DIE NIBELUNGEN joins Greg Klymkiw's 10 Best List of Blu-Ray/DVD Releases of 2012 - Today's Accolade is a newly restored Blu-Ray of Fritz Lang's epic masterwork via Kino-Lorber

Siegfried bathes in Blood. Hell, who amongst us has never done likewise?

The Best Blu-Ray and DVD Releases

of 2012 as decreed by Greg Klymkiw

This was a stellar year for Blu-Ray and DVD collectors that it's been difficult to whittle my personal favourites down to a mere 10 releases. So hang on to your hats as I'll be presenting a personal favourite release from 2012 EACH and EVERY single day that will comprise my Top 10. At the end of all the daily postings, I'll combine the whole kit and kaboodle into one mega-post with all titles listed ALPHABETICALLY. My criteria for inclusion is/was thus: 1. The movie (or movies). How much do I love it/them? 2. How much do I love owning this product? 3. How many times will I re-watch it? 4. Is the overall physical packaging to my liking? 5. Do I like the picture and sound? There was one more item I used to assess the material. For me it was the last and LEAST area of consideration - one that probably surprise most, but frankly, has seldom been something I care that much about. For me, unless supplements really knock me on my butt, their inclusion is not that big of a deal. That said, I always go though supplements with a fine tooth comb and beyond any personal pleasure they deliver (or lack thereof), I do consider the educational value of such supplements for those studying film and/or those who might benefit from them in some fashion (film students or not). So, without further ado, here goes.

GREG KLYMKIW'S 10 BEST BLU-RAY & DVD RELEASES OF 2012 (WHICH WILL BE COMPILED IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER IN ONE FINAL MEGA-POST). TODAY'S TITLE (MORE TO FOLLOW ON SUBSEQUENT DAYS) IS NONE OTHER THAN:

DIE NIBELUNGEN

Die Nibelungen (Siegried/Kriemhild's Revenge) (1924) *****
Dir. Fritz Lang Written By: Lang & Thea Von Harbou
Starring: Paul Richter, Margarete Schön, Hanna Ralph,
Bernhard Goetzke, Theodor Loos, Rudolf Klein-Rogge

Review By Greg Klymkiw

In a perfect world, you will ALL (I hope) have the experience of someday seeing Fritz Lang's silent masterpiece Die Nibelungen on film in a real cinema. Even better, you will have the experience of seeing it in the stately 1300-seat San Francisco picture palace The Castro Theatre accompanied by live music on the cinema's majestic hand-restored Wurlitzer organ.

I did.

Almost one quarter of a century ago, I saw IT with one I did love with all the heart and soul one would dare give to another human being (which, to my mind, is the only real way to see IT.) We sat together in the balcony of the Castro, silently contemplating the enormity of what would be our first dose of this famed epic of Aryan Supremacy. Nursing hangovers, we luxuriated in the splendour of the Castro, using the atmosphere as a fluffy blanket of forgetfulness to erase the sordid memories of the chippies we caroused with the night before at Harry Smith's Club Morocco in Winnipeg. Ashamedly we had, in a fit of mad inebriation, dragged these beguiling guttersnipes with us and took a crazed cab ride from Harry's to the airport and loaded them onto the airplane after drunkenly managing to secure two more tickets to San Francisco. Thankfully, once reaching the Bay Area, the brazen harlots, still reeking of cheap toilet waters and even cheaper booze abandoned us. Most shockingly, they displayed no interest at all in seeing Die Nibelungen at the Castro and chose instead to see the sights of San Fran (which, we surmised would actually be bottles of cheap gin on the waterfront). We, however, had all the sights we needed and not even the promise of ingesting more Mother's Milk with these scarlet damsels was enough to tempt us from the purpose of our pilgrimage to the city named in honour of Saint Francis of Assisi. We huddled close in the balcony as the lights dimmed on the gargantuan deco chandelier. The Wurlitzer rose to the centre of the orchestra pit, the pipes intoned their notes of portent, the red velvet curtains parted and as the celluloid flickered, two lads from Winnipeg dove headlong into the maw of the Castro Theatre and conversely, its silver screen beckoned like some massive glory hole - stuffed with a treat to fill their greedy, supplicating mouths. Fritz Lang, some 65-or-so-years after he first made Die Nibelungen, would be responsible for changing their lives forever.

THE CASTRO!!!

Where young men meet.

Where lives change forever.

Where DIE NIBELUNGEN lives.

If you're unable to experience Die Nibelungen in the aforementioned fashion, Kino-Lorber and Mongrel Media (in Canada) will provide the next best thing. In fact, the latest Blu-Ray version of Lang's classic is probably the most complete and satisfying version yet as it derives from a meticulously-restored print financed and supervised by the Friedrich-Wilhelm-Murnau-Stiftung (the German government's Wiesbaden-based foundation dedicated to the preservation of German cinema). And much as I cherish my first taste of Die Nibelungen on film, I have to admit that the orgasmic experience was maintained, if not exceeded, with the Kino-Lorber release.

Lang is without question one of the greatest filmmakers who ever lived and I've often looked upon him as the German amalgamation of such great contemporary talents as Spielberg and Scorsese. His visual aplomb was matched only by his almost peerless ability to tell stories with the sort of virtuosity matched only by the aforementioned American directors. Lang's movies crackled with the sort of intensity and excitement that one expects from the bigger-than-life medium of feature film.

Die Nibelungen is not a masterpiece for nothing. Lang had every available resource tossed his way by the great German studio UFA and with complete artistic control (and yet another great script from his wife Thea Von Harbou), he rendered this classic German tale over two feature length tales. The first part of the epic spins the magnificent tale of the title character Siegfried who, borne of noble lineage, apprentices as a blacksmith and eventually forges the mightiest sword in all of the Aryan Kingdom.

He is bound and determined to win the hand of the beautiful Queen Kriemhild and on his way to her kingdom, he does battle with one mega-kick-ass dragon, bathes in its blood to give him greater powers, and hacks his way to the apple of his blonde-haired, blue eyes; doing über-battle with a variety of odd creatures who all have some manner of magic power that he acquires.

Siegried becomes the ultimate all-powerful German Titan and Kriemhild is more than moist for this gorgeous hunk of manhood. Alas, she's saddled with a loser weakling brother, Gunther, who's got to give her his blessing for the union to take place. The weakling baby brother demands that Siegfried assist him in winning the hand of the warrior princess Brunhild. (Yup, Django's wife is her namesake in Tarantino's recent ode to Mandingo.) Siegfried uses all his magical powers to deceive Brunhild into marrying Gunther (including a wedding night stint).

Siegfried might be all powerful, but just like Superman has Kryptonite to fuck with him, our Teutonic Hero has his own Achilles Heel. Though we've had a great roller coaster ride, things turn decidedly dusky and we genuinely shiver in our drawers for Siegfried's safety.

Siegfried has, for much of its running time, been fun and games of the highest order, but Part Two of Die Nibelungen leaves the breathtakingly exciting Boys' Adventure Fritz Lang behind and yields his darker qualities in Kriemhild's Revenge. Hell hath no fury like a gorgeous German Ice Queen who seeks complete and utter decimation of her enemies to right a considerable wrong. A darkness descends upon the land and we board a much different roller coaster - plunging us into a noir-like precursor to the Fritz Lang of post-war America.

Here, Die Nibelungen turns into that pot of scalding coffee Lee Marvin tosses in Gloria Graham's face in The Big Heat and Kriemhild's Revenge is one nasty, dark, vicious blow to us after another.

And, I kid you not, we get to meet Attila the Hun.

Carnage runs rampant as do the rivers of blood emanating from Kriemhild.

All four and one half hours of this gargantuan epic are a marvel to behold. Lang keeps the engine fuelled with his storytelling prowess, matched only by his sumptuous visual splendour. Die Nibelungen is ultimately Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in Teutonic garb and crossed with the most noir film noir imaginable.

This new gorgeously transferred and extras-packed Kino-Lorber/Mongrel Media release will have you and those you love reeling with the thrills and spills of a great cliffhanging serial and populated with more than enough steely Aryan lore to warm the cockles of Hitler's heart.

And if that's not chilling, nothing is.

Fritz Lang's SCARLET STREET with Edward G. Robinson - Reviewed By Greg Klymkiw - On Blu-Ray via Kino-Lorber

A timid cashier celebrates 25-rip-snorting-years of toil in a mens clothing store. Sauntering home to be with his harridan wife, he wonders what it would be like to have a young woman love him. He gets his wish. Sort of. A streetwalker cons him with expert assistance from her brutal pimp and lover. Can murder be far behind?

Scarlet Street *****
(1945) dir. Fritz Lang
Starring:
Edward G. Robinson,
Joan Bennett,
Dan Duryea

Review By Greg Klymkiw

"I've been waiting to laugh in your face ever since I met you. You're old and ugly and I'm sick of you. Sick! Sick! Sick!"

-Joan Bennett to Edward G. Robinson in Scarlet Street

If you've never felt - even once - that dreadful, sickening, soul-sucking feeling of digging yourself into a deeper hole, then good for you. You must obviously live a charmed life. Most of us know, however, when we're already in one of those holes and instead of clambering out while we still can, we shove our respective spades into God's good earth and just keep digging. Why do we do it? Especially when we know we're digging ourselves deeper than we can ever possibly hope to clamber out of? Well, sometimes one just hangs on to a wisp of hope that the thing you think you need is, like some buried treasure, just a few more feet below.

Once in awhile, a hand will thrust itself down and offer you a way out of the depths. Sometimes you'll take it but oft-times you won't. Even those who do accept the helping hand will, most of the time, do so with regret. They allow themselves to be hoisted up just long enough to grab a few fresh breaths, grab a bite to eat and maybe think about packing a box lunch and then dive back down into the open jaws of the hole.

When we first meet Christopher Cross (Edward G. Robinson) in Fritz Lang's Scarlet Street, we hear a boisterous, heartfelt group of men singing "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow" so loudly that their voices are spilling onto the wet, dark streets of New York. Once we're inside the brightly lit party room of a private gentleman's club, remnants of a sumptuous meal with liquor still flowing, the singing builds to a rousing climax of cheers. A meekly appreciative Chris, is clearly the recipient of this gleeful admiration. His boss delivers an extremely moving speech that extolls the virtues of honesty, loyalty and hard-work that Chris has displayed over the years as a cashier with the company - capping off the tribute by presenting his "old friend Chris" with a gorgeous gold watch encrusted with jewels.

It's when the boss departs early for the reason that one can "never keep a woman waiting", Chris looks out the window just as his employer exits the building and enters the awaiting limo below - its only other passenger being a stunning, young, platinum blonde.

Chris knows this is not the boss's wife and he wonders aloud: "I wonder what it's like to be loved by a young girl." Cue hole-digging just about here. Chris has picked up the spade and is eager to use it.

Later that evening, Chris walks the empty streets. He hears a scream. From a distance Chris sees a woman under a lamppost being slapped around by a man. Chris surprisingly bolts into action and rescues the beautiful young woman by beating the vile pig with his umbrella. The weasel scurries away, clutching the money he's robbed from the woman. Chris walks the young lady home and they stop for a drink in a basement dive. Anyone else would have realized that the sexy Kitty March (Joan Bennett) is a common streetwalker (and not a fashion model as she claims to be) and that the rat-faced thug who stole her money is not some random thief, but Johnny Prince (Dan Duryea), her pimp and lover.

That Chris is oblivious to this and swallows all her lies, exaggerations and vaguely disingenuous flirting is pretty much the beginning of the end. His spade plunges deep into the ground. The hole-digging begins in earnest.

It's also to actress Joan Bennet and director Fritz Lang's credit that we almost believe Kitty, too. She's packed tightly and curvaceously into her - ahem - Sunday go to meetin' time best and her straight, lush tresses that hang down to her shoulders, progressively unravel into schoolgirl-like curls and frame her soft, square face with a distinctively high forehead, pert nose, soulful eyes and ready-for-kissin-and-a-slurpin lips. Yup, she's Madonna and Whore, but discretely dolled-up like a teenage Catholic High School girl. Bennett's sultry voice and the dialogue (courtesy of the great screenwriter Dudley Nichols) veer from innocence to slutty, from genteel to crass and from surprising erudition to white trash street smarts. She's an incredible and indelible female character - a smart cookie in the wrong place at the wrong time and getting by as best she can in what is decidedly a man's world. Even more haunting is that there are more than enough hints that she's suffered a great deal of abuse over the short time she's been alive on this planet. She takes the foul Johnny Prince's beatings with a grain of salt since they're almost a small price to pay for his "support", companionship and first-rate cocksman-ship. In another instance, she only seems to be half-cracking a wiseacre when she describes her feelings about Chris, Edgar G. Robinson's staggering portrait of the jowly, hangdog white-knight-moneybags-meal-ticket in this way: "If he were mean or vicious or if he'd bawl me out or something, I'd like him better."

Robinson, of course, is great - an actor who's never delivered anything less than a brilliant performance throughout his long and distinguished career. In Scarlet Street, we're moved and repulsed by his character in equal measure. He toils away as a cashier at the high-end men's clothing store, surrounded by handsome, well-dressed colleagues who all seem content with their manhood and place in the world. Chris, on the other hand, goes home every night to his wife, a shrieking harridan who might best be described by quoting George about Martha in Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf - she's neither a woman, nor much of a human being, but rather represents a kind of "slashing, braying residue that calls itself" his wife. Not that Chris is a prize catch. He admits to marrying her, almost in a whine, because he was afraid of being lonely. It's sad as all hell, but frankly, pretty damn pathetic. And God knows if Chris was even able to perform his husbandly duties in the boudoir when he admits with only the slightest hint of irony (so slight, it might not be ironic at all) that:

"I never saw a woman without any clothes."

Even more pathetic is that he's clearly a gifted artist, but creates his work in an atmosphere of his wife's verbal abuse and threats that she'll toss all his paintings in the trash. Granted his painting is the only escape he knows, but he thinks so little of his work that he doesn't even sign his paintings.

Worst of all, Chris displays inordinate stupidity and weakness when he allows himself to be duped by Kitty and Johnny. He not only keeps handing her scads of cash he's embezzling from his employer, but eventually allows her to take full credit for his artwork which eventually catches the eye of a prominent New York art dealer and visual arts critic. For all of this, he's getting no nookie and when he tries to hug or kiss her, she shrinks away in disgust.

One of the most complex, brilliant and emotionally wrenching scenes in movie history occurs when he realizes he's been duped and still professes his love for her. He begs her to marry him and Kitty's response is unbearably vicious. What's amazing about this moment is that we're moved by both characters (and performances). We're shocked and saddened by how mean she is to Chris, but at the same time, we sympathize with this young woman who's been dealt far too many bad hands in life and is surviving in way that stems directly from her social situation. Looking at the deep hurt in Chris's eyes is also profoundly moving, but we also want to slap that pathetic, jowly face of his and demand that he "man-up".

Scarlet Street is an American remake of Jean Renoir's equally wonderfully picture La Chienne, but for me, the main difference is that Lang's film descends even deeper than Renoir's into a pit of the most foul, ugly human behaviour. And even though it does, the film is infused with a high degree of humanity.

From dramatic beat to dramatic beat, Scarlett Street moves lower and lower on the rung of humanity's ladder. Just when you think the picture has reached the lowest depths, it plummets even deeper. As such, the film is both courageously relentless and astoundingly ahead of its time.

Recent Friedkin and Ulrich Seidl excepted, Fritz Lang - in 1945!!! - managed to pull off a picture that seems more fresh and vital than most anything made today. Scarlet Street feels like it could have been made just yesterday.

After many years languishing in the public domain, the movie has been digitally restored from materials on deposit at the Library of Congress and brought to Blu-Ray via Kino Lorber. The Bluray features a stills gallery and an audio commentary by David Kalat.