DVD, Blu-ray and TV

Forget the awful sequels, spin-off TV show and Tim Burton's disappointing remake. The original 1968 movie, with Charlton Heston's astronaut stranded on a world where mute, dumb humans are enslaved by civilised apes, is a sci-fi classic, thanks to Rod Serling's subversive screenplay and that final, legendary shot.

This 1977 thriller—"All The Astronaut's Men", if you will—never delivers on its intriguing premise, infuriatingly. NASA fakes a Mars landing in a TV studio, then sets out to kill the crew to keep the truth a secret. James Brolin, Sam Waterston and OJ Simpson are the astronauts, Elliott Gould the journalist who comes to their aid.

Everyone's favourite investigative smoothie Nick Broomfield updates his 1991 doc Selling Of A Serial Killer by re-cataloguing the tragic, shambolic life of Aileen Wuornos (from homeless woodswoman to vagrant prostitute to multiple murderer) and finally interviewing a clearly demented Wuornos only hours before her execution. More sombre than the usual Broomfield outings, but effective all the same.

Listen to Kate Rusby's records and her brand of folk revivalism suggests a rather serious and high-minded young woman. Yet in concert she's a revelation, interspersing sublime versions of traditional folk ballads with rambling but engaging introductions full of homely Yorkshire warmth and wit. Rusby makes folk music seem like fun again, and the feeling never flags throughout this 90-minute set.

Written as a student project with future Alien writer Dan O'Bannon, John Carpenter's ingenious no-budget directorial debut, named after a Grateful Dead song was the first stoner sci-fi pic. On a scuzzy spaceship far away, four furry freak surf dude astronauts are bored out of their skulls on a long-haul mission to destroy unstable planets, and plagued by troubles when their talking bomb gets ideas of its own and the alien "pet" O'Bannon has smuggled aboard escapes. Sideswipes at Kubrick's 2001 are entirely intentional; the attack of the munchies the movie brings on pure coincidence.

Fritz Lang's seminal 1922 thriller unleashed cinema's first modern criminal, Mabuse, a shadowy underworld figure with a thousand faces. Combining technological genius with an almost occult ability to terrify, Lang's Mabuse is a sinister, manipulative mastermind. The 1933 sequel, The Testament Of Dr Mabuse, is even better, with Mabuse as a demonic Hitler figure. Everything from Bond to Blue Velvet starts here.

In its 1946, Hays Code day, this adaptation of James M Cain's novel was provocative and erotic, although it was later out-raunched by the '81 Jack'n'Jessica version. This drips with textbook noir, and echoes Double Indemnity in both story and style. Femme fatale prototype Lana Turner tempts John Garfield to off her husband, but their comeuppance is inevitable. "He had to have her love—if he hung for it!"

There's a saying in the pubs of Dublin that there are only two kinds of musician—the Irish, and those who wish they were. The likes of Emmylou Harris, John Prine, Richard Thompson and the Everly Brothers prove it by lining up alongside some of Ireland's finest in 20 performances designed to showcase the global influence of Celtic music.

The third in Robert Rodriguez's winning series sees the plucky youngsters enter a maniacal video-game world to confront misunderstood supervillain Sylvester Stallone. Plot barely matters, though, as the movie exists only for Rodriguez to indulge in a rampant, sweetly senseless exercise in reviving retro-3D gimmickry. All in all, how Tron should have been.

Predictably brash big-screen version of unremarkable '70s TV show, with Samuel L Jackson knocking a rogue SWAT team into shape and making unlikely heroes of them. There's more gunfire than dialogue, so Jackson isn't asked to do more than shout a lot, while Colin Farrell squints manfully and kills everyone in sight.