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Home Video Releases for February 2000 Nitrate Online explores a sampling of the most noteworthy, provocative and satisfying video and/or DVD releases for the month of February (give or take a few weeks). Titles are followed by original country and year of release, as well as release date (if known). Street dates change constantly and often differ from format to format, so check with your favorite online or brick-and-mortar supplier for up-to-date information.
Beyond
the A-list: All
of Them Witches (Sobrenatural, Mexico, 1995, February
29) “Sex eradicates the violence we carry in our
blood,” says Lola/Dolores, the clueless heroine of All of Them Witches,
and that’s about as close as this stylish but distinctly un-thrilling
supernatural thriller comes to making any sense. Taking its English title -- as
well as much of its thematic inspiration -- from Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s
Baby but in fact playing more like Repulsion on downers, Witches
tells of a Lolita-ish young wife (Susana Zabaleta) and her slooooow realization
that her sinister husband Andres (Alejandro Tommasi) is keeping her cooped up in
the Dakota-like block of flats for a fiendish reason. The eye-candy look, sound
and SFX earned the picture Silver Ariels (Mexico’s Oscar) for cinematography,
sound and special effects, but only the most undiscerning horror fan will be
able to endure until the nifty climax, which features a demon that looks like
recording artist Seal in a really bad mood. Decidedly more congenial is Between
Pancho Villa and a Naked Woman, a zesty sex slapstick that copped the
audience award at the Guadalajara Film Festival. Writer Gina is having trouble
with her academic boyfriend Adrian, who advises her not to “confuse history
with hysteria.” Exasperated, she takes a younger lover, only to find Adrian
invoking the spirit of the fiery leader in his crusade to win her back (Jesus
Ochoa zesty performance as Villa earned him Mexico’s version of the Best
Supporting Actor Oscar). These are two of the five recent Mexican features to be
released February 29 under the banner “New Mexican Cinema” by Chicago-based
Facets Video, in conjunction with the Chicago Latino Film Festival. Bringing to
20 the total number of recent Latin American features available on home video in
the United States, the best thing about this series -- and, in fact, the some
250 movies from around the world available exclusively from Facets -- is the
snapshot of various international film industries they afford beyond the trickle
of art-house titles that make it to the local American multiplex. Next month:
reviews of Salon Mexico and Return to Sender (Sin remitente). An
American Tail: The Treasure of Manhattan Island
(USA, 2000, February 15) Steven
Spielberg is apparently long-gone from the animated franchise about a Jewish
mouse and his adventures in Russia and America, An American Tail, which
he first brought to respected animator Don Bluth in 1987 (the equally successful
Fievel Goes West followed in 1991). In his wake comes the third
installment of the saga, An American Tail: The Treasure of Manhattan Island,
a perfectly serviceable but decidedly perfunctory straight-to-video release
(with a 1998 copyright) that continues the ethnically muddy but emotionally
beguiling story of Fievel and his discoveries of injustice and tolerance. With
the Mousekewitz family newly settled in turn-of-the-century New York, Fievel
embarks on a subterranean adventure that finds him discovering a secret
civilization of Native American mice. There’s a great temptation to be cynical
when confronted with material such as this, which purports to educate while it
entertains but depends more on the kind of stereotyping it cautions against than
any specific mention of ethnic heritage or pride (“Papa, why did we leave
Russia?” asks young Fievel. “We were going to be eaten, you need a better
reason?” is the reply; well, yes, maybe we do). The animation is a rung or so
above Saturday morning, while the three anthemic, relentlessly upbeat new songs
(little is left of James Horner’s original score) are highlighted by William
Anderson’s bad-guy softshoe “Friends of the Working Mice.” Celebrity
voices include Lacey Chabert, David Carradine, Nehemiah Persoff, Ron Perlman,
Rene Auberjonois and Dom DeLuise, returning as the amiably huge cat Tiger (who
at one point says he’s “thinking of converting”). While a suitably
diverting 78 minutes for the kids, adults who want to watch and laugh along with
the little ones are advised to get a few “Pinky & the Brain” episodes
instead: now they’re funny. The
Brandon Teena Story (USA, 1998, January 25) It
probably isn’t a coincidence that the award-winning 1998 documentary on which
last year’s over-praised Amerindie drama Boys Don’t Cry is based
comes out on video exactly when Academy voters are filling out their ballots for
this year’s Oscar race -- and Hilary Swank’s performance as the young
Nebraskan who was born female but yearns to be a man is considered by some a
shoo-in for a Best Actress nod (Chloe Sevigny is much more deserving of a Best
Supporting Actress nom as her clueless girlfriend). Steeped in sadness and
ignorance, this true-life story is as much about the repressive
narrow-mindedness of a rural community as it is the story of one transgendered
person whose struggle with her own emotions ran smack into the anger of those
who believed that she “fooled” them maliciously. Raped by two local men who
had been among her circle of friends and subsequently killed by them to silence
her accusations (two innocent bystanders were also executed in the bloodbath),
Teena Brandon (born Brandon Teena) is set up as a martyr, but the film does a
nice job of balancing the fervor of the cause she represents with a
warts-and-all look at the community in which she lived (including an
infuriatingly insensitive sheriff) and the people she moved among (one of whom,
apparently in all seriousness, refers to the electric chair as “ol’ sparky”).
Unfortunately, the paucity of actual visual material relating to the story
forces filmmakers Susan Muska and Greta Olafsdottir to resort to seemingly
endless tracking shots of snow-mottled plains (as an analogy for the pace of
life it nearly sinks the film), and the schmaltzy popular tunes used to
punctuate the tale give the proceedings an irony that provokes as many giggles
as thoughts. Nevertheless, the cumulative effect is powerful: as Teena’s best
girlfriend and her killer’s sister share a threadbare stage to perform a
karaoke version of Lorrie Morgan’s “If You Came Back to Heaven,” a local
social worker sums up the thrust of the film -- and the reaction of many
audiences to it -- by ruefully observing that “we as a culture haven’t come
to terms with our responsibilities.” Frozen
(Jidu hanleng, China/Hong Kong, 1997, February 22) Frozen
is a passionate cry for artistic freedom from a culture of repression: since
July 1, 1996, it has been illegal to make unauthorized independent films in
China, and the rushes from this surreptitiously filmed feature (shot in 1994)
were smuggled out of the country and assembled by director Wu Ming with support
provided by the Hubert Bals fund in Holland. Never heard of Wu Ming? That’s
according to plan; it’s a pseudonym meaning “no name” that has been
adopted by the established Sixth Generation filmmaker to avoid reprisals (“I
have responsibilities,” the director explained to a western critic in 1997). A
brooding, handsome performance artist prominent in the avant garde scene of
contemporary Beijing, Qi Lei (Jia Hongshen) decides to create four performances
over the next year, symbolic suicides to mark the equinoxes. All will be faked
save the final “ice burial” on the first day of summer, during which the
increasingly depressed Qi Lei intends to die. Reactions vary, from the
despondency of his girlfriend Shao Yun (Ma Xiaquing) to the tart disapproval of
his sister (Bai Yu) and the opportunism of his wisecracking brother-in-law (Li
Geng). Only Qi Leng’s mentor, the art critic Lau Ling (Zhang Yongning) -- Shao
Yun’s ex-lover -- seems at peace with the decision. Frozen leavens its
message with jagged flashes of social humor, often at the expense of Qui Lei’s
colleagues Long Haired Guy (Wei Ye) and Bald Guy (Bai Yefu). Even the title
carries a double meaning -- cultural stagnation leads to personal tragedy --
that serves to enhance the deadly serious message of this singular film. Half
Japanese: The Band That Would Be King (USA, 1992, February 1) Like
a bolt from the blue, this remarkably clear-eyed and affectionate documentary --
among the most positive, informative and helpful films on contemporary American
independent music -- burst forth from the market section at the Berlin
International Film Festival, packing out its few screening and sending a buzz
through the international movie elite. What’s the fuss about? Jad and David
Fair, brothers from Uniontown, Maryland, who formed the self-taught band Half
Japanese in 1975 and have gone on to garner critical raves and summon the spirit
of such disparate musical influences as the Velvet Underground, the Modern
Lovers, MC5, the Residents, the Shaggs, The Stooges and the Monkees. As much the
chronicle of a movement as the growth of a band, the film takes the viewer from
the early days of limited edition cassettes to their current place in the
pantheon of little-known but highly influential American bands (“You sound
just like Jad Fair,” a German fan tells Jad Fair after a gig, unaware that he
is in fact Jad Fair). On-screen performances include “Calling All Girls,”
“Thing With a Hook,” “Magic Kingdom,” VU’s “I Heard Her Call My
Name” (with former Velvet Mo Tucker on drums), “Roman Candles” and many
others (the day-and-date DVD includes seven concert performances and various
clips and interviews). Highlights of the film itself include the brothers
performing “In the Midnight Hour” at a nursing home, a chat with their
parents (“when the boys practiced our dogs hid under the couch,” says mom
Ann), and Penn Jillette (president of their label, 50 Skidillion Watts Records)
relating the story of how the great album Charmed Life was finally released.
David Fair, who left the band in 1986 to marry his high school sweetheart,
earnestly says “we always played the best we could,” but somebody else nails
it by observing that Half Japanese teaches while everyone else is still
learning. Fans and newcomers alike will learn a great deal from director Jeff
Feurzig’s invigorating, invaluable film, making a belated but entirely welcome
debut on home video. Hangmen
Also Die! (USA,
1943, January 18) Made
by Fritz Lang (Metropolis) just prior to his landmark Hollywood picture Ministry
of Fear, Hangmen Also Die! was co-scripted by Bertolt Brecht
and left-wing American scribe John Wexley (who ended up with sole screen credit,
leading to a rift between Lang and Brecht). A dramatized account of the 1942
assassination of Nazi Reichsprotektor Reinhard Heydrich in Prague and the
subsequent search for his killers (and persecution of the citizenry), the
picture asks an audience to believe Brian Donlevy and Walter Brennan as Czechs
but overcomes the absurd casting via a persuasive blend of Brechtian themes and
Langian imagery. Thus, the movie climaxes with the courageous underground
movement fooling the evil occupiers into accepting a sympathizer to their cause
as a suspect, and the screeching Nazis found in most propagandistic Hollywood
fare of the period are tempered by sly supporting performances such as Alexander
Granach’s sordid, finger-snapping German detective. The DVD is crisp and
atmospheric, highlighting James Wong Howe’s expressionistic lighting scheme
(and, unfortunately, the stylized but less than convincing backlot sets). Along
with Anthony Mann’s Railroaded (1947) and Ida Lupino’s The
Hitch-Hiker (1953) a part of Kino Video’s new “Noir: The Dark Side of
Hollywood” series, Hangmen Also Die! is a fascinating chapter in the
history of German expatriates in Tinseltown and the uneasy but never less than
riveting intersection between social substance and commercial style. It
Happened Here
(United Kingdom, 1966, February 15) In
the annals of film restoration and the do-it-yourself filmmaking ethic, the
latter so rare when the technical process of moviemaking was more cumbersome
than it is today, the name Kevin Brownlow is liable to provoke either puzzled
stars or rapturous recognition -- and nothing in between. Best known as the
mastermind behind the restorations of Abel Gance’s Napoleon (which he
first saw a clip of as a boy of 11), the director of incisive documentaries on
Buster Keaton (among others; see also below) and the author of the silent film
histories The Parade’s Gone By and Hollywood: The Pioneers,
Brownlow began It Happened Here in 1956 at the age of 18 but didn’t
finish it until 1964. The low-budget fictionalized account of what Britain
might’ve been like if the Nazis had won World War II (stylistically it looks a
lot like George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead -- which was made at
the end of the 1960s), Here and his 1975 follow-up, the historical drama Winstanley
(both co-directed with Andrew Mollo, a history buff who came to Brownlow’s
attention when he complained about historical inaccuracies in early footage of
the first film), have been unavailable in any format for years. Now, Milestone
Film & Video presents superlative video versions of each title (tacked on to
the end of Winstanley is a 40-minute documentary on the Brownlow/Mollo
collaboration). Both titles are highly recommended, particularly for young
filmmakers looking for enduring examples of doing more with less. Milestone Film
& Video has a number of new releases this month, and information on their
entire catalogue is available by calling 1.800.603.1104 or e-mailing them at
MileFilms@aol.com. The
Art of Buster Keaton (USA, 1919-1926, January 11) An
essential part of any serious collector’s comedy archives, The Art of
Buster Keaton is a nine-DVD collection (available as individual titles only,
each with a couple of shorts) of the Great Stone Face’s greatest work
-- 30 individual films in all. Raised in vaudeville by a father who
taught him that comic value of impassiveness, the sheer physicality of
Keaton’s subsequent work is not only free of the cloying sentimentality that
has dated Charlie Chaplin’s best movies but can actually be quite arbitrarily
violent. Thus, the world around his hapless characters is so cruel that his very
survival is a source of audience celebration. And those stunts: fleeing from the
rockslide in Seven Chances, having a house fall on him not once but twice
during the jaw-dropping hurricane climax of Steamboat Bill Jr. (a gag
later repeated by Jackie Chan), and the intricately choreographed chase scenes
in The General (which consistently finishes near the top of international
critics’ lists selecting the greatest films of all time) are just a few of the
nearly constant high points of these remarkably fresh and absorbing films. The
January 11 releases, with shorts in parentheses, include the original
inspiration for that recent, awful Chris O’Donnell vehicle The Bachelor,
Seven Chances (Neighbors, The Balloonatic), College
(The Blacksmith, The Electric House and Hard Luck), and The
Saphead (The High Sign, One Week). Also worth tracking down is
the 1987 three-part British TV documentary on Keaton’s life and work,
“Buster Keaton: A Hard Act to Follow,” by Kevin Brownlow
(see It Happened Here, above) and David Gill. “This fellow
Keaton seems to be the whole show,” someone remarks during the dazzling 1921
short The Playhouse, in which the comic plays every single member of a
stage company as well as the entire audience. As these invaluable new releases
attest, he sure was. Late
Last Night
(USA, 1999, January 25) Every
so often one of those direct-to-video titles proves to be a keeper, and such is
the case with this guilty pleasure out of left field from director Steven Brill,
a writer and bit player who created the Mighty Ducks franchise (the movies, not
the hockey team) and is currently helming the new Adam Sandler movie Little
Nicky. Emilio Estevez plays a Century City entertainment lawyer, chucked out
of his Beverly Hills home by his wife, who embarks on a nocturnal, drug-drenched
adventure through yuletide Hollywood with a devil-may-care pal (Steven Weber,
finally coming within hailing distance of his potential as an enabling comic
lecher in the spirit of, say, Robert Morse in Gene Kelly’s frighteningly
tasteless 1967 comedy A Guide for the Married Man) who may or may not be
a figment of the attorney’s overwrought imagination. The two actors have a
crazed, nervous energy together, invoking the spirit of Estevez’ landmark
comedy Repo Man (has it really been 16 years?) while balancing
Weber’s worldly irony with Estevez’ appealing bewilderment. High points
include the duo’s impromptu falsetto with a drug dealer on Marilyn McCoo and
Billy Davis Jr.’s “You Don’t Have to Be a Star (To Be in My Show)” and
Weber’s abrupt and showstopping version of Queen’s “Somebody to Love” in
an after-hours club (the patrons even join in on a dance number). The production
benefits from the edgy music of Pray for Rain and Eliot Rocket’s sharp
photography. Like the drunk Santa staggering through a subway station, Late
Last Night brings a hard jolt of reality to the sentimental and familiar --
“underneath Disneyland,” Weber’s character calls it. My
Son the Fanatic (United Kingdom, 1998, January 25) The
latest character driven, working-class culture clash from the pen of Hanif
Kureishi (My Beautiful Laundrette, Sammy and Rosie Get Laid), My
Son the Fanatic reteams director Udayan Prasad and actor Om Puri after their
much moodier 1996 drama Brothers in Trouble for a complex, leisurely but
ultimately satisfyingly unresolved tale -- from a short story! -- of
generational and societal conflict in contemporary London. Parvez (Om Puri) is a
Pakistani cabbie whose driving duties vie for time with his increasingly
successful but profoundly unsettling work providing the local prostitutes with
rides, dates and counsel. These tasks become even more difficult when Parvez
begins to recognize feelings between himself and Bettina (Rachel Griffiths, from
Hilary and Jackie). With the arrival of astonishingly insensitive German
businessman (Stellan Skarsgard) and the refusal of his son to go along with the
marriage arranged by Parvez -- preferring instead to throw his lot in with a
fundamentalist group. The budding relationship between Parvez and Bettina is the
heart of the picture, and both Om Puri and Griffiths are terrific. Yet if
anything too ambitious, the film struggles mightily to keep its equilibrium and
momentum whenever the story veers to one of its many other subplots (although
Skarsgard is, as usual, fiercely believable as the hard-partying German). As a
final note for trivia buffs, the movie looks to have been shot in the same row
house in which the action of Brothers in Trouble takes place. Nosferatu
(Germany, 1922, February 1) Correctly
hailed as the first and perhaps the best version of Bram Stoker’s landmark
horror classic “Dracula,” F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu was in fact an
unauthorized adaptation of the book. The resulting lawsuits resulted in the
attempted destruction of the film, which explains the dupey, truncated versions
which have been available over the years. Kino Video’s new release of this
pivotal work goes a long way towards rectifying that situation, restoring the
film to a full 84 minutes, adding the color tints and presenting it with Timothy
Howard’s near-perfect organ score. Watch it for the historical importance, as
Murnau took the Expressionist movement outdoors and thus heightened the feeling
of otherworldly dread. Watch it for the intriguing tweaks to the story, as Van
Helsing’s character is minimized in favor of Orlok’s hold over the beautiful
Ellen. But most of all, watch it for Max Schreck’s astonishingly contemporary
performance as the demonic count, a repulsive creature with none of the suave
dignity of Bela Lugosi’s later interpretation. Also of recent vintage is a
welcome restoration of Werner Herzog’s 1979 German remake, a somnambulistic,
faithful (not shot-for-shot, as some have written) telling that has its
own peculiar charms -- not the least of which are the eerie physical
similarities between Isabelle Adjani’s wide-eyed Ellen and the wan dessication
of Klaus Kinski’s Orlok (“That unspeakable creature, which
suffers in full awareness of its existence,” as the actor himself describes
the count in one of the few passages from his indescribably priapic 1991 memoir
“Kinski Uncut” that doesn’t involve sex). The creepy climax, in which the
town is overrun by rats and madmen, retains a genuinely unsettling power.
Murnau’s Nosferatu is out on tape and DVD under the Kino Video imprint,
while Herzog’s version was restored and re-released by Anchor Bay
Entertainment. Both are available in a variety of formats (don’t fear the
dubbed version of Herzog’s film, as it actually contributes to the stylized
apprehension of the story). The
Ogre (Der
Unhold, Germany/France/United Kingdom, 1996, February 22) An
unspeakable creature of an entirely different kind -- or is he? -- is limned
by John Malkovich in The Ogre, a glossy, atmospheric but
inevitably predictable 1996 European co-production from director Volker
Schlondorff. As right at home as he’s been in the handful of overseas
productions he’s in which he’s starred throughout his intriguing career,
Malkovich manages to convey a brutish intensity as Abel, a naïve mechanic who
becomes a fascist pawn as World War II dawns. Sort of a cross between the
mythical Golem and Forrest Gump, Abel and his story (performed in English)
aren’t without a certain amount of creepy appeal. And Bruno de Keyzer’s
gorgeous lensing on Norwegian, Polish and German locations causes the film
(particularly in the DVD format) to jump from the screen. Yet the sum of the
parts is oddly perfunctory, perhaps a function of the movie’s Europudding
backing or maybe just due to the fact that it’s Schlondorff’s first
production since 1991. The Ogre is one of five titles being released by
Kino Video on the above date under the general heading of “Cult Auteurs.”
Other films in the series include Derek Jarman’s The Tempest (the DVD
of which includes a number of his early short films), Jan Svankmajer’s
brilliant Conspirators of Pleasure, and two tapes from The
Brothers Quay (one a collection of their distinctive short works and the other
their sole feature to date, Institute Benjamenta). Check your local
dealer for information on available formats or visit Kino Video online at
http://www.kino.com. People
of the Wind
(USA, 1976, February 15) In
documentary filmmaking, patience is a virtue, as the creative team interested in
capturing the veracity of the moment must wait for that moment to unfold and be
there to film it. One is reminded of this early in the dramatic and beautiful People
of the Wind, imagining the challenges that faced director Anthony Howarth,
cinematographer Mike Dodds and their crew as they labor to chronicle the
harrowing annual Bakhtiari migration across the Zagros Mountains in southwestern
Iran. The film is told from the point of view of Jafar Qoli, the Kalantar, or
chief, of the Babadi, one of many tribes that make the arduous trek. Although
there are some subtitles in the film, the bulk of the narrative was assembled by
writer David Koff and spoken by James Mason, and seems to be culled from the
leader’s musings as well as reaction to the often dramatic footage of river
fordings and mountain scalings (like any other leader, this Kalantar’s daily
schedule involves events from petty to urgent). The only discordant note here is
the original music by G.T. Moore and co-producer(s) Shusha, a busy, heavy-handed
fusion fiasco that couldn’t be more unsuited to the unvarnished human struggle
on view (the regional songs are much more appropriate). The film lost out to
Barbara Kopple’s popular favorite Harlan County U.S.A. in the Best
Documentary Oscar sweepstakes in 1976, which may explain its belated video
debut. The latest title in their Age of Exploration series, Milestone Film &
Video’s fine letterboxed transfer from the original 35mm negative is a perfect
companion piece to another title in their catalogue, Grass, the pre-King
Kong 1925 documentary by Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack that
covers a similar trek 50 years prior to Howarth’s visit. Silent
Shakespeare (United Kingdom/USA/Italy, 1899-1911, February 15) Another
new release from Milestone Film & Video, Silent Shakespeare is a collection
of seven short silent films made from Shakespeare’s plays in Britain, America
and Italy between 1899 and 1911. Obviously lacking the texts of the Bard’s
work, works succeed on their visuals alone, offering charming, priceless
documents of acting styles of the day performed by some legendary figures of the
theater. Thus, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree is seen as King John (Britain,
1899), while Italy’s Francesca Bertini shines in King Lear and The
Merchant of Venice (both produced in Italy in 1910). Rounding out the
program is The Tempest (Britain, 1908), A Midsummer Night’s Dream (USA,
1909), Twelfth Night (USA, 1910) and that 1911 British version of Richard
III recently unearthed to much fanfare. Laura Rossi’s whimsical music
perfectly underscores the cinematic adventurousness of these invaluable films.
As with all of Milestone’s releases, the tapes are refreshingly devoid of
pre-movie trailer clutter, product tie-ins and promotions. The
Swindle (Rien
ne va plus, France, 1997, 101 February 8) Claude
Chabrol’s 50th film finds the auteur who rose to prominence during
the French New Wave in fine form, telling the elegant, mischevious and
confounding story of mysteriously related petty grifters Betty (Isabelle Huppert)
and Victor (Michel Serrault), and their adventures with larcenous executive
Maurice (Francois Cluzet) and the Tosca-loving mobster he crosses. As the
schemers move from France to the Swiss Alps to the Caribbean, questions of how
this trio of ne’er-do-wells is related take a back seat to who, precisely, is
doing what to whom. Huppert’s chameleon-like performance is based on “the
rich and multi-layered relationship” between actress and director, while
crafty vet Serrault (La Cage aux Folles, Dr. Petiot, Nelly
and Mr. Arnaud) is the very soul of fussiness and Cluzet (who co-starred
with Serrault in Chabrol’s 1982 The Hatter’s Ghost) is a suitably
nerdy foil. Full of what the maker of The Butcher, Story of
Women and La Ceremonie describes as “plenty of little details and
vague references to past films for the loyal few who want to have a good laugh
finding them,” The Swindle is vintage Chabrol. A New Yorker Video
release. Xiu
Xiu: The Sent-Down Girl (USA/China, 1998, February 1) "Twin Peaks" star Joan Chen makes a revelatory directorial debut with this singular, brave drama. As the Cultural Revolution waned, millions of Chinese were sent from the cities to the country for re-education through labor. One such Educated Youth is Xiu Xiu (charismatic newcomer Lu Lu, aka Li Xiaolu), who forms a bond of sorts with taciturn, castrated herdsman Lao Jin (Tibetan-born Lopsang) -- only to slowly realize that she's been forgotten in the grasslands and is being cruelly used by a series of petty officials. Shot independently on the spectacular plains of the Sichuan-Tibetan border, Xiu Xiu in fact flies an American flag, as the sexually-charged theme (source novella title "Tian Yu" means "Heavenly Bath") might never have been cleared by Beijing. With freedom comes power: a stirring tale of the devastation governments can wreak on lives and one woman's defiance, Xiu Xiu is nothing short of remarkable. Available in both a video and bare-bones DVD edition. Don't have a DVD player? Didn't find what you are looking for? Look in the back issues of the store or in the extensive catalog of Amazon.COM by entering your search in the text box below: Contents | Features | Reviews
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