Tuesday, February 25, 2020

Three Fantastic Journeys by Karel Zeman

Invention for Destruction

Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date Feb 25, 2020
Review by Christopher S. Long

In the animated worlds of Czech filmmaker Karel Zeman, submarine-based pirates ride bicycles underwater, church bells chime like piano keys, and a knight's armor can transform in a twinkling into an astronaut's spacesuit complete with jetpack. Being swallowed whole by a giant whale merely provides the opportunity to meet new friends already inside. Zeman's vision captures the wide-eyed wonder of childhood imagination where all possibilities are treated as both equally plausible and as equal sources of awe and delight.

Zeman may not be a familiar name to you, but he remains a legend in the world of animation and fantasy, still revered today more than thirty years after his death in 1989. Terry Gilliam cites him as a major influence, and not just because they both made films about Baron Munchausen. Koji Yamamura, Tim Burton – the list of Zeman fans is long, yet nobody has ever made a film quite like the works of this pioneer and genuine original.

Zeman, who began directing animated shorts in the 1940s, combined live action with an array of animation/illustration techniques ranging from matte painting to stop-motion, paper cutouts, and a host of other devices. Action is often depicted on multiple planes with real actors in the foreground looking at hand-drawn vistas in the background, and then stepping right into them, new details being revealed the closer we get.

The director's earliest love was puppets and he uses them liberally in his work, both shot as full-scale models and as animated miniatures. This is showcased to great effect in the first film in this Criterion set, “Journey to the Beginning of Time” (1955), in which a group of adventurous boys encounter wooly mammoths, giant rocs, and even witness a groovy stegosaurus battle.

Perhaps the Zeman aesthetic could be summed up as proto-steampunk by way of Jules Verne (Verne's stories provided the loose inspiration for each of the three features in this set), a paradoxically cutting-edge retro style which tweaks antiquated technology into marvels of futuristic engineering. Pedal-powered dirigibles! But his willingness to incorporate a wide variety of effects in many shifting combination makes him difficult to pigeonhole, though I think it's fair to describe the feel of every frame of Zeman's animations as meticulously and lovingly hand-crafted.

The films in this set emphasize the creation of fantastical worlds populated with nifty gadgets and transportation devices, maritime vessels and flying-machines of all stripes. The story-telling is simplistic by design – gosh-wow adventure is the currency of Zeman's realm - and characterization definitely takes a back seat to the design.

The boys in “Journey to the Beginning of Time” (the only film in the set heavier on live action than animation) exist only as stand-ins for dinosaur-loving kids everywhere, gaping at the brontosaurus foraging in the forest and the pterodactyls swooping overhead as their boat drifts placidly along the river that carries them back through the prehistoric eras. Even the colorful title character of “The Fabulous Baron Munchausen” (1962) is little more than a blowhard fabulist with a cool beard, but this isn't a shortcoming. What character could compete with the spectacle of the caldera of an extinct volcano that serves as the hideout for the pirate villains in “Invention For Destruction” (1958)? The smoke coming from the volcano actually belches from the factories hidden inside! Now that's cool.

Sound plays a crucial role in Zeman's work too, which I guess is an obvious statement to make about most animation. The music of composer Zdenek Liska is often foregrounded in both “Invention” and “Munchausen” with the swordfights and horseback chases assuming a symphonic quality.

Zeman was no fringe figure beloved only by cultists. “Invention For Destruction” not only won attention on the festival circuit, it played internationally (opening in English-language markets as “The Fabulous World of Jules Verne”) and, by some counts, remains the top-grossing Czech film of all-time. “Baron Munchausen” was also a hit. Remaining largely apolitical, Zeman was able to continue working through multiple regime changes in Czechoslovakia, though his output would be severely curtailed after the crackdown following the Prague Spring in 1968, also coinciding with a time when he felt new developments in special effects rendered some of his own techniques less potent.

“Journey” is pitched primarily at kids, with their down-river trip through time functioning like a museum tour, with educational interludes along the way. “Invention” and “Munchausen” appeal to kids of all ages, and their elaborate animated worlds continue to amaze more than half a century later. Could any rational person argue that the average CGI-laden blockbuster today can compete with these hand-crafted marvels?

All three features in the set are presented in their original 1.37:1 aspect ratios.

The Karel Zeman Museum was founded in Prague in 2012, and has worked in cooperation with the Czech Film Foundation to digitally restore many of Zeman's films. The 4K restorations were created from the original 35 mm negatives, though a duplicate positive of “Journey to the Beginning of Time” was used to replace some damaged scenes.

The high-def transfers are strong throughout, even preserving the fine hatchwork that marks many scenes in “Invention” and “Munchausen.”

The LPCM mono audio mix sounds surprisingly robust for non-stereo audio. Composer Zdenek Liska's music really sounds great in the final two films. Optional English subtitles support the Czech audio.

Criterion has provided an affectionate tribute to Zeman's work with this three-film box set, beginning with the unique design of the case for the film. Inside a typical cardboard outer-casing, the three discs in this set are tucked into an interior case which opens out with 3-D pop-up art, featuring mammoths and hot-air balloons and cannons. Be careful when you open it, you'll want to preserve this one.

Each of the three feature films in the set is housed on a separate Blu-ray disc, each of which has its own selection of features.

Sprinkled across all three discs are a series of short Museum Documentaries (most ranging from 2-6 minutes), all produced by the Karel Zeman Museum. They're all short informational features, some about the filmmaker, some about the making of each film, or the effects, the restoration, etc. There are 4-6 Museum Documentaries on each of the three discs.

The “Journey To The Beginning Of Time” disc also includes the 1960 U.S. release of the film, in which the four Czech boys are converted into Americans by way of a newly-short framing device set in New York and the dubious miracle of dubbing. The body of the film remains mostly intact, save for the dubbing. The disc also includes a Trailer (2 min.) and an interview (12 min.) with animation filmmaker John Stevenson.

On the “Invention For Destruction” disc, we get an Alternate Opening for the U.S. release which features... Hugh Downs (huh?) lecturing on Jules Verne and speaking of the wonders of “Mystimation” viewers are about to see. The disc also offers “Making Magic” (23 min.), a 2019 interview with special-effects artists Phil Tippett and Jim Aupperle. I enjoyed this interview, though it feels like half of it consists mostly of them gushing about Zeman and only getting to the analysis of his techniques at the end. We also get a Trailer (1 min.)

The “Invention” disc also provides four short animated films by Zeman: “A Christmas Dream” (1945, 11 min.), “A Horseshoe For Luck” (1946, 4 min.), “Inspiration” (1947, 11 min.), and “King Lavra” (1950, 30 min.) They're all lovely, but “Inspiration” is the real standout. Dedicated to Czech glassmakers, it takes on the challenge of animating glass figurines, all presented as microbial life in a droplet of rainwater. It's just gorgeous.

The disc for “The Fabulous Baron Munchausen” provides the heftiest extra in the set, the 101-minute documentary “Film Adventurer Karel Zeman” (2015). Including interviews with the filmmaker's daughter Lyudmilla Zeman, filmmakers Terry Gilliam, Koji Yamamura, and others, it covers the director's career from his days in advertising to his more challenging final years. The disc also includes a Trailer (2 min.) and a brief promo for the Karel Zeman Museum (1 min.)

The slim fold-out booklet features an essay by critic Michael Atkinson.

Final Thoughts:
The most playful and inventive of Karel Zeman's films play out like the kind of dreams you used to have with your eyes wide open. Maybe you still have those dreams. Zeman held on to them for most of his career and realized them in a groundbreaking style that has influenced many. Criterion's set includes three of Zeman's best-loved feature films, several shorts, and a host of extras, all wrapped up in a slick design with pop-up art. This is a must-own for any animation fan.

Tuesday, February 18, 2020


TEOREMA (Pasolini, 1968)
Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date Feb 18, 2020
Review by Christopher S. Long

As in many of the greatest works of speculative fiction such as “Jeffty Is Five,” “The Exterminating Angel,” and “Groundhog Day,” the uncanny premise of Pier Paolo Pasoilin's “Teorema” (“Theorem”, 1968) is neither explained nor justified in any logical fashion. It's just assumed to be a reality in the story.

A telegram is delivered to the patriarch (Massimo Girotti) of an upper-class family in Milan announcing “Arriving Tomorrow”, and so The Guest (Terence Stamp) arrives the next day. The Guest then immediately begins disrupting the household's fragile status quo simply because that's what the film's “theorem” posits he would do.

Emilia (Laura Betti), the family maid, ogles The Guest while he lounges about at full manspread. He reads Rimbaud, book cradled at crotch level (Stamp's “power angle” features prominently in the film), and Emilia is driven into a frenzy by his Rimboner. She flits frantically about the palatial estate, failing in her assigned chores, then races into the kitchen to asphyxiate herself at the stove. The Guest intuits what she's doing and rushes to save her, or perhaps he wants to preserve her for future torment. We don't know enough to guess which, and we never will. In either case, he makes love to her instead.

Rarely speaking, but always piercing the soul with his sky-blue-eyes, The Guest systematically seduces each member of the household, including the factory-owner husband, wife Lucia (Silvana Mangano), daughter Odetta (Anne Wiazemsky), and son Pietro (Andres Jose Cruz Soublette). Surprisingly, Pasolini leaves a lot to the imagination, and the film's scandalous reputation (it was banned in Italy) derives from its basic premise rather than its graphic content. After securing his conquests, the Guest then abruptly departs, leaving the second half of the film to follow each of the characters as they descend into madness, now left rudderless in a world without their beloved stranger.

Is he devil or angel? Pasolini coyly described The Guest as just “a boy” but also referred to his arrival as, in effect, the traumatic injection of authenticity into the shallow lives of the sheltered bourgeois family. Ejected from the Eden of their blissful ignorance, they struggle to make meaning out of their lives now that they have knowledge of real pleasure. Odetta begins measuring the lawn with a tape ruler. Pietro starts painting increasingly deranged abstract art, a project that includes pissing on a canvas (sorry, Andy, you weren't the first). I'll let you discover what happens to Emilia on your own.

The film jumps around in time, though that's not clear until near the end, and also shifts from a muted palette to a sepia interlude and then to lush color at the party that introduces The Guest. Stamp's blue eyes may be the film's most enduring image and its greatest special effect. The music, composed and selected by Ennio Morricone, also runs the gamut from jarring electric guitar to somber Mozart, most of it working to defamiliarize the domestic setting.

Pasolini's theorem isn't a particularly persuasive one, at least as sociopolitical critique. If it just boils down to Pasolini's claim that “a member of the bourgeoisie, whatever he does, is always wrong” that isn't exactly a testable, rejectable hypothesis. Viewed more as Bible-inflected science-fiction as filtered through a Marxist lens, “Teorema” is quite thought-provoking, in no small part because it resists any pat psychological motivations. “The Book of Job” and “Stranger In A Strange Land” meet up to wrestle with the class struggle, and all that's left to do in the end is to strip naked and scream into the void. Sounds like a blast. Is it any wonder the pope condemened it?

The film is presented in its original 1.85:1 aspect ratio. “This new digital transfer was created in 4K resolution … from the original 35 mm camera negative at Cinecitta in Rome.” The film shifts color palettes a few times, and this high-def transfer does a good job of capturing its full range of tones. Most of the film is shot with bright colors, and they pop here, especially Stamp's blue eyes. Another strong Criterion transfer, as usual.

The linear PCM mono track provides a flat but clear sound. Both dialogue and the Morricone music are cleanly mixed. Listeners can also choose the English dub which isn't as sharp, but still sounds good. Optional English subtitles support the Italian audio.

The film is accompanied by a commentary track by Robert C. Gordon author of “Pasolini: Forms of Subjectivity” which was recorded in 2007 and originally included on a BFI release of “Teorema.”

The disc includes a brief introduction (2 min.) which is really a snippet of a 1969 interview with Pasolini in which he describes the film as a “parable” or “enigma” but mostly avoids providing much of an interpretation.

Another feature from the 2007 BFI disc is offered here in the form of a 33-minute interview with Terence Stamp, which is far more substantive than most actor interviews. Stamp discusses his work with Fellini, which first brought him to Italy, and the ways in which he brought his own philosophy to the character of The Guest, something he needed to do since Pasolini was reluctant to tell him much about the character (and also secretly filmed Stamp even while not acting).

We get one brand new feature, an interview (16 min.) with John David Rhodes, author of “Stupendous, Miserable City: Pasolini's Rome.” Rhodes discusses some of Pasolini's influences (Marxism, etc.) and also touches on the film's importance in queer criticism/film history.

The slim fold-out booklet includes a remarkable essay by critic James Quandt, always a must-read on any topic.

Final Thoughts:
Any movie condemned by the pope has to be worth seeing, right?

Wednesday, January 29, 2020

I Thought 2019 Was A Pretty Good Year For Movies

Joe Pesci in The Irishman

These Best of 2019 lists still count as long as they're posted before the end of January, right?

2019 was the first year in quite some time when I actually watched more new releases than I had in the previous year. Perhaps that explains why I thought this was an unusually strong year, at least for feature film. I think my top four were all sensational movies, each a serious candidate for my Top Films of the 2010s list. I think this Scorsese kid has a future.

I didn't see a 2019 documentary quite on par with either the great “Hale County” or “Shirkers” from 2018, but there were enough exciting and vital non-fiction films to force me to expand my top 10 to a top 16.

The Irishman (Scorsese)
A Hidden Life (Malick)
The Lighthouse (Eggers)
Ash is Purest White (Jia)
63 Up (Apted)
Honeyland (Kotevska and Stefanov)
Long Day's Journey Into Night (Bi)
The Souvenir (Hogg)
Image Book (Godard)
For Sama (Al-Kateab and Watts)
Black Mother (K. Allah)
Los Reyes (Osnovikoff and Perut)
The Disappearance Of My Mother (Barrese)
The Mountain (Alverson)
Tell Me Who I Am (Perkins)

I'm feeling generous today, so I'll keep the comments brief.

The Irishman: “It was like... Remember Moses? When he walked into the ocean, the sea, whatever the fuck it was? And it opened up!”

A Hidden Life: Malick has directed not only one of the most grueling and moving films about a martyr since “The Passion of Joan Of Arc” but also the perfect movie to show to your authoritarian friend who insists that no matter what you think of the man, you have to respect the office.

Ash Is Purest White: The amazing Zhao Tao gets stuck with a loser partner on screen; fortunately her partner behind the camera is still one of the best directors in the world.

Honeyland: Everything you ever imagined a documentary about a Macedonian beekeeper could be, and so much more.

Long Day's Journey Into Night: This year's great film with a really long take.

Image Book: Some movies are just meant to be watched at home and stopped every 30 seconds so you can try to Google the references.

For Sama: No glib one-liner for a movie this potent. Waad al-Kateab films herself surviving the ongoing siege of Aleppo, Syria. She somehow finds a way to live and grow under unspeakable conditions, starting as a teenage marketing student, then falling in love, raising a baby, and helping to save the lives of her neighbors. There are still heroes, even in a world that doesn't care much about them.

Black Mother: Photographer and filmmaker Khalik Allah delivers a meditation (and accusation) on the legacy of colonialism in Jamaica that also turns out to be a visionary tour-de-force that renders the political as intimately personal.

Los Reyes: A fascinating observational documentary about two stray dogs who live in a Chilean skate park, both of whom would have been more convincing in “Jojo Rabbit” than Scarlett Johansson.

The Disappearance Of My Mother: When mom tells you to leave her the hell alone, you should strongly consider her advice.

The Mountain: No, seriously, just leave mom alone.

The two worst 2019 releases I saw are, of course, two of the leading contenders for Best Picture, so I'm going to say something nice about each of them.

Joker (Phillips): “Joker” is plagued by a few minor flaws, chief among them a hackneyed story and script that makes every obvious decision at every point. But there's one moment that really sings. Arthur (the Joker-to-be played by Joaquin Phoenix) shares an elevator with his neighbor (Zazie Beetz) – to express her exasperation with her day, she mimes putting a gun to her head. In the hallway, the desperately awkward Arthur tries to connect with her by repeating the gesture. He overdoes it so badly, she instantly knows he's a man best avoided, a fact to which he is oblivious. It's a moving, human moment from one of our greatest actors. Everything that follows is bland and forgettable.

1917 (Mendes): Sam Mendes has now directed three films I consider to be the worst movies in their respective years of release. “1917” is almost certainly somewhat better than the other two.

Tuesday, January 21, 2020

Le Petit Soldat

LE PETIT SOLDAT (Godard, 1963)
Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date Jan 21, 2020
Review by Christopher S. Long

In retrospect, Jean-Luc Godard's “Le petit soldat” (1961) predicted the singular and stubborn career that would unfold over the next sixty years (and still counting).

The 30-year-old critic turned director had scored a huge commercial hit with “Breathless” (1960), his feature debut drenched in giddy cinephilia and pitched at the hip youth culture from which the Nouvelle Vague originated. Naturally, he decided to follow up his breakthrough with “Le petit soldat” (shot in 1961, but released in 1963), a grim political thriller short on thrills and heavy on torture scenes.

Not content with just alienating returning audiences looking for more doomed romantic fun, Godard also infuriated both wings of the political spectrum. The conservative establishment railed against Godard's frank acknowledgment of French war crimes in Algeria and the lack of justification for the ongoing occupation. Meanwhile, the director's decision to only depict on-screen torture conducted by agents of an Algerian rebel force (the FLN) generated even stronger condemnation from many on the left. The film was banned and not released in France until 1963, not coincidentally after Algeria won its hard-fought independence.

Charges that Godard was equivocating were enhanced by his choice of protagonist. Bruno Forestier (Michel Subor) flees to Geneva (circa 1958) to avoid conscription in the French military, but he professes no particular political ideology. He's pressured by a French intelligence group to assassinate an Algerian sympathizer, and resists, mostly because he just wants to be left alon. He also falls for the beautiful Veronica Dreyer (Anna Karina, in her first film with Godard) who may or may not be a political agent as well.

Much of the film is filtered through Bruno's perspective with heavy use of narration by Subor which reveals Bruno as sexist, self-absorbed and also undeniably perceptive: “I think actors are stupid. I despise them.” Who can argue with that? He wants to blaze his own path, but winds up caught between both factions of the war he's tried to escape.

In the film's most-discussed sequence, Bruno is kidnapped by FLN agents and subjected to a series of tortures, ranging from burning to near drowning to electrocution. Some viewers were repelled by what they felt were graphic depictions of suffering, but the real horror is that Godard depicts the torturers as a couple of bored guys just clocking another day at work. They display neither reluctance nor joy in their efforts. They've got a script, they've done this all before, and they'll do it again tomorrow with some other victim, whoever that happens to be.

Cinematographer Raoul Coutard (who gets a sly name drop in the film) may be the real star of “Le petit soldat.” The opening shot starts with a slow pan that rockets to whip-speed to settle on Bruno as he drives across the border into Switzerland. Shooting in black-and-white, and balancing long moments of stasis with abrupt kinetic bursts, Coutard creates a stark look that matches both the story and the protagonist's soul.

Subor doesn't offer much beyond dry indifference, tough but not terribly charismatic. Karina is Karina, of course, but has a thankless role as an inscrutable object of desire. And an object of exchange. Money changes hands when a friend introduces Veronica to Bruno. Eventually she will be treated as a disposable pawn, her final fate barely remarked upon by the men busy playing their power games. In a terse, bloodless fashion, the film's final minute is just as brutal as the torture scenes.

The film is presented in its original 1.37:1 aspect ratio. From Criterion: “This high-definition digital transfer, undertaken by StudioCanal and approved by cinematographer Raoul Coutard, was created from the 35 mm original camera negative...” The image resolution is sharp and if the black-and-white picture sometimes looks excessively bright at times, that's how it's meant to look (as far as I know). Another solid high-def transfer from Criterion.

The linear PCM Mono audio mix is sharp and somewhat flat, as is the source. Optional English subtitles support the French audio.

Criterion has only included a few brief supplements with this Godard release.

The disc starts with a 6-minute excerpt from a 1965 interview with Godard in which he briefly discusses the film's troubled reception. Half of this already short excerpt consists of a clip from the film.

In a 1963 interview (14 min.) filmed at a boxing gym where he trains, actor Michel Subor discusses why the film was banned, while also making the ludicrous claim that it isn't really a political film at all.

We also get an audio interview (1961, 29 min.) of Godard conducted by critic and filmmaker Gideon Bachmann.

The slim fold-out insert booklet includes a sharp and comprehensive essay by critic Nicholas Elliott.

Final Thoughts:
“Le petit soldat” is one of my least favorite Godard films of the early '60s, but it's still of interest both as a bold choice to follow up “Breathless” and for introducing Karina (even though viewers saw her in “A Woman is a Woman” and “Vivre sa Vie” before this film hit theaters). To the best of my knowledge, this Criterion edition is the film's first Blu-ray release in North America, which makes it a must-own for Godard fans even if the supplements are fairly modest.

Friday, January 10, 2020


HOLIDAY (Cukor, 1938)
Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date Jan 7, 2020
Review by Christopher S. Long

Recently engaged after a whirlwind romance while on vacation, Johnny Case (Cary Grant) takes the bold step of actually visiting his fiancee at her New York home, just to get to know her a bit. Johnny accidentally shows up at the servants' entrance around back in the kitchen, a particularly disorienting faux pas since he had no idea his fiancee lived in the sort of home that had a servants' entrance. Not to mention majestic spiral staircases and even an elevator that travels at least four floors.

It seems Johnny didn't ask many questions about his betrothed Julia Seton (Doris Nolan) who turns out to be a member of THE Setons of New York, an upper crust family with a fortune built on Wall Street success. Soon, he will be rigorously vetted by the family patriarch (Henry Kolker) and you can guess from his early identification with the maids and butlers that Johnny will have some trouble passing muster. After all, he is from Baltimore.

“Holiday” (1938), adapted from the blockbuster 1928 Philip Barry play, declares its concerns with class from the outset. However, birth is not destiny here, and Johnny finds some allies within the family, chiefly in the form of Julia's free-spirited older sister Linda (Katharine Hepburn). Unlike her sister, Linda is keenly aware of her privilege and quite embarrassed by it, not to mention bored by a rudderless life in which she wants for nothing and is therefore expected to do nothing. Johnny, for his part, has no particular hankering for the job in finance that both Julia and his prospective father-in-law envision for him. He'd prefer to enjoy his leisure time now, rather than at the end of a lucrative but unfulfilling career.

Linda takes an immediate shine to the plucky, easy-going Johnny, and the feeling is reciprocated. In their first substantial encounter, Linda hands Johnny her partially eaten apple. He gamely chomps into it then holds onto it for the rest of the scene. If you haven't figured already out that Linda is the Seton sister Johnny will wind up with, congratulations on watching your first movie.

Director George Cukor was one of Hepburn's earliest champions, and his confidence in his atypical leading lady remained unshaken even after she endured a string of box office disappointments in the mid-1930s (“Holiday” would be another). And having already directed them together in “Sylvia Scarlett” (1935), Cukor knew how well Hepburn and Cary Grant, still perfecting his bumbling but somehow still suave heartthrob persona, worked together on screen.

“Holiday” is a romantic comedy that opts more for congenial playfulness than over-the-top screwball hijinks or rapid-fire repartee. Grant, an accomplished acrobat, turns the occasional somersault or rides a tricycle to demonstrate that he's still a kid at heart. Linda helps to stage an impromptu Punch and Judy show in a quiet upstairs room which serves as a sanctuary for her and her friends while the social climbers hobnob down below at the snooty engagement party her father has planned for proper society.

Cukor realized the Hepburn-Grant pairing was the film's central draw, so the film places them together as much as possible, just quietly enjoying each other's company and letting affinity blossom naturally into love. Perhaps this makes “Holiday” more of a hang-out movie than a typical romantic comedy, and that works just fine. 

The film is presented in its original 1.37:1 aspect ratio. This new 4K digital restoration from Sony Pictures Entertainment was created “from a 35 mm nitrate duplicate negative and a 35 mm nitrate print, both preserved by the UCLA Film & Television Archive.” The high-def transfer has a very thick grainy look, a delightful reminder of a thing that was once called “film.” Black-and-white contrast is strong and there's no damage evident.

The linear PCM mono track provides a crisp, flat sound with no noticeable distortions or dropoffs. Optional English subtitles support the English audio.

Cukor's version was not the first film adaptation of “Holiday”. Criterion has included the 1930 film (91 min.), directed by Edward H. Griffith. It stars Ann Harding as Linda, Mary Astor as Julia, and Robert Ames as Johnny. I haven't had a chance to watch it yet, except to sample the video quality which looks fairly clean but also rather washed-out.

The disc includes a new interview (34 min.) with film critic Michael Sragow and filmmaker Michael Schlesinger in which they offer some background about “Holiday” as a play and in its film forms.

We also get audio excerpts (21 min.) of George Cukor speaking for an oral history recorded for AfI in 1971 and 1972 and conducted by author Gavin Lambert.

The final extra on the disc is a Costume Gallery, which consists of sketches by costume designer Kalloch, paired with stills from the film.

The slim fold-out insert booklet features an essay by critic Dana Stevens.

Final Thoughts:
“Holiday” wasn't a commercial hit and has often been overshadowed by the more celebrated Cukor-Hepburn-Grant vehicle, “The Philadelphia Story” (1940). It's rather low-key by romantic comedy standards, less concerned with plot and more with simply letting audiences enjoy Hepburn and Grant's easy chemistry.