation to the theatrical experience, with a good color palette and much better framing; here's a film where anamorphic enhancement is really essential to catching all of the details within each shot. The surround audio sounds solid, limited mainly to the propulsive score. The only extra is the Hemdale theatrical trailer.

Color, 2003, 127m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring JJ Field, Caroline Dhavernas, Scot Williams / Lauren (Spain R2 PAL) / WS (1.85:1) (16:9) / DD5.1
Imagine a young librarian on a sugar bender let loose with a video editor and a Mac computer at four in the morning, and the results might be something like The Moab Story, the first installment in Peter Greenaway's sprawling, episodic feature series entitled The Tulse Luper Suitcases. The character of Tulse Luper has drifted unseen through the director's work since early short films like "Water Wrackets" and played a key role in The Falls, the closest cinematic analogy to this film. The result is the most abstract and difficult work from the filmmaker in two decades, and apart from the impressive roster of guest stars, one can only wonder how the financiers expect to make back their investment.
After a puzzling prologue in South Wales in which the young Luper is injured by a collapsing brick wall during war bombing, the action picks up with his early adult life in 1928 as the perpetual historian/voyager arrives in Moab, Utah shortly after the discovery of uranium. During a stay at the ranch of the affluent Hockmeister family, he arouses the ire of the residents and, at the hands of the thuggish, flag-wearing Percy (Scot Williams), ends up bound in the desert with his nether regions swathed in honey for the local bees. The manipulative Passion Hockmeister (Caroline Dhavernas) has other plans in mind and ends up accompanying the oft-incarcerated Tulse Luper to Europe. Along the way, our hero collects significant fragments from his journeys in a series of suitcases (92 in total) which comprise the ordering system used to structure the film itself.
Continuing the clinical lists and organizing of such films as Prospero's Books (basically The Tempest reformatted around a series of library volumes) and Drowning by Numbers (in which the film itself moves literally from 1 to 100), The Moab Story barely offers a linear story and instead becomes immersed in a series of layered images, similar to the approach from Greenaway's Paintbox-happy A TV Dante and The Pillow Book. He even incorporates several of his past films (including designs from The Belly of an Architect, clips from A Zed and Two Noughts, and the Cissie Colpitts archteype from Drowning by Numbers) as elements of Luper's perplexing body of work from a mysterious life spanning the length of the Cold War. How it all ties together is anyone's guess, as this is the only the first part of three films; in any case, it's visually satisfying and utterly maddening to follow. Celebrity watchers will have fun watching the bizarre supporting cast including Jordi Mollà as a fascist in training, Nigel Terry, and a brief cameo by Deborah Harry. Significantly, this is the first Greenaway film with a completely original music score since his regrettable parting with Michael Nyman, and Borut Krzisnik fits the bill well enough. The performances are impossible to assess; apart from a few hambone Utah accents, the performers mostly drift through the frame, get naked, argue, and beat each other up.
Part of an announced multimedia project involving DVDs, computer software, and feature films, this first entry in the Tulse Luper saga seems tailor-made for DVD so viewers can skip around and freeze frame to their hearts' content. The DVD transfer is surprisingly not quite as state of the art as one might hope, suffering from some weak black levels and frequent softness of detail. It's not an ugly transfer by any means, but on larger monitors it definitely isn't demo material. The 5.1 mix (in English or dubbed in Spanish) fares better, with strong surround activity including loads of explosions and wild directional effects. Optional Spanish subtitles can be switched off during playback of the English language track, though the opening credits are in Spanish only. (The rest of the onscreen text is English.) The only extras are a photo gallery and the Spanish theatrical teaser and trailer.

THE EARLY FILMS OF PETER GREENAWAY I
Color/B&W, 1969-1978, 87m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway
THE EARLY FILMS OF PETER GREENAWAY II
Color, 1978/1980, 224m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / bfi (UK R2 PAL)
Before launching on a career as one of Britain's most consistent cinematic provocateurs, Peter Greenaway created a series of short films (and in one case, an extremely long film that feels like a series of shorts strung together) in which his experience as a painter and documentary editor collided with often amusing, tantalizing results. He first began dabbling with film in the 1960s, but it wasn't until the late 1970s that the Greenaway style began to truly take shape. This pair of DVDs compiles the highlights of his pre-1982 career, culminating in what many still consider to be his masterpiece, The Falls.
The first volume contains six short films, with only one black and white project, 1969's "Intervals." This six-minute look at wintertime Venice focuses on repeated footage with different musical accompaniment (lifted from Vivaldi), producing a distinctly new mood each time. The more overtly humorous "Windows" (1974) features narration (provided by Greenaway) over four minutes of shots depicting an English countryside in which 37 residents felt compelled to commit "defenstration," i.e., falling out of windows. The first of Greenaway's lavish "fictional histories," this is a good primer for newcomers and features effective use of Jean-Philippe Rameau on the soundtrack. Greenaway returned to the same location in 1976 for the sunnier "H Is for House," one of his notorious listing exercises, in which similar narration provides a deadpan 9-minute listing of absurdly juxtaposed items beginning with the letter "h" while a mother plays with her young daughter. The same year Greenaway also directed "Dear Phone," running 17 minutes, in which common telephone boxes take on a ridiculous meaning when used to illustrate a rambling narrative (shown as bits of written text) about men whose initials are "HC" trying to reach a woman named Zelda. The whimsical, 11-minute "Water Wrackets" from 1978 presents a series of beautifully filmed lake shots (both vistas and shimmering close-ups) while narrator Colin Cantlie (who also did services on numerous other Greenaway shorts) describes a distant future in which five lakes have been artificially created by the military. Featuring lush photography and elegiac music, this is a stylistic forerunner to the director's first mainstream film, The Draughtsman's Contract. However, the highlight of the set is certainly 1978's "A Walk through H," which introduces several elements destined to figure prominently in future work: music by composer Michael Nyman (who provided most of his feature scores through Prospero's Books), the enigmatic character of Tulse Luper (who became the protagonist of the sprawling The Tulse Luper Suitcases multimedia series), and the obsessive use of the number 92, represented here by a series of maps used by an ornithologist across Europe. Even at 41 minutes it's a densely packed ride, throwing the viewer through a museum's gallery and into a bizarre world entirely of Greenaway's creation, all accompanied by Nyman's marvelous, hypnotic score.
Disc two begins with another 1978 short, the 41-minute "Vertical Features Remake." Lampooning film criticism of the period, Greenaway depicts four attempts to reconstruct an unfinished film by Mr. Luper, Vertical Features, which pathologically fixates on vertical objects (telephone poles, trees, sticks, etc.). None of the academics involved can agree, however, which results in a Rashomon-style diversion of styles each time. That's just an appetizer for The Falls, a sprawling, three-hour examination of the effects caused in the future by a Violent Unknown Event ("VUE") involving birds, which has affected the lives of 92 people (whose last names all begin with "Fall") now affiliated with our feathered friends in one form or another. Along the way we meet an elegant singer attempting to sing with bird noises, a man whose body is remodeling itself one organ at a time to conform to aviary standards, and other eccentric personalities who provoke amusement and bewilderment, usually at the same time. Throw in a few jokey nods to Hitchcock's The Birds, and you've got a piece of celluloid truly unlike any other. How willing viewers will be to sort through the entire running time depends entirely on one's tolerance for Greenaway's flights of fancy, but it's a creative, often dazzling experience for those willing to put in the hours. Again both films contain exceptional Nyman scores, offering a taste of things to come.
Both DVDs feature the best possible transfers one could expect for the films, which are in good shape albeit limited by technical conventions of the time. The Falls was released in a softer-looking VHS edition in the UK, while "Dear Phone," "A Walk through H," and "Water Wrackets" were issued on a tape compilation, both under the Connoissuer banner. The DVDs make for a more compact and obviously longer experience, and fortunately Greenaway's extensive participation in the discs puts these exercises in a much more accessible context. Apart from contributing new liner notes to both sets, Greenaway also appears for a series of video introductions which can be played straight through or chopped up as separate intros for each film; his comments are placed in Paintbox-style fashion over montages from the films, similar to the approach used in A TV Dante. Other extras on both discs come in the form of two galleries, "Artworks" and "Archives," which present sketches, paintings, written plans for unmade films, and other assorted bits and pieces from this time period. The packaging also promises hidden features, which will be reported on once they've been uncovered in typical Greenaway gamesman fashion. It's also worth noting that, despite Greenaway's reputation, both discs come with "PG" ratings and are mostly suitable for any viewers, though it's doubtful children will get much out of these; apart from a bit of nudity in The Falls, his trademark "excesses" are kept in check here.

Color, 1988, 118m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring Joan Plowright, Joely Richardson / King (Japan R2 NTSC) / WS (1.66:1) (16:9), Film Four (Australia R0 PAL) / Partial WS (1.66:1), Culture (Japan R2 NTSC), Kaleidoscope (Russia R5 PAL) / DD2.0
Following his pair of despairing urban studies, A Zed and Two Noughts and The Belly of an Architect, director Peter Greenaway turned to the sardonic countryside of The Draughtsman's Contract for another tongue-in-cheek murder yarn, Drowning by Numbers. Easily his most playful film in every sense of the term, this tricky and often charming film boasts some of his wittiest dialogue and makes for an ideal introduction for newcomers compared to his more experimental works.
In the middle of the night, aging Cissie Colpitts (Joan Plowright) watches her drunken, adulterous husband frolicking in a tin bath with a naked woman. Cissie calmly decides to drown him and turns to the local coroner, Madgett (The Lord of the Rings's Bernard Hill), convincing him to pass off the death as a heart attack. The lovelorn and game-obsessed Madgett reluctantly agrees, but trouble begins when the neighbors begin to suspect something is amiss. To make matters worse, Cissie's daughter (Juliet Stevenson) and niece (Joely Richardson), both named Cissie as well, decide to drown their husbands with Madgett's aid, promising sexual favors but delivering little. Meanwhile Madgett's peculiar son, Smut, develops an unhealthy fixation with the constellation-counting girl next door, leading to a climax filled with ironic tragedies.
One of the most sumptuous English films ever made, Drowning by Numbers revels in sun-dappled fields, moonwashed forests, and rippling bodies of water. All of the performers rattle off their tricky patter perfectly, and Greenaway loads the films with an encyclopedic collection of games, both literal and psychological. The film also features his most audacious and entertaining visual gimmick, outdoing the sequential drawings of Draughtsman or the color-coded rooms of The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. Here the numbers 1 to 100 are contained within the film, in order, hidden somewhere from the first scene to the last; thus, viewers can either focus on the plot or simply have fun playing numeric hide and seek. This William Castle-style device is also thematically appropriate, drawing the viewer into playing along with the characters and firmly announcing when the game is finally over. The trademark Greenaway nudity is still in abundance, with the shapely Richardson getting most of the attention, but the sexual and violent content is extremely mild (even borderline mainstream) compared to his subsequent work. Sonically this may be his richest film as well thanks to Michael Nyman's astonishing score, partially derived from Mozart and filled with moments of musical brilliance. A wonderful treasure of a film well worth exploring.
Most video editions of Drowning by Numbers are quite a mess. The attractive but full frame and optically censored Japanese laserdisc and initial DVD (from CUlture) offered a compromised version of the film, while the uncensored US laserdisc was horrendously cropped on all four sides and suffered from a bright pink tinge over the entire film. The Australian DVD is a bit of a step up, though it's still not perfect. Image quality is on the soft side but colorful, with the first truly accurate fleshtones of any home video version. The film was shot partially open matte (most exteriors) and hard matted at 1.66:1 (interiors), so the DVD presents more image than prior options. While compositions are mostly preserved, TV overscan may still trim a bit off on the right side, depending on your monitor setting (e.g., try to spot the number "12" in the film). The film contains a Dolby Stereo tag on the end credits, and while the US laser had muddy sound with often indecipherable dialogue, it was barely stereo; the two DVD editions are mono, while the Australian one offers a slightly more active mix. Above all, the Australian DVD is probably the only time you'll ever see a chapter stop entitled, "Do All Fat Men Have Little Penises?" The DVD also promises a theatrical trailer, which would be fine except it's really promotional trailers for Raining Stones and Bhaji on the Beach. The full frame Russian DVD offers a comparable video and audio presentation. However, if you can spare the cash, the Japanese reissue from King is really the way to go. Trumpeting a newly remastered anamorphic transfer, it's a huge step up in clarity (you can finally make out the nocturnal details during the opening credits), with the most available image information on all four sides during interior scenes (the 1.66:1 framing looks dead-on here). Colors are slightly more muted and naturalistic, but this looks closer to the theatrical prints. Best of all, the stereo mix is terrific with much clearer channel separation, besting even the movie theater experience. Also, this is the only version that really does deliver a theatrical trailer; it's the one prepared for the initial UK showings, and like most of Greenaway's trailers, it's very slow and oblique.

Color, 1989, 124m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring Helen Mirren, Michael Gambon / Anchor Bay (US R1 NTSC) / WS (2.35:1) (16:9) / DD2.0
The finest film by Peter Greenaway and arguably the most significant, devastating work of English-speaking cinematic art released in the '90s, The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover still hasn't received its full due. The firestorm which surrounded its release (and in tandem with Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! ultimately led to the creation of the NC-17 rating) made the title a catchphrase for daring adult entertainment, which this certainly is, but the film also marks a tremendous step forward for Greenaway as an artist. The film marks a fluid bridge between the quirky, small scale exercises in human foibles like Drowning by Numbers and the more lavish, unabashed studies in excess like Prospero's Books and The Baby of Macon (which unbelievably remains unreleased in the U.S.). For all his achievements, The Cook is still his finest hour and an essential part of any self-respecting film buff's education.
The newly opened Le Hollandais restaurant is immediately beset by problems. The obnoxious gangster owner, Albert Spica (Michael Gambon), has his thugs beat up a debtor in the parking lot behind the building while the soft spoken head chef, Richard (Diva's Richard Bohringer) tries to cope inside the kitchen with cluttered signs, power outages, and Albert's offer of questionable spoiling food delivered outside in trucks. Albert's wife, Georgina (Helen Mirren), tolerates his verbal and physical abuse by quietly stealing away for a smoke in the bathroom, but that night she catches the eye of one bookish customer, Michael (Alan Howard). The two begin an illicit affair which continues each night, forcing them to copulate in the restroom and among the stored food. When their infidelity is inevitably discovered, the four characters experience a violent, vengeful chain of events of Jacobean proportions.
Most obviously, The Cook is one of those rare films in which everyone involved is at the absolute top of their game. The actors have a ball with their meaty roles, though obviously Gambon and Mirren get the juiciest moments, and Greenaway's combination of aching human drama and stunning aesthetic visuals has never been more potent. His regular cinematographer, Sacha Vierney, conjures up some jaw-dropping camerawork which carries the viewer on gliding wings through each massive room of the restaurant, where the characters' Jean Paul Gauthier clothes change through each doorway to match the decor. Michael Nyman, Greenaway's frequent composer at the time, also provides one of his finest scores, highlighted by the unforgettable twelve minute "Memorium" which plays out at different intervals over the one week period (visually designated by different dinner menus for each calendar day). Many critics at the time were tempted to read the film as a savage critique of Thatcher's callous financial policies in England for the past decade, but the film's impact goes well beyond such a specific social reading; one could easily apply this scenario to any oppressive political climate even during the present day. Incidentally, fans of British comedies should keep their eyes peeled for two very prominent future cast members of the hilarious Vicar of Dibley among the regular diners.
The Cook epitomizes the kind of edgy fare Miramax used to corner the art film market before their regrettable consumption by Disney. Though unrated in theaters, it was eventually branded with an NC-17 by the time of its video release thanks to a licensing deal with Trimark. The VHS editions ranged from an uncut letterboxed version (also released on laserdisc) to a laughable R-rated cut, which excised half an hour of footage. The nation's largest and most despised video chain (and we all know who that is) originally stocked the NC-17 version before yanking it and having the tapes destroyed, with the R-rated alternative eventually becoming the most widely known edition. That's a shame, though oddly enough, the bowdlerized cut is in many ways more perverse because of what it implies rather than shows. For example, the stunning final scene doesn't actually show what one character eats, leaving the viewer with an impression more foul than what Greenaway originally filmed.
Though the spacious scope visuals of The Cook are essential to appreciating the film on any level at all, the letterboxed laserdisc looks woefully inadequate compared to Anchor Bay's magnificent DVD. The anamorphic transfer corrects the aspect ratio which was squeezed horizontally on the laserdisc, smushing out everyone's heads in the process, and the colors and black levels are drastically improved. The hellish reds of the dining room interior have now been properly restored, so forget the laser's comparatively murky, dull shades of brown and beige. Simply put, toss those laserdiscs out and get this instead; the upgrade is most definitely worth it. The surround audio on the laserdisc was always very strong, and the DVD sounds identical, with Nyman's piano and string heavy music giving the rear speakers a very hefty workout. While this film easily deserves a full blown special edition someday, this DVD is more than satisfactory for the time being. Apart from the terrific transfer, the disc includes two international trailers (with studio credits conspicuously absent). One runs a little over three minutes and features some very effective manipulation of voiceovers and dissolves, while the second trailer trims down the same basic idea to about a minute and a half.

Color, 1999, 122m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring John Standing, Matthew Delamere / Universal (US R1 NTSC) / WS (1.66:1) (16:9) / DD2.0
Continuing his pattern of alternating critically praised arthouse projects with alienating personal studies, the controversial Peter Greenaway followed his unexpectedly popular The Pillow Book with 8½ Women, a playful and thoroughly obscure compendium of art history fetishism, film history, and globe-hopping comic debauchery. The results pleased few, but Greenaway fanatics will find it more rewarding than newcomers despite its glaring flaws.
Following the death of his wife, Philip Emmenthal (John Standing) finds his structured world falling apart. He seeks solace in his Swiss estate with his son, Storey (Matthew Delamere), who runs a string of pachinko gambling parlors in Japan. After seeing Fellini's 8½ at a repertory theater, they devise a strange means of grief therapy and sexual release by turning the Swiss home into a brothel for one year. Between the two countries they recruit eight and a half highly unusual females for their experiment (and yes, the half woman is exactly what you think, as tasteless as that concept may sound). Among the women: Griselda (Toni Collette), a butch Swedish accountant who escapes conviction for embezzlement and takes up a fantasy existence as a nun; Beryl (Amanda Plummer), a horse enthusiast with a neck brace whose greatest love is her giant pet pig; Palmira (Polly Walker), an open society whore who gives her body to Philip but sparks anguished desire within Storey; and many others, including a compulsive Japanese gambler and an overly fertile Italian. Gradually the ongoing process of the life cycle decreases their number, and Philip and Storey find that escaping into fantasies can yield only temporary rewards.
In his original screenplay for this film, Greenaway assembled a wild concoction of homages to Fellini and Godard, with each women corresponding to both a Fellini film and a popular erotic trope in art history. This analogy is mostly scrapped in the film, which still includes portions of the screenplay itself as superimposed title cards but comes off as more disjointed and ultimately perplexing. Storey's bizarre ability to predict and even cause earthquakes results in a weak punchline, with the final tender moments of the story strangely muted and lacking in much emotional or aesthetic resonance. Most damningly, this film suffers even more than The Pillow Book or The Baby of Macon from the absence of composer Michael Nyman. If the two men can't patch things up, Greenaway needs to find another composer, and quickly, to fill the strange aural void left within his recent films. On the other hand, like other Greenaways, 8½ Women is often rapturously beautiful to watch, with Sacha Vierney's camerawork as steady and painterly as ever. Many of the comic scenes are unforgettable, with some especially funny banter between the father and son keeping things more lightweight than might be expected. Especially amusing are Collette's last few scenes, which are not easily forgotten. As with Prospero's Books, one can only wonder how on earth this film got away with an R rating considering the avalanche of nudity on display (including Plummer, alas), though the relative lack of actual sex scenes may be the reason.
Greenaway films depend heavily on a good presentation due to their meticulous visual arrangements, and the DVD of 8 1/2 Women looks particularly outstanding on video. The colors here are truly amazing to watch, particularly during the eye candy compositions of the pachinko scenes and a few of Greenaway's trademark pastoral landscape shots. A couple of zoom shots, particularly the very first image of the movie, reveal some visual limitations within the original film, but overall this looks better than the theatrical prints and benefits from a more generous 1.66:1 framing, with slight windowboxing on the sides during anamorphic playback. The surround audio is fine considering there isn't much going on, sonically speaking. The disc also includes the U.S. theatrical trailer in fullscreen, an appropriately bizarre and intriguing piece of promotion.

Color, 1982, 107 m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring Anthony Higgins, Janet Suzman / Zeitgeist (US R1 NTSC), bfi (UK R2 PAL) / WS (1.66:1) (16:9), WinStar (US R1 NTSC) / WS (1.66:1)
The only Peter Greenaway film designed to specifically evoke a certain British time period, The Draughtsman's Contract appears on the surface like some twisted Restoration comedy filled with scheming aristocrats and clever turns of phrase. One of the most enthusiastically received and controversial feature debuts of the early '80s, this remained Greenaway's most high profile effort for eight years until The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover firmly secured his position in the art house pantheon. However, Draughtsman actually has much in common with his later work, ranging from the bizarre background details, such as a nude living statue, to the brutal, jarring twist ending.
At a gossipy dinner party, an arrogant young draughtsman, Mr. Neville (Anthony Higgins), is enlisted by the middle-aged Mrs. Herbert (Janet Suzman) to execute twelve drawings of the Herbert estate as a surprise gift for her loutish husband, who is usually away on business. In exchange, Mrs. Herbert will go along with Mr. Neville's sexual demands, once for each drawing. Mrs. Herbert's daughter (Anne-Louise Lambert) becomes more than a little intrigued by the arrangement and enters into a similar bargaining position with Neville, whose fussiness with the layout of each drawing compels him to chase sheep away from the scenery and demand passersby to wear the same clothing each day. However, some inconsistencies in the day to day arrangement of seemingly familiar objects, such as linen and open windows, cause Neville to wonder whether Mr. Herbert is actually away on business... or perhaps is no longer among the living.
As with many Greenaway films, all of the characters are more pieces of a diabolical mind puzzle than living, breathing human beings, bereft even of first names, and the cast gamely acts accordingly. As Neville, Higgins (also in Vampire Circus and Flavia the Heretic under the name Anthony Corlan) has one of his most memorable roles and finds the humor in an essentially repellent character. Without giving too much away, the various layers of the narrative may prove off-putting to viewers who expect to find some redeeming qualities unveiled at the end of the film; there will be no redemption or clever moralizing here. As a document of a historical period, Draughtsman is remarkably convincing, particularly considering its virutally nonexistent budget. The costumes, scenery, and stylish lighting manage to equal Barry Lyndon with a fraction of the resources, while Greenaway's intricate and biting script should keep English majors chortling with delight. Interestingly, his original festival cut of the film ran a full three hours and reportedly contained a number of crucial plot points and explanations which would up on the cutting room floor, including a rationale for the living statue. Unfortunately, this version has not been screened since 1982 and may have been lost forever (if it doesn't exist in one of Greenaway's vaults somewhere).
As far as the standard theatrical version goes, however, all of the DVDs are much better than MGM's dismal VHS version back in the early '90s, apparently lifted from a muddy 16mm transfer and cropped on all four sides. The first release from Fox Lorber restores the full breadth of the compositions, which is crucial with this title, and more significantly presents the delicate color schemes as originally intended. Michael Nyman's ingenious, Purcel-inspired score sounds very good for straight mono, and dialogue is clear and intelligible throughout. No trailer is included, a regrettable absence; it would be interesting to see how United Artists pitched this in theaters back in '82. The subsequent special editions from bfi and then Zeitgeist are taken from an even better HD source and look about as good as a cheap 16mm '80s production can; Greenaway also contributes some fragmentary comments both on video and during the commentary, talking about his career at the time and the avalanche of refences found throughout. The original British trailer is also included.

Color, 1985, 115m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring Andréa Ferréol, Brian Deacon / Zeitgeist (US R1 NTSC), bfi (UK R2 PAL) / WS (1.66:1) (16:9), WinStar (US R1 NTSC) / WS (1.66:1)
Peter Greenaway's second feature film continued many of the obsessions already established in his experimental work: elaborate references to works of fine art, austere and painterly camerawork, confrontational subject matter, and a wholly unique view of sexuality and the human body. Here he tackles a dizzying number of topics including Darwinism vs. creationism, taxonomy, mortality, and the weird random patterns of fate. If that sounds too heady, well, he throws in some thrills for the groundlings, too, including bizarre time lapse decomposition films, rampant frontal nudity, beastiality, glass eating, and wicked black humor.
Twin zooligist brother Oliver and Oswald Deuce (Brian and Eric Deacon, the latter also in Jose Larraz's Vampyres) find their lives shattered when their wives are killed in a car crash caused by a swan. The car's driver, Alba Bewick (Andréa Ferréol), loses a leg in a subsequent operation, and the brothers form a dependent relationship with her as they delve into the cosmic circumstances which cause such peculiar events. Their experiments include the aforementioned time lapse films on animals from the zoo and sex with the manipulative Venus de Milo (Frances Barber), all of which have unexpected consequenecs.
Thanks to another brilliant Michael Nyman score and breathtaking cinematography by Sacha Vierney (Last Year at Marienbad), A Zed and Two Noughts (that's "ZOO" for Yanks) is one of Greenaway's most accomplished yet difficult films. Its rewards are generated by close attention and a willingness to submit to his intellectual gamesmanship, demands which may not be met by all viewers. Best appreciated after experiencing the most accessible Drowning by Numbers or The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, this is the equivalent of a final exam in a course of Greenaway cinema.
Rarely seen in U.S. theaters, Zed has been most widely available in a very slightly letterboxed VHS edition from Pacific Arts and an optically censored Japanese laserdisc. The first DVD from Fox Lorber renders both of them obsolete and looks far better than anyone could have possibly expected. The letterboxing reveals some additional symmetrical composition on the sides, and the intensely saturated colors look absolutely beautiful without any distracting smearing or bleeding. The biggest revelation, however, is the image clarity, which reveals whole new levels of detail in Vierney's stunning deep focus compositions. The source material looks derived from the internegative rather than the scratchy print used for the VHS edition, and the mono sound quality is also much more vivid and clearly defined. No extras apart from a handful of filmographies.
A much-needed special edition finally arrived from the bfi in the UK, containing a new transfer from HD with eye-popping colors as well as participation from Greenaway, who talks on camera and during a commentary track about his influences on the film (mostly painting and Darwinian, of course); other extras include the original British trailer and a perplexing excerpt from a dialogue-free documentary containing some behind-the-scenes footage from this film. The same edition subsequently appeared from Zeitgiest in the U.S. after a brief theatrical reissue.

Color, 1995, 120m. / Directed by Peter Greenaway / Starring Vivian Wu, Ewan McGregor, Yoshi Oida, Ken Ogata, Hideko Yoshida, Judy Ongg / Columbia (US R1 NTSC) / DD2.0
After a brief tenure as Miramax's arthouse golden boy thanks to the sumptuous visuals feasts of The Cook, the Thief, Her Wife and Her Lover and Prospero's Books, British director Peter Greenaway has stumbled in the public eye for the last few years. After a falling out with composer Michael Nyman (an unfortunate end to one of the most fruitful modern cinematic relationships in European cinema), Greenaway was forced to adapt his all-song morality tale, The Baby of Macon, into a straight play within a play format that left most viewers completely baffled. Despite the undraped presences of Julia Ormand and Ralph Fiennes, the film remains unreleased on U.S. shores, which is a shame. Fortunately, Greenaway's follow up film, The Pillow Book, has been released here, albeit almost three years after its completion. This latest offering finds Greenaway still flinging viewers into a stunning mixture of visual technology, classical aesthetic style, plentiful artistic nudity, and jarring moments of graphic violence. While this certainly may not be everyone's cup of tea, adventurous viewers willing to delve into this modern artist's uncompromishing, ravishing feast for the eyes will find themselves amply rewarded.
The intricately structured narrative revolves around Nagiko (The Joy Luck Club's Vivian Wu), whose favorite childhood ritual is having calligraphy drawn on her face by her father on the event of each of her birthdays. After witnessing a sexually traumatic event involving her father, she grows up to find herself completely absorbed in a sexual fetish for having calligraphy drawn upon her body. She takes a young Scottish man, Jerome (an exhibitionistic Ewan McGregor), as her lover but is dismayed to find his penmanship lacking. Instead she finds herself becoming "the pen as well as the paper," drawing pleasure from inking upon willing flesh. She sends Jerome's enscribed body to her father's publisher, and several erotic and grisly complications ensue.
Deriving his inspiration from Sei Shonagon's literary "pillow book," Greenaway has fashioned an elusive series of vignettes combining text, flesh, and eroticism into an uneasy but ultimately transcendant whole. Fortunately, the DVD edition preserves the nuances and colorful schemes of his compositions very well. Letterboxing pursits will balk at the claim on the packaging that the film, "while filmed in multi-aspect ratios, has been re-formatted to fit your TV." In fact, this is the same fullscreen transfer supervised by Greenaway himself which first debuted on British video some time ago. Like much of his television work, The Pillow Book was created with digital Japanese technology and involves layer upon layer of images interacing in various aspect ratios (ranging from anamorphic Cinemascope to 1.33:1). This version looks far more satisfying than the film's theatrical showings at 1.85:1, which constantly lopped images and subtitles off at the top and bottom of the screen. Occasional shots framed at even slighter aspect ratio than 1.66:1 seem slightly clipped on the left side of the screen (notably the end titles and an occasional title card), but this in no way affects the compositions. This is a marked contrast to Greenaway's other digital Paintbox epic, Prospero's Books, which was shot hard-matted at 1.66:1 and completely collapsed under Fox's pan and scan video transfer. The Dolby Surround tracks for Pillow Book are also very effective and show off the eclectic soundtrack (ranging from Buddhist chants to techno) with plenty of directional presence. The DVD also includes the fairly explicit U.S. theatrical trailer.