Danny Aiello dominates this ensemble drama as the weary owner of an Italian restaurant in New York's Tribeca, caught between mobsters and his son's desire to transform the place into a chiceatery. Director (and restaurateur) Bob Giraldi keeps things hustling between tables, but cranks up the pace in the kitchens. A grittier companion to Stanley Tucci's gastro-porn classic Big Night. Tasty.

You might think there's not enough surviving live footage of The Yardbirds to fill a full-length DVD. And you'd be right, of course. But clips from half-a-dozen black-and-white TV shows are interspersed with retrospective interviews to create a compelling band history in which the comments of Jeff Beck are particularly candid. But the revelation is singer/harmonica player Keith Relf, who exudes charisma despite being surrounded by such future stars as Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page.

The culmination of a sell-out 2002 tour sees a middle-aged Williams return to his maniacal roots, musing on Michael Jackson, the Puritans and Viagra, among other topics. However, his breakneck delivery, camp mannerisms and array of accents (including a dismal Winston Churchill) only emphasise, rather than conceal, the weakness of his material. And the "Joe I'm Pregnant" routine is shamelessly lifted from Sam Kinison.

A terrific primer on Scott-Heron's lyrical, funky jazz bluesology, Robert Mugge's semi-concert documentary was first broadcast on Channel Four in 1983. Two decades on, the charismatic proto-rapper still comes over as a warm and eloquent performer, wry social commentator and effortless stand-up comedian.

An opening tour of the interior of Snoop Doggy Dogg's mink-lined Cadillac gives an indication of the spiritual journey that awaits the viewer here. Essentially an extended promo for the roster of Snoop's label Doggystyle, this is a mixture of interviews, dull footage of Snoop cruising the 'hood and music videos, the whole exercise redeemed by the divine, Aretha-esque vocal interventions of La Toiya Williams.

This includes much of the surviving live footage of Clapton, Bruce and Baker, including extracts from Cream's farewell Royal Albert Hall performance. All three band members are interviewed, and the inclusion of Hendrix's cover of "Sunshine Of Your Love" on Lulu's TV show is a bonus. But while Cream's own songs have stood the test of time well, the extended blues jams sound tedious today.

Yes Years chronicles the band's career from the late '60s through to their '90s reunion via two hours of archive footage and interviews. Greatest Video Hits is more focused and concentrates on the late '70s and '80s when Trevor Horn and Buggles bizarrely joined the line-up. It's easy to scorn Yes' pretension, but Yes Years reminds us that the early material at least boasted some great tunes.

Heavy metal pioneers certainly, but as this appealing history shows, Deep Purple also had the knack of turning a great riff into a decent pop song. There's a dated feel to the lengthy interviews with the likes of Jon Lord, Ian Paice and Ritchie Blackmore, all conducted in the early '90s. But as all but two of the live performances in the archival footage come from 1968-74, it hardly matters.

Psychiatric patient Prot (Kevin Spacey) seems remarkably sane, except for his assertion that he's really an alien visitor from a distant planet named K-Pax. It's Starman meets One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest (in a nicely ironic piece of casting, Jeff Bridges plays the psychiatrist determined to discover Prot's real identity), and works nicely even if it does err on the side of sentimentality.

Tim Robbins is Jacob, a Vietnam Vet trying to adjust to civilian life in New York but suffering from horrific, nightmarish visions. The after-effects of a military drug experiment, or something more sinister and supernatural? Even if Adrian Lyne's film makes a lot of confused choices, it's still an interesting—and genuinely scary—ride.