DVD, Blu-ray and TV

Sleazecore rocker Rob Zombie pays homage to the golden 1970s heyday of psycho-slasher flicks with his wilfully trashy but memorably nightmarish debut feature, which makes up for a slow start with its final descent into a shock-rocking Hellzone of backwoods mutants, Satanic serial killers, hardcore violence and unimaginable torture. Mixing grainy film stock and period detail, Zombie takes inspiration from Driller Killer, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Evil Dead and other midnight-movie classics.

Hungarian monochrome master Bela Tarr doesn't piss around with frivolities like humour, logic or even much in the way of dialogue. And yet these lean, unstintingly intense films about people walking around a lot, suffering for love (in Damnation) or trying to prevent society from descending into chaos (Werckmeister Harmonies) are transcendent. At the very least, this will make illuminating viewing for fans of Gus Van Sant's last two flicks, Gerry and Elephant, since Tarr's work directly inspired them.

Novelist Alexander Trocchi's uneasy blend of Beat existentialism and pseudo porn continue to gnaw in this stylish adaptation of his 1954 whodunnit. Ewan McGregor is suitably dour as the sinister drifter while director David Mackenzie proves himself a master of sustained gloom. But it's the sex scenes, progressing from erotic to self-conscious to simply absurd, that continually corrode.

On-the-road documentary trailing Nashville's own Lazarus Man

Kooky low-budget Brit-flick gets a moribund Scandinavian once-over as Danish Dogme disciple Lone Scherfig (Italian For Beginners) directs this contrived tale of two contrasting Glaswegian brothers—one is dying, one wants to die; one is sexy, one is square, etc—caught in a love triangle with mousy hospital worker Shirley Henderson. Annoying.

Gob-smackingly ill-suited to the small screen, Gus Van Sant's infuriating and addictive road movie is a tale of two Gerrys (Matt Damon and Casey Affleck) lost in the desert. It's also a sumptuous Utah travelogue. And a pompous Beckettian comedy. And a sly parable on human frailty. But by then you'll have switched off the TV.

Following the success of Jean De Florette and Manon Des Sources, interest was sufficiently stirred in author Marcel Pagnol to fuel two features based on his childhood memoirs in a sun-drenched Provence. Picture-postcard landscapes figure prominently in Yves Robert's polished recreation of the summer of 1900, although the human drama goes no deeper than minor family arguments and slender rites-of-passage rituals. This was hugely successful, but adds up to little more than an oppressively tasteful tourist-board panorama.

When discussing Kevin Smith's oeuvre, most dismiss this '95 nugget as the dip between Clerks and Dogma. A mistake: as two slackers, Jason Lee and Jeremy London, hang around the mall doing nothing, plenty happens—comic-book iconography, smut, inventive swearing, Shannen Doherty pretty much playing her loveable hell-bitch self, and Ben Affleck marginalised. A buzzy, cynical, romp.

Beautifully gauged 1989 romantic comedy from the undervalued Steve Kloves, with Jeff and Beau Bridges glorious as two competitive but complementary brothers who constitute a lounge act. When they employ Michelle Pfeiffer's seductive Susie Diamond as chanteuse, Jeff's hard-boiled heart goes whoopee. Oscar-nominated Pfeiffer, cleverly, sings well but not too well. Lovely.

Straining to balance bog-standard biopic with anarchic art expression, Julie Taymor's biopic of Frida Kahlo is crammed with exquisite cinematic diversions (dream sequences, hallucinations, animated Kahlo paintings) while simultaneously stultified by the need to plod through Kahlo's life with startling apathy. Wild teen, bus crash, crippled, Diego Rivera, lots of sex, arguments, affair with Trotsky, big show in Mexico, the end.