Category: 1983

And the Ship Sails On (1983)

Federico Fellini | 2hr 8min

The passengers that gather aboard cruise ship Gloria N. to scatter the ashes of world-renowned opera singer Edmea Tetua are an eclectic mix of European aristocrats. The obese Grand Duke of Harzock is present with his blind sister, a Princess who claims she can see the colour of sounds and voices – besides the General’s, which is drolly described as “a void.” The Count of Bassano is here as well, a reclusive, obsessive fan of Edmea’s who has transformed his chamber into a shrine, and dresses as her ghost to frighten those disrespectfully trying to summon her spirit in a séance. The most dominant demographic by far though are those industry professionals who have come to commemorate their colleague’s passing. Singers, conductors, musicians, and theatre managers have no inhibitions when it comes to showing off their talents on this journey, and consequently expose egos as large as the vessel they travel on.

As for our guide through the vast ensemble of And the Ship Sails On, Federico Fellini gives us Orlando, a jovial Italian journalist with a proud dedication to his role of narrator. In the ship’s dining hall of lavish golden décor and architecture, he addresses the camera as both an outside observer and a passenger, while being pushed to the edge of the room by wait staff demanding he stand out of their way. This is a historic moment, he is sure to inform us, though one that is steeped in the absurdity of a ruling class that is no longer answerable to the conventions of mainland society. Here, they amplify each other’s most obnoxious qualities, the singers jealously competing to win the admiration of the crew in the boiler room while nobles squabble over the trivial semantics of metaphors.

This is an environment of total indulgence and pretence, constructed within an artificial world that Fellini’s narrative bookends expose as his own arbitrary cinematic invention. The recreation of silent cinema which opens And the Ship Sails On mockingly evokes the 1914 setting, using expository intertitles at the docks where characters board the cruise liner, before sound and colour slowly fade in with the reverential boarding of Edmea’s ashes. An even more bombastic shattering of the fourth wall also occurs in the film’s final minutes, where Fellini’s camera tracks behind the scenes of his marvellous set to reveal the crew, technical equipment, and hydraulic jacks rocking the entire ship, stripping away all illusion.

These are Fellini’s attempts to undercut the pomp and circumstance of the voyage, and yet the latter especially comes off as erratic, eroding the formal cohesion of the piece. Where And the Ship Sails On more successfully peels back the layers of this world is in its rich theatrics, revealing the ocean in long shots to be little more than a glittery, blue tarp, and the ship itself to be a miniature model set against painted backdrops. The interiors are equally elaborate, particularly within the golden dining hall where towering candelabras obstruct shots around crowded tables, while even Fellini’s editing resigns his characters to their stations in life. The manic fast-motion of cooks rapidly preparing food decelerates into mechanical slow-motion when it is finally served upon the guests’ plates, whereupon they raise glasses and spoons to their mouths in mindless unison. Without a single line of dialogue, Fellini draws a firm divide between the classes of passengers upon the Gloria N., underscoring the ludicrously dissimilar paces of both lifestyles.

Only when Serbian refugees are rescued and taken aboard in the film’s final act does unity unexpectedly manifest upon this ship, and for some time it would even seem that the optimist in Fellini has won out over the cynic. The blocking here is handsomely staged upon the deck, particularly as celebrations erupt with food and dance shared between passengers from diverse backgrounds. For one blissful night, all pretensions of sophistication are thrown overboard, along with concerns of the very real danger which these shipwrecked outcasts are fleeing from – though the onset of World War I’s geopolitical tensions can only remain at bay for so long.

The arrival of an Austro-Hungarian ship demanding the return of these refugees snaps the passengers of Gloria N. back to reality with jarring whiplash, softened only by Orlando’s hopeful imagining of what might have unfolded had this newfound solidarity also inspired courage. “No, we won’t give them up!” the ship’s singers belt in anthemic unison, using their art to make a bold, powerful statement.

“Death to arrogance,

No monster shall overcome us,

Violence will not conquer us!”

Fellini’s rapid dissolution of this surreal daydream is bleak, and devastatingly inevitable. “The battleship was compelled to arrest the Serbs. It was an order from the Austrian-Hungarian police,” Orlando matter-of-factly informs us, though the conflict does not end here. The Gloria N. was not merely famous for its commemorative voyage, we learn, but for the many lives lost in its catastrophic sinking.

“It’s almost impossible to reconstruct the precise sequence of events,” Orlando continues to monologue as he prepares to evacuate the ship, yet Fellini is not so elusive when it comes to the turning point in this chain of events. In climactic slow-motion, a young Serb refugee lobs a handmade bomb through the porthole of the enemy ship, setting off a chain reaction of events that ends in historic catastrophe. Maybe it was carried in a moment of furious passion, or perhaps it was a premediated terrorist act, Orlando broodingly considers, before his arbitrary musings are swiftly cut off.

All of a sudden, the gentle rocking of the camera which has persisted through the entire film escalates into a formidable lurch, sending fine furniture sliding to the other end of the dining room and effectively destroying these fragile icons of high society. Maestro Albertini conducts the operatic underscore of his own demise upon the upper deck, while The Count of Bassano weeps in his flooded room down below, watching film reels of the deceased opera singer who he will soon join in death.

Still, And the Ship Sails On is far from the mournful tragedy of Titanic, instead drawing a closer comparison to Ruben Östlund’s more recent nautical class satire Triangle of Sadness. Much like his stubbornly upbeat ensemble, Fellini remains cheery right through to the end, his attitude even bordering on careless as he feebly wavers between a few different conclusions without totally committing to any single one. It is quite understandable that he has some fondness for these outrageous caricatures, given that he has essentially instilled them with pieces of his own vanity, though he is also not one to wistfully mourn their losses. After all, within this dreamy microcosm of self-obsessed aristocrats, it is far more enlightening, enjoyable, and enamouring to revel in the macabre absurdity of their splendid misfortune.

And the Ship Sails On is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Rumble Fish (1983)

Francis Ford Coppola | 1hr 34min

The legendary Motorcycle Boy may not be our protagonist in Rumble Fish, though this doesn’t keep Francis Ford Coppola from filtering the urban landscapes of 1960s Oklahoma through his eyes. Whatever visual restrictions are imposed by the greaser’s colour blindness are drastically offset by the dreamy expressionism elongating every angle, the timelapse footage slipping through hours in a few seconds, and perhaps most significantly, those tiny splashes of blue and red swimming through the local pet shop’s aquarium.

It isn’t that these vivid Siamese fighting fish are somehow exceptions to the Motorcycle Boy’s optical deficiency, but they occupy his attention like nothing else in this world. As he peers through the glass with his little brother Rusty James, Coppola’s camera traps both men and fish inside the same tank, drawing an oppressive visual comparison to the confinement and aggression of their fellow juvenile delinquents. Freedom is distant, but if they are to find peace with themselves and stop fighting their own reflections, it may be their only hope.

“They belong in the river. I don’t think that they would fight if they were in the river. If they had the room to live.”

An incredibly apt use of colour in an otherwise black-and-white film, while the Motorcycle Boy and Rusty James’ faces are trapped within the same tank as the fish.

Some time ago the Motorcycle Boy was a notorious gang leader, and the graffiti that bears his name all over town is a testament to that larger-than-life reputation. Having recently returned from his vagrant travels, he has experienced a taste of the liberation that he now desires for these fish. His emotional transformation is unmistakable in Mickey Rourke’s mellow, tender performance. He is not looking to vent any pent-up frustration, as so many other boys are. He brushes off accusations of madness with a gentle smile, and speaks with a soft voice that quells the frenzied fury around him. Twice in Rumble Fish do we watch him nurse a wounded Rusty James back to health, modelling a sensitive masculinity that seeks to heal rather than destroy, and very gradually he inspires his brother to follow him down a similar path. His colourblind view of the world is not a restriction, we come to realise, but perceives far more of its beauty than anyone else can imagine.

Coming out on the heels of The Outsiders in 1983, Rumble Fish was the second S.E. Hinton adaptation to be released that year. Both stories are based in the same setting of 1960s Tulsa, exploring the emotional depths of young greasers looking to escape the violence surrounding them, and yet the sheer gap in artistic quality between the two is so shocking that it is hard to believe Coppola directed them in consecutive shoots. The Outsiders was the greater commercial success and is far more accessible to mainstream audiences looking for an easy watch. Rumble Fish may have been more polarising, but it is also the far greater cinematic accomplishment on every level, bringing an augmented visual aesthetic to Hinton’s writing that resonates deeply with its paradoxical adolescent yearning for both excitement and stability.

Timelapses track the movement of clouds and shadows throughout Tulsa, slipping hours away within a few seconds. These interludes are key to Coppola’s structure and formal manipulations of time.

Adding onto that uncertainty a sense of urgency pressing these young people to sort their lives out before growing up, and the world at large seems to be working against them at every turn. Coppola weaves in his timelapse photography as a powerfully formal representation of this, cutting away to clouds racing across reflective surfaces and shadows rapidly stretching along the ground, while Stewart Copeland’s percussive score ticks and beats out propulsive rhythms in the background. The clocks that Coppola lays all throughout his mise-en-scène continue this poetic exploration of time invisibly passing by, even using a giant one as a backdrop to Rusty James’ confrontation with a police officer, and calling back to the dream sequence of Ingmar Bergman’s Wild Strawberries with its eerie lack of hour and minute hands. As teenagers, abstract concepts like time aren’t exactly at the forefront of their thoughts, yet local barkeeper Benny offers a sharp perspective in his voiceover that acutely pinpoints the transience of their youth.

“Time is a funny thing. Time is a very peculiar item. You see when you’re young, you’re a kid, you got time, you got nothing but time. Throw a couple of years here, a couple of years there, it doesn’t matter. The older you get you say ‘Jesus how much I got, I got 35 summers left.’ Think about it – 35 summers.”

Clocks laid throughout Coppola’s mise-en-scène, making for some powerful symbolism that integrates formally with the timelapse photography. In the lives of these teenagers, time is not a constant that can be relied upon – it speeds up and slows down all over the place.

For the young men and women of Tulsa who are not yet facing their mortality though, this irrational distortion of time is not to be pondered, but revelled in. Coppola is not one to exclude us from its subjectivity either – everyday life in Tulsa is visually heightened to an incredible degree, warping the proportions of the city’s infrastructure with an incredibly deep focus, canted angles, and split diopter lenses. Coppola’s world is in a perpetual state of commotion and contortion that verges on film noir, flooding scenes with smoke, flashing lights, and spraying water that serve no other purpose than to create incredibly dynamic imagery, and navigating these elements in long, evocative tracking shots. The dreamy atmosphere is laid on thick, loosely detaching us from reality as Rusty James envisions scantily clad women lying on classroom shelves, and deliriously hallucinates his spirit flying from his body and across town to observe the flattering grief left in wake of his imaginary death.

Surrealism in Rusty James’ active, hormonal imagination, picturing half-naked women atop shelves in class.
Coppola employs an excellent depth of field, especially in his occasional use of split diopters as observed here.
Coppola’s scenery is incredibly dynamic with energetic cameras, flashing lights, constant smoke, vigorous fight choreography – the number of moving parts in any given shot is astounding.

In essence, Coppola transforms a setting that most people would view as a monotonous into a fantasy land, dreamed up by mavericks wishing to break free of convention and conformity. To many small-minded locals, this eccentricity is something to be shunned, though there is a wisdom to be found in those who see its value. Rusty James’ father may be drunk and idle, but he is still among the few who sees his eldest son’s open-mindedness as a gift.

“Every now and then a person comes along, has a different view of the world than a usual person. Doesn’t make ‘em crazy. I mean, an acute perception, that doesn’t make you crazy.”

Right after Dennis Hopper slurs his way through this counsel though, he adds a caveat, drawing a very thin line in his precise wording.

“However, sometimes… it can drive you crazy, an acute perception.”

Expressionistic imagery captured through the ultra-wide angle lens and black-and-white photography, filtering everyday life in Tulsa through unconventional perspectives and a heavily subjective camera.
A delirious hallucination of Rusty James’ death, floating through town as he dreamily observes those who mourn him after his passing.
Vibrant expressionism in the angular shadows and industrial set pieces, heightening every scene to an extraordinary degree.

In this same conversation, we begin to understand where he gained this insight, and where the Motorcycle Boy might have inherited his personality – not from his father, but from his mother who abandoned her children while they were still young. Outsiders like these can only be contained in their loneliness for so long before drastically breaking free, frustrated by others’ narrow thinking. The Motorcycle Boy could have easily followed in his mother’s footsteps and run away a second time, but his enormous empathy turns him down another path instead, roping Rusty James into his mission to let the Siamese fighting fish swim free into the river.

If there is one mark that Motorcycle Boy wants to leave on the world though, it is not the liberation of these vibrant red and blue fish, but the liberation of Tulsa’s restless youth – or at the very least Rusty James. He does not seek to uphold any personal legacy, and yet it nevertheless forms in his absence, keeping his pacificist principles alive while his persecution by a prejudiced society is taken to its bitterly logical end. A single police gunshot cuts off the score’s pounding beat at the moment it takes his life, leaving only Rusty James to pick up the fish now flopping on the grass, and finish what his brother had started. The communal mourning that he once imagined in a dream manifests at last, though this time not for him, as Coppola’s sombre long take floats along a line of familiar faces gazing upon the Motorcycle Boy’s body with sorrow and horror.

Starting from the Motorcycle Boy’s dead body, the camera floats along a trail of minor and supporting characters from throughout the film, binding them in a common grief.

The final shot of Rumble Fish does not announce itself with the same audacious energy of Coppola’s expressionistic angles or timelapse footage, and yet the tranquil stillness of Rusty James’ arrival at the coast his brother always longed for marks a subtle departure from the chaos of Tulsa. For once there is very little depth to Coppola’s photography, as a telephoto lens instead flattens the liberated teenager’s silhouette against a vast, endless ocean, and time seems to slow down. The world of Rumble Fish may not be meant for those unusually perceptive misfits living far outside the status quo, but the best the rest of us can do is follow in their footsteps, boldly journeying beyond the borders and standards of a modern society slowly driving each of us mad.

The final shot formally marks the first use of a telephoto lens in Rumble Fish as opposed to Coppola’s ultra-wide lens, flattening the depth of field into a single layer – tranquility, freedom, and solitude expressed in a single image.

Rumble Fish is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, Google Play, Amazon Video, and the DVD or Blu-ray can be purchased on Amazon.

Videodrome (1983)

David Cronenberg | 1hr 29min

Once the factions of warring conspirators vying for control of a single television station CEO’s mind come to light in Videodrome, the question of how real his hallucinatory visions are becomes entirely irrelevant. On one side, the producers of the titular snuff program rail against the gratuitous, sensationalist media deemed poisonous to North American culture, and thus plan to broadcast their show through deadly radio waves that cause brain tumours in their degenerate audiences. On the other side, media scholar Brian O’Blivion firmly believes the transmutation of life into moving images is the future of humanity, making depraved programs such as Videodrome little more than an extension of our reality.

It is an inspired touch too that in death he has essentially transcended to this immortal state of being, keeping up public appearances through self-recorded VHS tapes. He may speak in long-winded passages and metaphors, but his philosophy is deceptively simple.

“The battle for the mind of North America will be fought in the video arena – the videodrome. The television screen is the retina of the mind’s eye. Therefore the television screen is part of the physical structure of the brain. Therefore whatever appears on the television screen emerges as raw experience for those who watch it. Therefore television is reality, and reality is less than television.”

An incredibly creative character in Professor Brian O’Blivion, whose immortal existence has become purely digital.
Cronenberg’s camera floats with anxious anticipation through the base for O’Blivion’s bizarre operations – a mess of office cubicles where the homeless watch television marathons.

When it comes to those aforementioned hallucinations then, does the distinction between Max Renn’s reality and perception really matter? O’Blivion might assert that when a brainwashed Max commits multiple murders at Videodrome’s climax, blows a hole in the side of the building, and walks out onto a calm street of passers-by who don’t throw so much as a second glance, we must accept the validity of what we just witnessed. After all, “there is nothing real outside our perception of reality” the scholar claims, encouraging Max to accept his distorted, subjective experiences as absolute truth. This frivolous ideology may be dangerous in its flattening of a complex world into two dimensions, and yet as a prediction of our culture’s direction, it is also remarkably prescient.

David Cronenberg’s blending of such intellectual musings on modern mass media with imagery as bizarrely grotesque as that which defines Videodrome’s visual aesthetic makes its dire warnings all the more visceral, and marks a triumphant success of filmmaking for the young auteur. He had certainly made a name for himself previously as a dabbler in high-concept body horror, but his reign over the subgenre was properly solidified here, uncovering its potential to not just represent, but to analytically examine the terrifying fragility of the human body.

Technology fuses with humanity in Cronenberg’s landmark body horror, turning Max Renn into a weapon of mass murder.
The red light of Videodrome pierces the darkness of Max’s home, violently intruding his personal life.

As it manifests in Videodrome, the illegal program’s depiction of real torture and murder is only the beginning. The content of its episodes always unfolds in the same red room against a clay wall, promising lust and danger in its very design. Max, who is thoroughly desensitised to the debauched schlock his television station has been broadcasting, initially refuses to believe that its violence is authentic – yet he is intrigued. These awakened desires manifest in his new relationship with radio host Nicki as sadomasochistic foreplay, erotically cutting and piercing her skin, and soon enough his psychosexual inhibitions come crumbling down as he deliriously imagines them making love in the Videodrome room.

Techno-surrealism as this sex scene transfers to the red Videodrome room, breaking down boundaries of reality and fantasy.
This conspiracy runs deep in a distinctly noir-adjacent manner, even referencing the genre with the shadows of these Venetian blinds.

Beyond the raw impact of Cronenberg’s body horror, his navigation of Videodrome’s noir-adjacent narrative of femme fatales and lethal conspiracies also takes on subtler, more foreboding undertones. His camera carefully creeps through sets, anxiously dreading whatever it might discover, and is often accompanied by Howard Shore’s eerie orchestral score gradually incorporating synthesisers into the mix, mirroring the hybridity of Cronenberg’s techno-surrealist imagery. There, we witness televisions become living organisms, breathing in slow, raspy rhythms as their screens bulge outwards and reach for Max. In one of his dreams, he finds himself back in the Videodrome room with Nicki, though this time she is only present as an image on one of these fleshy television sets. She gasps in pleasure as he whips her, before transforming into Masha, one of Max’s senior acquaintances in the porn industry. Later, he discovers that a fleshy cavity has opened in his torso, turning him into the perfect subject for brainwashing as he is now able to absorb whatever political programming is fed to him through VHS tapes.

The television set becomes a living organism, breathing, pulsating, and stretching out towards Max.
Bloody VHS tapes penetrate Max’s body and program his brain – Cronenberg manifests cerebral contemplations with visceral horror.

Just as O’Blivion predicted, that which is artificial has come alive, and life has in turn become artificial. In representing this, Cronenberg’s biotic practical effects are deeply unsettling, robbing characters of their humanity by fusing them with the technology they have become so reliant on, and urging them onto the next step in their synthetic evolution. O’Blivion has already reached that stage by escaping his physical body and becoming one with physical media, and soon enough it is Max’s turn as well to become what the anti-Videodrome faction enigmatically call “the new flesh.”

To Barry Convex, producer of the Videodrome program and staunch moral puritan, television has proven to be little more than a “giant hallucination machine” that will bring the downfall of modern North America, though given his murderous solution he is clearly no less corrupt than his rivals. The eyeglasses company he runs makes for a brilliant formal contrast against O’Blivions worship of screens, as while it seems to offer a clearer, more traditional view of reality, it is little more than a front for much shadier dealings.

Moral puritan Barry Convex meets an ugly, bloody end, as Cronenberg basks in the pulpy spectacle.

Max is just as objectified while under his control as he when is under O’Blivion’s, but such is the nature of this cruel political warfare that aims to wipe humanity clean of its very essence, whether that be in our free will, our imperfections, or our ability to distinguish fact from fantasy. Regardless of who wins, the rest of the world loses, and by the end of Videodrome there is little doubt to be had as to which dystopia will come out on top. Mass media is the weapon in these culture wars, Cronenberg posits, and our minds are the stakes, as disconcertingly frail as our own ailing bodies.

A haunting, hallucinatory ending – “Death to Videodrome, long live the new flesh.”

Videodrome is currently available to rent or buy on Apple TV, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

The Big Chill (1983)

Lawrence Kasdan | 1hr 45min

With an absolutely stacked cast featuring up-and-coming names including Jeff Goldblum, Glenn Close, Kevin Kline, William Hurt, and Tom Berenger, there was no way The Big Chill wouldn’t leave a mark on its audiences, even just for the acting alone. Kasdan mixes and matches different combinations of these great screen talents from scene to scene, always finding fresh, vibrant character interactions within this group of former high school friends. It creates tension between some, and sparks of romance between others, but binding them all together is the reason for the gathering – the death of an old comrade, which in turn comes to represent the death of an entire era. Both joyful and painful memories of their shared pasts are brought back to the surface after years of dormancy, this familiarity revealing itself in their unexplained inside jokes, communal habits, and even just the way they groove along to the music of their adolescence while preparing food in the kitchen.

A brilliant 60s Motown soundtrack, being put to good use here as the friends dance to “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by The Temptations.

Most of all though, these friends are all haunted by the grief felt for the suicide of a man they thought they knew so well. Kevin Costner was originally cast in the role of Alex, the deceased friend, and although all of his scenes were cut from the film, that feeling of emptiness remains, leaving a great deal of ambiguity in our minds around his character. What prompted this act to begin with? Did he realise some great, despairing truth about the hopelessness of living in modern America that hasn’t settled in for the others yet? Why didn’t he share his pain with them? Could it have even just been a freak accident?

Kasdan smartly playing the physical gag of Sam’s failed stunt in this terrific long shot.

While many of his friends are happy to distract themselves from the tough questions for a while, the lack of answers forces them to turn inwards to consider their own insecurities. Sam, a famous TV star, is the one to prompt this contemplation, as he in particular feels the great weight of a reputation that he can’t live up to pressing in on his life. All throughout The Big Chill, he finds that he is only ever celebrated and respected for the accomplishments of the character he plays on television, despite not even being able to smoothly leap into a convertible like he is so famous for. It is in this group of friends who have seen him at his most awkward and vulnerable, as a young adult, that he finds genuine acceptance. Though it is far from a permanent fix, this insular world that keeps alive the spirit of a bygone era is the one he, and the rest of his friends, wish to live in. Eventually the cynicism and meaningless of a nihilistic, contemporary American culture will creep back into their lives, but for now, this brief return to a hopeful past is all they have to cling onto.

The Big Chill is available to stream on the Criterion Channel and Binge, and available to rent or buy on YouTube.

The Outsiders (1983)

Francis Ford Coppola | 2hr 16min

It is hard not to attribute much of Francis Ford Coppola’s success with The Outsides to the source material, S.E. Hinton’s pivotal coming-of-age novel of the same name, which took a thoughtful interest in the male bonding and vulnerability of its characters. While Coppola’s adaptation is not without its beautiful directorial flourishes, perhaps one of the more impressive parts is its cast, stacked with famous faces at the start of their careers including Tom Cruise and Matt Dillon, as well as some core members of the Brat Pack. Most of them are up to the job of balancing the toughness and sensitivity of their characters, even as some patchy, awkward line deliveries from the younger actors stick out above the rest.

With Bob Dylan featuring heavily in the film’s soundtrack, The Outsiders is well-grounded in the cultural turmoil of 1960s America. When Coppola strays from needle drops and starts using original music to underscore scenes, the drama doesn’t mesh quite as well. The use of a pumping, rock ‘n’ roll guitar riff after Darry hits Ponyboy for the first time undercuts a moment of sincere sadness, and one can’t help think that dead silence would have better served this scene. The same goes for an upbeat rock track that plays during the ambush of Ponyboy and Johnny, which ends in an awful effect of red blood pouring down the screen.

A fantastic use of a split diopter lens at a crucial moment.
Another nice piece of blocking and composition here, fragmenting the frame to separate characters.

Still, Coppola’s eye for composition hasn’t completely disappeared since his golden years. There is a great use of a split diopter shot opening the attack scene with Ponyboy in the foreground and the Socs’ car rolling up in the background, and another similar shot that captures Johnny and the dead body behind him to end the sequence, both of which serve to separate him from the rest of the world. When the two boys escape to the church the narrative slows down, and Coppola matches the shift in tone with long dissolves and languid montages showing the bonding taking place. Coppola brings some nice touches to this novel adaptation, but even as it stands today as a cultural touchstone for a generation, the odd misstep marks it as the beginning of Coppola’s descent into less-than-outstanding filmmaking.

Male bonding and vulnerability set in a splintering American culture.

Grade: Recommend (Outside top 10 of the year quality but still worth study and appreciation)

The Outsiders is available to rent or buy on iTunes.