We are thrilled to finally have another film from our (second?) favorite Danish director. Breaking the Waves (1996) is the first film Lars von Trier made after establishing the Dogme 95 framework, but he mostly ignored that to make a 1970s period piece about patriarchy, religious and otherwise, in rural Scotland.

The back story on Don Siegel's fantastic Riot in Cell Block 11 (1954) is pretty crazy, and I promise we do eventually talk about it this week. But this is a message picture about prison reform, so we have to spend some time talking about the history of prison reform, and how there's no reforming a system that's designed to disappear human beings.

We get Harold Lloyd's classic silent college movie The Freshman and a handful of shorts on this week's episode. Sam Taylor and Fred Newmeyer direct the feature, among the most popular silent comedies in history for good reason, even if its relationship to higher education is very of its time. Do you know enough about football to understand comedy football? Harold Lloyd didn't think so, but still made this stellar movie.

Paolo Sorrentino's 2013 film The Great Beauty is in line with many an Italian film we've seen, a story of a middle aged man having an existential crisis. Like many a Fellini film, this crisis is also a crisis of art, a crises of self as expressed in art. Oh and parties. So many parties. A positively Slurms MacKenzie level of parties.

Given the rate of Bergman releases in the Criterion Collection it surprised us to realize that we haven't seen a film from the man in nearly two years. And what a surprising Bergman to come back to. Persona (1966) seems to be Bergman recognizing his place in the world cinema while also having or recovering from another breakdown. It starts with like 10 minutes of experimental film, and the thesis for this experiment is "Oh you want another Bergman film?" And the weirdness continues through the rest of the movie.

Spine 700, can you believe it? We've been doing this for a long time. Criterion rewards our dedication with an overly full release of Wes Anderson's adaptation of Roald Dahl's Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009). Mark Gustafson is animation director of this animated movie, but this is less a Tim Burton's Nightmare Before Christmas situation than a Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio, the former of which is a Henry Selick movie that gets mistakenly attributed to the producer and the later of which Gustafson actually has credited co-director status on because Del Toro respects artists. Gustafson and the animation team bring Wes Anderson's vision to life to create one of the most Wes Anderson-y movies Wes Anderson has ever made.

Every documentary the Criterion Collection shows us leads to a discussion on what documentaries are, what they can do, and what their relationship to truth can and should be. Inevitably as well the supplements to a Criterion Collection release of a documentary provide context that can reshape how we view the original piece's relationship to truth. Errol Morris's A Brief History of Time (1991) is no different. In part a presentation on the ideas featured in Stephen Hawking's book of the same name and a biography of Hawking himself, the film distorts reality like an event horizon. In the supplemental material Morris states that one shouldn't judge a documentary on whether it presents the truth, but if it attempts to find the truth and whether it makes the viewer think about what the text's relationship to the truth is. The movie itself may not provide enough information to do that.

Stephen Soderberg's third movie is the marquee release this week, King of the Hill (1993), an adaptation of A.E. Hotchner's memoir of being poor in Depression-era St. Louis. Also slid in here is Soderberg's fourth movie, The Underneath (1995), a remake of the Robert Siodmak's 1949 noir Criss Cross. Accompanying each is an introduction from Soderberg about how much he loathes the films, which makes it hard to like them ourselves -- though The Underneath is certainly the worse film. Ultimately we spend a lot of time wondering why Criterion bothered to put these out, particularly together, and I think came to a satisfying if bleak answer.

Oh boy, another Roman Polanski film. Tess (1979) is Polanski's adaptation of Thomas Hardy's 1890's novel Tess of the d'Urbervilles. The film is well acted and well shot and we'd love to just talk about that but all the bonus material is about how Polanski was a brave genius making his first movie after an unfortunate incident in which he did something that was really quite normal at the time and he got blacklisted from Hollywood. Tess won three of the six Oscars it was nominated for, and we get to spend so much time talking about this movie in the context Criterion has provided. So content warning.

Alfred Hitchcock's pre-war spy thrillers are interesting because on the one hand they're romps and on the other hand they're designed to subtly push the British public against Germany in a time when the film cannot openly call the bad guys German. This tonal dialectic really worked for us in The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934, Spine 643) and The Lady Vanishes (1938, Spine 3), but falls a little flatter in The 39 Steps (1935, Spine 56) and Foreign Correspondent (1940). Here the unevenness is more noticeable, and that's because bubbling just below the surface is a fight between Hitchcock's desire to make a normal Hitchcock movie and producer Walter Wanger's desire to make an up-to-the-minute ripped-from-the-headline-writers' view of the impending war, unhelped by the army of writers working on it throughout production. But also very much helped by the visual effects and production design.